FRIENDS ONLY

Mostly.

Oh fer christ's sake.

Dear lonely teenaged sadists,

Stop confusing motherhood with Precious Moments figurines. Having a child isn’t a guarantee of unconditional love. Chances are, your kid might not even LIKE you. This afternoon, I told my three year old to turn off Spongebob, and she stamped her foot and told me, quite succinctly, that she hates my guts. She has holed up in her bedroom, where she is probably plotting my demise.

Washable finger paint my ass.

I was down in the cellar, doing yet another load of laundry, when I heard a faint but all too familiar cackle. I panicked, thinking I hadn't shut the cellar door securely, and raced toward the stairs. The door was closed, and I sighed with relief when I reached the top stair and heard the cackle again. Quin was just outside the door. If I ha left it open even a crack, he would have wormed his way through and toppled down the cellar stairs.

After waiting for him to move away from the door, I reached up and tried to turn the handle. I jostled it again, with a little more force. It's an old house, and our doors sometime stick. But the door wasn't stuck. It was locked. The clever little bugger had turned the lock in the knob, trapping me in the cellar.

I called Millie to the door, and tried for about fifteen minutes to explain how to unlock the knob.

"Mama, I can't do it."

"Mama, it's not working."

"Mama, we need Daddy."

She abandons me. I call for her a couple of minutes later.

"Mama, I in bed. I so tired."

"Where's your brother?" I yell, pushing my shoulder against the door, trying to force it open.

"I don't know. 'Nite Mama."

I remember the bulkhead, covered with plastic sheeting to help minimize leaks from melting snow. I have no other option, I manage oto open it, and, covered with cobwebs, I tear through the sheeting with a rusty old screwdriver and ascend into the backyard.

The front door, of course, is locked, so I try the backdoor. I usually keep that locked too, because I am a paranoid city girl and worry we'll be robbed or raped or murdered in our beds, but Todd is much more trusting and always leaves it unlocked.

It figures that he would pick today of all days to listen to my paranoid rantings an actually lock it.

I lean against the door an hear lots of scuffling sounds, punctuated with squeals of laughter, and am certain the children have somehow set the cat on fire. I go to the garage, get a gardening spade, wrap it in a beach towel cause I've seen people do that in movies, and hurl it toward one of the windows in the back door.

It bounces off, and when it falls to the ground, the digging part comes apart from the handle. I grab a rake, and somehow manage to make a inch thick crack in the window. I worm my hand inside. (Finally my freakishly tiny hands have proved useful!) When I reach the knob I'm so relieved, I can't even feel the glass scarping my arm. I unlocked the door, pull my arm free an walk into the kitchen.

Millie, having decided a nap was not in the cards, had vaulted the "child-proof" kitchen gate, pulled a chair over to the counter, and grabbed the brand new bag of jelly beans she had insisted I buy at the grocery store just last night. She had torn a hole in the middle of the bag, and a jelly bean trail led back to the gate. She was sitting on one side, looking quite pleased with herself, and Quin was standing on the other, looking very much like one of those puffer fishes ready to blow, his cheeks crammed full of jelly beans.

They're conspiring against me now.

I was going to write a post, explaining why I haven't been online much lately, but I think that explains it all.

My D key is stuck, cause someone poured "pink Milk" on it the other day.

The Pottery Barn Kids catalog came today. It always makes me feel inept. Inept as a homemaker. Inept as a mom. Inept as a human being. I drool a bit looking at the kid's rooms, but really, is anyone really that organized? Really?



I also just wiped up a spill with my sock.


I so do not deserve to get the Pottery Barn Kids Catalog.

Todd's coming home today.

Thank God.

From the prompt_club

If you are a Shakespearean hero, what is you tragic flaw? Remember that a tragic flaw is closely connected to your heroic qualities, e.g., Lear was very trusting but too trusting; Othello was very loving, but a mite, ahem, possessive.

I am a very goofy person. I am extremely self-deprecating and silly, and because I come across as being very easy-going and jokey, I am non-threatening and approachable. I play into this quite a bit by acting ditzy and dreamy. Sometimes it is intentional. Most times it's not. While this is good in some respects-I can put people at ease, and I can make most people chuckle-I find that it also hurts me. People rarely take me seriously. My friends, my family, and yes even my own husband sometimes writes me off as a goofball or a flake. When I attempt to do something serious, with my career, or with my family, people assume I am not serious. This is what destroyed most of my career prospects in advertising and publishing. I got pidgeonholed very quickly, and it was hard to change people's opinions of me. Quite a few people were surprised when I turned out to be a somewhat decent parent. I think they were expecting me to leave the kids in the grocery store parking lot because I was distracted by something shiny on the ground.

I’ve missed quite a few of these.

You volunteer at a pioneer/colonial village. What's the role you play there and why?

I’d probably be the harried looking pioneer mother, with a brood full of little girls in pinafores and boys in dirty overalls clinging to my legs. Modern suburban women would look at my tired, weary face and wonder how on earth I survived without portable DVD players, Boppy pillows and Online Grocery ordering. The tour guide will be quick to tell the visitors that I die of exhaustion at the quite elderly age of 23.

You've been in stranded in the hot desert with food water and shelter for a day. You're walking in hopes of reaching a town. In the distance you see a mirage (though you don't know it's a mirage) of something wonderful. What is it?
A shady garden with a comfy bench nestled among tall leafy trees. There is a pile of thick books, some throw pillows and a cooler full of raspberry iced tea lying next to a crisp, clear pond.

Oh, and a fully charged satellite phone so I can call for help and get the hell out of the desert.

Invent a new kind of sushi roll, sandwich, or pizza.

I haven’t been able to enjoy pizza since I’d had the kiddos. Red sauce is no longer my friend, so I’d make a special white pizza with a creamy garlic sauce, mushrooms and spinach. Course, even my husband, who has no sense of smell, would want to keep a fair distance from me after I’d eaten that pizza.


Did you have a hideout or clubhouse as kid? If you did, describe it. If you didn't, describe what would have been your ideal one. If you did but you just didn't like yours all that much, feel free to make up one as well.

I think I’ve told the story of my refrigerator box house before. It was wonderful. Fridge boxes were a hot commodity in my neighborhood. I It wasn’t our fridge, I remember that much, but because I was the youngest kid in the neighborhood, the older kids agreed to let me have it. I asked around the neighborhood until I’d found carpet and wallpaper remnants, fabric for curtains, etc. I even made a mailbox. I was big into Little Ponies at the time, and had about a dozen. I made doors and mailboxes for each pony too. Unfortunately, I left the fridge box out in the rain one too many a time, and it disintegrated. I have pictures though. One day, I’ll upload them.

If you were a tall tale character, who would you be and what would you be famous for?

Maybe Johnny Appleseed, because that is the only Tall tale character I can think of right now.



( Write a few lines of dialogue between two people who know each other very well. The first person has just baked or cooked something the second person is tasting. The second person finds that the dish tastes terrible )

( 5 Questions from Tufted. These were hard! )

Still trying to decide if I liked it or not.

Millie just got a lollipop stuck in her hair.

My eldest walloped me in the eye with a Weeble. Today's Weebles are much different than the Weebles we played with as children. They're rounder, more substantial. And much heavier. I have a large black bruise on my eyelid. I got off easy, though. Yesterday she took a swipe at the baby, and the poor little man has two angry looking red welts nestled in the middle of his perfect little forehead. Methinks Amelia may be having some anger issues and hostility toward the new baby.

Now that I can see my toes again. (14 pounds lost so far!), I can look back and laugh at some of the weird things that people felt it was Ok to say to me, a preggo second-time mom:

After hearing that my kids would be 18 months apart:

"Oh, you must be Catholic!"
"Oh, you must be Irish!"

"It will be much easier having them so close together! They'll be best friends!"
"It will be much more difficult having them so close together! They'll hate each other!"


On my weight gain:

"Your ass is much smaller this time around. You must be having a boy."
"Your ass is much wider this time. You must be having a girl."

And my favorite, from the checker at the bookstore, a week before Christmas. Amelia was throwing a tantrum, an unusual occurrence, as I was buying the Supernanny book for my sister-in-law. (It was a book she had mentioned she wanted.)

After looking down her nose at my swollen belly, the cashier looked at the title of the book and said, in an extremely smug tone:

"That's probably a good idea."

Introducing Quinlan Edward, AKA Quin
Born 1/8/07 at 11:37am
7 pounds, 20 inches



( More )

Why won't this baby come out?

I actaully have lots to blog about, lots of random stuff knocking around in the old brain, but I can't sit down for more than 2 minutes without having to get up to pee.

This may be my last entry until afte rth ebaby comes, so I hope ya'll have wonderful holidays!

This is my daughter's favorite show. We just bought the DVD and she is mesmerized by it. I knew it would be a matter of time before someone defiled it. I love YouTube:

(not really work safe)

What on earth am I going to do with a boy???

Top Ten reasons I should be happy that I'm once again pregnant and will have to deal with morning sickness, swollen ankles and sleepless nights all for the wonderful opportunity to have two kids under two, both in diapers at the same time:

Patron with Infant parking spots at grocery stores
Stretchy maternity clothes means no reason to continue summer diet
Strawberry milk
Hubby is forced to clean the kitty litter
Good excuse to get out of family functions
Strawberry ice cream
Sleepless nights are good time to sort through husbands sock drawer and pair mismatched socks
Family of Four discount coupon packs at local amusement parks means we save $
Big belly will counterbalance weight of big baby when I'm forced to pick her up every 5 seconds

And the #1 reason-Chocolate covered oreos

In my ideal, Technicolor tinted dream world, I would shop in an open air market for fresh organically grown vegetables, meat and gourmet cheese to prepare in a unique four course meal that is tasty and filling despite being low in Transaturated fat, sodium and complex carbohydrates.

In reality, I’m going to defrost a pound of ground chuck in the microwave to use with a stale box of hamburger helper.

In the aforementioned la-la land, I would spend several hours playing challenging, developmentally stimulating games with the baby, helping awaken sections of her infant brain specially pliable to dead languages, Pythagorean theorems and color coordination. And I would have perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Instead, I will plop her into her exersaucer, hoping a baby Einstein DVD will distract her while I make said hamburger helper, do laundry, make out bills, and hopefully, pluck my eyebrows.

In the world I wish were true, I would have enough time to paint my toenails, revise a chapter, write a critique or pen elegant and sincere thank you letters to my family in Ireland.

I’ll most likely go home, clean up some cat vomit, wash a few thousand dishes, saturate myself while bathing the baby, code work invoices and burn my tongue on some frizzled piece of ground beef left simmering on the stove for too long.

Yeah, if only….

This pretty much sums up my Ireland adventure:



More to come later, when I've had some time to get myself together and digest it all, but it really was wonderful. Traveling with the baby was a breeze-she slept through both flights. I hadn't been to Ireland in 9 years, and found it very different, but wonderful, welcoming and fun.

63,734 / 80,000 (79.7%)

I'm the only one at work today, so was able to get a lot done. Hoping to do about 5k tomorrow.

tired...so very tired

Dear daughter,

I promise to buy you a pony on your 8th birthday if you’ll do me a big favor and come a little bit early. If you come tomorrow, I will glue a horn on it’s head and you’ll have your very own pseudo-unicorn. All the other little girls in the neighborhood will go mad with jealousy. Yes, you’re not due for another 24 days, but today is the fourth day in a row over 90 degrees and it’s terribly uncomfortable lugging around your considerable bulk. Plus, the whole kicking me several times in the spleen and leaning on my bladder so that I have to run to the bathroom every 20 minutes? It’s not very fun for me. Especially when I’m in the checkout line at Target.

Seriously, think about it. Your room is all ready. Your daddy, whom I’m starting to think is a bit unhinged, has spent the last several days refinishing your changing table, sweating profusely while painting it a lovely shade of lilac. He’s lost several pounds in water weight. The cats have taken to sleeping in your newly assembled crib, and despite my constant shooing, they’re starting to get rather wily about sneaking in to your room and sometime look so damn cute and comfy, I don’t want to move them. If you don’t come soon, you might have to trade your crib for Link’s beat up bean-bag cat bed, and I must warn you, it smells a bit like grilled turkey Fancy Feast.

According to all the books I’ve read, you’re fully baked and perfectly capable of entering the world. Perhaps you’re just scared-well, life is a bit terrifying and there are some really horrid things going on in DC and the Middle East, but the world itself isn’t so bad. There’s ice cream at least, and aforementioned cats. Perhaps you’re staying put to spite me, and that my dear, is not a good way to begin a parent-child relationship. If you come out soon, I’ll consider letting you get that body piercing when you’re 15, but only if you promise not to show it off to your grandparents at Christmas.

Thanks for listening,

Your mom

Go here.

You won't regret it.

I saw the strangest bumper sticker this morning. It was on the bumper of a mini cooper, the cool car of choice for suburban teens around these parts:

I Love Nigerian Dwarf Goats.

At first I thought I had misread it. At a red light, I pulled up closer to the car, and took a closer look. It still said I Love Nigerian Dwarf Goats, with a goat silhouette behind the words.

Nigerian Dwarf Goats? Was that some kind of inside joke, the latest catch phrase or a hip new punk band out of the Fresno or Baltimore underground?

I hate feeling Old and Out of It, especially since I want to write for teenagers and a big part of writing for teenagers is being aware of their trends, fads, and fashions. (Adopting these things is another post entirely. I’m much too old and too pregnant to wear anything from Abercrombie or Delias.)

So, I googled Nigerian Dwarf Goats as soon as I got into work.

Bahhh.

I read into things too much Sometimes Nigerian Dwarf Goats are simply Nigerian Dwarf Goats.

I spent way too much time doing this. The following are first lines from some of my favorite books. Can you guess which ones? Some of these are too easy.

Doing this I realized three things:

-My own first lines suck. They are not gripping or interesting like any of these.
-None of my favorite books are “YA.” Interesting, very interesting.
-If my employer knew how much time I wasted on the internet, he wouldn't be very happy.

1. The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone.
The Last Unicorn tufted

2. On a morning in mid-april, 1687, the brigatine Dolphin left the open sea, sailed briskly across the sound to the wide mouth of the Connecticut River and into Saybrook harbor.
The Witch of Blackbird Pond akamarykate

3. Mrs. Frisby, the head of a family of field mice, lived in an underground house in the vegetable garden of a farmer named Mr. Fitzgibbon.
Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh winoforever

4. Ba-room, ba-room, barripity, barripity, baripity-good.

5. The primroses were over.

6. The Porthkerris Council School stood half-way up the steep hill which climbed from the heart of the little town to the empty moors which lay beyond.

7. This is my favorite book in the world, though I have never read it.
The Princess Bride megancrewe

8. The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.
Sense and Sensibility winoforever

9. The Kitchen was full of the smell of baking.

10. Hapscomb’s Texaco sat on number 93 just north of Arnette, a pissant four street burg about 110 miles from Houston.
The Stand nokmoisjeff

11. When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I only had two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.
The Outsiders tufted

12. Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.
Ann of Green Gables winoforever

13. -We’ll ask Jimmy, said Outspan. Jimmy’ll know.

A Baby Story should be removed from the basic cable airwaves. Or an explicit warning should air before each cringe-worthy program. I’ve started Tivoing it. Big mistake. I couldn’t sleep last night after watching the graphic labor endured by Suzie Earthmother, who squeezed her twins out over three days of excruciating labor with nothing but screams to comfort her. I have nothing but respect for people who can do this. I’ve never been able to handle pain, so, two weeks before my due date I’m going to write EPIDURAL on my belly with a permanent marker. Just in case I’m incapable of speaking when labor day finally arrives.

A woman I work with wondered why I did schedule a c-section. She did, and raves about the experience.

“General anesthesia,” she said. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

I’m not a big fan of elective surgery. If a 14-inch railroad spike were lodged in my duodenum, I’d only want it removed if it were interfering with basic life functions.

I feel asleep on the couch last night while watching TV. When I was dozing, my husband wrote "PROPERTY OF TODD" on my arm in permanent marker. We're out of soap, and the raspberry body wash I used this morning wasn't caustic enough to remove all the marker. I got dressed in the dark and put on shirt with a 3/4 length sleeves. I'm sitting here at my desk with the word ODD clearly written across my forearm.

I could blame the hormones, but I AM normally this dumb.

I don't have any word counts to post because I've been writing longhand these past couple of days, since I'm too dog tired to drag myself to the computer. My bosses are all away next week, so I'm going to set a high WC goal for myself. I'm going to try for 10,000 words a week. I need to finish this thing so I can edit it and hopefully move on to another project.

I just found out we're having a super bowl party on Sunday. Neither one of us really cares about football- yes, it's great that our team is in it...again, but does that mean I really have to watch the whole stupid game? Cue & his new girlfriend are coming over, and a few of my husband's coworkers, so I'll have to clean up the place and think of something to serve. Beef stew and chili probably. Something manly. Ugh. There goes my restful weekend. :(

Memorable quotes from my evening with Terry Pratchett:

Quote of the night: “Everything I needed to know I learned at my public library. School just taught me how to spit.”

From my hubby after hearing Terry talk about how much money he has made from writing Discworld: “That’s it- you’re never watching TV again until you write a book, preferably one that can be sequelized and merchanized.”

On collaborating with Neil Gaiman: “Neil’s fans tend to be very thin, gothic girls and chubby guys, whereas mine tend to be very thin guys and chubby girls.”

From my hubby: “You do realize we’re the only two people in this room who have sex regularly?”

Me: “Yes, but only with each other, so that isn’t all that impressive.”

It was a decent crowd for a Tuesday night at the BPL-about 60 or so. We waited about an hour to have our books signed. Terry commented on my first edition “The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents” and signed it, With Lots of Cheese, Terry Pratchett.

What a lovely man. Very sincere, very appreciative of his fans, very down to earth-I just wanted to put him in my pocket and take him home with me.

It was nice to skip work and spend the day hanging out at the BPL. It reminded me of my teenage years when I used to skip school to hang out at the BPL. Hubby had never been there- the little country boy-so I gave him the grand tour. The BPL is like my church. If only there were a wall of votive candles lined up along the back wall, it would truly be perfect. I’d pay five cents and light a candle and offer up a prayer to the literary gods and ask them to bring me bountiful word count blessings.

I even took hubby up to the stacks, to my favorite dark and dusty make-outplace, but it had been converted into a foreign language section and there was a homeless guy fast asleep on the floor, a yellowing Metro newspaper covering his face.

(Sigh) Nothing is ever as romantic as we remember it being in our bygone youth.

Yesterday afternoon on the train ride home I happily planned the scrumptious dinner I was going to cook for SO and myself. I was armed with a folder full of not-too-difficult recipes downloaded from Recipies.com. I had a grocery list chock full of produce and unprocessed, expensive yuppie food.

(Mistake #1: Do not try to cook food that you a). can not pronounce b). can not afford)

Again, the best of intentions.

Fast-forward four hours.

I've run out of garbage bags and let's just say the kitchen ceiling is going to have a slight black tinge to it for quite a while.

We are both starving and exhausted. In desperation I grab a can of Where's Waldo spaghettios with meat-like balls. I also defrost four slices of garlic toast in order to complement this fine, exotic, wholesome meal.

I d the spaghettios into a bowl, put them in the microwave, and left the room.

(Mistake #2- do not leave the room while cooking, especially if you have a short attention span and are easily distracted.)

I had thought I had set the timer for two minutes, but I apparently added an extra 0 in there somewhere, so the spaghettios were left simmering for 8 minutes more than they were supposed to.

I was removing the 8th bag of garbage to the dumpster when the microwave exploded, and now my kitchen, and SO, are covered in steaming orange splatter. (Luckily, he only has surface shallow burns.)

The garlic bread, although not burned, was placed butter side down on the toaster oven tray. I had to submerge the tray in hot water in order to get the toast off. No, I didn't want eat it after that.

SO gave in and made a bowl of Beef Ramen, trying to stir with bandaged hands. He is a very good cook, and I feel like a failure every time I try to cook a decent dinner and it backfires. It's even worse when I actually maim him in the process.

I won't even get started on The Perfect Pancake Maker fiasco. I may actually write a story about that one.

If you have a nervous habit of straightening your paper clips while chatting on the phone, one day you’ll need to group papers together and will have to improvise with spit and instant creamer.

Be happy that your husband loves his job, even if you still can’t stand yours. Take pride in the fact that he impresses the hell out of his supervisors, and is adored and respected by his colleagues. At least one of you is enjoying their work.

If you have pet rats that you let wander around your living room, make sure you are careful when sitting down on your comfy, oversized couch. A squished rat is not a happy rat. A squished rat tends to loose control of his bowels just to spite you.

When listening to Howard Stern during your morning commute, make sure you turn your volume down when sitting beside a nice elderly lady. Some of them have remarkably good hearing, and may be very offended by some of the masturbation stories told by Big Black, Cabbie & Beatlejuice.

Whoppers and vanilla coke are not a healthy dinner.

The best way to recover from not receiving an expected job offer is to take a long lunch, get a facial and buy a pretty shirt. It will make you feel girly, sex in the city-ish and pampered. Make sure you have enough funds in your checking account before doing this.

Making sure you have the receipt when you go to return the pretty shirt.

Also, tell the cosmotologist that you have very dry skin before she slathers a harsh, alcohol-based mask across your nose.

If you noticed the phone number of your father’s new fiancée on your caller ID, do not pick up the phone. She is just calling you to tell you that you are to blame for your father’s high blood pressure, and the fact that you’ve cut him off from your life is really a shame, since he really is a good, kind man.

Do not tell your mother about this phone call. It may prompt her to scream at the top of her lungs the 1,001 reasons why your father is not a good, kind man. And you know all this already.

Convince your husband to buy a yellow shirt.

Do not eat lunch at your desk, no matter how busy you are. Go outside and get some sun for christ’s sake.

It is ok to dislike the loudmouth girl who sits next to you. It is ok to seethe silently as she yammers on and on about her new promotion, her ivy league education, her vacation in turks and cacaos. It is not ok to wish that the roof would collapse over her cube, trapping her beneath three floors of debris. So say Yoda, also world weary : "Anger, Fear, Aggression...The Dark side are they."

My husband got up at 4:45 this morning. Before he set off for his very long 10-hour workday, he made me a roast beef sandwich for lunch.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world.