....most days a mess

Full of Baloney

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 16:00:35 GMT

Last week I broke down and bought one of those lunchable snack packs. Yes, I know that they are the worst possible things that you can feed a child. Artery clogging disgusting little packets of certain death, but they were on sale, and I had a coupon, so I tossed them in my cart figuring my finicky kids would probably never touch them, and I’d be the one risking my coronary health as I succumbed to late nigh t munchies.

I woke up the next morning to find Millie sitting at the kitchen table, and the open lunchable packets thrown across the floor. She was assembling the little cubes of ham and cheese-like product into neat little sandwiches, marching them in a line across the table and into her mouth.

Oh, and this was the day after we watched Babe: Pig in the City. I might have been a bit icked by this if the ham in lunchables was in any way a by-product of a pig. I’m not sure what animal those meat cubes come from, but I’m pretty sure it’s not one you’d see on an actual farm.

Unless that farm is in hell.

“Mom,” she said, holding up a miniature cracker. “These are the best things ever!”

Thinking this may be a way to break the pancakes-waffles-PB&J-chicken nugget stalemate lunchtime has become, I bought ingredients to make my own, healthier lunchables. Real cheese. Whole wheat crackers. Low fat, low salt bologna. I used cookie cutters to cut the cheese and bologna into little shapes, and it went over spectacularly, with both kids making (and eating!) different sandwich combos.

The bologna, in particular was a big it. Soon, Millie started asking for the whole slice. Then Quin, the consummate chicken nugget man, asked for “bwoney.”

Yesterday, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing my Christmas cards, both kids went into the fridge for more bologna and, this time, slices of cheese to go with it. Happy they were getting their own snack, and not bugging me, I let them do it, and continued peeling labels and stamps.

It wasn’t until I went to plug in the Christmas tree that I realized my mistake. It’s a universal fact that kids won’t eat bologna rind. I sure didn’t. I remember tossing it to my dog, Sandy, who would catch it in mid-air. It was the only little bit of grace that poor dog possessed.

There were no rinds on their plates. None in the trash. None stuffed under the sofa cushions or inside Lightening McQueen’s hauler truck.

Behind the Christmas tree, on the wall, there was a work of post-modern art that would make Jackson Pollock proud. Right before he puked.

A crooked line of circle bologna and square slices of American cheese, arranged in a pattern.

Circle.

Square.

Circle.

Square with a nibbled corner.

I recognized Quin’s teeth marks on that one.

At first they had used scotch tape to hang up the slices, but realized they didn't need it as bologna has a sticky cohesiveness of it’s own. A couple of slices had been up there for days, right over the heater, baking behind the lights of the tree. They had hardened to plastic, one actually seemed to have become part of the wall.

I had to use a scraper to get that one off.

I should be pleased they like shapes and pattern recognition and all that. Even so, I think we’ll stick to chicken nuggets for a while.

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 21:11:31 GMT

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.

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 12:53:41 GMT

Washable finger paint my ass.

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 19:49:20 GMT

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.

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 15:08:18 GMT

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 21:46:52 GMT

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.

Fri, 31 Aug 2007 12:04:52 GMT

Todd's coming home today.

Thank God.

Shakespearean Tragic Flaw

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 00:14:10 GMT

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.

Prompts-Catch Up

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 00:24:23 GMT

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.

.

“Whazzat?”

“It’s chicken honey. You like chicken.”

“No chicken. Want pop!”

“No popsicles until after you eat your lunch.”

“Want RED pop.”

“After lunch.”

“Blue pop?”

“You can have a pop, any color that you want, after you eat lunch.”

“O-tay….yuck. Yucky poop po.”

“It’s not Yucky Poo Poo. It’s chicken. You love chicken. Ok, it’s not chicken nuggets, it’s leftover chicken from Muma and Daddy’s dinner. It’s got sauce and mushrooms on it. It’s very yummy. Rachael ray says so.”

“Is not chick-can Muma. Is mess.”

1. At your 20th high school reunion, your teen nemesis throws her martini
on you and accuses you of making a fortune from making fun of her in your
books. What do you do?

See, this is why I stopped writing my YA. I was terrified of this exact scenario. Still, if it were to happen, I would remind my nemesis (nemesi?) that I’m sorry she/he was personally offended by what was obviously a work of convoluted fiction, and perhaps, if he/she is so quick to anger, he/she might want to seek some psychiatric help.
2. You've become your town's Dear Abby. Somebody sends you a problem that
you just have no answer for. Everyone knows it's you, and your reputation
and paycheck are on the line. What is the problem and how do you handle
it?

Dear Ms. Moniker,

I have one lifelong ambition. I want to dance! However, as I was born without a big toe on either foot, I find that I am terribly clumsy and do not have the grace or endurance required to be a prima ballerina. It’s hard to go En pointe without toes. I can’t imagine a career outside of dance. If I can not dance, I will surely die. What will become of me?

-Stubby

Dear Stubby,

While toes, especially big toes, come in handy, they are not necessary for a fiull and happy life, and they are not necessary for dancing as well.

Oh, never mind. I ran out of steam on that one.

3. Millie pulls a Michelle Tanner and comes home with a miniature donkey.
You decide to keep it and rent it out to birthday parties. You need a
costume for yourself and the donkey and a theme for the business. What
are they?

I would call the Donkey Horace, because I’ve always wanted a Donkey named Horace. Our schtick would be that I am a poor peasant from the Middle Ages, off on a pilgrimage, because it would be all, like, educational and stuff for the kids. I’d show up for the party ripe with my own filth, crawling with fleas and missing several teeth. I would bathe Horace with the garden house, shovel fistfuls of cake into my mouth with my grubby hands, and pick fleas off my clothing for goody bag gifts. I would also beg for alms, and remind the partygoers that they are all hell-bound heathens, destined to burn for all of eternity.

4. An eccentric friend of the family leaves you her haunted Irish castle.
Of course she has a clause that you can't truly own the castle until
you've spent the night there. Who do you choose to spend the night with
you – Hermione, Scooby Doo, or Don Knotts?

Oh, Don Knotts of course. Hermione would annoy the crap out of me, and with Scooby Doo on board, you know the Harlem Globetrotters can’t be far behind, and I don’t want any basketball dribbling on my priceless haunted Irish floors. Plus Don is certain to draw the ghosts ire, and they’ll exhaust themselves trying to lure him into a series of hilarious bobby traps, and they’ll forgot all about little old me.

5. You've accidentally created an amazing fruit/vegetable hybrid in your
garden. What is it and what does it taste like?

Well, it turns out all the pesticides I’ve been using to keep the house and yard free from pesky bugs is the cause of my new hybrid vegetable, growing where I’ve haphazardly scattered some tomato seeds a few months ago. I suspect this because the tomato, or as I am calling it, the toma-glo™ is a vibrant, pulsating fuchsia, and any insect that dares land on it or any of its leaves is instantly incinerated. I do not think this particular veggie should be eaten, but perhaps if there were one planted at the edge of every garden in America, we would do away with EEE and every other bug transmitted disease. Sure, we might damage the ecosystem, but it really is a small price to pay for a bug-free backyard.

Just finished Potter

Mon, 23 Jul 2007 18:39:50 GMT

Still trying to decide if I liked it or not.

I guess I'm really a parent now

Mon, 18 Jun 2007 15:22:34 GMT

Millie just got a lollipop stuck in her hair.

Mommies wobble but they don't fall down

Fri, 19 Jan 2007 18:14:13 GMT

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."

Mon, 18 Dec 2006 19:46:34 GMT

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!

Pingu

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 22:21:06 GMT

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)

A boy?

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 16:03:34 GMT

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

Sun, 14 May 2006 19:51:52 GMT

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

If wishes were bridled Palomino ponies, with plaited manes and soft leather saddles…

Mon, 06 Mar 2006 20:47:08 GMT

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….

Wed, 01 Mar 2006 17:05:50 GMT

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.

Tue, 22 Nov 2005 22:01:52 GMT

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.

Da Book

Tue, 22 Nov 2005 17:16:05 GMT

60,356 / 80,000
(75.4%)

Fri, 04 Nov 2005 21:22:51 GMT

Dear god, no!

Thu, 28 Jul 2005 19:36:23 GMT

tired...so very tired

An open letter to my daughter

Tue, 28 Jun 2005 16:35:25 GMT

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

Thu, 23 Jun 2005 12:50:47 GMT

Go here.

You won't regret it.

Tue, 14 Jun 2005 14:06:08 GMT

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.