Thursday, August 30, 2012

Things That Piss Me Off...Thursday?

I lack the discipline to stay on task.  Obviously.  This is supposed to be a Tuesday theme, not a Thursday one...but whatevs.

I wrote about my son's fascination with boobs this week instead, and no one seemed to notice the regular post was missing because they were laughing too damned hard.

So, here we are a few days past where I'm supposed to be.  Playing catch up.

Here's a list of things driving me just to edge of insanity right now.

Cheaters and the people who defend them

There have been a few news stories in the last week that people are all kinds of fired up about.  That people automatically believe or disbelieve based on nothing more than an emotional reaction.  Then they fight with other people, with no real idea whether they are on the right side of the argument or not.

A prime example?  Lance Armstrong.

For years and years I wanted to believe that he was worthy of the pedestal people put him on.  I did.  Not just because of his racing, but more because of the fact that he fought and beat the same type of cancer my husband had. I rooted for him on the road enough, but I rooted for him and his wife in their attempts to get pregnant more, because I knew that exact struggle more than most people.

Then the doping allegations started, and he denied them of course.  He always denied them.  But he was too good.  Like Mark McGwire shattering a long standing record by a mile too good.  Sometimes there are witch hunts, and sometimes they just can't pin the crime on the perpetrator.

Then he left his wife and kids to date rock stars and I lost respect for the guy even more.  By then, he'd created the Livestrong foundation and done immeasurable good for the world of cancer, but it got harder and harder to look past his ego.

In the last week, he said he'd stop fighting the charges levied against him.  Stripped of his titles, people immediately came rushing to his defense.  Is he guilty?  I can't say.  I sure wouldn't assert his innocence, though, like some people have done.  Let's put it this way....when someone has been accused of something for well over a decade and vigorously asserted their innocence the whole time, then all of a sudden throws up their hands and stops fighting...there is a reason.  And there is a reason here.


I simply cannot stand people who preach and preach and preach to others about how to live their lives, about what is and is not acceptable behavior, what things you should never ever say, what words you should never use...then turn around and display the exact same behaviors they preach against.

I can't stand it even more when they encourage this behavior in their children.  The children they use as a reason to preach to others in the first place.

Assholes who don't watch where they are going

In front of the only driveway to my oldest son's school yesterday, there was a head on collision between two drivers.  One on her phone, the other one making a left turn without paying attention. In front of a school.  Full of kids.

In that exact moment, I was immensely grateful for the underground walkway the boys take to school, relieved that they aren't put in the path of idiots like those two.

Slow down, watch for kids, hang up the phone, put your makeup on before you leave the house, the thing you dropped on the floor can wait, STOP texting.  My babies are out there.


I have too damn much to do during the day as it is.  Trying to do it all while still recovering from pneumonia, dealing with angry lady part problems and a house full of kids who clearly haven't adjusted to early morning wake up calls is hard enough.  Trying to do it on a few hours of interrupted sleep is rough.  Really rough.

It's no huge shock that I have a short fuse lately.  I'm amazed I haven't hopped off the edge into the deep end yet.  If I've been more bitchy than normal, my apologies.

Over committing

This one is my fault, mostly.  Story of my life.  Yes, I will help you.  Yes, I will do this.  Yes, I will host this.  Yes, I will organize this.  Yes, I will lead this group.  Yes, I will coach this soccer team.  The coaching thing is my husband's fault, but I think I'm going to love it.  They are 3 and 4, so I don't have to worry about actually teaching strategy or anything, mostly I just have to keep them focused for twenty minute increments.

Herd the cats.

That, and I need to go shopping.  It's hard to be believable as a coach wearing flip flops and a denim skirt.  I need something sporty.  I'm not sporty.  I don't own sporty.  I am not sure I can pull off sporty.

One thing is certain, though.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes.

I've got a team of little kids to chase.

Wish me luck.  Wish us all luck.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

I will not enjoy being a girl

It's a damn good thing that men don't have to endure periods and cramps and cracked nipples and childbirth.

The world would be full of one-child households because you can bet your ass they wouldn't go though that more than once.  With time, the survival of the human race would be in jeopardy.

I know my husband would have had voluntarily had a hysterectomy shortly after puberty if he had to bleed every month.

Though I'm glad to be female most of the time, and shockingly really and truly did enjoy being pregnant and nursing, there are times that I'd like to throw in the towel.

Hang it up.

Pick up a Y chromosome at the store.

Right now is one of them, if you couldn't tell.

In truth and fairness, though, my issue isn't so much with my very pissed off anatomy.   Don't get me wrong, I'm mad at my body, and I'm pretty sure it is furious with me.  We aren't getting along well right now.

My issue is with birth control pills.  With the lack of better options.  With the hell we have to put ourselves through just to try and avoid becoming those people with 20 kids and counting.

It shouldn't be like this.  If there is technology to map the human genome, to create targeted cancer therapies, to perform surgery on unborn fetuses, then why can't someone invent better birth control???

The pill, my most current nemesis, is really pissing me off right about now.

My doctor switched me to this one a while back, having me skip the placebo pills to avoid having a period at all since I am anemic.  Which worked GREAT for a few months.

Until I got sick and feverish and started hallucinating and forgot to take my pill for one day.  One flipping day.

My body has been pissed ever since.

It's like all the periods I skipped were waiting to torture me.  I'm on day 13 at this point, with no real good options to get it to stop.  One makes me bleed more, the other loads my system with even more fake hormones.  No guarantees that either will work.

Freaking hormones.

No, I will not enjoy being a girl.

Not at all.

Monday, August 27, 2012

The Wiser

The older I get, the more I believe all those sayings about how wisdom comes with time.

How we are the sum of our experiences, and that the lessons life teaches us shape who we eventually become.

Or maybe I'm just getting old and I want to believe that there has to be something redeeming about it.

Get off my lawn.

I spent about a half hour talking shop with a really old farmer over the weekend.  One of the perks of living pretty close to the sticks is that we have things like gigantic tractor shows.

My oldest son was intrigued by the guy, and the longer I stood there I was too.  Then again, I have this thing for adorable little old men.  Always have.

One adopted me when I was pregnant and taking water aerobics classes.  True story.  Over the 8 weeks, we got to know each other.  He'd look out for me, and we'd go have lunch at a little coffee shop once in a while.  He was in the same profession as my father, which meant that we could talk about things that the vast majority of the population wouldn't have any reason to, like why denture cream shouldn't be necessary.

See, I told you that the majority of the population wouldn't care about that, probably including you.

I think he was just glad to share the pool with a female under the age of 70.

Anyway, I stood under a shade canopy last weekend with a really old farmer for a good long while.   Banjos playing in the background, cloggers and square dancers dancing away, I listened.  Just listened.

If there is one thing that I've learned about people it's that most older men just want to talk and share their stories.  They want someone to listen.  Someone to care.  Someone who can disregard the fact that they repeat themselves a lot.

I love it.

We can learn so much from those who've been around a while.

There is just something different about that generation, different than my generation.  Fundamentally.

They had to think outside the box, they had to be creative, they invented.  They knew the meaning of hard work...actual hard, physical work.  They used their hands.  They saw problems and just came up with solutions instead of copping out, saying it was too hard, too big, too complex.

This guy, who'd been told by his teachers that he wasn't smart enough, designed and built all his own haystackers.  With 2x4's and some brackets, rope and a horse, he figured out how to move massive bales of hay.  He and his brother, who he spent 40 years farming with, built their own houses.

Though there was nothing about this man that reminded me of my grandfather in any physical way, he made me think long and hard about the fact that my grandfather, as was the case with many of his co-workers, had no formal schooling in engineering.  No bachelor's degrees, no master's degrees, no doctorates.  And yet, they built the rockets and space shuttles.  They put a man on the moon.

They didn't have years of schooling to teach them how to solve these problems.  They just figured it out.

We live in a world now that attributes far too much to pieces of paper.  To formalities.  To the idea that if you sit in a classroom long enough you master the subject.   It's a fallacy.

All the education in the world won't help you find a vein in a patient's arm.  Won't teach you how to sell a car or a house or a company.   Won't teach you compassion for those who need it.  Won't give you the raw edge to forcefully advocate for a client in court.   It won't.  It might help, but it's not everything.

This man, and everything his generation stands for and stood for, should be a lesson to us all.

We can learn from their struggles and triumphs.  I'm always a little in awe of how they figured out how to build things like dams and bridges and aircraft carriers without the technology we possess today.  We need to steal a little from prior generations.

A piece of paper will never substitute for hard work and ingenuity.

We could use a little of both these days.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

First World Problems

I need coffee.

Every single day.

A few years ago, my son made some coffee.  He thought he was helping.  He tried.  Really, he did.

What ended up happening was nothing short of a magnificent mess, with coffee grounds and water and quasi-percolated coffee everywhere.  The counter, the floor, the side of the fridge.  Everything electrical in the maker shorted out, and it died a quick and ugly death.

I didn't get any coffee that morning, which was the real tragedy.

Fortunately, my brother in law had a spare coffee maker.  Hey guys, you can just have this one.  I don't use this anymore and you need one.  Isn't that great, he said?

Riding in like a caffeine induced superhero, he dropped it off the next day.  There was a theme song and everything.

It looks nice enough, right?
That was a few years ago now.

His coffeemaker still sits on my counter, getting used every day.

I figured out why he was so willing to pass it off to us, though, within the first day.  Why he was so eager to get rid of it.  The real reason he didn't use it.

It sucks.

There is no possible way to pour anything out of the carafe without spilling half of it.  My husband scolds me, that if I would just be more careful.  If I would just pour it nice and slow.  If I just had more patience...then I wouldn't be cleaning the counter every morning.

Who the fuck has patience to pour their coffee slowly and diligently?  Especially in the morning, before they have had their coffee?

Certainly not me.

I spill every day.  I mutter under my breath at this thing more often than I do at my children.

First world problems.  What are yours?

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Release the Kraken

I've been sick for now for almost two weeks.  The husband injured for a bit longer.

Out of commission.

Which can only mean one thing in a house full of six people.

Shit ain't getting done.

The kids are taking full advantage of it, of course. I've asked them to help more than usual because of my complete inability to do anything.  Aidan is supposed to do the dishes and the girls are supposed to do the laundry.

What I imagine that looks like, and what I found a few nights ago after the kids went to bed, are vastly different.

Aidan got into the habit of restarting the dishwasher whenever he didn't want to empty it.  The dishes of six people for god only knows how long, stacked precariously on the counter.  In the sink.  On the tables.  You get where I'm going with this.

The girls washed and dried the clothes well enough.  Then rolled them up in balls and threw them into random baskets.  No folding, no sorting.  IF something was hung up, it was done in such a manner that I'm not even sure how they got it to stay on the hanger.  Defying the laws of gravity and shit.  That bad.

The entire floor was covered with stuff.  Dirty clothes, clothes that were probably clean before they landed back on the floor, dishes that didn't fit on counters anymore, freaking cheese papers.  The trash was overflowing, spilling out all over the kitchen floor.

Keep in mind my husband is on crutches or his scooter.  He at least needs a path.

I surveyed the damage.  I have a line.  This was over the line.

I harnessed every last ounce of energy I had and yelled up the stairs in my sick and raspy scary mommy voice (which  I imagine to sound like Kathleen Turner, but probably sounds more like a pubescent boy).

10:30pm on a school night, and I dragged all their asses out of bed.

Yes I did.

Release the Kraken. Unleash hell.  All that.

There was yelling, at least until I launched into a coughing fit.  There was snapping and pointing.  I am pretty sure I flailed at some point.  Basically, I freaked the fuck out.

Do it right the first time so you don't have to do it twice.

You're going to fix this.

I don't care if you're tired at school tomorrow.

Don't be lazy!

All I'm asking for is a little, tiny bit of help, seriously!

My husband was worried I was going to turn on him next.

In the eyes of my children, terror.

Mom has full on lost her shit, guys....we'd better listen or we might not survive to morning.

They survived.  Somehow, as if a magical cleaning fairy has come, the laundry is now getting folded and the dishes are actually getting washed.

Amazing how that works.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

50 Shades of Grey - A review

It's my first time.

I can't say that without pretending to be one of those coeds in the Girls Gone Wild videos.  If a girl says it's my first time while flashing her boobs to a middle aged, sweaty cameraman, I'm gonna guess she's fibbing.

But that's just me.

It is my first time writing a book review though, that's the truth.  I guess I've never felt so compelled to pick something apart before.

Or maybe I'm going stir crazy being holed up in this house with my pneumonia and injured husband and read way too much into the book.

Either way.

I have to confess that I knew that the book was of a, ahem, sexual nature before I read it.

You know what this means.

I had high expectations.  HIGH.

Suffice to say, those expectations weren't met.

I got blue balled.

If you haven't read the book yet and you want to, you might want to skip the rest of this post.  That is, unless you want to laugh your ass off.  Then, you should definitely keep reading.  Besides which, I'm not really spoiling much.  Mostly because there's not much to spoil.

The wild success of this book has been brought to you by Kindles, Nooks and e-readers of all varieties.  Without the inconspicuousness, the secretiveness, the fact that you can be reading erotica and no one around you know that, I can promise this book would never have become a best seller.  If you had to carry around an actual book that screams to the world I'm reading smut!!!, most women would be a little more hesitant to parade Christian and his naughtiness around poolsides, parks and school parking lots.

I was talking to a friend about this book last night.  She hasn't read it yet, but she's read just about every other book ever written in the history of time.  I was telling her that I think the book is confused.  It's not sure what genre it is supposed to be in. It's a poorly written Harlequin romance book cleverly disguised as a real novel.  Amazing what cover art can do.

If it's supposed to be a real novel, it's sorely lacking in plot and character development.  You never really learn anything about any of the characters - just get to read the same mediocre sex scene over and over and over.    If it's supposed to be smut, it's not good enough.

If Ana is supposed to be in her early 20's and a virgin, there is a reason.  Women don't get to their 20's without having sex unless there is a reason.  Period.  And women with a reason don't jump into the world of S&M for their first time.  Make her a girl who had some wild escapades in college and I might buy it.  But a virgin?  Nope.  That right there made me think that maybe a man actually wrote the book.

If it's supposed to be a book about racy sexual escapades, bondage, dominance and s&m, it is a dismal failure.  If you've ever watched that scene in Eyes Wide Shut, you've seen more than this book offers in it's entirety.  If you haven't seen Eyes Wide Shut, go.  I'll be here when you get back.

If you want to get a bunch of middle aged, married moms fired up about sex, you've got to do more than this.  If you write about an entire room dedicated to bondage, it had damn well better be put to good use.  I'm not the most adventurous person in the world, but I was bored.

I may not be dangling from the ceiling covered in feathers, but dammit someone should be.

Entertain me.

If you want to turn on women and make them want to keep reading, you can't have the devastatingly handsome man beat the shit out of the girl just to get his rocks off.  Sorry, there's nothing sexy about that.  Spanking, sure.  I can get behind a good spanking just as much as the next person.  But, beating?  Hell no.

If you want to sell the idea of having sex while on your period, he cannot just do a reach around and take out her tampon.  Oh my god.  There is no touching of the tampon!!!!!   WTF?   Just, just, W.T.F.?

If you want to keep my interest, you cannot honestly expect your readers to believe that this completely sexually inexperienced woman can be brought to orgasm within seconds.  That's just fucking ridiculous. Fiction can be fun!

I don't need the same exact description of him opening the condom every.single.time.  I get it.  The foil ripped.  I read that already, just like 3 pages ago.  And then before that.  You're using protection.  Yay for that. For reals though, this is boring.  The member is sheathed.  Again.

I don't honestly think the word penis is in the book at all.  Or if it is, I stopped paying attention.  No vaginas either.  What the hell?  This is supposed to be an entire book dedicated to sex, and not a single term for either of the tingly parts?  Call them what they are.  It's a penis.  A dick.  A cock.  Something.  We KNOW what it is.  You can use the words.  Really.  This isn't a 5th grade health class.  I'm reading this book because it's about sex.  I'm prepared for an occasional naughty word.  Honest.

As if the lack of proper penis mention isn't enough, she can't come up with anything to call her vajayjay than my sex. I literally laughed every single time she talked about her sex.  Come on.  We are adults here.  Call it something!!!  Hell, secret garden would be better than my sex.

This book was a vast disappointment for so many reasons.  I kept waiting for some variety in the sex scenes.  I kept waiting for some character development.  Nope.  I've heard the later books in the series do both, but I'm just not sure I've got the motivation to keep going.  I need more stimulation.

This book is just a toned down, unexciting version of the romance novels we've been taught to be ashamed to read.  Ladies, take my advice.  Pick up one of those Harlequin books and forget Mr. Grey.

Unless Bradley Cooper gets cast as Christian in the movie.

Then you can bet your sweet ass I'll be watching.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Almost there

I have this thing for Fall.  The last couple days have been a preview of what is coming.  Cool, crisp mornings.  Bright blue skies.  Breezes and bold colors.  The tops of the trees here have started to make the most subtle changes.  It's coming.

I'm not kidding myself.  I know that there are still more than a few days in the forecast expected to be in the 90's.  I know that it will still be hot for a while.  

Those hot days this week will just make me all the more grateful for the change when it comes. 

We've been watching pre-season football, pretending it's as good as the real thing, knowing that it's not.  Soon my Saturdays will involve games saved on the DVR and deliberate attempts to avoid anyone who knows the outcome.  There will be guacamole and homemade chicken wings.  Oh yes, there will be.  

I want to wear sweaters and boots.  I want to invent new soup recipes.  I want the smell of pumpkin to infiltrate my kitchen.  I want to clutch coffee cups on dewy soccer fields.  I want to make hot cocoa for the kids when they come in from playing, cheeks red and fingers chilled.

I want to take pictures.  Oh, the pictures.  Fall is the time of year when I just carry my good camera with me wherever I go.  You never know when you'll see something amazing.

Halloween is just on the horizon to me, though I know that to most people it's well over two months away.  We take this holiday very seriously in my house. Planning this year has been complicated by injury, and we'll have to come up with some adaptations.  Against my better judgment, I think we are just buying costumes this year.  Sometimes you have to hit the easy button, and I'm doing it this time around.  

Let's just say the theme this year is an ironic one given the current state of affairs.  No hints.  I'm pretty sure that I'll never top the last few years anyway, given how high the bar has been set.  

2009 - The Wizard of Oz

2010 - Toy Story

2011- Alice in Wonderland
I've got to start working on this year's costumes.  Only 10 weeks left....

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Why moms don't get sick

I'm sick.  The sickest I can honestly say that I ever remember being in my entire life.

I'd suppose that really isn't saying a whole lot though, since I've really been lucky in that respect.  I haven't had any major illnesses personally.  I got chicken pox at the end of 6th grade, and that sucked pretty huge since it caused me to miss out on everything fun that happens at the end of the year.  I had some mystery disease when I was like 5 or 6 that probably was actually mumps since the vaccines they gave kids the year I was born didn't take.  It was ruled out of course because I was immunized.  Right.

When I was a baby, I almost died of food poisoning from a jar of Gerber baby food.   Salmonella.  It's what's for dinner.  Yum.  I don't remember that one though.

This though, this one is kicking my ass.

Part of my problem is that I did what I always do when I get sick...everything.  Moms don't get days off, moms don't get to snuggle up in bed with chicken soup and have other people take care of them.  Moms don't go to the doctor at the first sign something is wrong because there is a soccer tournament or a surgery scheduled or the first day of school.  Moms don't have time to get sick.  So they don't.

They just do everything they normally do, sick.

Usually it works out just fine.  I power through whatever it is, usually so wrapped up in taking care of someone else that I barely notice that I have it too.


This time?  Not so much.

I hit the wall, and I hit it hard.  My body said "uncle".  If I don't take it easy, I'll be promptly thrown in the hospital for a little R&R.  So I sit.  And cough.  And sit.  And cough.

In the meantime, the kids are taking full advantage of us.  The parents are out of commission.

Tom, with his foot perpetually elevated, is still pretty hopped up on painkillers.  He can't do much, but right now he doesn't much care.

I, on the other hand, am starting to go crazy.  The house is complete mess.  Getting worse by the day.  I don't have the energy to do anything about it. I don't have the energy to pick up.  I don't have the energy to try and clean. I don't even have the energy to yell at them.  I just don't.

So it builds and builds and builds.

By the time I am finally feeling better, our house might look like the wasteland in Wall*E.  I won't just be trying to clean up, I will be managing mountains of disaster.

I've tried delegating chores to the kids.  Aidan is supposed to do the dishes.  The girls are supposed to do the laundry.  It's painful to watch.  It's taking everything in me not to follow behind them and do it right.  I can't care right now.  I'm too exhausted.

This is why moms don't get sick.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Human Again

I'm standing this morning.

Woo freaking hoo!

My fever broke last night, which means I woke up swimming in a puddle of sweat.  Nice visual, eh?  Note to self: wash those nasty sheets.  And throw that pillow away.  Shudder.

The surgeon's office just called, moving up my husband's surgery tomorrow, which means I have two fewer hours to get everything done that needs to be done.  It's a good thing I feel human again.

Now, to shower, do the laundry, run to the doctor's office, wait at the DMV forever, go to the pharmacy, go to the store, buy a birthday cake, get two kids haircuts and four kids shoes before back to school night at 6pm.

I can do this, right?

I will....even if it requires the use of bribery and duct tape.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

7 days

I fully admit to being the kind of parent who finds herself reminding others not to wish away childhood.  Kids grow up so fast, we have to cherish moments.  Time is fleeting, someday we will wish for these days back.  All that jazz.

And then, by the time the dog days of summer show up, I'm counting days.

7 days until school starts.  Exactly 7 days from right this second, I will be dropping my oldest baby off for his first day of middle school.

And yeah, I am counting.

Guilty, as charged.

My house is trashed.  All the time.  The kitchen is never clean, the floor is always littered with shoes and clothes and granola bar wrappers and cheese papers.

(seriously, wtf is up with the cheese papers?!?! my kids have a patent inability to throw away cheese papers.)  I gave up trying at some point, knowing that I would just get it taken care of when they aren't here.

It's just not worth the effort, though my OCD tendencies are being tested like never before.

They eat.  And eat.  And eat.  Then they eat some more.  From sunrise until bedtime, someone in this house is always hungry. I've got two solidly in pre-puberty growth spurts and I cannot keep food in the house.  I have to hide things in the pantry if there is any hope of me actually getting to eat them.  A friend of mine, commiserating about this, asked her daughter why she eats all day during the summer...especially given that she obviously can't do that during the school year.  Her daughter's response?  Because she can.

Yep, that sounds about right.

My girls either love each other or hate each other, and there is nothing in the middle.  They are doing fashion shows and make-overs one second, kicking each other in the face the next.  They poke, they pinch, they pull each other's hair, they breathe each other's air.

Oh, the horror.

They can do battle and I don't even intervene anymore unless blood is involved.  I'm not a referee, I don't own a whistle, and I look terrible in stripes. I do need to invest in earplugs though.

They are loud.  Really freaking loud.  And, like most things in a house with this many kids, everything becomes a competition.  One makes noise, another turns up the TV.  TV is loud?  Radio has to be louder.  My house is never quiet.  Ever.  A few of them even talk in their sleep.  Wish I was kidding.

I love my children, to the moon and back.  Sometimes though, I'd like to send them there.

Let's be honest.

This school year brings many changes for our family, and many of those changes are bittersweet ones.  I'm not really ready to have a middle schooler, but I'm not exactly in a place to do anything about it except deal with it.  He, on the other hand, is perfectly content in this sandwich phase of his life. Trapped between being a teenager and being my little boy, he craves responsibility and independence, but has recently started calling me Mommy all over again.

And I'm really okay with that.

He may not want to do it around his big-kid friends though, or they'll give him an endless amount of crap about it.

7 days, my friends.  7 days.

Then I can go back to cleaning and carpooling and missing my children just enough during the day to tolerate them at night.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

I could use a laugh right about now

I've said frequently in the last few years that if I lost my sense of humor, I would probably go crazy.  It's the truth, and often the only thing that keeps me upright is my ability to laugh.

There are times that nothing about life seems funny at all.

Like now.

I'm feeling more than a little overwhelmed lately, mostly a by-product of the fact that I was already emotionally exhausted before the latest challenges decided to show up.  Then, in the last two days, I've learned of the deaths of the fathers of two of my friends.  My heart breaks for them, for the choices they had to make, for the void that will never be filled again.  For those still in a place with choices to make.  For it all. There are few things in life more axis shifting than losing a parent.

My husband is struggling with the gravity of his injury.  We all are.  This isn't a broken bone that will heal in a few weeks and things will return to normal after a few speed bumps.  This is a major surgery, this is a long recovery.  This is a lot.  We'll get through it, we always do.  This is more than we have ever had to deal with, which is saying something given our family's extensive medical history.

I'll be trying to keep laughing, trying to find the humor in life, trying to take myself and my situations a little less seriously.  There will be days that I will not do a very good job of it, and for that I apologize in advance.

All the other times, I'll be forcing myself to laugh and dragging you all along with me.  And for that, you are welcome.

I saw this car on the way to pick my husband up yesterday.  It's a real thing, I promise. Not photo shopped at all.  An old beater of a car, it contained four grown, rather large men.  All different ages and races.  I really just wanted to flag them down, have them pull over and ask what the hell was going on.  How did you get in this car, how do you all know each other, where could you possibly be going???

And yeah, it's completely covered in doll heads.

I needed that laugh.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Things That Piss Me Off Tuesday - Steroids, Murphy and Star Trek as they apply to me

Some weeks I have to sit and ponder for a bit when it comes to this post.  Channel my inner rage about things that have happened before, or things happening far away or things that really don't affect me directly at all.

Not this week.

Asthma can kiss my ass

I currently have a sobbing little boy next to me.  Bags under his eyes, the barometer I use to tell how he's really doing.  Just like his sister.  He hasn't been sleeping well, which means I haven't either.  He was formally diagnosed with asthma yesterday since he gave the doctor no choice but to officially call it.  He's wheezing and coughing and miserable, on steroids.  Again.  Asthma is at the top of the list of things I hate having passed down to my kids.

His big sis isn't struggling as bad as he is with it currently, but she's got a big test coming up.  A soccer tournament.  Her team is smaller this time around than it's been, meaning there won't be many subs on the bench.  She's going to be out there for the entire game, and her mother is going to be a nervous wreck on the sidelines.

Murphy & his flipping law

By now, anyone who knows us in real life or has read here long enough knows that we are an exceedingly injury prone family.  We have a lot of surgeries.  We break bones.  We keep orthopedists in business.  It's kinda our thing.

When I got the text from my husband Saturday morning, I was in denial for a while.  Maybe it's not what he thinks it is.  Maybe it's not that bad.  Maybe.

I knew better.  Playing in his district finals for tennis, he'd gone to chase down a ball and heard the characteristic pop that can only mean one thing.  He'd ruptured his Achilles.  Completely.  I'm taking him to the orthopedist in a little while to schedule his surgery.

He'll be on crutches for months.


Complicating the entire situation is the fact that we just changed insurance.  We don't even have cards yet.  Four days into new coverage and someone needs surgery.  We do like to get those pesky deductibles out of the the way.

Dammit Jim, I'm a parent, not a coach

Which brings me to this.  I'm channeling Star Trek this morning.  My husband had already signed up to coach little boy's first soccer team before he got hurt. Little boy knows this.  Little boy is abundantly aware that Daddy is hurt and can't coach.  Little boy wants his mom to do it.

Which would be me.

I'm about to be a soccer coach.  Of a team of 3 year olds.  Holy shit.

I so did not sign up for this.

But, like so many things in my life, that doesn't matter.

Builds character, right???

Monday, August 6, 2012

The Thrill of Victory, The Agony of Defeat, The Weirdness of the Athletes

I've confessed before my addiction to the Olympics.  I really do think I would watch basket weaving if they made it a medal sport.

One of my most favorite things about the Olympics is the coverage of the individual athletes and their stories.

The backgrounds, the pictures of them training as kids, the obstacles they have overcome, the struggles and sacrifices to get where they are.

Some of them, you want to root for immediately just because of the way they can captivate an audience.  Others make you sit on the edge of your seat and cheer only after you get to know their story.

Gabby Douglas was the best gymnast, not just from the United States, but in the world.  Regardless of the fact that she was young and relatively untested.  Regardless of the fact that she was never welcomed with open arms by her teammates in the way she should have been.  Regardless of the fact that she wasn't the captain of the team.  Regardless of the fact that others who stood next to her were the media darlings before the Games and got all the press.  Regardless of the fact that she wasn't the one to beat.

None of that mattered.  She got it done.  And every girl out there who ever fell victim to the mean girls won with her. I've been rooting for her since I saw the way she was treated at the US Team Qualifier, and now she's the gymnastics sweetheart.  Go, Gabby, Go.

Oscar Pistorius lost yesterday, coming in last in the final heat he would run in these Olympics.  He wasn't the favorite.  No one thought he would win a medal, probably including him.  He truly was one of the thousands of athletes that goes to the Olympics knowing they won't compete at the highest level, but who are honored to represent their country.  Most likely, he would have been treated like all the rest of those athletes by the media if it wasn't for the fact that he made history just by being there.

Pistorius is a double amputee, and competed against a field of able bodied, two legged men.  He was fast.  Faster than almost everyone the world, as a matter of fact.  His humility and kindness, his strength and determination, his overwhelmingly charming personality, all makes him a winner already.  He doesn't need a medal to get into the history books.  He doesn't need to win to inspire millions of people around the world.

I've been a little put off by those who actually claim he has an advantage.  I have a hard time with anyone who could actually make that argument seriously.  As the daughter of an amputee, I know more about the subject than I ever thought I would have to, and I know that the level of effort required just to walk is significant for a single amputee, let alone a double.

To Pistorius, I say this: Congratulations, and thank you.

Finally, I have to share this.  I've been a sports fan my entire life, and I've seen some pretty strange rituals carried out by athletes, but this right here takes the cake.

Leo Manzano licks his fingers and rubs saliva in many strange places.  I'm not sure what the reasoning is for this, and I looked online to see if there was a story about it.  No luck.  In the meantime, we're calling him Leo the Licker.  His eccentricities just earned him a few new fans in this house.  We like to keep things weird around here.

Friday, August 3, 2012

In case anyone wonders where I get it from...

Yesterday would have been my grandmother's 85th birthday.

She's been gone now for almost eleven years. Some of my last pictures of her include my son, then just a baby.  The only great grandchild she'd ever meet.

I think about her often, probably more so in the last year than in the prior ten combined.  Her lessons have taught me to be strong, to put on a happy face, to persevere, to keep going.  To go out into an unfair world where terrible things happen, with my head held high. And to do it with flair and fabulousness.

She never left the house without her lipstick, and taught me from a young age to appreciate shoes and handbags.  I come by it honestly.

She was an only child raised during the Depression.  To say that she had a lonely and solitary existence growing up would be a vast understatement.  Her father, her center.  Her mother, often her enemy.

That would never change, and she would spend most of her life coping with the fact that her mother never quite loved her or approved of her, accepted or even liked her.  She was resilient though, and knew that for a girl in the 40's, she'd have to get married to escape her life.

There weren't a whole lot of other options for someone like her, particularly given the repressive nature of her upbringing.

Her name was Dolores, but everyone called her Doll.  And she was one.  She had creamy porcelain skin and always, always, always wore red lipstick.  (though I have to assume she snuck that for most of her adolescence as her mother would never have approved) She had dark brown, almost black hair.

She was gorgeous.

Her most favorite thing in the world to do was go dancing, and it was there that she met the man she'd marry.  These are some of the pictures of their courtship, and give so much insight to who she really was.  Who she wanted to be.

Yep.  We're related.

She was so in love with this man.

A few months before they married.

These pictures also go pretty far to explain how I got to be the way that I am.

I miss you, Grandma Doll.  I'm sure you spent your birthday dancing in heaven with Pap, so I know it was a good one.  xoxo

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Fakers, Haters and the Chronically Perfect

As my son enters the middle school phase, I'm often reminded of just how much we are all still stuck there.  I try the best I can to equip him to deal with drama queens and attention whores and backstabbers and assholes.

Then I find myself still dealing with them.

Try as you may to outgrow this phase, it seems like it keeps rearing it's ugly head.

Facebook and other social media utilities add a whole new level of complexity to human relationships these days, and the pseudo-anonymous nature of the internet allows people to be less than truthful about just about everything.

The Fakers

How many times, whether online or in real life, have you dealt with someone who just wasn't who they portrayed themselves to be?   These are the people who talk a good game, who put on an act for the rest of the world.  Who care endlessly about what people think of them, but lack the integrity to ever live up to the image they create.

They are your best friend in the world until you need them.  They are so interested in whatever is going on in your life until something minute happens in theirs.  They make promises they never keep, they offer to help just to make it look good but have no intentions of actually helping.  They don't follow through on anything.

But they post about it all the time on Facebook.

My personal favorites are the ones that act like they are good people, who post about all the wonderful things they do for others, about how they are morally upstanding and ever conscious of the world around them.  Except anyone who knows them in real life knows otherwise.  They skate, they slide, they work the system.

Then, the worst kind of fakers.  The ones who outright lie and manipulate people.  Who portray themselves as friends when they are anything but.  Who use and abuse the loyalties they build to hurt others.  Who only ever look out for number one.  Humans are so very selfish at their core, and the level of justification that people can conjure up for the things they do never ceases to amaze me.

The Haters

We've all got haters.  I've got quite a few. Those of us, like me, who put ourselves out there publicly tend to have more.  It's part of the risk of having opinions and sharing them.

It's one thing to deal with those who will directly take you on.  Who will challenge your beliefs, who will test your theories, who will question your judgment.  I can handle that any day.

It's another thing entirely to deal with those who do it behind your back.  Who use passive aggression to counter-act whatever it is you do.  Who proclaim that they'd never do this or that aloud just to get a reaction.  The people who use their online presence to underhandedly hurt others.

Then there is the level of this that comes with success.  There are people in this world who truly have nothing better to do than to pick fights.  Affectionately referred to as trolls online, they seem to derive some kind of sick pleasure from starting arguments.  A few of the other page admins on Facebook have funnier names for them, my personal favorite being the douche-canoe.

The Chronically Perfect

There is a saying that goes a little something like this.

I know quite a few of these people.  The ones that are constantly posting about how long they worked out, or how amazing their vacations are, or how much in love they are with their spouse.

Their children are athletically gifted future Olympians.  Their kids are complete geniuses, and humanitarians to boot.

They have immaculately clean homes, balanced home-cooked meals, organic everything.

They have completely fulfilled lives, and like to try and rub it in everyone's faces all the time.

Except that we all know that no one is perfect, kids make messes, and sometimes perfectly good mothers feed their children cereal for dinner.  Toilets get clogged, people get laid off and fired from dream jobs and some kids completely suck at sports.  Not everyone is a genius, no marriage is as perfect as it seems.

I prefer not to try and kid myself or anyone else.  It amuses me to no end all the people who feel compelled to share their constant awesomeness with the world.  Are they trying to convince the rest of us, or are they really just trying to convince themselves?

Wednesday, August 1, 2012


Sometimes I feel like I should warn people that I have this blog, and that if they piss me off, odds are I will end up writing about them.


That would take all the fun out of it.

Among the exceedingly long list of things we must do every year is attend the pancake breakfast and parade for the county fair.  Which means waking up early for no particular reason on a Saturday morning during a time of the year that we have nothing else going on to sit on hay bales and eat with total strangers.

We've done this for enough years now that we have it down to a science.  We drop off chairs and blankets to save our spot for the parade first, then go eat.  Then we have good seats to watch the parade.

It works great.  In theory.

Thing is that the world is full of rude people.  The kind of people who show up at the last minute and squeeze their way in.  Last year this huge beast of a woman with the worst BO ever stood right behind me, leaning on me half the time.  It really enhanced my viewing experience.

This time around, I thought we were good even after the last minute squeezers started showing up.

Then this happened.

Which was awesome.  I really did stake out a good spot and arrive early so that I could stare at this woman's ass for over an hour.  The front view was even more spectacular, I must say.

It got to the point where she kept edging out a little further so that she could take pictures of every parade entry.  Because grown women need to take that many pictures of a parade.

I can just see it now, this amazing scrapbook she is going to construct to cherish her memories of a small town parade.


It was obvious she didn't put laundry high on her priority list. Or personal hygiene.

At some point, my husband got annoyed.  By then, she was blocking our entire family's view.  You can see Aidan's arm here on the edge of the frame, sitting, watching.  Like normal people do.  Because I teach my kids manners.  But I digress.

So he walked over, tapped her on the shoulder and asked her very nicely if she could step back or sit down.

She stared him down with lasers coming out of her eyes. I swear she turned into a WalMart attired Godzilla.  I was waiting for her to break a foot off, but I guess those days must be behind her.  She totally ignored what he said.  Walked further out into the street.

So I did what I had to do.  Pulled out my phone and snapped a photo.

If this is what I'm being forced to watch at the parade, I'm gonna take a picture of it and post it online.

Godzilla, you've been immortalized.

You are welcome.

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