You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2008.
…the tastiest thing you have eaten all day is your fish-oil supplement.
…you consider clicking on the “Support” tab in the upper right corner of your blog dashboard before you realize that it means technical support.
…you hear a bus and you think, “OMG, is that my daughter’s bus? Is it time to pick up my son already?” and then you panic as you realize that it is after 4:00, and you don’t remember receiving your daughter’s bus or going to pick up your son, but then you realize that your daughter is watching TV in the other room and your son is playing on the computer not six feet away from you, so you must have picked them up and are just losing your freaking mind.
That’s what I’m talking about.
I had thought I was going to have a breakthrough a week and a half ago. I was having the most awful week. I went to Elvis’s Back-to-School night, and I was overcome with sadness because as far as my son has come in a relatively short time, I can’t get past the fact that the bar is set lower because of his disability. I love Elvis and part of me wishes he’d never change–just as part of me would like to hold all my kids in their innocent stages forever–but every so often it really hits me hard that this is the proverbial Trip to Holland, and it isn’t mourning that I don’t get to go to Italy, but mourning that Elvis himself will never go to Italy.
I tried to erase that and say “may never,” but I couldn’t type that without thinking, “Right. [In unison now] Denial.” At the same time, it feels like a crime not to have higher hopes. I like to think I do have higher hopes, but in reality I just don’t deal with the future tense. I deal with stuff as it happens, and I don’t have an end goal; it’s just an endless process of trying not to screw up too much.
I find myself getting irritated when someone asks if or when Elvis will be mainstreamed. I say, “We’ll see how this year goes,” and the person says something like, “Well, he could be mainstreamed by second grade, maybe even first grade, you never know, if he has the right supports, etc.”–and I just want to say, “Shut up, I’m not dealing with it yet, just slow down!” I don’t want to speculate about the future because I don’t want to be wrong and I don’t want to be right. I don’t want the responsibility.
So I thought I was going to cry, sitting there in one of the little chairs in Elvis’s kindergarten classroom, with the teacher explaining about circle time and turn-taking and the blue table vs. the yellow table and snack time as a language-building activity–because I am so proud of Elvis and how much he’s learning and so delighted that he loves school, but this is still the land of windmills, and the temptation to tilt at one is just too strong. It hurts me.
Also, I had PMS.
Another realization I had was that I put off seeing my psychiatrist because I don’t like returning untriumphant. If I go back yet again with “Yeah, that medication isn’t doing it for me,” I feel like it isn’t the medication’s failure, but my own. You know that line in The Importance of Being Earnest–”To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness”? That’s how my pharmaceutical therapy is looking to me these days. Surely this many drugs can’t be wrong. I must be the one who’s wrong.
And yet I cannot right myself. It is a most frustrating dilemma.
It’s become clear to me, however, that I must schedule more regular and frequent visits to the psychiatrist because I am completely incapable of managing my own mental health. I need structure. I need a framework. I need to blather narcissistically in front of a trained professional who is paid to put up with my crap. Because I am not just a normal housewife with a lot on her plate. I seem to have dispensed with the plate and the stuff that should be on the plate is slipping through my fingers, and let me tell you, there is a lot of gravy there. It’s a mess.
Plus, my metaphor machine is broken. Gentle readers, adieu.
I had a blog post in my head last night, as I was going to sleep. I don’t remember it now, but trust me, it was going to be a good one.
No, wait, I can’t lie to you, dear readers. Obviously it would have been mediocre, or else I wouldn’t have forgotten it so easily. I guess you all dodged a bullet there. A bullet of boredom shot straight through the computer screen! Ka-pow!
I just can’t seem to get into anything lately. Every time I think I might feel strongly enough about something to write about it, I start writing and I think, “Nah, I just don’t care.” The election has really grown tiresome. I have election fatigue. Last night I was reading about Obama declining McCain’s invitation to suspend campaigning and postpone the debate and go back to the Senate to do senatorial stuff, and when I got to the line, “It is going to be part of the President’s job to deal with more than one thing at once,” I thought, “Yeah. Like fiddling while Rome burns!” And then I started cracking up because it was late and I realized that I just didn’t care about anything, and especially not whether McCain and/or Obama stay on the campaign trail or go back to Washington, or debate or don’t debate. I also thought that McCain ought to hire me to write his comeback lines.
It was late.
I’m losing my mind, also, because I took the younger kids to McDonald’s yesterday–no, wait for it, I’m not at the mind-losing part yet–and it got to be 2:20, and I thought, “Holy heck, I need to pick up Mister Bubby from school.” Which I did. Not remembering until it was too late that before one picks up Mister Bubby from school, one needs to meet Princess Zurg’s bus at home. Which I did not do. Fortunately, the transportation department was able to reach my emergency contact, who then came over to receive the daughter I had entirely forgotten about.
While at the McDonald’s, I was thinking that nearly everything in that place is inedible, except for the McNuggets, which I could eat about 400 of before guilt or indigestion set in. I’m not proud of it. I’m just saying.
I have been craving chocolate cake for almost two weeks now, and my efforts to get chocolate cake have been thwarted at every turn. First, I couldn’t bake because it was too hot. Then I was too lazy. Then I couldn’t go to the store because I would have had to take the kids with me and that prospect scared me. Then I was at the Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe, where they used to sell awesome chocolate cake, but now they only sell hoity-toity desserts like Tiramisu and lemon tarts and opera something-or-others, which I’m sure are tasty but they are not chocolate cake, which is what I want and what I wanted then. I have to say, as much as I heart the Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe, but if they’ve decided they’re too upscale to serve something as vulgar as chocolate cake, my affection must inevitably wane.
A couple days later I was out getting a movie from the Blockbuster and I went (alone) into the grocery store that’s next to the Blockbuster, but they didn’t have chocolate cake, or anything like thereunto. Then we took the kids to IKEA last Saturday, and they had a chocolate cake, but it was a chocolate mousse cake, and while it was reasonably tasty, it was not what I’d been craving. And then I was at the grocery store today, the one with the good bakery, and I totally forgot that I wanted chocolate cake. It’s cool enough now that I can bake, but then there’s still the lazy to contend with. I just don’t know what I can do.
And I forgot to take my fish oil this morning. Bah!
My sister bythelbs, who has always been the funniest person I know and also an overachiever, really outdid herself with her entry in my “Wacky Search Terms” Writer Challenge.
A few valiant souls entered the contest on my Xanga site, and I was so inspired by their creativity that I decided to make new badges for them:
or
Depending on how cynical one is.
And by shamelessly stealing Repairman Jack’s artistic reimagining of my Tijuana Snoopy painting and turning it into something vulgar and commercial, I made a special grand prize badge for bythelbs:
Congratulations!
Here’s a little contest for those of you who want to flex your creative muscle(s). Write a short story containing as many of the following “I am the Giraffe” Wacky Search Terms as possible:
“fishnet glove”
“gay 50’s actors”
“70 percent effaced”
“cow pelt”
“dude great haircut”
“bathing suit pictures for chubby”
“tampax advertisements”
“elvis postmortem”
“lousy hair eggs”
“people say i look like a transvestite”
“hire a clown for a kids party in reno”
“sensible erotica”
“how can i forget i am mentally ill”
“bare armpits”
“abnormal weenie jam”
“free naked pregnant ladies”
“cocaine and pantyhose stories”
“will you have your stomach pumped”
Bonus Challenge phrases:
“baby shower desserts potty chair”
“aerobics pulse raiser stick people”
“lactation breast smother mind control”
“lds mormon women thoughts on wearing sex”
Points will be awarded based on the number of Wacky Search Terms used, degree of difficulty and artistic merit. You may alter a Wacky Search Term slightly for the sake of grammar, provided you retain the essential integrity of the phrase. Neatness counts.
Fabulous prizes include:
Nothing. You’re here to amuse me.
Okay, maybe I’ll make you a super-neato badge you can display proudly on your site:
Or maybe I’ll have somebody else make you a super-neato badge.
Unless I can interest you in a Snoopy on velvet.
Seriously, whatever happened to art for art’s sake?
Sarah Palin Baby Name Generator
madhousewife, if you were born to Sarah Palin, your name would be:
Meat Notgay Palin
Get your own Sarah Palin baby name!
Calendar age vs. Real age
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Calendar Age
37.4
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Difference
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RealAge
37.4
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Seriously.
I had a dream last night that I was cleaning out my garage with the husband, and by the time we were finished, the whole garage had been rid of superfluous crap, except for one box that fit neatly under a shelf. Only two problems:
1) It was my parents’ garage, not mine.
2) It was only a dream, so all this superfluous crap is still in my garage, despite the fact that I worked SO HARD in my dream that I woke up exhausted.
Bad motor skill news:
Every time I throw a frisbee, I prove that I am an uncoordinated dork. Even my children lose patience with me. I’m talking about the 5- and 2-year-old. The only reason it upsets me–well, not the only reason, but the primary reason–is that I used to be able to throw a frisbee just fine. Because, you know, frisbee-throwing is just not that hard. And don’t try to make me feel better by saying you can’t throw a frisbee either. That won’t make me feel better.
Good motor skill news:
I successfully executed a pull-back (single) in my tap class last night, not once, not twice, but three times. Three times out of 47 is pretty darn good…for me. Never mind the fact that all of my successful pull-backs have been accidental. That is neither here nor there. I was talking to my fellow tappers about the Accidental Pull-back, and one of them said it sounded like the name of a book. Well, it actually sounds like a take-off of The Accidental Tourist, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is that I thought she had a good idea, and if I was the creative type I could write a series of mysteries about a mild-mannered housewife who was tap-dancer by day/crime-solver by night. Or, actually, I guess it would be the other way around. The Case of the Accidental Pull-back. The Case of the Sham Shim-Sham Shimmy. The Case of the…well, I’m sure if I was that lady who writes the cat books, I could come up with another title. I guess I’m not cut out to be a best-selling author after all.
I’m going to take another hit of orange-flavored fish-oil pudding. Down the hatch, kids.
Yeah, that’s some good stuff.
Blech.
The other day Sugar Daddy took Elvis to a freshman football game at the local high school. Since then, Elvis has been wanting to play with the football. His dad is better at playing with the football than I am. I thought I could throw a football well enough for a 5-year-old, creeping frisbee disability notwithstanding, but apparently not, since Elvis just gave up on me after a few minutes. Anyway, the other other day SD was talking about how complicated a game football is, and I said, “I’ve always said football is a complicated game, and people always laughed at me and said it wasn’t complicated, you just moved the ball from one end of the field to the other.” And he asked if these mockers of mine were chicks, and I said, no, they were men. And he said, “Well, those men were stupid.”
Ever have one of those days where you feel like you didn’t take a shower, even though you did? I’m having one of those days. Maybe if I combed my hair, I’d feel better. I’m going to go comb my hair now.
Quote of the week:
“You don’t want to fiddle around when you have objectives.”
–Mister Bubby, on playing Heroes V: Might and Magic
Mister Bubby: Mama, Dad said when I’m 11, I can have a real sword.
Giraffemom: He did?
MB: Yeah. And when I’m 12, I can get real armor.
GM: Real armor’s good. [Especially when you already have a real sword.]
MB: And guess what? When I’m 13, I’m gonna get a battle axe! Won’t that be awesome?
GM: Pretty awesome. Are you going to get a gun?
MB (contemptuously): No. [Duh, Mom.] I want to learn how to do arrows. Once I learn how to do arrows, I might get a gun.
GM: Cool.
I got nothing going on here. Except that I need to go grocery shopping, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything. Remember when I told you how I was going to Rock My World with Geodon®? Well, Geodon did rock my world…to sleep! Remember how I’ve always said there’s no tired like pregnant-tired? Well, there’s no sleepy like Geodon-sleepy. At some point I burst into tears because I was so sick-unto-death of fighting unconsciousness. But I had to fight it because I had things to do and places to go. Yes, I did have to drive. Don’t lecture me, I didn’t kill anybody, did I? (Did I?) Anyway, one cannot function when one is alternately bursting into tears and slipping into unconsciousness. The funny thing is that the pharmacist specifically told me I must take the Geodon in the morning, as it has a tendency to interfere with sleep. Which is funny because at the top of the list of possible side effects is “somnulence.” That’s a big word. I’ll give you three guesses as to what it means, and the first two don’t count. Which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t start taking it again, only this time at night. Except that I might never wake up again!
Which reminds me, my psychiatrist also instructed me to take some fish oil, but I keep forgetting. I bought some in the pill form, but she also sent me these pudding packets (“Natural Orange Flavor”–mmmmm). I’m looking at them right now. They’re scaring me. Because, dude, it’s fish oil, and it’s pudding. Only 2.5 grams of fish oil pudding (“Natural Orange Flavor”!), but still. I feel inexplicably queasy all of a sudden. But you know what? I have to do it some time. So it may as well be now. Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to eat one right now. I am live-blogging fish-oil-pudding-eating!
Here I go.
Hm. That’s not bad. Actually, I kind of liked it. And now I’m really scared.
Okay, there’s an aftertaste. That’s not awesome. I think I’ll eat some breakfast now.
Oh, and since Repairman Jack already saw this in my Xanga photos, I have to explain about Tijuana Snoopy. He was among the crapola I found whilst cleaning out the garage on Saturday. (Snoopy, not Jack.)
You know, ordinarily I’m a fan of the Snoopy on Velvet, but I’ve discovered that some things are too tacky, even for us. So how did I come to be in possession of Tijuana Snoopy? Well, my kids’ babysitter, Gertrude, knows that I love Snoopy, and she mentioned that she and her husband had this velvet painting of Snoopy that they wanted to get rid of, but it was of Snoopy holding a tequila bottle and she wondered if that might be too tacky, even for us. And I’m afraid I might have said something like, “Haha, Snoopy holding a tequila bottle, I think I need that picture,” because stuff like that is always funnier in theory than it is in real life.
I think I didn’t expect him to look quite so…menacing. I mean, really, he looks like Snoopy as Angry Drunk, doesn’t he? That bottle isn’t poised for drinking but for breaking over somebody’s head! Also, he’s hugging a freaking cactus. Obviously this is a dog you don’t want to mess with, especially if you’re just a mild-mannered housewife like myself. Also, I think the real deal-breaker for me is that he’s got “Tijuana” written across his hat. There’s a fine line between ironic kitsch and wow-that-is-just-sick-and-wrong, and I think the lettering crosses that line. But what do I know? I was just an English major.
Anyway, I’m still deciding what to do with it. But first I have to get the taste of natural-orange-flavored fish oil out of my mouth. Gentle readers, adieu.
Sugar Daddy wants me to blog about the Nightwish concert on By Common Consent. I told him I would if I could find a religious angle on it. He’s already rejected “I Felt the Spirit at the Nightwish Concert.”
The Nightwish concert was excellent, btw. \m/\m/ Seven kinds of awesome. Why seven? Because that’s how many days we have until the wolves come. ROCK ON!
The opening act, Sonata Arctica, was much better than the crap opening act they had the last time (Paradise Lost–bah! Milton would turn in his grave). They came on stage in a rather undramatic fashion–to the strains of Victor’s Piano Solo from Corpse Bride, no less–but once they started playing, THEY TOTALLY WAILED! Sorry, I was feeling a little Wayne’s World, I think. Anyway, their lead singer was very high-energy. I think that cat could have gone all night. He even did that play-the-microphone-stand-like-it’s-a-guitar thing that I enjoy so much. Bet you didn’t know I enjoyed that, eh? Well, neither did I, until I saw it done by the master. The best part was when they played our favorite song, “Don’t Say a Word.” Bet you didn’t know I had a favorite Sonata Arctica song, eh? Well, now you know. They even had a dude playing a key-tar. Score!
So Nightwish set the bar high when they played the Roseland last November–that show was freaking awesome. Enough reminiscence! I was expecting the same level of greatness, and you know what? THEY FREAKING DELIVERED, BABY! Actually, they were even better than they were the last time. They played a different set, with more of the older, Tarja-era stuff, which Anette totally rocked–suck it, Anette haters!–except for that part in “The Siren” where SD missed Tarja’s operatic hiccuping.
They opened with “Bye Bye Beautiful” from Dark Passion Play. They did “Ever Dream” and “Wishmaster” and “Dead to the World,” but I can’t remember if they did “Nemo” this time or not. They did last time. Oh, you know, all these Nightwish concerts are starting to become a blur. They played quite a bit from Dark Passion Play, of course, including “Amaranth,” “Sahara,” “The Islander,” and “The Poet and the Pendulum” (I’d give you a link, but the song’s 14 minutes long and split up into two parts on YouTube, and that feels ridiculous to me).
Of course, the best part was the encore, “Seven Days to the Wolves,” which had us howling in the stands–\m/\m/–followed by “Wish I Had an Angel.” And then it was goodnight, Portland. Goodnight, Nightwish! We’ll miss you!
The only non-awesome part was Anette’s hair, which is now blond. (Bah!) Also her outfit, which was just kind of weird. She had these skintight grey pants–well, I actually think it was a catsuit, but she had a shirt over it which was a little too short to prevent her torso from looking freakishly long or like her butt was way too low. It was only disappointing because Anette was previously so cute. But back to the awesome, she came out in the middle of “The Islander” wearing a freaking tiara. I didn’t know what that was about. Was she trying to evoke a Miss America feeling? It seemed a Bjork-ish thing to do. But Bjorkish in an awesome way.
I’ve never seen Nightwish play with Tarja, of course, but I’m very fond of Anette, who has a very charming stage presence. She seems to be having the time of her life. Of course, what I appreciate most about Nightwish (besides the fact that they write songs about wolves coming to destroy us) is that they obviously have so much joy in what they’re doing. They just look like they enjoy playing together, which is kind of heartwarming to me.
Also heartwarming was the lady checking my ID and being surprised that I’m chasing 40. That was pretty righteous, too.
Oh, and back to the awesome. Here’s my new T-shirt:
Forget how bizarro my figure looks from that angle (PZ took the picture). It’s a freaking guillotine!
Rock on!
Seriously, I’m built like a man in that picture. I’m going to have to post photos of myself in a bikini next.
Brother DV8 hasn’t posted yet today, so perhaps it’s up to me to celebrate
NIGHTWISH WEDNESDAY!
I chose this video because it’s Princess Zurg’s favorite song.
In nine hours Sugar Daddy and I will be at the Roseland partaking of some Finnish metal goodness. \m/\m/
Rock on, gentle readers!
Some right-wingers are complaining that Oprah won’t have Sarah Palin on her show. Like, that Oprah, what a hypocrite, claims to champion women but won’t interview the first female on a Republican presidential ticket. Quelle horreur! Oprah, your bias is showing.
My thoughts? Two words:
1. Um…
2. …so?
And if that isn’t clear enough for you, here are two questions:
1. Since when is anyone entitled to be a guest on Oprah?
2. Are we not talking about…Oprah?
Seriously, it’s not like Meet the Press is refusing to interview Sarah Palin. It’s…Oprah.
Oprah.
Far as I know, it’s a free country, and talk show hosts can still pick their own guests. Or did Congress re-enact the Fairness Doctrine and forget to tell Oprah?
Oprah herself has said she’d be happy to interview Sarah Palin after the general election. Could be, Oprah’s a little swamped right now, what with her TV show and her magazine and her charity work and her book club. Maybe she’d like to spend a little more time stumping for Obama, as is her right. Maybe she’d like to go shopping with her best friend, Gayle. Maybe she wants to accuse some more French retailers of racism. Maybe she’d like to give away some cars. Is Stedman still in the picture? Maybe she wants to go on another diet. My point being, if Oprah wants to wait until after the general election to interview Sarah Palin, or perhaps not interview her at all, SO WHAT?
I don’t care if she has Obama and/or Biden and/or their wives and/or their personal stylists on every day from now until November. IT’S THE OPRAH WINFREY SHOW. If American women are unduly influenced by her and her choice of guests, that is neither illegal nor unethical nor unjust. IT’S OPRAH, FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE!
That’s all I have to say about that.
In other news, Princess Zurg’s favorite new cereal is Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats Blueberry Muffin. Is it just me, or do these little squares look like moldy shredded wheat?
I’m not saying it’s bad cereal. I’m just saying it doesn’t look right.
Just finished it.
So.
Effing.
LAME!
Seriously, I wanted to throw the book against the wall. I haven’t felt that strongly about a book since Dr. Ferber’s Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problem. Bah!
It wasn’t a horrible book, so why am I so upset? Because lameness damages my calm. And that ending was
lame
lame
lame
lame
LAME!
Stupid best-selling authors. I hate ‘em.
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