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…but I took a stupid nap this afternoon, which was more like early evening and when I woke up it was 7 p.m. Oops.
You know what the problem is? The house is too cold, so I sit curled up on the couch with a book and possibly a blanket, and then what am I supposed to do? Huh?
On the other hand, if I turn up the heat and therefore (theoretically) stay awake, the house will be too hot for me to move around and do stuff. Therefore, theoretically, I should make myself warmer by moving around and doing stuff instead of curling up on the couch and reading. But I hate to do stuff!
Case in point: We are going on a little trip tomorrow, the Madhousefam + MadhouseMIL. Just a little trip, out to The Dalles. Someone heard we were going to The Dalles and said, “Why?” I dunno. Because it’s close and low-impact and we’re going to fool our kids into thinking it’s a real vacation. We’re going to stay overnight in a hotel and swim in the swimming pool, and that’s pretty much all our kids require in a vacation that’s only going to last two days. More than two days and there’s gonna need to be roller coasters.
Have I mentioned lately that I don’t enjoy swimming? But this vacation isn’t for me.
Anyway, we’re going on a little trip tomorrow, and I’m supposed to be packing right now. I was packing earlier, but then I stopped. I had some laundry to do, as it’s been piling up. I was only going to do one load, but then I realized that somehow, all of Elvis’s socks ended up in the laundry hamper. Every last one! This wouldn’t be remarkable except that he has about 20,000 pairs of socks. We all do, except for Mister Bubby, who is very particular about his socks and therefore only has about half a dozen that he’s willing to wear. It wouldn’t be remarkable if all of his socks wound up in the laundry at once. But anyone else, it’s kind of amazing. And suspicious. I doubt very much that all of those socks were dirty. That seems kind of impossible. And yet, there they all were. And I wasn’t about to start subjecting them to the smell test one by one. It was easier to just wash all of them. Are you beginning to see why I have so much laundry all the time? I suspect a conspiracy, but I don’t know who all is in on it.
Anyway, I’m waiting for the socks to dry so I can pack some. I really dislike packing. I do it because I’m the only one I trust to make sure everything gets packed that needs to get packed. I very rarely forget anything. But that’s because I almost always overpack. Often I overpack grossly. I just can’t not think of all the contingencies. We’re only going to be gone overnight and come back on Tuesday evening. Theoretically we should be able to get away with just one change of clothes and the clothes on our backs, shouldn’t we? Everyone’s toilet trained and no one wets the bed anymore. And yet…what if something happens? Something could happen that would make it so we needed more clothes. Something like what? I don’t know. We’re going to Multnomah Falls tomorrow–what if someone…falls in? Well, I reckon we’ll have bigger problems on our hands than wet clothes in that case, but you know what I mean. Something could happen. And if we don’t have spare clothes, it’s all on me.
It means I am overpacking again.
More than once in the past year our family has gone on a day trip and there’s been some event that caused someone to need spare clothes, but of course we didn’t have any because it was a freaking day trip and everyone’s toilet trained. I can’t even remember what any of these events were, just that Sugar Daddy would always turn to me and say, “Do you have any extra pants for Girlfriend/Elvis/whoever in the car?” and I’d be like, “Noooo [tone clearly implying "Why would I have extra clothes in the car when we're on a freaking day trip and everyone's toilet trained?"].” Well, clearly I ought to have. Not that SD was blaming me or anything–he was just being hopeful. But I hate to disappoint people. Also, I hate to be personally inconvenienced because I’ve disappointed people. So why haven’t I learned my lesson about the day trips? Always have extra clothes. Yes.
But if you’re going on a two-day trip, does that mean you need twice as many extra clothes? I just don’t know!
I have some banana-chocolate chip cookie bars sitting on my counter that are going to be stale by the time we come back from our trip. I don’t suppose I can talk people into eating them in the car. I can’t talk people into eating them while they’re sitting on their cans inside the house. I gave some to my MIL and some to our neighbors, but no one in the family wants to eat them. I take it back. SD had one last night. He’s still on his diet, but he’s relaxing a little lately because he’s so close to the end and he’s so far ahead of everyone else in his challenge group that something really crazy and unlikely would have to happen for him not to win.
Something crazy and unlikely like needing extra clothes on a freaking day trip when everyone is toilet trained!
I’m packing his gym shorts so he can exercise in the gym at the hotel. That’s how hardcore he’s gotten. He’s going to exercise on vacation. (A two-day vacation!) On the other hand, I am not packing my tap shoes so I can practice my clogging routine while we’re at the hotel. One of us had to make a sacrifice.
I want to eat one of those cookie bars, but I’m in the living room with the new carpet and I shouldn’t eat in here, and I don’t want to move the laptop into the kitchen. I’m too warm where I am. But I’m not falling asleep, no sir.
I’m telling you people, those cookie bars are good. They deserve to be eaten. I’m just saying this because I have such a hard time getting people to eat my baked goods. I’m not like the world’s most magnificent cook, but I know how to bake cakes and freaking cookies. Come on. This crap is hard to mess up. It’s not brain surgery or pie crust. And yet no one will eat what I bake. I know how that looks, and I know what you’re thinking: “If nobody’s eating them, that means they’re no good.” But you’re wrong! I eat them myself. Would I eat stuff that didn’t taste good? High-calorie stuff that doesn’t taste good? Do you really know so little about me? Please. No, the rest of my family is just obnoxious.
Yesterday I spent all day in my bedroom cleaning out my desk. It’s actually a desk with…I dunno…would you call it a hutch? There’s drawers and shelves and crap over it. It’s a big freaking thing that holds a bunch of crap, and I spent all of yesterday cleaning it out and didn’t finish. I kind of hate myself. But I hate my crap more. Why does it have to taunt me? This is the same problem I have with the packing. I want to toss out 90 percent of these papers, but I just don’t know which ones I’ll need ever again. I do not want to find myself standing around someday and SD turns to me and says, “Did you keep the EOB forms for Elvis’s speech therapy from 2007?” and I have to say, “Nooo [tone clearly implying "Why would I have saved those things when I obviously wasn't ever going to need them again?"].”
As it is, if he ever does turn to me and ask that question, I will have to say, “Yes, but hell if I remember where they are.”
Which should tell me something, but something in my soul doesn’t believe it. What’s wrong with my soul? I should probably get some professional help specifically for this problem.
And please, please, please do not ask me if I’ve seen Hoarders. One, my house is disorganized and often a wreck, but I’m not a hoarder like you see on Hoarders. I’m only a mini-hoarder. I like to dabble in hoarding on the side. Two, I have a limited amount of time to watch television and why would I watch anything so depressing and close to home? I may be some kind of masochist, but I’m not that kind. I like to dabble in masochism on the side.
Which reminds me of a tangentially-related-but-not-really anecdote. SD and I teach the ten-year-olds at church and today we were telling the story of some people in the Book of Mormon who were in bondage, and one of the boys in the class was surprised to learn the meaning of bondage because he’d assumed that it meant “like you bond with a friend.” And I, being so very articulate, said something like, “No, usually when people speak of bondage, they’re not talking about the good kind…of…bonding…” and then I had to explain the difference between good bondage and bad bondage while my husband just sat there giggling.
I didn’t do very well, by the way. I eventually just had to change the subject so SD wouldn’t wet himself. (‘Cause then he probably would have asked if I happened to pack him a spare pair of dress pants in my purse, and I would have had to say, “Nooo…”)
The socks are probably dry now, and I’m starting to feel sleepy.
So with the installation of the new, not-yet-gross carpet, we have become a no-shoes-on-the-carpet house, and I’m telling you kids it’s going to kill me. I feel like I’m constantly taking my shoes off and putting them back on, and to avoid having to take them off and put them back on quite so much I am spending a lot of time walking around my kitchen in my bare feet or socks, which I don’t like, and I’m constantly stepping on things I don’t want to and my socks are getting filthy and sticky, and it’s gross. Seriously, the kitchen floor–which we originally intended to replace first–is perpetually disgusting. Even when it’s been cleaned, it isn’t clean. It is the hosting site of all our unforgivable sins. I hate walking on it with my feet unprotected.
I have some issues.
Speaking of which, we spent Saturday de-crappifying our upstairs rooms. We made not-insignificant progress in some places, but there is still much left to do before we are ready to have the appraiser come to the house. I worked all day Saturday and into the night, and it was depressing and exhausting, but at the end of the day, all I wanted was another six days exactly like it, except no children to feed or bathe or love, so that I could actually finish the stupid job instead of letting it sit there waiting to be undone before it could be done.
I won’t be able to finish the job before the housekeepers come tomorrow, so I’m going to have to do a different job, which is “hide the crap before the housekeepers get here, but without undoing all the de-crappifying work that was done three days ago.” I don’t like that job. Can I have another job? Even though I’m in a perfectly ruthless mood that says any item that doesn’t have personal significance to me can just go in the dumpster–usefulness be damned, screw the environment and who cares about the waste, just get it out of my freaking house–when the moment of truth comes, I find I just can’t do this. I just can’t, and I don’t even know why not. The frustration of it just makes me want to cry. I will probably cry before this day is over.
Right now I should be getting ready to go to my oral surgery consult because that is happening today. I have to go to the dentist tomorrow morning, which means I can’t spend tomorrow morning frantically hiding the craptastic craploads of crap that still loiters about the home, which means that before I go to bed I will need to have finished hiding the crap just in case the housekeepers come at 8:30 a.m. but they will probably come closer to 3 p.m. Not that it matters, and I should probably stop thinking about it because I’m not accomplishing anything and I have too many other things to do.
You know what’s really inconvenient? Showering. Who needs the hassle?
Sugar Daddy: So, how were the installers? Were they professional?
Madhousewife: Yes.
SD: Did they have you sign anything?
Mad: Yes, I signed their little paper, and I rated them a 10. I hope that was okay.
SD: Jeez, just give it away, why don’t you. Did you sleep with them too?
Mad: Yes. Both of them. The man and the woman.
.
So I came back from my California trip on Tuesday night, but I’ve been busy busy busy since then. Had to catch up with the kids, who were feeling unloved after a mother-free week. More urgently, had to prepare the house to have new carpet installed. Good news: it was only the downstairs that was getting new carpet. Bad news: There was a lot of crap and furniture downstairs that needed to go somewhere else. We don’t have that many elsewheres on our property. The garage and upstairs were already full of crap. And being that it’s only March, we can’t very well leave our furniture and crap on the front lawn. Or the back lawn, for that matter. (Full disclosure, the front and back lawn are also semi-full of crap, but it’s crap that we’ve more or less given up on. Don’t you wish you were our neighbors? You know you do!)
There are few things more depressing than the process of rendering a room completely empty. An empty room is not itself depressing. Quite the opposite, as far as I’m concerned: an empty room is a thing of beauty. It may be the most beautiful thing in the world. But getting to this point is a soul-killer. It’s the thing I hate about moving. Moving would be a piece of cake if it weren’t for the fact that you have to somehow get all the crap out of the place you’re living so you can go live somewhere else. If I could just pick up and leave and by leave I mean “leave most of my crap behind,” the thought of moving wouldn’t horrify me at all. But no–people tend to insist that if you leave, you leave completely. No traces of your crap-filled life may remain. Since we only had to empty two rooms–albeit two very crap-infested rooms–this experience was only a fraction as horrifying as an actual household relocation would have been. But it was still horrible.
Too many toys, too many papers, too many containers, too many lids that may have container counterparts somewhere in the house but who knows anymore, too many crayons and pencils and markers and pens and scissors and glue sticks and magnets and stickers and screws and nails and random plastic thingies that might be important but I can’t remember why, too many books, too many knick-knacks–and I really actually hate knick-knacks and actively avoid accumulating them but somehow I still do–and too many…things, just things that defy categorization which is why they’ve never been corralled into a box somewhere, but they just roam freely about the cabin like they own the place. Well, they DO own the place. Why shouldn’t they roam about accordingly? It’s just a hopeless situation.
What I want is for someone to come in and magically vaporize everything that I’d never miss. I don’t even care if it’s valuable or useful, just as long as I’d never know the difference. This is why I can’t get rid of the stuff myself. I overthink everything. I know I don’t want this stuff, but I can’t just throw it away. Why can’t I? I DON’T KNOW. It’s not like I care about using up valuable landfill space. They’re going to name our local landfill after us, probably. I don’t know. I grew up in a home where you’d take the butter out of its wax/foil wrapping and then scrape every last bit of butter that clung to said wrapping off of said wrapping so that none of it would be wasted. Do you know how many years it took for me to stop doing that? Do you know that I still have the instinct to do that every time I unwrap a new cube of butter? It’s no wonder I own so many ball point pens, and yet I never have one when I need one. And playing cards. Jeez louise, how many playing cards are lying randomly about this house? None of us even plays cards anymore, and yet I can’t throw out any playing cards because if I’m able to gather all the playing cards together, there must be at least one full deck in there, and a person ought to have a full deck of playing cards, just in case…something…happens, and you need a deck of playing cards. Don’t you? NO, YOU DON’T. And anyway, I can’t make a full deck, even if I wanted playing cards. There’s a metaphor in here somewhere. I’ve lost track of what I was saying.
Anyway, we were ripping out the old carpet late last night–or more accurately, SD was ripping up the old carpet and I was moving crap around, and then I was sweeping up the dust and debris left behind by the old carpet. This was the original carpet from when the house was built in 1987. It looked fine when we moved in, but after eight years of Madhousewear it looks…about 25 years old. We had the upstairs carpet replaced after the fire, of course, which made the downstairs carpet look that much worse, but you don’t really know how horribly you treated your carpet until you see what lies beneath. (Remember that movie, What Lies Beneath? It wasn’t about carpet, but maybe it would have been scarier that way.) You can see every place where somebody spilled something and whatever spilled seeped through the carpet and the padding and muddied up the dirt underneath and then hardened into a concrete-ish substance. It’s one of those things that isn’t surprising but is nevertheless dismaying. I mean, it’s not like you can be proud of it.
I spent about an hour scraping that crud off the family room floor last night. And I had a little epiphany. I’ve spent so many years wondering what I should do with my life, rejecting option after option and recently coming to the conclusion that I’m good for just about nothing, so maybe it’s better if I don’t think about it at all. And then there I was, scraping crud off the floor, giving myself some pretty neat blisters in the process, and I realized that there was something immensely satisfying about it–much more satisfying than the process of emptying the room of all the crap, because it was a discrete goal with a foreseeable end. I knew at some point I would be finished and wouldn’t have to immediately start over. More to the point, I may never have to do it ever again. (You only have to replace carpet every 25 years, right? I should be dead by then. Or so infirm that my husband won’t solicit my labor just to save $400 on the installation.)
What makes housekeeping so unsatisfying and so unfulfilling isn’t that it’s menial drudgery; it’s that so much of it is just perpetual chaos management. Not bringing order to chaos, which is something else entirely, but just managing chaos. Like herding cats for eternity. You and the cats are never going to go anywhere; you’re just going to herd them. Until you die. Or become so infirm that you become one of the cats that someone else has to herd. Or something like that. It’s a metaphor kit; I don’t have instructions for you, just improvise. Anyway, scraping the crud off the bare floor was the opposite of what I usually do, which is play musical chairs with an endless supply of crap. Now I’m throwing in another metaphor. Don’t get confused. It’s not even really a complete metaphor; don’t try to do too much with it. I’m just saying. It felt good to do something that wasn’t going to be undone just as soon as I’d done it. No one was standing over my shoulder pouring more 25-years-worth-of-filth onto the floor as I worked. It was very…empowering.
And I thought to myself, “This might be my calling. Scraping crud that I can walk away from. And just think if I were a professional crud-scraper, I would probably have much better tools and could do an even better job. But the important thing would be that I would love what I did and be proud of it.”
Back in November SD and I went through my MIL’s new house with the home inspector, and he (the home inspector) and SD got to talking about careers and stuff, and he–I’ll just call him Mr. Home Inspector–said something to the effect of “I didn’t have what it takes to go to college, which is how I ended up doing this,” and he said it all self-deprecating-like, but I was thinking, “Man, this guy knows so much stuff–all these codes and requirements and such–and he performs a valuable service, unlike some people I could mention *cough* English majors *cough*. I wish I had a purpose in life.”
I’m telling you, kids. My so-called “writing career”–meh. My even-more-so-called “housekeeping” career–meh. Bringing four human beings into the world–meh. Scraping crud off the family room floor–I felt like I really accomplished something last night. And I rewarded myself with chocolate cake, even though it was 12:30 a.m. because I didn’t just need it–I really believed I deserved it. It just doesn’t get any better than that. No, it doesn’t.
Apparently, in addition to compassion fatigue I also have title fatigue. (Was the “also” redundant? Yes. But it sounded better to me. Just like saying Tuesday thrice sounds better than just twice.)
I feel certain that I’m going to forget that my daughter has piano lessons today, just as I forgot that she had them yesterday, which is why I had them rescheduled for today, but will I remember that? It doesn’t seem possible, all things considered.
(And all things considered, why would I say my daughter has “piano lessons” today? She has a piano lesson today. She accumulates multiple piano lessons over time, but technically has only one today. But I always refer to piano lessons in the plural. Like I did just now. I can’t stop myself!)
I’ve had a few things on my mind. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I’m easily overwhelmed. Like most people, I have a hundred things I ought to be doing at any one time, but I’m only willing to think about one or two and prefer to ignore all the others. When circumstances converge so as to force me to not only think about but actually do something about more than a couple things, I start to feel put upon. Hence, my current discomfort. And forgetfulness. I’m simply incapable of remembering most things, let alone everything.
The other day I panicked because I thought I had forgotten to order my dad’s birthday present, but then I remembered that I hadn’t forgotten, and I was relieved. So relieved that I proceeded to forget everything else. (Once I start relaxing, it is really hard for me to stop.)
SO. I know some of you would like to know why Princess Zurg was suspended on Friday. The short answer is “PMS? Insanity?” but the longer answer is this: She had a confrontation with her Language Arts teacher (the latest in a long line of confrontations with this particular teacher, whom she despises for reasons I don’t really understand) that culminated in her threatening the teacher’s life and subsequently she was taken to the Behavior Learning Center classroom to cool down and had another confrontation with a different teacher there, which culminated in her hitting the teacher on the arm. For those of you who aren’t familiar with these new-fangled school policies, that’s a no-no. I mean, all of it’s a no-no. She did very few things on Friday that are actually permitted under ordinary circumstances. So, yes, she absolutely deserved to be suspended for the remainder of that day, and she has had in-school suspension yesterday and today. I think she’s supposed to go back to her regular classes tomorrow, but I think she may be in for a change in Language Arts teachers. We’ll see. I really don’t have time to think about it right now.
Fortunately, I was able to get her in to see her shrink yesterday, and he has added another medication to our pharmacological support arsenal. It’s Abilify, which I think is probably the awesomest name for a psychotropic drug ever. I mean, it’s so stupid and nakedly condescending that you can’t help but love it. I believed I’ve blogged on it before, back when my own shrink was considering it for me (but alas, I was never actually Abilified). It’s supposed to have a calming effect and keep her from getting stuck on her runaway train of negativity. I’m sure I can come up with a better metaphor than “runaway train of negativity.” How about she’s got this Ferrari of negativity and someone’s cut the brake lines? That’s a little more apt. Anyway. She started that last night. One of the side effects is drowsiness (which is why it’s taken at night). She woke up this morning feeling nauseated. I was scared because I really, really don’t want this pill to make her nauseated. I don’t want it to make her anything but Abilified. Also, I really, really wanted her to go to school today. Because I want everyone to go to school everyday. It’s my dream, and I mean to live it.
She felt better after eating breakfast, so she went to school, and so far I have not had a phone call from the school reporting puking. So we’re cool. I guess.
Tonight is pack meeting for cub scouts. We’re going to eat cake. So that’s good.
Tomorrow night Princess Zurg and Sugar Daddy are going to the temple and the rest of us are going to Elvis’s basketball party. It’s the end of the season. So that’s good.
On Thursday I leave for California because it’s my dad’s 65th birthday on Saturday and my step-mother is throwing him a party. I am looking forward to the trip, but I haven’t really planned for it yet because I’ve been overwhelmed with thoughts of teacher-hitting and -possibly-murdering and suspensions and Abilification and scouts and cake and basketball and what to make for dinner and there’s also been a lot of laundry. Also, it is Dr. Seuss’s birthday on Friday and so the kindergarten is having Pajama Day.
HEAVY, PUT-UPON SIGH. Pajama Day.
So Girlfriend doesn’t actually own any pajamas. She did have some Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas, but they disappeared into thin air several weeks ago, and I have not been able to locate them. We even looked for them extra-hard once we found out that there was going to be a Pajama Day (HEAVY, PUT-UPON SIGH), but to no avail. I know what you’re thinking: So what has Girlfriend been sleeping in, if not pajamas? Answer: Not the buff. She just wears clothes to bed. Comfortable clothes, but not to be confused with pajamas, and therefore not a believable outfit for Pajama Day. So I went to the Target to look for pajamas, but being that it’s February, all the pajamas in stock are shorts, not long pants, because in Retail World, summertime starts in January. In the Pacific Northwest I shall not be sending my children outside the house in shorts until mid-July. Which is about when they’ll start selling heavy winter coats again, so I should make a note to pick one of those up then. Anyway, I got off the subject. I also went to Old Navy, which doesn’t sell pajamas, and I even went to Ross Dress for Less, which doesn’t sell children’s pajamas except for babies. So that was disheartening.
Today I had to go to Macy’s to buy fancy soap for my face, and while I was there I looked for pajamas. No love. So then I went to Kohl’s, where I eventually found something suitable. Ideally, I would have gotten her new Thomas pajamas, since they would match her Thomas slippers and her Thomas blanket, but there weren’t any Thomas pajamas to be found, so instead I got her Scooby-Doo. Of course, I had to go to the boys’ section because all they sell in the girls’ section is Pepto Bismol-hued princess stuff and stuff that says “Mommy’s Little Cupcake Sweet as Can Be” and crap like that. I mean, she is my little cupcake, sweet as can be, but jeez, she’s already going to school in her intimate apparel; let the girl keep some of her dignity.
While I was at the Kohl’s I remembered that I forgot to bring the belt that PZ gave to SD for Christmas and I’ve been meaning to return because it didn’t fit then, and since he’s lost 20+ pounds, it certainly doesn’t fit now. I just don’t shop at Kohl’s very often. It was doubtful that I could have returned it anyway, however, since I’ve lost the receipt and do they have a 60-day return policy or a 90-day, I can’t remember. Whatever. I think the best I could have hoped for was an exchange (which was all I wanted), but they appear not to carry that brand anymore anyway, so whatever. I bought him a new belt. Much smaller than the old belt. It was on clearance, so it sort of makes up for me wasting money on a belt he’ll never wear and I’ll never return. Kind of. Maybe I’ll just keep the old belt for those days when he feels bloated. Ha ha. If I see him start to put the weight back on, I can say, “Do I have to get out your fat belt, honey?” You know, just to be supportive of his new lifestyle.
Here are the things I have to do before I leave town:
1. Figure out what the weather is supposed to be in California. I mean, as I recall, February in Southern California is pretty warm, but it’s been a long time since I’ve actually experienced a SoCal February. I don’t know. It’s impossible to predict the weather in Oregon; you just have to be prepared for anything. But California tends to be pretty predictable.
2. Touch up my roots. I have this patch of grey by my right temple that looks like a bald spot from a distance. I don’t like that.
3. Remember how many ounces of liquid I’m allowed to carry on the plane. Now that I’m all high-maintenance with the fancy Macy’s soap and the conditioner that I have to buy off the interwebs, it makes travel a little more complicated. But I don’t want to check a bag.
4. Remember that PZ has piano lessons today. A piano lesson, that is. Just one. Approximately 50 minutes from now.
I am an emotional eater. I think I come by this honestly. My mother was also an emotional eater. I’m not blaming my mother because I don’t think she taught me to eat emotionally, but I think I inherited the propensity from her.
However, I’m afraid I have taught my children to eat emotionally. To eat when you’re sad, eat when you’re bored–especially to eat when you’re bored, which is a big, big problem. I myself prefer to eat when I’m sad, nervous, tense or angry, but my kids prefer to eat when they’re bored, and I think it’s my fault. Quelle surprise, you’re thinking. Don’t I assume everything’s my fault? Well, no, not everything. Most things, but not everything. I do think this is my fault, though, and I’ll tell you why.
It might be a long story, but if you get bored, please don’t eat. Unless you’re really hungry. I just don’t want any more on my conscience, okay?
I remember giving my children snacks when they were younger to pacify them, to keep them occupied and out of my hair while I did something important. Not like taking-a-shower important. More like making-a-phone-call important or hearing-myself-think important. My short-lived freelance journalism career was sponsored by Cheerios. (That is not how I learned to hate the Cheerios. The Cheerios phobia is a congenital thing; I can’t explain it. But I digress.) I tried always to give them good food. I kept them away from Goldfish and French Fries as long as I could. But the fact is, when children are learning to feed themselves, the easiest foods for gum-mashing are those carbalicious cereals and crackers. I suppose that if I were a better mother, I would always have had steamed vegetables on hand. But who actually feeds their babies steamed veggies as a snack? Just shut your stupid face, I don’t want to hear it. Regardless of what I was feeding them, my kids would not be happy by themselves unless they were eating. I didn’t help the situation by caving in and feeding them, of course. And I think the origins of the problem may go back even farther than the Cheerios-on-the-high-chair phase.
So I breastfed all of my children because breast milk was the best food for babies, and if you weren’t giving your child the best, he or she might be at some disadvantage later in life. If any of you ladies don’t understand yet that this is a crock of baloney, let me help you out: it’s a crock of baloney. I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. All I knew then was that I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout raisin’ no babies and if it was in all the parenting manuals, it must be true. So I breastfed my babies, exclusively, for at least four months, because that was the recommendation. I tried to use a pacifier sparingly, I only supplemented with formula in an emergency because I didn’t want the babies to get nipple confusion and start refusing the breast and then my milk supply would go down and blah blah vicious cycle ending in lower IQs and bad immune systems–all the things I was warned would happen if I relied too much on these other sucking outlets. (I mean, they were outlets for the baby, not for me, but I was the one relying on them. Or trying not to. You know what I mean.)
Well. IT IS TO LAUGH. My children were never in any danger of learning to prefer pacifiers or bottles to the breast. HA. And HA. What they learned was that pacifiers don’t contain any sustenance worth sucking for and that formula should be refused even in an emergency. Really, it was hard to blame them for refusing the formula. Formula is perfectly good food, nutrition-wise, but it’s kind of an acquired taste. If you get used to it while young and hungry, you’ll probably continue to drink it even after your palate has experienced other options. If you’re not used to it, you’ll spit it out and think, “What the crap? Where’s my mom?”
So yes, I breastfed my kids a lot. When I got my first baby, I didn’t know what to do with her. I didn’t have a mother around to tell me anything, but would I even have listened to her if I had? She raised me, what the heck would she know? The books all said that babies had different cries to indicate different needs, but when your baby is crying so much for so long, the nuances tend to get lost. I tried to figure out the difference between the “I’m hungry” cry and the “I’m upset (about something else)” cry, but as far as I could tell, the only two cries my baby had were “I’m hungry” and “I’m upset (because you’re not feeding me).”
The thing is, she could very well have been hungry all the time. Both of my first two babies could have been genuinely hungry most of the time because in retrospect I understand that despite all the nursing I was doing, I was probably not producing enough milk. The experts always insist that if you nurse your babies often enough, you will make enough milk–period, end of story. IT’S NATURE. I understand now that some things interfere with nature–things like stress and sleep deprivation and depression–and no matter how often or how long you nurse or how much you pump, you will not be able to make enough milk to feed your baby to the point of satisfaction. Neither of my first two babies “failed to thrive,” but they didn’t get fat. You know how doctors will tease the mothers of fat babies by saying they must have cream in their breasts? How creepy is that, and yet I heard that story over and over again. No one would have said that creepy thing to me. I saw the milk I produced, and I’m pretty sure in retrospect that it was skim. But that’s not the point. The point is that I was feeding the babies constantly from the time they were born, so doesn’t it make sense that they would learn that food was happiness and contentment and they shouldn’t settle for anything less?
Which is why my children still have to eat all the time, although, thank God, I am no longer breastfeeding any of them? Maybe. What exactly am I saying? That my children are destined for a lifetime of obesity and I blame La Leche League? No. I mean, I wish I could, but no. I guess. I don’t know.
Technically, none of my children is obese. My oldest, however, is certainly overweight–not a controversial statement. She has never been a picky eater. She’s always eaten a variety of foods. That’s good. But she eats more than she needs to, and she isn’t as active as she ought to be. I think the same could have been said about me at that age, but unfortunately my daughter did not inherit my metabolism along with my propensity for eating and sitting more than one ought. Not that I am one of those super-skinny women who can eat anything they want and never gain weight, but my weight has always been reasonably stable. I live in fear of that luck running out someday, and perhaps the stress of that burns some calories, I don’t know. But I’m also about twenty times more active than my daughter. I have responsibilities and hobbies that require me to move around. She doesn’t. And as a result, she is carrying around about thirty extra pounds. I worry about it.
I’ve worried about it ever since she started gaining weight more quickly than she was getting tall–around third or fourth grade, I guess. I knew that she was already set apart from her peers because of her disability. I worried enough about her being “the weird girl”; I didn’t want to worry about her being “the weird fat girl.” Does this sound harsh to you? Does it seem like I’m catering to society’s expectations of what a (young) woman’s body should look like? My daughter isn’t getting any taller. She may eventually, but it isn’t happening yet, and in the meantime she keeps gaining weight. I watched my mother struggle and suffer with obesity for the better half of her life. I don’t have any memories of her not being fat and not hating her body. Princess Zurg has enough problems; she doesn’t need a weight problem on top of it.
On the other hand, she has enough problems; she doesn’t need a (relatively thin) mother nagging her about her weight problem.
I don’t want to be one of those mothers. At the same time, I really want her to lose weight. I want it for her sake, but I don’t want to give her a complex about it, either. Haven’t I screwed up enough on the food front already? I’ve talked to her about it, and she knows she needs to lose weight, and she knows that she needs to exercise more. I’m trying to make it something we do together, but it’s hard enough to find time in one’s own schedule, let alone trying to coordinate two schedules. Really, six schedules, because there’s mine and then there’s my husband and four children who all need varying levels of my attention and assistance during the hours that PZ is at home. Yes, it’s just a matter of making it a priority, but so far I’m just frustrated. So frustrated I could eat a cookie. But I won’t! (It’s the principle of the thing.)
So for those of you who were wondering, I have crafted a solution to my last posted dilemma. We are jumping PZ’s therapy appointment around until a new, non-Wednesday after-school slot opens up on a regular basis, so PZ can go to her Girls Club on Wednesday. This week it means that tomorrow I will take Elvis to his social group (speech therapy) from 4:30 to 5:30 and somehow get him home and PZ to Freaking Tigard by 6:15. I haven’t figured out yet how exactly this will happen, what with traffic and whatnot. But that’s this week. Maybe next week will be easier. All I can say is that this club had better change her life. Actually, I’d settle for her liking it. That’s not the point of this paragraph. The point of this paragraph is that when I was filling out the paperwork, I saw a note that said, “All students [emphasis theirs] participating in after-school activities will receive free supper at 3:40 pm as part of a federally funded program.”
I mean…really?
1. Who needs to eat supper at 3:40 in the afternoon? Granted, I have no idea what “supper” entails. It could just be Goldfish crackers, for all I know, but that’s not the point. Who needs to eat “supper” at 3:40 in the afternoon when you’re going home in an hour anyway?
2. Not to wax all Newt Gingrich, let-the-orphans-clean-toilets-for-their-supper, but doesn’t this seem like a colossal waste of money? All children? For any children, I suppose it’s debatable, but for all children? Really?
And
3. Why does the school have to provide my daughter with more food that she doesn’t need? Why does it seem like everybody is giving my kids more food that they don’t need? Haven’t I done enough of that myself?
Which reminds me, I forgot to eat lunch.
Okay, I have a question for you crazy kids. Girlfriend’s birthday party is tomorrow. We ended up inviting 23 children. We would have invited 24, but I neglected to mail one of the invitations. Oops. (Seriously, it was a mistake. I had nothing against this kid coming, but it’s a little late to invite him now. Well, I suppose it’s not, technically. I could drive over to his house and tape the invitation to the front door or something. Is it ruder to invite someone less than 24 hours before the party starts or to not invite them at all? I suppose when I put it that way, it’s clear that I should drive over to his house and tape the invitation to the front door, but I dunno, just something about that plan screams, a) “Weirdo!” and b) “There are already 16 positive RSVPs and wouldn’t you rather just feel really guilty afterward???”) Anyway. As I mentioned in the parenthetical aside, there are at least 16 children aged 5-6 coming to this party. No, I am not prepared. I’m not remotely prepared. But it could be worse. I’m going to start a new paragraph rather than dwell on this point any further.
Positives about this party: 1) It’s at my MIL’s house, not mine. 2) It could possibly make my daughter happy. I might even say probably, except that life is unpredictable, and I try not to have expectations. 3) …. Well, those first two should be good enough. Especially since we’re not talking any more about the negatives!
Except for this one thing, and this is just a general children’s-birthday-party complaint: Goody bags. (Here’s where you should be envisioning Dana Carvey’s Grumpy Old Man character from Saturday Night Live while you read.) I hate ‘em! In my day, you got invited to a birthday party and you brought the host a present. They weren’t expected to give any to you. They already invited you for cake and ice cream and a rip-roarin’ good time, and that’s all you had. That’s the way it was, and we liked it! We LOVED IT! Nowadays you have to send every guest home with a bag of loot to remember you by, but why? WHY????? (I’m not channeling Dana Carvey anymore, I’m just being myself. Envision me as you will.) It isn’t just that I resent having to spend money and time on goody bags for my kids’ party guests–although it’s certainly mostly that–but it’s also partly that I think it’s just a stupid practice in the first place. I hate it when my children come home from parties with goody bags–it’s all just sugar sugar sugar or cheap Oriental Trading Company crap that clutters up my house, not to mention the earth, and you kids know I don’t even care about the earth that much–so if I’m concerned about the environmental impact of something, doesn’t it stand to reason that it must be evil? And yet I don’t dare buck the goody bag trend. I’m anti-social, but my husband isn’t it, and since he generally does the lion’s share of party-managing, I suppose I have no place to complain…except that I seem to always get put in charge of goody bags, and I hate ‘em!
Can you tell I haven’t figured out how I’m going to fill these stupid goody bags without making me hate myself? What do you think would happen if I just didn’t do it? If I just sent children home empty handed–what would people think? What would YOU think, gentle readers?
Here’s another thing: I got a RSVP from someone who wondered if the invited guest’s two siblings could possibly tag along. This isn’t an unusual request. I have certainly had it before. And in the past I’ve said, “Sure, why not?” because I just…can’t…say…no. Even when it’s a Pump It Up party and you have to pay extra for extra guests. Because…just because I can’t say no. I’m that way. But I had to say no today because there are 16 (possibly 16+) children coming to this party, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of two more children, and I had no idea how old these extra children were, but I couldn’t envision a scenario in which two extra children would work for me at all. Older children–might get bored and cause trouble. Younger children–might start missing their mommy and crying. I don’t know. Just–no. I couldn’t deal with it. So I very kindly and self-abasingly said, “Sorry, but no.” I’m okay with it. I thought the world would crack open, but it hasn’t. Yet.
It’s just this–in a million years, it would never occur to me to ask someone–especially a stranger, but not even a person I knew–if it would be okay for my kid’s siblings to come along to the party that only my one kid was invited to. Never, not in a million years. And it’s not like the practice is unusual–apparently–but it would still just never occur to me. Ever! I figure that if you wanted more kids than just the one, you would have specified on the invitation “Kid 1 plus Guest(s).” You know, like when you invite someone to a wedding and they’re expected to bring a date. But that never happens with children’s birthday parties, and so I always assume that “Kid 1″ means “Kid 1″ and not “Kid 1 (unless there are any more like him at home–wink wink!).” Seriously, am I just old-fashioned, or is this kind of weird? I wouldn’t even call it rude because it’s just so weird to me that the question of rude or not seems beside the point.
It frequently comes up with parents who have to work. I understand that parents have jobs and jobs are important, and I don’t expect anyone to take time off work to take their kid to a birthday party, but the thing is…weren’t you going to work even if your kid wasn’t going to a birthday party? Who was going to watch all of your kids before one of them got invited to a birthday party? Or had you not reasoned it out that far yet? Do you see what I mean? Weird. Or am I just insensitive?
I don’t know. I have to go grocery shopping before it’s time to pick Girlfriend up from school. Wish me luck, amigos. I’ll see you on the flip side.
It occurs to me that my post titles are not nearly descriptive or eye-catching enough. It’s nothing new. Historically, titles have not been my strong suit. When I first started this blog on Xanga, I didn’t even use them. I don’t know why not, since there’s a whole field especially for writing a title, and it seems odd that I would just leave it blank, like it was okay. Perhaps I have changed, just a little. But not enough to write good titles. I sometimes think about what I might like to have on my gravestone. Perhaps it should be “Untitled.”
Do you remember that old Peanuts comic where Linus is “aware of his tongue”? If you don’t remember it, it’s probably because you are not a connoisseur of Peanuts comics, for it is a classic. You can find it in the Peanuts Treasury. I highly recommend you buy a copy because Peanuts really did used to be that funny. Anyway, I digress. But not really. I start to digress, but I stop–for I was just about to say that in the same manner that Linus was aware of his tongue, I have become aware of my lower jaw. It is literally keeping me up at night. I think this might be destiny calling to me.
Speaking of being kept up at night, here is a new paragraph. You may recall from my last post (unless you didn’t read it, in which case don’t bother, for I am about to summarize it for you) that I stayed up until 1 a.m. Sunday night/Monday morning cleaning out cabinets for the cabinet re-facing that is being performed on our kitchen this week. I also slept poorly because of being aware of my lower jaw (and possibly because of the condition of my lower jaw, which was addressed in aforementioned prior post). The night before that I had stayed up until 1 a.m. watching Mad Men on the Netflix, and also slept poorly because of the jaw thing. Last night I went to bed relatively early, but did not fall asleep right away, despite my extreme tiredness, because of the jaw thing, and about an hour into the non-sleeping jaw thing, I heard Girlfriend start crying. She often gets up in the middle of the night crying because she has to go to the bathroom but isn’t awake enough to process that information appropriately, so I immediately got out of bed and went to her room to help her process, and when we got into the bathroom, lo and behold, she threw up. That was an unexpected process.
I was kind of hoping that it was because she’d eaten mini corn dogs for dinner (not my idea, not my fault!) and swallowed a bunch of pool water afterward (also not my idea, also not my fault–see previous post), and not because she was sick with some virus–because one is a much longer process than the other–but alas, this was not the vomit of some passing fancy. She continued to get up periodically during the rest of the night to vomit and continue vomiting until long after the contents of her stomach had been emptied. It was pretty pathetic. I lost track of how many times she (and I) got up, but it’s not like I was sleeping anyway, so whatever. I mean, no, not whatever. It was very sad. At one point she said (in between dry heaves), “Mommy, I don’t want this!” You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart. Preaching to the choir.
Semi-relevant side note: I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude for the fact that Girlfriend, at the tender age of almost-six, has mastered the art of throwing up in the toilet. She’s like the vomiting prodigy of the household. I mean, that first vomiting episode did not quite reach its intended destination, but that was because she was sleepy and disoriented and the toilet lid was down, and I didn’t have time to lift it up before she took aim–but take aim she did, directly onto the toilet lid, which in a kinder universe would not have been there in the first place. The point is, I was very proud of her, and very glad that I didn’t have to clean mini-corn-dog and public pool water puke out of her bed or worse, the carpet. Very glad indeed.
I’m sorry if this post is too graphic for you, but I get insensitive when I’m sleep-deprived. Perhaps I should add a warning. Maybe to the title! All of this was just to say that the last 48 hours or so have been a blur, but at certain points during these 48 hours, I have been able to get some sleep, but I know it is not quality sleep by the quality of my dreams.
And now we get to the real point of this post, which is to tell you that I had a very strange dream about Ronnie Milsap. As opposed to a normal dream about Ronnie Milsap, which would have been less disconcerting. I suppose it’s really the presence of Ronnie Milsap that renders the dream strange, at least for me. (I don’t know about you.) In the dream, he was just about to go onstage to do a concert, but then he started talking about this song he’d written about his favorite tie, which happened to be the tie he was wearing. It had a piano keyboard on it–which makes sense, being that he’s a piano player. But he seemed to have very strong feelings about the song, and I also got the impression that he didn’t think other people appreciated the song as much as he thought they ought to. Then he fired a bunch of his musicians, with a fair amount of rancor, I might add. I found that strange as well. I mean, it didn’t seem like he was being fair to them, number one, but number two, shouldn’t he at least have waited until after the concert? Needless to say, I was left with the impression that Ronnie Milsap was somewhat unstable, mentally or emotionally. But then Girlfriend got up to puke again, and there the dream ended.
Now, I don’t find strange dreams nearly as unsettling when I can figure out where their strange, disparate elements come from and how they may have gotten a foothold on my subconscious. But it’s safe to say that I haven’t thought of Ronnie Milsap in…weeks. That part is really the kicker. I don’t know why I would have dreamed about Ronnie Milsap last night (or this afternoon, perhaps). It makes no sense whatsoever. Hence, my discombobulation.
You might be wondering what my part was in all this Ronnie Milsap drama, which is why I must point out that I was strictly an observer here. I was not involved in Ronnie Milsap firing his musicians, nor did it occur to me to try to stop him. I guess I didn’t think it was my place. I should here point out that I am often an observer in my dreams. I’m sure this says a lot about me. In fact, I’m positive that it says a lot about me. Like I’m an observer in my own life, powerless to affect any outcomes. Or perhaps I only like to think I’m powerless. Wasn’t I just saying that in my last post? Didn’t I as good as admit that I prefer not to act but to be acted upon? Or perhaps it only means that I watch too much television. I stay up late watching too much television. Or it could be all of those things. It’s probably all of those things. At least I’m self-aware, even if I’m not aware of why I’m dreaming about Ronnie Milsap.
Well, I have to get back to deciding whether or not to do some laundry this evening. It seems thematically appropriate to close with some Ronnie Milsap. (It may also be educational for those of you who have been wondering, “Who the crap is Ronnie Milsap?”) Gentle readers, adieu.
(I’m pretty sure this is not the piano tie song.)
Today we started the cabinet re-facing in our kitchen. Well, technically the professionals started it, with our permission. We were up until 1 a.m. last night–or, technically, this morning–clearing out the cabinets in anticipation of this event, which we have known for some time was coming on this precise day, but which we did not really start preparing for in earnest until 10:50 p.m. Sunday night. We have a lot of cabinets, in case you were wondering.
So the cabinets will be getting their makeover for the next couple of days. We are having our evening meals at my mother-in-law’s house, since she has a functioning kitchen. On Thursday she is supposed to have the missionaries over for dinner, which means that we will all be having the missionaries over for dinner. I have not yet determined what we will feed said missionaries. I like to avoid feeding missionaries, myself. I let my husband volunteer to feed missionaries, since that means he will do the cooking. Unfortunately, he will not be here Thursday evening because he will be on a business trip. He will be gone on Friday also. Girlfriend’s birthday party is on Saturday, and it just occurred to me that I have not yet verified with my husband that there is no possible chance that he will not be back for Girlfriend’s birthday party. It is important that there be no possible chance of him missing Girlfriend’s birthday party, since I only allow my children to have birthday parties if their father is home to run them. Either way, it is a bit late to cancel anything, so perhaps it’s better if I just don’t know.
Girlfriend invited 24 children to her birthday party. That is a Madhousehold record. So far I only have four negative RSVPs, which is…disappointing. Well, the party will also be at my MIL’s house, which is something.
I still don’t know exactly what we’re doing at this party. Did I mention that my husband usually runs these things? If I were in charge, no one would celebrate anything, ever.
Which reminds me, tonight we’re going on our monthly family excursion to the public pool. That is another thing I wasn’t in charge of inventing.
In other news, I am really starting to stress out over my as-yet hypothetical jaw surgery. Not only am I stressing out over the thought of possibly getting surgery–I’ve never really had surgery before–but I am stressing out over making the decision. I have not taken any action toward making an informed decision. I think, deep inside, or possibly not so deep, that I want the decision to be made for me. I’m very good at dealing with decisions that have been made for me. You see how well I’m dealing with taking the family swimming tonight and having a birthday party with 20 five-year-olds on Saturday, even though those are two activities I would never, ever, in a million years come up with on my own? I could deal with having surgery or not having surgery, as long as I didn’t have to feel responsible for choosing. The choosing is really starting to be painful. Is this how New Hampshire voters feel?
The thing is, whatever I decide, I can’t change my mind. And it’s not like I’m going to decide and then immediately do it and get it over with. That’s another thing I’m good at–spontaneously deciding and then jumping in and getting it over with. But that’s not what’s happening. I have to decide, and then I have to wait another year or so until my teeth get in position, and then I will finally do it. That is plenty of time to develop regret and second thoughts. Also plenty of time to become anxious about the prospect of being knocked out with drugs and waking up several hours later with my jaw wired shut, knowing it will stay wired shut for six weeks. I don’t fear the pain. I can do pain. It’s the not being able to chew that worries me. Chewing is important to me. It’s a big part of my life, chewing. That’s how I eat. Eating is very, very important to me. I’m not much of a talker, but eating is a thing that I do a lot of. I do not look forward to the prospect of six weeks of not eating food that must be chewed.
Also, what if something goes wrong? What if I get surgery, and my problem is not solved? What if it gets worse?
However, what if my misaligned jaw is causing me to sleep poorly and is at the root of my problems with depression and other ailments? What if fixing my jaw could solve all of my problems?
Actually, that seems unlikely. BUT WHAT IF???
I can’t even think about it anymore.
So back in February or March, at my second orthodontist appointment, I was informed that my upper jaw was in perfect alignment, but my lower jaw was set farther back than it needed to be in order to fully correct my teeth. Not only would I always have an overbite, but the position of my lower jaw left me with a very narrow airway and was probably affecting my ability to breathe. My husband has since informed me that I snore like a…thing that makes a really loud snoring sound. ”Sawing logs,” I guess is the expression. That’s not a thing I take joy in admitting. My mother snored. It’s a very unladylike condition. But it is what it is.
Anyway, I have the option of correcting this problem by having my jaw surgically re-positioned. That means some doctor will break my jaw and move it forward where it’s supposed to be. The “initial healing phase” is six weeks, but complete healing takes nine to twelve months. It’s kind of a big deal. It’s not something I would do just for cosmetic purposes. I’ve been living with my receding jaw for 40 years. I bet I could live with it another 40 years–unless there’s some compelling medical reason to correct it…and that’s what I can’t decide. My husband wants me to get a consult. He probably wants me to stop snoring. I mean, I want to stop snoring, especially if it means that I will be sleeping better. But getting your jaw broken and going on a liquid diet for several weeks is kind of hardcore. I hesitate.
I’m not against getting a consult. I’m just taking my sweet time because I’m not sure where to start. In the meantime, I wallow in my conflictedness.
I need to make a decision by my next orthodontic appointment, which is December 19, because this is the point at which my orthodontist either starts moving my teeth into position for my eventual jaw realignment, or he starts moving my teeth into position for my continued jaw non-alignment. Which means that once I make this decision, I’m pretty much locked into it. That’s also hardcore. So I hesitate.
It’s not that I don’t want to be locked into a decision. Generally, I enjoy being locked into a decision, once I’m there. I just fear commitment. I’m like an adult male who wants to spend the rest of his life playing video games and chasing skirts. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m like.
Well, I don’t have time to contemplate this conflictedness any more at the moment. Elvis is harassing me to play Monopoly, and I can no longer hear myself think.
.
Yes, I know I should just get the consult already. Stop nagging me.
.
Also, if any of you have had this done or know someone who has, I welcome your anecdotes.
I just got back from lunch with the husband. I ate a gyro the size of my head. In related news, I don’t think I will ever need to eat again. At least not today. Unfortunately, that won’t stop me from needing to make dinner.
Sugar Daddy and I were discussing Christmas, as in what sorts of things could we possibly buy the children for Christmas. They already have way too many things and no place to put them. Yeah, I know. Tell them they have to get rid of some things if they want any new things. Gotcha. That doesn’t really change the fact that we don’t know what to get them, assuming they prove themselves worthy of getting anything. Oh, who are we kidding. They’ll get stuff regardless of their worthiness. We’re raising monsters here. Monsters!
I like Christmas a lot. It’s my favorite holiday. I don’t like sending out the Christmas cards. I don’t like the shopping. Historically, I have enjoyed the giving, though. But lately I just feel the burden of so many possessions. I know. #firstworldproblems. But I’m 40 years old. 40-year-old housewives who have to pick up after other people all the time find it very easy to be burdened by possessions. Children don’t find it quite so easy. I want to simplify Christmas, but I have to ease people into lowered expectations. So that is the challenge for this year. Buy less stuff, but don’t let it look like we’re buying less stuff. Also, I want to cure cancer and bring about world peace.
My mother-in-law has moved into the house she bought up here. She hasn’t moved in all the way because she still has to move out of her house in California. She’s staying here through Thanksgiving, and then she’s going to go back down there to pack up all her junk and get her house on the market, and hopefully be back up here in…February? Maybe. She’s been in that house for 30 years. She has a lot of stuff. The thought of it makes me tired and also want to scream a little. I’ll change the subject.
November is National Novel Writing Month, of course. Every year I say, “This year I am going to do NaNoWriMo,” and then I don’t, for whatever reason. Usually because I’m busy and also afraid of failure. It’s already, what November 7? A whole week into NaNoWriMo, and I haven’t written one word of a novel. Well, perhaps I have written a word somewhere, and I just don’t know it. But I doubt it. Anyway, I think it is too late to start with NaNoWriMo this year, especially considering that we’re doing a kitchen remodel next week. You can’t write a novel while your kitchen is being remodeled. There have been studies.
Perhaps I will do NaNoWriMo, but I’ll do it on Mormon Standard Time, so I’ll be writing my novel in, say, January. I would have said February, but it has three fewer days. Except that 2012 is a leap year, yes? So two fewer days, but still. Every day counts. Perhaps it is more realistic to say March. Except that one week of March is Spring Break, and you also can’t write a novel while your kids are home from school for a week. Which leads us to April, which is one day shorter than March, but just as long as November, so…yeah, maybe I’ll do it in April. We’ll see.
How can I round out this post? Some current events? I saw this morning that there’s been an outbreak of head and body lice at the #OccupyPortland squatters camp. I saw that and thought, “Why does this not surprise me?” It was a rhetorical question, by the way. Sometimes I even ask myself rhetorical questions. I’m pretty sure the term “unwashed masses” originated in Oregon. Now, it isn’t really fair to laugh at Oregonians. Lice are a pain in the neck (and head and body) and a real bad word to get rid of. Also, they are very, very easy to catch. All it takes is one unwashed person to start an epidemic. But still. It’s just so perfect that it would happen here. At least it isn’t riots.
I had head lice in the third grade. It really sucked. You can imagine that with three long-haired sisters, I must have been very popular at home, too. What I remember best–besides the nit-combing, I mean–is my father taking a louse and putting it under his microscope so we could all look at it close-up. I thought he was just being gross. But scientists are just kind of that way. They don’t mind being gross, as long as there’s something to be learned. I don’t remember particularly what the louse looked like. Just that it was gross. Also, my head is starting to itch just typing this. I should probably change the subject again.
Oh, look, 800+ words. I’ll give myself permission to stop. We’ll chat more in the comments, all right? Let’s stick with the plague and pestilence theme–although, if you have a Christmas-related plague story, that would be cool, too. Perhaps together we can write a novel about a Christmas plague. The gyro was the same size as her lice-ridden head. Take it from there, amigos. Au revoir.
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