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Which means that my two youngest children have officially given up solid food for the season, and will be subsisting on frozen sugar water for the next six months. I’ll keep you posted on that.
Actually, I shouldn’t complain. They both ate lunch today. I think it might have something to do with the fact that all the good popsicles are gone. You know, I bought some of those new “Mini” popsicles, thinking they would be, I dunno, little popsicles, like maybe half the size of regular popsicles. No. They are teeny tiny popsicles. The kids must think I’m trying to starve them, and that’s why they ate their sandwiches.
Speaking of popsicle weather, it is also garden-hose weather. Meaning that Elvis wants to water our driveway about three hours a day. (He was born in Oregon, he thinks water just falls from the sky, what can I tell you?) Today he actually wanted to play with the hose in the back yard, which I think meant that he wanted to water our deck for three hours, but I’ll never know for sure because there is a non-functional sprayer-nozzle stuck to the hose in the back yard, and Elvis couldn’t get it off. I couldn’t get it off either. It’s just going to stay there forever, I think. I may as well get used to it. Hello, non-functional sprayer-nozzle thing, how’s it going? Yeah, me too. I assume it’s non-functional because it doesn’t spray water, but if its function is to make me want to scream and punch somebody, it’s doing a fine job.
I really don’t have time for this blogging nonsense today. I have a lot of work to do, and I should do it before it gets too hot. My tap recital is this week, and the housekeepers are coming this week. I kind of let the house go right before we left for Austin, and so far it hasn’t come back to me. I spent about three hours on Saturday trying to get it back to a manageable state–or at least a state where I could invite housekeepers to come and clean it–but it still needs a lot of work. The housekeepers come every other Wednesday. Historically, that has meant that I spend every other Tuesday evening staying up late to make sure that they can find surfaces to clean the next morning. I can’t really do that this Tuesday evening because I have the dress rehearsal for the recital that night. So I really need to do it before then. And make sure nobody messes it up before Wednesday morning. You see why I always do it Tuesday night? Anyway, you don’t want to hear about my problems. I’m just typing so I don’t have to work.
I skipped church on Sunday because I had a mandatory tap rehearsal, followed by recital pictures. Yes, we’re grown-ups and we get recital pictures. We don’t ordinarily do them right after a major rehearsal, when we’re all sweaty and tired, but the planets were aligned against us this year, and that was the only time we could do it. So we had the rehearsal, and then we all tried very hard to get in full costume immediately and not sweat too much for photographs. I was a little dismayed because I would have preferred to do a dry run with my make-up before I committed it to posterity. I don’t usually wear make-up–in fact, the only times I really wear it is for my recital and for my recital pictures. I had to buy a whole new batch of make-up, though, because I lost my old make-up in the fire last year. Yeah, I know you’re supposed to replace your make-up every three months or something anyway, but whatever. I don’t do that. I save it for the annual Wearing of the Make-Up in the spring. I’m thrifty that way.
So every time I put on make-up, I’m reminded of why I don’t usually wear it. It really, really irritates my skin. Not like I’m allergic to it. No, I think it’s a form of claustrophobia. My skin wants to breathe. I’m not sure what the deal is with my eyeballs. Every time I wear any kind of eye make-up, within about ten or fifteen minutes, my eyes start hurting, like they’re tired. Like I’ve been prying them open with toothpicks for the last 48 hours. It’s very annoying. I’ve tried all kinds of hypoallergenic, “sensitive eyes” formulae, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just a psychological problem. The eyes want to breathe. They don’t want to be burdened with thick lashes or a “smoky look.” Unfortunately, knowing that it’s just psychological has not helped matters any. My eyes still hurt, they hurt for several hours after I remove the eye make-up, and yet I have to put it on again at least twice before the week is over.
I didn’t used to worry about the make-up problem when I was young, or rather, when my skin was young. Now that my skin is getting old, I’m starting to worry about the make-up problem. Because I don’t want to look old and haggard until I die. I’d like to try a few years of that “age-defying” cosmetic stuff before I start looking old and haggard until I die. One of the problems with not wearing make-up is that when I do put it on, it looks weird, even if I’ve done it right. And I don’t really do it right–that’s one of the other problems with not wearing make-up: I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of how to apply it. I know what not to do. (Sometimes I accidentally do that stuff anyway, but at least I’m self aware.) I’ve never learned how to achieve that “natural” look–probably because it takes too long, and I’m too lazy–and that’s fine when I only wear make-up for an occasion when I’m not aiming for “natural” anyway, but I’m just saying, I worry about the old-and-haggard years. Do you know I turned 37 on Saturday? I’ve tried to compensate for my make-up-less skin by coloring my hair and painting my nails and wearing women’s clothing. I just hope it’s enough when the old-and-haggard years hit full force.
I really have a lot of laundry to do, and that’s not half of what needs to get done in the next 48 hours. I have to take Elvis to a birthday party this afternoon and make sure he doesn’t blow out the candles on the cake before the birthday boy does.
Speaking of cake, for my birthday we got an ice cream pie from the Safeway. It was a “Mudd Pie.” I don’t know if it was named after Mudd clothing, or Harvey Mudd, or what, but it was good, probably because it had coffee in it. Princess Zurg was disturbed by the presence of the coffee–morally disturbed, but not so disturbed that she didn’t finish eating her piece. I ate my piece and the baby’s piece, and I would have eaten Elvis’s, too, except I thought that might make me a bad person.
Speaking of being a bad person, I used the carpool lane today when I wasn’t carpooling. It was an accident, really. I was in a hurry, and I forgot I didn’t have any kids with me. Ordinarily I think that people who misuse the carpool lane are probably going to hell. I hope that isn’t true. (It’s funny, though–today of all days, there were, like, three cops on the shoulder of the freeway on-ramp, right where the carpool lane was. I totally could have been busted! Fortunately, they were there about a car accident. Wait–did I just say that?) I think I paid for it because I totally missed my off-ramp. Again. The last time I went to this place I was going, I missed the off-ramp. Mind you, I’ve been to this place several times. I’ve taken that off-ramp dozens and dozens of times. I know where it is, and yet it’s like I can’t see it anymore. It’s very disconcerting.
As I was saying, though, I have a lot of laundry to do. I can’t keep boring you with the mundane details of my life. I have to get going. Gentle readers, happy Monday.
Last night I heard someone on the radio mention that there was this survey done of American women, and some significant percentage of them said that they would rather have their wisdom teeth pulled than go shopping for a new bathing suit. I thought this was odd. I’ve had my wisdom teeth pulled. It was painful. I’ve gone shopping for bathing suits. That was unpleasant, but still better than a trip to the dentist, in my opinion. And generally I like the dentist. I just don’t like having my wisdom teeth pulled. Fortunately, they don’t grow back. (They don’t, right?) I can honestly say, though, that if you held a gun to my head and said, “Wisdom teeth or bathing suit?” I would pick bathing suit every time.
Of course, I am something of a freak when it comes to bathing suit shopping because the last time I tried on bathing suits, my thoughts were, “This is hideous, this is hideous, this is merely ugly–but dang if I don’t look good for having four kids. Check me out. Not in this suit, though, it’s hideous.” Okay, maybe that’s not exactly how it went down. But generally, if I don’t look good in a bathing suit, I blame the suit, not me, because what human woman should be expected to look totally awesome in a bathing suit? It’s the bathing suit manufacturer’s job to make me look good. I’m paying them, am I not? Did they, at some point, change the expression to “the customer is occasionally right”? No. I rest my case.
That said, I am currently in the unenviable position of needing to do some truly depressing shopping. Since I’ve weaned the baby, I find myself in the market for a new bra. The last time I went shopping for a new (non-nursing) bra was after I weaned Mister Bubby. I went into the store with big dreams and came out with…nothing. Because I couldn’t find the Misses section where they sold the Double A’s. Do they still make AA bras? Because I haven’t seen any since I was in the fifth grade. I guess these days they make the sports-type bras, which don’t have to fit so very precisely because their only job is to smash down whatever bosom you have, which is probably what you want in the fifth grade. It was what I wanted. It’s what I want for my daughter, who got her first bra in third grade. But that’s another blog.
Before I had kids, I wore a B cup, but just barely. I was really more of a B+. That’s what you call a B that’s almost an A, right? Which would make my current size an A+. That’s what you call an A that’s almost…irrelevant. One might wonder why Madhousewife has to bother with a bra at all. Well, if I have to explain these things, you’re not invited to the conversation. I’m eccentric, okay? Humor me.
So these days I wear one of those sports-type bras, which is really comfortable and suits me just fine unless I actually want to look like a woman, and then it is somewhat insufficient for my purposes. And I realized recently that I have no idea where to look for a bra that suits my figure–if I may use the term so loosely. I know lots of women swear by the Victoria’s Secret, but I have not observed that Victoria’s Secret sells anything in an A cup. Maybe I just visit the wrong Victoria’s Secret stores. Perhaps I live in a region of the country where breasts tend to be on the big side, and it just isn’t worth VS’s while to stock stuff for the little gal–though if anyone needs the Victoria’s Secret, you’d think it would be the little gal, wouldn’t you? Well, I would. I do. But that’s neither here nor there.
From what little casual shopping I’ve been able to do in recent weeks, I have ascertained that department stores sell about 437 different types of bras, most of which cannot be worn by women like me without also investing in a ten-pack of tube socks. I would really like to have a bra that gives the illusion of breasts being there. I’ve looked at the “padded” bras. Yeah. For the woman who wants to add a couple millimeters to her bust size. I’m a little more ambitious than that. Also, I take one look at the “padded” A-cup bras, and I wonder, what am I going to do with all that space? I could wear it, and maybe I’d look like I had breasts–until someone bumped into me and the thing just caved in because there was nothing but an inch-and-a-half of air behind the padding.
I need something functional. Like, maybe a bra they would sell to (double) mastectomy patients? I mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to give you an idea of what I have to work with, which is nothing. Which is why I can’t wear the “push-up” bras. I don’t need cleavage. It’s against my religion to show cleavage anyway. I just want a little, I don’t know, “stuffing.” You know what I’m saying?
And please don’t think that I’m ungrateful. I’d much rather have my little bosom problem than a big bosom problem. If you have a big bosom problem, you have my sympathy, truly. But enough about you. Can we get back to me? I’m particularly interested to hear from others in my situation–small-breasted women who wear bras. What do you recommend? Tube socks? Surgery? If your answer is getting pregnant again, forget it. I’d rather have my wisdom teeth pulled.
Which reminds me, with these new and reduced breasts, I’m going to need a new bathing suit, too. Fashion industry, be on alert.
I’m having one of those days, when I feel like I really need to just be away from everyone I know for about a week. Yeah, a week should about do it. No offense to the loved ones, but right now I really just want to hide in a closet somewhere. I won’t even need food. Maybe a pillow. A pillow, a pen and a notebook, and I’ll be good to go. Does that sound unhealthy? Or does it just sound like November?
Around this new neighborhood I have seen several baby swings hanging from people’s roofs. That is, the baby swing is mounted on a beam hanging over the front porch, so that it swings about five feet above the ground, which in this case is concrete. This seemeth to me an odd choice for a baby swing locale. What is oddest is not that one person would choose it, but that multiple people would choose it. Granted, the homes in this development lack space in the back yards for actual swingsets, so where else are they going to put the baby swing? And technically, if you follow manufacturer’s instructions and never leave the child unattended, risk of fall and subsequent injury is minimal. But still. It’s weird, isn’t it?
Of course, I’ve never seen a baby in any of these baby swings. Perhaps the neighbors are using them for planters. The swings, I mean. I don’t see any plants in the swings, either, but I’m just trying to come up with rational explanations for why people are hanging baby swings above their concrete porches. Also, I am noting that I never see the babies these swings may or may not have been intended for. I know that many children live on this street. I see them gather at the bus stop every morning. I see them get off the bus in the afternoons. I just don’t see them at any other time. It’s a very quiet neighborhood.
In fact, I’m fairly certain that the noise level in this neighborhood has increased ten-fold since we moved in. Probably the most decibel-intense situation it ever experienced prior to our arrival was when one of the gardeners would run a leaf blower. I don’t know the technical term for this type of housing development. I think of it as a franchise neighborhood, though the houses aren’t McMansions. They are more like luxury McStarterHomes. Not the stuff on the value menu, yet still affordable. Every city in America has several neighborhood exactly like this one. It is the wave of the housing future. Cheap materials + Maximum Density = One Billion Served.
I’m not philosophically opposed to this type of development. I’m not even aesthetically opposed to it. When I see row upon row of these cookie-cutter houses with their matching picket fences and vinyl siding in every approved shade from white to ecru, it strikes me as quaint and rather charming. Others, I know, find it all vaguely sinister; at best the overall effect is claustrophobic. My husband falls into that category. To me the congestion and uniformity together create a fairly compelling facade of community.
Such is the forced intimacy of modern housing. Our homes are packed together so tightly that we can reach out our windows and shake each other’s hands, but it doesn’t matter because no one would ever do that anyway. We are just a lot of strangers who live together while pretending not to live together. No one is unfriendly. We just mind our own business. There is the awkwardness of proximity but none of the comforts. The neighborhood is too young, and no one moves in to stay, including us.
I know that I’m depressed. At this stage of life, for me to notice that I’m depressed is akin to noticing that my hair is turning gray or that I am gaining weight. There is no cry for help, merely an acknowledgment. Oh, this again. Well. I suppose I should do something about it. I just can’t decide what.
I seem to have aged four years in seven days. As I type this, I am sitting across from a mirror in my hotel room and I think there is no possible way anyone could mistake me for a thirtysomething anything. It would be fine if I looked like one of those hot 40-year-old women, but I actually look more like one of those 40-year-olds who’s gotten into a little bit of trouble with meth. Except that my teeth are still okay.
It may be sleep deprivation, which is entirely my own fault because I insist on staying up late to watch The Office on DVD, but one of the reasons I insist on doing that is that I am so stressed out from all this staying at hotels and changing hotels and packing and unpacking and repacking and using other people’s laundry facilities and never having enough clean clothes and not being able to find anyone’s underwear and not being able to let the younger kids run around like ninnies because hotel people tend to frown on that sort of behavior. Did I mention that it started raining yesterday? Also, it is difficult to arrange lunch and nap time around housekeeping’s schedule. I could always put out the Do Not Disturb sign, but then they don’t come at all and we don’t get new towels or our trash taken out. Theoretically we could always call and request new towels and take out our own trash, I suppose, but that’s not what we do. That requires too much organization. Or energy. Or something.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. No, no. Au contraire. Complaining would imply that I’m not grateful for the fact that as house fires go, ours was relatively minor and damaged nothing of any real significance. (Not that indoor plumbing and ceilings aren’t significant, but you know what I mean.) It would also imply that I’m not grateful for the extensive benefits my homeowners insurance policy offers, or for the fortunate circumstances that are allowing us to move into a rental house as early as next week. So I am not complaining, because with all this good fortune I have nothing whatever to be upset about. I just miss my house. That’s all I’m saying. My beautiful, beautiful house.
Our insurance company is covering all our living expenses, and some people have said something along the lines of, “Well, it’s like an all-expense-paid vacation, isn’t it?” No. Not really. No. Number one, we’re still in town. Number two, we still have to go to work and school. Number three, there’s only so much restaurant food you can eat before you start feeling the Supersize Me effect. Number four, the Phoenix Inn does not sell souvenir magnets. So no, it’s not like a vacation. It’s like an all-expenses-paid inconvenience. I am not comfortable. I miss my house. But I am not complaining. I’m just stating the facts.
Last night I went to Princess Zurg’s Back-to-School night. Interesting tidbit of trivia: there are exactly two (2) men who work at PZ’s school. They are the music teacher (1) and the custodian (2). This is an even more pitiful state of affairs than at Mister Bubby’s school, which has at least six men (including two janitors). But that is a blog o’ social commentary for another day. Right now I don’t have the time or energy for such things. I feel remarkably isolated, even though I’ve seen a lot more of my friends than usual–what with me borrowing their washers and dryers and napping places–and I have full access to the media. I am just so much inside myself. I don’t have a home to retreat to, so I retreat into my own little brain and make it my own little world, where housekeepers, restoration contractors and rioting children are merely satellites.
So the other night I went shopping for a new swimsuit because I couldn’t find any of mine, not even the maternity ones (which hopefully don’t fit anymore). They are probably all buried deep within the bowels of my closet. No matter. I knew I could find a swimsuit for cheap in July. Whether I could find one that wasn’t ugly was another question. So I went to ye neighborhood department store and looked in their swimwear section, which as you might imagine–this being July and all–was very teeny-tiny indeed. They had a reasonably good selection of bikinis. Unfortunately, “bikini” is not in my fashion vocabulary, which meant that I was stuck with whatever leftovers they had for women with poor body images. Them were slim pickins indeed. Actually, there was nothing “slim,” exactly, in the selection. Not that I’m some Nicole Richie or Whatever-Olsen-Twin-Has-The-Eating-Disorder, but I am not quite large enough to fit into most of the sizes that were still available. I suppose the vast majority of women in my size do their swimsuit shopping in February, when the retail industry tells them to. I think they only make these ugly swimsuits so that there will be something still in the stores when the weather is such that people actually go swimming. But that’s just a theory.
Let me tell you what kind of bathing suits you can find in July: black suits with giant floral prints and–yeah, that about covers it. Black suits with giant floral prints. And if your suit happens to be black with a giant floral print, please don’t be offended. I’m sure yours is lovely and flatters your figure perfectly. But what if you don’t want a black suit with a giant floral print? Well, you can just go to hell, that’s what you can do. Unless this one suit that isn’t black with a giant floral print just happens to be in your size or the next size up, but oh, no, sorry, it’s four sizes too large. Next summer eat more doughnuts, dearie.
Actually, I was fortunate enough to find four suits in my size (or thereabouts), three of which were blue and one of which was not floral. I tried on one of those tankinis, which look so attractive on other people, but I’ve noticed in the dressing room that they tend to draw attention to a part of my body I’d rather people didn’t focus on. You know, when I see other people wearing those tankinis, I’m sure I don’t find my eyes irresistably drawn to their midriffs, and yet when I try on a tankini, all I can see is my midriff. So in theory I could wear a tankini and not make everyone around me grimace, but realitically speaking, I obviously lack the confidence to carry off such an outfit. So no tankini for moi. As for the other three suits, one was navy blue and rather plain–or rather, it was plain. It was a navy blue suit. Astonishingly minimalist for July swimwear, but then again, there was only one of them. The other two suits were various shades of blue, (mostly) inoffensive floral designs. Not my dream suit, but wouldn’t kill me to wear. While the colors were more flattering to my skin tone, I noticed that the cut was entirely wrong for my body type. To wit, it accentuated–if such a thing is possible in this context–the fact that I am mere centimeters away from having no breasts. So the navy blue suit it was.
But that episode reminded me that I really need to buy a new nursing bra, if only so I can finally wean the baby. It usually takes a significant outlay of money for me to make the leap from one phase of life to another. But that’s a side issue. As of right now, the baby is not weaning, and I only have one nursing bra that fits.
//ATTENTION: THIS IS THE PORTION OF THE BLOG THAT YOU DON’T READ, IF YOU DON’T ENJOY READING ABOUT WOMEN’S BRA-SHOPPING EXPERIENCES. ACTUALLY, IF YOU DO USUALLY ENJOY SUCH THINGS, I’M REASONABLY CERTAIN THAT THIS WILL DISAPPOINT YOU. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.//
Most nursing mothers have large breasts. I am one of about three women in the world, near as I can figure, who wears a B cup while nursing, and I only fill it out the first six months. Once the baby starts eating solid food and nursing a little less, the nursing bra gets significantly roomier. If they made nursing bras in A cups, that’s what I’d wear right now. Only they don’t, so instead I wear bras that are too big for me, which can result in unsightly bunches of excess material under my outerwear. I don’t know if you followed that. Maybe you’d rather not.
A few months ago I found a nursing bra by Liz Lange at Target that was perfect for me. It’s made out of stretchy (I think that’s the technical term) fabric, so women who are on the buxomer side of B will fill it out better, but women such as myself, who are on the “lighter” side of B, do not have this voluminous cup for their diminutive breast to swim in. And the nursing flaps open to the side, rather than top-down. I hate the top-down flaps. They make for even more of the unsightly bunchy extra stuff that I don’t need. Unfortunately, they only had one of these Liz Lange bras in stock when I was there, so that is the one I have. Target has since stopped carrying Liz Lange maternity and nursing bras, I think. They certainly haven’t gotten any more of that particular style, and certainly not in a B cup. I’ve looked online for similar nursing bras, but I haven’t found anything I like. I certainly haven’t found it for $12, which is about what I feel like investing in a nursing bra right now.
But one bra that fits is really not enough. I mean, it would be nice to wear one bra that fits while I’m washing the other one. I know, I’m such a fat, spoiled American. Anyway, so after the swimsuit selection, I went to the lingerie section to look for nursing bras, or alternatively, some bra that might be compatible with nursing. I was not successful in that pursuit. It reminded me, though, that I have even less to look forward to once I wean the baby and my anemic B-cup chest dwindles to a double-A again. You might be wondering why a woman of my particular endowments needs to bother with a bra at all. Well, let’s just say I’m old-fashioned. It’s a psychological thing. If I never wore a bra, how would I know when I wasn’t fit to be seen in public? Not that I’m fit now, but as long as I’m wearing a bra, I can pretend.
Mister Bubby has just informed me that Elvis is eating ice cream out of the carton. With his hands. So I must adieu. ‘Til next time, my friends.
I wish it weren’t quite so easy to turn the keyboard off on my laptop. I wish, at the very least, that if one were to accidentally press the function key or combination of keys that turns off the keyboard, Windows would have some kind of prompt that said, “Are you sure you want to turn off your keyboard?” and if you accidentally said “yes,” it would come back with, “No, really, are you sure you want to turn off your keyboard? Because maybe you don’t, really.” And if you somehow, inadvertently said, “I’m sure, ****it!”, then it would say, “Okay, we want you to go get your mom so we can ask her if she wants the keyboard turned off. We’ll wait.” And if you still managed to say, “Look, buddy, turn the keyboard off already. How many times do I have to ask?”, it would say, “Fine, you want your keyboard off? Press CTRL + ALT + F9 + #$&*()#$, and then we’ll talk.” And maybe by that time I will have returned to the room after pouring someone’s juice and be there just in the nick of time to stop my keyboard from getting turned off. The new WindowsXG (for Giraffe).
Or, I could finally just burn it into my memory how you turn the keyboard back on. But that’s asking a lot of me.
So Princess Zurg is receiving Extended School Year services this summer. She goes Monday through Thursday, from 9 a.m. to 12 noon–except that instead of holding ESY at the school she normally attends, at the easternmost part of the district, they hold it at a school at the southernmost part of the district, so that now she spends eighty minutes on the bus (round trip) instead of the usual sixty. My curiosity over why they can’t house any magnet programs at schools in the centermost part of the district has yet to be satisfied. But I digress.
It has occurred to me that I have no idea what PZ does at ESY. Sugar Daddy was at the meeting where they proposed adding this to her IEP, and he thought it sounded good, and I think he may have even told me what she’d be doing there, but I must not have been listening, because I have no recollection of learning this information. She and her autistic classmates could be performing Satanic rituals with paste and macaroni noodles and communicating with spirits of special ed students who have gone to the other side, and I would be none the wiser. I don’t think my husband would have approved that educational goal, but these things don’t always turn out in real life the way they look on paper, so I figured I should just ask PZ what it is, exactly, that she does at ESY.
She says it’s lots of fun. Apparently they do some dot-to-dots. She always chooses butterflies. Or moths. Because moths can also be beautiful, even though they aren’t very colorful. Then they do some individual work. Reading. Math. Ummmm…yeah. That’s all I got. I suppose I don’t care, so long as she’s enjoying herself and isn’t sacrificing any animals. If only Regular Old School Year could go so smoothly.
My children have eaten nothing but processed convenience food for the last three days. I suppose they’ve had cereal and toast for breakfast, but lunch and dinner has been non-stop pizza, macaroni & cheese, hot dogs, etc. Doubtless they think they have died and gone to the big public-school cafeteria in the sky, but I’m starting to feel a little guilty. I must be getting better. Someone should ingest some vegetables today. Or take a vitamin supplement. Or exercise vigorously. Or go to Subway instead of Burger King. Only I wouldn’t like to take kids to Subway. I actually think it’s annoying enough to have to tell someone how to make your sandwich every step of the way when it’s just you, a grown-up person who actually knows what she wants. I almost want to say, “Here, just let me do it, it’ll be quicker.” Does anyone else feel this way? It’s not that I’m a control freak, just that when I go out to eat, it’s because I want someone else to make my food. I don’t want to have to direct the operation. Too many choices, too many questions–just make me a freaking sandwich without olives, that’s all I ask. Not that I’m quite up to swallowing a sandwich just now. I’m going to go have some…yogurt, I guess. I don’t know what the kids are going to eat. Who cares?
So my birthday is next week–is that right? yes, that’s right–and I had to get my driver’s license renewed, so I went to the DMV Renewal office to get my picture taken by a government official for the first time in eight years. Yes, I’ve been living with the same driver’s license photo since I moved to Oregon in 1999. Fortunately, it was a really great photo. Seriously, most of the professional pictures I’ve had taken since then are not as good as my driver’s license photo was. Of course, most of the professional pictures I’ve had taken have been family photos which have required me to hold the same pose and facial expression for 15 minutes straight while the photographer tries to elicit smiles from all of the children simultaneously. But that’s neither here nor there.
I was very nervous about getting a new driver’s license picture because I knew that it couldn’t possibly be as good as the one I already had. I wished there was some way I could just keep it eight more years because I really don’t look any different and I don’t plan on getting major surgery in the near future, so…okay, maybe it’s not kosher to be 44 years old and carrying a driver’s license with a photo of one’s 28-year-old self, but I plan on aging well–honestly.
So yes, I was nervous, and I made doubly sure to take a shower and comb my hair and wear colors that wouldn’t wash out my face, and all that remained was to smile at the appropriate time and do so in a non-creepy way–which is more difficult for me than you might imagine.
I felt reasonably confident–I’ve given non-creepy smiles plenty of times–but when the crucial moment came, I’m afraid I choked. Not literally. No, that would arguably have resulted in a better picture–if only because there would have been a good excuse for looking the way I did (or would have, had I been choking).
No, what happened was that the lady taking the picture said, “Smile on three, onetwothree,” and I was about half a second too slow to flash that winning, non-creepy smile. So what I have is not my default, non-smiling expression–the one that says, “I’ve had a hard life and I’m tired and bitter, and that’s why I steal from old people. So far that’s the worst of my faults, but who knows, I could be a ticking time bomb. If you see me hitchhiking on the side of the road, do not pick me up. It isn’t worth the risk.” No, even that would have been preferable to what I did end up with, the almost-smile–the one that says, “I’m frightened, have a low IQ and resemble a beaver.” And that’s the look I have to live with until 2015.
Actually, the worst part is not that I have to live with that picture. It’s that I have to live with my husband, who’s going to spend the rest of the week teasing me about how bad the picture is, dragging it out way longer than is funny, way past the point of good-natured ribbing and well into the cordoned-off area of You Think You’re Laughing With Her But You’re Actually Making Her Feel Worse. I will just have to take solace in the fact that next month he will be getting his first new driver’s license picture in eight years and instead of looking fourteen will have to make do with looking twenty-eight.
Ah, to look 28 again.
| You Are Jean Grey |
 Although your fate is often unknown, you always seem to survive (even after death).Your mind is your greatest weapon, literally! Powers: telepathy and telekinesis, the ability to project thoughts into the mind of others, communication with animals |
You read that, haters? My mind is my greatest weapon!!!
Speaking of weapons, I only have one thing to say about all of last week:
P.
M.
S.
That’s all. But never fear, gentle readers. Your gentle giraffe has returned. Unfortunately, she is so drained of angst that she has nothing to blog about. Hence the blogthing.
I understand the Oscars are tonight. It seems way too early to me, but since I don’t really keep up with current events, that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll just go on record once more with my picks:
Best Picture: Little Miss Sunshine
Best Director: Martin Scorsese
Best Actor: Forest Whitaker
Best Actress: Helen Mirren
Best Supporting Actor: Alan Arkin (he’s the dark horse, dude)
Best Supporting Actress: Jennifer Hudson
Best Sound Editing: Apocalypto
I only take interest in the Sound Editing category because my former piano teacher’s son-in-law worked in that part of the industry. He won an Oscar for E.T., I think. Anyway, there it is.
My husband has bought a whoopee cushion. Technically, he won it after an afternoon in the arcade with Elvis on Friday. The children are delighted to this new addition to our family. You’re probably wondering how we made it through ten years of marriage and not having a whoopee cushion in the house, but I guess this is the end of the innocence.
Madhousewife: Can you give that thing a rest for the remainder of the evening?
Sugar Daddy: You don’t like my whoopee cushion, do you?
Mad: I don’t.
SD: You want me to get rid of it, don’t you?
Mad: I didn’t ask you to get rid of it, just lay off it for a few hours.
SD: But I won it, for my boy. It’s a symbol of our loving relationship. You want me to throw away the symbol of my love for the boy?
Mad: I want you forget you love him so much for the rest of the evening, if you can handle that.
Just another reminder that PMS or no PMS, I am always NFW (No Fun Whatsoever).
So the other day I was looking up babysitting agencies and drop-in child care businesses in the yellow pages. I don’t know if I’ll end up using a child care service I found in the freaking yellow pages, but it’s the sort of nervous activity I engage in so that I don’t spend the majority of my day crying and eating Take 5 bars by the gross. Every woman needs a fantasy life. Also, institutionalized daycare is such an unMormony thing to do, it made me feel a little dangerous, like when I drink a diet Coke with all the caffeine in it. Just kidding. Anyway, I had a point to this story. Oh yes. See the next paragraph.
So I have a visceral reaction to a childcare operation that overuses the letter K. As in Kids Klubhouse. Or Kids Korner. Or Aunt Katie’s Kookie Kidcare Kabal. People, I believe you like kids. Your ability to spell will not prejudice me against you. You may also turn all your letters around the right way. Thank you.
One of the fine establishments listed in my yellow pages was called Funny Farm Childcare, which struck me as, well, funny. In sort of a creepy way. I mean, was that on purpose or what? Either way, it doesn’t inspire confidence.
Gratuitous Mister Bubby Story
Mister Bubby: Mommy, look what I found.
Giraffemom: It’s your Spiderman airplane.
MB: It’s so cute. Never throw it away, even if it’s broken. Because I still love it the most.
GM: Okay. Thanks for telling me.
MB: I don’t love it more than you, but I love it as much as you.
GM: Thank you.
So I found out this afternoon that Princess Zurg’s class will be performing in the school talent show. The letter home says they ”will be performing the dance, ‘YMCA.’”
I’m reminded of my first job out of high school. My boss was a very nice woman in her forties. She had many stories. One day, out of nowhere, she told me how she didn’t realize the Village People were gay until her (then-)husband told her. Even now she wasn’t sure whether she ought to believe it or if the man was just messing with her. “But he said they were all just as queer as a three-dollar bill,” said she, and then she shrugged in a go figure sort of way. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Then we probably went back to work.
It’s a sign of me being old and square, I guess, that I can’t quite get my head around the fact that there are grown-up people walking around today who weren’t even born when this song came out (ha–get it?) and countless others for whom it has no significance other than being a really fun song to dance to. That’s what I keep telling myself. Seriously, who can resist the “YMCA”? Especially when you don’t sit around and…think about it at all.
But I’m supposed to send a costume to school for my child. The aforementioned letter says that “the costume can really be anything–fireman, policeman, baseball player, ballerina, etc.” And it’s not like I want to be a fuddy-duddy stick-in-the-mud or anything, but how am I supposed to mentally disassociate from the Village People when a bunch of 8- and 9-year-old boys (and my daughter) are dressed as policemen and ballerinas? At least no one will be wearing the Indian chief feathers. This is Portland, after all.
We don’t get snow very often in the Portland area–hardly ever, in fact–but when we do, there’s no telling what will happen. Today’s “snow”–if it can even be properly called that–is nothing to write home about. A quarter of an inch here, maybe a whole inch there. Usually what happens is that the snow melts and then re-freezes, giving us that delightful black ice effect. So even if you look outside and see what appears to be just a thin blanket of frost, you need to check in with the media to make sure it isn’t, in fact, a deadly illusion–one that requires, or at least inspires, school closures.
Yesterday morning my husband woke me up and I immediately thought, “It would be awesome if the schools were closed today.” Of course they weren’t because all the children were still in bed and I’d had a crappy night of sleep myself up until about 5 a.m. (which is my wont on those rare occasions when the baby sleeps through the night, O bitter Irony!), and there’s some law of the universe that prevents schools from being closed or even going on two-hour delay on those days when I really, really want to stay in bed an extra hour or two. Or five.
This morning, I thought, would be different because Elvis and the baby were already awake and I wasn’t going to be able to sleep in anyway, so the O Bitter Irony! law of the universe would dictate that the schools be closed or at least delayed two hours just for the sake of Waste. Also, it was snowing. Actually snowing. But no, it was an early MLK Jr. Day miracle: the laws of Irony were suspended, and schools were open and operating on regular schedules. The buses, however, were on snow routes.
I have never really understood what snow bus routes were. I mean, presumably they were routes taken by buses in the event of snow, routes that differ from the standard, non-snow routes. What snow bus routes meant to me personally–that was that part that was unclear. Snow bus routes have been in effect in my district on several occasions since I’ve lived here, but never has my own child’s bus route or schedule been affected by “snow bus routes,” so what I was supposed to infer from this information, if anything, was always something of a mystery–one I occasionally pondered for a few seconds before shrugging my shoulders and saying, “Eh, whatever. Bus is here.”
Now that Princess Zurg is attending a school in a different part of the district–an area where the snow tends to be ever-so-slightly thicker than it is in our neighborhood, I wondered if “snow bus routes” might be relevant to my life for the first time. So I tried to figure out what they were and what possible impact they could have on my daughter’s transportation needs.
Here’s the thing about “snow bus routes”: they are, shall we say, an enigma. It’s like when I was in college and wanted to know what hush puppies were. I’d grown up on the west coast and the only hush puppies I knew about were shoes. The hush puppies in the South were food, and I just wanted to know what kind of food they were. Disturbingly, no one could really tell me. It was just taken for granted that they were edible. I eventually learned the truth about hush puppies–that they are not just for shoes anymore, but are actually quite tasty. If only I could say the same about snow bus routes. I found PDF files on the district website, detailing bus procedures and “Frequently Asked Questions” relating thereunto, including many references to “attached snow bus routes”–which were not “actually” attached, but presumably were meant to be attached at some point and simply forgotten by the person in charge of attaching them, who probably figured, “Eh, what’s the rush–it’s not like anybody doesn’t already know what the snow routes are. Psh!”
Meanwhile, I had a child to get ready for school–since they were, after all, still open–just in case the bus actually was coming to pick her up at the usual time. So I readied PZ for school, and we waited for the bus, since I had no way of knowing I should do otherwise.
I suspected, however, that I should be doing otherwise when it was 15 minutes past the hour and PZ’s bus was still nowhere in sight. I went back to the computer with the theory that by golly, snow bus routes are real, and the truth is out there. And I was right.
It took a while, but deep in the heart of a PDF transportation page was the information I was looking for: When buses are on snow routes, transportation to PZ’s school will not be provided in the morning. Brilliant. This policy is in effect for one other school in the district; it happens to be the other school that houses self-contained special education classrooms. So in other words, the two schools which have students coming from all over the district do not get bus transportation on snow route days, but other schools do. In other words, the special education student who receives services at her neighborhood school, who lives less than a mile from said school, will receive bus transportation; but the special education student who attends school several miles away will not. Well, that’s intuitive. Why didn’t I think of that before?
So I had to load all the kids in the car–fortunately they were all awake already, laws of Irony being repealed and all–and drive PZ to school, about 20 minutes late. Fortunately, everyone at her school was late because the advent of snow actually makes a real difference in transportation issues in that part of town. Upon further reflection, this snow-route policy does make some sense to me–kind of–but I still find it a tad strange to concentrate transportation resources in areas where there is the least need. It’s times like these that I have to be grateful for the fact that I a) have a car to drive my child to school in and b) don’t have, say, a job that I need to go to, even when there’s a half an inch of snow on the ground.
I can’t believe I wrote a thousand words on this. It’s time to make macaroni and cheese because afternoon kindergarten bus routes remain in effect.
So I read in the Oregonian this morning about people who live barefoot. As in, they never wear shoes. Because shoes are for chumps, man! Shoes make you weak! Cats and dogs don't need shoes. Aborigines don't need shoes, for that matter. Going barefoot makes your feet strong and prevents a host of podiatric problems. It makes sense, you know. I mean, in other cultures people do go barefoot, and they seem to do just fine. And if God intended us to wear high heels, wouldn't he have given us pointier feet? It stands to reason.
Personally, I like shoes. I like to wear shoes. Shoes make me feel like I'm ready for business. (I don't accept the Fly Lady's Shiny Sink philosophy, but I do buy into her shoe theory.) I also like that shoes keep my feet warm and prevent me from getting glass embedded in my skin or dog feces between my toes. Every so often I think it will be a good idea to go barefoot, but I almost always regret it. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to walk on my own kitchen floor without shoes, but that's a whole other blog.
The thing that impresses me is that all these cats in the Oregonian story were Portlanders. Going barefoot full-time is pretty impressive, but especially in a place where it rains nine months out of the year. I really just don't imagine I'd enjoy walking on wet sidewalks, especially the ones that had worms on them. Plus, there's the mud. My feet don't like to touch mud. Especially the kind that has dog feces in it. So I don't think I'm cut out for the barefoot lifestyle. Which is a shame, because I have really attractive feet. (Really. Everyone says so.)
The upside to going without shoes is that I would be much less frustrated by shoe-shopping. Because, you know, I wouldn't be doing it. I like shoes (am I not a woman?), but I don't like most of the shoes they make for women with large feet. (I said they were attractive; I never claimed they were petite.) My feet aren't monstrously huge–after four children, I wear a 9 1/2. I don't need a 9 1/2W. But it seems like all the cute shoes stop at around size 7. It's like the footwear industry is telling all us big-footed women that we don't deserve to feel pretty. Either that or it's some misguided empowerment thing, like I'm supposed to embrace my feet's bigness by strapping two Buicks to the ends of my legs. I don't know. I just know that when I see my size 6-footed friends, I have shoe envy. Shoe covetousness, really, because I know my own feet will never experience that degree of glamour. And that's not right.
So Dr. Scholls makes a shoe insert for high heels now–which strikes me as being a little like Pope Benedict approving the use of condoms, but hey, maybe the Apocalypse is coming–and the commercial says, "High heels have always driven men crazy." And I turned to my husband and said, "Is that true, Sugar Daddy? Do high heels drive you crazy?"
"It drives me crazy that women wear them," he said.
Which makes sense because SD is only 5' 6", and what 5' 6" cat wants to stand next to a woman on stilts? Not SD, apparently.
It's funny that I should have ended up marrying SD because I'm 5' 7" and I've always admired tall men. (I actually had tall-man envy for most of my man-admiring life because it seems like the taller men are, the shorter they like their women. Has anyone else noticed this? What gives?) Before I dated SD I wore high heels much of the time. I hated–and I still pretty much hate–the way my feet look in flats, which is…big. And so SD seemed even shorter than he really was, and the idea that I was actually becoming infatuated with a short guy was relatively horrifying. I didn't want to have to stoop to kiss him or anything–unlike most tall men, apparently, I don't get turned on by back strain. Well, of course, SD isn't that much shorter than me, when I'm wearing sensible shoes, and I'm actually glad now that I didn't marry a very tall man because unlike those 4' 11" gals who nab all the basketball players, I don't get turned on by neck strain either.
Yes, it's all worked out for the best, I suppose. Except that I have a serious lack of cute shoes. And my kitchen floor is too disgusting to walk barefoot on. But that's another blog.
Speaking of crap I read in the newspaper, I remember when I was low-person on the totem pole at my old newspaper, and one of my jobs was to format the comics pages. (Yes, I was the one who shrunk them so small you could hardly read them. Blame me, the little person. The little person with big feet and ugly shoes.) Anyway, this meant I got to read the comics about six weeks in advance. One morning I was reading the new batch of "For Better or for Worse," when all of a sudden I exclaimed, "Holy crap, she's going to kill Grandma!" It was then that I realized that I really don't like "For Better or for Worse," but it's like some crazy soap opera I can't stop watching. Why do I keep reading it? Why? Why?
So I was reading it this morning, and apparently Anthony's wife has left him. Left him with the baby, no less, the b-word. And all I can think is, Anthony's new availability better not lead to Elizabeth dumping Paul, because I will not stand for that. If Elizabeth dumps Paul, I swear–I swear–I will have to…do something. Something that doesn't involve me not reading the strip anymore because obviously that's impossible. I will just have to write a nasty letter to Lynn Johnston and tell her that she's at least got to shave that cheesy mustache off of Anthony because it's bugging me. And that I still remember what she did to Grandma. That'll be…real cathartic.
So my tap class is tonight. Another thing you can't do barefoot is tap dance. In my opinion, this may in fact be what separates us from the animals. A million years ago Thor or whoever crawled out of the primordial ooze, put chunks of metal on his feet and started doing the shim-sham, and the rest is evolutionary history. Or, from a Biblical perspective, if God didn't want us to tap dance, why did He make the shoes so cute? I do not know. I do know that I have a recital this term, so I will have to go practice now. Gentle readers, adieu.
So last night I started my tap class again. I was a few minutes late because–oh, who cares, I'm always late for everything, does it even matter why anymore? So I was a few minutes late, which was okay, because it was the first class of the term and nothing gets done in the first few minutes anyway, so as I'm walking in my instructor says, "Hi! I'm so glad to see you back."
"I'm glad to be back," I say. "It means I'm no longer pregnant."
You'll be glad to know, kids, that my five-month vacation from tapping has had no adverse effects on my dancing abilities. It's like riding a bicycle. I tap dance just as crappy now as I did in August, when I had a fetus bouncing on my bladder with every shuffle. At least back then I had an excuse. Oh, well. I had a great time anyway. The only sad part was that none of my friends is in this class anymore. They've all moved up to Tap II. (La-di-da!) I feel like the dumb kid left back in school, bigger than all the other students and still can't get any of the steps right. Okay, so I don't exactly suck that much. After a year and a half of this class, I think I am finally the second-least bad tapper in the bunch. 2006 is going to be my year, kids. I can feel it.
Actually, I was a little melancholy last night. I think that during the day when I'm hanging out with the kids, nursing a baby, emptying the dishwasher, sorting the laundry, herding people into the car, and wondering why I still take the paper when I haven't had time to read it in the last five days, I am mercifully distracted from the fact that I'm getting nowhere in life. You know, if there's anything that's been done to death in the world at large and in this blog in particular, it's the whole I'm-at-home-with-my-kids-all-day-and-I-have-no-time-for-myself shtick. This is when my better half steps in and says, "Shut up! If you wanted to spend your days engaged in rewarding intellectual pursuits and reading Dear Abby, you should have stayed single and went back to graduate school. You're pathetic! Stop whining! You're not fit to wear the uniform! etc." I really don't want to be this person. I was on the phone with another friend who's going through a case of the blahs–doesn't want to get out of bed, go anywhere, do anything–because, really, what is there to do? What difference does it make? I told her she was suffering from post-partum depression. "Really?" she says. "But I'm medicated. Doesn't that mean I get to skip this part?"
Eh, technically, no.
Her recurring theme during this conversation was the same sort of self-flaggelation I engage in when I start feeling sorry for myself. "I feel so lame," she said. "Why am I so lame? I didn't used to be lame. I used to be cool. Why can't I stop being lame?" Then she told me how her husband told her that he didn't think she was happy staying at home with the kids and maybe she should consider going back to work. But she wasn't sure if she really wanted to do that.
"You don't want to do that," I said. (Not because I'm all-knowing, but I know her and I know she doesn't want to do that.) And then, because I'm so much wiser for other people than I am for myself, I said, "If you're not happy at home, you're not going to be happy at work. We always worry that there's one correct choice we can make, and that choice is what will make us happy, but that isn't the way it works at all. We can't make choices that way. You have to make the choice you can live with, and you make it work. If you're going to be happy, it doesn't really matter where you end up doing it."
"I guess you're right," she said.
Of course I'm right. I believe all the crap I say. I just don't follow my own advice. I've never seriously considered going back to work myself, but at home I find that I'm constantly, desperately searching for a life strategy that will remove the bulk of the drudgery in my day-to-day existence and allow more enjoyment of my children and my own interests. I think if I can get everyone to hang up their towels and put away their own laundry, I will have time to be happy. If I only had enough storage containers and and an organized spice cabinet, I could be happy. When I can stop getting someone juice every five minutes, I will be happy. How do I stop getting people juice? This is the central question of my life. I know so many people in my same situation who say, well, you know, there are seasons to life, and this is your season to be with your kids and get them juice. But I don't accept that. I don't accept that the time to live the life you want is always in the next season. I'm a carpe-diem type of soul. You know, a carpe-diem soul trapped in a quiet-desperation type of body. Who blogs too much and lives too little.
Who's so freaking corny today that she makes herself want to throw up.
I used to belong to an online support group for mothers who write, and one time there was a thread on the fear of success. You know, how the fear of success paralyzes us and keeps us from becoming all that we can. Everyone kept responding, "Oh, yes, I see how I totally fear success," and people would reference that inspirational message by Marianne Williamson that's always misattributed to Nelson Mandela, about how we're all too timid to be brilliant, but who are we not to be, blah blah–and I finally couldn't stand it anymore and I tapped out, "Am I really the only person here who actually fears failure?"
I don't need some convoluted explanation for why I don't take risks or don't take action period. I don't think I'm in denial when I say, with all sincerity, that I have no fear of success. I laugh in the face of success. Success can just wait in the dark alleys and hide under my bed all it wants, it doesn't scare me. Failure scares me. Failure is what starts giving me the creeps every time I return to the piece I've been working on for the last year–or the one I started on three and a half years ago–and am nowhere near finishing. Success isn't what's lurking in the darkest corners of my personal ambitions. Success doesn't say stuff like, "Face it, Mad. You are really not brilliant. You are one of those people who showed promise when she was young but has never lived up to her apparent potential. Sucks to be only theoretically brilliant, doesn't it? Well, get used to it." If success is trying to be some bogeyman out to get me, it's really not very good at it. It could take some pointers from failure. Failure knows what it's doing. It's been well-trained.
Well, that's enough crap writing for one day. I'm off to unload the dishwasher because I'm finished with nursing the baby. Yes, I was nursing a baby the whole time I was typing this. If only I would channel these abilities toward something productive, maybe then I would be happy.
You know what I hate doing? Licking envelopes. It isn't the taste I mind so much as the fact that it dries out my tongue. I don't like having my tongue dried out. Also, I'm always afraid I'm going to get a paper cut. I don't think I ever have, but man, I'd hate it if I did. My mother used to work with this German guy who'd come into her office while she was paying the bills and tell her that she shouldn't lick the envelopes, she must never lick the envelopes, if she only knew what he knew she would never lick another envelope again as long as she lived. I'm not sure what his being German has to do with the story, except that it sounds more compelling if you can imagine his accent. Maybe you can't. I've often wondered what he knew about envelope adhesive.
I started out the new year right by using up my brown bananas before they became brown, moldy bananas. I made some of my patented orange-banana-oatmeal muffins (okay, they're not patented, they're patent-pending), but unfortunately with all of the child-originating interruptions, I neglected to put in both the oil and the sugar. The good news is that without oil and sugar, muffins aren't that bad for you. The bad news, of course, is that they taste like hell. The good news is that I melted some chocolate chips on them and they tasted good again. The bad news is that no one in my family eats baked goods but me, so I've been popping chocolate-covered, no-longer-not-bad-for-you orange-banana-oatmeal muffins like they're Zoloft. Unlike Zoloft, they are not low-calorie. ("But it comes with a free frozen yogurt!" "That's good!" "The yogurt is cursed." "That's bad." "But it comes with your choice of free toppings!" "That's good!" "The toppings are also cursed. …….. That's bad." "Can I go now?" 
For those of you who may have missed my first blog o' 2005 or who have better things to do with your brains than remember my blathering from a year ago, I shall do a brief recap.
Last year, on "I am the Giraffe"…
——————————————————————————–
MAD'S NOT-AS-WELL-LAID PLAN FOR 2005
1. Toilet train Mister Bubby.
2. Become comfortable with power tools so I can install my Tot Loks™.
3. Hang up my pictures.
4. Start exercising again.
5. Clean my bathroom.
——————————————————————————–
This year, on "I am the Giraffe"…
So here we are, 2006, and all I can say is, two and a half out of five isn't bad. (Can I count cleaning my bathroom more than once? Because I did. It was a better-than-average year.) Obviously I should have written something more along the lines of "Give birth to yet another unreasonably attractive child," but I wasn't that forward-thinking in those days. (I'm definitely not that forward-thinking now.) Or, alternatively, I could have written, "Gain 45 pounds so I never have to wear anything but maternity clothes again as long as I live," but even I am not that desperate for a success story. I certainly can't make that goal for this year because I'd have to buy a whole other maternity wardrobe to accommodate myself. On the plus side, the baby really is cute.
So ordinarily I don't fret so much about the caloric value of things–actually, I find that pastime so very, very dull, and highly annoying coming from anyone but me–but this year I've set myself the very, very dull goal of losing my baby weight. Make that my Excess Pregnancy Weight, since I've already gone on the Lose Ten Pounds Overnight By Giving Birth Diet, and that's done me about as much good as it's ever going to. I start my tap class again two weeks from now, which ought to help, but I should also probably work in some other form of aerobic activity, since "Stop eating like a professional wrestler" isn't likely to escape the ash-bin of Mad's Even-Less Well-Laid Plan for 2006. (Next year, on "I am the Fat Giraffe"…)
Unfortunately, the yogurt is also cursed. The best time for me to exercise is first thing in the morning before the kids wake up. Back when I still exercised, I used to actually do this. Daily, in fact. What I found, though, is that no matter how early I got up, at least one of the kids would adapt to my new schedule and wake up about five minutes into my workout. I got very little sleep trying to outsmart them, and immune system went to hell. Which is why I didn't bother with exercise for the next two-and-a-half years–during which, I should point out, my immune systen has been markedly more robust. (COINCIDENCE??? Probably, but I've enjoyed the extra sleep all the same.)
So I know I'm not going to get up at 5 a.m. for anything these days, unless maybe it's a fire. So I have to get creative. Or, alternatively, stop being lazy. Either is a daunting task. Which is why I'm going to finally hang up my pictures this year, just so I leave something off my Things To Do in 2007 list. Oh, and clean my bathroom again. Whether it needs it or not.
There's a friend I haven't spoken to in almost two years because I decided at a certain point that our relationship wasn't worth the effort I was putting into it. She lives across the river, but it may as well be another country. She called this morning because she needed to tell me that a mutual friend of ours has lost her three-year-old daughter. I just talked to the mutual friend on Monday, and I knew they were expecting this to happen. It was one of those situations where you just don't know what to hope for. The little girl was so sick, had always been sick, would always be sick, and release from her suffering would only be found in death, and that's not something I know how to pray for. I suppose that what small part of me dared to hope was hoping for a miracle. I remember hoping that way when my mother was dying–I hoped, but I knew it wasn't forthcoming. I had to make do with the peace of knowing that she was in a better place, as the cliche goes. It's one thing to lose a parent, but another thing entirely, I think, to lose a child. As a daughter and a mother, I wouldn't begin to compare the two.
The mother in this case was not in a position psychologically or emotionally to make this phone call, so she asked my other friend to do it–the one I haven't spoken to in two years because I decided I just didn't like her that much anymore. It was sort of an awkward conversation, initially, if only because there isn't a whole lot to say when someone dies. At one point she said, "I think I was out of sorts the last time I saw you. I'm sorry about that."
"Well," I said lamely, "we're all out of sorts sometimes."
"But I think I wasn't very nice. Actually, I know I was not nice. So I apologize."
I've forgotten how I responded because I can only remember having absolutely no idea how to respond. What could I say? The fact was, she hadn't been nice. That was why I never called her after that. But I was also thinking, how small and petty I have been, and it's only just now that I can see it. Would she ever have realized where she was in the wrong, if I hadn't given her the silent treatment all that time? Maybe not, but it doesn't seem important now. It seems disgustingly unimportant. And I'm twice sad because I'm sure I never would have spoken to her again if she hadn't been charged to deliver this awful news.
This isn't about me, though. I haven't lost a baby. I haven't even lost a friend.
So as another year goes down the tubes, I am inspired to look up my goals for 2005 and see if I actually managed to meet any of them. I was smart this year, as you might recall (if you have nothing better to do with your brain than remember a blog I wrote 11 months ago), and tried to keep things simple. Here were my resolutions:
1. Toilet train Mister Bubby.
2. Become comfortable with power tools so I can install my Tot Loks™.
3. Hang up my pictures.
4. Start exercising again.
5. Clean my bathroom.
So here we are, almost to 2006, and all I can say is, two and a half out of five isn't bad. (Can I count cleaning my bathroom more than once? Because I did. It was a better-than-average year.) Obviously I should have written something more along the lines of "Give birth to yet another unreasonably attractive child," but I wasn't that forward-thinking in those days. (I'm definitely not that forward-thinking now.) Or, alternatively, I could have written, "Gain 45 pounds so I never have to wear anything but maternity clothes again as long as I live," but even I am not that desperate for a success story. I certainly can't make that goal for this year because I'd have to buy a whole other maternity wardrobe to accommodate myself. On the plus side, the baby really is cute.
1. Coding by hand. No offense, Scott, but being a nerd is overrated. I must be cooler than people think I am, including myself.
2. If my butt gets any bigger with this pregnancy, I'm going to need a new maternity wardrobe, which isn't a fun investment when you're pretty effing sure you're never going to get pregnant again if you can possibly help it.
3. Shedd's Spread Country Crock. I like one type of spread margarine and one type only: Gold 'n Soft. Unfortunately, we ran out of it, and when Sugar Daddy went to Albertson's, he balked at paying 40 cents more for it than he's used to paying, and he came home with this 48% vegetable oil crap instead. Gold 'n Soft, by contrast, is 85% vegetable oil. Does that make it higher in fat? Of course! But it also makes it higher in good. And it doesn't soggify my toast on contact, either. And before you go making connections between this and #2, smartypants, I'll have you know it's my Cheetos habit that's expanding my butt, not my margarine. Don't be dissing my margarine, people. I'm pregnant and I'm fat and I'm not in the mood.
4. Mister Bubby's encopresis. Toilet training is so not the issue anymore. This is a blog unto itself, which I will spare you for now, but only because I'm feeling a bit queasy myself.
5. Poop jokes. They just aren't as funny as they used to be.
Yesterday I saw my psychiatrist for the first time since I found out I was pregnant. I've been staying on my Zoloft because, well, I just won't go off it. Ever. Again. But I had been feeling depressed for several weeks and wondered if I needed an adjustment in the dose. Of course, I also thought that I was pregnant, tired and puking a lot and who wouldn't be depressed under those circumstances? But now that I'm feeling better on the puking front, even though I'm still tired, I do feel less than the happy-fun pumped-with-Zoloft gal that I usually am. My doctor theorized that my liver may be working too efficiently to get the full benefit of the medication. However, there's not a lot of room for tinkering. So as of today, I am maxed out on Zoloft and hoping it does the trick.
One of my least favorite expressions in the English language is "have a good cry." I hate crying. It makes my face all red and puffy, my nose all stuffed up, and it gives me a splitting headache on top of everything. On the other hand, I do feel considerable psychological relief afterwards. So last night, quite against my will, in the middle of watching Danger Mouse, I had an annoying-but-cathartic cry. And I feel better now. Sort of. I've relieved enough stress so that I can comfortably repress all my negative feelings again.
My stepmother has told me that there's some hormone or something that your body has to release to relieve stress, and women do it by crying and men do it by getting into fistfights. Ordinarily I shun violence, but I must say that a fistfight sounds like it wouldn't aggravate the post-nasal drip, which is a significant consideration for me these days.
We have had the final IEP meeting of the year for Princess Zurg, and once again we are getting pressure to place her in the district's autism classroom. I was much more open to that option this year than I was last year, if only because I'm sick and tired of hearing about how mainstreaming isn't working. Unfortunately, Sugar Daddy and I have concluded that the autism classroom wouldn't work so well either. Which means that I've run out of ideas for the education of my daughter. Her current teacher keeps talking about the "small window of opportunity" for teaching her the necessary skills for school success, and frankly, that gets on my nerves a little. I mean, she may be right, but she isn't making my decision easier. Especially since I'm not doing what she thinks I should be doing, which is putting my kid on the special ed track. They talk a lot about weaning my daughter off her various school-setting supports and about using the self-contained classroom to develop the skills necessary for eventual mainstreaming, but SD asked about an exit-from-special-ed strategy and nobody had one. That lessened my confidence in the program considerably.
I'm so glad summer is almost here and I can stick my head in the sand for another three months.
I think Elvis has an ear infection. He's supposed to have his well-child visit on Thursday. How ironic. (In the Alanis Morissette sense, I mean. What was up with that song, anyway? It's like rain when you didn't want it to rain. It's a free ride that wasn't really free. It's the good advice that you didn't think was very good at the time–and isn't that a helluva coincidence? Kinda like your kid getting an ear infection when he's scheduled to show off his wellness.)
I digress.
So I watched the final hour of that Mork & Mindy Behind the Camera thing whilst I folded laundry. I have to say, I'm really glad all these obscure celebrity look-alikes are getting work these days. The cat who played Garry
Marshall was a real pip. And that Chris Diamantopoulos did a really good Robin Williams impersonation. I don't know how great his acting was, but then, I'm not sure how good Robin Williams' acting is. (No offense to him. I just really have no opinion on the subject. Never saw Good Will Hunting either, kids. Sorry.)
So this is what I've been reduced to. Watching cheesy TV movies telling the unauthorized story of old cheesy TV shows. It's ironic, because I know how to read.
It's a traffic jam at a really inconvenient timeIt's a no-smoking sign when you'd really rather smokeIt's like 10,000 spoons, when a spoon isn't what you want at allIt's like meeting the man of your dreams, but unfortunately he isn't availableAnd isn't it ironic…that I don't understand what irony is…
Okay, it's officially tomorrow. Tomorrow I am going to do something with my life. Like take a shower. Maybe comb my hair.
Why do they bother giving cordless phone pager functions if they're just going to quit after three meek little chirps? I need a sustained, obnoxious alarm that doesn't shut off until I've found the *#$(#*&#$*()#$ thing.
I need to get pagers for my car keys and my DVD remote, too. None of that cheap clapping and whistling crap, either. I'm talking state-of-the-art technology. I just have to wait until the credit card lapses.
We wouldn't have so much trouble with the DVD remote if it weren't for the fact that a) our sofa has a black-hole feature that traps articles as big as breadboxes in the bottom-side upholstery, and b) I have difficulty seeing crap if it's directly in front of my face. It's (b) that really gets on my nerves.
The really stressful thing about losing my minivan key is that it's the only one I have. It's one of those "smart" keys (I guess–not the first word that pops into my mind when I think of it, but to each his own) that has some kind of computer chip in it, and if you want to get a copy of it you have to make an appointment with the dealer and pay $80, or something. Not that it hasn't been worth $80 a thousand times over since I first acquired the slippery little b******, but I can't even get the effing dealer on the phone anymore. Why in freaking hell would you sell someone a car with only one key and not mention, "Oh, by the way, if you want another one of those, you better get it made now before we have our numbers changed and move our operation to
Hong Kong." They could easily have charged me more than $80 to avoid the heartbreak and brain damage I would certainly have foreseen had I been properly informed from the outset.
And as a matter of fact, yes, absolutely everything that's wrong in my life IS somebody else's fault.
Sorry to be so crabby today. I'll make up for it with a public service announcement. If you're going to call somebody you don't actually know and tell her, after she's run down all those stairs wrestled her 23-month-old to the ground so she can get her hands on a phone that's actually plugged in, that you're actually trying to reach her neighbor–who you know she's not but you think she might be able to help you anyway–don't just sit there on the phone saying nothing as if she's supposed to instinctively know what it is you, the person who called, want from her, the person who doesn't know you and doesn't know where her neighbor is, either. And definitely don't tell her that she's breaking up. You don't know the half of it, pal.
Tot-Loks Starter Set: $16.95
Power Drill: $39.99
Ear plugs to protect your children from incidental profanity: $2.99
Not having to jump up every five minutes to stop your 21-month-old from pulling a knife on someone or throwing your rice cooker around the room like a bouncy ball: Priceless
********************************************
Speaking of prices, my therapist gave Sugar Daddy and me a "budgeting your values" exercise. The deal is, you have $2,000 to spend on a list of thirty-four "items" that you can buy. Spend all $2,000, but only allocate money for those items you really want to have. Obviously this little quiz was developed several years ago because a) it came on a sheet of paper that appeared to have come out of a mimeograph machine, b) $2,000 won't buy you much of anything in today's world, even value-wise, and c) check out item number 33–it's sure to make you snicker. But let's be mature and just try to go with the original spirit of the thing as best we can. Here are the items:
1. A chance to ride the world of prejudice
2. A chance to serve the sick and needy
3. A guarantee to become a famous figure
4. A proposal that will triple your company's earnings
5. A daily massage–and the world's finest cuisine from the world's best chef
6. Perfect insight into the meaning of life
7. A vaccine to make all persons incapable of lying
8. A chance to set your own working conditions
9. To be the richest person in the world
10. The Presidency
11. The perfect love affair
12. A house overlooking the most beautiful view in the world with your favorite works of art
13. To be the most attractive person in the world
14. To live to 100 years old with no illness
15. Free psychoanalysis, with a genius analyst
16. The most complete library of great books for your own private use
17. Harmony with God–doing God's work
18. A way to rid the world of unfairness
19. The resources to donate 1 million ounces of gold to your favorite charity
20. To be voted Outstanding Person of the Year and praised in every newspaper in the world
21. To master the profession of your choice
22. Time with nothing to do but enjoy yourself–with all needs and desires automatically met
23. To be the wisest person in the world
24. A scheme to sneak "authenticity serum" into every water supply in the world
25. A way to do your own thing–without hassling
26. A large room full of silver dollars
27. The opportunity to control the destinies of 500,000 people
28. The love and admiration of the whole world
29. Unlimited travel and tickets to attend any concert, play, opera, or ballet
30. A total make-over and new hairstyle
31. Membership in a great health club
32. Anti-hangup pill
33. Your own computer for any facts you need
34. Unlimited time to spend with the greatest religious figure of your faith–past or present
I'll give you all a few minutes to ponder your options.
[Playing Muzak version of "How Deep Is Your Love"]
Okay, my turn again. I looked at this list and right away found several things I could spend $0 on. For example, the Presidency–no offense to it, but I'm just not interested. Even if you paid me–which, of course, they do, but that's beside the point because I don't want it. Now, the opportunity to hand-pick who will be president for the rest of my life–that would be worth at least $2,000; but that's not one of my options, so I won't waste time yapping about it. As for living to 100–eh, not interested. I mean, to live to any age without illness would be pretty great, I think. To live through February without illness would be an achievement in my house. But do bad knees count as an illness? Could I still tap dance when I was 97? Let's say bad knees and broken hips are included under illness. I'm still not interested. I just don't thinkt here's anything magic about the number 100. I mean, what's the point? Living to meet your great-grandchildren? To see what kind of sweet inventions they come up with? To be frustrated by all these new-fangled gizmos that you can't get the hang of? Does crotchetiness count as an illness? I don't know; I don't have a lot of existential angst about death. Once I've reached the great beyond, I doubt I'll be doing much complaining. ("Crap! Now I'll never find out if there will be peace in the
Middle East.") Unless I'm in hell. A guarantee that I wouldn't end up in hell would be worth a lot of money, but again, ti's not one of my options, so–whatever.
My big obstacle, of course, is that I tend to view these things with my Monkey's Paw eye. No such thing as a free lunch and all that. Everything comes with a catch. You win the Presidency only to have a bloody revolution overthrow your government and burn you and your staff alive in the streets. That's no good. You become the wisest person in the world, only to be driven crazy by how stupid everyone else is. (I already have that problem to a certain extent–why would I want it to get worse?) There was that Twilight Zone episode where a hack writer wished to be the greatest writer in history, so he woke up one day, and he was the greatest writer in history, only he hadn't gotten any better; everyone else was just worse. Horrifying. See, it's all about how you phrase things. Too semantically dicy, if you ask me.Still, let's say I'm just being paranoid. I can take all of this at face value and don't have to worry about any monkey paws attached. I'm not interested in being famous. The paparazzi would just always be taking pictures of me in a bathing suit and running close-ups of my cellulite on the cover of Star. I don't want the love and admiration of the whole world–seems kind of excessive to me, since I can't possibly interact with everyone in the whole world, so what do I care if some random penguin in
Antarctica loves me or not? I don't want to be Person of the Year because those awards are so subjective and lame. As for the anti-hangup pill, is it good for all hangups, or just one? Would I recognize myself without my hangups? Can I share my prescription with others, and if not, what's the use? I don't want to be the most attractive person in the world, either, because I would inevitably get so full of myself. (Plus, if this turns out to be a Monkey's Paw deal, things could really get ugly. I don't want that, either.)
People tend to think it's gauche or shallow to want a lot of money, but the fact is, if I had enough money, I could afford most of the other things on this list. A room full of silver dollars would buy a lot of makeovers and health memberships, not to mention a lot of psychoanalysis, which I'd certainly need. And assuming this is a monkey-free deal, being the richest person in the world would certainly have its advantages. That person would definitely have her own library and a way to do her own thing without any hassles; she could also afford a really nice house and some art and ballet tickets and junk. Heck, if I were still a leftist I'd say she could even buy herself a few Presidents, if you catch my meaning. But since I'm an extreme right-winger now, I'll just point out that tons of money could serve a lot of sick and needy–a million ounces of gold many times over, for all kinds of charities, not one. (And Jenn could finally get her cabana boy.)Yes, I would like to have a lot of money. It doesn't buy happiness, you know, but it does buy a lot of other cool stuff–like time. Oh, to be able to buy myself all the time I needed. It buys other cool stuff, like food to feed starving people; vaccines for whole continents; decent paychecks for teachers; housekeepers for mothers of young children. Heck, if I could buy myself a daily massage, a personal chef, and a housekeeper, I'm positive that I would become a much better person. The whole world would love and admire me–not that I care about that.
Which leaves us with these intangible items. I don't want an anti-lying vaccine. Lying can be important sometimes. Lying gets a bad rap, in my opinion. Forget about sparing the feelings of someone who wants to know if this dress makes her look fat. You couldn't have saved many Jews during the Holocaust without a little lying. Usually, a lot of lying was required. Yeah, I'm a real situational ethics-type when it comes to lying. Which brings me to the "authenticity serum"–what the hell does that even mean? I don't know what to do with that, but if it means I can't fake stuff anymore, forget about it.
I jokingly told SD that if I rid the world of unfairness, I could have everything I wanted–because I really don't want more than my fair share, honest. (He was skeptical, of course. Hmph.) But I thought that if the world were fair, that would more or less take away the problem of prejudice, since no one would have to suffer because of another person's bigotry or narrow-mindedness. But I got to thinking about what the world would be like with no unfairness. It would, more or less, be heaven. Wouldn't it? It would definitely be like nothing we humans have ever known. No cancer. No tsunamis. No genocide. No poverty. Life is, pretty much by definition, unfair. Which is where a perfect insight into the meaning of life would sure come in handy.
So there's item #34–unlimited time to spend with the greatest religious figure of my faith. In my case, that would be Jesus. My first though, being the way I am, is that once I end up in heaven, assuming I do and I don't want to assume otherwise (shudder), I can pretty much see Jesus whenever I want. Why be impatient? Unless I don't think I can get to heaven unless I see Jesus right now, in which case, what's the point? I mean, really. To know the mind of God–well, that would be convenient, but so far I've gotten the impression that God wants us to figure out His mind on our own, and if He hasn't revealed Himself properly through the usual channels, He may not be that forthcoming in person, either. Certainly not for $2,000. At least that's my suspicion. And if I did know the mind of God, what then?It brings me back to the fairness issue. Years ago, when my father was laid off from his job, his soon-to-be ex-employer held a seminar on dealing with the stress of unemployment, which my dad figured was kind of a nice gesture. Anyway, my father walked into the seminar, and written on the chalkboard at the front of the room was this sentence: The world is not a fair place; it's just a place. Dad, old block of my chip that he is, immediately thought, "Well, that's helpful." (In case you couldn't tell, he was being sarcastic.) But over time he discovered that this saying really was helpful because it forced him to stop feeling sorry for himself and just deal with what fate had handed him. Of course the world isn't a fair place; it never has been. It doesn't mean it's a bad place; it just is what it is. I know, I'm oozing profundity today, but try to keep up with me. What I mean is that, for me, I have a hard time seeing what a perfect, fair existence would be like. It's a common problem among us mortals; we bemoan how unfair everything is–and it is–but that's the nature of our existence here, is it not? If life were fair, everyone would have enough to eat and we could all go see plays and operas and have time to write our books, but what on earth would they be about?
I'm not saying a world without unfairness would be bad–I mean, I hope not. I pray for an end to suffering and,as a Christian, for the coming of God's kingdom–however you want to put it–but to rid the world of unfairness would be to transform it into something new entirely. It's what we want, but it would basically constitute a rejection of the mortal experience. "No, thanks, I'll skip this part and go straight for the eternal joy." Does it work that way? Can it?
So I guess I've effectively taken all the fun out of this values budget. I've even managed to put a monkey's paw spin on a perfect world. I'm really a piece of work, aren't I? Well, it leaves me with what I think I'll blow my $2,000 on: #11–the perfect love affair. With all due respect to the semantic can of worms perfect opens, I think that's going to get me the most bang for my values buck, if you'll pardon the expression. Love covers a multitude of demerits in life. You can get through most everything with it and not much without it. And as long as I haven't fallen in love with a monkey, I think it's the investment least likely to backfire on me.
Because for one thing, it would definitely include a daily massage and free housekeeping.
So thanks to the Safeway muzac, I now have Bread's "Lost without Your Love" on my mind. The only thing more embarrassing than finding yourself singing lines like "I'm as helpless as a ship without a wheel/a touch without a feel" is admitting that you're old and dorky enough to know what the freak Bread is.
Also, thanks to Safeway and their inferior deli department, I have to make a salad for 10 for my ladies' auxiliary meeting tonight. Ordinarily I am not the type of person who volunteers to bring a salad and gets too lazy to make it herself and ends up buying it at the Safeway Inferior Deli. It's not that I'm not ordinarily lazy, but I still have some of that starving-student mentality in me which says, "Buy something at the freaking deli? What, do you think we're made of money?" But I'm having a rough day, and I figured, hey, I'm a spoiled, pretentious, upper-middle class lady now, I can do spoiled, pretentious, upper-middle class lady stuff like be too good to make my own salad for a freaking pot luck.
But alas, despite their recent remodeling and expansion of the natural foods section, the Safeway deli still does not cater to people like myself–because they had absolutely nothing that a spoiled, pretentious, upper-middle class lady would be caught dead bringing to a ladies' auxiliary meeting. 'Twas not meant to be. I think in part my fate was sealed when I chose to leave the house without having showered and wearing a navy bandana wrapped around my head. That's not what upper-middle class ladies of any stripe do.
It