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Did you ever have a dream you were ashamed to talk about?
I’ve had some pretty wigged-out dreams in my day. Or rather, my night. I don’t often dream when I sleep during the day. Hey, science people–does dreamless sleep mean you’re sleeping deeply? I have a lot of deep-feeling sleep during the day. You know, when I sleep during the day. Not like I habitually sleep during the day, though I wouldn’t have a problem admitting it if I did–because sleeping isn’t shameful; it’s the dreams that weird other folks out.
My husband and I often share our dreams. Not in the aspirations sense–outside of taking our meals out, we don’t have that many common goals–but in the REM-sense. He’s shared some dreams with me that I kind of wish he hadn’t. I’ve also shared some dreams with him that I kind of wish I hadn’t. Like that dream I had shortly after we got married, where I dreamed that he was pimping me out to a mutual acquaintance of ours. To make matters worse, it was a mutual acquaintance that I really didn’t care for, but that’s actually beside the point. In the dream, the mutual acquaintance was all, “Dude, I really appreciate this,” and I was like, “Hey, I’m really not comfortable with this AT ALL,” and my husband was like, “What’s your problem?”
Anyway, I don’t know why I would have dreamed something like this…well, no, on second thought, I have an idea…but don’t worry, I won’t share it with you. Why not? Because my husband reads this blog, and if this experience of dream-sharing has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t share sensitive material with the husband. Because he’s spent the last eleven-plus years teasing me about having sex with this person that I wouldn’t have sex with if he were the last person on earth, that’s why!
Sex dreams don’t necessarily have sexual meaning, of course. At least that’s what I hope. I mean, how would it be if you had a dream that you were watching a TV show and the TV show was all about how Steve Sanders from 90210 had been reduced to making pornos? Wouldn’t that disturb you? It disturbs me. I mean, it would disturb me, if I were to have a dream like that, because no offense to Steve Sanders and his kinky-haired glory, but where the hell does that come from? I always thought that if I had a sex dream involving a 90210 character, Brenda would figure more prominently. I mean, not that I mean anything by that, but doesn’t it make sense?
Anyway. I had a dream once that I was married to Liam Neeson, but oddly, there was no sex in that dream. And by “oddly,” I think you know what I mean.
I’m just not saying.
Tell me about yourself.
Well, don’t tell me everything. Leave a little to the imagination. But tell me something. Tell me, um…three things. THE THREE MOST IMPORTANT THINGS ABOUT YOU.
Or, you know, the first three things that come to mind, which is what I’d do.
Have you ever seen that episode of Scrubs where Turk asks Carla what’s bothering her, and she peels back her scalp and there is a gushing forth of all her neurotic thoughts and obsessions? That’s what this blog is going to be like.
I am doubled over with guilt for the following reasons, in no particular order:
1. Last month I called Princess Zurg’s best friend’s stepmother to see if PZ’s best friend could come to PZ’s birthday party and found out that PZ’s best friend broke her leg in a really bad way over Spring Break and was totally bed/couch-ridden for the next couple weeks and still needed to have another surgery and was going to have limited mobility because of the whole crutches thing for however long it takes to recuperate from a broken leg that’s been broken that badly. So that’s why PZ didn’t have a birthday party this year, because if the best friend can’t come, what’s the point? And the reason I didn’t know about PZ’s best friend’s broken leg before this was because PZ’s best friend lives on the other side of town and her family doesn’t have a car, and so we don’t see her very often at all, especially not since PZ has been going to a different school for the last year. I can count on one hand–probably half of one hand–the number of times PZ has seen her best friend over the last year. That is the state of PZ’s social life. That I felt guilty enough about already, and I didn’t think it was possible to feel much guiltier, but I didn’t foresee the broken leg. When I heard about the broken leg, I felt just awful for PZ’s best friend, and I said I would certainly bring PZ over for a visit, soon. In fact, I penciled it into my calendar for that week. But it didn’t actually work out for that week, and I told myself I would have to pencil it in for some other day the following week, but you know what? I never picked up another pencil, and I never took PZ to see her best friend with the broken leg. It’s been a month. I could still take her–I still want to take her, or think I want to take her, or think I mean to take her, but I’m beginning to suspect that maybe I really don’t mean or want to take her and never actually did because if I really did, I would have done it by now, wouldn’t I have? The truth is that a best friend on the other side of town is much like a starving child in Africa to me, only without a convenient little intermediary organization like UNICEF that I can write a check to and thereby assuage my guilt. No, I have to actually block out some time in my schedule to actually visit the best friend on the other side of town myself, but that is too much work, and that is why I’m a terrible human being. Moving on!
2. Lest ye think the best friend with the broken leg is some kind of aberration in my ordinarily-chock-full-o’-thoughtfulness life, I also have an aunt who lives on the other side of Portland, whom I see about once a year. No, once a year is too generous. I see her about once every year and a half, usually when some other member of my family comes through Portland and says, “I should really see B. while I’m here,” and I say, “Oh yeah, that’d be good, I’ll go with you.” My aunt is getting on in years and is now in a nursing home. I don’t know exactly how long she’s been in the home because I didn’t realize she’d gone there until my older sister mentioned it to me one day. I know she’s only been in there sometime since last July because last July I went to see her in her house (not “the home”), but still, I haven’t been to see her in “the home” and don’t even know which home it is because I haven’t called any of my cousins to find out or get an address to send a frakking Christmas card, should I be so humanitarily inclined this year. I’ve lived a half-hour away from her for the last five years, and I just haven’t gone to see her because I haven’t wanted to think about what to do with the children or when would be a good time to go or calling on the phone and having a conversation–it’s all just been too much, darling, too much, because I’m a terrible human being. But wait! There’s more.
3. After the turbulent elementary school years with Princess Zurg, I have been so relieved and happy that Mister Bubby has done well in school and has never been a problem for anyone and always does his homework and has just generally let me send him off to school and not worry about him for six-and-a-half hours, five days a week. Then a few weeks ago I got a call from his best friend’s mother, who wanted to know if I was also concerned about the fact that our sons have learned exactly nothing new in school this year, that they are still doing the same crap they did in first grade, only with slightly different worksheets. That was the first time I ever really stopped to think about it and realized that actually, yes, now that you mention it, Mister Bubby has been complaining that school is boring and he already knows everything they’re teaching him and why can’t he just go to third grade, and yes, they do have an awful lot of worksheets, don’t they? What the hell is up with the worksheets? I don’t remember doing so many worksheets when I was in school. I guess they can’t afford books and slates anymore because they have to buy computers so our children can be competitive in the twenty-first century. And what are they using the computers for? Hell if I know. The last time I was involved in a child’s education, it was primarily for the purpose of figuring out how I could get myself less involved on a daily (sometimes hourly) basis. All I’ve ever really wanted was to send my kid off to school for six-and-a-half hours a day, five days a week, and not have to worry about anything beyond that. I don’t remember my parents being that involved in my education until I was in high school and the math got harder. I’m feeling a lot of resentment over the fact that I’m devoting all of May 29–paying a babysitter for six-and-a-half hours–to volunteering at the school for “Australia Day,” the annual second grade extravaganza. It’s not like I ever volunteer at the school if I can possibly help it, and usually I can help it quite a bit because our neighborhood school is overrun with parents who volunteer for everything. It’s a very competitive game–who will be the lucky soul who gets to chaperone the field trip to the rock museum???–and I’ve been quite content not to play it. They used to make me volunteer to chaperone field trips because PZ was supposedly so volatile that even being attended by her own freaking aide was not enough, no, she had to have parental supervision if they were going to take her off of school property, and so, yes, I was pleased as punch not to be doing that anymore–but now it’s freaking Australia Day and they need all the helping hands they can get and MB wants me there anyway because I never volunteer and possibly he’s afraid the other kids assume that his mom must be some kind of crack mom because she’s never seen on school property during school hours. And that’s how I got roped into being a group leader in the morning and running the flipping didgeridoo in afternoon, whatever the hell any of that means, I haven’t even looked at my job description(s) yet because I’ve been so preoccupied with the fact that I pay all this money in property taxes and my neighbors spend so much of their time helping out in the school, and my son is still doing first-grade worksheets in flipping May and what the hell does he need a flipping didgeridoo for anyway? I’m so angry about it and yet I feel I have no one but myself to blame because I was the one who wanted a worry-free education for my son–rather, an education for my son that was worry-free for me–and this is just what you get for not worrying: fill-in-the-blank worksheets and mother-frakking didgeridoos. Nice work, Mother. I hope you ate a lot of bon bons this year while your son’s brain was atrophying!
4. We were thinking of sending Elvis to summer camp this year. Rather, Sugar Daddy thought it would be a good idea to send Elvis to this summer camp for children with disabilities, and I had no argument against it because hey, who doesn’t need to get rid of Elvis for a couple hours a day during the summer? So we sent away for an application for this camp, and we got the paperwork in the mail a couple weeks ago, and I started to fill it out because I’m pretty good at filling out paperwork. I did all right with the name and address and emergency contacts and doctors and insurance information, and then I got to the section where I had to describe in detail the extent of my child’s disability and his specific challenges, and I thought, “I can’t do this right now, I’m going to do it later,” because after all this time I still have trouble confronting these facts about my son. I have a visceral response to requests for quantification about his disability. I just can’t handle it. I don’t understand why, but I just can’t, and by “can’t,” I really mean I just don’t want to, and I don’t know why, but I just don’t. But I have to, or he’s not going to go to camp, and I will be sorry later, sometime this summer, when he’s driving me crazy and eating all the popsicles and replacing all the batteries in all of the small appliances and can’t find the right screwdriver and wants me to push him 89 times on the swing but he really means 99 times and he gets frustrated and starts yelling, “aaahhhAAAHHHHaaahhhhAAAAHHHHHaaaahhhhAAAHHHHHaaahhhhAAAAHHHHH” with the full force of his diaphragm behind it for the forty-seventh time that day, and I will probably start screaming myself and want to pop him one and possibly I will actually pop him one because I can’t stand it anymore, and I will only have myself to blame because I was too lazy to fill out the paperwork on time so he could go to camp and make me a little bit less crazy. And I wonder how I can love my son so much while simultaneously not wanting him around very much. Maybe I don’t love him as much as I think I do, unless he’s asleep. That’s just not right. Which reminds me, I need to find that frakking paperwork and fill it out, and now I’m afraid I won’t be able to find it.
5. Girlfriend is almost 42 months old and still needs to be toilet-trained. Sugar Daddy did the heavy lifting with toilet training Elvis, although that was mostly because he finally got the idea that I wasn’t going to do it, and so now he deserves a medal and I need to get on the stick and finally toilet-train our non-disabled child, who has absolutely no desire to use the toilet. In point of fact, she has the opposite of desire. I think sometimes that I was born in the wrong era. As much as I enjoy the conveniences of modern life, I often wish that I could have parented back in the day when adults weren’t supposed to care about scarring their children for life, and if they didn’t do what Ma or Pa said, Ma or Pa could just beat them with a stick and voila, instant compliance–and they didn’t grow up to be serial killers or anything, just average, reasonably-productive citizens who also beat their children with sticks. Not that I want to beat my child with a stick–no, I am far too modern and enlightened to have such feelings, but I admit that I am just plain old weary of trying to figure out how to get my children to do stuff without beating them with a stick. How did toileting get to be so complicated? How did human beings evolve to the point where sitting in their own filth is a preferred state? I have seen each of my children reach the stage where they were interested in the toilet, only to immediately recoil upon being offered a toileting opportunity–and not only recoil, but turn and run in the opposite direction, screaming bloody murder, huddling in a corner every time the word “potty” is uttered–leaving me feeling very much like a guy who’s misinterpreted a pretty girl’s attentions and ends up not only offending her with my romantic advances but turning her into a lesbian besides. What on earth have I done?
6. I am seriously considering giving up my housekeepers because it is so depressing to me to walk around my house and realize that I’ve just been engaging in a bi-monthly exercise of shoving stuff in closets and drawers so someone else can come vacuum and mop, and once the vacuuming and mopping is done, all the crap that we own just comes SPROING!ing out of aforementioned closets and drawers and deposits itself all over the floors and countertops, along with the neverending stream of new crap that finds its way into our house on a daily basis. I am just ready to surrender to entropy already. I caught up on the laundry, sort of–the clothes part, I was mostly caught up on, and then I had this backlog of towels I had to wash, so I’ve washed nothing but towels for the last two days, which is not to say I’ve been continuously washing towels for 48 hours, but towels is all I’ve washed, and now I have an unbelievable backlog of actual clothes that need to be washed again because you just can’t go 48 hours without washing clothes, not when you have six people in your family, all of whom wear clothes. What do I do all day long? Seriously, what do I do? You know how OBL can’t go grocery shopping until she’s organized her pantry? I look in my pantry, which is an unqualified disaster, and I just think, “I would sooner never eat again than try to figure out what the hell is in here,” and then I cram another cereal box in there, close the door real quick-like, and jam a chair in front of it so it doesn’t SPROING! open again. I’m like the anti-OBL. It’s not like I do nothing. Obviously, I am filling up my days with something other than blogging and Facebooking because people still have clean clothes and they have food to eat and there is toilet paper in the house, but on the other hand, there’s all this entropy and long-neglected best friends with broken legs and aunts in failing health and summer camp paperwork unfilled-out and three-year-olds in diapers, and I have to tell you, people, it’s not because I don’t have enough hours in the day. It’s probably because my parents didn’t beat me with a stick more when I was little.
Okay, it was good to get that off my chest. I’m not going to visit anyone’s best friend today, but I think I will do the dishes and start on the laundry and pick up the 47,368 pieces of paper that are lying all over my living room floor. I might even sweep the kitchen floor. I should go to the Target, but I don’t remember why. Somebody’s prescription. Also, I’m pretty sure that since I’ve said the word “frak” about 67 times before 10 a.m. today, it probably means that I should pick up some tampons, too. Incidentally, I feel like “frak” is so much more satisfying than saying the actual F-word, it’s got to be more vulgar somehow. In any case, I should probably stop saying it around my kids. I’ll put that on my list of stuff I “mean” or “want” to do. Damn, I’m gonna eat some chocolate cake now.
So I was wasting time on the Facebook this weekend, and I picked my top five Celebrity Crushes. I will share them with you now.
#1
David Duchovny
#2
Jeremy Northam
#3
Sam Waterston
#4
Daniel Day Lewis
#5
Liam Neeson
My Facebook friends noticed a distinct resemblance among these five cats. Brother Okiebu pointed out that they all had “strong noses.” I must say, I do enjoy a strong nose. The first thing I notice about a man is his nose. Because seriously, how can you miss it? It’s RIGHT THERE. If it isn’t, there’s a problem. That’s what I say.
I have loved men whose noses were not particularly prominent. I was going to give examples, but none is springing to mind at the moment…I’ll have to get back to you on that.
My husband also noticed the resemblance among these celebrity crushes of mine. He thought it was creepy. His celebrity crushes were much more varied. Christine McGlade, Mary Stuart Masterson, Helena Bonham Carter, Gillian Anderson, and Shelly Fabares. I assume that none of these women strike him as the type that smell bad. I suppose that in this respect, my husband has a nose thing, too.
Speaking of my husband, his nose doesn’t strike me as particularly strong. But neither is it unstrong. It is perfectly fine. And my husband is a very good-looking man. It just wasn’t his nose that attracted me to him. It was probably his eyes and that gap between his front teeth. (And yet I do not have a thing for David Letterman. Particularly.)
The other thing about these men is that they’re all tall. You can’t really tell that from the photos, but I think the shortest one is David Duchovny, and he’s 6 feet. I always thought I would marry a tall man, but I didn’t. My husband is 5′6″. This kind of freaked me out, initially, because I thought dating a short man would be awkward. Especially since I was very fond of wearing high heels at the time. So I felt about 5′9″, when I was really only 5′7″.
I don’t remember if I immediately went out and bought flats or not. I think I might have for the wedding. I think I still looked taller than him in the pictures. But it turned out that it isn’t that awkward dating a shorter man, or being married to one. Especially when the height difference is one inch. I went back to wearing heels a couple years ago, because I like the way they look and I’m no longer self-conscious about being taller than my husband. (I don’t know how my husband feels about it. I never asked him because I thought the question might be emasculating. Real men don’t care if their wives tower over them, right?)
I thought about making a separate list for my chick celebrity crushes, but I could only think of these two.
Kristen Bell
Gillian Anderson
And that just isn’t enough for a list. I could probably come up with three other ladies I think are hot, but I wouldn’t love them, so putting them on the same list as these two would just be insulting, in a way.
Neither of these women has a prominent nose, nor are they tall. They are both decidedly on the petite and perky side. What does that say about me? That I don’t like my women looking like my men, I guess. That’s…heterosexual of me…I think.
But the height thing is interesting. Kristen Bell is 5′1″ and Gillian Anderson is 5′3″. Have you ever noticed how often very tall men end up with very short women? I have. It used to really bother me, back when I was in the market for tall men, and they were all dating perky, petite women. Now that I’m no longer in the market for any men, tall or otherwise, I seem to have made my peace with perky, petite women.
Actually, I’m sure it’s something much weirder than making peace. Maybe I still harbor a desire to be with a tall man, only since it’s forbidden–what with being married and all–it’s morphed into some fantasy about being a tall man and consequently being attracted to short women…which isn’t forbidden…because I’m not actually gay. Particularly.
And now I end this ill-considered but highly attractive blog. Use the comment section to psychoanalyze me and/or confess your own celebrity crushes.
Quote of the week:
“You don’t want to fiddle around when you have objectives.”
–Mister Bubby, on playing Heroes V: Might and Magic
Mister Bubby: Mama, Dad said when I’m 11, I can have a real sword.
Giraffemom: He did?
MB: Yeah. And when I’m 12, I can get real armor.
GM: Real armor’s good. [Especially when you already have a real sword.]
MB: And guess what? When I’m 13, I’m gonna get a battle axe! Won’t that be awesome?
GM: Pretty awesome. Are you going to get a gun?
MB (contemptuously): No. [Duh, Mom.] I want to learn how to do arrows. Once I learn how to do arrows, I might get a gun.
GM: Cool.
I got nothing going on here. Except that I need to go grocery shopping, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything. Remember when I told you how I was going to Rock My World with Geodon®? Well, Geodon did rock my world…to sleep! Remember how I’ve always said there’s no tired like pregnant-tired? Well, there’s no sleepy like Geodon-sleepy. At some point I burst into tears because I was so sick-unto-death of fighting unconsciousness. But I had to fight it because I had things to do and places to go. Yes, I did have to drive. Don’t lecture me, I didn’t kill anybody, did I? (Did I?) Anyway, one cannot function when one is alternately bursting into tears and slipping into unconsciousness. The funny thing is that the pharmacist specifically told me I must take the Geodon in the morning, as it has a tendency to interfere with sleep. Which is funny because at the top of the list of possible side effects is “somnulence.” That’s a big word. I’ll give you three guesses as to what it means, and the first two don’t count. Which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t start taking it again, only this time at night. Except that I might never wake up again!
Which reminds me, my psychiatrist also instructed me to take some fish oil, but I keep forgetting. I bought some in the pill form, but she also sent me these pudding packets (“Natural Orange Flavor”–mmmmm). I’m looking at them right now. They’re scaring me. Because, dude, it’s fish oil, and it’s pudding. Only 2.5 grams of fish oil pudding (“Natural Orange Flavor”!), but still. I feel inexplicably queasy all of a sudden. But you know what? I have to do it some time. So it may as well be now. Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to eat one right now. I am live-blogging fish-oil-pudding-eating!
Here I go.
Hm. That’s not bad. Actually, I kind of liked it. And now I’m really scared.
Okay, there’s an aftertaste. That’s not awesome. I think I’ll eat some breakfast now.
Oh, and since Repairman Jack already saw this in my Xanga photos, I have to explain about Tijuana Snoopy. He was among the crapola I found whilst cleaning out the garage on Saturday. (Snoopy, not Jack.)
You know, ordinarily I’m a fan of the Snoopy on Velvet, but I’ve discovered that some things are too tacky, even for us. So how did I come to be in possession of Tijuana Snoopy? Well, my kids’ babysitter, Gertrude, knows that I love Snoopy, and she mentioned that she and her husband had this velvet painting of Snoopy that they wanted to get rid of, but it was of Snoopy holding a tequila bottle and she wondered if that might be too tacky, even for us. And I’m afraid I might have said something like, “Haha, Snoopy holding a tequila bottle, I think I need that picture,” because stuff like that is always funnier in theory than it is in real life.
I think I didn’t expect him to look quite so…menacing. I mean, really, he looks like Snoopy as Angry Drunk, doesn’t he? That bottle isn’t poised for drinking but for breaking over somebody’s head! Also, he’s hugging a freaking cactus. Obviously this is a dog you don’t want to mess with, especially if you’re just a mild-mannered housewife like myself. Also, I think the real deal-breaker for me is that he’s got “Tijuana” written across his hat. There’s a fine line between ironic kitsch and wow-that-is-just-sick-and-wrong, and I think the lettering crosses that line. But what do I know? I was just an English major.
Anyway, I’m still deciding what to do with it. But first I have to get the taste of natural-orange-flavored fish oil out of my mouth. Gentle readers, adieu.
Because my sister tagged me, and it was like a triple-doggy dare I couldn’t resist!
Ahem. “A Meme in 10 Pictures (or so).”
#1 – Kitchen sink
Ordinarily I am pretty good about dishes. I don’t have dishophobia, like some people I could mention. But this morning my sink is less than Fly Lady shiny.
#2 – Inside fridge
You know, when I look at it this way, it doesn’t seem so gross. No one said I had to do a close-up, I guess.
#3 – Favorite shoes
I don’t know if they’re my favorite shoes. They’re just the flashiest, and the ones I happen to be wearing right now. I got them on the cheap at the Payless Shoesource BOGO 1/2-off sale! Actually, I mostly bought them to impress Princess Zurg.
#4 – Closet
It didn’t specify “inside” or “outside,” but I figured if I took a picture of a door, some might consider that cheating. Please bear in mind, though, that the housekeepers just came last week, and I had to cram all my junk somewhere. Okay, so this junk has been in here for the last six months. So sue me.
Yes, I know, that’s at least half of it a picture of a door, but I couldn’t open the door all the way, so what was I supposed to do?
#5 – Laundry pile
I’m not sure what is meant by laundry “pile” (singular?), so I took a couple different pictures. I’m in the middle of a laundry marathon, so my hampers (plural) are mostly empty, but here is a picture of some laundry that needs to be folded:
And here’s some laundry that still needs to be laundered:
#6 – What the kids are doing right now
At least this was what they were doing when I took the picture.
They look so sweet when they’re watching television. Like little angels.
# 7 – Favorite room
I can’t say any room is my favorite right now, as the whole house is pretty much a pig sty–but I am rather fond of this spot at the top of the stairs. Look how clean it is!
#8 – Toilet
You’d think people would have had enough of my toilet pictures by now, but I guess supply must meet demand.
I offer no explanation for the following.
If it makes you feel any better, this potty chair has never, ever been used. Not in its intended capacity, anyway.
#9 – Fantasy vacation
Why would I need a vacation, when I have all this? What more could a woman ask for?
But if you held a gun to my head, I would love to go back to the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon.
I think I would like to stay in a different room than Poe’s this time.
#10 – Self-portrait
I never said I wasn’t a cheater at heart.
I heard this morning that Jennifer Lopez hired a masseuse and a color therapist for her newborn twins. I thought that was wild. A masseuse–okay. I guess. Color therapist? Not sure what that’s about. I mean, obviously, I know what it’s about. I just can’t relate. That’s what I mean. So I was intrigued and wanted to learn more about the lifestyles of rich and famous babies. From ShowbizSpy:
The ‘Jenny From The Block’ star, whose twins Max and Emme were born last month, have also reportedly ordered 600-count Egyptian cotton cot linen, designer Babygros, diamond-engraved rattles and, two small Shetland ponies for the youngsters.
So 600-count Egyptian cotton–that’s good, right? I have nothing against buying quality cotton linens, even for babies who are going to urinate and spit up all over them. I mean, good cotton feels so nice. Lucky babies. I don’t think I’ve ever slept on 600-count anything. I don’t know what a Babygro is. I suppose I have to Google it. Okay, I guess it’s clothes? Designer clothes for babies. Fine. I mean, you want them to look good and be comfortable. I dig it.
I wouldn’t even say she lost me at the diamond-engraved rattles. They’re collectors’ items, eh? I assume she doesn’t intend for the babies to play with them. They’re just to look at–fondly, when they’re much older, and they can think to themselves, “Damn, Mom sure had a lot of money, didn’t she?” That’s cool. And I bet they could even sell them to support their drug and/or gambling habits later on in life, should the need arise. (Not saying it will. Just saying “if.”)
No, where she lost me was the Shetland ponies. Seriously, what the heck? THEY’RE BABIES. Why do they need Shetland ponies right now? Couldn’t that wait until they’re, I don’t know, able to sit up on their own? It’s not like they can even watch the ponies and get enjoyment from them that way because THEY’RE BABIES. They don’t even know where they are or what’s going on yet. They’re still learning how to tell the difference between the masseuse and the baby burper. They have no time to pay attention to other mammals. What is she thinking??? Says a source close to the celebrity:
“It may sound excessive but she’s only got her kids’ best interests at heart and wants to give them the start in life she never had.”
Ordinarily I don’t take issue with how rich people choose to spend their money. Being a good Republican and all, I’m sure that this diamond-engraved rattle and color therapist business helps the economy and makes the rest of us feel good about how thrifty we are in comparison. And I can totally get behind her spending $600K on extra security. Keep the babies safe, it’s all good. But I must confess, it’s stories like this that make me think that some people might have too much money. Not that there should ever be such a thing as too much money, but seriously–Shetland ponies for newborns? Not to get all social-gospel on your a**, Jenny-from-the-Block, but you couldn’t think of somewhere else to put that money? Something to help less-fortunate newborns get the start in life you never had? If you really felt like spending money on ponies, maybe you could have thrown a pony party for some starving children–that would have offered them a much-needed diversion from their dreary lives, and afterwards they could have eaten the ponies, assuming they were still hungry. I don’t know. I don’t know.
But enough picking on Jennifer Lopez. Let us examine the beams in our own eyes. What is the most frivolous thing you spend money on? And what is the most frivolous thing you can imagine spending money on?
Me first. Let’s see–frivolity, frivolity…It’s probably food. I’m willing to spend a lot of money on food, if it’s good. Well, let’s face it. I’m willing to spend a lot of money on any food, if I feel that I must have it. I spend $2.00 twice a week to buy my younger children a small bag of Ruffles potato chips and a package of Starbursts, just so they won’t hassle me while their older siblings are in swim class. That’s like a $16-a-month habit. $16 could feed a family of eight in some remote village of Africa for a week, or something. It’s a total waste of money, when I could very well just tolerate the hassle of two small children with a killer sense of entitlement and nothing to do. That would be character-building and more nutritionally sound. Everyone would win. But do I have any intention of mending my ways? Nope. Negative, Rampart. And our anniversary dinner last year that cost, like, $200 or something almost as wrong (or slightly wronger)? Worth. Every. Penny. I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.
Mmmm. Steak.
Anyway, the most frivolous thing I can imagine spending money on is…gosh, this is hard because I’m still thinking about food…okay, I’ve got it. I would hire a professional organizer to do my whole house, including garage–maybe even my car–and I would buy everything she told me to. Everything. Because if there’s any weakness that can rival my weakness for food, it’s organizational merchandise. My husband won’t let me set foot inside a Storables without supervision because he knows it’s like sending an alcoholic into a liquor store. I can’t visit the web site because it’s like porn for me. I could ruin our family with my storage-box addiction, if I didn’t suppress my yetzer hara. I would buy storage boxes just to house my kids’ potato chip bags. It is that bad.
Now it’s your turn to talk Shetland ponies.
I can’t sleep. Which kind of sucks because it’s 1 a.m. and I have to wake up in six hours, at which time I certainly will be able to sleep–will most likely be sleeping quite soundly–but by that time sleeping will no longer be one of my options. I hate when this happens.
My husband is out of town. He had a work thing to do in California, and he’s going to stick around through part of the weekend so he can go to his brother’s graduation. He’ll be back Saturday evening. Meanwhile, here I am. //SQUEAMISH AVERT YOUR EYES// I’m on day two of my menstrual period, and I’ve had cramps all day long, but the only bottle of ibuprofen that we have is in my husband’s car. Don’t ask me why, but it is. Also don’t ask me why I didn’t just go to the store and buy some more. Well, because I was sure we had some other bottle in the house somewhere, but I was mistaken. And then it was evening and children were going to bed, and I don’t have to explain myself to you, okay? The only ibuprofen in the house is the infant suspension formula, and I don’t like grape flavoring, so I’m still in pain.
//NO, IT IS NOT SAFE TO LOOK AGAIN YET// I’m telling you, Aunt Flo comes back with a vengeance after the gestation and birth and subsequent breastfeeding of a child. This time it’s personal, and all that. It’s like cramming eighteen months’ worth of hormonal drama into five days, only I don’t get as fat.
I do have acne again. //YES, IT’S OKAY TO READ NOW// When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I had an acne problem–not one of those horrible face-covered-with-pustules problems, but I would get these giant zits that lived under my skin and never actually broke out. In a way that was lucky, I guess, because it wasn’t quite as gross as it could have been, but it was annoying and very painful. My chin was the worst. I think I had five or six wannabe pimples living subdermally on my chin at any given time during that six-year period, but once I got a single, enormous, killer blemish that, I kid you not, took up my entire chin. It was like I was growing another head out of my chin, only, you know, it wasn’t showing its face. //YES, I KNOW I SAID IT WAS OKAY TO READ, STOP BEING SUCH A BABY, GEEZ// I’m not exaggerating. It was freakishly huge and enormously painful. It seemed like I had that sucker for a month and a half, but it was probably only a few days. It was traumatic, though. The thing I have growing under the surface of my skin on my chin right now is not that big. But it does hurt. And it is annoying. And I can’t find my Neutrogena anti-acne crap anywhere. It’s probably not in my husband’s car, but neither is it anywhere I can see it, so it doesn’t really matter.
I fed my kids fish sticks and tater tots for dinner tonight. I tried to counter balance it with some vegetables, but it was just for show. Nobody but me and Princess Zurg ate them. On the plus side, I resisted the temptation to use paper plates. On the minus side, I did not resist the temptation to let everyone drink root beer instead of mixing up another pitcher of juice or forcing them to drink milk or water. I was tired, I had cramps, there was Mt. Vesuvius on my chin, and Elvis kept smashing his head into it. I just wasn’t in the healthy drink-enforcing mood.
Thanks also to my husband, who convinced me that I do in fact have Restless Leg Syndrome–an actual medical condition, look it up, haters–I am having particular difficulty sleeping these days. I have a prescription for a valium “cousin” that my shrink gave me a few months ago for a totally unrelated malady, but I’ve found it most useful in coping with my RLS. I am still breastfeeding, but I only take it at night, after the baby’s nursed, and it wears off after eight hours or so, and even if it didn’t, she could stand to chill out a bit anyway. Just kidding. I think. Anyway, I took it tonight, but it ain’t working for me. My legs are still restless, but mercy, I am tired.
Speaking of my husband, I still don’t know what the heck I’m getting him for Father’s Day. I had such excellent plans, but they all involved more foresight than I was able to contribute, and thus my need for some Plans B. When SD takes the kids out shopping for me for Mother’s Day, they don’t seem to have a problem figuring out what to get me. The kids never know what they want to get their dad. Except for Mister Bubby, who always wants to get people what he himself wants. Which is why SD has Super Monkey Ball, I have a Justice League graphic novel, and Princess Zurg has Dandelion the Fairytopia doll (long story). So at least MB will have a present for his dad come Sunday. What I’ll steer PZ and myself toward, I still have not an inkling. My husband isn’t always this difficult to shop for. Just this year. We both were difficult to shop for this year. We already have too much of what we want. We need to have less, not more.
I’m not feeling very coherent right now. I think the valium’s cuz is kicking in. I’m falling asleep even though my legs are still bothering me. I must adieu while the night is still relatively young. I apologize for this crap blog entry. I’ll write you something better later. Maybe. If I’m awake……………………………………………
Cleaning up after Elvis dumps the change jar in the master bedroom, Day 2
Madhousewife: Are we still finding money in this stupid bed?
Sugar Daddy: Are you complaining about finding money in the bed? I’m going to write a blog about how you’re all jaded now. “Oh, I don’t know when I want my housekeeper to come.” “I keep finding money in the bed.”
Madhousewife: The stupid bed. We need a new one.
This morning’s bad news: Elvis has discovered the garbage disposal.
Guilty Pleasures, Part 52
Once a friend of mine sheepishly confessed that she enjoyed listening to Delilah. I assured her that she had nothing to be ashamed of; sometimes I listened to Delilah, too (though I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as she did). Well, no more. It’s all about the John Tesh Radio Show now. He doesn’t just sit around choosing sappy love songs for the lovelorn. He is actively trying to make me smarter. Seriously, I learn a lot from his show. Just last night he was telling us how to avoid food poisoning at buffets. Word to the wise: Cold dishes should have ice around the sides of the bowl and not just on the bottom. If the food isn’t cold to the touch, it is already growing bacteria. The best part is that he said “growing bacteria” just as Chicago started singing, “You are my love in my life…You are my in-spi-ra-shun…”
I’m feeling a strange connection with John Tesh these days. He’s like a real friend, telling me what I need to know, not just the things I want to hear. I also sense that he’s sincere. He really wants me to have this information. I don’t know about the rest of you all, but sometimes I felt like Delilah was just phoning it in. John Tesh is keeping it real. Not just relationship advice, but safe buffet dining. I mean, for Pete’s sake, people can’t be always be in love, they gotta eat sometime. So I don’t care what anyone says. I like that John Tesh. Now if only he’d play some better music, we’d really be in business.
Madhousechildren discover the Muppet MoviesMister Bubby: I wish I was Kermit. Then I would never have to wear a shirt.Princess Zurg: But what if you were going on a date with Miss Piggy?
Mister Bubby: Then I would wear clothes.
P.S. The housekeeper’s coming over next Wednesday at 8:00 a.m.It was the darnedest thing. I actually had the phone in my hand, the number in front of me, and I was contemplating what I would say when the phone rang and it was housekeeping service scheduler asking me if I’d made a decision yet. It was like a sign from God. Good thing, because I probably could have contemplated for the rest of the day.When they come, I will tell them that any change they find in the bed is theirs.
My worst nightmare is that I will lose one of my children, permanently. My second worst nightmare is the thing that happened to me yesterday, which is that I lost one of my children and the police found him before I did. In case you were wondering, there is no satisfactory explanation for why an almost-four-year-old autistic boy would be riding a push-trike near a busy street sans shoes and wearing a dirty diaper. No, there is just no good spin for that one.
The worst part was when one of the (three!) officers questioning me asked whether I understood the meaning of “child neglect.”
Ouch.
Ouch.
Ouch.
The good news is that we are now the proud owners of a chain-and-padlock on our front door. The bad news is that I’m going to be depressed for the next several days. Don’t expect much from me.
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