You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May 2008.
10. You eat doughnuts for breakfast, second breakfast, and “elevensies.”
9. Your son has a massive nosebleed all over the front bathroom and entry way, and you don’t clean up all the blood for like, two days.
8. You decide to get “retail therapy” at your neighbor’s garage sale.
7. You blog about seat belts.
6. It is extremely important that you beat your high score in Spider Solitaire.
5. You paint your fingernails green. It’s not your color. Who cares?
4. You took a shower this morning, but still you feel unclean.
3. You conclude that it’s not wrong to serve potato chips for dinner.
2. Your tap class is on hiatus, and suddenly you have no reason to live.
1. You don’t know what you’ll do when you run out of doughnuts because you’re never leaving the house again if you can possibly help it. Why do doughnut shops not deliver, dangit? Why why why?
I don’t know how it is in other minivans, but in our minivan, the seatbelts for the middle row can be anchored at either the middle row seats or the back row seats. I can think of a very good reason why you might want this feature on one side of your minivan–the side where back row seating is accessible from the side door and you don’t want the shoulder harness getting in the way. In our minivan, that shoulder harness isn’t usually in use because that’s where the baby’s car seat is, and I honestly have no idea how what we do with that seatbelt most of the time, because as long as it’s not in my way, I never think about it. But in theory, I can understand the practicality of having this kind of flexibility in seatbelt anchoring–on that side of the car.
What I’ve had trouble wrapping my head around this morning is why you would need this feature on the other side of the car–the side of the car where no one can get to the backseat without crawling over the people in the middle seats and therefore it is the people who are in your way and not the shoulder harnesses per se. I wouldn’t be thinking about this issue at all, if it weren’t for the fact that the release buttons for these shoulder harness anchoring thingies are only accessible through a slot that is about four millimeters long and two millimeters wide. At the middle row–the row where open doors create space between the seat belt anchors and the rest of the world–there is room for an adult human hand to maneuver a thin metal object, such as a car key, into this tiny slot and thereby release the shoulder harness from said contraption. At the back row, where there are no side doors, there is no room for an adult human hand to both hold and maneuver a car key to release the shoulder harness, should it be anchored in that location. I know this because when Elvis got in the car this morning, the shoulder harness was anchored at the back row–why? because Elvis put it there yesterday. But this morning he didn’t want it there. He wanted it back at the middle row, where it belonged. And because he wanted it, and because it was 8:05 a.m. and Mister Bubby was already late for school and I wanted the screaming to stop before my ears started bleeding, I tried to resolve the issue. I was unsuccessful. We had to buckle his seatbelt with the shoulder harness anchored from the back. He got over it, my ears didn’t bleed, and MB was five minutes late for school, as I’d originally planned.
Everything’s fine. The seatbelts are functional. People can get in the back seat. The car can be driven safely. But for some reason I can’t stop thinking, why, why, WHY would you want your seatbelt shoulder harnesses to have this theoretical flexibility of anchorage locale and simultaneously want it to be impossible to disengage aforementioned seatbelts from the back seat, should you get a wild hair and decide to mix things up a bit? It makes no sense to me. Who are they designing this car for, except an autistic five-year-old boy who wants to drive his mother insane? Why do you need the shoulder harness for the middle row seat on the driver’s side–where the backseat is not accessible from the side door–to be anchored anywhere but the middle row seat area? What would be the purpose? I suppose I don’t do enough camping and outdoorsy stuff. I’m sure if you’re hauling sports equipment or timber or something, the purpose reveals itself rather rapidly, but in the abstract, it is eluding me. In the five years of owning a minivan and installing child safety seats in said minivan, it has never occurred to me to anchor the shoulder harness in the back row on that side of the car. Perhaps I don’t know what I’ve been missing. I suppose I will find out, as it is now stuck there for life. Unless my husband decides it needs to be moved, in which case he will release the shoulder harness with his secret man powers while I’m not looking and then refuse to tell me how he did it because I’m a smart girl, I took calculus, and he won’t believe I can’t figure it out myself, I am obviously just being lazy, and why don’t I make some cookies so the boys will like me?
Mmmm. Cookies.
A metal nail file would probably work. Or a letter opener. Hey, a letter opener–why didn’t I think of that?
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.
We went to church with my sister on Sunday. Princess Zurg went to Primary (children’s Sunday School) with her cousins. Princess Zurg has a love-hate relationship with Primary. On the one hand, she finds it a lot less dull than the sacrament service. On the other hand, it is still a little too “churchy” for her tastes. She likes the classroom portion, when they discuss the application of religious principles to real-life situations. She doesn’t enjoy when they read from the scriptures because there aren’t enough girls in them. (She has particular disdain for the Book of Mormon, which is heavy on war stories and mentions only three women by name, one of whom is a harlot of no consequence. That really galls her.) She likes the singing…sometimes, when they’re not singing “annoying” or “childish” songs. In other words, it’s really more of a tolerate-hate relationship.
I feel her pain. I wasn’t too fond of Primary at her age, either. I wasn’t too fond of church, period, and the feeling didn’t become warmer or fuzzier when the teen years hit. I found the church youth programs alternately dull and condescending. Or perhaps both simultaneously. I was probably around thirteen when I decided I just wasn’t going to go to church anymore, because what were my parents going to do, make me? Well, actually, it turned out they could. I think so, anyway. It was a long time ago, and I remember them putting up with my crap for about three weeks, and then the jig was up. I don’t remember exactly what “changed my mind.” I suppose I was just a people pleaser at heart. Anyway, that’s another story. My point is that I sympathize with PZ’s frustration, but at the same time, she’s only ten and not a very responsible ten, and I’m not going to let her just stay home by herself. I don’t think she even wants to stay home by herself. I think she wants us to change religions. That’s not apt to happen. And like I said, we need to take her with us, if only to keep her off the streets.
Historically, PZ has acted out in very loud, very public ways during various portions of the worship service, starting when she was about, oh, two? Two-and-a-half? We were walking into the chapel one day when she suddenly threw herself down on the floor and started screaming, “No! No church! NO JESUS CHRIST!” The incident was all the more remarkable because PZ at that age was more or less non-verbal much of the time. It would take more motivation than I currently have to provide you a laundry list of PZ’s childhood impieties; suffice it to say that the above anecdote is representative of the rest of the iceberg.
We don’t “allow” PZ to disturb other people’s worship–not any more than her school teachers “allow” her to disturb other students’ learning experiences–and in the last couple of years, she’s made great strides in the Appropriate Church Behavior department. In the last several weeks, though, she’s been particularly vocal with her complaints. This Sunday was no exception. Girlfriend was not hip to strange church nurseries, so I was walking the halls with her and happened to pass by the Primary room, where the kids were learning a new song called “Home Is Where the Heart Is.” (Technically, it’s not “new,” but this generation of kids did not know it.) The second verse goes like this:
Home is where there’s Father,
with strength and wisdom true.
Home is where there’s Mother,
and all the children, too.
with strength and wisdom true.
Home is where there’s Mother,
and all the children, too.
Out in the hall, I did my mental Marge Simpson grumble–“Hrmmmm”–and hoped that I had just misheard the lyrics. They didn’t actually set up Father as Mr. Strength and Wisdom whilst lumping Mother in with the rest of the household members who needed his righteous dominion, did they? Well, probably they did, but I was reserving judgment for the time being. Right about then, my sister (who happens to be the Primary president in her ward) came out to the hall and told me that PZ had been quite disturbed that Father got strength and wisdom, while Mother just got stuck with the kids. Yes, we chuckled over it, but I also said, “Good for her.” At least that’s what I was thinking. Inside the Primary room, they were still practicing the song and the music director was telling the kids, “This time, sing it like you mean it.” PZ burst out, “But I don’t mean it!” And at this moment, as much as I wanted her to suck it up and not make a scene or embarrass her cousins, I also couldn’t help but think, “That’s my girl!”
For those of you not up to speed on your Mormon Minutiae, the LDS church has a fully correlated curriculum–it’s a by-product of the David O. McKay era as documented in David O. McKay and the Rise of Modern Mormonism (fascinating read, I assure you)–which means that Primaries all over the world teach their kids the same lessons and the same songs. This “Home Is Where the Heart Is” song is, unfortunately, part of the 2008 Primary program set to take place in October, in every Primary on the face of the earth, including ours. So this was not the last time PZ will have to be affronted by this song, as well she knows. She’s written (and mailed) a letter to the General Primary Board, hoping that the lyrics to this song will be changed by prophetic mandate before the October program. No, we have not yet begun to see the end of PZ angst over this topic. And I have to tell you, this time I’m grateful for my daughter’s utter inability to let stuff go. It may be sad and wrong, but part of me is actually looking forward to her complaining every week about this song. I hope she complains good and loud. It’s nothing new–folks in our Primary are used to PZ’s feminist rants–but it has the potential for something big. Like what? I don’t know. It’s just so rare that I can support my daughter’s righteous anger, and I’d like to relish it, if you don’t mind.
I realize how silly this must sound, making such a big deal out of a little song–really, only a little part of a little song–as though I didn’t belong to a patriarchal church with a treasure trove of gender disparities that are hard to reconcile with my basic sense of justice, not to mention logic. You’re probably wondering, all things considered, if Madhousewife doesn’t have bigger theological fish to fry. Well, yes, ordinarily I do. But this is not a theological fish fry. It is a cultural fish fry. Where the fish are sometimes coated in theological batter. I’m going to abandon this metaphor before it destroys me. Next paragraph, please.
I know I belong to a patriarchal religion. I’ve come to terms with that, in a way. I had to find a way to live with it, so I did. Find a way, I mean. And the fact is, most Mormon women don’t feel oppressed by the church’s patriarchal structure. I don’t feel oppressed by it. It is more an intellectual annoyance than anything–because, in fact, there is much in the religion that is empowering to women. Some Mormon women don’t even find it difficult to reconcile those aspects with the patriarchal ones. I am not one of those women, but that is neither here nor there. The church continues to evolve on gender issues. Some things really have changed; others really haven’t. But the fact remains: back when this “Home” song was written, it was not controversial to assert that men had authority over their wives and children, but these days no one would get up in church and say that without ducking. Today there is an increased emphasis on wives and husbands being equal partners, even while the church refuses to repudiate the patriarchal order.
This is frustrating for most Mormon feminists, who would rather deal with open sexism than this political correctness, but I’ve chosen to take the church at its word. We believe in both patriarchy and equality–fine. It may not make sense, but neither does a lot of other stuff; it’s religion, not rocket science. I can dig that. What I can’t dig–won’t dig–is the notion that this doctrinal paradox mustn’t produce cognitive dissonance. Some folks don’t have the cognitive dissonance; I appreciate that. But they need to understand that their lack of cognitive dissonance is attributable to faith, not reason. Not that reason doesn’t inform faith; it does. But religious mysteries cannot be “solved” by reason alone. That is why they are mysteries. I don’t want to remake church doctrine to suit my personal sensibilities, but I insist on acknowledging the mysteries, so I insist on acknowledging the cognitive dissonance.
This is why I’m happy to have my daughter publicly object to this silly Primary song–not because I think it’s a hill worth dying on, but because I know it’s not a hill the church is willing to die on either. It’s just a tiny thing that niggles at me, and so I niggle back. It’s easy to say, “Well, it’s just a song, and there’s a rhyme scheme and a rhythm to maintain, and it doesn’t mean that Mother doesn’t have ‘strength and wisdom true,’ just like Father, but there just wasn’t enough room to say it that way, and for the love of Mike, it’s just a song, what do you want, Madhousewife/Princess Zurg?” But it’s also just as easy to point out this: A hundred little things add up. My daughter hears this song and thinks it diminishes women. I think it infantilizes them. It’s not devastating; it’s not abusive; it’s just annoying–nothing more than annoying, in and of itself. But if the church wants its patriarchy-equality paradox, maybe it should stop teaching my children songs that undermine its professed value of male-female equality. It’s a little thing, precisely. That’s why it’s not too much to ask.
Make no mistake–I labor under no illusion that the church is going to change this song or have it removed from the children’s songbook, nor will I be embittered because of that. I just want other people to think about it, about its implications. Something they won’t be able to help doing when my daughter runs out of the room screaming every time they sing it.
My recital last Thursday went very well, though I felt a tad let down when it was over. I had worked so hard, and it was so much fun, I really wanted to do it more than once. I’m sure my husband is glad that I’m not doing it more than once. He was supportive during the six weeks of extra rehearsals, but as he put it, “I’m happy to support you, but I’ll be happier when I don’t have to support you anymore.” So there it is. My moment in the spotlight is over, and my husband doesn’t have to support me again until next spring. Congratulations, honey!
I think all the complaining I did about the long, long, looooonnnnnng drive to my sister’s house in Washington served as some kind of pre-emptive strike, as I encountered absolutely no traffic either to or from my destination. Not in Tacoma, not in Seattle. On Memorial Day weekend! I must have been doing the Lord’s work, because the other side of the freeway was a parking lot, but on my side it was like the parting of the Red Sea. I made each trip in less than four-and-a-half hours, and I wasn’t even speeding (much). Fate loves nothing better than to prove me wrong (or more specifically, to prove me a big fat sissy whiner).
About one thing I was not wrong, though: Girlfriend napped in the car and was subsequently up all night, both Friday and Monday. There was no joy in being right on that count, alas. It was a small price to pay, though, for the three of us had a wonderful weekend–especially Princess Zurg, who had the time of her life playing with all of her cousins.
Sugar Daddy asked me what we all did this weekend, and I’m not sure what he was expecting me to report. When my family gets together, it is sort of an event in and of itself. In fact, this is the first time all of my siblings and I have gotten together since my wedding eleven years ago. (At least, I think my siblings were all at my wedding. That day’s kind of a blur for me.) We all fell into our usual patterns: my older sister cooked a lot, my younger sister helped her, my youngest sister read a book, and I dealt with my needy children. I don’t remember what my dad and brother were doing.
Well, my brother was there to go on dates with a girl, so a lot of the time he was doing that. The girl came over for dinner on Sunday night, so I got to meet her. She seemed nice. I hope he marries her. I really can’t tell you how much I want my brother to get married and married soon. Mostly because I know he would like to get married. But also because there’s this stigma against unmarried Mormon men of a certain age (say, 25). Usually not without good reason, as Mormon men are highly motivated to marry young, and the most common reason for a Mormon man not to marry young is that he’s creepy or has bad personal hygiene. Yes, this is a cruel stereotype, not unlike the stereotype of unmarried Mormon women over 21 being either a) fat or b) CUCKOO! CUCKOO! CUCKOO! (For the record, I was “b.”) Anyway, I’m anxious for the next phase of his life to begin. He’s out of school and he’s got a job. And he’s related to me, so you know he’s good-looking. (Tall, long neck, doleful eyes.) So what’s the hold-up?
I’m being facetious, just so you know. It’s not like I’m pressuring him to get married. I mentioned not a word about it all weekend. I didn’t even so much as ask about his ladyfriend, much to SD’s dismay. SD wanted to know he smooched her. I said I didn’t know. Only I said it like, “I don’t know, you freak, what kind of pervert knows stuff like that about her baby brother?” He couldn’t believe that I hadn’t asked him about it. He said he would ask him himself when he sees him next week. Men and their giggly gossiping. Bah!
My sister just got a Wii Fit, and so we played with that some. I should be opposed to the Wii Fit on principle, and yet I couldn’t help but be impressed with how technology makes even the most mundane exercise more exciting. It was really fun–much better than being out playing in the sunshine. I did some Wii yoga. I learned that my center of balance is slightly to the left. I also learned that I suck at virtual hula-hooping. Also, that my Wii Fit Age was 32. Woo-hoo! I don’t know what they base their calculations on, but who am I to question the Wii Fit?
Anyway, it was a great visit. I think the fact that I had only two of my kids with me contributed heavily to the greatness thereof. When I left, I thought, “We should come back again soon. But not all six of us.”
Princess Zurg was an easy traveling companion this time around. After we listened to the Corpse Bride soundtrack once (only once!), she let me play whatever CD’s I wanted to. I listened to Joan Armatrading, Todd Rundgren, Chaka Khan, and Split Enz. I even listened to some Better Than Ezra. “No, girl, you did not!” Yes, girl, I did. (Well, not the whole CD, just part of it.) I listened to ABC’s Lexicon of Love twice. That album kicks butt. It’s like Chic meets James Bond. One thing I’ve always enjoyed about ABC is that they put together some really clever rhymes. If you gave me a pound for the moments I missed/And I got dancing lessons for all the lips I should have kissed/I’d be a millionaire; I’d be a Fred Astaire. You have to imagine it being sung by some guy all overwrought and yet still British. Or maybe you have to be there. Maybe you have to have bad taste in music. Well, same to you, pal.
On the other hand, I spent the last leg of my trip listening to that other Chic-inspired British band, Duran Duran, and I was struck yet again by how messed-up those cats’ song lyrics are. They’re not clever, but neither are they inane. They’re beyond inane. They’re beyond ridiculous. “I’m dancing on the valentine”? “There’s a dream that strings the road with broken glass for us to hold”? What does any of that mean? It doesn’t mean anything! Really, there’s only one way to make sense of these lyrics: they were obviously some kind of code. Like, spy stuff. “The eagle has landed.” “The fat man walks alone.” “The union of the snake is on the climb.” If I had unlimited free time, I could probably decipher all of it eventually. You should watch in a few years for my book titled Is There Something I Should Know? How Duran Duran Helped Us Win the Cold War. Or alternatively, Notorious: How We Won the Cold War Despite the Best Efforts of Duran Duran. It’s unclear to me as of yet which side they were really on. (Research for this project may have to wait until I’ve finished my self-help tome, Everything I Needed To Know in Life I Learned from Depeche Mode. Chapter One: “People Are People.”)
So I’m back at home, super-behind on the laundry, house rapidly falling into chaos, but at least I did a blog for you. All for you. None of it was for me. Except maybe that part about Duran Duran. Okay, I promise I’ll write something more interesting tomorrow. Or the next day. We’ll see how I’m feeling.
I’m too busy to write a long, rambling post about all the crap that happened to me this morning. Suffice it to say that it involved missing a bus and being twenty minutes late to an appointment. What I really wanted to do was wish my dear husband a happy anniversary–eleven years, baby!–and, you know, fish for well wishes and congratulations from the rest of you because that’s the kind of attention whore I am. That’s all.
We will be celebrating our eleventh anniversary in style this evening, as it is my tap recital (where I will be dressed as a vintage attention whore). Wish me luck, or a broken leg, or whatever it is we show business people do. I’m looking forward to this recital because I worked very hard for it, and I’m just hoping that I don’t goof it up because that would make me mad. The good news is that if I do goof it up, it won’t be that noticeable, as I spend most of my time onstage in the back row. The bad news is that there is one part at the very beginning when I’m in front, and I have to go into this pose after executing a turn, and roughly half of the time I lose my balance on that pose. In the world of dance, this is known as a “problem.” So hopefully I will keep my balance tonight, but if I don’t, at least everyone will have a few laughs at my expense and I will therefore have brought joy to the audience, which is really what I strive for, as an attention whore. Believe it or not.
Tomorrow my daughters and I are making the long-a** drive up into Washington to see my sister, my other two sisters, my brother, and my father. Two of my sisters live in Washington. My brother, who lives in Maryland, is coming out to Washington to meet a girl. My other sister is flying in from Missouri, and my father’s flying in from California. And I’m driving for four-and-a-half hours, maybe five or six, depending on whether or not I get entangled in Seattle’s rush hour, which I believe starts at 2 p.m. and lasts until roughly 7 p.m. If I leave here by nine, I should make it. Unless I run into some inexplicable traffic jam in Tacoma again. Suckitude. It’s only because I love my family of origin so much that I make such sacrifices. Yes, I am making a really big deal out of it because I know my sister’s reading this.
I actually don’t think I’d mind the drive so much, if it were just me. I like driving by myself. I can listen to whatever music I want, stop to go to the bathroom if I have to–and more importantly, not when I don’t have to–and I never ask myself, “How much longer until we get there?” Okay, sometimes I do, but it’s rhetorical, and only in Tacoma. And it’s more like, “How much longer can this possibly take???” But at least I can enjoy the solitude. Driving with children in the car is a joyless enterprise. On the plus side, I won’t have Elvis. On the minus side, I will still have Girlfriend, and there’s just no good way to travel with a two-year-old. I will be spending the whole time worrying that she’s going to sleep too much in the car and won’t sleep that evening, when I really, really want her to. Or I will be spending the whole time cursing because she’s not sleeping in the car, and worrying that she’s just going to crash at around 5 p.m. and wake up at 8 p.m., which is a whole other hell. I can only hope that Sugar Daddy knows where all the parts to the portable DVD player are, so I can electronic-babysit her all the way to Seattle. It’d be just like staying home, only with better restraints! (I’m kidding.)
Well, I have packing to do. You all enjoy your respective weekends. Ciao!
The brain is going, my friends. Going, going, almost gone. Last night I was in a rush to get ready for my dress rehearsal–splattering foundation on my underwear and poking my eye with the mascara wand–and then I was in a rush to get out the door and actually attend my dress rehearsal. I was in full costume. Before I walked out the door, I double-checked to make sure I was wearing my garter. My husband found that funny. He should have seen when I was double-checking to make sure I was wearing my briefs (which, to my credit, I did not do in the front doorway).
Anyway, off I went, wearing the costume, carrying the tap shoes, had the keys, had the purse, yes, everything was there, so off I was–driving, driving, driving, and the mascara was already starting to bug. Big time. I swear, it was like there was this huge clump of black gook just hanging from my outer lashes on my right eyelid, and I kept checking in the rearview mirror to make sure that there was no black-gook mascara monster hastening the demise of my vision. There was no noticeable hunk of black gook, just regular old mascara, sitting on my regular old eyelashes, not doing anything particularly noteworthy. “Volumizing,” my butt. Anyway. The knowledge that the mascara was under control did not stop my eyes from feeling like they were under attack by some unfriendly entity, and I just kept looking in the rear view mirror and pulling at my eyelashes, hoping I could dislodge the invisible plague, and that’s when I noticed that my lipstick was looking kind of off–lipstick being something I can ordinarily apply with competence, but apparently not under duress–and that’s when I went to double-check that I had brought the lipstick with me, so, careful to keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, I rummaged around my purse with the other hand–because really, it was so important to know at that moment if I would be able to re-apply my lipstick that evening–and that’s when I realized that I am an effing idiot because I had my lipstick and had ONLY FORGOT TO BRING A MAJOR PROP FOR MY SECOND NUMBER. Bah!
So I called Sugar Daddy, who, being the gallant and longsuffering husband he is–and perhaps feeling a teensy guilty for insinuating earlier that I looked like a vintage American hooker? no, probably not–agreed to pack all the kids in the car and bring me my forgotten item, and he didn’t so much as sigh over it. Probably because he did not yet realize that I had also forgotten to bring our ballots for the better-late-than-never-Oregon-primary, which I promised I would drop off at the official ballot drop inside the rec center, and this after I had harassed him to fill the darn thing out already. You know, I didn’t even vote. I harassed my husband into voting, and then I disenfranchised him with my forgetfulness, but me, I never actually filled my ballot out. I kept meaning to fill my ballot out, but golly, there was just so much to do, and so many stupid things to vote on–U.S. senator, U.S. representative, secretary of state, precinct commissioners (or whatever they’re called, whatever they are), and circuit court judges, plus three esoteric state measures–I never did get around to it. Isn’t that awful? I’m not fit to call myself an American, am I? I apologized later to SD, but he said I should really apologize to the great people who fought and died for my right to take part in the democratic process. And that’s when I told him to shut. up.
The housekeepers are supposed to come this morning. They used to come around 9:30 a.m. Then they started coming around 10:30 a.m. Last time they came at 12:30 p.m. I’m really not keen on this creeping schedule change. It’s just that I work so hard to get everything off the floor and off the counters and out of the sink before they come, and then they don’t come and then the kids start throwing stuff on the floor again. I mean, I should just pack them in the car and take them someplace, but I don’t know how long to be gone for, because when the heck are the housekeepers coming, anyway? I should take them on a day trip, but I’m not in the mood. Stop trying to solve my problems, okay? I just want the housekeepers to go back to coming between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m. That’s all I’m saying.
I’m still kind of embarrassed about having housekeepers. Most ladies I associate with don’t have housekeepers; they keep their own houses. They think it must be nice to have someone else come keep your house for you, and why on earth would you complain about that? See, that’s the thing. It is nice, and I don’t like to complain. I just like predictability. Also, not having to pick stuff up off the floor more times than I have to in a twelve-hour period–that’s also something I like. But back to my original point–you didn’t know I’d left my original point, did you? Well, I did, but here it is again. I’m kind of embarrassed about having housekeepers. I’m not only embarrassed in front of my peers, but I’m embarrassed in front of the housekeepers themselves. Not because I’m class-conscious and feel bad about having money to pay people to do something distasteful that I could very well do myself–but because I get the distinct impression that these housekeepers don’t consider my house worth cleaning. I feel like they look around and think, “What the bleeping hell is the point? This is a losing battle, why can’t she just accept that?” I might be projecting a little bit. I don’t know. But there’s something there–something in their tone, in the way they wield those feather dusters, that just makes me feel inferior. Probably the fact that they have feather dusters in the first place–because Lord knows I have never owned one. It never occurred to me to own one. Historically, I have always had bigger fish to fry than dust. When other ladies tell me how much they hate dusting, I think it must be nice to have so few problems that you actually have time to think about dusting and whether or not you enjoy it. I always thought I might enjoy dusting, if I ever had the leisure. But so far that life experience has been elusive. Perhaps this is what I’m sensing from the housekeepers–resentment over having to dust, when I clearly have no appreciation for the task. It must be very frustrating for them to try to dust my desks and bookshelves, which are crowded with items not intended for dusting. It makes me want to tidy some more before they get here–whenever that will be–but you know what? I’m tired. And I’m just tired of tidying. I want it to be too late for tidying.
I tidied a little bit last night after my rehearsal, but I got tired then, too, and I left the rest of it for this morning. So naturally this morning did not go smoothly. Mister Bubby had a field trip today, and he needed a sack lunch and also $5 in cash. We were out of bread, but he agreed to take a sandwich roll instead. I scrounged up four dollar bills and four quarters. Then he told me that he needed to turn in his jog-a-thon pledge sheet and money because it was due today. His pledge sheet consisted of two donations–one from Grandma and one from me. I suppose I could have written a check, but I didn’t know who to make the check out to because I couldn’t even remember what the jog-a-thon was for in the first place, and I was tired, and I didn’t want to think about it, so I decided we’d just stop at the grocery store for bread and some cash on the way to school. So we left early, and I stopped at the Albertson’s, where they don’t sell any good bread, but I got some mini-bagels for the younger kids, who like bagels more than bread anyway, and there was exactly one checkout line open–which is always the case at this Albertson’s–and there was exactly one person in front of me, who was having a frustrating back-and-forth with the checker over how much money his groceries cost. For the love of Mike. At least he wasn’t paying with a check. Anyway, that finally got resolved, and I bought my bagels and bought my cash, and I dropped Mister Bubby off at school, and then I came home and hurried to get Elvis ready for his bus. I got Elvis on his bus, and then I proceeded to light a fire, figuratively speaking, under Princess Zurg, who was still not out of bed, despite my repeated nagging of the previous 45 minutes. I told her she had less than fifteen minutes before her bus arrived, and that got her attention, but then she tried to accuse me of oversleeping. She just really needed it to be my fault that she was still in her pajamas.
So PZ finally got dressed and was eating breakfast, and I was trying to get Girlfriend her breakfast, when the phone rang. I saw on the Caller ID that it was the school. Thank goodness for Caller ID because otherwise I would have had NO IDEA what was going on. I answered the phone, and there was a lot of background noise and this immature voice speaking not-directly-into-the-receiver, saying what I eventually discerned as “Is my lunch at home?” I am somewhat embarrassed at how long it took me to figure out that this was in fact my own child calling me to tell me that he’d forgotten his lunch (which was my fault, naturally). Everything I said, everything I asked, he just answered with “Mom? MOM! Hello? Hello???” What is it with men and the phone? Why are interpersonal telecommunication skills so difficult for the testosterone-laden mind to master? Anyway, we finally came to an understanding, that I would drop back by the school with his lunch, despite the fact that I had so many other freaking things to do this morning. (That last part was unspoken.) After PZ miraculously made it onto the bus and Girlfriend miraculously finished eating her breakfast in a timely fashion, I was able to deliver MB’s lunch and come back home to work on the house-tidying, which was really getting tiresome at this point.
I did it. It’s done. In a manner of speaking. I’m sure the housekeepers won’t be impressed. They’ll flick their little feather dusters at my bookshelves and frown, but I am done. I am all done for today. Except that I will pick up all the toy food Elvis just dumped on the family room floor. I don’t want them frowning while vacuuming.
As I said earlier, I am sure I’m forgetting something important, but I can’t think for the life of me what it is. I paid the mortgage, I know where the kids are, I checked under the beds for stray undergarments–but I haven’t changed the baby’s diaper. I don’t know if that’s what I’m forgetting, but I’m going to do it anyway, just for giggles. Happy Wednesday.
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.
So now that I’ve weaned the baby, my shrink and I are ready to take the pharmaceutical support to a whole new level. (Or as Eugene Struthers would say, the “HNL.”) So the first thing we thought we’d try is augmenting the Zoloft with a stimulant, such as Aderall, or what I have ended up taking, which is Vyvanse. Vyvanse is a newer drug, and it’s fancy, and it’s expensive, but you know, when it comes to my mental health, money is no object. Or something like that. So far I think it might be helping a little bit, only not so much that I feel like doing useful things, like cleaning the house. (Nope, I checked. Not feeling it.) It’s also decreasing my appetite, which is impressive.
Half the time I was in Texas, I forgot to take it, which is how I managed to eat so many pork ribs while I was there, I think, because now that I am taking it regularly again, I am not wanting to eat. Which is just not like me. Like, I feel my empty stomach and wooziness from not eating, but I don’t want to eat. I don’t. I cannot stress to you enough how UNlike me this is. I always want to eat. Except when I’ve just eaten half a rack of pork ribs. But that’s different.
Today I ate a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, half a bagel, a cup of yogurt, two Cheetos, and a Zone bar. That’s it. I don’t think this can continue. For one thing, I don’t need to lose weight, so that’s not a benefit. For another thing, if I stop wanting to eat, I will stop being me, and I won’t know who I am and worse, whoever I am, I may not want to know her. Who wants to be friends with a person who eats a Zone bar for dinner at 4 p.m.? Not me.
Maybe it’s not helping as much as I thought (hoped) it was. I don’t really want to be on a Schedule II drug anyway, because it’s such a pain in the neck, and I don’t want the hassle of arguing with the insurance company over whether or not they’re going to pay for it. I had a voucher for thirty free pills, but the pharmacy initially tried to bill my insurance and the insurance company said they wouldn’t cover it because of my age. My age. Apparently I am too old to take a drug that is marketed to children with ADHD. Which seems ridiculous on its face, but logic’s never paid a medical claim, so far as I know, so whatever. Anyway. I’ve lost my will to eat, and the house isn’t getting any cleaner by itself, so maybe it’s back to the drawing board for me and the shrink.
Or maybe I just need to get off my lazy keister and unload the dishwasher. And put in a load of laundry. And get some sleep. Not necessarily in that order.
When my mother-in-law was up here (taking care of the kids while Sugar Daddy and I were on our vacation), she brought with her some People magazines. I don’t often read People magazine because it is too stupid to pay money for and the doctors’ offices I frequent subscribe only to periodicals such as Parenting, Golf Digest and Sunset. Seriously, who reads Golf Digest? I can just barely get my head around someone wanting to play golf. The entertainment value of watching golf thoroughly eludes me, and the allure of reading about golf–well, to be honest, it almost makes me angry to think about it. It’s like they want me to commit suicide in their waiting room. Whatever.
So I read People magazine only occasionally, but I do read it even though it’s stupid. It’s a stupid magazine, and I’m stupid for reading it, and it’s especially stupid for me to read it these days, because I have no clue who most of these celebrities are anymore. Do you realize that it was only a matter of weeks ago that I realized that Mylie Cyrus and Hannah Montana were the same person? And I still don’t know why Jessica Simpson is famous. It used to bother me that I couldn’t figure that out because she was just constantly staring at me from multiple angles in the checkout aisle, and who the freak was she? Anyway, it’s just funny because as a teenager, I was very wrapped up in popular culture, at least in the sense of being knowledgeable about it. I’m sure it was a source of pride for me, though in retrospect I have no idea why, except that people are stupid, and I’m a person. But I digress.
I think it’s largely because I don’t watch television anymore. It’s not like I’m all high-minded and too good to watch television. I’m not even too good to watch bad television. And that’s the problem. I realize there are quality programs on the television. I enjoy the quality programs, but I prefer watching them on DVD because every time I watch television television, I’m reminded that television is the idiot box, and I am an idiot for watching it. I don’t like commercials, but it isn’t the advertisements for merchandise and so forth that I mind so much; it’s the commercials for other television shows that just drive me up the wall. I can’t explain it, but I am severely troubled by the knowledge that so many people tune in to watch Deal or No Deal. Why does the existence of that show bother me so much, when I’ve never seen it? I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t probably hundreds of programs that are ten times more offensive. (Moment of Truth springs to mind. Is that thing still on? You know, everyone involved in that show is going to hell. I don’t take pleasure in other people’s damnation, but facts are facts.)
Another thing is that I don’t really listen to contemporary music on the radio anymore–because I am old and don’t understand the stuff kids listen to these days. My only exposure to contemporary pop music is what my husband finds himself singing in the shower (against his better judgment). It’s funny, you know–Princess Zurg was complaining to me the other day that they had a karaoke activity at school and she was embarrassed because she didn’t know any of the songs. PZ has always preferred classical music, but she still managed to shift the blame to poor parenting: “I don’t know any popular music because all my Dad listens to is heavy metal.” (She is unfamiliar with his shower routine, if that didn’t go without saying.) I said she couldn’t really blame me because I’m not allowed to listen to the music I like except when no one else is around. (“It’s not my fault your taste in music is crap.”–SD) Her classmates were particularly dumbfounded that she’d never heard of Madonna. I told her she was lucky, that most people only dream of not knowing who Madonna is, but she didn’t see it that way. She’s still wondering how she can bone up on popular music without actually having to listen to it.
I have really digressed from my original point. Which was…? I was reading People magazine, and I think it was that 100 Most Beautiful People issue, which I enjoy because I don’t have to know who the people are to see whether or not they are beautiful. The one section that gave me pause this time around was the one that had beautiful celebrities not wearing any make-up. On the one hand, I’m totally in favor of showing celebrities without their make-up. People need to understand that no one looks that awesome just rolling out of bed. Except, of course, for these totally gorgeous women profiled in People magazine without their make-up on! Well, they still had professional photographers and, uh, good lighting, so whatever. Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful without their make-up on. But anyway, I was reading the People magazine, and they had a short article on Jennifer Aniston’s new romance with John Mayer, who I understand is a singer of some sort. Well, I know exactly what sort of singer he is, actually. He’s the cat who sang that “Your Body Is a Wonderland” song, which I hate. I get him confused sometimes with James Blunt, who sang that “You’re Beautiful” song, which I only know about because Nicole Parker did a parody of that music video on the Mad TV, and that was too disturbing to be forgotten. Why do I get these two singers confused? Maybe because they both suck. Who knows?
Anyway, John Mayer is dating Jennifer Aniston, and according to some nameless person representing one or both of them, it’s been going on for several weeks and “it’s very real.” Did you get that? “It’s very real.” As opposed to all those other six-week-long relationships that are just made-up and phony. I’m sorry. “It’s very real”? What the hell does that even mean, when you’re talking about a matter of weeks? Sure, I was engaged to SD after a mere eight weeks of dating, but even at that stage I don’t think it would have occurred to me to describe our relationship as “very real.” Because what does that even mean? I know I already asked that, but seriously–what does it mean??? I guess it’s supposed to mean that they’re serious. Probably they’ve been seen “canoodling” in public, which I hear is what you do when you’re famous and your love is “very real.” Not that I begrudge Jennifer Aniston any happiness–or John Mayer, for that matter; you don’t have to be a decent songwriter to be a good person–but apparently I am deeply troubled by the idea of people actually giving a rat’s patootie whether Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer’s relationship is “very real,” or something different.
Speaking of “very real” and “not very real,” I was going to mention, yet again, that I don’t go to movies much, and that is another reason why I am clueless about popular culture. I go to the movies so rarely anymore that I have hardly any awareness of what movies are even out there. There again, it’s the television, or lack thereof. I only know about movies that I read about in the “summer blockbuster preview” or “Oscar season preview” section of the newspaper. I used to know about movies that got reviewed in Newsweek, but I don’t read Newsweek anymore, so whatever. Anyway, I don’t get excited about movie openings, in general. I like movies, and I like watching movies–I really do–but I don’t get all excited about seeing the big movies as soon as they come out. My mother-in-law is very into the movie openings. She dresses up in costume to see movie openings. Which is fine, you know, I think people don’t get dressed up enough these days, so if she wants to put on a pirate outfit to go to the Pirates of the Caribbean show, that’s totally cool, as far as I’m concerned. You know, if I went with her, I might put on an eye patch myself, just to be festive. I’m not entirely devoid of whimsy. I’m just saying, it’s not my usual thing. I just don’t have that much emotional investment in box-office openings. Ordinarily.
Which is why it’s so disconcerting to realize that I am just chomping at the bit (figuratively, as I don’t have a literal bit handy for chomping) to see the new X-Files movie that comes out July 25. You can tell I’m excited because I actually know the date, and I am planning to get a babysitter so I can see it that very same freaking day because I cannot wait, no, I cannot wait any longer than that. I’ve in the middle of (re)-watching Season 5 (courtesy Netflix), and I can’t believe I forgot how much I freaking love this show. I missed so much of it after I moved out of my parents’ house and didn’t have a TV anymore. I used to go over to my parents’ house just to watch it, but then my mother died, and my dad doesn’t like the X-Files (whatever, old man), and I got married and still didn’t have a TV, but fortunately my MIL was an X-Files fan and would tape the shows for us, but then we moved to Oregon and it wasn’t feasible to have her send us tapes in the mail–well, it may have been feasible, but I was a grown-up and it would have been ridiculous–and I didn’t see the last two seasons at all, which didn’t seem like a big deal at the time because David Duchovny was gone by then, and I thought it might suck, but now I’m rambling. It’s just that I’m really, totally excited to see the new movie because I had given up hope that it was ever going to be made, but now it has been made, and I will be seeing it in just a matter of weeks! It’s like Christmas! Only better, because I don’t have to bake cookies or send any greeting cards!
I might bake cookies, though, just for the joy of it.
I’ve watched the trailer for X-Files: I Want To Believe several times now. You know what I want to believe? I want to believe that it is not the stupidest title for a movie that Chris Carter could ever come up with. I want to believe that it’s going to be awesome. I want to believe that I’m not going to become so obsessed in my anticipation that I break protocol and start reading plot spoilers on the internet. I want to believe that David Duchovny is as hot as he was ten years ago, but from the looks of the trailer, I’m wise not to put all my eggs in that basket. (No offense to Mr. Duchovny, who, in all fairness, is pushing 50–still a good-looking man, but apparently going more the Robert Redford aging route than the Paul Newman. That’s okay, Duke. You enjoy your life. We’re both happily married, anyway.) Gillian Anderson is still smokin’, though. Hot-cha! Maybe in honor of the premiere, I will dye my hair red. Except that I’ve already dyed it red. Maybe I’ll dye it redder. And start carrying a revolver.
Seriously, dude, shave and a haircut–would it kill you?
I didn’t think so.
I am the giraffe 
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