I’m sure having a week

So on Monday Sugar Daddy and I saw RHAPSODY OF FIRE at the Hawthorne. You may or may not remember a conversation I recounted here, wherein SD planned to use the money he won in the weight-loss challenge to purchase VIP tickets for RHAPSODY OF FIRE. He did purchase the VIP tickets, and we did indeed get backstage passes and met the band and all that stuff. It might have been the best night of my husband’s life. I remember thinking that he would probably like to die this happy. Anyway. I actually had a camera with me–a real camera, not my cell phone–because you don’t get backstage passes to meet RHAPSODY OF FIRE and not bring a camera. So I have many pictures of the evening, and if I were a better person I would upload them and write a detailed blog about the awesomeness of RHAPSODY OF FIRE and make you all wish you could have been there–but you know I’m not that good a person, right? I mean, I’m just way too lazy to do that right now.

It was a very good show, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t want to talk about it right now.

I was very happy that my husband could meet Rhapsody of Fire (I’m no longer in the mood to emphasize their awesomeness with all caps). My husband thinks I just indulge him with this crap, and I guess I do. I mean, why shouldn’t he spend money for backstage passes if he wants to? He’s generally responsible with his money and is very deliberate in his frivolity. (By contrast, I am more capricious in my frivolity. But that is not the point–it is just a bonus piece of information for you. Enjoy.) So I have no complaints on that count. And I enjoy going to concerts. As I was telling him on Monday, this is not how I expected to spend my golden years, but I like the metal concerts. They’re fun. As you know, I’m usually a hater of fun, but some fun things even I like. I could probably have gone my entire life without meeting Rhapsody of Fire and not felt deprived in any way, but it’s nice to have a story. “Let me tell you about the time I met Rhapsody of Fire.” That’s what I’ll do someday, when I’m feeling like it.

But back to my story. Disclaimers and boilerplate aside, it was very awkward for me to meet Rhapsody of Fire. Not because they’re famous (or, you know, moderately famous in certain circles) but because it is always awkward for me to meet anybody. I never know what to say. And Monday night was no different. There just aren’t that many areas of common interest for me and the guys from Rhapsody of Fire. I like their music, but you can only say, “You guys are awesome!” so many times. Actually, I didn’t even tell them they were awesome. I just said it was nice to meet them. They were very polite. But, you know, there’s no getting around the fact that a) they’re talking to us because we paid them to (essentially) and b) I’m just not a people person. I do not feel any cooler for having met Rhapsody of Fire. I can think of few experiences that have left me feeling dorkier, actually.

It probably didn’t help that I didn’t get much sleep the night before and I’m sort of in the middle of an identity crisis and I’m not sure where my life is headed, except I know there is laundry in it. And I will need to decide what to make for dinner. The future is dim enough that sunglasses will not be necessary. (My apologies to those of you too young to get that reference.) So, you know, I was bound to feel very let down and anxious when it was over. Not to mention extremely awkward and vaguely unhappy while it was occurring. I just don’t like feeling socially awkward. I’ve accepted my social awkwardness, but I don’t like having it thrown in my face–or more to the point, I don’t like having my face shoved into it. It’s humiliating. You know what I mean?

Anyway. There was that. That was a really long day. That lasted into the night. Then the next day I was extra, extra tired and I still had to get the house ready for the housekeepers. Also, I was set to volunteer for Mister Bubby’s fifth grade party the following day, so I really needed to have everything done on Tuesday night, but I didn’t get everything done Tuesday night. I had extremely difficult time getting anything done. I’ve had trouble getting anything done for a while now. I start doing something, and then I get distracted and then I get distracted by something else and then I remember that I was doing this one thing to begin with but it isn’t finished because I let myself get distracted and now it’s too late to start again because I have to get the kids from school or I have to make food for somebody–I’m just not an effectual person these days. It hasn’t helped the self-esteem. Tuesday is a blur, really. I remember not accomplishing enough. That’s it.

Wednesday was weird because it was the last day of school, and I had to leave at 8:10 a.m. to make MB’s “graduation” ceremony–which, as it turned out, was very sweet, but immediately after that I had to report for party-volunteering duty, and guess what. Guess what! I was completely superfluous. THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS. Why do I not volunteer more at school? BECAUSE I AM SUPERFLUOUS. Here’s a recipe for making a socially awkward person feel even more awkward: put her in a situation where she is allegedly being useful but is in fact superfluous. Very awkward. Not to mention somewhat frustrating because how I would have liked to spend the last day of school was taking myself to lunch and enjoying some time to myself for the last time (for three months). Or at least get some last-minute grocery shopping done. But whatever. MB was pleased that I had volunteered, and that is the memory he will take with him throughout his life: His mother cared enough to volunteer at his fifth-grade party.

Then I went home and tried to decide what to make for dinner, which involved me also having to go to the store at 4:30 p.m., which is a terrible time to go grocery shopping. Really the worst. Only morons do it. Morons and people in crisis. I guess I was technically both. Not only was I grocery shopping at 4:30 p.m., but I was grocery shopping at 4:30 p.m. with Elvis. No offense to Elvis, at least not specifically–I enjoy all grocery shopping companions equally; that is, not at all. But that’s what happens when you leave grocery shopping for the last minute and also schedule to volunteer for a fifth-grade party at the last minute. You should never schedule more than one thing for the last minute. So I only have myself to blame. My mother-in-law (who has finally moved out of her California house and is up here for good now) kindly offered to take the kids out for fast food, but between their father and I taking off for a concert Monday night and me freaking out about the housekeepers Tuesday night and all the end-of-the-school-year partying going on both at school and at Boy Scouts and everywhere, my kids had managed to eat nothing but pizza and hamburgers for two straight days, and I really felt the need to cook them some actual food. (Mister Bubby actually had pizza four times between Tuesday and Wednesday. It was a serious problem. Not just me being a martyr.)

And now it’s the first day of summer. It’s a beautiful day, as it happens. If I were a better person, I would take everyone to the park or something. But I haven’t done that. I’ve let them go in and out of the house at their will. I’ve let Princess Zurg be on the computer too much. PZ is not about to jump up and down at the prospect of going to the park anyway. If I were a better person, I would invite PZ’s friend to come with us to the park so she would have someone her age to interact with while she was enjoying the great outdoors. But if I invite PZ’s friend to the park, I will have to invite her back to the house to stay for dinner and possibly spend the night because that’s how it goes with PZ’s friend unless I have a really good excuse for saying, “No, we can’t have you over right now.” And she is already scheduled to be over Friday night, and I just don’t think I can start that party early. I have a dream that PZ makes friends with someone whose house she can spend more time at instead of ours. It’s kind of a crazy dream, but I can’t seem to let it go.

All of this reminds me that Elvis never, ever has play dates and that is also my fault because I can’t expect other people to invite him over. That’s just unrealistic.

EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT.

Remind me to tell you later about the time I met Rhapsody of Fire.

Wontyoubemyneighbor?

I am usually the last to learn about stuff that has gone viral. Except for actual viruses. Those I am usually ahead of the curve on. Anyway, I was just reading about this auto-tuned mash-up tribute to Mr. Rogers, “Garden of Your Mind.” So I watched the video, and the audio portion is fine. I love Mr. Rogers’ soothing voice, even when auto-tuned. The video, however, I do not appreciate. One of the great virtues of Mr. Rogers’s  television show was that it proceeded at a relaxed pace, using a single camera, and allowed the viewer to really imagine that they were right there in old Fred’s living room or walking alongside him in his neighborhood, seeing the action unfold like they would in real life–not like if they were watching it on MTV.

[Wordpress doesn’t want to embed video for me today, so you can watch it here.]

The images in this video come at you so fast and most only last for a second or two. Mr. Rogers seems less like a real person and more like a space alien whose signal is being scrambled. (Granted, the auto-tune doesn’t help in that department.) I understand that it’s an affectionate tribute–someone’s labor of love, which is why it’s almost painful to criticize. But it was also too painful for me to watch. I wouldn’t show it to a young child for fear of its effect on their attention span.

 

Mister Bubby on superheroes

Mister Bubby: DC Universe is all about people wearing their underpants outside of their pants.

Mad: You’re right.

MB: Batman wears his underpants outside of his pants.

Mad: Yes.

MB: Superman wears his underpants outside of his pants.

Mad: And Wonder Woman only wears her underwear.

MB: And a bra.

Mad: It’s a bustier.

MB: The Flash sometimes wears his underpants outside of his pants.

Mad: What about Aquaman?

MB: Yes. Usually. And Hawkgirl wears her underpants outside of her pants.

Mad: And Hawkman.

MB: But Captain America doesn’t wear his underpants outside of his pants.

Mad: Certainly not.

MB: You could make the argument that Spiderman wears his underpants outside of his pants, but I don’t agree with that argument because you can clearly see that he is wearing a latex suit and no underpants.

Mad: Yes. Clearly.

MB: And Hulk just wears ripped-up shorts. And is sometimes naked.

On orthodontia, not having kids, and self-awareness

This morning my orthodontist informed me that my lower teeth were now in just the right position, and I would no longer need to wear the orthodontic elastics. (Those are the little rubber bands that connect the upper braces to the lower braces. For those of you who do not have orthodontic experience.) This is good news, but I’ve had the elastics off for…about six hours now, and I have to say, it still feels wrong. Also, I had fluorescent elastics and it was kind of fun to decide which color I was going to wear every day. I will have to get used to my teeth being slightly lower-profile. I suppose it is good practice for when the braces finally come off, which I’m sure will feel much wronger.

The orthodontist also said that it will be four to six months before my upper teeth are in the right position for me to go ahead with my jaw surgery. I have to say, I am looking forward to having the jaw thing corrected. I’m not looking forward to being on a liquid diet for six weeks (yes, I know, not a liquid diet the whole six weeks, but a liquid diet for so long and then an ultra-soft diet, blah blah–“significant texture deprivation” is the operative phrase I’m looking for), but I am looking forward to having my jaw in the right place. I’ve always known my jaw was messed up, I’ve been living with it for years, and I had gotten used to it. But now, not only have I had all my jaw-related problems laid out for me by professionals, but my teeth coming into their proper positions is making those problems all the more noticeable. Particularly the problem of my lower teeth rubbing against the soft tissue behind my upper teeth. That is annoying. Also, I am constantly aware of my overbite. It doesn’t look any worse, but it feels worse. Partly because of the lower teeth-soft tissue problem, but also because without my teeth being tipped out, I’m very aware of the gap and I find myself wanting to correct it by moving my jaw forward, and that makes my jaw sore.

The airway problem (the fact that as a result of my lower jaw being too far back, I don’t have much of one–an airway, that is) is not really any more noticeable than it was before, but that was my primary motive for getting the surgery in the first place, and I’m looking forward to seeing how a larger airway will improve my life. I’m hoping that it does improve my life. I’m hoping that it means I will sleep better and have more energy during the day. Having more energy during the day would improve my self-esteem because I’d get more done. And I could look back and think, “The fact that I got anything done at all during those years of restricted airway-having is nothing short of a miracle!” and my self-esteem would be retroactively improved as well.

I hope I am not setting myself up for disappointment. I’ll be really happy when I’m no longer aware of my overbite. (Happy about that small fact, anyway. I’m sure I’ll find reasons to be unhappy about other things. I don’t want you all to worry about me turning into some kind of Stepford Madhousewife.)

Anyway.

I was on the Facebook this morning and Slate informed me they’d published this “lovely essay about not having children and being proud and happy about that fact.” Usually–in my observation–when people are “proud” of not having children, it’s because they’re environmentalists who believe that not producing more humans to destroy the earth is a more responsible decision than churning out planet-killers. That’s a really obnoxious reason to be proud, but Slate told me this essay was “lovely,” so I thought I’d see what this person’s deal was.

Personally, I always assume that if a person doesn’t have children, it’s because they can’t have children (for whatever reason) or they don’t want to have children (yet or ever). I don’t really care because whether or not they have kids is no skin off my nose. I understand that other people feel more invested in other people’s reproductive lives. I have several friends who are childless/child-free. One of them feels hassled by her parents because they think she just doesn’t want a family enough to do what it takes. Which in her case, I guess, would be in vitro fertilization and single parenthood, but I don’t think that’s quite what they have in mind. Also, I used to be single and childless. I know, I was still young at the time–I got married at 26 and had a baby before I was 27–but I was also Mormon, so that makes a difference. In Mormon culture 26 is like, say, 34 in the normal world. Technically there is still time to avoid dying alone, but you shouldn’t bet on it. I jest only a tiny bit. So I sympathize with childless/child-free (whichever term one prefers) people who feel “judged.” The fact is that you are being judged. Some people are judging you openly, others in secret. Hence, the need to write some manifesto explaining yourself.

The problem is that people who care about the fact you don’t have children–the people who are judging you openly and irritating the crap out of you–aren’t going to moved by any of your reasons for not having children, no matter how good you think they are, because the kind of people who would tell you your business are the kind of people who think they know better than you. So you think they would listen to you because…? They just never thought of why you might not want to have children? Unlikely.

When someone says they don’t want to have children, I assume one or more of the following to be the case:

1. They aren’t prepared to make the financial or emotional sacrifice children require.
2. They don’t enjoy children.
3. They prefer a more flexible lifestyle than is possible with children.
4. They are afraid they won’t be good parents.
5. They just haven’t felt the burning desire to have children.

I used to not want children. My reasons were numbers one through five, but the most important one was 5. If you have a burning desire to have children, reasons 1-4 for not having children are relatively small hurdles. Yes, even the one about not enjoying children. I didn’t particularly enjoy children before I had mine. When you are struck by the burning desire to have children, you always assume that your children are going to be better than other people’s. (Usually you’re right. Ha ha. Well, it’s true, isn’t it?) I liked other people’s children much more after I had my own, and I like them even better now that mine are getting older and the developmental stages that used to annoy me I can now view with detached bemusement. (Especially since I don’t have to take them home with me.)

I didn’t think the aforementioned essay in Slate was all that “lovely.” It wasn’t un-lovely or anything, but I just didn’t find anything particularly compelling about her story. So she doesn’t want kids, never has. Okay. I’m glad she’s at peace with it. She doesn’t exactly dispel any stereotypes, though. She says she can sometimes see the charm of children, but also that children can be annoying. (Newsflash!) She says it’s taken her 32 years to learn how to take care of herself, so she isn’t convinced yet that she can give her life over to taking care of someone else. Frankly, it was easier not to judge her before she explained herself. (32 years to learn how to take care of yourself? Isn’t this what’s wrong with our country?)

Maybe it’s just sad that people feel the need to justify such a personal decision. In my experience, I’ve felt the need to justify decisions I was insecure about, but maybe I’m just projecting here. Maybe it’s been too long since somebody hassled me about a personal decision. Maybe I just don’t pay enough attention to people anymore. Probably because I was tired of feeling hassled by The Man.

Maybe this whole blog is a justification for all of my bad decisions and I’m just not self-aware enough to know it.

Except I AM self-aware now. Does this mean I’m still insecure? Well, I already knew that.

Well, now I understand everything. This woman didn’t write to explain herself to people who care too much. She’s just commiserating with other people who feel hassled about not having kids. Which means this lovely essay wasn’t written for me at all. Which, if I’d thought about it, I could have guessed. I guess I’m just a sucker for the word “lovely.” Well played, Salon. Well played.

Now I have to get spinach out of my braces. Not that I feel the need to explain why I’m ending the post here. I just want you to feel sorry for me.

Happy birthday to Sugar Daddy

I would give you thirty-seven fun facts about him, but I’m afraid that would be over-sharing.

So far I have had a good my-husband’s birthday. I took a 45-minute nap this morning, before Girlfriend’s play date arrived, and then after I put Girlfriend and her play date on the kindergarten bus, I had lunch with SD. At my favorite restaurant. Does it get any better than that? I’m grateful to SD for being born so I could enjoy this holiday.

Oh, and so we could get married and have this lovely family of ours. Blah blah blah.

Later we’re going out for barbecue, which means I don’t have to make dinner or do the dishes tonight. Well, at least not any more of them, once I finish the dishes from last night. I’m telling you, this husband’s-birthday thing is the best!

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As a result of running so many laps in the school jog-a-thon, Mister Bubby and Girlfriend got raffle tickets for fabulous prizes. Girlfriend got a package of ten glow-in-the-dark necklaces. She put them all on at once. It gave her five minutes of joy. MB won a karaoke machine. I know–how did he get so lucky? Correction: How did WE get so lucky? Actually, he initially thought it was kind of a lame prize; he kept insisting he was going to sell it on eBay or something. Then later that evening he and Girlfriend took it out of the box and started playing with it. Now he doesn’t want to sell it anymore. Quelle surprise! He has burned two CDs of music for him to karaoke (if I may bastardize the Japanese language by using that as a verb) to. Interestingly enough, about half of the songs are instrumentals. I think he just likes going “do do do be do” into the microphone.

Top karaoke tracks for the Madhousehold include:

1. “We Are Young” by Fun.

2. Tron Legacy End Credits theme as performed by Daft Punk

3. Preisner’s “Lacrimosa”

4. Carmina Burana by Carl Orff

Feel free to use this playlist for your next party.

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Girlfriend’s kindergarten class is going to be making pine cone bird feeders, so the teacher sent home a request for pine cones. Girlfriend said to me, “Mommy, I have a pine cone collection, remember?”

I said, “Yes, but a lot of your pine cones are probably too small to use as bird feeders.”

Well, a couple days later she came into my room and showed me a Ziploc baggie filled with her four biggest pine cones. “For the bird feeders!” she reminded me. And then, just for my information, she added, “Mommy, I sent the little ones back into the wild.”

A good steward of the earth, that one.

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I know you all are dying of curiosity about my cough. Is it finally gone? No. But it is much better. I am no longer waking up in the middle of the night to cough my guts out. So that’s great. It’s about as much as I feel I can ask for at this point.

A friend of mine recommended that I gargle with Listerine (the real stuff that tastes like gasoline) morning and night. I may end up doing that if the cough lingers much longer–because as better as I feel, I don’t want to keep coughing forever. It makes people uneasy when you cough around them. The trouble is that I’ve never been much of a gargler. Just not a talent I’ve developed. Well, I learned how to tap dance at 34. Perhaps it’s not too late to learn to gargle.

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Sugar Daddy talks music

SD: I’ve decided that Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash” is the least erotic song about doing it ever written.

Mad: No argument there.

SD: I’ve decided I’m going to write a love song called “When Our Privates Collide.”

(He’s so competitive.)

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Somehow it seems right to end on that over-sharing note today. Also, I have to pick my kids up from school. Enjoy my husband’s birthday, gentle readers. Eat some barbecue. Don’t do the dishes.