Diapers and Wine

At this rate, I should switch to "Exorbitant College Tuitions & Wine."

2011-03-27T21:24:00.008-04:00

Thought I gave it up, didn't you.

No, I did not give up the blog. I missed it. I spent the rest of the winter writing class lectures late into the night, grading and responding to emails addressed to "Professor N." that made me snort. I missed the nights when I could vomit a post about my whiny kids and go to bed feeling like I (sort of) accomplished something.

Kitt turned two last month. We ditched the crib. Now every morning, she wakes up, makes a grand gesture to her big-girl bed and says, "Look! A bed!" The Munchkin is articulate and full of drama in both good ways (imagination? Check.) and bad (Shut off the TV?! I shall never recover!! NEVER!!) Much to my horror/amusement, has no social filter whatsoever.

She is me.

The girls have reached this miraculous age at which they start playing together. Oh my gawd. The play tag, give each other horseback rides, make up games to which only they know the rules. These days won't last; soon they'll be screaming at each other from opposite ends of the house, pulling hair and stealing boyfriends. I wish I could bottle these moments when they are each other's best friend.

Sometimes, just before my IT'S TOO QUIET mom-alarm goes off, I'll find the two of them hiding under a bedspread together, laughing hysterically at each other. It's beautiful. It's adorable. And it lets me finish the laundry before we all suffocate under it and die.

Of course, the Munchkin still constantly asks me where I'm going, even if I just move from the kitchen to the living room. Here. I am going right here, three feet to your left. Wave.

As for me? I shoveled a lot this winter. I bitched and whined every time I had to call for oil, but dammit, the tank got filled. I only forgot to put the trash out a few times. I did my own taxes. I got flowers. I hired a babysitter a while back, and have gotten to the point where I can say, "Hi. You know the drill. Bye," and I'm out the door. It's worth every f**king penny.

So. To sum up: not dead. Laundry finished? Not even close. Back to regular posts?

Uh, yes-ish.

Nothing good gets posted after midnight. As evidenced right here.

2011-01-23T00:20:00.001-05:00

If you are one of these couples, I mean no offense.

But nothing irks me like couples that call each other "Mommy" and/or "Daddy" instead of by first names.

I stood behind one such couple at the checkout line tonight. They came touting their three screaming overtired kids and a cartload of crap pulled from the dollar bins at the front of the store.

Now, there's a certain threshold for calling your significant other "Mommy" or "Daddy." For example, it's impossible to resist when you have your first newborn baby. It's a big deal, and you're entitled. It's also hard not to do it when talking to your kid and the kid references the other parent. If the Munchkin said, "I want Daddy to read to me" then yes, I'd repeat her and say, "Daddy, will you read to her?"

But that's because I'm tired and lazy, and I'd rather just use her word than waste brain power to say a whole new one.

But this couple? It was a thing.

"Ooh! Daddy!" the mom said. "Do we have double-A batteries?"

"Yup."

"Triple A's?"

"Yeah we have lot of those."

"We do?"

"Oh yeah, Mama. We do."

"What about a lint roller, Daddy? Do we have a lint roller?"

"Great find with those pants, Mommy. The boys love those pants....Mommy."

I can't imagine how they talk to each other in bed. That was two minutes longer than last time, Daddy! Yaaaay Daddy! *claps*

Meanwhile they couldn't seem to look each other in the eye and both had these dazed where-the-eff-am-I smiles on their faces. I'm guessing Mommy's secretly boffing the soccer coach and Daddy vents his frustration with a women's shoe fetish.

Meanwhile, it's ten o'clock at night. Their kids are screaming and clawing at each other and trying to bash each other with the shopping cart. All the clerks and straggling customers are staring at them. The weird thing was, the parents almost seemed to be enjoying the attention. Like, "Ahh, here we are! Aren't we craaaaaazy?! Can you believe it?!"

Then again, I recognize that I am in no position to be judging the family dynamics of total strangers. I'm sure they're perfectly happy. Whatever.

They racked up $325 in merchandise. All I wanted was a freaking box of diapers.

Can you blame me for b*tching?

Is it possible to soak a snowball in vodka?

2011-01-11T22:30:00.000-05:00

Winter with kids is so much fun.

And, winter with kids also sucks dinosaur balls. You just never know which one the day will bring. I've already received the no-school-tomorrow call tonight. I've beeen curled up in the fetal position, chewing on my hair ever since.

The great thing about entertaining your kids during the winter is that you get to be a kid again. You make forts, run with sleds (geezus I'm tired), kick up snowstorms with your boots and pretend that the icicles are magic crystals that Tinkerbell and her sidekicks need to make winter arrive on time. Or something. It was an elaborate plot. I got confused.

And yet we've had more meltdowns in the last week than in the last six months. Why, you ask?

Simple. Snow gear.

Both kids have developed an ongoing love-hate relationship with their winter outerwear. They love their snowpants. Then they hate their snowpants. The straps won't stay up and oh, god, now they are twisted. TWISTED! Initiate tantrum sequence.

They can't wait to try on their boots. Then their boots suck. Their socks are bunched up. The zipper is digging into their skin. Boots are the spawn of Satan.

Then, of course, I'm moving too slow. I'm moving too fast and now they think I'm going without them. I stepped on someone's hat. I dressed that one first, and this one wanted to go first. This one is screaming at me. This one is going for a time-out.

Mind you, we're still inside.

Don't even get me started on mittens. Specifically, the inability of mittens to stay on the hand, and the insanity of watching a two-year-old yank off her mitten in frustration, plunge her bare hand into the snow, and then scream because she has no mitten.

In general, once the whining subsides, we have great fun in the snow.

For eight minutes.

They'll only remember the eight minutes, right? That's what matters, right?!

I seem to remember spending hours outside in the snow with my brother. Now I realize that we were probably only out there long enough for my mom to retreat to the bedroom, smack herself with a pillow three times and then regroup in time to make us hot chocolate. And then we probably had a fistfight over who got more marshmallows.

So. Winter fun. What do you do?

I'm not casually asking, here. I'm desperately pleading.

I just saw a snowflake. QUICKLY, PEOPLE!

Then again, I could have gotten a steaming reindeer turd in my stocking and it STILL would have been better than last year. But I digress.

2010-12-29T23:26:00.010-05:00

So, what are you supposed to write when you have nothing to bitch about?

I wish I could tell you that we had a Christmas full of scandal and controversy, but it just didn't happen that way. Last year at this time, my ex had informed me that we'd just had "our last Christmas together." Fantastic, thanks for the heads-up! Grab a cookie on your way out!

This year? Better, to say the least.

No, it was better than better. It was the best Christmas I've had in a long time. I baked. I sang Christmas carols every day, even Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime," which seems to play every thirty seconds and usually annoys the crap out of me. I faithfully hid our Elf on the Shelf every night and got up at dark o'freaking clock every morning so that the Munchkin could show me where she found him.

I talked to people. Friends, relatives, parking attendants, whoever. I didn't hear anyone last year. They'd talk at me while I frantically brainstormed how to dodge the question, "So, how are you?" Every interaction was defined by things I couldn't say. It was like living inside a negative film strip.

I feel like I lived every moment of Christmas this year. It was all about cookies and egg nog for Santa. It was about that first early-morning glance at the presents, when you come downstairs and your entire house seems transformed and waiting.

Also, it was about violating some inflatable presents:

(This toy is clearly manufactured by a group of 15-year-old boys. "DUDE! I know where we can stick the air hole!")

It was about joy.

The real thing. Not the fake thing where you smile psychotically and scream "EVERYTHING IS F**KING GREAT!" whenever someone comes within ten feet of you.

Hypothetically speaking, that is. Ahem.

Hope your holidays were happy, everyone. I know mine were.

Will I ruin the moment by confessing that I bribed them with cookies?

2010-12-15T13:34:00.008-05:00

You forget how beautiful your kids are until you see them through someone else's eyes.

After a while, we stop seeing them. We see tantrums and fights. We see the snippy backtalk and all the things they don't do, the rules they refuse to follow. We see all the kids who are better behaved than they are. We see all the things they are not.

We see the hassle of getting them dressed, changing diapers, washing mysterious blue paint off hands, snapping "DON'T TOUCH THAT" in the public restroom every three seconds while you tweak hair into pigtails, shove barrettes into various places and mediate massive amounts of whining while holding everyone's jackets under your arm, all the while thinking dude, the portrait studio is three feet away but are we even going to make it?

And then somehow, despite all that, they hand you a moment. It's as if they hand you a little gift and say, "Here. This is what we look to people who are not you. In case you forgot."

Which, you did. Temporarily.

This moment snaps you out of your Perpetually Irritable Human coma and reminds you of why you keep going, even when you don't want to. It makes you stop and say, wow, those are my kids.

Suddenly you see them, again. Really see them. Eyes shining, arms clasped around one another, one of them grinning and the other one gazing at the camera with wide, wise eyes. Two different personalities, perfectly captured. They're yours, and they are amazing.

I feel like I saw my girls for the first time today.

Have you seen your kids lately?

Cooking endeavors are getting suggestive all on their own. Not good.

2010-12-14T21:52:00.010-05:00

I really need to stop baking.

I have so much Christmas spirit this year that I'm practically crapping candy canes. It's Christmas! Let's decorate! Let's bake cookies! Let's bake more cookies! Who wants a stick of butter for dinner?

All that weight that fell off during the divorce? Whoa, Nellie. I can feel it sneaking its way back on, plastering itself back onto my butt cheeks, once again settling onto the gelatinous shelf of my love handles.

In short, ew.

I actually love to bake, even when the holidays aren't having their way with me. Cooking, not so much. For example, I tried to make breakfast for dinner the other night and came across something called a "Puffy Oven Pancake." It's supposed to look something like this:

Cute, huh? Doesn't the dusting of powdered sugar look adorable? Can't you just picture a delicate array of raspberries and blueberries pooled in the middle?

I got this:

(I cooked this while on the phone with a friend. "How's it look?" she asked. "It has, like, an air bubble erection in the middle," I said.)

No berry pool for me. Oh well.

Anyway, I enjoy baking from scratch. It relaxes me. There's something about working with my hands, and about using ingredients that only gain meaning and purpose when you put them together. I mean really, have you ever heard someone say, "No, I don't want your f**cking homemade chocolate chip cookie?"

If you have, that person needs to be clubbed.

Really, folks. I have freakishly excessive amounts of both holiday spirit and cookies to share. Come and git it.

I totally look like a celebrity now. From the waist down.

2010-12-05T21:09:00.005-05:00

Today I bought a pair of - oh God, I'm so ashamed - skinny jeans and boots.

I didn't mean to be such a sheep. It's just that, I decided that after the year I've had, I deserve at least one item of clothing not plucked from the clearance rack at Target.

Also, I have an interview this week, and the one collared shirt I own (which I pulled from a Space Bag that's been sitting in my closet for four years) looks so pathetic that I practically apologized to it out loud.

So, I went clothes shopping at the mall this weekend. And all I have to say is, I still don't get it.

The current fashion trends, I mean. Why is everything so...weird? I do not want to wear a drapeneck asymmetrical tunic with ruffles that look like shoulder tumors. I don't do ruffles, period.

As for the wide belts? Come on. For the high-waisted gals like myself, those things wear like corsets.

Shopping windows can be mighty persuasive, though. After walking by sixty-five mannequins dressed in skinny jeans and boots, I found myself staring with disdain at my flare-leg jeans. Was I really wearing a style that had gone the way of polyester and, uh...petticoats?

Baaaaa. Baaaaa.

The boots are cute, I guess. The jeans don't leave much room for donut-eating, so they might have to go. The jeans, I mean. Not the donuts.

Do you get fashion these days? If so, teach me your ways! C'mon, I'll split a donut with you.

Yes, it crossed my mind that I'm obsessing over a freakin' sock.

2010-12-02T23:13:00.000-05:00

Oh, hi, December. Where'd you come from?

I'm still here. Busy preparing for a class I'm teaching this spring. Instead of writing vapid blog posts, I have to write lectures. Lectures, people! From someone whose favorite phrases include "DUDE!" and "Are you f**king kidding me?"

My poor students are screwed.

Anyway, it's December, so let's talk about stockings.

Here are ours, hung with care in the Random Living Room Shelf Area because we have no fireplace.

(Speaking of which, why do they say that stockings were hung by the chimney with care? Wouldn't that require a ladder, perhaps a tether, some bionic brick-friendly adhesive and a lot of cursing?)

First, I hung these three up and left the fourth one in the box.

Then I thought, no, I should hang them all up because the owner of the fourth stocking is still part of the girls' lives and this should serve as a visual reminder that regardless of what's happened, we're both here for them. After all, he hasn't died. Yet.

So I tacked the fourth one at the end.

And then I thought, wait, is this arrangement weird and creepy now? He doesn't live here. Santa will not visit him here. I've spent six months gently kneading into the Munchkin's mind the notion that Mommy and Daddy still love her, but we don't live together anymore. So, why would I hang a stocking? For the sake of consistency, I should take it down.

But which part of me is saying that? Is it the jilted ex-wife who doesn't want the stocking there in the first place, the one tempted to box up the rest of his crap so she can have the closet all to herself? Or is it the sensitive mom who doesn't want to confuse her kids and/or vilify their dad?

Wait, how many people are in this frackin' conversation, anyway?

It seems like a fine line. Between the jilted ex and the sensitive mom. I'm both of them. If I wanted to, I could use them interchangeably as my excuses to do anything.

I took the stocking down. Because it's time to accept that our family has changed. Because really, he doesn't live here. My kids know that. And I'm done with facades.

Good decision? Bad decision? I'm blatantly fishing for honest opinions here.

Tomorrow, though, I plan to let the kids draw with permanent marker in all the books he left behind.

What? They'll love it.

I painted a rainbow on my soap box just for this occasion.

2010-11-17T13:35:00.005-05:00

One of my favorite couples had a baby today.

He came ten days late, a deliciously munchable moose of a child. Twenty-three inches long and - cross your legs, ladies - nine pounds, ten ounces of cute.

His parents are so well-matched, and so disgustingly in love that I can barely remember a time when they weren't together. They wanted a family. They had trouble conceiving and had to change their game plan. They've been hoping and waiting for this baby.

You probably know a couple just like them.

Despite the cheesy song lyrics of old, you can, in fact, have love without marriage. Personally, I think the marriage option should be available to anyone who wants to take a crack at it.

And you can have a marriage without love. Or, you can have a lopsided, dysfunctional marriage where love only flows in one direction. You don't want either one. Trust me.

My friends have both. And now, they have a baby that will grow up in a healthy, loving and stable home. Does anything else really matter?

They've planned and waited. They have baby gear spilling out of their eyeballs. They've stocked their freezer with make-ahead meals. They sweat out twenty-two hours of labor to bring a human into this world.

They are both moms, now. Moms to their beautiful son.

Does anything else really matter?

Can you put "Ice Cream Ninja" on a resume?

2010-11-15T22:47:00.001-05:00

You've washed the dishes, thrown in a load of laundry, and are just about to log some quality time with the DVR when you suddenly remember the half-gallon of ice cream in the freezer.

You wonder, is it safe? The kids, they've been down for about an hour. No noise from the bedrooms. You must be stealthy. Ninja-like. But you're probably in the clear.

You creep across the kitchen and open the freezer. You pull the top off the ice cream and see that there's just enough left to justify a straight-from-the-container approach. Bowls are for sissies.

And then, just as you're about to ~~harf that sucker down with a vengeance~~ spoon the first bite of cool, creamy goodness onto your tongue, you hear a floorboard squeak.

"Hey. Mommy. Why do you have the ice cream out?"

Abort! Abort! Container gets chucked. Spoon gets slam-dunked in the sink. Uh, what ice cream?

"Gah! I mean, hi, honey. What're you doing up?"

"Why do you have the ice cream out?"

"Hop back in bed, please."

"Ok. Why do you have the ice cream out? Why'd you have the ice cream out?"

You tuck her in, pull her Dora sheets and comforter up to her chin. She closes her eyes and tucks her hands under her chin, just like she did as a baby. You can still see her baby face when she sleeps. You put your head on her pillow for a quick snuggle. What a precious moment to -

"Why'd you have the ice cream out?"

Good lord. She's like a neurotic terrier with a tennis ball. Throw the ball! Throw it! Where's the ball?!

Silence. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

"WHY'D YOU HAVE THE ICE CREAM OUT, MOMMY?"

Ohforcrapssake. "Because I was hungry and I've earned it, okay?"

"Oh. Okay. Night."

Night, Munchkin. And, um, butt OUT already, will you?

Tomorrow I'll probably find my toothbrush in the fridge. Again.

2010-11-10T13:35:00.000-05:00

So, have your kids untwisted their Little Mermaid panties from the time change yet? That's always a fun one, right?

My kids? Man, the last two days have given me a facial twitch. By lunch time yesterday they were growling at me, slinking toward me with a crazed glint in their eyes as I cowered against the kitchen cabinets with only an oven mitt and a spatula as my defense, pleading with them, "People, please! A nap will fix this! For the love all that is holy, just GO NIGHT-NIGHTS!"

They seem back to their normal selves. And by "normal" I mean "whiny and a bit bi-polar."

As for me, it turns out that finalizing a divorce frees up massive amounts of mental energy. I can think! I can finish the laundry before it eats the entire house! I can finish an email! I can....wait, what was I saying?

(And just now, I discovered a mug of coffee in the microwave that I believe has been sitting there for at least two days. Ah, so that's where I put it...)

Okay, maybe not massive amounts of mental energy. Maybe more like delicious bites that I haven't tasted in a while because I was too busy watching in horror as the sh*t hit the fan and doused my life in, well, yuck.

But I'm good now. I've had a shower. I don't need to fix anything, or anyone. And I think I'm enjoying the sense of peace that comes from being (finally) comfortable in my own skin.

Also, the kids finally got that nap in. Do you think it's safe to remove my suit of armor now? It's really freaking heavy.

Broken Down. Irretrievably.

2010-11-01T22:30:00.002-04:00

The worst part of our divorce hearing wasn't the waiting.

It wasn't the paperwork. It wasn't the rock-hard courtroom benches. And it wasn't even the motley crew of rednecks, deadbeats and all-purpose losers that surrounded us. Although they provided great entertainment.

The worst part was hearing the judge say, over and over, "Do you agree that your marriage has broken down irretrievably?"

Broken down irretrievably.

It's just part of the script. Something the judge has to say. And yet each time, it was a sucker punch to my stomach. We must have sat through twenty hearings, and with every one, I felt as if I was hearing the words for the first time.

Broken down irretrievably. You built it up, and it broke down. You poured your love, sweat and tears into it, and it still fell to pieces. And no matter what you do, it can't be salvaged. There's no going back.

I switched to auto-pilot by the time our turn came. We were the last couple. I raised my right hand, spelled my name, said "yes" a few times, and then it was over.

I do remember that I glanced around the courtroom, at the American flag hanging on the wall, the court reporter tick-ticking away on her keyboard, the enormous canvas portrait of the presiding judge, and I thought to myself, wow, so this is how you get divorced.

For months, I've been wondering what the opposite of "I now pronounce you man and wife" might be. What does the judge say at the end? What makes it official? Do you have to walk out backwards? Count to three and throw your rings at each other?

For every other couple, he rattled off his legal-speak mumbo-jumbo ruling and then simply said, "thank you" as they shuffled off.

But when he finished with us, he clapped his hands together, pulled them apart and said, "You're divorced, as of now."

It took me back. But I was glad he said it. I needed to hear something like that.

Like I said, we were the last couple of the day, and I think he was just happy to be clocking out. Probably heading home get his daily sponge bath. But I felt oddly satisfied.

I still feel oddly satisfied. And if you're interested, I also feel totally wrecked, relieved, stronger, pissed off, smarter, sad, exhausted and ready. I'm ready.

Ready, for whatever comes next.

This much, I think I know.

2010-10-28T21:38:00.003-04:00

There is nothing wrong with me, and I didn't do anything wrong. I was not a bad wife.

I am a good mom.

When one person really wants out of a relationship, there's not a whole lot you can do to stop them.

When preparing meals, sometimes one must turn on the TV to pacify the children. Even if it's only 6AM. Even if they've already watched three movies in a row. It just Makes. Life. Easier.

The healing hurts, sometimes.

Patience is so f**king hard. Patience is so f**king necessary. Patience will pay off, in the end. (Right? Right??!)

I like myself better now than when I first got married. I like myself better now than before I became a mom.

Whatever it is, I can probably do it. As long as it doesn't mess up my hair.

When you feel like crap on the inside, throw on some mascara and a pair of earrings. It'll do wonders for your mood.

I'm not a failure. Sometimes people walk away from a good thing. It's not up to me to figure out why.

What do you think you know?

Who came up with the idea to count sheep, anyway? Like, really? Sheep?

2010-10-16T01:41:00.000-04:00

I'm having one of those weird nights where I desperately want to sleep, and yet when I lie down my brain is all, HEY WERE YOU GOING TO SLEEP OR SOMETHING BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT'D BE FUN TO EAT MYSELF ALIVE.

For example, let's stress about the impending divorce! Lets re-count the number of job applications I've sent out! Let's gnaw on the fact that I spent the better part of my night at the kitchen table drafting up our marital dissolution agreement! IT WILL BE SO GREAT.

Sorry, brain. It is, in fact, the opposite of great. It's a mountain of suck.

I want to be at a point where this doesn't bother me any more. I've cried enough. I've yelled enough. I've had enough sleepless nights. I want to get over him the way he's totally gotten over me. I don't want to tear up when I think about going to court and listening to a judge pronounce my marriage legally, officially dead.

I'm not there yet, and it just seems so unfair.

Maybe it's because I have the girls as a daily reminder of How it Was Supposed to Go. Not that I'd have it any other way. I want them around. They occassionally make me feel like I'm doing something right. There's something gratifying in the fact that I know them better than anyone, in the fact that it's me they want when they get hurt or scared, and in the comfort of our routine.

(The Munchkin is so set in this routine that every night before bed, she has to look at the clock and ask me, "What number should I wait for?" To which I must respond, "I want you to wait until there's a seven on the clock and Mr. Sun is awake." If I don't use those exact words, she'll get out of bed an hour later, stand at the top of the stairs and yell, "WHAT NUMBER SHOULD I WAIT FOR?!" Oy. Sensitive, much?)

And yet, they have their dad's coloring. Kitt has his entire face. He's part of our daily conversations; I'm forever encouraging the girls to show him/tell him/ask him next time we see him. That's my responsibility.

Responsibility blows, sometimes. I wish I had something more articulate to add but, well, it's almost two in the morning so that's the best I can do.

That thing everyone keeps saying about how it's going to get better?

That time IS coming, right? Right?

Yawn. G'night, folks.

I think we can all agree that a kazoo would have been way cooler.

2010-10-11T19:56:00.008-04:00

Today the Munchkin came into the kitchen where my father and I were chatting and handed me this:

"What does this do, Mommy?" she asked.

"I...I do not know," I replied, as I desperately tried not to use the word "kinky." I turned it around in my hands and noticed some teeth carvings and, I think, an eye hole on each side.

"I think it's a shark," I finally said. Indeed, it looked like a plastic shark head. Yay, mystery solved.

"But what do you do with it?"

I saw an opening in the bottom. So, since I can normally solve any problem by blowing in the holes, I took a deep breath and blew.

Man if I had nickel for every time...never mind.

Pfffffffffffffffftt.

I expected a kazoo-like noise. I got nothing. But, for some reason, I'd convinced myself that it was some kind of cheap musical toy. So I blew harder into the shark's alleged eye hole.

Pfffffffffffffffffttt.

"What is this stupid thing? Why isn't it making any noise?!"

At this point, I noticed my father blinking at me as if I'd randomly blurted something in Russian.

"I believe..." he said slowly, in his best please-don't-scratch-out-my-eyeballs-when-you-realize-how-wrong-you-are voice, "...that is a cap for her toothbrush."

Oh. Not one of my prouder moments.

Probably not one of his, either. Heh.

Raise your hand if you need to go to bed early tonight!

<-----(waving frantically)

I just want to love it, hug it, squeeze it and call it "George."

2010-10-06T20:15:00.006-04:00

This is my first paycheck in four years.

Isn't it pretty?

This is also why I'm not around much these days. Because I'm busy trying to offer tutoring assistance to kids who think that "The sky are blue and flowers is pink" serves as a good way to start an essay.

Instead of crafting a two-page review, I wish I could just write, "DUDE. SERIOUSLY?" in big bold letters.

Anyway, I'm still here. Banging my head on the table.

I used part of this check for a pedicure, by the way.

Best money I ever spent.

Please return your uterus to its upright position. And thank you for flying Air Birth Canal.

2010-09-30T15:34:00.004-04:00

Her: Hey, Mommy. Remember when I was a little baby and I lived in your tummy?

Me: Yes, I think I remember that.

Her: Because your tummy was like a house!

Me: ~~Fuck, don't I know it~~ Yep, it was a house all right.

Me: First you lived there, and then Kitt lived there until she decided, "I am SO outta here!" And you know what happened?

Her: What?

Me: She came flying out! Like this - AAAAAAHHHH! (fake scream, frantic waving of hands)

Her: (hysterical laughter)

Her: Kitt was like an airplane!

Me: Wow, that would be awful.

Pardon me while I vacuum the cookie crumbs off my keyboard.

2010-09-29T21:18:00.005-04:00

A couple of months ago, my mom got me a gift certificate for an Astrology consultation.

Yes, you read that correctly. Astrology.

Which, to be clear, does not mean look-into-my-crystal-ball, or dear-gawd-this-tarot-card-indicates-imminent-painful-death. It's all planets and moons, how things were aligned at the moment you were born, lunar cycles, solar cycles, menstrual cycles, all that jazz.

I only almost-hung-up on the astrologer twice.

I'm kidding. Honestly? I'd recommend doing this at least once. Having a stranger tell you spot-on things about your personality will simultaneously freak your freak and yet give you an odd sense of validation.

She called me a good people-reader and said that I belonged "out in the world." (Really? But, dammit, I like my bed.) She said that the worst way to hurt me is to step on my pride. Perhaps that is why the whole marriage-failure thing didn't sit so well.

She seemed to know about the divorce before I mentioned it outright. Or, she at least seemed to understand that my primary love relationship had become a crap cupcake with pink frosting on top. Her general assessment was that Things Ain't So Hot For You Right Now. What can I say? The star lady is correct.

But, better days are coming. Eventually. Not sure when. But, definitely before I croak.

So, she told me to be patient.

And to try not to overeat.

Pshaw. Whatever gave her that idea? (Nom, nom, pumpkin cookies, nom nom.)

So, patience and celery sticks it is.

Um, are we there yet?

I should start putting "Eat" at the top of my to-do list. Then I'd always feel like I accomplished something.

2010-09-22T21:38:00.000-04:00

Every morning, after I drop the Munchkin off at school, I make a list of things to get done while I have half my total number of children in tow. Grocery store. Dry cleaning. Drop-offs at Goodwill. Blah, blah, my life is so exciting, blah blah.

Then I come home, do none of those things, and end up playing with Kitt on the floor for three hours.

I can't help it. She's so fun.

The thing is, she's used to doing her own thing. My undivided attention doesn't impress her at all. I could perform an entire Broadway musical using sock puppets, and she'd sit there sticking and unsticking a piece of tape on the carpet.

So, sometimes I take 20 minutes to ignore her back and pretend I'm on vacation. Sometimes I am so bold as to make myself a pot of coffee and a breakfast sandwich. As in, like, a HOT breakfast! All for me! Who knew such a thing only takes ten minutes to prepare when you don't have two kids trying to pants you?!

Then I find her and demand that she play with me, dammit.

When the Munchkin was this age, it seemed like I always had to have some brilliant idea for a game. She'd play, but she always followed my lead. Kitt, on the other hand, makes up the games on her own. She already knows what she wants to play.

So she blows on my coffee to cool it down (toddlers are so freaking cute when they purse their lips), laughs hysterically when I let her pretend to drink it. I chase her around the living room. She puts her head under a pillow and lies there with her little bum sticking out until I pretend to find her.

She is so fun.

Playing with her makes me want more kids.

Of course, then I recall the other night when the Munchkin threw a hissy fit at bedtime, screamed for 25 minutes, stripped off her clothes, then came downstairs stark naked and asked me what I did with her pajamas.

Ah. Nothing like a good old-fashioned reality check.

Especially a naked one.

On a cheerier and more amusing note, today my kid asked me where babies "come out of." As in, name-the-specific-orifice.

2010-09-15T20:22:00.000-04:00

Before the BassMaster moved out, I didn't mind sitting around the house at night. I figured, hey, we have Tiny Humans in residence, and this is just something we have to do right now.

For some reason, I can't stand it now. As soon as the girls go to bed, I just want to bolt out the front door.

Not that I'd even know where to go. Most of my friends are housebound by 8pm, since they, too, house Tiny Humans. Or, my friends are pregnant and go to bed by 8pm. Or, my friends have husbands that actually enjoy spending down time at home with their wifeys.

And me? Well, here I am.

Even now, with our first court date on the horizon, sometimes it still doesn't make sense to me.

Most people I know are just now settling down, pairing off, going on trips to exotic places and coming back with diamonds on their left hands. And the married ones are happy. The married ones are having kids, and more kids.

And now here I am, starting over with all of that baggage already at my feet, remnants of the life I thought I'd have forever. I mean, not that I consider my kids "baggage," but it's hard not to feel like I am letting them down in the worst possible way.

Sometimes, I can't believe we're doing this. Seven measly years and, what, we just quit? Because the person with whom I shared that life raised his hand and said, "Hmm, not quite what I expected. Universe, may I please have a do-over?" And the universe went, "Sure! No problem!"

WTF, universe?! Is it because I don't recycle as often as I should? Geezus, I'm sorry.

But other days - most days - I believe that this was the only thing to do. I'd rather be alone and have the freedom to do my own thing (whatever the f**k that is) than spend the rest of my life clinging to the ankles of someone who doesn't want to be with me. That's no way to live, thank you very much.

Anyway, if you happen to drive by some night and see me with my face smushed against the front window, gazing longingly at the night, don't panic. I'm just having an elaborate fantasy about leaving the house and sprinting down the street to get ice cream.

I'm kidding.

I don't sprint.

But in any case, I'll be fine by morning.

Top Ten Reasons I Fell off the Blogging Wagon

2010-09-09T22:19:00.006-04:00

1. Got a part-time job that requires loads of online training. Even someone as life-threateningly addicted to the Internet as I am can only stare at the screen for so long.

2. Road trip to Virginia. With both kids. All hail the portable DVD player.

3. Large amounts of wine consumed with girlfriends in Virginia, which prevented quality posts. NOone likkes a drunck blooger.

4. Hired a babysitter to come a couple of nights a week. She charges too much for me to actually go out and do anything. So I usually hand off the kids and sit on the front steps for three hours.

5. While divorce still blows, I have little to complain about in the broad scheme of things.

6. Facebook.

7. Been trying to go to bed at decent hour so that I can be on my game in the mornings to get the Munchkin off to school. Takes me ten minutes to feed her and get her dressed. Takes me 45 minutes to chase her around the house and wrassle her hair into pigtails.

8. Generally speaking, this single-mom gig wears me the eff out. In a good way. I think.

9. It doesn't matter how often I clean. My kids can destroy a room in seven seconds. I spend a lot of my evening hours cleaning up after them. How lame.

10. Okay, fine I'm out of excuses. I just needed a break. Pardon me, BlogHer ladies but, um, I can haz my ads back now?

Even grown men could benefit from the Goldfish thing, if you ask me.

2010-08-26T22:29:00.000-04:00

The thing is, there are no dudes in my house.

No little boys, and now no big dude, either. We're officially 100% penis-free, high on life.

So when Frogmama's kid announced that he had to go potty this morning, I had to resist the urge to ransack his little backpack screaming, "DEAR GOD, WHERE IS THE INSTRUCTION MANUAL?!"

What? I have girls. I don't know how to manage a pint-sized wiener. I've never actually seen a boy under the age of four properly use the crapper. I mean, did Junior need help? Did I need to toss some Goldfish crackers in the bowl to help him aim? Was I expected to hold his - wait, never mind.

We squeezed into the postage-stamp sized half-bath downstairs (the one I so brilliantly decorated) and I lifted the lid on the toilet. Then he lifted the rim.

I put the rim down.

He lifted it the rim again.

I put it down.

"Have a seat right here, hon," I said.

He looked at me like what is your effing malfunction and pointed at the toilet seat rim. "I need that up," he said.

"Ohhhh. Are you gonna, like...stand up?"

"Yeah!"

Right. Because you are a non-girl.

So he lifted the rim, at which point I realized that the other problem with our lack of dudes is that there's no one to inform me when the seedy underbelly of the toilet needs cleaning. Holy hell.

"Oh, lord. Junior, can you hang on for a second?"

"But I have to go potty!"

"Just let me - oh, gawd - whatever you do, DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING WITH ANYTHING."

Bathroom cleaner, scrubbing bubbles, Clorox wipes and ta-da! Let's pretend that never happened.

And wouldn't you know, he knocked the pee-pee task out of the park. He followed all the steps, even politely ignoring the Munchkin when she snuck a peek and asked him what "that thing on his bum" was.

She meant the thing on the flip side of his bum. And that's another conversation, for another time.

Like, in thirty years.

I know what you're all thinking: the pacing is good but dear God, did I earn the ending??

2010-08-21T20:58:00.000-04:00

Tonight the Munchkin asked me to tell her a bedtime story. As in the old school, make-something-up, don't-even-try-to-pimp-out-Goodnight-Moon method of storytelling.

"Tell me a story about riding a pony when you were a little girl," she said.

I immediately felt terrified, of all things. It was the same fear I feel when I sit down to write a story for a writer's workshop and convince myself, before I've even typed a word, that whatever I put down won't be good enough and will expose me as a total fraud. Then everyone will stare at me, and I'll get all nervous, and I might wet my pants or throw up, and really, it'll just ruin my whole day.

Also, I've never ridden a frickin' pony. I have no idea where she came up with that.

So there I am, thinking okay, that this is what parents do. They tell their kids stories. And I'd better come up with something effing brilliant because this Kodak moment will probably define her entire purpose in life. No pressure.

"Once upon a time, when I was a little girl..." I began. "Ummmm...."

Ponies. Right. Focus, Lisa. Ummm.....F**K.

Then I had a vague memory of feeding apples to some wild horses that lived in a field near the house I lived in as a kid.

"I lived near some ponies in a big field near our house," I said. "And I used to feed them apples off a very big tree in the field, every day. And do you know what happened one day?"

"What?" she asked, wide-eyed.

I HAVE NO IDEA. THINK, DAMMIT!

Then, finally, a brain neuron fires.

"Instead of a plain old red apple, I found a big, sparkly, rainbow apple at the top of the tree."

She gasps. I said "rainbow." This is already the best freaking story ever. To her, anyway.

Turns out this rainbow apple is magic. I feed it to a beautiful white pony, and the pony bends down and lets me climb on its back. I grab its mane and we gallop in circles around the field. Then he gets running so fast that suddenly, I look down and we're rising off the ground. I look behind me, and the pony has sprouted rainbow wings and soon we're flying through the air, punching through fluffy clouds, soaring right over my house where I look down and wave...

The Munchkin barely blinked the entire time. Mouth open, eyes wide, lips at a half-smile. She was transfixed.

Watching her was, well...magical. It was as if she believed, for the first time, that anything really is possible.

Because mommies are always right.

For tonight, anyway.

I need a different-sized hole all together. Wait, that came out wrong.

2010-08-17T13:43:00.002-04:00

Last week, I had a phone interview for a job in a different state.

I didn't get it.

First I was bummed. Then I felt relieved. Then I was bummed again.

I don't really want to move, even though I never thought I'd end up settling here in the Land of a Thousand Pizza and Grinder Shops. I don't want to uproot the girls again. And I don't want to take them away from their dad, because they need their dad. I can't leave just to spite him.

But sometimes, I just want to get the fuck out of here.

We're living in the same house we bought a few years ago, before the Munchkin was born. We started out young and kid-free here, decided to start a family here. All of those memories are still here, except now it feels like I'm remembering someone else's life. Because now, we're sorting divorce paperwork on the kitchen table.

I fantasize about getting out. Out of this town, out of this house, out of the old bedroom, out of this place where everything reminds me of Before. I feel like I'm trying to jam the round peg of my new life into the square hole of my old life. It's not working out so well.

It's quite seductive, the idea of starting fresh.

Also terrifying. Did I mention terrifying? But seductive nonetheless.

Man, my fantasies used to be way more interesting. I mean, there were men with Spanish accents, jacuzzi tubs, knights jousting for my honor, not to mention that one about the mime...

...oops. Oversharing again.

Off to take a cold shower.

My ass has tripled in size, but otherwise everything is great.

2010-08-12T20:30:00.003-04:00

Oh, hi.

I've been off the grid for the past week, vacationing with the kids at a farm resort, located in a weird pocket of New Hampshire where they have no cell phone service.

The horror!

I'll tell you what they do have, though. FOOD. Insane amounts of delicious, fresh home-cooked food.

And I do mean fresh, as in don't-make-up-names for-the-piggies-because-we-serve-bacon-daily kind of fresh.

My diet over the last few days has consisted primarily of warm bread, coffee cake, muffins, strudel, home fries, bacon, sausage, corn fritters, apple fritters, blueberry fritters, cobbler and cookies that they keep in a huge glass canister, in the middle of the dining room, twenty-four hours a day. You could waltz in at 3am and have yourself a cookie extravaganza. And I would, JUST BECAUSE IT'S THERE.

Today I drank four glasses of water and ate one tomato. (Two plants survived the deer incident. Huzzah.) I call it my "Just Because It's On The Menu Doesn't Mean You Need To Order It" Detox Diet.

But I mean, really, who can pass up a fritter?

Anyway, I had a great time, despite the fact that I now have an acute understanding of why people with small children take their nannies on vacation. Even with a pair of grandparents serving as my relief squad, my kids frickin' ran me ragged.

Speaking of bacon, I wonder if Wilbur misses me yet.

Maybe I'll just douse myself in honey, roll around in it and see what sticks.

2010-08-02T20:37:00.000-04:00

Okay, that's out of my system, and I'm officially sick of my whining.

Plus I need to shut up before you all start making chest-stabby "kill me now" gestures whenever you see the word "divorce" in my posts. Like, OKAY IT SUCKS, WE GET IT ALREADY.

Let's move on, shall we?

Here's a question for you all: if you had a bit of money to spend on something just for yourself, what would you buy?

Furniture? Spa services? A case of macadamia nuts?

Hmm, you'd blow it all in singles at the strip club, wouldn't you. I KNEW IT.

But seriously. I mean something for yourself. I don't mean that thing where you walk into Target to buy yourself a new shirt and walk out with fourteen outfits for your kids, a monster package of paper towels, and zero new shirts for yourself.

My dad recently gave me some "just-in-case" money, because he's amazing like that and he hates what's happening right now. As gentle and nonviolent as he is, I suspect he kind of wants to kick the BassMaster in the nuts. (Oh, right, chest-stabby thing....shutting up....)

Anyway, I put the money aside, in a place where I can't access it easily and spend it all on Quarter-Pounders. I figure I'll roll it into a retirement account, because that's the responsible thing to do.

Thing is, part of me wants to just blow it.

For instance, there's the digital SLR I'd love to buy so that I have incentive to take pictures of my kids on a regular basis again. Not that they can stand still for two frickin' seconds, but that's besides the point. There's the new laptop I've been fantasizing about ever since the BassMaster cracked the screen on my old one.

Which is totally why we're splitting up, by the way. I mean, you can't stay married to someone who breaks your sh*t. DUH.

There's two delightful spas at the casinos nearby. I'd love to wrap myself in seaweed for three hours, just so I could say I did it. There are weekend trips I'd love to take, either by myself or with the kids.

So, what would you do or buy for yourself with a small chunk of money? I'm curious.

Oh and, you don't have to say it outright, but we'll all just assume that strippers are part of your plan.

Symptom

2010-08-01T20:30:00.000-04:00

Marriage is not easy, people said.

You two just need to spend more time together. You need adult time. You need to get away.

And I smiled and nodded, all the while knowing that we had a problem far more serious. Our problem could not be solved with a weekend getaway.

It's as if he and I were sitting at a table, both complaining about headaches. No one could see that underneath the table, the real problem was that our legs had been hacked off at the knee.

From the outside, we looked like a husband and a wife who simply needed to reconnect. Based on the symptoms, people gave the right diagnosis. And what they thought was the right medicine. Babysitting offers. Date nights.

But what if your person doesn't want to spend their time with you in the first place?

Then the medicine is pointless.

Time together is pointless.

Because no matter what you do, they can always think of better ways to spend that time. Better people to spend it with.

Without love, a marriage has nothing to stand on.

So I'm here, alone, pulling myself up for what feels like the first time. My legs are shaking (and as usual, I need to shave them), and I'm gripping the wall for balance.

But I'm on my feet.

Some things never change. Such as my maturity level.

2010-07-29T20:21:00.006-04:00

Me (reading):

Her: Why are you laughing, Mommy?

Me: Snort.

Her: Mommy, it's not funny. Keep reading.

Me: Yeah, I'm going. Woodcock....pock........BWAHAHAHAHA!

Her: Mommy, JUST READ.

Me: Who picked this book, anyway?

Her: You did.

Me: Oh. BWAHAHAHA!

The simplest of questions. And answers.

2010-07-27T20:30:00.000-04:00

At bedtime, she asks you to read the book again.

Can we read my special Mommy-and-Daddy book?

Of course we can.

It's about a boy named Addison who has two homes. He lives in one with his mom, and he lives in the other with his dad.

You read the words, "Mom and Dad live in different homes. But it's not because of me."

And Munchkin, your mommy and daddy live in different homes now too, right? But it's not because of you. That means it's not your fault.

She nods, tilts her head at the page as a new question forms in her mind.

But, Mommy...then whose fault was it?

You swallow hard, twice. Don't cry, you tell yourself. Not right here.

It's Mommy and Daddy's fault, you say, and your voice breaks because the truth sucks and it hurts, still.

But not yours, and not Kitt's. You didn't do anything wrong.

She shrugs, quips "Okay!" and seems totally satisfied with your answer. You are glad she can't tell that your insides feel liquefied.

You finish the book, kiss her coconut-scented head. As you turn off the lights, she asks if you will read the book again, tomorrow.

Of course I'll read it tomorrow.

And you will.

Because that's what you do.

Okay, folks. It's an event, it's one word, and it rhymes with "shmer-smorce."

2010-07-22T14:30:00.004-04:00

A fun fact I learned this month: the state marshal's office is located right next to the library.

Our divorce papers sat around for a bit because the BassMaster needed to drop them off at the marshal's office. The marshal would sign them, make copies, and send someone out to serve me.

I didn't like to look at them. Every time I saw them I felt like they were waving at me and saying, "Hey, remember how this is happening? Muahaha."

Jerk papers.

So after a couple of days, I asked him if he wanted me to drop them off next time I took the kids to the library.

He shrugged. "If you want to," he said.

Yes. About as much as I want to snack on fried horse testicles, thank you.

An hour later, I found myself standing in the marshal's office with both kids, one stroller, two bags of Goldfish crackers and fourteen sippy cups in tow. The papers were tucked into my diaper bag.

Three clerks sat blinking at me. I considered breaking into song. Or Charades, maybe? First word, sounds like...

"Uh, hi," I said. "I need to drop these off." I held the papers out. One of the clerks looked them over and eyed me.

"You're the one getting served?" she asked.

"Yeah. I thought I'd just drop them off since I was in the area..."

Blink, blink.

"...and see, he works on a submarine so he doesn't, uh, have a lot of time during the day to, uh..."

Blink.

"Huh," said one of the clerks. "Well, if you want to hang on for a minute, I'll make copies and we can just serve you right here."

I threw up in my mouth a little. "Like, right...right now?" I stammered. "I mean I really just wanted to drop them off, I didn't think I was gonna..."

"Sure," she said. "Hey Hal, we can do that, right?" she said to another clerk behind her. Hal nodded. "Plus, you'll save a few bucks since there's no travel expense involved."

Well, sh*t. That totally makes this worthwhile.

And then it hit me. Holy hell, I was doing the BassMaster a favor. The favor of serving MYSELF divorce papers, so as not to inconvenience him.

Because I was still operating in Wife Mode. Conditioned to make life easier for him if the chance presents itself. I'm going to Walmart, do you need anything? Want me to throw your clothes in the dryer? Want me to take care of those pesky divorce papers for you?

Ohmigod, where is a therapist when you need one?

The clerk giggled as she took the papers to the copier and said, "Gee! This is so weird!"

"Thanks. That makes me feel much better," I said.

While she did the copies, I made small talk with the kids. Are your crackers yummy? Should we go to the library after this? Yes, Mommy is talking to her new friends! Yes, kids, this kind of errand is PERFECTLY NORMAL.

Finally, she handed them back to me with a receipt.

"Thank you very much," I said. Totally out of habit.

Gah. Thank you very much? Stop being so damn polite, Lisa! Go kick Hal in the shins!

I've never felt so glad to get out of anywhere in my entire life.

And then we went to the library, of course.

Because, y'know, WE WERE IN THE AREA.

I'm like that person who says "Stop me if you've heard this one before" and then keeps talking anyway.

2010-07-20T20:59:00.002-04:00

I keep waiting.

I keep saying to myself, "After I tell this person and this person, then I'll blog it." So I tell those people. But then, I realize I'm still not ready to blog it because I don't want it to be true.

But it is. And there will never be a "good" time to spill it. So.

The BassMaster and I are getting a divorce.

No waffling anymore. He filed last month, moved out a week later.

(I know. I'm like The Girl Who Cried Divorce. Trust me, this time THE SHEEP ARE GONNA DIE.)

But it's okay. Well, I mean, it's not. Not totally. I'd kind of like to still be married. That was my original plan.

But it's better, because we no longer have to function under the stress of trying to fix something that just can't be fixed.

Sometimes I look at the girls and wonder what we're doing to them. Will they end up sleeping with their high school chemistry teacher because of unresolved Daddy issues? Will they become makeup-shellacked, Chihuahua-toting brats because neither of us can stand to deny them anything else?

I'm going with "over my dead body" on that one, but it's still early in the game.

Gah. This is going to be so fun.

Or I think, there has to be something else I can do.

There isn't.

So, does this mean that I will probably subject you to divorce posts so numerous and repetitive that you will want to slam your head on the keyboard? Does it mean that you'll know some of the odder, funnier stuff that has often inspired me to say, "Fer sh*t's sake, this could only happen to me?" Does it mean I will also subject you to the occasional nobody-loves-me post that I write at one in the morning?

Yes. Yes it does.

Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and I'm currently accepting donations of chocolate. Thank you much.

I can still bang out a fourteen-minute mile like no one's business.

2010-07-13T22:33:00.000-04:00

I always had a tough time in gym class.

Mainly because I had the athletic prowess of Jabba the Hutt.

I couldn't seem to make my body do the things I wanted it to do. You know, the stuff that the girls with the sculpted calves and the midriff-bearing t-shirts could do. How'd they do that, anyway? My t-shirt always looked like a frickin' burka.

Mind you, I was not overweight. And I never looked for excuses to get out of class. I tried really, really hard. I just plain sucked at sports. I even remember one volleyball game when my entire team screamed out "Noooooo!!" as the ball soared in my direction.

Ah, that was a great day.

So, now that I have an active three-year old on my hands, I did what any semi-traumatized mom would do, and I signed her up for gymnastics. Because dammit, I want her to look cute in her gym shorts.

I'm kidding. I'll support any and all of her hobbies, always. If she comes to me one day and tells me she wants to carve scrimshaw for the rest of her life, I'll totally have her back. After I Google "scrimshaw," like I did just now.

When we stepped in the gymnasium, I started to twitch a little bit. The air had a slight musty smell, mixed with the smell of sneaker soles and rubber mats. Ah, the sweet scent of TOTAL REJECTION, I thought. I kind of wanted to hide under the bleachers.

Then, as the kids lined up on their mats, before the class even began, I caught this on film. If you've never seen my kid, look for the pink thing with the joyfully flailing limbs:

And I remembered, it's not about me. It's not about living vicariously through my kid (and I mean let's face it, that NEVER works out).

It's about a kid on a mat who can, quite literally, dance like no one's watching. Rock on, sister.

(Aren't her gym shorts cute? Just saying.)

The Mama Muscles

2010-07-08T22:33:00.005-04:00

Just now, while sitting here trying to think of what to write, I poked my bicep and thought, wow, this thing is kind of hard.

I know. Wow, Lisa, that is really f**king profound. Quit touching yourself and go do something productive.

Anyway, I've never been able to keep with a steady workout routine, ever. I think it's the only toned muscle on my entire body. Unless you count my other arm.

How did that happen? Kids, of course.

They're the muscles I use to pick my girls up when they're hurt or scared. The ones I've used countless times to lift them into high chairs, booster seats, carnival rides, playground swings.

They're the ones I've used to carry my 40-pound Munchkin up a flight of stairs for her nap. Because sometimes even a big girl needs to be cuddled.

I use them to help Kitt jump over the waves in the ocean. And to swing her in circles, just for fun.

I have to use them, even when I want to take a day off.

They're the muscles I used to cradle their heads when they were babies, when I'd pull them into bed and ease back onto the pillow in a desperate attempt to squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep. I held them for hours. And when my arms were tired, I held them some more.

They're my mom muscles. I've worked harder for them, put in more sweat and tears for them than anything I'd ever get from logging time at the gym.

And they'll only get stronger from here.

Do I at least get to choose who gives me my sponge bath?

2010-07-07T22:41:00.002-04:00

I broke up with Arthur Murray.

It wasn't him, it was me. Okay, it was him. His salsa lessons were outrageously expensive, and the program was way too intense for someone who just wants to learn how to dance in heels without impaling herself.

Still, I requested extra dollars for babysitting in the budget this month, and I'm trying to get out more and do things that make me happy. I don't really know what those things are yet, exactly. I just know that sometimes it's nice to be out and about after 8pm on a weekday. It practically makes me feel like a real adult.

So when I found a Latin ballroom dance class offered through the local recreation department - six weeks for half the price of Mr. Murray - I decided to sign up.

I drove half an hour to the office to pay for the class. I set up a sitter for the kids. I made sure they napped well so that they wouldn't go to the Overtired Dark Side and make said sitter want to toss them into oncoming traffic.

I fed the kids, dumped them at the babysitter's house, and even arrived on time at the gymnasium where the class was supposed to take place. I inwardly congratulated myself while I waited.

And waited.

I waited for ten minutes, and no one else showed up. Not even an instructor. Which is a sure sign that 1) you are in the wrong place or 2) your instructor has been eaten by mountain lions. I finally flagged down a janitor.

"Do you know if there's a Latin ballroom class here tonight?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah, that," he replied. "They moved that to the Senior Citizen Center."

Of course they did.

The Senior Citizen Center? Really, now. Why not move it to a swanky hotel conference room? Or a Mediterraean villa? Or heck, even a good old-fashioned church basement would do. Gah.

If you're thinking that the office staff should have told me that the location had changed, you are correct. If you're thinking I didn't feel so much eager to spend my "night on the town" at the Senior Citizen Center, shuffling back and forth with some stranger's Uncle Roy who wears a toupee and smells like denture cream, you are also correct.

What's the deal, universe? First you try to get me to collect cats, now you're sending me to the senior center? Do I look seventy-five to you? I am just trying to get out and do something off the mommy clock once in a while. WHY MUST YOU CONSPIRE AGAINST ME?

Ahem.

Seriously, this shouldn't have to be so hard. Mommies need to have fun too, dammit.

On a lighter note, I've decided to throw my next birthday at the old folk's home. Look for the balloons and the goody bags filled with bottles of Geritol.

Word to My Mother, Yo.

2010-07-05T21:15:00.004-04:00

Today is my mom's birthday, and I mention it here because if I have ever written anything that made you laugh, you have her to thank.

I inherited her dry, Irish sense of humor and her ability to read people. You can also thank her for the way I tell stories (when you stop and say to yourself, "where the heck is this going?") and my grand affinity for oversharing. Shut up, you know you love it.

When people say to me, "I feel like I can talk to you," I know it's because of her. When I give advice, or when a friend needs to vent, I hear her words coming out of my mouth. Go with your gut instinct. Well of course you feel that way/said that thing/slapped that cab driver, who wouldn't?!

She's not afraid to use the f-bomb when necessary, and she makes a mean batch of shortbread cookies at Christmas. Growing up, she always - always - knew the right thing to say when girl drama ensued at school or when boyfriends dumped me.

I want my girls to feel like I always know the right thing to say to them, too. I want them to wonder how I got to be so f**king smart, just like I did with my mom.

My secret? Oprah. I record every episode and take notes.

I'm kidding.

I know too many moms who have no one to model themselves after. I know some women who can't even talk to their moms. I can't imagine what that must be like.

For the record my mom provided a hell of an example. I'm a better parent for it. I'm raising strong, confident girls because that's the way I was raised. I wouldn't trade her for anything, quirks and all. Even if she has misplaced a pair of eyeglasses in every one of the lower 48 states.

Happy birthday, mummy.

The real problems will begin when one of them writes back.

2010-06-30T22:27:00.000-04:00

Dear Neglected Vegetable Plants,

Listen, I tried. I watered you every day, kind of. I kept my kids from trampling your leaves. I weeded you, sorta. It's not my fault that deer came by and ate your heads. Came out one morning and there you all sat, stripped of your leafy green tops, all stems and stalks and munched-off ends. You looked naked and surprised, sort of like you'd been busted at a truck stop. Sorry. We'll try again next year.

Love,
The Deadbeat Gardener

***

Dear Microsoft Excel,

Thank you for helping me create the spreadsheet in which I tracked my spending this month. I played with it every day. Damn, I love a good spreadsheet. Especially the Autosum button. In fact, I spent more time coloring this one in, merging cells and making it look pretty than I did thinking about where to cut back. Turns out that most of my money goes toward Coffee and Donuts To Consume in the Car. Like I couldn't figure that out on my own.

Thanks again,
Me

***

Dear "Top Chef,"

Could you possibly air yourself at an hour more convenient to binge-eating? The dinner hour, perhaps? See, I can't NOT eat when I watch you. And harfing down a bag of popcorn and two peanut butter sandwiches at 9:30pm just because I WANT SOMETHING IN MY MOUTH makes me hate myself in the morning. Stop making everything look so good. Or start cooking bad stuff. Crap on a stick, maybe? That'd work. Thank you for your prompt attention.

Love,
My Muffin Top

***

Dear Kitty on the Back Deck,

You are adorable. And I know you're declawed and friendly and all, but now is not a good time for me to start collecting cats. I'm too young. TOO YOUNG, you hear?? So stop meowing at my door and rolling over to show me your belly. You will not break me. Plus, I'm a dog person. It'd never work out. Please take your cuteness elsewhere.

Love,
Okay, Fine, I Left You a Can of Tuna. Here Kitty Kitty....Dammit, NO!!

Of course my brain has teeth. Doesn't yours?

2010-06-28T21:14:00.004-04:00

I bought a half-gallon of ice cream and a bottle of wine at the store tonight, and I can't decide which one I want to attack first.

I'm not even self-medicating tonight. I just, y'know, want them both. The Munchkin and I actually made little scoops of vanilla ice cream this morning, courtesy of the good old Ziploc/rock salt/ice contraption.

It was the most scientific thing I've done in years. Seriously.

And it actually worked, except for the part where Ziploc seal gave out (apparently I don't know me own churnin' strength) and spewed salty ice cubes all over the floor.

"Uh, Mommy...you made a mess."

"No, this is what's supposed to happen. Now pipe down and get the mop."

It made an unholy mess. But we had fresh ice cream, dammit, and THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERS.

I spent the last few days bopping around New England, visiting good friends who totally get my crazy and who don't mind if I randomly mumble curse words during dinner. They don't even bother to ask, "who are you talking to," because it doesn't matter. It's just me, doing my thing.

Anyway, we made it home. Right now, my babies are asleep. The house is quiet. It's nice.

My nights are more peaceful lately. For a while there, my own brain tried to gnaw me to death whenever it got quiet. It was exhausting. Things are now quieter, inside and out.

Although I sometimes wish my neighborhood was more like a college dorm. Remember how you could just open your door and yell, "Hey! I'm making popcorn!" and have instant company?

Of course, you could achieve the same effect by yelling, "Hey! I'm not wearing panties!"

But I don't really want that kind of company, then or now.

For now, I think I'll go with the ice cream. I'll save the wine for my midnight snack.

She's fine, honey. Just, um, keep clapping.

2010-06-23T07:10:00.000-04:00

We have a Tinkerbell birthday candle kicking around, left over from the Munchkin's third birthday. It cost me about two dollars, so of course the girls are completely obsessed with it. All the other expensive crap I bought? They could care less.

Come to think of it, why do I even bother with pricey toys?

They love it so much that I just started leaving it on the kitchen windowsill instead of rooting through the drawers whenever they came asking for it.

They point or whine for it, I hand it to them, they fight like crazed hyenas over it, fifteen minutes later they don't give a sh*t about it and I find it abandoned next to the toilet. Back on the sill it goes.

Today, I just happened to glance over. Things must have gotten violent:

Uh, Tink? TINK?? Speak to me, Tinkerbell! NOOOOO!!

Something tells me that all the clapping in the world won't fix this one.

Shortly after I snapped this shot (and tossed her lifeless body in the trash), the Munchkin found the severed head on the floor. Totally wigged her out. As she stared at it I could practically see the words, "That ain't right" going through her brain.

Rest in piece, Tink. We'll be heading to Walmart tomorrow to find your replacement.

And I had such a good speech prepared. What a shame.

2010-06-21T20:57:00.015-04:00

En route to the ice cream store the other night, my 3-year old sighs thoughtfully and says, completely out of the blue:

"Mommy, I want a man."

Screeeeeeeeeech.

"What did you say?"

"I want a man."

Sweet. Jesus.

Ok, Lisa. Don't panic. This is one of those Parenting Moments. This is what you've trained for, solider!

I think immediately of the fact that she hangs with an older crowd, eight-and-nine year old neighbors who also have older sisters. She's just repeating something she heard. Like how she calls Kitt a "goofball" because she hears you say it all the time. ~~Or how she yells "Shit!" whenever something breaks.~~

Mentally, I am Gearing. Up. I rehearse lines that begin, "Sweetie, sometimes when bigger kids blah blah blah, it doesn't always mean that you should blah blah blah," and wonder, does she know what the word "appropriate" even means? What's a smaller word that means the same thing? "Nice?"

Gah, what would Dora the Explorer do??

"Who said that to you, honey?" I ask her. "Did (neighbor) say that?"

"No," she says, looking at me like I'm the dumbest human she's ever encountered.

I'm getting concerned now. I want to know who I can blame for this, dangit. I stop the car, turn around and give her my most serious Mommy face.

"Munchkin, what do you mean, 'you want a man?'"?

"I want a man ice cream. With the eyes, and the nose, and the hair.."

"What the - ohhhhhhhh..."

That would be this dude.

I devoted five whole minutes of parental brain bashing to none other than Mr. Conehead Sundae.

She got her man.

I could really go for one right now, actually. Then again, I bet he totally leaves his dirty underwear all over the freezer.

I fantasize about garlic presses and fancy cameras. I'm eclectic like that.

2010-06-18T15:56:00.005-04:00

Notice anything different about me?

No, I haven't had my boobs done.

But I did get two sweet awards from Cheri, and blog bling makes me feel fantastically gangsta. Scroll down and check 'em out on the left.

Cheri lives in the Philippines, which is in itself way more interesting than anything I have going in my own life, so I enjoy living vicariously through her blog and feeling exotic by association. I command you to go visit her and leave her some love.

Rules of award acceptance are: thank the people who gave the award, tell you seven things about myself you may not already know, and then pay it forward by nominating 15 bloggers I’ve recently discovered.

So.......thanks, Cheri! Seven things you may not know:

1. I love kitchen gadgets. I recently bought a julienne peeler, a hamburger press and a cheese slicer and am constantly looking for excuses to use them.

2. I'd love to buy a nice camera (like, say, this one) and pick up photography as a hobby.

3. I came close to having gestational diabetes with both my pregnancies and wonder if it's a harbinger of things to come.

4. Movies that always make me cry: Ghost, The Neverending Story (that part where the horse dies? Oh mah gawd), Stepmom, Forrest Gump, Shakespeare in Love. I also bawled like an infant at the end of Marley & Me.

5. Favorite thing to order at the coffee shop: medium coffee w/milk and sugar, sesame bagel in the bag. No, not toasted. No, no cream cheese, thanks. Just in. the. bag.

6. I hit a dog with my car when I first got my license. It ran off, and I drove home in hysterics. We never found it, or its owners. I tell myself that the dog must have survived, though there's probably some poor kid out there who's still traumatized from finding Rover dead in the front yard.

7. This week, Kitt became the first of my children to get a black eye when she whacked her face on the coffee table. I feel like I should wear a sign that says I SWEAR I DIDN'T PUNCH HER.

Speaking of which, she just tripped and is trying to crawl into my lap (not now, honey. Mommy is blogging) so I need to wrap it up. I'm officially paying this forward to anyone who reads and wants to participate.

Don't you all feel special?

Wordless Wednesday: Blue eyes and boogers. That's my girl.

2010-06-16T22:59:00.002-04:00

It's hard not to think dirty thoughts when you type "pleasure" this many times in one sitting.

2010-06-15T22:10:00.001-04:00

For my last birthday, I asked for a subscription to Real Simple magazine, mainly because their tagline - "Life made easier" - seemed like a good mantra with which to enter my thirties. The sh*t in my life was hitting the fan in a big way (it still is, but that's another post), and it just seemed to make so much sense. Who doesn't want an easier life?

This month features an article called "Ten Ways to Find More Pleasure Every Day." Unfortunately, it's not a tutorial on ten new and exciting places to hide your vibrator. Dangit.

But it's still a good read. Author Paul Bloom distinguishes between "happiness" and "pleasure" in the following way:

Happiness is a prolonged state of being that is influenced by a variety of factors...Pleasure, on the other hand, is a purely instinctive reaction with a brief life span: 30 seconds to an hour or two, tops. And while happiness can be elusive at times, sources of pleasure are fairly easy to come by.

Damn, an hour or two? I say if you find a man with that kind of stamina, you've found pure unbridled HAPPINESS, my friend.

Oh, wait, he's not talking about that, is he.

At any rate, this got me thinking. Where do I find pleasure? How do I carve little bits of it out of the combination trainwreck/colonoscopy that is my life sometimes? How can I take the little bits and grow them into large, unwieldy chunks that could potentially take the form of a spa weekend or a wine vacation in Napa Valley?

Whew. Reel it in, Lisa. Baby steps. Here are some bits and pieces of pleasure in my life, listed in no particular order:

1. Hot bubble baths.
2. Running a flat iron through my hair in the morning.
3. Curling my eyelashes
4. Finding an empty cushy chair at the bookstore.
5. Trying new recipes (most recently, Cold Strawberry Soup)
6. Sushi
7. The smell of a crisp fall morning
8. A book I can't put down
9. Blog comments (quiet, you know it's on your list, too)
10. Brushing the Munchkin's hair before she gets into bed
11. Fresh-ground Dunkin Donuts coffee
12. Playing peek-a-boo with Kitt
13. Sitting on my front steps at dusk
14. Flannel sheets
15. Crawling into a made bed at night
16. Double naps. 'Nuff said.
17. Fresh salsa
18. Belly laughs from my kids
19. Cinnamon candles
20. Quilted toilet paper
21. Getting out of the house before 10am.
22. Waking at 6am and realizing my kids aren't up yet, thus allowing me to go back to sleep.
23. Bargain shopping
24. Clean, uncluttered countertops
25. And finally these, for some reason:

Transparent playing cards. Fun to shuffle and flip for no reason. Plus they're all sleek and slippery...kind of smooth and buttery...and you can rub them all you - um, never mind.

Okay, time for a little audience participation. How do you find pleasure every day? What are "the little things" that make you smile?

Keep it clean, people. For a change.

Sometimes I Accidentally Tuck My Cape into My Underwear

2010-06-13T14:09:00.004-04:00

Funny thing, motherhood.

No matter how often I think, "Gah, I just want to be by myself," no matter how times I threaten time-out or bite my tongue to prevent four-letter words from escaping, this much is true: I can't stand to be away from my kids.

Usually.

Right now I'm sitting in my local bookstore. Got myself an iced coffee (lots of room for milk, please) on the table, copy of The New Yorker in my lap and I'm clicky-clicking away on the laptop. All is right with the world.

(Ok, so I actually have a trashy tabloid in my lap. What? It's Sunday.)

And, in a pleasantly surprising exception to the norm, I don't feel the least bit guilty.

I don't feel guilty, because I give my kids 110 percent, every day. I'm focused on them all the time, even when they're sleeping or (praise Jesus) playing by themselves for thirty seconds. What can we do? Where should we go tomorrow? What form of entertainment can I think up that doesn't involve the television set? Can I make a game out of emptying the diaper pail?

Also: do I talk to Kitt enough, my poor neglected second child? Do they both feel loved enough? Am I splitting my attention equally? Wait, why is it so quiet and why do I smell smoke?

I don't feel guilty, because the BassMaster is a perfectly capable caregiver. He works hard, he works crazy, long hours and sure, he needs breaks. Sure, a game of "tea party" with Froggy and Mr. Bear might not be his idea of a good time. But if he complains, I shall simply remind him of all the times he gets to go to the bathroom with door closed.

Because I work hard, too. And like him, I'm good at what I do. Except I don't get a paycheck. That'll change when I take over the world, of course. Muahaha.

And, hey. Hey you there, reading this. You're good at what you do too, in case no one's told you lately. Chances are they haven't, mothers being the invisible f**king awesome superheroes that we are.

Few more sips of coffee, then back into the fray. First, I think I'll hit the bathroom and hang out in there for fifteen minutes, just because I can.

No Wonder I Have a Thing for Bananas

2010-06-10T20:07:00.000-04:00

I took the kids out for dinner last night (because I mean really, who wants to cook, ever?), where they had paper placemats that showed the Chinese zodiac.

"Mommy is a monkey," I said as I pointed to the picture.

"What does it say?" the Munchkin asked. And then I read this:

You are very intelligent and are able to influence people. An enthusiastic achiever, you are easily discouraged and confused.

Good, nice, keep talking, tell me more and.....oh. Right.

Frighteningly accurate, I regret to say.

Which reminds me....

............

...........

.........I don't get it. And what were we talking about, again?

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Just-Under-the-Wire Edition

2010-06-08T21:40:00.000-04:00

Foods I love that a lot of people hate: dried mangoes, avocado, mayonnaise, tomatoes, Peeps, marshmallows in general, artichokes, spinach.

Speaking of food, does anyone ever actually order Rum Raisin ice cream? I just can't make it taste good in my mind. Maybe I should go pour myself a couple of shots to test it out. Ooh, I can use up those stale raisins stuck in the kids' car seats.

Hey, Frogmama is pregnant! Guess how I congratulated her? By dumping my kids with her for two hours so that the BassMaster and I could climb into the ring for another round of marriage counseling! Dude, I am the best friend ever. Go read her announcement, where she turns "burying the lede" into an art form.

I've been thinking about giving Twitter another shot. We broke up months ago because I never tweeted. Tooted, yes. All the time. But no tweets. Is Twitter worth the mental stress of having to remember yet another username and passwword? Will it make me a better person? Will it clean my toilets?

I read online today that the oil slicks along the Gulf coast are getting so hot that the oil is actually starting to cook the birds. I think that's the most awful thing I've heard in a while.

Thinking I might break down and read the Twilight series this summer, just to see what all the fuss is about.

Last night I found myself cooking macaroni and cheese for not one, not two, but FIVE kids, two of whom belonged to me and three of whom popped out of nowhere. It's part of this strange and wonderful entity known as "Neighborhood Kids." This is a foreign concept to me, and I think I'll post more about it later. All I know is, they can hear a bag of animal crackers being opened from five houses away. And you cannot feed just one.

Go visit The UnMom for more lovely randomness. Go on, you know you want to.

Solace in a Pita Pocket

2010-06-05T19:28:00.002-04:00

I love college campuses. Especially old ones.

There's something about the combination of stoic halls and grassy courtyards that makes a college campus feel like its own protected universe. One where time doesn't really exist.

Even at the Big State University I went to last night, you can only drive so far, and then you inevitably run into a barricade, dead end, or a turn-around at the edge of campus. So if you want to go further and see more, you have to get out and walk. It's like a polite way of saying, "Hi, your obnoxious motor-powered reminder of the real word is not allowed here."

I went by myself. Now that the school year has ended, the campus has gone into a peaceful summer hibernation. I loved the quiet.

For dinner, I found a hole-in-the wall Mediterranean place. I had a gyro and homemade baklava. The man at the counter spoke with a thick Turkish accent and never stopped smiling.

"Enjoy your food!" he said as I paid him. Then he leaned in as if about to divulge Turkey's deepest national secret and said in a low voice, "I put extra tzatsiki sauce for you. Make it very good for you."

"Oooh. Thanks," I said.

"And I put extra napkins."

Extra napkins? It's like he knew me, this guy.

"Thanks. You're the best," I said.

"Big pleasure! Big pleasure! Goodbye now!" he cried.

Then I went to see "Rent" at one of the campus theaters. During the intermission, I walked back to my car and ate the other half of my gyro in blissful silence.

It felt nice to slow down. Especially now, when every fiber of my being yells at me to move on, go forward, get on with your life, go to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. I sort of felt momentarily suspended above the insanity of my life.

Gah, what a mess. Such a mess that sometimes all I can do is chuckle, roll my eyes, love my girls, eat baklava, sing show tunes alone in my car and go find a frat party. Which is exactly what I did.

Everything except the frat party, that is.

I mean, come on. I didn't get home til, like, eleven-thirty. That is way past my bedtime. In fact, I need the rest of the weekend to recover. Time to prepare the sponge bath and hit the sack early.

I Need Superglue and a Roll of Duct Tape, Stat

2010-06-04T13:46:00.011-04:00

Is it just me, or is it effing impossible to get your kids to sit down and take one good picture together?

Maybe mine are just too young to understand a directive like, "Stand still and smile." In fact, I'm convinced that their brains receive this command and immediately translate it to, "Flail wildly and try to strangle each other."

I haven't uploaded anything to my poor neglected online photo album in months. My family has probably forgotten what the kids look like. I take my camera everywhere and use it almost every day. But they're all crap shots:

Go stand next to Kitt and smile! Ready? Smiiiiiiiillllllleee..........

Um, Kitt? Kitt, go back. Stop walking. Halt. Desist. Hellooooo....

Okay! Let's try this again! Sit down right here and smiiiiiilllllllle...Munchkin, can you sit? Sit down. Yeah, it's the camera. No, you can't hold it. Can you sit still for Mommy? Sit. Sit down. Roll over. Don't make me hang you on the wall again.

Let go of the camera. LET. GO. Please do not press the -

Great. Can't wait to put this on the Christmas card. Man, look at those rolls. Nom nom nom.

Seriously. I must be missing something. How do people do this without use of restraints and/or massive doses of children's Benadryl?

Happy weekend, everyone. Say cheeeeeeeeese.....

Admit it, You Want to Pee at My House Now.

2010-06-01T21:28:00.001-04:00

When I was pregnant with the Munchkin, I agonized over how to decorate the exclusive, character-defining area known as the Wall Space Above the Crib.

Oh, the pressure. I knew that whatever I decided to put there, it had to be something good. I mean, think about it. When you walk into a nursery, that's where you look first, right? You have to exert some mental effort when it comes to choosing a decoration. Otherwise people will think you don't love your baby. Obviously.

So, what to do? Maybe her name, sure. But everyone was doing that. Cheerful framed prints? Study charts for Mensa? Flat-screen plasma TV?

I finally decided on this after her baby shower:

I cut up the baby shower cards, scrapped them together in a thoughtful pattern and put them in these frames. I'm generally not good with crafty stuff, so it took me for-freakin' ever and involved liberal dropping of the F-bomb.

What was my point? Oh, yeah. My point is that after dedicating so much brain space and energy to these things, I found it impossible to let them go. I just couldn't throw them out. Plus, it's just one of those things that reminds you of when your baby was your baby, you know?

My baby is now a 3-year old who sings Lady Gaga's "Pokerface" in the bathtub and tries to tell me to "go away" when her grandparents come to visit. So sue me if I want to cling to a piece of that little punk's innocence.

But nursery decor just doesn't last forever. No one will ever want to make out with her underneath "baby girl" collages.

On second thought, I'M KEEPING THEM UP FOREVER.

Anyway, I didn't exactly throw them out. I kept the frames and turned them into these:

They now hang in a weird little alcove in our downstairs bathroom. Directly across from the crapper. Now I can reminisce while I savor the only three minutes I have to myself, some days.

And hey, babies poop a lot. The memory has come full circle. Perfect.

This Ain't Your Mama's Wedding Anniversary Post

2010-05-31T00:10:00.001-04:00

Today is my wedding anniversary.

If you've been reading, you'll understand why I don't exactly plan to bust out a sonnet in honor of this day. Not this year.

I wrote about this day two years ago in a strangely sweet-self-deprecating-affectionate-sarcastic post. Love, happiness, smooth legs...sounds like everything was just peachy back then.

Except, it wasn't.

If anyone had asked, I would have said I had a great marriage, and I would have believed it. But even then, I sensed a kink in the chain. Something not quite right. Something that made me feel not so great about myself, hence the opener about "putting up with my crap."

For the record, I've put up with plenty of crap, too. Just saying.

In retrospect, I think I wrote that post partly because I knew he would read it. And if he read it, maybe it would....I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it out as I'm writing this. Maybe it would prove to him how much I loved him. Or maybe remind him of the promise we made, and hold him accountable in some weird way. Maybe it would fix the thing that wasn't quite right.

I really don't know. I just remember this sense of semi-urgency when I wrote it.

Obviously, that fantastic half-conscious idea didn't quite pan out. Can't imagine why. Clearly I needed to get off the computer and, I don't know, HAVE A F**KING CONVERSATION, PERHAPS.

If I could go back in time and slap myself around for a while, I would totally do it.

Suffice to say, things have changed a lot in two years. I'm a different wife, different woman. Stronger. Smarter. Lower tolerance for crap.

I still throw a party for myself when I shave my legs, though.

What, doesn't everyone do that?

The Princess is Probably Sleeping with Lord Licorice, Anyway.

2010-05-29T20:28:00.000-04:00

6:30 PM: Set out Candyland as post-dinner activity. Kid tells you, "I think you're gonna win this time, Mommy!" You wonder, is she now smart enough to throw the game on purpose? And how might you exploit that kind of talent?

6:32 PM: Baby sits in middle of game board. Meltdown #1 ensues ("KIIIITT!! I CAN'T SEEEE!!).

6:33 PM: Slide baby to corner of board. Now we can't see the Princess. Dear God, Princess Frostine is everyone's favorite, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Meltdown #2 ensues.

6:34 PM: Kid chooses blue Candyland kid for herself, red Candyland kid for you.

6:35 PM: Baby swipes both red and blue kids, sticks them in her diaper.

6:36 PM: Meltdown #3 ensues ("KIIITT!! 'DAS MIIIIIINE!"). Baby grins and claps hands as if to say, "I live to mess with you."

6:38-6:40 PM: Move three spots with new yellow Candyland kid. Baby takes it. Switch back to red, move four spots. Baby takes it. Switch to green, move three spots. Kid now moving her game piece back and forth over the same five spots to avoid klepto-baby. Whatever, WE ARE GOING TO FINISH THIS DAMN GAME.

6:45 PM: You win. Because you're the only one playing.

6:46 PM: "Hey! I won, just like you said! Yay, Mommy!" you say to Kid.

6:47 PM: Kid stares at board in disbelief. Bottom lip quivers. Crap. Crappity crap.

6:48 PM: "But....but...." she stammers. Crap. "But, I WANTED TO WIN, MOMMY!!"

6:49 PM: Attempt to start new game with assurances that Kid will totally win this time! You won't even play! You won't even look at the board, pinky swear! Fail miserably. Kid continues to scream, "I WANTED TO WIN! I WANTED TO WIN! I WANTED TO WIN! I WANTED TO WIN! I WANTED TO WIN! I WANTED TO WIN!"

6:50 PM: Declare early bed time.

I Once Was LOST, Now I'm Apparently a Total Sap

2010-05-26T23:59:00.011-04:00

The dang LOST finale aired three days ago and I am still fast forwarding my DVR through two hours of "what-the-what-now?" just to watch this scene.

It's still making me cry.

And I mean, sh*t, I quit watching the show before Juliet and Sawyer even became a couple. I only tuned in for the finale because the media beat me over the head with it so many times I started to believe that, clearly, to not watch it would be a huge disservice to humanity.

I'm so incredibly jaded lately. I see couples holding hands and smooching in public and I kind of want to ram them with my grocery cart and yell, "MUST BE NICE, ASSHOLES!"

Yeah, sure, it's just a TV show. These two are getting paid lots of money to act like they're remembering that they loved each other in a previous life. Sick, sick amounts of money.

But this, for some reason, just got me.

I mean, really. To be loved like that.

Must be nice.

I really want to smack her with a pillow and yell "SNOOZE BUTTON!" But some might frown on that.

2010-05-25T22:13:00.000-04:00

I used to explode out of bed in the morning when I heard the Munchkin waking up.

The second I heard her make a sound - any sound - I'd throw back the covers and stumble into her room, because obviously if she was awake, then I had to be awake too. That was part of my job. Obviously she'd be doomed to get a horrible score on her SAT's and never get into college and probably go blind if she didn't see my face within three seconds of cracking open her eyelids.

What? I read all about it on the Internetz.

A former co-worker told me that she once found herself running down her stairs full-tilt in the middle of the night because her two-year-old son asked for a drink of water. Suddenly she stopped and said to herself, "Why am I running? This is not the Sahara. He's not dying of thirst. I think I can walk."

Can ya relate? Of course you can. Freakin' tiny dictators.

Eventually, I figured out that kids? Kids are just regular people. And regular people don't need instant beck-and-call response for everything. These days, when the Munchkin trots into my room at dark o'clock in the morning, I ignore her. Y'know, in a loving way.

"Mommy, it's time to get up and we can have breakfast and see our friends!" she will say.

"No. No it is not."

"It's not?"

"You wanna snuggle?" I offer.

"Sure!"

Thirty seconds later: "Now we can get up and have breakfast and see our friends?"

"Nope."

And so on.

Eventually, she gets bored, heads into Kitt's room and hops into her crib. Then there's giggling, laughing, blowing of raspberries. The two of them have weird conversations where the Munchkin will talk for five minutes straight, then Kitt will reply with something like, "Bah!" and then they both dissolve into hysterics.

It's quite possibly my most favorite sound in the world.

Until I hear someone's body thud onto the carpet. Most often followed by screaming.

Then it's game over. Time to...

...wait for it....

....get up, eat breakfast, and see our friends.

I Suppose I Could, Like, NOT Go Out for Lunch Every Day.

2010-05-21T22:41:00.000-04:00

I spent part of the afternoon hiding from my kids.

I huddled in the corner of the living room with the laptop while the TV mercilessly slaughtered their tiny brain cells.

Why, you ask?

Because we have been spending a Lot. Of. Time. Together.

Lately, I've been trying to cut back on my spending. I, uh, may or may not have gotten a teeeeensy bit carried away with the credit card last month. I may or may not have been cut off in a gentle I'll-still-pay-for-the-crap-you-buy-but-use-your-own-card-and-go-ruin-your-own-credit-thankyouverymuch kind of way.

I looked at where the money was going and narrowed it down to two main culprits:

1) Things To Do With The Kids
2) Food Generally Consumed While Out Doing Things With The Kids

I mean, it's so easy, right? But you know the trips to McDonald's are getting excessive when you roll up to the window and your kid yells at the cashier, "Hey! He gave us chicken yesterday, too!"

So, we have traded zoos, aquariums, indoor play areas and museums for Free-ish Stuff.

As long as I can fight the gravitational pull of the remote control and it's seductive red "ON" button, it's actually been kind of fun to come up with ideas. And I mean, a one and a three-year-old really don't need much. You throw a hula hoop on the ground and pretend it's a swimming pool and you are set for the afternoon.*

We've done new playgrounds. Bubbles. Backyard scavenger hunts. Wagon rides after dinner.

But holy crap, I need a break from them. It's exhausting, the amount of energy it takes to focus on someone other than yourself all day. By the time dinner rolls around, I am freakin' out of ideas.

"So, what should we do now?" the Munchkin will say, as she stands among the rubble of THINGS WE HAVE BEEN DOING ALL DAY.

"Uh, do you want to cut snowflakes out of paper?"

"No."

"Do you want to play with Play-Dough?"

"Nah."

"Do you want to -

"No."

Gah.

I should really put her to work. She's three, she could probably boil a pot of water, right? Maybe throw some chicken on the grill?

So, yes, I hid for half an hour, but I didn't spend any money and I promptly jumped back to work when the girls' happy playtime squeals turned to enraged screaming. Man, that happens fast.

That counts for something, right?

*Or, you could only be set for two minutes. You just never know.

Why, yes, my mind IS always in the gutter. Also, I had nothing else to write about today.

2010-05-19T23:08:00.002-04:00

Anyone ever read The Berenstain Bears series?

I loved it as a kid. Except for the fact that the Bear family always wore the same outfits. That unnerved me, a little.

I've been jamming these books down the Munchkin's throat lately, one because I want a good excuse to read them all again and two, I'll take anything over her damn Disney seek-and-find book.

It's Nemo's first day of school! Can you help him find all his friends? Can you look faster? We've been sitting here for an hour, can I turn the page yet? STOP FAKING WE'VE READ THIS BOOK A MILLION TIMES, YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHERE THEY ALL ARE.

Ahem.

Anyway, yes, Berenstain Bears. Tonight's selection was The Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist.

You'll never guess what happens. The Bear kids? They go to the dentist.

Sister gets a tooth pulled, Brother gets a cavity filled and they head home to update their Facebook status:

All seems right with the world. But, wait a minute.

What is that look, Mama Bear?!

Are you coming back later for an "after hours" appointment?! Have you no shame, you Desperate Housebear?! HAVE YOU BEEN BOINKING THE DENTIST?!

Sigh. Not even Bear Country is safe from pimps and floozies. And dude, I totally wanted to move there when I was a kid.

Then again, who hasn't boinked their dentist?

Tomorrow the whole garden is going to wither just to piss me off.

2010-05-17T21:04:00.001-04:00

Have I ever mentioned that the BassMaster likes to garden? He likes to shoot guns, ride motorcycles, drink beer, and plant geraniums. My mom once said it was like watching a football player knit a sweater.

I just don't do plants; you name it, I've killed it. One Christmas, my mother-in-law bought me a cactus. "If you kill this, then there's officially no hope for you," she said.

I don't think I killed it. But I eventually threw it away. I mean, what do you do with one cactus? Where's the entertainment value? Now, a cactus you can tap for vodka like syrup from a maple tree, that's something I can work with.

But, he's out to sea right now and that means I have to water all leafy sh*t he left behind. I swear they all cringe and quiver with fear when they see me coming. Or at least they would, if they had eyes.

"Oh, crap, it's The Substitute," they say to one another. "Don't look her in the eye! She'll drown you and make it look like an accident!"

Or at least they would, if they had mouths.

I just went out to the little vegetable garden he set up on the side of the house. No veggies yet, just baby plants. And as I'm standing there with a full watering can, I'm thinking, dude, I don't even know I'm supposed to water. Like, is that the cucumber, or is that a weed? These three green things in a row, those look sort of purposefully planted, maybe that's what needs the water? Then again, maybe they're weeds trying to look organized, just to confuse me.

Damn plants. Like, isn't it enough that I keep the children alive?

I emptied the pitcher and left everything swimming in about three inches of water.

If the plants had fingers, they would have totally flipped me off.

Talking About Your Blog on Your Blog is So Lame. Oh, Wait...

2010-05-14T06:30:00.003-04:00

"I'm really proud of you lately," my friend said to me yesterday.

"How come?"

"Because you are really putting yourself out there on your blog."

"SH*T. I mean, uh, you think so?"

"Yeah, like that thing about you crying in the car? I don't even know if I would let other people read about something like that!" she said.

"SH*T. I mean, thank you. I think."

This friend of mine is, like me, very fond of the overshare. Spend five minutes in a room with us and you'll know whose menstrual period lasts longer and the craziest thing ever to happen to each of us during sex.

So, for this friend to say "even I wouldn't share that" is like Ebeneezer Scrooge saying to the Grinch, "Dude, you even took the Roast Beast? That ain't right."

Ah, well.

The simple truth is that some days, I'm a hot mess. Other days, I'm freakishly optimistic. No matter which end of the spectrum, I'll always write as if no one else is reading. Even though my list of readers now includes several family members whom I have to face during holiday season.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure how that happened. I think of one of them might have slipped me a mickey last Christmas.

Anyway, I'm not going to clam up and write about, oh I don't know, the color of my dryer lint. Or about how wonderful things are going for me all the time. But my friend's comment did get me thinking. Which, y'know, that's never good.

Where do you draw the line? Are there things you know you will never blog about, or do you think you should never say never?

Lasts about four days, by the way.

Sorry, couldn't help it.

Are Plastic Butt Cheeks Considered Pornographic?

2010-05-12T06:02:00.001-04:00

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I found Cinderella passed out on our couch?

Came downstairs yesterday and found this:

Clearly, the Prince is getting in way over his head. Judging from the position, Cinderella appears to prefer back-door entry. Might be dabbling in some kind of doll bondage. And bestiality. Poor bunny.

Also, that bunny is a girl. She was wearing a blue flowered dress that seems to have been stripped off in a fit of passion. Which, I mean, that's cool, we'll love Cinderella no matter which team she plays for, but must she do it in the middle of the floor?

Although, check out that bunny's post-coital grin. Must've been a wild night.

Come on, princess. I know your stepmom was a b*tch and you're still working through some trauma.

But get a room! Pull yourself together! At least put your glass slippers back on, dammit!

Now I'm Out of Gas and Still Hungry, So That Was Pointless.

2010-05-10T22:50:00.005-04:00

I know I'm feeling a little better about myself lately and all, but tonight still sucked monkey balls.

Yay. Another free fall on the roller coaster.

I left for a bit. Told him I was going out to get milk, then sat in my car in front of the house for ten minutes and cried.

The ugly Chewbacca-like cry, that is. You know, with the hybrid moaning/wailing noise and the snot running all over the steering wheel.

Then I decided well, shit, we really do need milk so I'll get some, and then I will find an ice cream place or a fast-food joint and eat my feelings.

I passed a burger place, almost pulled in, then kept driving. I put my blinker on to turn left into a donut shop. But when the light changed I stepped on the gas and kept going. I passed a Chili's restaurant and considered hunkering down at the bar, but even that sounded lame.

I kept asking myself, what do I want? What would taste good right now? Pizza? Margaritas? Cookie-dough ice cream? Heaping plate of ashes? Something to fill the void. Anything to make me not feel this way, even if it only lasts thirty seconds.

I drove through three towns. Didn't stop once. Then I turned around, bought milk at the grocery store next to our house, and came home.

Life was much easier when I could find solace in a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

In the end, blogging was the best I could come up with in terms of comfort. Put words down. Write something. Get it out of your head and let someone else hold it for a minute.

On the upside, maybe I'll be able to wear a bikini this summer.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding. Maybe I'll be just be able to wear a regular bathing suit without the t-shirt, shorts, muumuu and parka stacked over it in flab-protective layers.

Yeah, that'd be nice.

Reflection

2010-05-07T21:33:00.001-04:00

Last night, I hung two mirrors in my bedroom.

I hung them vertically, side-by-side over my bureau. When I was done, I stepped back to make sure they were level.

Hey. I can see myself, I thought.

I know it sounds really dumb. It's a mirror. That's how they work.

But I haven't had a bedroom mirror in almost three years.

It started when we moved to Virginia and couldn't find the mounting hardware for the mirrors that came with the bureau. For months, they sat in the corner of the bedroom until one day I decided we'd be getting a new bedroom set soon anyway and put them out with the trash.

We never got a new bedroom set.

Then the marital suckitude began.

I felt depressed. I didn't sleep. I was pregnant. Sloppy, letting-myself-go pregnant, that is. Not glowing, sexy pregnant. I didn't think I looked so great, so a mirrorless bedroom suited me just fine.

And in retrospect, I didn't want to look at myself because all I could see was a woman with whom a man could fall totally, completely out of love.

The thing is, I didn't see that woman last night. I really didn't. I'm kind of hoping she doesn't come around too often.

I just saw me, and it almost felt like I was seeing myself for the very first time.

It wasn't so bad. I could use a haircut and an eyebrow wax, but really, I've looked worse. The mirrors gave the room space, light and depth. And I don't know exactly why, but I took a deep breath and felt so, so relieved.

You will come out of this knowing exactly who you are, people keep telling me. I don't know if I'm there yet, but maybe the mirrors were a step in the right direction.

All I know is, I can see myself. And it feels good.

Does anyone else think "My K-Cup" sounds like a feminine hygiene product?

2010-05-06T00:01:00.002-04:00

I should have done something more productive with today's rare, coveted double-nap, like shaving my legs or mopping the dried apple juice off the kitchen floor.

Instead I had a throwdown with my Keurig coffee maker.

I recently bought a reusable filter for this thing, a device that, for whatever reason, they decided to call, "My K-Cup." If I didn't know better, I would think it was 1) an eco-friendly alternative to tampons, or 2) maybe a huge bra.

But no, it's just a stupid coffee filter, and I bought it in the hopes that we could brew our own coffee instead of buying a box of Super Special Coffee Pods every week.

But whenever I use it, I get this:

The water blasts through the grinds and leaves behind a little Viet Cong tunnel. Which gives me the weakest cup of coffee ever brewed. Hello, all that untouched caffeine happiness on the sides? I NEED THAT.

Courtesy of Google, I found a way to slow down the water flow by inserting a used coffee pod into the bottom of the filter case. Sounds simple, right? Well, it is, but the instructions made it sound like part delicate brain surgery, part voodoo magic:

"Take a used K-Cup and cut the top foil off. Cut the paper filter out of the K-Cup. Turn around three times and bark like a dog. Preferably a Great Dane. It's okay not to cut it all the way off of the rim of the K-Cup because you will need to cut the top of the K-Cup. Now, get a magnifying glass and some tweezers. You need to cut the top of the K-Cup off because you need to fit the shell into the holder. Buy some eye of newt, some witch hazel and a bear claw. Slide the bottom shell of the K-Cup into the holder. Add coffee. Do a somersault. Then place the My K-Cup filter into the holder and cover as normal. Now, repeat the following incantation..."

I lost count of how many times I muttered, "What the f**k?"

In case anyone's wondering (you're not, I know) they want you to do this to the used pod...

...and then stick that white plastic part in the filter case.

It still didn't really work for me. What the f**k?

But hey, what's better than a weak cup of coffee? TWO weak cups of coffee!

Next time I'm just going to chew the grinds and wash them down with milk and sugar. Way less work.

Probably won't take pictures of that, though.

Wordless Wednesday: Sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug. Sometimes you're the purple Binky.

2010-05-05T06:08:00.001-04:00

Junior High is Bad Enough the First Time Around

2010-05-03T22:28:00.003-04:00

After stumbling through my salsa dance lesson last week, I picked up a May class calendar and saw one called "Foxxy (for couples only)."

It sounded like a choreographed orgy. Do we have to pay extra for that? Are there costumes involved? And a-five, six, five-six-seven-eight...

My curiosity got the better of me, as it usually does when I come across anything even remotely suggestive, so I had to ask.

"What's 'Foxxy?'" I asked one of the instructors.

"'Foxxy' is like an eighth grade school dance," he replied.

Ugh. Who thought up that horrible idea?

"It's really fun," he continued. " "Everyone holds onto each other and sweats."

Bleh.

I don't remember much from the few eighth-grade dances I attended, except a forehead full of pimples, glasses, braces and a bit of a hair frizz issue. I know that I went off to at least once dance wearing a tucked flannel shirt over a tank top and acid wash jeans. Oh, and half-boots, because Teen magazine said that half-boots were THE thing to own.

I was not exactly hold-onto-and-sweatable.

Tonight, as our group lesson was ending, my partner Larry asked, "So, you stayin' for 'Foxxy?'"

"Uh, no. No partner."

"Me neither," he said. "The wife is in Jersey. She loves the class though. Bummed she's missing it."

I blinked at Larry. Larry, with his receding hair line, bulldogish jowls, waistline that suggests he's survived on beer and donuts for the last fifty years. I tried to picture his wife. I shivered at the idea of watching them get Foxxy together.

I suddenly felt really glad to have an excuse to get the hell out of there.

No need to relive the trauma. Besides, I own a flat iron now. Frizz issue resolved.

I think I still have the boots, though.

What? They were cool, okay?

Do I Sound Cool When I Say, "App?" No? Didn't Think So.

2010-05-01T18:40:00.004-04:00

I normally avoid Facebook applications like the plague. I don't want to be in your mob, I don't care if you just threw a cyber-pillow at me, and while I appreciate the fake pina colada, I prefer the real thing.

However, I just stumbled across an app that allows you to export all your old status updates to a spreadsheet. So that you can, I dunno, sit back, read them all and get a big kick out of your own wit and charm. Or get a big kick out of how drunk you were that one day.

Right now you can only go back to August of 2008, and you cannot export any comments. But it does work. Try it here.

I apparently spent the latter half of 2008 bitching about pregnancy and whining about my thesis. But aside from that, I'm thinking maybe I could turn some of my past status updates into a book of helpful mom advice. For example:

On cooking: I just layered my lasagna WITHOUT THE @%&% NOODLES. I seriously cannot stand to be around myself sometimes. (April 2, 2009, 4:37pm)

On getting "me" time: Am sitting in my car. Alone. Don't even know where I'm going yet, but the lack of whining in here is pure bliss. (July 28, 2009, 8:01pm)

On teething: Glass of pinot for the teething baby, Infant Tylenol for me. Wait, no, reverse that... (September 25, 2009, 8:10pm)

On dealing with a breakup: What i need: girlfriends, wine, chocolate. What i've got: free babysitters and a late showing of Avatar. It'll do in a pinch. (December 27, 2009, 10:00pm)

On withholding violent impulses: I asked my 30-something childless neighbor how he was doing today, and he complained he was "bored." I realized that I don't even remember what it's like to have NOTHING to do, and I kind of wanted to punch him. (January 12, 2010, 9:32pm)

I bet it'd be a bestseller. You'd buy a copy, right?

If you try out the app, leave your favorite status update of old in the comments. Like you have nothing better to do.

Maybe I'm Doing Something Right. Or Maybe I Paid Someone Off. You'll Never Know.

2010-04-29T22:01:00.002-04:00

As a parent, have you ever found yourself in a situation where your child has to demonstrate their status as a functional member of society, and you think to yourself, "Crap, this is totally going to blow my cover?"

A preschool screening is one of those situations.

I mean, geezus, one minute you're telling yourself, "my kid will do great!" And then with no warning whatsoever they bust out that chart marked "Social Development Skills" and suddenly you're feeling really guilty about that day you let Blue's Clues babysit for three hours straight.

It began with the easy stuff. Which one of these is an apple? Point to the square. Point to the blue car. The Munchkin would point to something on the chart, the screener would nod, then flip the page. Question, point, flip. Question, point, flip.

I couldn't see the chart, so I couldn't give hints or frantically pantomime the answers like a crazed pageant mom.

I was totally doing that on the inside, though.

Luckily, she checked off one correct answer after another, while I sat filling out paperwork, resisting the urge to scream, "ISN'T SHE BRILLIANT? AREN'T I AN AWESOME MOM? I CAN HAZ VALIDATION, PLEASE?"

Then the screener upped the ante. "Are you ready for a riddle?" she asked.

My kid just nodded like, I don't know what a riddle is but I hope it involves Dora fruit snacks.

"This is shiny and has four wheels. Your mom uses one when she buys groceries. What is it?"

She pointed.

"Very good!" the screener said.

Mental fist pump. Mental fist pump.

Then came a list of questions directed at me.

"Does she re-tell a story?"

Yes. Again. And again. Ask her about the time the camel pooped at the zoo. Better yet, ask her about the time she threw up all over the doctor during one of Kitt's well-baby visits. I'd love to hear that one 47 times on the ride home.

"Does she play detailed make-believe?"

Judging from the number of fake giants who have chased her down fake beanstalks and been attacked by a fake pack of monkeys who rescued her and sent her into the sunset on a fake flying horse, I'd say yes.

"Does she ask, 'why?'"

Hang on, that word makes my brain leak out through my ears. Ok, I'm good.

She passed with flying colors. They'll never know that I sometimes crawl back into bed while she eats her breakfast.

Oh, wait...oops.

Quick, Someone Waltz Me Across a Lilypad Before I Start Scaring Children.

2010-04-27T21:43:00.003-04:00

You know you're starved for romance when you watch the latest Disney movie with your kids and think to yourself, "Dude! I want to be a frog!"

I need to get out more.

Things are quiet on the homefront these days.

Too quiet.

If he were reading over my shoulder right now, he would say that we have nothing to talk about. No common ground, aside from the kids. As for me, I've stopped talking because I don't get the sense that anything I say interests him much. It all ends up sounding like one more dumb story.

Hey! Kind of like this blog! BWAHAHA!

Ahem. Sorry. Making the best of it, folks, work with me here.

I suppose it's a measure of self-preservation and an act of denial. If we don't speak, then we won't fight. If we don't fight, then maybe things aren't so bad, after all.

Speaking of which, if one more of my Facebook friends posts something about how freaking great their husbands are and how they just don't know why they're so lucky to have blah blah blah flowers and chocolate and unicorns, I might kill their Farmville pigs.

Bitter and/or jealous? Nope, not me.

But every day it gets harder to ignore this gaping hole in my life where the happy marriage should be. I don't want perfect. I just want happy. That's not unrealistic, right? Help me out here, because I have completely lost my frame of reference. You could tell me that the secret to marital bliss involves a Spongebob costume and a trapeze, and I would totally believe you.

Come on, the Disney frogs made it work.

Why not me?

I Heard You the First Time, Fer Crap's Sake

2010-04-26T20:43:00.002-04:00

A while back, I wrote a post about the Munchkin's repetitous phase and thought to myself, hey, some day I'll look back on this and laugh.

Oh, I'm laughing all right.

In the insane off-my-meds-and-losing-my-grasp-on-reality kind of way. Because, hello, the "phase?" IT CONTINUES TO SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF ME.

In the morning, for example, after I plunk down her bowl of cereal and blindly slam buttons on the coffeemaker until it turns on, she serenades me with "You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give me juice."

Even as I stand there holding the cup of juice two inches from her outstretched hand, she continues, "You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give me juice. You forgot to give-"

Is 7:00AM too early for whiskey?

Today a friend and I - in one of our more masochistic moments - decided to take our kids out for pizza. Kids who both love nothing more than the sound of their own voices.

Combine all that crazed repetition (times two) with the generally stressful task of Eating Out With Children. You know, that fiasco in which you spend ten minutes moving all the forks to the middle of the table so no one gets their eye stabbed out, only to turn around and find your baby gleefully waving a steak knife in the air.

Sounds like fun, no? Our lunch soundtrack went something like this:

Mine: I want pizza, Mommy.

Hers: I have a booster seat!

Mine: I want pizza, Mommy.

Hers: I have a booster seat!

Mine: I want pizza, Mommy.

Hers: I have a booster seat!

Friend: Son, could you maybe not pull that window shade off its brackets?

Mine: I want pizza, Mommy.

Me: Yes, it's on your PLATE. How's about you eat it? PUT SOMETHING IN YOUR MOUTH, SWEET JEEBUS.

As Kitt flung fifteen Goldfish crackers at our waitress's head, I looked at my friend and said, "Next time, maybe we'll just leave them all at home."

Seriously, when does it end?! Can it end now? Can it end now? Can it end now?

Sh*t. I'm becoming one of them.

Communing With Nature Is So Freakin' Stressful

2010-04-24T21:39:00.000-04:00

In honor of ~~Earth Day crap now I have to call it something else because I started this post two days ago and I'm late~~ Earth Week, I'd like to offer you all these four great tips on how (not) to go hiking with your kids.

Trust me, I speak from experience.

1) Do not assume that a "stroller friendly" trail will be at all friendly to your stroller. The trail might be nice to your stroller's face, but it will totally talk about your stroller behind its back and make it cry in the bathroom during lunch. In other words, the trail is likely riddled with knots and roots that will give your child whiplash and make you wonder if you are causing any permanent brain damage.

2) Consider the weather history. Let's say a few weeks back, you had ark-worthy flooding from which you are still drip-drying. Keep this in mind and dress accordingly, so that your kid does not suddenly find both her sneakers enveloped in mud and start screaming about how her FEET ARE GONE! FEET ARE GONE! as you calmly reassure her that SHE IS TOTALLY FINE, except now you need some antiseptic for the claw marks she just left on your shoulders.

3) Know your cartoon characters. So that when your child starts to get tired and bored, you can explain to her with full confidence that she is on an adventure. She is an explorer. Just like -insert incredulous gasp - DORA. THE. EXPLORER. Isn't it great?! Doesn't it make her want to, uh, keep walking?! Yes, Mommy is Boots the Monkey. Sure, Kitt is Tiko the Squirrel. Just quit whining.

4) Celebrate nature responsibly. Meaning that, if you all make it back to the car in one piece before the sun goes down...and if you have returned with the same number of children you left with, proceed immediately to the nearest ice cream store and reward yourself for a job well done. Two scoops, please. Extra whipped cream.

Happy Earth Week, everyone!

Dear Prince, Had a great night last night. Like, really great. Love, Cinderella

2010-04-21T13:51:00.006-04:00

The Munchkin yelled for me this morning, insisting that she had something amazing to show me. Usually this means 1) she has decorated the wall with permanent marker or 2) she has cut the hair off all her toy ponies.

Yep, it's amazing, all right.

So, I ran downstairs sensing disaster, and found this:

Words fail me.

Apparently they served tequila at the ball. Poor Cinderella.

The weird thing is, I don't know what the kid did with the dress. I can't find it anywhere. You know what? I bet the Prince kept it. I bet he likes to wear it after midnight.

If anyone sees the fairy godmother floating around, send her this way. She's going to have to put in some overtime this week.

And Then She, Too, Pooped on the Floor. Just Kidding.

2010-04-19T21:41:00.000-04:00

You are having kind of a rough night.

You feel yourself getting that sinus thing that seems to be going around, yet you still agreed to babysit for a friend of yours. Her two kids and your two kids are tired, crabby, not so well-behaved.

Her kids spit their food out at the table. They crawl on the table. One of them has a nasty-looking diaper rash, big red welts that migrate up to her belly button. Later, that kid says she has to go potty and when you take off her diaper, a ginormous turd splats onto the tile and you have to pick it up via Toilet Paper Glove.

That kind of stuff happens all the time, of course. But tonight, when it's someone else's kid, it just seems gross and you wish you didn't have to deal with it.

Then suddenly, you turn around and see your baby walking.

Your 15-month old, whom you thought would be chasing her big sister by 9 months, at least toddling around by 12 months, and who until this moment has GONE TOTALLY LIMP every time you stand her on her own feet, is on two legs, moving toward you like a real human.

She takes five steps with her legs spread wide, a bit of a bounce in each one, like a sumo wrestler trying to get jiggy with it. And you blink back tears because this, this is just what you needed.

All her life, she's had to share you. Every day she has to fight a bigger, stronger, louder sibling for your attention. But now, right now, it's just the two of you. She gets to have this moment with you. And you get to have it with her.

You stand frozen with your hand clapped over your mouth, lest you scream with joy and scare the crap out of her. Then she looks up at you, throws her arms out, and falls forward with a happy squeal.

You catch her in your arms, laughing, both of you grinning with pride.

I Think I'm Supposed to Kneel Now. No, Wait, I Should Stand. Nope, Sit Down. Nope, Kneel Again.

2010-04-17T21:36:00.012-04:00

I hesitated to blog about this because, like a good Yankee, I believe religion is a private thing. Meaningful and beneficial, yes. But private.

The truth is, I'm in the market for a new church.

I grew up Catholic, attended CCD classes right up through high school and even had a Confirmation party. Because, well, that's what good Catholics do.

We got married in a Congregational church, but afterwords I used our military-induced nomad status as an excuse for the fact that we never went back. We're only here for six weeks. We're only here for a year. We are far too busy and important. What's the point?

Needless to say, the recent scandals in the Catholic church have sort of turned me off from that whole deal. I haven't attended church regularly in years. We don't even make the bare-minimum appearances on Easter and Christmas.

I know. We are SO going to hell.

So, why now, you ask? Well, have you the state of the world, lately? Have you seen Lady Gaga perform? I swear it won't be long before the Munchkin's fellow preschoolers are heading off to school in backless sequined halter tops and low rise jeans with their Tinkerbell thongs peeking over the top.

Also, as I'm finding out, kids are mean. They're mean, and they're learning how to be mean at ever-younger ages.

I need reinforcements.

I feel like my kids need a moral compass. Obviously, I'm going to do the best I can in this respect, but I am also sensitive to the fact that eventually, they are not going to give a rat's ass what I say.

Oh, wait, that's already happened. Crap.

So, I want that for them, but I also don't want them quoting the Bible as they go down the slide at the playground. I want them to respect all viewpoints on this particular subject, even if their new slide playmate believes that Jesus is a unicorn who visits in the middle of the night like the Tooth Fairy, leaving a hammer and a pile of scrap wood under your pillow instead of money.

I don't know where that middle ground lies.

Suggestions are welcome.

In the meantime, I'm going to go see if I can remember the kneel-sit-stand choreography, just in case nothing better comes along.

Because Three Extra Donuts Can Really Mess Up a Morning

2010-04-16T22:11:00.002-04:00

Dear Dunkin' Donuts,

First off, let me say that I am a big fan. I relish the fact that you have three drive-thru locations within 2 miles of my current residence. How did you know?

However, you have a new policy that befuddles me. Why do you now only sell Munchkins in multiples of five?

I want two. TWO.

This allows me to dispense one treat per child from the safety of the parking lot, and not while operating a motor vehicle. It keeps them happy while I infuse my sluggish bloodstream with sweet, sweet caffeine. It keeps their sugar high in check, which prevents me from having to clean bits of their exploded heads out of the upholstery.

So, this five-Munchkin minimum does not work for me. Because you see, my kids? THEY KNOW.

Even when I crumple up the bag that contains the three extra Munchkins, throw it on the floor and act like it's trash, they somehow know I'm faking.

"The donuts are all gone," I say.

"No they're not. They're right there. In the bag."

Dammit.

Thus the peaceful silence is broken by repeated questions of what's in the bag, Mommy? Mommy, I fink der's more treats in dare. Where's the bag?! Don't frow it away! MOMMY, WHAT'RE YOU DOING??

Then the questioning turns frantic because dear God how could I show such disregard for those innocent donuts and despite my attempts to calm her and tell her that they're all gone you ate them all, okay fine there's more but I can't reach them because I'm driving and trying not to get us dead, okay fine I can reach them but NOW I WANT THEM, nothing works.

Then the little one starts whining because she senses that Mommy's pulling a fast one, then there's lots of screaming as they feed off each other's panic, and before I know it I'm busting out the "I will turn this car around so fast" line.

And I mean, sh*t, we're just trying to get to the library.

Help me out here, Dunks. Restore order! Bring back the single-Munchkin purchase! SERENITY NOW!

Ahem. Sorry. That got away from me at the end, there.

Kthanksbye,
Lisa

Bring Your Good Times and Your Emotional Baggage Too

2010-04-15T08:15:00.000-04:00

I don't plan to blog the gory details of our adventures in marriage counseling, but I just can't make this stuff up.

Last night we met with a new counselor, a kindly older gentlemen who reminds me a bit of Wilford Brimley. Trust me, it's an improvement. Our first one had a home office that looked like something straight off the set of Golden Girls . She told us not to show up too early because she might be taking a shower.

Anyway, as we sat in the waiting room filling out paperwork, Wilford came out and put a CD into the player.

You're thinking Mozart, right? Maybe Gregorian chants? Something relaxing and instrumental to calm the nerves?

Nope. "Celebration" by Kool & The Gang.

"Is he trying to be funny?" I mumbled to the BassMaster. He shrugged.

You'd think it was a bad omen, but for some reason I kind of like this guy. Maybe we share an affinity for inappropriate humor.

Next time we'll be sure to pack our disco ball.

Here's to Five More Years of Having Nothing to Write About

2010-04-14T10:08:00.000-04:00

Don't look now, but this past Sunday marked the fifth anniversary of this blog.

No, really, don't look. The early stuff will make you want to gouge your eyes out with the nearest spatula.

See, I started this blog because I was getting too lazy to keep a written journal, (sadly, I did not start it to bring about world peace, end slavery or protest fur. Really, I was just lazy.) the posts tended to go something like, "Dear Diary, OMG, my life is so hard and to top it off, I am hungry."

Come to think of it, nothing has changed.

Except for the fact that one day I lost my mind, decided to have babies, and suddenly had nothing else to talk about. Nowadays I keep a spin dial marked with the words, "poop," "tantrums" and "boobs." I sit down at the computer, spin the wheel and ta-da! Blog post.

I'll admit, I cringe a little when people say, "You have a blog? About what?" Then, as I stuff half a sandwich in my mouth I'll mumble, "mmph, is'sa mommy blog, I guess."

Gah. Mommy blog. I don't even like that term. It reminds me of that Mommy Animal/Baby Animal game that kids always love. I just know one of these days the Munchkin is going to say, "Let's play! I'll be the baby blog and you be the mommy blog..."

However, I do like the fact that in writing about my kids, I've met so many other people who understand that motherhood is not all fluffy puppies. I like knowing that even though I love my children, it's okay if I sometimes want put them outside with a "TAKE ME" sign taped to their foreheads. I take comfort in the fact that somewhere out there, another mom is hiding in the bathroom because it's the only way she can drink her coffee in peace.

Case and point: in the time it's taken me to write this much, I've gotten both girls dressed, changed one explosive diaper and played 14 rounds of peek-a-boo with Kitt. Should've gone to the can.

See? My life is so hard. Who's hungry?

I Don't Even Want to Know What Happens at Midnight

2010-04-10T17:48:00.002-04:00

The BassMaster and I are headed out to a Navy Ball tonight. We haven't been to one in three years.

I've never had to get ready with two kids chasing my ankles.

I just put my dress on, and now I'm dodging them and yelling, "DON'T TOUCH MOMMY. NO TOUCHY!"

Also, I may have misapplied my mascara. My eyelashes keep sticking to my bangs.

Oh, and I made the unfortunate mistake of putting on said dress while the BassMaster is in the shower. Now I have no one to zip me. Now the sitter's going to show up and I'm going to be standing there looking like I just got lucky.

I did not just get lucky.

But, I am a bit out of practice with this whole Cinderella thing.

But, hey, it's fun.

Gotta run now, the kids are beelining for me again.

My Hips Don't Lie. They Say I'm Just As Good As Cloris Leachman.

2010-04-08T20:49:00.000-04:00

My salsa lessons are becoming yet another situation in which my brain says, "Do this," and my feet go, "Screw you."

Same thing happened to me with ice skating, soccer, ballet and water skiing. And possibly bowling.

However, salsa? It is FUN, even if you're not so good at it. You should do it.

In my first lesson, I got the basic rhythm down. And after my instructor dragged me around the floor like a roped calf for twenty minutes, I also figured out how to follow her lead instead of trampling her shiny ballroom shoes. I even elicited a few encouraging comments from her which, in different words, amounted to, "You don't suck as much as I thought you would."

I also stared at her boobs the whole time.

I couldn't help it. She told me not to look at my feet. And I couldn't bring myself to look lovingly into her eyes. Not on the first date. I mean, shouldn't we at least have dinner first? Maybe make out in the back seat of her car?

So, can't look up, can't look down...boobs win.

When I found myself doing it again during my next lesson, I called myself out.

"I'm really sorry I keep staring at your chest," I said.

"It happens all the time," she replied.

Good thing I don't have a tall male instructor. That could get really awkward.

Anyway, I trip, I lose my timing, I step on toes. But the salsa lessons are giving me some quality time off the mommy clock. I normally focus all my energy on two tiny humans and their relentless attempts to overthrow me. Now I actually have someone focusing on me, in an activity that reminds me that I am not just Wiper of Butts and Opener of the Applesauce.

Although, I specialize in both.

So come on, feet. Work with me here and baila, dammit! BAILA!

Looks Like It's Ham and Cake For the Next Ten Days

2010-04-05T10:12:00.005-04:00

Have I ever mentioned that I excel at making life difficult for myself?

For example, I can’t just say to myself, “I need a dessert for Easter,” buy a box of cake mix at the store and be done with it.

No, I have to make the cake and decide it looks puny and sad. Then I have to realize, hey, I have second box of mix, I’ll be needlessly ambitious and make a layer cake. Who cares if I have never layered a cake before? That’s why we have You Tube.

Then I have to Google 574 recipes for various cake fillings. Then I have to decide I don’t like any of them because none of them use anything I have on hand and dude, I am not driving all the way the store to spend $20 on a bottle of kumquat extract only to use half a teaspoon and never look at it again. So I have to pull a totally different filling out of my ass.

Not literally.

Then I have to Google things like, “how to level a cake,” and “fix hopelessly lopsided cake,” and “shit, I broke off a chunk of my cake, can I use frosting to glue it back in place?” (Answer: Yes.)

Then, after frosting the now-monstrous double-layer cake with approximately 13 lbs of Cool Whip, I have to decide it looks boring. It looks like a bar of soap.

Now I must decorate it.

I’m not so good with decorations. I like things to be linear and symmetrical, anything else makes me twitch. Ask me about the Thanksgiving that I tried to design a snowflake out of raisins on my rice pudding and accidentally made a swastika instead.

They didn’t invite us back.

Anyway, decorations. I have to consider spelling out “Happy Easter” in maraschino cherries, but decide they might look too much like drops of blood in the snow, which might ruin appetites. Easter, spring, what’s spring-like? Flowers. How the eff to I make a flower? And of course, I can’t have just one flower, because THINGS MUST BE LINEAR AND SYMMETRICAL.

Five hours later, my simple dessert has to turn into this behemoth:

I think it weighs more than Kitt.

But, it was actually pretty good. I'm not much of a recipe poster but if you need to feed a small army and would like to know the recipe, feel free to drop me an email. I will reply with, "Lisa's Can't-Leave-Well-Enough-Alone Easter Cake Recipe."

Or, you can just gank my flower idea. Eat your heart out, Martha.

Happy Easter, everyone. Anyone want some leftover Cool Whip?

I Can Cut Those Pigtails Off and Make it Look Like An Accident

2010-04-02T21:36:00.003-04:00

Forget that bit about the May flowers. Here in my new hometown, the recent April showers have apparently brought Miniature Heinous Bitches.

I took the girls to the park today to celebrate the end of three days of rain and wall-climbing. The Munchkin beelined for a row of animal ride-ons in the back corner. Two of them were occupied by girls in long blond pigtails. The third one sat empty.

As the Munchkin approached, both girls put their hands up and screamed "NO!!" My girl stopped dead her in her tracks.

They looked almost identical, sisters separated by maybe a couple of years. The younger one had bluer eyes and a cuter face. In a few more years I bet that'll really stick in the older one's craw, hehe. (Aaaand I'm officially being nasty to total strangers. Cut me some slack, THEY WERE MEAN TO MY KID).

Where was I? Oh, right, the screaming.

"NO!" they both screamed again.

I looked at the Munchkin's crestfallen face and felt the mama bear oh-HELL-no-you-did-NOT-just-talk-to-my-kid-like-that fury starting to churn. I resisted the urge to ram them with my double stroller.

"My goodness," I said to them. I really wanted to say, "What the f*ck is your problem," but, my kid? She repeats everything. You know that one would come back to haunt me. Probably over Easter dinner.

"We're not friends with her," one of them said, scowling at the Munchkin. "We're waiting for our friend to come."

This would not happen down south. Not only are people just nicer (or maybe just better medicated), but if we had encountered these girls below the Mason-Dixon line, you can bet their mama would have stormed over with a Bible yelling, "Kendall/Harper/Parker/Savannah!! Don't you know that mean words make baby Jesus cry?!"

As it was, their mother was nowhere to be found, at least not within earshot. I glanced around trying to find the right person to give the evil eye, but all I got were sympathetic looks from the bystanders.

~~"Hey, girlies. You like those pigtails? 'Cause it'd be a shame if something happened to them,"I said as I pantomimed a sawing motion with my car keys.~~ "How about if we play on this one until your friend comes along?" I asked. Diplomacy, Lisa. Show the Munchkin that you need not scratch eyeballs out in order to resolve a problem.

"These rides are ours!" one of them yelled.

Scratchscratchscratch.

The Munchkin eventually got bored, found another playmate who had the same name as her (which is The Coolest Thing Ever to a 3-year old) and played on the slide.

I silently hoped those girls would trip and and get a mouthful of bark mulch.

The kicker is that not ten minutes later, those same exact girls were helping the Munchkin get down a ladder, holding her hand and running with her as if they'd been best buddies forever. Then, of course, their mom appeared, saw them all playing, looked at me and went, "Awwww, your daughter is beautiful," thus ruining the whole "You Have Mean Girls" speech I had prepared in case I ran into her.

Dangit.

Oh well. I'm sure I'll get to use it someday.

Don't Go To Bed Mad. Stay Up and Take it Out on Your Blog.

2010-03-31T22:35:00.007-04:00

Dear BassMaster,

You ticked me off tonight.

And I returned the favor.

I wish someone could chart the course of this "thing" we're in and show us where we're headed. I want someone to point out the crappy parts and warn us when they're going to happen. Sort of like marital Doppler radar. If someone circled today's date in red marker and said, "Mmm. Yeah. That's going to suck," then we could have prepared. I mean, we could have at least made a liquor run.

I'll never be the kind of girl who keeps quiet when torn up on the inside. I'm Irish. We don't do that. I think we punch people in the face instead.

I won't do that, either. But this, this same fight we keep having over the same issue...this tears me up inside. You can say you don't understand why....and you do say that....often...*headslam*, but that doesn't make it hurt less.

Anyway, while I maintain that I had (very, very) good reason to be upset, I'm sorry I yelled at you like a red-headed stepchild. I had some stellar lines in tonight's fight, lines that may or may not have included the word "jackass" and "f*ck off." You have to admit that sometimes it just feels good to drop the F-bomb.

In fact, you're probably doing it right now. But, uh, feels good, right?

So, I'm coming up to bed now. It'd be nice if you could leave me some covers, maybe not kick me in the shins and then claim you did it in your sleep. Like I said, I come from a long line of face-punchers and I do not wish for things to get violent.

M'kay? M'kay.

--Lisa

Pleased to Announce That We've Relocated Our Swimming Pool, Which We Do Not Have.

2010-03-30T21:05:00.006-04:00

I know the world is positively reeling from Ricky Martin's self-outing (HA.), but in other news, it's raining here in the Northeast. Like, a lot:

How was your day?

Because Bits of Asphalt Make Any Birthday Cake Taste Better

2010-03-29T21:42:00.008-04:00

In honor of my 30th birthday, the BassMaster recently came home with a shiny me-sized motorcycle strapped in the back of his truck. I can now officially ride off into the sunset of my mid-life crisis.

It's red. It's shiny. It has death written all over it.

Okay, that's not exactly true. More accurately stated, the situation has death written all over it. The situation is that I have never driven a standard-transmission-anything. I can barely even peddle a Schwinn. I tend to overthink things until my hair follicles bleed. Also, I am not an auditory learner at all. If you need to teach me something, you're better off sending in a platypus to do it in sign language than you are teaching it to me out loud.

So, put me on a two-wheeled standard vehicle and give me 28 things to think about just to drive the thing forward a few yards and, well, yeah. Certainty of death.

Or maybe just embarrassment.

To his credit, the BassMaster is a very good teacher. He spent a good five minutes giving me clear, specific directions on something that takes four seconds. Start and stop. Ease off the clutch, give it a little gas, walk it forward, then STOP.

Any monkey could do that, right? I, however, am not your average monkey.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes. I am ready."

Five seconds later, I threw the throttle wide open when I meant to grab the brake, dumped the bike and got myself pinned under it with the rear wheel spinning at full tilt while the BassMaster sprinted behind me screaming, "JESUS, LET GO! LET GO OF THE THROTTLE!"

Really, who needs marital counseling?

The good news is that I'm fine, aside from a few bruises and the fact that the fragile shards of my ego now lie embedded in the pavement. But hey, the Death Machine and I eventually called a truce, and I skittered around the parking lot a couple of times without looking like an asshole.

Incidentally, we are teaching the Munchkin to ride a real bike, and she knows the inside scoop. She has advised me to "hold onto the handlebars, Mommy."

Now there's a good way to break it down into the basics. This kid, she totally gets me.

Grab the Tostitos, Mommy's Going to Shake the Flabby Remnants of Her Booty

2010-03-26T20:55:00.009-04:00

Author's Note: I recently wrote up a list of things I want to do in life before senility takes over, and for some reason "Learn to salsa dance" came out of my brain and onto the page. And I figured, well, sh*t, why not? Carpe salsa-em.

Dance Studio Receptionist: Okay, I have you all set up for your lesson next Thursday.

Me: Thanks. What should I wear, by the way? Workout clothes, I assume?

DSR: Actually we dress in business casual, so I recommend dress pants or a skirt.

Me: (beat) Business...casual?

DSR: Yes. You know, like dressy work clothes.

Me: Work. You mean that fabled place where you don't have to wipe any else's ass if you don't want to, right?

DSR: Excuse me?

Me: Uh, nothing. So, does that mean no jeans?

DSR: We recommend dress pants or a skirt.

Me: Skirt. That's the thing with no leg holes, right? So when my kids try to climb me, they'll be clawing at my bare skin?

DSR: Sorry?

Me: Nothing.

DSR: (beat) Uh, okay, is there anything else we need to know about you before you come in?

Me: I took ballet when I was a teenager.

DSR: And how old are you now?

Me: Turning 30 this week. Oh, and if I do manage to find a skirt, is it okay if it has a bit of dried snot on it? Maybe some crusty Goldfish cracker remnants?

DSR: How old did you say your kids are?

Me: Three and one.

DSR: (beat) We really need to get you in here, huh?

The Long and Winding Road Is Also Full of Cow Pies.

2010-03-25T22:45:00.001-04:00

I've been relying on a friend to watch the girls while the BassMaster and I attend our agreed-upon counseling sessions, and while I know it's a necessity, the act of having to ask for favors on a weekly basis makes me feel like a mooch.

Plus, it reminds me that my marriage is messed up. I wouldn't have to ask if my marriage would just un-clusterf*ck itself and function properly. Sigh.

I only feel better about it when I offer to return the favor, to take her kids for a day, a night, a midday quickie, whatever. But since I'm so desperate to not feel like The Needy Friend Who Needs Things Always, I think I might be coming on a little too strong.

"Seriously," I say to her when I pick up the kids, "Go out. I'll take yours, anytime. We have lots of toys. We have all the stuff. How about now, you want to go now?? GIVE UP YOUR LITTLE PEOPLE, DANGIT!"

Then she stands there blinking with a tight smile on her face, and I realize I need to reel in the crazed enthusiasum, maybe take a deep breath or six, before she starts to worry I'm going to rappel into the kids' bedroom Mission: Impossible-style and make off with them in the night.

This past week, I had to ask her to babysit for the second time in two weeks. I didn't want her to think the BassMaster and I were out stealing road signs and flashing policemen. So, without going into any detail (a major feat for me), I told her that he and I were doing some marriage counseling.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she said sympathetically. She nodded. I nodded.

Then, after a few seconds of silence, she goes, "Frank and I have had our rough times. But divorce, that's just not an option. I would rather DIE."

I choked on my latte.

She is deeply religious, and I know she was not kidding. But let's cut her some slack. She loves being a mom, and she is a hell of a babysitter. She has been known to strap my 34-lb preschooler into a baby carrier just so that they can play "Kangaroo." And yes, that game involves a lot of jumping.

But what I wanted to say to her was, well...ARE YOU KIDDING?

I'm not divorced, but I can see the jumping-off point from where I'm sitting. It certainly does suck to have to sit back and say yes, our marriage is failing. Or, yes, our marriage has failed, and it's our fault. No one likes to accept defeat.

But I have to say that personally, I believe it's possible to discover that the best, healthiest thing you can do as a couple is to part ways amicably. I believe that doing "what's best for you" might mean not staying together.

It's a sly, counterintuitive nugget of wisdom that I have only recently come to accept. As for the BassMaster and I, the jury's still out on exactly what's best for us, which path we will take. Some days, things are good. Some days, things are confusing. And some days we both just f**king step in it. We're doing the best we can.

In any case, neither one of us is going to DIE. Lighten up, fer crying out loud, dear babysitting friend. Have a glass of Pinot. We're going to live.

And we're going to be happy.

Lucky For Me, This Means I Get to Keep My Kidneys

2010-03-22T11:57:00.004-04:00

I'll tell you one thing, folks. It's not easy to find a suitable preschool in a city populated mainly by rednecks and homeless mental patients.

I should totally work for the tourism board.

So when I heard about an open house for the local Montessori School, I figured it was worth checking out, even though I had a seizure when I saw the $7000 price tag on the tuition. But hey, don't my kids deserve the best? So what if I have sell a couple of organs to make the payments?

I smelled trouble when I arrived and realized I was only the third car in the parking lot. After five minutes of fussing around on my cell phone (any new messages? Nope. How about...now? Nope.) and glancing around every five seconds to see if my accomplice the FrogMama had arrived (we actually know each other. Like, in real life. Don't be scared, it happens sometimes.) I crunched across the dirt parking lot to the front door.

Inside, a group of women sat in chairs set up in a semi-circle. When I came in, they ALL turned to look at me at the SAME time. I expected them to say something like, "We've been waiting for you" or "We don't get many visitors." Geezus. Why don't you just kill me, stuff me and mount me on the wall now, before refreshments are served?

The director opened with a crack about menopause. Because nothing warms the crowd like a round of uncomfortable laughter.

Anyway, we spent the next two hours getting a crash course in all things Montessori. Here's what I learned:

1) Montessori philosophy maintains that children of different ages can teach and learn from each other. It encourages children to learn at their own pace.

2) This approach was developed by Dr. Maria Montessori.

3) She been dead for 50 years, so please do not call the school and ask to speak to her.

Based on the propaganda distributed at this event, the only question we needed to ask ourselves was this: did we want our children to be ingenious, academically-untouchable jewels in the Montessori crown, or did we want our children to be knuckle-dragging, paste-eating morons?

I mean no disrespect to those who support the Montessori environment. I can certainly see the value in it. You should have seen all the activities available in the classrooms. I think my kid could walk out of there at age 6 and be ready for college. Hell, I spent all of ten minutes in the classroom and was all, HOLY CRAP I FEEL SMARTER JUST STANDING HERE.

However, the whole thing feels a little too alternative for me. I don't think Maria and I are going to have a second date. I think we should see other people. Or, other wallet-friendly schooling options where the cool job of the day involves going outside to clap the chalk off the erasers.

Sorry, Munchkin. Now here, eat your paste.

Second Star to the Right and Straight Into the Brothel

2010-03-14T22:40:00.007-04:00

Of course now that we're all moved into our house and ready to Go Places and Do Things, it's been raining for two days straight. With half our rainy-day supplies still packed in boxes, we offered the grandparents ~~a frantic plea to come save us from the whining~~ a cordial invitation to spend the day with us.

My mother-in-law brought a book of 137 Tinkerbell stickers to entertain the Munchkin, which was genius. Kid gets her fairy fix, Grandma gets her kid fix, everyone wins.

Or so I thought, until I took a good look at the finished product:

First of all, if you're thinking this is the biggest sticker you've ever seen, you are correct.

Second of all, it just me, or is Tink showing a little leg? Maybe a little thigh? And a little - wait, what the - ?? SOMEONE GET THIS FAIRY A BURKA, STAT.

And what's with the freakishly long eyelashes and the coy downward gaze, anyway? It's a bit too hey-big-boy-want-to-see-if-my-thong-matches-my-fairy-dress for the preschool set, if you ask me.

Although it does offer the dads in the house one hell of a happy thought. And up, up, up they go....

Back-to-Back Episodes of Dora Have Given Me a Twitch, But I Am Otherwise Fine

2010-03-05T22:33:00.003-05:00

When we moved to Virginia two and a half years ago, the idea of driving with a baby for twelve hours made me want to hyperventilate.

In fact, it freaked me out so much that I refused to do it. I stuck the Munchkin in the BassMaster's truck for the entire ride and drove in my own separate car.

I can't understand why I didn't win Mom of the Year.

This time, en route from Virginia to our temporary home in Massachusetts, I made the drive by myself with two children, one of whom eats constantly and the other whom has learned to keep the Sibling Fairness Meter in check by screaming bloody murder when she sees her big sister getting a snack.

Thank you, Jesus, for inventing Goldfish crackers.

And portable DVD players.

Anyway, we're back in New England. It's cold. People are jerks. And while out shopping this morning an annoucement over the store PA system concluded with, "Thank you fuh shoppin' at ya nay-bah-hood Tah-get."

It's wicked nice to be back, guy.

This Post Sucks, Much Like the Situation Described Within

2010-02-22T23:03:00.012-05:00

Sometimes I wish I had more experience with the whole potential-end-of-marriage thing.

I have no idea what's normal. Or if such a thing as "normal" even exists in this kind of situation.

Is it normal for every conversation to end with yelling and tears? Even our most benign exchanges seem to escalate and end in this way. Hi, how are you, weather is good...GO F*CK YOURSELF AND DIE.

(I'm exaggerating, we have not actually said that to each other. Out loud.)

Is it normal to thoroughly convince yourself that the whole thing is all your fault, to make your own brain implode with the what-if's and the I-should-haves, and then in the next minute convince yourself that it's TOTALLY the other person's fault and spend the two days hoping they contract an embarrassing, inconvenient but not life-threatening tropical disease?

Is it normal to have not just one, but like, twelve breaking points because every time you say to yourself, that's it, I don't have to put up with this sh*t anymore, you find yourself thinking of the kids? The kids. The kids.

So you push The Line back. And when they cross it again, you nudge it back with your toe again and just want to smack yourself upside the head.

I just don't know.

Ten minutes have passed since I wrote the sentence above. Seriously. I DON'T KNOW.

And apparently I have nothing left to say, probably because the aforementioned yelling and tears have exhausted me.

I'll come up with something peppy next time. That's right, peppy.

Bye, now.

I'm Talking About the Aromatherapy Candle, of Course

2010-02-16T20:48:00.001-05:00

Dear Party Consultant,

It's come to my attention that nearly 4 weeks after the fact, I have not yet received my purchases from the super-special-ladies-only party from which my cheeks are still returning to their natural pasty color.

We didn't have much time to chat when we met, on account of all the whips and chains and edible body cream flying about. So you might not know this, but things have been a bit tense for me lately. Been doing the single-mom gig for a while now. Husband not so much digging me anymore. Moving soon, have to leave good friends and pleasing temperate climate for the cold white North.

Also, we've all had a stomach bug and let me tell you, it's tough to listen to a preschooler lecture you on how "You're not supposed to put your mouth on the potty, Mommy. Wha' you doin', Mommy? We only put our bums on the potty, not our mouths, silly Mommy," when you're trying to have a private moment in the can.

In short, AM STRESSED. Would love a chance to de-stress.

Are you getting my drift, lady?

I don't remember exactly what I ordered from you. And having had no prior experience with such purchases, I cannot guarantee that I know how to use the items properly. However, I suspect some of them might help me take my mind off things and relax a bit. That is, if they don't cause me to accidentally kill myself.

So put a rush on it, will ya? Help a girl out. Kthanxbye.

Your Antsy Client,
Lisa

You Could Say It's a Slow News Day Around Here

2010-02-12T12:04:00.006-05:00

It's true what they say. Bodily functions are always funny.

Especially to the preschool demographic.

We have a set of Disney Fairy magnets that the Munchkin has been playing with all morning. I don't know what sort of make-believe peril befell them today, but I do know that they had to escape some kind of enemy by hiding in her shirt.

"Quick, fairies! You hafta hide in my shirt!" she yelled while sitting at the table.

As she stuffed them in, one of them fell magnet-side down onto the ground with a SPLAT.

"Heh. You pooped out a fairy," I said. Because I'm a thirteen-year-old boy on the inside like that.

I should have known better.

For the last hour I've been listening to her squeal, "I pooped out a fairy! BWAHAHAHAHA!! I pooped, Mommy! POOP! BWAHAHAHAHA!"

It was funny. For the first two minutes.

I better not find those magnets in the crapper tomorrow.

It's Her Party and She'll Get Strung Out on Buttercream if She Wants To

2010-02-05T22:39:00.007-05:00

Dear Kitt,

You've been asleep for a couple of hours now and I just scarfed down the last slice of your Little Mermaid birthday cake. I believe I'd like to lick the frosting off my plate now. Maybe bathe in it.

We've had a year of baby snuggles and early-morning smiles from behind the crib slats. This was the year I became a believer in babywearing, mainly because holy crap the other one is running into traffic and I need both hands to grab her and then kill her myself.

We made up new games, like the one where you go limp on the ground in mid-crawl and lie there smiling until I tickle you. You made me fall in love with motherhood all over again. I literally never dreamed it could be so good. Was kind of disillusioned with the whole deal until you came along, and I'm so grateful for you. So very grateful.

It's been a weird year, too.

Don't worry - I said the same thing with your sister. Weird first year with her, what with the not sleeping and the crying and the screaming and the laughing all in a 30-second interval. And I mean me, not her.

While I was pregnant with you, I would sometimes creep downstairs in the middle of the night, sit on the couch and cry. I'd sit there sobbing into a pillow, not knowing what my next step should be and feeling totally useless. It sucked. Big time.

But then I'd feel you moving inside of me, and I'd put my hands on my belly and suddenly realize that even in those dark moments, I was never really alone. That if nothing else, I had a purpose in you. So I dried my eyes and I kept going.

And those weepy days are over. Not going back, thankyouverymuch.

Because suddenly, there you were.

No, really...suddenly. Like dude-I-haven't-shaved-my-legs-and-my bag-isn't-even-packed suddenly. But it made for a hell of a birth story.

Happy birthday, baby. There are not enough intensifiers in the English language to justify how much I love you.

And you're right, this frosting is delicious.

Love,
Mommy

PS: After I snapped this photo, I took you upstairs for a bath where you promptly crapped in the tub. Party on, rock star.

I Survived Single Motherhood and All I Got Was This Lousy Blog Post

2010-02-02T21:39:00.001-05:00

When the girls and I returned home from our summer vacation, I steeled myself for five months of single motherhood. No more aimless wandering around Target at 9pm just to be by myself. No more rounds of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to see who gets stuck doing the baths.

Unless I want to amuse myself. Dammit, lost again!

I knew I could still be a good mom. Maybe even a great mom, depending on the day and the amount of wine in the fridge. I knew I had good friends to keep me company. But I still had no idea how I was going to survive until February. I mean dear God, that was next year for crying out loud.

And now it's, um, now-ish.

I would really like to come up with a poignant statement of reflection here, but all I can think is, DUDE, THAT TOTALLY WAS NOT AS BAD AS I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE.

Oddly enough, I blurted those exact words a few seconds after I delivered the Munchkin. All the nurses kind of laughed nervously, and now I know they were thinking, by the way, this baby is going to suck the skin off your nipples.

Granted, other areas of my life blew up in my face and left a huge mess. My marriage morphed into something unrecognizable, and then it ended and then it un-ended and is now somewhere in between. I hate the uncertainty. I hate it.

I feel so angry and pissed off about the whole thing sometimes. It just doesn't seem fair. Sometimes I want to walk through the house and slam every hinged thing I can find, just to see if it makes me feel better.

Then again, I have these:

These are not uncertain. They are definites. Plus I might cause a ruckus if I start slamming things, and don't you know you never wake a sleeping child?

That one in the purple there, I've had those kissable cheeks all to myself since the end of August. And that one on the bottom? She and her 3-year-old attitude drive me bat sh*t crazy, and yet I cannot stand to be away from her, as I learned when I left her a friend for two days, flew to Massachusetts with Kitt and bawled the whole way to the airport.

It's all part of her evil plot to destroy me, I just know it.

But I love her anyway.

That being said, anyone want to do the baths tomorrow night? Come on, best out of ~~three~~ five?

It Was No Tupperware Party. Although Plastic Was Definitely Involved.

2010-01-25T22:45:00.002-05:00

You know, nothing brightens your mood like a room full of fluorescent sex toys.

Oh, good, I haz your attention now.

Given my personality and my affinity for The Overshare, I'm surprised it's taken me this long to get to one of these "ladies only" parties. You'd think the Sex Toy Bigwigs would have called to recruit me as a guest by now. I finally got to experience the wonder this past weekend and yes, the whole time I was thinking dude this is SO going in the blog.

First of all, did you know that sex toy party consultants are very difficult to find this time of year? Y'know, Valentine's Day, that beloved fake holiday when flowers lead to chocolate leads to wine leads to crotchless fishnet body stockings. Pretty standard, really.

At any rate, I planned this little soiree as a bachelorette party for a dear friend of mine and went through about nine consultants before I finally found someone available on a Saturday night.

"I'll get there about twenty minutes early, to set up," she said on the phone.

"Okay...um...what does that mean, exactly?" I asked. Because I honestly didn't know. Like, does she need a special dildo table? Should we clear space for the stripper pole? DO WE GET TO KEEP OUR CLOTHES ON FOR THIS?

"I'm just going to set out products and hand out catalogs," she replied.

"Oh. Okay."

Actually, the first thing she did was an icebreaker activity, which I will recreate for you here. Ahem:

Complete the following exercise: On a piece of paper write down, "I hate [insert name of a chore you hate] because [reason why you hate said chore.]"

Replace the name of the chore with the word, "sex." Now say it out loud.

If you're not giggling, I recommend you repeat the exercise after 2 glasses of wine. Oh, the hilarity.

"I hate sex because I have to lug it down three flights of stairs," said the bride-to-be.

"I hate sex because as soon as I finish, I have to start all over again."

Lucky for me I steered clear of the diaper pail. Which would have equaled, "I hate sex because it makes my hands smell like sh*t."

The party continued with a presentation of the more benign products e.g., lotions, edible lubricants, body sprays. The consultant warned us to use one hand for licking/tasting, and the other for sniffing. "Be careful not to lick your sniffer or sniff your licker," she said.

I'm going to say that to the Munchkin and Kitt. Right before they walk down the aisle.

Then, after a five minute break, she started pulling the mother load from her tote bag. There were purple things, orange things, things with animal-themed stimulation tools. I will never look at a hummingbird the same way again.

And I mean, they just kept coming. The thing was like a clown car, except with fewer clowns and more jelly-filled phalluses.

Now, I know some people out there believe that sex should stay in the bedroom and that women have no business getting together to eat, drink and pass sex toys around in a circle like the Wonderball game. But I am not one of those people. I had a blast at the party. And I kept my clothes on, for a change.

So to those people I say, lighten up and get yourself a "Silver Bullet." Or better yet, a "Thunder Vibe" or a "Standing O."**

You can thank me later.

**While I am not making up these names, I cannot speak to the effectiveness of these particular items as I did not purchase them. Did I make purchases? Yes I did. Am I telling you what they were? No am not. Even I have my limits.

Nothing to See Here. Except for Baked Goods.

2010-01-18T14:41:00.003-05:00

Oh, hell. I don't even know what to write about these days.

Life goes on here, as life tends to do. Even on days when you want to curl up in the fetal position and consume a bag or four of chocolate truffles.

The girls wake me at the arse-crack of dawn, and we snuggle in my bed until Kitt starts to shove her fingers in my ears or the Munchkin grabs me by the hair to show me that LOOK MOMMY IT'S A SEVEN, THIS NUMBER RIGHT HERE TURNED TO SEVEN, SO NOW YOU CAN GET UP AND I CAN HAVE SOME CEREAL?!

Then I roll over and see that it is not 7:00AM, as I am desperately trying to teach her, but rather 6:17AM, 5:27AM, 5:07AM, etc. And then I'm all COME HERE SO I CAN THROW THIS PILLOW AT YOU.

We meet with friends. Have lunch. Go to museums, aquariums, parks and playgrounds.

Occasionally I realize that "Hey! Neither kid died today! Not too shabby!" And then I give myself a fist bump.

See? Not that exciting.

But yeah, in case anyone's wondering, I always have this in the back of my mind.

Always.

At night when I have nothing else to occupy my mind, I gnaw on mental snapshots of the future. I think about the strangeness of someday having a last name different from that of my kids. I see our two different names on paperwork for school, doctors, permission slips. I wonder where we'll be when they ask me what happened. I think of all the rotten things I've done in my life and wonder if this is my punishment, to be in love with someone who only loves me back in the rational, obligatory way.

I think about referring to him in conversation as "my ex-husband," and God, it just sounds so wrong.

It feels like someone else's life.

I know that I should not be worrying about these things. I know that it's not all my fault. I know, deep down, that I deserve to be happy with or without the title of Mrs. BassMaster. But man, this crap does a number on your self-esteem.

It's just hard. I don't really know what else to say.

So I bake stuff. See?

Gotta channel all that energy into something productive. Otherwise my brain would explode, and I hear that sh*t does not come out of the carpet.

Macaroon, anyone?

Insert Your Own Joke About Navel-Gazing Here

2010-01-12T12:23:00.006-05:00

If 40 is the new 20, then stretch marks must be the new belly piercing, right?

SWEET!

I stumbled across an old CD labeled "Pictures" today, and found it filled with photos that the BassMaster copied from the computer he used in college.

Oddly enough, he had nothing scandalous (I think he keeps those photos on a flash drive hidden somewhere on his person). But he did have many pictures of me. Me in my college apartment, posing with friends, heading out to go dancing in strappy, complicated clubwear for which I would need a manual to wear today. And I'd probably accidentally hang myself.

He had a lot of pictures of the two of us, smiling and happy, back when it seemed we could never spend too much time with one another.

Then I came across a photo that made me realize what a great thing I had, and what I've lost. It filled me with a longing that brought a tear to my eye. And I wondered, how could this have happened? How could I have let something like this get away?

Oh, pre-baby belly. You were so cute. Look how you slide right into those low-rise jeans without a hint of muffin top. Look how the waist actually lies flat, instead of creasing and crumpling under the strain of the mama pouch. I've damn near forgotten what that looks like.

Let's all have a moment of silence for the bods we knew before the sperm swam up in there and wreaked havoc.

Kidding (kinda).

Sure, the heart-shaped stud was cute. And maybe once in a while I do long for the days when I had so few cares in the world that I could sit around and take pictures of my own belly button, fer cryin' out loud.

But the truth is, I prefer pictures of my kids. And I'm prouder of the stretch marks than I ever was of that thing.

Check back later for a photo of my pinky toe, and the secrets of the universe I discovered while staring at it. Trust me, it'll blow your mind.

He Has a Slim Lead Over the Pickles

2010-01-07T20:13:00.010-05:00

Well, look at that. It's Love Thursday in the blogosphere.

Thanks a lot, blogosphere. If you could just pour a little more salt in there and then shove your stilettos directly into my open wound, that'd be fantastic.

Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes. Love Thursday.

Some things I love: 1-hr massages at the spa, pickles, Keith Urban, flannel sheets, s'mores made over a campfire, that sucking-popping sound that a bottle of Snapple makes when you open it.

And I love my husband, too.

After winning gold in the Shitty Christmas Olympics, we ditched the kids for a night and spent New Year's together in one of my favorite little towns. For the first time in months, I felt like I could see him through clear eyes. It was almost like meeting him for the first time.

I kinda liked him.

So while I am very impressed by some of the suggestions that have shown up in my inbox this week, I have no plans to empty his bank account and head to the nearest Mediterranean villa. I also have no plans to do violent things to his delicate parts. Man, you folks are creative.

But I have to admit that, when I consider how far we have to go to repair what's broken, how rough it could potentially be for both of us, and the possibility that after all the effort we still might not end up together, sometimes giving up doesn't sound like such a bad idea. Sometimes it seems like it would make more sense to just say, "Screw it."

Except then I'd hate myself. We'd probably hate each other. And I don't want that.

Gah, enough already. Seriously, someone needs to get me to talk about something else. Anyone got a good joke? Juicy gossip? New technique for clipping toenails?

I'm starting to bore myself, which means you all have probably gone catatonic by now. See what you get for stopping by?

For your sake, I will not pull a Bridget Jones and bust out the chorus of "All By Myself." Yet.

2010-01-04T19:59:00.001-05:00

So, that happened.

It's a little tough to sum up exactly what has happened since my last post. Just after I wrote it, the BassMaster and I retreated to our separate camps to tell our families that we planned to separate.

Well.

They freaked.

My father-in-law sent me four emails telling me that he just didn't know what to say, that he wished he could fix it, how sorry he was that he was a poor role model. This is not your fault, I wrote back to him. It's his fault and my fault. Divorce is the last thing I want, but I can't survive in marriage without love. I can't teach the girls to settle for someone who doesn't love them back.

In case you haven't noticed, the men in my husband's family do not emote much. However, when my father-in-law read my reply, he bawled.

In front of his boss.

My parents spent the whole day with their heads in their hands, my sister-in-law called the BassMaster a douchebag, and my brother literally - literally - wanted to kill him.

It was a bad scene, to say the least.

Eventually, the BassMaster and I found ourselves sitting alone at his parent's kitchen table. I crossed my arms and silently tried to kill him with my eyeballs.

"This might have been a really bad idea," he said.

So then the two of us did this weird, antiquated thing.

We went for coffee and talked. And talked. And talked.

He agreed to do 6 months of marriage counseling, and we both came up with some ideas on how we might - emphasis on might - reclaim the old "us," back when we actually kind of liked each other and weren't so pissed off at the world.

Anger is so freakin' exhausting, anyway.

Are we fixed? Hell, no. Am I feeling a bit frustrated and jerked around by the whole thing? Yep. Might we fall apart anyway? Sure.

But this much we agree on: there's a spark of something between us. We owe it to the kids (and each other, I suppose) to see exactly what's behind it.

If we end it, we can end it knowing that we at least tried.

It's enough. For now.

Here at the End of Things

2009-12-28T00:45:00.003-05:00

This morning, I watched Kitt cuddle with her daddy.

With the room still dark, she curled up on his chest with her head tucked just under his chin. He rubbed her back in small circles.

Every once in a while, she'd pick her head up and look at him as if to say, "Am I okay?" Then she'd plop her head back down and snuggle back in.

It was so sweet.

It was so sweet that I almost forgot how, just a few hours before, while lying in that very spot, he told me that he didn't want to be with me anymore and that he does not want to move back in with us. Not now, not ever.

And I found myself thinking, did that really happen? Or did I just dream that?

Because this, right here, is how it's supposed to be. It's supposed to be me and my sweetheart, lying in a warm bed with one baby snuggled up with us and the other one sleeping peacefully in the next room. It's supposed to be all of us, together. And then we all live happily ever after.

Except I don't think that's how our story ends.

I keep waiting for the Scooby Gang to bust in and tackle him, rip off his mask and say, "Look! It was Old Man Peterson all along!" And then they find my real husband duct-taped to the bathroom door. Or something like that.

That's not how it ends, either.

And so, while our girls had a wonderful Christmas and remain blissfully unaware of the train wreck occurring between their father and me, this is unfortunately (for you) all I can think about right now. What's going to happen. What to do next.

How things will end.

Gratuitous Dose of (Insanely Adorable) Kid-Logic

2009-12-16T20:51:00.004-05:00

Her: I wish Daddy was here, Mommy.

Me: I know, hon.

Her: That would make me so much happy, Mommy. If Daddy was here.

Me: Well, you're going to see him very soon.

Her: Hey. Mommy. Where IS Daddy?

Me: He's at school in Connecticut, remember?

Her: Konni-kut?

Me: Yep, that's right.

Her: I know! I can go to school FOR him!

Me: You want to go to school for him so he can come here?

Her: Yah!

Memo to Self

2009-12-10T21:22:00.003-05:00

Dear Self,

Listen, it's cool that instead of working out tonight, you slapped two scoops of ice cream into a bowl, drowned them in chocolate syrup and then topped them with an obscene amount of whipped cream.

Oh, and let's not forget the spoonful of peanut butter you threw in there, too.

It's fine. For tonight. But woman, tomorrow, GET YOUR ASS BACK ON THAT TREADMILL.

This is your final warning.

Wait, are you listening? Have you already gone back to eat the whipped cream out of the can? Dammit.

Love,
You

Those Underage Chinese Gymnasts Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

2009-12-08T12:45:00.001-05:00

Okay. Enough of that depressing stuff. Oddly glad I wrote it, got what I wanted out of writing it, which was for someone - anyone - to say, "I've been there."

Plus I managed to snag an appointment with the ol' therapist who, aside from the occasional cancellation, is booked solid for the next two months straight. Happy holidays, please pass the Xanex.

Now, in completely unrelated news, I did a somersault the other day for the first time in about 20 years, and it scared the crap out of me.

But when your kid desperately wants to do a somersault and can't seem to get past the Downward Facing Dog Pees on Hydrant pose with one leg on the ground and the other one flailing wildly in the air, the logical response is to show them how to do it. Right?

As soon as I squatted into the pre-roll position, my body went, "Gah! What the f**k are you doing?!" And it occured to me that since my last somersault, I had sprouted hips, gained forty some-odd pounds and popped out a couple of kids.

So, in short, this could potentially kill me.

I had to think about this. Small room. Hopelessly uncoordinated extremeties. Tables, treadmill, Christmas tree...lots of ways for me to knock myself unconscious. I mean, exactly what kind of trajectory might my ass have on a move like this?

Meanwhile the Munchkin stared at me with this smile on her face like, dude, this is gonna be hysterical.

So, under her ~~very skeptical~~ adoring gaze, I pushed off and rolled foward.

I don't know how to spell the noise I made. Suffice to say it was some combination of a scream and a grunt, and it was highly unattractive.

I somehow survived the roll without pulling a muscle or taking out any small children. Not that it mattered. The Munchkin thought the whole thing was totally lame and went right back to waving her one leg in the air and telling me that "this is how you do it, Mommy."

The things I do for her.

Anyway, it wasn't a total loss because I declared the somersault my exercise for the day, and I skipped my run.

I mean really, there's no need to overexert myself. Right?

In the Silence That Follows

2009-11-30T12:05:00.001-05:00

You tell him you love him, and when he doesn't respond, you tell yourself it doesn't matter. You pretend that his silence does not make you feel like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. You pretend you don't need to hear those words anymore.

You tell him you love him, and the sentiment goes unreturned. The words crash down between you like an anvil.

You try to remember the last time you heard those words from him, and you can't.

You tell yourself, don't cry, don't cry, goddammit don't cry. And then you cry anyway.

Because in the silence, you start to wonder if maybe you really are The Problem, after all. Maybe you are simply not lovable.

Anymore.

And even if you are lovable...if the one person you want to be with can't see it, then does anything you say or do really matter?

You consider the harsh reality that maybe he can't say "I love you" back because, well, he just doesn't.

Anymore.

Maybe he cares about you to an extent, maybe he doesn't want to hurt you. Maybe he can still be a good father to your children. But does not love you.

And you wonder, is that enough? Can a marriage survive on that?

Can you survive on that?

You do not want to think about the answer. Now it's been quiet for too long, and you can't think of anything else to say.

And so you lie there, the two of you, in the silence.