Even I can't squish a baby spider...

Ever spend 20 minutes watching a baby spider lower itself down from the ceiling to the bathroom sink?

Moments like those make me just sputter at my lack of words. It kinda throws your entire perspective of the world for a loop. How tiny are they? How insignificant are WE? What really matters? Is it money and fame? Is it health and fitness? Is it family and friends or careers and accomplishments? Is love what truly makes the world go round or should we properly attribute that to the momentum caused by Earth's creation and other similar scientific jargon?

Why? Why? Why?

All because a miniscule arachnid decided to practice its dragline abilities while I was applying mascara this morning...

My Precious

It has happened.

I knew this day would come. It's inevitable, really. I live and work in social media. I stay connected to everyone via technology. Trying to exist within the world I work and live in withOUT a Smart Phone was tricky, to say the least.

Maybe Fate played a hand in the early demise of my Average Intelligence Phone? Maybe something Greater Than Myself forced me to reach for the phone while I WAS IN THE SHOWER? No rice would save this poor little phone. It has been recycled and replaced after a very long, very tiring day of trying to figure out what phone/plan I would be getting.

Here's something you have to understand about me: While I LIKE having a cell phone, I still don't feel that it's a NECESSITY. So, the idea of committing to a monthly plan that I can't get out of and costs more than a week of groceries isn't a wagon I'll be jumping on anytime soon.

Enter Pay as you Go plans.

I checked out Straight Talk through WalMart because my teen has a phone and plan through them. They would have been fine, but the phone I already had (via a T-Mobile social media event that I WON!) wasn't transferable and yadda yadda. Basically, they were SUPER nice and wanted to be accommodating, but couldn't really give me what I wanted; which was a smart phone plan for about $50 a month with unlimited everything without me having to BUY another smart phone AND with me keeping the same phone # I already had. I mean, Melisa had JUST BOUGHT new business cards for us with my cell # on them!!

And so? I headed to Cricket, which is where I had my old phone through. And in just a few minutes, I had a new smart phone (The ZTE Groove) with a new pay as you go plan which is $50 a month for unlimited everything on the same phone # without having to pay for a new phone.


So, if you are wondering why I am huddled in the corner of gymnastics or co-op or a social event, looking at my phone? Just know that it's all new to me. The speed! The music! The connectivity! I mean, did you KNOW that you can connect your email to your phone? And that different people can have different ring tones? And DID YOU KNOW that my Cricket phone comes with Muve Music which basically means I have FREE MUSIC every single day?!?! I have been making playlists and scanning through old photos from my blog and Gmail (because I CONNECTED IT ALL! LIKE A GROWN UP!) and ignoring the piles of dishes and the fact that I have a co-op class to plan for and papers to copy for history for the kids tomorrow and laundry and eating and talking to my family and bathing and EVERYTHING besides my phone.

My precious, shiny, lovely phone....

Dishwater thoughts...

Just how many times can I write about attempting to find meaning in monotony? How often can I think on the moments in my life that seem to be happening simultaneously across the years?

It's as though I have had a 15-year conversation in my mind that picks itself up every time I stand on the foam pad in front of my kitchen sink, perpetually swirling and dipping and rinsing. Constantly filling the left side of my stained stainless steel sink with steaming tap water; observing as the jets force the squirt of generic blue dish soap into bubbling submission... Scrubbing and scraping and pondering on Life until all that is left is a filmy gray scum with suspicious lumps tumbling against my hands.

Haven't I thought these thoughts before?

Haven't I had the same revelations repeatedly

repeatedly

repeatedly?

It's as though the steam has softened my brain, because the conversation ceases as soon as I pull that plug and watch the water flow through the drain; washing away the filth of our food and the brilliance of a thought that cannot be held onto without the assistance of a soap-filled sink.

Let it Rot, I say...

We watched the remake of "Total Recall" the other night. I have to say, it was a great movie. Much like the first with Schwarzenegger, only more computer graphics and less on the heavy accents.

What I LOVED about the movie (and the first one) was the ending. Because it didn't REALLY end...

I may have mentioned once or twice in the past how much I HATE movies and books without "real endings." And I do. I loathe them. I have enough loose ends in my Real Life; I do not need for my 90 minutes of entertainment to end on "What if's" and "What do YOU think?"

Total Recall* is the exception. And here's the reason why:

They make you question what really matters.

I mean, does it REALLY matter if Dennis Quaid (Main character in Recall) was stuck within the midst of a psychological break that caused him to believe that the mental vacation he paid to go on was actually REAL REALITY? What Is REAL reality? If I were to find out that the life I am living right now, with 3 kids and a husband and a mortgage in Illinois were all part of an elaborate hallucination that some other sentient being was concocting in another realm or reality; would I want to leave? Would I want to give this up? Would I ever truly accept that these people, this love, these experiences were anything other than REAL?

What more do we need other than the emotions in our heart to tell us that something is Real?

Don't wake me up. Don't shake me from this hallucination. If  a physical body lies rotting in some medical facility on Mars while I dream these experiences, then let it rot.

Shhhh.... I'm happy in this dream.


*And Matrix!

Pride doesn't exist when we're talking about Cancer

So, I was at Quigley's Irish Pub with some of the Chicago Blogger Gang (word) last week. Brandie was sitting next to me, being the bad influence that she is*, trying to get me to get up and do my jig.

"Oh, I'll do it!" I said. "Tell you what: you walk around and have people donate a buck for your Avon walk and I'll get up and do a full-on Tracey version of an Irish-jig-meets-Elaine-from-Seinfeld."And Brandie, being the sweet and delicate flower that she is**, blushed and giggled and wouldn't walk around, approaching random strangers for money to watch her friend dance.

GO FIGURE.

And Me, being not-quite-drunk-enough to TRULY embarrass myself in a bar full of very cute 20 something's, never did get up and do that jig (though, truth be told, it may have had something to do with the killer boots I was wearing and my fear of twisting an ankle in freaking JANUARY).

I came home that night, slightly inebriated, and fast-talking my husband's ear off about the Fabulous! Idea! I had and even went so far as to scribble my idea for said Fabulous Blog Post on a box of baby products I will be reviewing in a week (on tv! Again!). Yes. I wrote a drunken note to myself on baby products while drunk. (though only slightly drunk) Thankfully it was only the shipping box and I won't need to show it on television. Whew! My reputation is saved!

What is this Fabulous! Idea! you ask?

Well, Brandie has spent the last year beating the beast that is breast cancer away with many sharp, pointy sticks and other assorted weaponry. Now that she has cleared several hurdles, she's committed to walking in Avon 2 day Walk in Chicago. While I already personally donated to her walk, I really would like to help her earn a little more towards their goal. Sooooo....

I shall dance a jig!

Complete with Elaine kicks and embarrassing facial expressions. All it will take for you to witness this loveliness is a dollar or two, donated to Brandie's Avon Walk account. Avon doesn't take Paypal donations -sad face- but if you would like to donate via credit card or personal check, you can donate to Brandie's group. Or you can donate to Brandie's personal Paypal account that she will use towards her walk (Brandie185 at gmail dot com). Just comment below that you've done so, and I'll include it in the tally. Once we get to $50, the music shall commence.

Come on! A buck to see me dance? It truly is a treasure worth witnessing. Just ask anyone at BlogHer11...

Or weddings, random bars, or my kitchen for that matter...

Edited to add: Please tell me the amount you've donated so that I can start a count!

Current donations are at: $5.00

*We all know who the REAL*** bad influence is....

**Ha HA! She is no delicate flower. She is kicking cancer's ass as I type this. Only a Warrior can do that.

***It's true. I am a baaaaad influence...

Puppy Dreams...

I have been holding out on you guys. You may have been wondering why my posts are so distracted, so meh. I mean, even MORE "meh" than usual.

What do you mean, "No"? You mean you have lives outside of reading my blog and obsessing over my comings and goings?

As if.

So, as I was saying, since you're obviously curious about why I've been so distant, I'll enlighten you.

I have been sucked into the scary world of puppy adoption.

Oh yes. We're getting a dog.

This sounds simple. It sounds incredibly simple! You call a shelter, specify size, age and general breed, and they announce that you can come over and rescue a needy puppy that they have available for practically no $ at all. You take said dog home and he/she becomes a new member of your family for the next 10-15 years. Case closed.

HA.

I forgot to enter the factors of the universe into this equation including, but not limited to: allergen requirements, size issues, shelters that don't answer phones, shelters that are just plain weird about how they approve for adoption, and to add in about 3 months of strife and pondering, just for kicks.

You would think we were trying to conceive the darn puppy ourselves!

Petfinder.org has been my website of choice for at least 6 months now. I can tell you all about all of the shelters, their requirements, exactly WHY we want a dog, how we're planning on training him/her, and that YES, we WILL agree to a home visit, if it comes down to that. (I kid you not. A home visit. For a Dog.)

Please, please, please cross any loose appendages you may have available so that we will be the chosen "parents" for the puppy we're meeting next Saturday! My heart has gotten attached to so many little faces, only to find out that they have found their homes somewhere else. (which, YAY! I'm glad they're finding homes. But I wish it was OUR home...) My children are beginning to think that we're making up the whole "we're getting a dog!" promise that we made back in APRIL...

In Which I Become Like Steve Irwin

At what degree will fruit flies naturally DIE? If I leave my windows open every night, and the temperature drops to about 50 Farenheit each night (which it DOES! It's wonderfully chilly and I am wrapped in a ROBE!!!!), how long do I have to wait before I can expect to find their little corpses all curled up on my counter tops instead of hovering over the drains and garbage cans?

I swear to God, we are NOT filthy people. Now, we are not super-clean, either, but we've never had fruit flies in the 14 years we've been married, so either I've been doing something right for 14 years or the little buggers were just lying in wait for over a decade, plotting the prime moment to strike and invade my home. Seeing as how fruit flies only live a few weeks, I'm guessing this was just a random attack.

Or maybe they covet my juicy tomatoes?I mean, really? Who wouldn't?

I was doing the whole "vinegar in a cup with a funnel thing" but it wasn't working! They would go in, get trapped, and I would do a victory dance in the kitchen, complete with hip thrusts and shouts of "Uh! Uh! Take THAT you little bastards!" I would then skip happily upstairs to bed and sleep an untroubled, bug-free bliss. So, you can imagine my surprise when I would come downstairs only to find that they had ESCAPED! They had escaped and had an orgy overnight, increasing their numbers threefold! Not only that, but their offspring had been raised on stories of me, the Great Captor. They were PISSED.

I have been suffering these past few days (oh, how I've suffered!). Swatting my head, whacking the walls, and swearing uncontrollably.* FINALLY, just moments ago, I decided to read the ENTIRE directions on How to Kill Fruit Flies.

Heh.

"Release them every day."

Ooohhhh.... No happy victory dances as I wait for them to drown? That's not nice? They will figure out the funnel? Their brains are small but not non-existent? I have to carry the glasses outside and RELEASE them into the wild?

Ohhh.....

I suddenly feel all Animal Planetish.


*that may or may not have to do with the fruit flies... I may just have a profanity issue....

I Want to Bottle This Day and Sell it Like Crack

Ever have a day where you look back and wonder at the awesomeness that is yourself?

Not to pat myself on the back too hard, but damn! I had an accomplished day! Especially since it was all just off the cuff. Even more amazing when you realize that, at 9:03 am, I was relaxing with a cup of coffee while my children slept in. At 9:04, my Facebook status read:

Ahhhh.. the first really unscheduled day of our summer! We are doing NOTHING and going NOWHERE...

And then, at 9:05 I realized that it was MONDAY and that Mondays in June mean basketball camp for Evan!!

I do believe I shouted a few profanities at this point.

Shockingly enough, all children were awake, dressed and fed by 9:55 so that I was walking out the door with Evan, Corinne and a bag of activities to occupy Corinne. Evan wasn't crying about camp and I was cautiously optimistic that he would make it through the class without getting upset and quitting. (Last week's class was a Parenting Fail. Let's just leave it at that.)

ANYway! Many shots were made, balls were dribbled and sweaty smiles were beamed at me from the court. I was incredibly impressed with myself, even though I hadn't showered and the mother next to me was looking quite lovely with her 4 perfectly coiffed children. Sigh... This was the only bump in the day though...

The day continued to be marvelous. I cleaned the counter that had begun to require its own zip code and found several pairs of missing sunglasses and nail clippers. I walked with all 3 kids to the park and then around the block just for the hell of it! (I KNOW!) Justin and I took our first nightly bike ride to encourage living a healthier lifestyle. I dog-eared several pages of Melisa's book, Chicken in the Car and the Car Won't Go, so that I can find the spots we want to visit this summer. Dishes were washed! TWICE! I watched Patrick and Corinne play soccer in the backyard while I weeded our garden. Kids have showered! Laundry has been done! I agreed to letting Evan have a friend sleep over because the house is moderately clean-ish and I am in a good mood. I even COOKED DINNER. All in the same day!

Somebody tell me what I did correctly. PLEASE. Please tell me what happened last night or this morning or with the moon that allowed me to end the day (it's only 7:34!) feeling so accomplished!! What is different? How do I replicate this forward-motion emotion?*

Alas, alas, alas**, Life is never that easily controlled or created. Today was today and tomorrow will be tomorrow...

*I think I need to trademark that line: Forward-Motion Emotion. I LOVE IT.


**Heh. It's still funny!

~~~
Garden 2011 Status: Nothing is dead. This is remarkable. A few wimpy weeds dared to make their presence known and met a fate worse than death. Well, maybe not WORSE than death, since they were merely tossed over the edge of the fencing to the grass where they will most likely re-root and grow again. But I WEEDED, damnit. This should be accounted for.

Stream of Thought

My dishwasher's still broken.

This equates to an extra 45 minutes of standing at the sink every day in order to stay "on top of" the dishes and pans and glasses (so many glasses! How many cups of water can 3 kids drink in 1 day? Seriously! I wash about 20 cups a day. For 5 people!).

And I know I shouldn't bitch about it. I am grateful that I have over 20 glasses and mugs and cups from which my family can drink the plentiful, clean, running water. I am grateful that my kids LIKE water to begin with and not just pop or juice. But do you know how ridiculous I feel, soaping and scrubbing and rinsing 20 glasses that only had water in them to begin with?!?

The tree outside my kitchen window is starting to show signs of spring. Not buds or leaves, but definitely a more... "spring-ish" look to it. Maybe it's all the finches that are hopping around on its branches, searching for the bird feeder that fell off last autumn. Poor finches. Their local hot spot for thistle seed is currently undergoing renovations. It'll probably take us another 2 years to put up a new hanging bag of seed, guys...

All this extra time spent with my arms in the hot foam that only generic dish soap can create causes my mind to wander and ponder; just think about how many hundreds of millions of women who have washed and soaped and scoured their own families' dishes throughout the existence of mankind. It's such a basic chore. So necessary but unloved. Though I'd take standing at the sink, looking out at the frustrated and hungry birds any day over the bending and lifting of loading the damn washer and dryer. We can't even have a clothesline in our subdivision. It goes against the codes that I knew about when we signed the papers, but I wonder if I'd use one if we could? Just having the rule against it makes the idea of hanging the wash out to dry seem... exotic. Can't you just picture me snapping freshly laundered towels and t-shirts as I expertly clip them to a taught line in the gentle breezes? All while my children race about the yard (in slow motion, naturally) with oversized bubble-wands and those ribbons on sticks that you see on the Olympics.

Do they still do the Rhythmic gymnastics? It used to fascinate me...

Doesn't Make Much Sense to Me, Either...

I swear, I had an entire book written in my head last night. It was a pretty good beginning, too... I HAVE to learn to write this stuff down when I think of it, instead of assuming that such fabulous ideas couldn't possibly fade with the passing of just one sleepless night. You'd think I'd have figured this out by now, wouldn't you?

Instead, I'll go with the easy post:

Can you believe it's only 9 days till Christmas?!? I know, right? Obviously, the season goes by faster as I age. Which means that by the time I'm 65, Christmas season will only take 43 hours from start to finish. And that'll be starting with shopping in AUGUST.
~~~~~~~
Hmmmm. That wasn't so easy. I only got 5 sentences from that topic, one of which was a rhetorical question, but it had punctuation, so it COUNTS. Nonetheless, it's not any wonder why my stats and comments are so pathetic these days. I wish I could blame it solely on my computer with all of its viruses and coughs and backaches. It's practically a senior citizen by today's technological standards and the poor dear is showing its age. When I go online to do a simple tweet and sign up for an event, I should be able to get on and off within 10 minutes, don't you think? That's a pretty long estimate, in all honesty. But when my computer freezes and then flashes and then laughs at me and The Crimson Bitch is seizing control of my emotions, you might be surprised at just how long those simple tasks end up taking. You might also be surprised at the language that this mother of 3 was slinging at said computer.

It was ugly. It was graphic. But my computer IS a rat-sucking-idiot with shit-for-gears. I was just calling it as I saw it. And no: I don't know what a rat-sucking-idiot is. But it fit when I was screaming and crying over the injustices I had to suffer through that night...

My kids' ears may never be the same, though.

I'm Not As Crazy as I Feared...

Sitting alone... it requires courage. I have no book, no pad, no phone. Just luke warm coffee, a piece of unlined paper and an hour to kill. How to fill it? I'm trying to resist the urge to think that the room is staring at me. Nobody cares! No one truly gives a crap if I flick my hair or stare at the wall for 57, 56 minutes. No more than I care that they came equipped with comrades to chat with or gadgets to beep upon. I have only this pen and this paper, at this table by myself...

A goal to fill every inch of this white space has taken hold: I have a purpose! My script is MINUSCULE, resembling the psychotic journals of social deviants on so many horror films. Would a detective look upon this rambling as proof of some crime I never committed? Shit, I swear, I'm NOT a nutcase; I'm just bored.

All of these conversations in my head are phrased as blog posts... Before blogging, I could have an argument or "deep thought" without feeling the pressing need to record it online. Now, I get panicky at all of the well-versed conversations that would make "great blog posts" that I lose to the recesses of my mind, simply because I have no method of retaining them. Oh my lord, if only I had a "smarty-pants-phone!" How lovely the world might be! To grace you all with the internal discussions I host while in my bath tub... Topics such as the meaning of life and the futility of the modern man (original, I know). Why DO we strive to build with plastic and wires? Words in a non-space such as the Internet: Do they really exist? Without a hard copy for posterity, what happens to the ground-breaking and highly-original arrangements of words I construct?

Halfway through this page and my hand is cramping! My knuckles ache to be cracked. How did I ever survive the essays and perpetual note-taking of my school years? It's amazing to me that I never wrote a paper on the computer. All of my work was first written in long-hand! Even my journals to my babies are in script. Until I began blogging, they were quite regularly updated. How long since my last entries? Fabulous; another item for my "to do" list. Not that I can complain; most of my "to do's" are voluntary. I mean, no one's holding me accountable for the order of my home or the constancy of letters to my kids. I recognize just how lucky I am at this point in my life. To have the flexibility to take a long bath in the afternoon while my children read books and play Starfall.com is a luxury most Americans (shoot, most HUMANS) will never have. I embrace this stage and promise to treasure it for as long as it lasts. I'm not naive enough to believe that this WILL last; Nothing lasts. Only change is constant. One must climb the ladder to play on the jungle gym, right? And we all have to eventually slide down... But it sure is nice, climbing this ladder, pausing on this rung, enjoying the view and feeling the joy of the wind on my face...

Turkey Guts

Dude. No post since Sunday and nobody cares? Nice, guys. Reaaaaalll nice. I could be lying on the floor, bleeding and crying and unable to type and nobody would ever even notice. Just a whisper of a tweet on the internet of "Whatever happened to... what was her name again? Oh well..." and I would fade into obscurity... My heart; it breaks.

Despite the fractures within my life-giving organ, I am persevering. The smallish turkey my dad gave us is filling the house with delicious aromas as it roasts within my oven. The turkey and veggie soup that is simmering away, concocted from the neck and guts that I delicately yanked from its body cavities is just as eagerly anticipated for today's lunch.* I adore autumn's aromas...

I had a fabulous post all written up in my brain for Veteran's Day. Sadly, it will have to wait because we were installing and then adjusting to the newness of internet/phone/tv via Comcast's Xfinity. Now we're all up and running and everything is fast and bright and shiny and new and I am going to need a few weeks to adjust my 20th century brain to this new-fangled 21st century stuff. I will say I was highly disappointed with one thing from Xfinity. After installation, I was left with a pile of wires and cords from our previous services. My old cords aren't nearly as engaging or humorous as the commercial's:



Yeah, my old cords are less like an endearing but slightly senile great-uncle and more along the lines of a neglected 14 year old cat: They're evil and silent and like to shit and puke all over the place when you're not looking.

Not that I'd know anything about cats like that."I am not amused. Just wait till she lets go of me; I have in-depth plans of revenge that include your leather coat and a plastic bag that won't quite digest in my stomach..."

*Yummy. Nothing says "eat me" more than a neck removed from the butt of a turkey.

Overheard and Misunderstood

Recently shouted from the family room:

"Muwaaahaaa-haaa!! Suck on My Titty!"

Recently shouted from the bathroom where I was blow-drying my hair:

"WHAAAAATTT?!?! WHAT did you just say?!??"

"Suckonmahtitty!!"

Mouth completely open, I turned off the hair dryer:

"WHAT? Suck on my What?!?"

"Tatty."

"TITTY?!?"

"Tatty."

I furiously opened the door and flew down the hall to where my boys were playing Lego Batman on the DS. Before the fire in my eyes scorched them, I needed clarification:

"Ok. What? Suck on my WHAT?"

Clearly thinking his mother was a lunatic, Evan slowly stated,

"Suck-a-ma-ta-ting. I'm sucking up these Legos on the screen. See?"

Sure enough, his tilted Ds showed a little guy sucking up Legos so fast that he needed a new word to describe it. Hence, 'Suckamatating.'

Clearly.

Chemicals in my EYE, yo. My. EYE.

I'm ticked off. My keyboard's space bar has decided to take a vacation in conjunction with Pat and Evan's trip to Canada. Therefore, if I were to just type without editing, this is what you would see:

I havetons of good ideasforposts! I have been sobusy this weekendandthe kids (what'sleft of them without Evan) havebeen....active.Let'sjust say that the pre-teen angstis at a ripeoldhigh in the house andleave at that,shall we?Ican be grateful that there won'tbe any video gamesin the housefor a month becauseof said angst. Silver lining and all.

SEE?!? Did you understand that? In order to type a sentence with spacing I have to type soooo sloooowly and backspace more than I type! I AM NOT AMUSED.

Here. Watch me embarrass myself with my lameness instead. I am off to drink wine and bemoan my lack of a proper space bar...

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Makeme feelbetter and enter thiscool giveaway...

It's Okay!

It's ok.

Right Amber? Amber and her "It's Okay" Thursdays.* Which she stole from somebody else and which I am stealing from her.

Except today is Wednesday.

It's OK...

...to be pissed off that my left arm is twitching. Some phantom muscle is having a fiesta in my bicep, making me look as though I am doing a fancy muscle trick. Except I'm not. And it's annoying. You can see this twitchy twitch from across the room, guys. It's BAD. I am ANGRY. >:(

... to believe that you COULD run so fast that your feet don't actually touch the ground, just like in your dreams. You just don't feel like proving it right now.

... to point at the tv and say "I know her!" when referring to a local newsreporter that you once met at a luncheon a few months ago. After all, it impressed the kids and when they asked how you knew her you could rub your knuckles on your pj shirt and casually state, "from the blog. I know her from the blog." They need to idolize me a bit more and I am not above claiming friendship where there was really only a passing acquaintance over hummus and veggies. It's me against them and I need as much of an upper hand as I can get.

... to start missing your husband and son before they even leave for their fishing trip. 9 days without my middle kid? I've never done that before. It's a big deal and I am not ashamed to admit that I am going to cry.

... to be happy that it's raining out today which means kids may not be knocking at our door this afternoon. Sometimes, I just want a little peace and quiet. Sometimes, the craziness of tons of friends running in and out can wear on my sanity.

... to whine about the soreness in your legs. It's unfortunate that after only 2 days of jogging with your 8 year old, you can't climb the stairs without grunting. Especially since your kid was LAPPING you for the ten minutes you guys ran (we have a loop we do through the house. It sounds like a herd of elephants). Yes, he lapped me, repeatedly, and still had enough energy to play Ultimate Battle** outside for 3 hours last night. Ahhh... to be 8.

... to wish you were as funny as Amber. And then to secretly hate her a little bit. And then to feel guilty for saying that because you DON'T hate her; she's a sweetie and her husband is serving in Korea for a year! But you still kinda-sorta wish she would write a dumb post once in a while.

... to clap your hands when the fridge is still running in the morning.

... for your son to wear the same shorts for 2 or 3 days because you have packed the other shorts into the bag for Canada. He's homeschooled; who's gonna care?

... to want to search NetFlix for Harry and the Henderson's.

... to believe in fairies.

.... to need more than 3 cups of coffee. Right now.



* Apparently it's on Tuesdays, but I think it's funny that I wrote a whole post thinking that I was a day early instead of a day late.

** a game involving lots of boys that have toy guns and swords that they shoot at each other from behind overturned chairs and sandboxes. Also, it's a game that means everyone passes out at night, right on schedule. I've decided that I like gun games.

A post with many references to losing menstrual blood and psychotic ramblings due to loss of said menstrual blood. Did I say MENSTRUAL BLOOD, yet?!?

Menfolk may need to avert their eyes...
Heed these words!!


In my state of crimson prison that is womanhood, I was beyond thrilled to lock the bathroom door and all of the crises that lay behind it;

"A shower! Yes! That is what will make me more relaxed and less likely to resemble the child-biting* ogre I've morphed into!"

The pounding water blocked out the cries of the starved and neglected offspring that beat upon the door. With my eyes closed, I could almost envision that I stood inside of a sparkling clean waterfall instead of a dingy beige tub that is badly in need of a scrubbing and new curtain. I began releasing the tension and anger that had built up. Ahhhh...

Moving into reality, I proceeded to do what is necessary in the shower, i.e. shampoo and shave.

Normally, these are my least favorite parts of showering (aside from the drying off and brushing of wet hair and, well, I really don't enjoy showers that much...). What with the rinsing and spitting of bubbles that evade my efforts and wind up in my mouth, and the bending and lathering and nicking of ankles... Nope. Don't like it. Not one bit.

You can imagine my surprised joy at finding myself enjoying the shaving of my legs. In fact, I LOVED it! It felt MARVELOUS!! As though someone were removing 10 layers of unwanted hair and dead skin. Like going to the spa only for FREE. This? Was TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!

Beware of things that are too good to be true.

After 5 minutes of shaving the same glorious spot on my leg, it gradually occurred to me that shaving doesn't usually feel good. Shaving is normally a bit like clipping your toenails; it's a neutral zone. Neither good nor bad (minus the bending and lathering bit). An alarm bell began to go off in my parched brain**, causing my hand to slowwwwly halt and question something so wonderful...

Hey!

Know what's really great about August in Illinois? Besides the mind-numbing heat waves and humidity? It's the night life, baby! It brings us suburbanites out like moths to a porchlight; we cannot resist. We pour out into the darkness and build little bonfires and drink Long Island Iced Tea from a bottle and try to grasp every last drop of summer before it's gone.

Know what my family usually forgets to purchase in August?

Bottles of bug spray to replace that which has been depleted.

Know who the last person to get sprayed ALWAYS is, thereby resulting in an empty can fizzing out random spurts?

Me, of course. I mean, what kind of selfish mother would save her own skin before that of her precious children?

There is no scream like that of a menstruating woman who looks down at her extremely hairless leg to discover dozens of bleeding, oozing mosquito bites. Like I have any spare blood right now?!?This is not sufficient. The lighting is all wrong and I have dried off and I need more sympathy than this photo will induce...26 bites on my right ankle and foot ALONE. I stopped counting about mid-calf and didn't even bother to count my left leg....

You may commence with the tender and uplifting comments....

NOW!





* I haven't actually bitten them. Yet.

**what with the hormone fluctuations and MENSTRUAL BLOOD LOSS.

I dream of Babies...

I awoke with my hands on my stomach, looking for the phantom baby that my overactive brain conjured up during the wee hours of this morning's sleep. No baby. Despite the highly detailed, unnecessarily specific dream that plagued me last night; No baby. Just an empty womb and no chances of ever reliving that miracle again...

Not that I want another baby*, but to be cursed with the ability to vividly recall one's dreams isn't always a blessing. Sometimes, I'd just like to wake up without any knowledge of what went on in my brain during the night. Occasionally, I'd enjoy a blank slate. Just blackness from 10 pm to 7 am, please. That sounds like absolute bliss...

Instead, my lot is to remember everything; Every zombie and vampire that chases me through graveyards. Every detail of every maze I get lost within. Every natural disaster that occurs, leaving me frantically grasping for my children's hands as a twister/earthquake/flood tries to pull them from my reach.

Nothing like a good night's sleep.

Is it any wonder that when I actually DO dream of good things, I get royally pissed off? I mean, dreaming about a hurricane sucks. But waking UP and finding out that everyone is alive and that you still have a home makes me count my blessings and breathe a sigh of relief. What do you think my reaction will be when I awaken to find out that we DIDN'T win the lottery and our finances HAVEN'T been eliminated by a pile of stocks and bonds that we "forgot" about? Where is the payoff when I wake from having a sweet dream about a baby that will never exist? When I can physically feel a child in my arms and look into its eyes and fall in love, it doesn't matter that this child was only a dream; I still ache for it...



* I do. I always will.

The Visitors

As usual, I was attempting to do too many things at once. As I was shouting instructions for a reading assignment to Justin, I stumbled into the laundry room with my arms loaded down by stinky towels and socks. Completely distracted by everything that needed to be accomplished, I began to shove my pile into the washing machine when I SAW IT. The tiny flash of movement was all I needed; my feet scarcely grazed the tile as I bolted through the hallway, directly to the kitchen table, where I scrambled up and continued to scream like the little girl I apparently am.

"AaaaayyyyyiiiEEEEE!!! A MOUSE! A MOOOOUUUSSEEEE!!"

THANK GOD Patrick was home and AWAKE. Otherwise, not only would I not have finished that load of laundry but I also wouldn't have gotten off of the kitchen table. Folks, I learned something about myself this week: I don't like mice. AT ALL. I mean, in cages or out in fields, they're freaking adorable. I'll even hold them! But in my house with my shoes that they can crawl into and attack my feet should I unknowingly put it on is NOT COOL. That scenario reduces me into a little ball of icked-out shivers and screams.

My dashing prince of a husband, though he was on his way up to bed, took one look at me, and said,

"Really? You really can't wait for me to buy a trap later on?"

My incoherent collection of high-pitched vowels "AAAYyyiieeeeeeAAAIIIIIEEEE!!!" forced the poor guy to get dressed and trudge out to pick up a no-kill trap.

While we waited for him, I shouted instructions to Justin on the settings to finish the load of laundry from my trembling perch atop the table. Once Pat was home, he loaded up the trap with peanut butter, placed it in a "good spot" * and stumbled off to bed, shaking his head the whole time.

And then I cleaned the heck out of the family room. There was NO WAY I was letting that little guy get any ideas about venturing past the laundry room.** With 3 kids, there were plenty of surprises under the couch that a furry visitor might find interesting. Using tongs***, I picked up toys, socks, Cheerios and candy wrappers from under the couch and out of its cushions. My kids thought I was freaking hilarious at first;

"Hahahaha!! It's just a little MOUSE, Mommy! Why are you so freaked out?!?"

But as I continued with the ranting and raving over the crumbs and crud, they realized that I was SERIOUS. The younger two wisely put on their shoes and coats and ran out into the muddy backyard to escape my wrath. Justin remained inside and lent me moral support.

Once I had vacuumed every inch of our family room, I climbed BACK onto the table and told Justin to check the trap. Nothing. Not a critter. Damn. The day continued without any luck, and I somehow managed to do a flying leap past the laundry room door to the staircase so that we could go to bed.

"Can we sleep in your room tonight!??"

"YES. Yes you can. Right next to me, in fact." My plot, naturally, was to distract the mouse from nibbling on MY hair by surrounding myself with my children. They're juicier and smell like cookies, anyway... And people? I even locked the bedroom door. As if that would stop a mouse, smaller than a pink eraser, from entering my room. Sigh...

The drama continued when I woke the next morning. Justin volunteered to check the trap again.

"We caught him! We caught him!" He came running out of the laundry room HOLDING THE TRAP WITH THE MOUSE IN IT! I could even see its squirmy tail through the plastic!

"GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!" Again with the screaming and darting from the room. It was decided**** that the mouse simply couldn't wait until Daddy got home from work. They HAD to let him go. So we all put on our shoes and coats and trudged to the field down the road. This is where I am grateful to have an 11 year old son. HE carried the trap and HE released it into the field (where it most likely became a meal for a hawk). When we got home, HE put more peanut butter into the trap and put it in the garage because I knew that that was where that critter came from. And, later on, when we caught TWO MORE MICE (bleerrcccghhhhh) HE brought them down to the field again to set them free. There definitely are advantages to this whole "pre-teen boy" thing. Not enough to offset the hormone fluctuations, but advantages, nonetheless...

After 2 days and no new rodents in a trap in either the garage or laundry room, I am able to cautiously reach my hand around the corner to grab a can of tomatoes off of the pantry shelves from the laundry room. No more laundry has been or will be done by me until I am 100% sure that it is SAFE to enter. Therefore, my darling children will be making the laundry room chain. I am looking at this as a life education experience. Everyone needs to know how to load the laundry, right?



* What's a good spot for a mouse trap? I wouldn't know because I never looked. I don't know that I WANT to know where a good spot is. I mean, that would mean that that location would be the most ideal for the mice to lurk within for future attacks, right?

** Yes, I KNOW that he most likely ran rampant through my entire home while I was asleep. I KNOW THIS and I am trying to be positive and not acknowledge it too often so that my little brain doesn't explode from the sheer ickiness of that thought. Be kind and help perpetuate my fantasy, won't you?

*** Can you imagine me using bare hands? What if he ran out and OVER MY HANDS?!? Hell no...

**** By the kids, not by me. I was all for the traps that snap the mice in half as a grisly example for any other rodents who might want to risk entry into my home....

Don't be putting any apples on your head around me...

Yawning over my morning coffee, I blearily puttered around on my emails. I had to be speedy-quick, though because Corinne had ballet at 9 am and I loathe being even 5 minutes late for a 45 minute class. I mean, do the math! That's like, um... well... A lot of pennies and dimes. And I don't actually feel like doing the math. And you can't make me. ANYWAY! The scene is being set and I am getting distracted. As I was saying, hot coffee. Bleary emails. On a schedule.

Moving on!

I remembered that Corinne and Patrick have their Daddy-Daughter dance on Friday and checked my receipt from the park district to be certain of the start time. All was good and I noted it on my calendar, feeling quite proud of my efficient ability to plan and record things from one piece of paper to another. Good job, Tracey! You rock. But before I could finish patting myself on the back, I read the dates on Justin's archery class (his birthday present from us). And then? I practically shat myself.

APPARENTLY, I signed him up for the February class, even though I remember wanting the MARCH class. APPARENTLY, I never noticed that the 03/16 that I thought I saw on the paper actually read 02/16.

Fa.Bu.Lous. This is a 4 week class and 2 of the classes were ALREADY HELD.

Well, it just so happens that I signed up at the center where Corinne has her ballet classes, so I tucked the receipt and some luck into my back pocket and prayed that I could convince someone to break all the rules that are CLEARLY stamped upon all paperwork and websites: No Returns, No Refunds, No Way, No How. (Well, that's the impression I get, at least...)

Scene: 8:55 am. Holding area for mommies of miniature ballerinas. Community rec center. 5 or 6 pre-schoolers hopping around the puddles of melting snow and mud. Tracey approaches the desk with a crumpled piece of paper. And so it begins...

"Hey! Remember me? How are you? Yeah... I have a bit of a problem. Do you remember when I signed up for the archery class? And the Daddy-Daughter dance?"

Nice Receptionist Lady "Oh, sure. What's up?"

"Wellllll.... I am not sure how I missed this, but we are in the wrong class and I was SO upset this morning when I realized it! My son (pointing at scraggly 11-year old, scowling in the corner) is really excited about this archery class, and I was really careful to write all the dates on my calendar after we signed up and it was only this morning that I noticed that the 03 I saw on the paper is actually an "02" (waving paper in her face) and this means that we have MISSED half of the class! I mean, when I realized the dates were wrong I thought 'You're so stupid!' and I just about cried!"

NRL "Um..."

"Oh no! Not YOU. Not 'YOU'RE so stupid.' I meant 'I'M so stupid.' God. Now I really DO sound stupid..."

NRL "Um..."

"ANYway! I know all of the papers say that there aren't any changes allowed after the class starts but it was an honest mistake and we truly can't afford to sign him up for a class again and this was his birthday present! He's so upset (points at dull-faced pre-teen again) and it just breaks my heart to think..."

NRL "AHEM!"

"Sorry?"

NRL "Let me look at it, ok?" She generously shut me the hell up. Her eyebrows raised for permission, she snatched my printed receipt from my wildly gesticulating hand.

NRL "Hmmm... Let me see what I can do. Why don't you sit down over there (far away from me, you psycho) and I'll let you know if we can transfer him to the March class, ok?"

"Oh! Yeah. Sure. Thank you. Thank you SO much! Let me know if you need me. I'll be right over here, ok?" (pointing to the obvious chair next to the obviously unhappy 11-year old, I nervously backed away to position myself, ready to help her help me in any way possible).

Honestly folks? I was an honest-to-God, first-class NERD. I was blathering on and on, and the poor woman didn't get a chance to get a word in. As I fidgeted and bit my nails (I mean, $50 bucks, dude. That is a huge chunk of change for us. It was a real DECISION to be made before we paid for this class) she worked some sort of magic and got Justin switched to the March class (that I already have written on my calendar). All is right with the world.

What I want for Christmas in 2010

So I'm sitting here at 7 am on a Sunday morning with my family still cutting zzz's and my coffee still too hot to drink. Shivering my ass*off, I grabbed the decorative Christmas blanket** off of the back of the couch and wrapped myself up, good and tight. My robe and slippers are upstairs... Hmmm. I? Am lazy. They're upstairs. I'm DOWNstairs.... The blanket will do. I do not need the exercise (despite the cream puffs). Onward to Blogland!

I pull up new, favorite blog. I read. I comment. My blanket falls off. Damn. Tug, tug, shiver.

I pull up an old, favorite blog. I read. I comment. My blanket falls off. Damn! Tug, tug, shiver.

Rinse and repeat about 10*** more times. Much swearing. Much shivering.

I rub the crusties out of my eyes with my icicle fingers**** and have a conversation with myself.


"Self, I am so cold! I hate this. Why don't you turn up the damn heat?"

"Stop your bitching, ya big baby. It's set at 67! How warm do you want it to be?"

"Um, warm enough that my hands have some circulation?"

"WHATEVER! Your hands and feet NEVER have enough circulation! You will definitely have them cut off before you're 65, and turning that thermostat up will NOT make them all comfortable and cozy!"

"You are SO CHEAP."

"Get another blanket."

"It keeps falling off!"

"Put on your robe."

"It doesn't cover my feet! Besides it's UPstairs!"

"Lazy ass."

"Tight ass!"

"Whatever. I'm outtie. Touch that thermostat and I will totally bitch slap you."

Continue to grumble to myself, even though I am no longer there to talk to...

"Man. I wish I had a blanket that wouldn't fall off! I wish I could stay warm while I type! I wish I had a long, fuzzy blanket that had some sort of holes or something in it so that my arms could sneak out of it.... Oh. Wait. Yeeeaaah...."


I must apologize to all of the Snuggie users that I have mocked. I now see the folly of my ways and I CAN understand how a blanket with ARMHOLES could be beneficial to my life...



* (which is definitely bigger since the cream puff incident)

**(Yes, the Christmas blanket is still out, though we have literally dozens of other blankets with which to adorn our furniture. WHY is the Christmas blanket still out? Because I forgot to put it into the boxes when I UNdecorated which means that said blanket will most likely still be out come July...)

*** (SHUT UP. Ok, FINE. More like 20-30. My name is Tracey and I cannot stop myself from stalking people I don't really know on the Internet. Wanna be my newest bff?)

**** (My circulation. OY. Let me TELL you about my circulation! It could be 90 and humid out and my hands would STILL be a cool and relaxing relief from the heat. But in February with the whipping winds and the alter-ego who is a tight-fisted bitch, I am left in seriously cold pain. Pity me, won't you?)