Tag: parenting

Housekeeping

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Not the real sort of housekeeping where I wash dishes or any of that. As the hubster will attest, I detest such frivolity and won’t entertain even the thought it. For example, here is my drawing room:


And my library:


Okay, these are photos of the Collyer Brother’s home, but only because we don’t have a drawing room or a library. Instead we have a landfill and a Goodwill drop-off station, and unlike these photos, my clutter is in color. I’m ignoring the real cleaning for now. The housekeeping to which I refer is the mental, electronic sort. Therefore, today I’m presenting a listy sort of thing.

1. I’ve delivered another phenomenal guest post to Denveater. Seriously, I am so erudite, sophisticated, amazing … where was I? Oh, yes, I am well edited. That’s what I mean. She makes me smart. Big hearts to the glamorous, hilarious, and freakishly intelligent Ruth for whom I’d write anything.

2. While driving around in the minivan listening to the oldies station and not paying attention, the 6 YO girl says, “Mom, if it is a bad case, then he probably should go to the doctor, but I think he’s talking to his girlfriend.”

3. I’ve been crazy stand-on-my-head while running in circles busy. This is the afternoon of my dreams:

Thems are beets from Hawt Mz. Molly who identified and lifted one of my many recent foul moods, veggie fried rice fortified by backyard chicken eggs, and a Mexican Coke made with real sugar and not the post-New Coke crap.

4. I’m proud of my for pay job. It’s fun, interesting, and challenging. I actually get to use my college degree. Yup. I got one or two or three. I know, I know. You are shocked, but it’s true. I don’t do anything without my computer guru, Ultimate. Except this, I did this all by myself (with the help of a zillion other people). You can see me in the background trying to convince people how cool my job is. Get out your tissue. Two asides: A) don’t get me in trouble and B) we are in a capital campaign and if you have a check for a million or so, your gift will be fully tax deductible.

And just like that, I’m exhausted and can’t sweep up one more item for you. Those dusty corners aren’t going anywhere. I’m totally going to do a Scarlet O’Hara on them.

Jejune Reflections

The usual opening for this blog lately: I feel acutely. I may be an empath.

The 6 YO girl wound up her swing to enjoy the thrill of spinning, spinning. As the ropes turned back on themselves, a lock of her hair got caught up and twisted until her hair was pulled out at the roots leaving a nickle-sized bald spot. Her little feet didn’t reach the ground and Mom-a-Tron was inside washing dishes. I keep thinking about how powerless she must have felt as each precious strand was plucked from her scalp. The following day while she attended school and I tended to the chickens, I saw that silken lock. As I untangled the hair, I couldn’t help but think how it had been a part of her and being maaaad at that stupid, ridiculous swing! Children should not be allowed to swing. Later that day, the parent teacher conference about my adorable, wonderful, perfect in every way 6 YO girl left me on Cloud 9.


Coming off the low/high roller coaster, I expressed to my carpooling buddy that I felt like I’d been sobbing, but I think it must be the emotion combined with allergies. Because, oh, yes…

These bloomed:
Feathery Cassia – sweet yum

Then this:
Citris – Lazy blogger Alex describes the scent as arousing

Followed by:
Texas Laurel – grapey

Finally these:
Palo Verde (state tree of Arizona, though Mesquites are more numerous)

Did I mention all this bloomed IN MY YARD? Oh, and the wind is like a zillion miles per hour so the pollens are EVERYWHERE. It tickles your nose, leaves your head fuzzy, and makes your breathing irregular. I described the feeling to my friend Connie, who relayed it to a client. “Oh, yes,” the lady said. “I know exactly what you mean. Crired.” Crired = Tired + Cried. That’s exactly how it feels.

Yes, once the emotion goes away and the allergies hit, the mind goes foggy. The tank is empty. Only jejune reflections remain.

(Yes, I wrote this whole entry in service of the word “jejune”.)

Excessive Misery

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I don’t even want to get into the drama clouding the pastoral existence I’ve so desperately attempted to carve out for my family. Don’t ask and don’t tell, please. I’ll keep mine to myself. You keep yours to yourself and we will pretend everything is fine and dandy like a hard candy Christmas. Leave me alone, I’m doing fine, Just go away, I’ll be okay, Please don’t touch me… (an inside joke shared between my family and millions of SNL viewers).

In the midst of major dramas, there are minor dramas. Each fire is put out in its own turn. We plod determinedly ahead. Considering our real-life, unavoidable drama, I have no desire for avoidable, made-up crises – even if they make me giggle a little.

Now, forget everything I just said because I’m gonna share a wee bit o’ priceless, made-up drama. Due to planning shenanigans (avoidable drama), I unexpectedly attended a field trip with the 9 YO boy’s class today. His unhappiness about water molecules made me giggle a little. Dra-ma!


Clearly, as the photo evidences (noun verb, boo-yah!), I am nothing but a loving supportive mother. I’m hugging him; I have a clear look of concern on my face; he has a kissy mark on his face. Yet he sees me as a mustache-twirling evildoer on whom he wishes doom. Or perhaps he’s thinking, “Kill me now!” Whatever the case, I’ll be ready for your drama in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t be surprised if I laugh at your lack of molecular diversity. ‘k?

Puberty Love

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If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.

The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.

I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes* is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.

My brother used to cue me to scream like this:

I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am*), I would make a great scream queen.

The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:

That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star*, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.

* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

We should all be so well edited.

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No one questioned the published writing of the other 9 YO with whom I worked. Seriously, you can’t just be happy for the boy?

Here are the facts:
1) I showed him spell check.
2) He conducted interviews and used the interviewee’s words in paraphrasing.
3) Multiple drafts were involved.
4) There is an editor on the other end who is trying to foster good writing in kids and at the same time has a responsibility to the reading public.
5) Yes, the 9 YO boy wrote the article.
6) You can kiss my ass.

The editor has deleted the exciting conclusion of this blog because she’s pretty sure I can’t threaten to kill people.

These are the days, my friends…

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I should start at the top of the morning. The 9 YO boy debuted his mad skillz as a photojournalist. He’s got reporting in his blood from Gramp-A-Long and a fair amount of language ability from both Gigi and Grammanina. Also, as he reported to KOLD, his mom is always at school and I guess his boredom with that or my insistence that he entertain himself inspired him. The story was written one morning after a Borton Community Garden meeting and during the time I take the girl’s class into the garden. Use the link since my scanned copy, well you can see the problem with it.


Then the Friday routine hit with the BELL coffee cart (donations welcome), frequent readers help (the 6 YO made a book mark and earned two books to reward her, er, frequent reading), work for pay, then help the newly single mechanic watch himself and his kid on television (Did you hear that girls? I have a single male friend who can fix stuff AND be daddy about school). Around lunch, I came home to find gently used shorts for the boy and these freshly picked goodies.


These oranges are HUGEMONGOUS! That’s one of the largest bowls we have and you can see the oranges dwarf it. I need a new descriptor for my friends because they are beyond “awesome” and “generous” to the degree of “intergalactic” and “magnanimous” or something like that. OH! I needn’t neglect reporting the glorious package from the artiste in Oklahoma with 50 YO heirloom 4 o’clock and lemon basil seeds, pet rocks, a pep talk, a totem for the chicks, and an indication that my pal also loves credit unions.


Oh, but that’s not the end of the day. The librarian sent to the planet to make my life wonderful set up a little RR viewing on the big screen. Robyn, point out to your mother that one of her hand sewn dresses made it onto national television. If you look carefully, I’m person in the crowd 1, person in the crowd 2, person in the crowd 3 ….


Hawt Mz Molly was mas bella tan siempre (I’m trying to learn Spanish again), if a bit touchy at being the center of the universe for all of 3 minutes. Molly, I know you love math, so how about this equation? 15-3= 12 more minutes of fame to account for. What’s next?

I hope it never ends.

J’Accuse!

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Gramp-A-Long would like to hear more about the 9 YO boy. According to that ol’ gas bag, my focus has been too 6 YO girl centric. Setting aside that he once told me that sometimes one kid is on the brain and other times another child is, I’m going to try to excuse/explain my way out of that accusation.

As it happens, the girl is more interested in Mommy than the newly 9 boy, so we spend more time together doing girlie stuff. That’s all. Besides, the boy has his own blog to tell you about his great adventures – not that he is all that active. He’s making a movie and the footage got all screwed up. Then we got distracted by his rendition of Smoke on the Water using double stops on an electric guitar. Besides, I don’t need to blog about the boy because The Fungal Heart has already posted the devious details of daring devils in a dizzy day out-of-doors, the 9 YO among them.

Incognito on Rachael Ray

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The episode of Rachael Ray featuring the hard work of Hawt Mz. Molly and crew will be aired on March 6th. If you follow the link, there are two pictures of yours truly in a flash format, so I couldn’t easily steal them. Now do you think that’s fair? Neither do I, so I learned how to poach images. BTW, I’m not saying Ultimate taught me how to do that photo stealing trick, but you know, if you need some computer work done he knows his shiznit. If they threaten me, I’ll tear the photos down asap (or as soon as possible, Brett, whichever comes first) so look quickly.


Photo 1. ‘Member my pal who teaches me how to fix my car? ‘Member the guy who taught me how to use power tools? Well, he and I totally built this farm stand. By “he and I” I mean he did the work while preventing me from circular sawing off my oppositional thumb (it’s like the rest of me). I am not clearly in this photo, but my work is. Unclearly, I am in the back ground in the jeans and whiteish shirt next to my pal Lori who didn’t sign a release and loudly cursed while proclaiming her judgeship. She did sign a release later, but she claimed it was bullshit. Judges get to talk like that.


Photo 2. I’m way more clearly in this photo. See me? Behind the kale? I cropped (oh, an unintentional, but awesome garden pun) out the rest of the photo, but you can follow the link to see the whole thing.

If this is going to be the most highly rated Rachael Ray show of all time, you need to tune in on March 6th and watch it. If for some reason, they air me not in obscurity, there is an antidote. Rubbing sand in your eyes will rid you of this vision.

Rockin’ the Sweatshop

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Look at this. Look at it because I can’t stop. Honestly! She’s sewing in rose colored glasses. We agreed to help some sister Daisy Girl Scouts by sewing patches on their tunics as a project to break in her new sewing machine from Grammanina. At the same time, she had homework to make a hat for National Hat Day. She’s wearing the mock-up of her hat in this photo. I was never, nevernevernever, as complex as this young lady.
We freed her machine from its Styrofoam prison and she loaded up orange thread to contrast the blue fleece of her hat.

Then she wound the bobbin and snipped the thread. My machine winds the bobbin in a totally different manner, so this was a learning experience for both of us. George then threaded the machine for sewing.
And after a few mangled stitches, she asked if we could go back to my machine. So we did because I’m not about frustrating the kiddos. Well, not at this particular time anyway. Sew, sew, sew.
Lift pressure foot and turn.
Sew, sew, sew.
Sew, sew, sew.
And so! Three Daisy tunics all patched up and after a quick thread change, one hat seamed up and accented in orange. She makes sewing cool. YAY Baby Girl! You rock my world.

Still Not Fine in Aught Nine

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Leggings McGillicuddy and her ununiformed daughter infringed upon my daughter’s cookie selling territory yesterday. I was close to making a stink just to be shitty, but restricted myself to flashing the stink eye. THIS is why I didn’t want to do Girl Scouts. THIS is why I didn’t want to do PTO*. It makes people like me small. Next thing you know, I’ll be scooping up the field mice and bopping them on the head. Kill me now. Send me to hell so the hounds can pick apart my cold black heart.

To emphasize my capacity for smallness, consider my “teaching time” in the 8 YO boy’s class as we discussed social justice and taking action. I discriminated against half the class by denying them a gew gaw that I gave the other half of the class. “Is this fair?” I asked. “Yes, because maybe you didn’t have enough for all of us,” said one do-gooder smarty pants. “We can share,” offered another. “No, no, no, no, no! We we don’t share! There is no sharing!” You know what it was? The gew gaw was STUPID. I should have given half the kids a Wii and then asked if that was fair.

My dear sweet hubster, who knows the darkness deep within my soul and is terrified by it, uhm, I mean who clearly loves me dearly, brought me the most perfect cup of coffee last night about 9 p.m. After a long, busy day, I had just returned home from my last Vestry meeting as a member of that body. I went out approving a deficit budget. What a spirit crusher that was! The deficit budget capped off a fine day of looming dark clouds between my ears.

Back to the coffee – I am currently involved in a project or two. One such effort is a series of on-line computer classes to help me with the Internets and Web site stuff to keep me employable. The hubster fed and put to bed the anklebiters and presented me a quiet environment in which to pursue my learning. The perfectly prepared and snuggly warm coffee by my side was intended to feul me through xHTML Because You are Old 101. Instead, I wasted that time doing, uh… social networking? E-mail? Stalking Whiskey. Whatever. But at 2 a.m., I decided to get some shut eye. At 3 a.m. the eyes still weren’t shut. Shortly thereafter the 6 YO girl crawled into bed with me. Shortly thereafter the alarm went off. I’m tired and hungry and small. So, I’m just saying, maybe, if you see me, you can find some charity for me that I’m quite sure I wouldn’t recriprocate.

* Just to clarify, I love the PTA and all their good work. I just can’t do the PTA.