A Follow-Up to Previous Post (Anti Christmas Gift B-Word)--Yes, It's Long, But You Need to Read This....After All, WE All Did...

The following is a (circular and random) open e-mail chain to-and-from my family members regarding our annual Christmas debate: to gift or not to gift.  What an stupid question?  We all find it very amusing now that we are finished writing it...and have decided, heretoforth, to agree to disagree on the topic.  

For your entertainment and enlightenment...  (As our non-Chinese, local, charitable gift to you, please feel free to cut/paste any of our more acerbic zingers into your own emails on this topic~ we know you're writing them too!  'Tis the season...)

 

And So It Begins....

From: Beth 

Hi Jane ~

I was wondering if you have heard anything from your kids about what they would like to do about Christmas gift giving.  I was going to send this out to all, but thought best of that thinking you and I should be the "decidinators" . .. What do you think should be the protocol for gifts-giving this year?  Or should we not do gifts and just treat Christmas as a great time to get together and share our time - kinda like thanksgiving, but on Dec, 25th?  Let's keep an open dialogue...

On Nov 26, 2011, at 12:51 PM, Beth wrote:

Hi Everyone ~

Does ANYONE have any ideas/thoughts on Christmas gift giving this year?  Should we forgo gifts altogether and and just spend time together?  I am at a loss . . . 

Hugs and love to all,

Crazy Beth

A TIME FOR NEW TRADITIONS?

As the holidays approach, the giant Asian factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods - merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor. This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans.
There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands. Yes there is!

It's time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper? (Even most Hallmark products are made in China). Everyone -- yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificate from your local American hair salon or barber? Gym membership?
It's appropriate for all ages who are thinking about some health improvement.

Who wouldn't appreciate getting their car detailed? Small, American owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a gift certificate or a book of gift certificates.

Are you one of those extravagant givers who think nothing of plonking down
the Benjamines on a Chinese made flat-screen?
Perhaps that grateful gift receiver would like his driveway sealed, or lawn
mowed for the summer, or driveway plowed all
winter, or games at the local golf course.

There are a bazillion owner-run restaurants -- all offering gift
certificates. And, if your intended isn't the fancy eatery
sort, what about a half dozen breakfasts at the local breakfast joint.
Remember, folks this isn't about big National chains --
this is about supporting your home town Americans with their financial lives
on the line to keep their doors open.

How many people couldn't use an oil change for their car, truck or
motorcycle, done at a shop run by the American working guy?

How about the services of a local cleaning lady for a day?

My computer could use a tune-up, and I KNOW I can find some young guy who is
struggling to get his repair business up and
running.

OK, you were looking for something more personal. Local crafts people spin
their own wool and knit them into scarves. They make jewelry, and pottery and 

beautiful wooden boxes.

Plan your holiday outings at local, owner operated restaurants and leave
your server a nice tip. And, how about going out to
see a play or ballet at your hometown theatre.

Musicians need love too, so find a venue showcasing local bands.

Honestly, people, do you REALLY need to buy another ten thousand Chinese
lights for the house? When you buy a five dollar
string of light, about fifty cents stays in the community (not 50%, but 50 cents). 

If you have those kinds of bucks to burn, leave the mailman, trash
guy or babysitter a nice BIG tip.

You see, Christmas is no longer about draining American pockets so that
China can build another glittering city. Christmas is
now about caring about US, encouraging American small businesses to keep
plugging away to follow their dreams. And, when we
care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits
come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine.

THIS is the new American Christmas tradition.

From: Jane  Subject: Re: Christmas 2011

OK, sorry I didn't get back to you right away Beth.   What I honestly think about Christmas, is it's nice to give at least one gift to each other, (did i really say that???) whether it be big or small, and that really doesn't matter because it's just an expression of love in the giving itself, not the size of the gift (even if it's zero size, i think i meant to say!).  Everyone has different financial constraints.   Whether the giver is an individual or a family, that doesn't matter either.  But I personally don't think I could handle a Christmas without the ritual of gifts, unwrapping, and pets sitting in all the paper and ribbon mess.

However, having said that,  I personally don't need anything, and would be most happy to follow the basic tenets of the "new American Christmas" tradition (attached below for the edification of those unfamiliar with it!).   And I think I'll give along those lines too ... (except for those gifts I already have from "other" places :) ... 

At this point I think we may be having the company of one extra person for Christmas, Cari, dear friend, and daughter of dear friends in Phoenix (her dad was who i went to see just before he passed away about 3 years ago, if you remember that trip i made).   Do you think you could handle an extra at your house?   I will provide appropriately.   If not, then she'll just have to sit up at our house while we're at yours.   

Sorry if my views are disagreeable with everyone else, but you asked.   Hopefully I wont be the only one to weigh in now ... HINT HINT!

love, jane xx

From: Jenna

i would not be upset if there were no gifts (except for the little ones of course).  Alex will be joining me....  we just like sitting by the fire and eating with everyone  :)

On Nov 27, 2011, at 9:35 PM, Aubrey wrote:

Wellll, since we are being honest, everyone knows that I am a Scroogey anti-Christmas gift proponent, and our family is amply blessed, and while I love everyone sincerely, I do not necessarily believe that presents given equals or even approximates an expression of love. 

Anti-gifting point 1: I find it hard to come up with personal, meaningful gifts--expensive or otherwise--when we really don't know that much about each others' wants and/or needs...  This is why we, at least, usually end up doing silly, junky Chinese gifts---remember the bacon strip band-aids anyone?

Anti-gifting point 2: For me, the expression of love is in choosing to spend the holiday in each others' company....eating good food, watching silly movies, and the like are "Christmas" to me. 

So, being that we really and truly don't know each other that well, I propose (A) a  practical handmade gift exchange.  This would fit the "American-made Christmas" facet (which I think is awesome) and be budget friendly (because, yes, some of us are definitely definitely on a budget!) and actually show genuine love and care for the recipient of the gift.  (As one of Brooke's books says, "Where is love, Biscuit?' "It's in the soft sweaters Grandma knits especially for us...") Or, I propose (B) a charitable gift or contribution in the honor of gift recipient.

I don't know why, really, we do this email discussion every year, because each of our feelings are essentially the same from year to year, and everyone pretty much does whatever they feel like doing anyway.  I mean this: I don't need anything for Christmas and I can't even think of anything I want for Christmas (except for to stop having this repetitive annual email conversation).  I am disgusted by the consumerism surrounding stupid Black Friday and the whole starts-in-November Christmas shopping season.  People are starving!  People are homeless!   I would like to provide more groceries or clothing donations to local families through the office at Ore Valley or the church.  I feel like a turd for even spending time talking about a gift exchange when I know that right here in York (not to mention the surrounding world) people are hungry and cold right this very second.  It makes me feel dirty.

So, for me, no gifts please.  Or if you feel you must, some boxed food items.  Or, since I feel dirty, maybe some homemade soap.  We could still wrap that stuff in paper and ribbons and thusly tick off the mess for dogs that feels like Christmas for Jane.

Aren't you glad you asked?  ;-)

Love (and respect, even if that isn't coming across in my tirade), 

Apparently Freaking Insane Aubrey

P.S.  It should be noted that every God-blessed one of my families (remember, I go to Greg's mom's, Greg's dad's, Greg's grandma's, the Keffer grandparents, the Keffer parents, and the Yosts'...maybe Naylors?) is having a version of this same debate about gift-giving in a changing world and family climate...  so I very well may be a LOT "over" it.  Multiply holiday shopping list exponentially by 2 for Greg's mom-parents, 6 for Greg's dad-parents/family, 4 for Greg's grandma's pollyannas, 4 for Keffer grandparent pollyannas, 4 for Keffer parents, 8 for Yosts, plus our independent family Christmas, Naylor stocking stuffers times 20 (maybe?).  Sorry for bitching, but bitch or no bitch, the above is my uncensored opinion.

From: Aubrey 

I have an instantaneous bout of sender's remorse.  I know that that was bitchy.  I stand by what I said, but I also want to say: I really do love you all, and if I won the lottery, I would buy a bunch of food for the food pantry AND really amazing presents that you guys would genuinely want!  As it is here in reality, in lieu of the usual Chinese junk that I usually buy to make you laugh, you will probably be receiving a gift that I handmake just for you with love (like the Grandma in the Biscuit book that Brooke loves).  Boy, I do hope you guys like felted soaps!!  Last thing: even though I don't love the gift tradition, I do really love YOU all, and I am very happy to spend Christmas as we do.

So, as the Jamaicans say, "respect mon, all 'de time."

On Nov 27, 2011, at 11:08 PM, Jane wrote:

LOL!  Shame on me!  I must be the most self-centered person in the world!   Not ..... but Aubrey, we definitely come from opposite sides of the fence ... you've got all those families, and all my families are back in Australia.  I guess i like giving at Christmas because it reminds me of what we all did back "home" (minus swimming in the pool after Xmas lunch of course), and ... because i hardly have anyone here to give anything to.  Granted it's therefore much easier for me than for you ... well, as far as giving goes, that is.  

This re-checking every year about what Christmas should look like is indeed a bit unnecessary ... so why don't we just leave it at give what you can, don't give what you can't, shake hands, kiss each other, enjoy dinner together, watch silly movies, get drunk, fall asleep, and so be it.   

So here's to charity, silver nixleys, soaps, knits, golden wait-awhiles, laughter, love, dogs, and recycled paper.  (yay! vindication at last!)

love you too.

jane.

On Nov 28, 2011, at 12:21 AM, Beth wrote:

Let it forever be closed from this day forward :  Yost Family Christmas Gift Exchange shall be "do what you want/can/feel like!!"

THWACK!!   Beth

On Nov 28, 2011, at 12:37 PM, Jane wrote:

Booya!

On Nov 28, 2011, at 11:05 AM, Skyler wrote:
I'm not sure 'Booya!' really fits that situation, deary...

From: Beth 

What actually is "booya"?

On Nov 28, 2011, at 7:15 PM, Jane wrote:

I dunno, but it sounds great when you say it with gusto.  Emphasize the B and the oo and say it as loud as possible ... it's fun!  (Yeah Skyler, what DOES it mean, anyway?)  Jane

From: Skyler 

It's more of an "IN YOUR FACE!" than anything.  It would be appropriate if you were attempting to tell Aubrey "Take that, mofo!", but not if you were trying to say "Well that's the end of that conversation!"  Oh, you oldies.

On Nov 28, 2011, at 6:33 PM, Aubrey wrote:

Now that we have a definition, I'm going to go ahead and decide not to take it as a "take that, mofo" but more of a "well, now that we are all still completely unclear on that and deciding to agree to disagree...TADA!"  I like Crazy Beth's plan to just do whatever the hell we feel like doing every year since that seems to be what we always do anyway.

Love to all,

A.

On Nov 28, 2011, at 6:50 PM, Jane wrote:

Oh, no ... There was definitely no mofo-ing in my booya.  It was more meant as a "well so be it!" or "great! We've  found a solution!"

you youngies are always changing the traditiinal meaning of older words, so why can't us oldies change the (ha ha traditional) meaning of new words (that have no apparent connection with any other known word in the language)?  Booya!  

On Nov 29, 2011, at 10:31 AM, Jenna wrote:

Ahem, I would like to clarify the booya/booyow thing. In America, it is just a silly word for "wham!," "that's right!," or even "in your face mofo!"

But in china, it is actually the word you say to pesky vendors who are desperate for a sale (which is all of them) that means, "I don't want it."  Try it out sometime in a chinatown somewhere. They will both get the picture and be stunned that you spoke Chinese :)

Moral of the story: let's all say booyow to Chinese gifts and hello to the inappropriate Christmas movie of the year. Ideas anyone?

Love, Jenna 

Life-Affirming Dream

Merry Christmas to me!

I just woke up from the most life-affirming dream!  Maybe I've been watching too much holiday-themed Lifetime television for women, but...in my dream sequence...

I was sitting at a happy gathering of all of my family members, maybe a holiday party or a birthday party.  Greg and our kids were there, as were my in-laws, and (wait for it!) so were my "new" dream mother- and sister-in-law.

Apparently, all four of my parents had cohesively arranged a new marriage for me--honestly, the one I kind of always expected myself to have in my deepest inner conscience, if I'm being totally honest. 

The dream mother- and sister-in-law were impeccably dresssed and well-mannered and friendly enough, interacting, if minimally, with my strange (real-life) family.  (No offense!)  I recall the dream mother-in-law watching Grandma Becky cuddle Brooke and saying, "The children do like to be touched a lot.  It's a good thing that you'll only be a few hours away from your family."

It seemed that I had been re-married off to some "J-named" (fuzzy on the details there) husband who was handsome and successful (according to dream in-laws, but too busy to come and pick me and the kids up).  My parents were accepting of this arrangement, although they were sad that the girls and I would be moving away.  It was, after all, the situation they had always imagined for me.

The dream in-laws and the real-life family members and I looked over paperwork about the dream house that we'd be moving into with dream future husband.  It was magnificent, water-front (I think on a tributary river to the Bay), and had a $10,000 master suite with black-out curtains.  I know this because the dream family's realtor was, for some reason, on hand to discuss the details of the house with all of us.  Greg and I linked hands as we watched this presentation, as if even he, too, supported this move.

I would be allowed to see Greg when I wanted to, and he'd be able to visit the kids.  I remember feeling relieved that I'd still be able to know him (and to love him), although I feared that he'd eventually move on and fall in love with someone else...as I knew he had the right to do.   And I felt guilty about divorcing again and then being unfaithful to dream future husband--even if he knew about it and pre-approved the situation.

Dream mother-in-law handed me a folded up paper with my dream new married name on it, "Aubrey Something-Starting-With-A-'D.'"  It was a volunteer sign-up sheet, and I'd been signed up to make banana nut muffins for some future charitable event.  I felt a vague sense of confidence, as I knew that I can make banana nut muffins well; I could make my dream family proud.  Greg always liked my banana nut muffins...

(Gnawing sense of despair.)  And then I woke up with a headache and a churning stomach.

Why am I happy with this dream/nightmare?  Because it has been re-affirmed that I'm where I should be!  Even if it's not where I thought I'd be--or where my parents might have put me if they'd had been in control of my destiny--even if it's not in a water-front mansion with a mega-rich family and a hot-shot businessman husband--I'm where I belong.  I'm in the home of my heart's desire, with the imperfect, wonderful man of my literal dreams.

In the face of being given the choice to transport myself and my girls (with everyone's blessing, including Greg's and without even having to give him up entirely) into my subconscious' reckoning of the PERFECT life of over-the-top luxury, absolutely no worries, and--my Achille's heel--complete parental approval, I was sickened.  I dreaded leaving my marriage with Greg.

This may be a dramatic oversharing.  You may feel sad that I react so happily to this kind-of random form of affirmation.  But marriage is hard.  I don't necessarily feel every day that our marriage is ideal.  Sometimes I wonder... ***especially after a night with the in-laws that involved them being two hours late***  And, I am always ultimately reminded that this is meant to be.  Not meant to be perfect.  But it's meant to be mine. 

And that is what it's all about, isn't it?

OMG! Someboday Stop Me-- I Am The Anti-Christmas-Gift B*tch

I just closed a email response to all of my family members with this:

"Love (and respect, even if it doesn't come across in this tirade),
Clearly Freaking Insane Aubrey"

Never good.  Never good.

It was in response to a "Christmas 2011" (are-we-exchanging-gifts-this-year) email...that is a dead-ringer for the "Christmas 2010" one and the "Christmas 2009" one...ad nauseum.  I'm not sure about your extended family, but here's the thing about ours, while we love each other and have a really nice time spending Christmas together, that's about the extent of our cuddly togetherness time.  So it is really impossible to know what meaningful and useful item to give a person that you don't really know on a deeper-than-superficial-level.

If a gift isn't personal, I don't really get the point.  Isn't it just a mindless, heartless exchange?  (Been accused of that one in the past, too...)  Various people in my various family groups love, love, love giving and receiving gifts.  To them, that's Christmas: There is an expression of love in the act of giving--even if it is a random token gift...that's probably been made in China...and may or may not be bacon strip band-aids or fart-flavored tootpaste...

To me, and call me cheap or Scroogey if you must, but Christmas is about spending time with the ones that you love (the ones that you maybe don't get to spend enough time with the rest of the year) and, well, hello!, Christ.  I love the decorations, the music, the food, the fireplace, and the movies.  I do!  I really love Christmas...the spirit of it, the stories that go along with it, and of course the traditions--with the marked exception of superfluous gift-giving for the sake of gift-giving.

Is anybody with me?  Or do I stand alone in my disgust for Black Friday's consumer frenzy?  Do I stand alone wishing that preparing for Christmas involved something more genuine than purchasing STUFF?  I feel dirty making a "Christmas list" or shopping for trinkets when so many go hungry or are cold...or are lacking the most basic essentials.  It feels so wrong to me.

And yet, I feel very much like "Clearly Freaking Insane Aubrey," as the rest of the world bustles past me with bags busting with stuff....like I'm the crazy one...

I Have an Idea...Is it Stupid?

It is no secret that I spend a lot of time fantasizing about doing something (beyond my house) that is good and important and fulfilling and respectable and also gainful monetarily. 

As soon as our house was painted, clean, and unpacked, I started looking for work-at-home opportunities again.  It's an addiction.

I realized that I don't just want to do something that makes us some extra money...although some extra money would be really, really nice.  It has to be something that is "overall good."  (Darn it, that rules out street walking!)  I want to do something that is enjoyable for me and also provides a benefit to others.  Since I don't have the ability to do a large animal rescue (which would be the ultimate!) because of liability issues, I was thinking of helping other moms.  Back to the "MOMGLOMERATE" ideal.

These are tough times for families...parents, children, pets...and we need to band together to make it through (and come out better for it!).  I was thinking of some sort of "swap shop" where families can bring any sort of home goods that they aren't using or have outgrown and receive credits to shop for new things.  Less consignment store and more not-for-profit in nature.  It would be eco-friendly and community-friendly.  If it had a sort of boutiquey, high-end feel, it would be a comfortable environment for any shopper.

Is this a stupid idealist sort of idea?  Does it already exist?  I do know that some women do clothing swaps with groups of friends a couple of times a year...  Hmmmm.

Glue Guns, Rice Crispy Cereal, Orange Food Coloring, and SUGAR: Happy Halloween!

How was your Halloween weekend?  Ours was jam-packed full of festive festivities: finishing the fish/fishbowl/fish store employee IDs for Brooke, Alyssa, me, and Greg, respectively; making orange-tinted Rice Crispy holiday figurines like they do on the television commercial; playing in the SNOW?!; carving pumpkins; roasting pumpkin seeds; having a Halloween dinner fiesta complete with Mexican food (Dia de los Muertes), Halloween tunes, Halloween plates, and Halloween sprinkles for our applesauce; and of course, trick-or-treating.

We were making memories, my friends.  Mostly good ones...but a few crazy, frantic ones mixed in to be sure.

As I type this, both kids are taking naps (shocking!  rare!  fantastic!!), clearly hung over from our busy schedule of memory-making and  from trick-or-treating gluttony.

How were your memories?  What was your ratio of good:bad?  Hope it was happy overall :-)

(That last line should be my motto for motherhood/life in general...Stop expecting things to be perfect/trying to make things perfect/trying to be perfect, and just shoot for "happy overall.")

New House, New Rule? (And, a Special Sidenote: Unfazed by Feces)

Well, we have finally moved into our new house!  Yay!!

All of the months and months of planning and preparation...finding all of the most eco-friendly, green sourced, recycled, renewable, sustainable, chemical-free, indoor air quality boosting materials...led up to this great house, which we are now enjoying.

This tree-hugging behavior of mine has been ingrained in me: my dad didn't like for me to waste water by flushing the toilet too often or running water while I was brushing my teeth; my mom has always been very eco-conscious, composting in her garden; my step-dad has been an organic fanatic since way before it was cool.

I have always been taught to recycle as much as possible, and for years have been trying to use as much organic food as possible.  In more recent years, I have decided to forgo chemical cleansers and fragrances.  I drive a hybrid car.

And, as we spent so much time trying to keep toxins out of our house structure throughout the build and out of our bodies all of the time, I didn't think it would come as too much of a shock when we instituted a no-shoe rule in our new house--our untainted space!  Most of our guests in the first weeks were our subcontractors, who were burly and in and out of the house a bazillion times a day; they didn't bat an eye at leaving their boots at the door time after time.  Our contractor removed his shoes before he entered without being asked.  Our foreman and coordinator did the same.  Our friends removed their shoes without batting an eyelash--several of them have no-shoe rules in their homes, and another was a nanny in Hawaii where it is customary to leave shoes at the door.

The no-shoe rule transition was going quite swimmingly until I asked my dad to remove his shoes.  He blindsided me by becoming really angry, as if I was being super-rude by requesting this.  He questioned my motivation to institute the rule--as if it were something like, I don't want you to sully the white carpets (we don't even have any carpet, and our rugs are all quite old...and not in an expensive antique kind of way).  When I responded that it was a concern for chemicals and toxins (solvents, gasoline, exhaust debris, pesticides/herbicides, germs) and not dirt that I was concerned about, he said under his breath that this was ridiculous since I have dogs in my house (who do sometimes do the old butt-surfing-on-the-carpet thing, in his defense--I'm trying to stand in his socks for a moment, here.)

Is it really too much to ask for guests to remove their shoes?  Is it rude?  I am just really shocked by the reaction and wondering if I've finally gone too far with my desire to have an eco-friendly family home...

And, on another tangent of this situation, is it normal for a mom (of human- and fur-babies) to become so un-fazed by feces that a dog dragging its butt on the carpet doesn't seem nearly as gross as chemical solvents and lead dust transferring from shoes to the floor??  It is also important to note, on the subject of feces and my relationship with it, that I also have horses who poop, stand in poop, and roll in poop, so in addition to wiping poopy butts, dealing with poopy diapers, and collecting dog poop, I also pick poop out of hooves, pitchfork it off the ground, and brush it out of horse fur.  That is a lot of poop, people, so it is true: a few microbes of poop transferring from a semi-clean dog butt onto my (again, not priceless) area rug, just doesn't get me that worked up at this point...

Long story very short (don't you wish you could've just started here?): I think poop is way less yucky than chemicals.  Period.

I'd love to hear what you guys think!

Bits of Funny from Assassination Vacation (by Sarah Vowell)

"There is no evidence of its past charm," announces Bennett.  Barren and blank, it has what he accurately describes as "an Eastern bloc vibe."  A bland concrete hotel that looks like a Soviet apartment building (and not in a good way) hovers over a boardwalk scattered with benches, also concrete, which sounds cordial enough, except these benches, also concrete, look like you are supposed to rest on them on the walk home from standing in a nine-hour bread line while being tailed by the KGB."

"He [the author's 3-year-old nephew, Owen] means tombstones," I told her.  "When you were off parking the car at the cemetery in Cleveland, Owen and I walked around looking for John Hay's grave.  Owen climbed on top of it and hollered, 'This is a nice Halloween park!' "(That's what he calls cemeteries.)"

"Owen is the most Hitchcockian preschooler I ever met.  He's three.  He knows maybe ninety words and one of them is "crypt"?"

Shockingly Funny: The Book, Assasination Vacation, by Sarah Vowell

To say that I love to read would be a complete understatement.  I am obsessed with reading.  There is just something about escaping into other people's writing...  Obviously, you guys get it, because you like to read blogs.  (Thanks again!)

I pretty much enjoy everything that I read in one way or another.  To me, reading is like eating--all foods have their place.  Sometimes I desire a cheap-o, preservative-laden, orange cheese-y Cheetos puff with the same voracity that I might crave a perfectly marbled, finely prepared fillet mignon.  Don't scoff! You know you like Cheetos, too!!

Anyway~I recently saw a random book lying on my mom's bedspread.  I had no idea where it came from, whose it was (except that it sure wasn't mine)...  It's topic--presidential assassination--wasn't even of initial interest to me, or seemingly anyone in our household.  Buuuut, it did have pages...with words written on them, and so I picked it up and begin to read it.  Finders keepers, losers weepers.

This book is "[p]art history lesson, part hilarious travelogue," according to one reviewer, Elissa Schappell of Vanity Fair.  The author is obsessed with dead presidents and basically goes on pilgrimages to visit the locations of various presidential assassinations and subsequent memorials.  Sounds hysterical, right?  But, it so is!!  She discusses the friends and family members that she ropes into these journeys and the people that she meets along the way, and her sense of humor is just perfect.  Her enthusiasm for the subject, and especially the witty, pithy way that she describes both historical information and the details of her trips makes this book so, so funny.

Sarah Vowell, as a writer, is such an inspiration to me.  Her passion for the subject on which she writes is not unlike mine here on this little bloggy.  I can only hope to make you laugh the way she made me laugh...and to think of things in a new light as this book made me do.  Presentation really is everything: If you can entertain as you instruct or inform or impart, you really have done a great service to others.

I'm so glad that I found that book!  I still wonder how it got there...?  Such an inspiring little nugget of good writing, right when I needed it...  Very mysterious indeed.

Grand Gestures Are Overrated

Some women (and men) crave grand romantic gestures: dozens of red roses, champagne, stretch limousines, gourmet dinners eaten by candlelight, bedspreads covered in flower petals, sky-writing, Jumbotron proposals, and so on and so forth.  Call me low-maintenance, but what really gets me are the simple gestures of love and partnership.  Case in point, in our household, nothing is more of a turn-on to me than waking up to an unstacked dishwasher and a hastily scrawled note: "Already fed the CAT!  Love you."

Back off ladies!!  He's mine, all mine.  ;-)

But seriously.  I cherish that note, written on a scrap of recyclable paper sitting on top of the dog's crate.  That is REAL love.  Just like the note I received almost four years ago (just before our wedding) that said, in foam kids shower-wall letters sticking on the wall of my shower: CANT WAIT 2 WED U. 

Well, today, I'd marry him all over again!  

(...He doesn't even like the cat!)

Needles on Beaches and Whiskers on Kittens!! My Parents Are Celebrities!

Please visit this link to an article that features a picture of my mom, Beth Yost, and quotes http://www.wboc.com/story/15516126/needles-on-beaches.

Why Am I Applying for Jobs When I'm Double-Booked for the Next EIGHTEEN ODD YEARS??

Someone call Dr. Phil--and Debi Pearl--STAT!

All moms work 24/7, whether they stay at home or have jobs outside of the home.  It is, I'd wager, the hardest job and also the most rewarding.  (I feel more like Oprah, right now, than Debi or Phil....but O.W. is off the air, and therefore, no longer able to assist me.)

It logically follows that, since I'm a mom, I, too, am working around the clock for my family in one way or another.  What I do has value.  It is not easy raising kids well, especially if they are BROOKE.  I have little to no "down time."  Why is it then, that I have been applying for jobs lately?

Count 'em: I have applied for two transcribing jobs, one editing job (for an erotic novel, no less!), and one job as a part-time support instructor at Alyssa's school.  (All over the proverbial map, no?)  It should be noted that I have heard nothing back from any, but still...  I'm basically applying for positions that I cannot possibly fill.  Who is going to wrangle Brooke-the-destroyer while I'm working?  Who will drop off and pick up Alyssa...and volunteer in her classroom in between?

The sickest part is that I'm disappointed that I'm not getting calls for these jobs, even though I'd be in serious trouble if I did get a call back for an interview.  What is wrong with me???

I clearly have a raging guilt-complex about staying home and thusly not "contributing" to the family funds, that's what's freaking wrong with me!  I value the hard work of all mothers...unless that mother is me, it would seem...  :-(  I'm losing my marbles, here.

Does anyone else make a hobby of applying for jobs that are untenable?  Is there a scientific name for this sickness yet?  How many steps away am I from making up a 22-year-old, Harvard-educated, double D, single, childless pseudo-me on eHarmony and fake dating?

It is a slippery slope.  S C A R Y.

A Hair Off Plumb

Well, it's official: Pretty much my whole home-to-be is now painted yellow; and if a yellow house is a crazy house, then ours is going to be committed!!

At first, it is a little bit shocking.  I'll give you that.  But~ it is a very pretty, very unique, and very cheerful color.  I think that a little extra dose (or SO) of sunshine could do everyone* in my family some good!  *Especially me in the winter...I am such a seasonal affect dysphoric disorder poster-child!

Today the hardwood floors arrived to acclimate to our house.  They are GORGEOUS! reclaimed red oak barn flooring, complete with knots, swirls, and worm holes.  I am thrilled with them; to me, they are the highlight of the house.  They will give our brand-spanking-new house some much needed homey character and charm. 

I can tell that some of the guys who are working on the house think that my bubble is a hair off plumb.  They are used to working in houses that are painted pristine contractor's white--off-white if the owner is really adventurous.  In those houses, if there was an imperfection on the freshly milled and sanded hardwood, it would be a disaster.  Here in my house....the world is yellow-licious and the floors are second-hand.  I actually got excited about the "worm holes" and other *authentic* dings and patinas from the planks' previous lives as a barn floor.

"Perhaps yellow is the favorite color of insane people," they must be thinking.  "And that lady (me!) is exhibit A."

(I am going to try to take pictures and send them to the blog.)

The Nurse Doctor-Sausage-Fingers "Clinical Scenario" Continued

Today I took Brooke for a follow up at a pediatric ophthalmologist.  The doctor and her staff were absolutely lovely.  They were--gasp--polite to us!  They were also familiar with retinal blastoma and considered our concerns quite reasonable and valid.  After all, we are talking about the vision of a CHILD!  We spent two hours having a very thorough exam that relieved our fears about retinal blastoma~ but that showed astigmatism.  We are due back in a year to begin an early course of treatment for that.  (It's not like Brooke's going to wear a pair of glasses...heck, I can't even keep a sunhat--with a chin strap--on her head or shoes--with double knots--on her feet!)

The experience of actually receiving thoughtful, caring service at the ophthalmologist's was a stark contrast to our visit to the ER, where Nurse Doctor-Sausage-Fingers was dismissive and careless.  When I was reviewing our discharge summary before taking it along to the ophthalmologist appointment today, I discovered that he simply gave us a templated form for a "WELL BABY EXAM" for "[under 2 years of age]."  It was completely impersonal to Brooke and our concerns, and it made no mention of an eye exam at all.  Nothing about red reflexes, tracking, alignment, anything!  To my surprise, the packet also contained an x-ray of a joint.  Brooke, obviously, did not get an x-ray during her so-called "eye exam."  No...It was another patient's x-ray!  The page contained her name, birthdate, and account number (in addition to a lovely picture of her fractured joint, of course).  Hello, HIPAA, anyone??

So, I await a bill in the mail from the Emergency Room for their *awesome* services.  I'm sure it will be jaw-dropping.  And, maybe, instead of paying it, I will (as my mom suggested after a glass of her "special water," I'm guessing) write on it: "NOT PAYING.  DID NOT DO SQUAT."  Perhaps I will accompany my unpaid bill with a formal complaint letter...and a carbon copy of the letter that I send to x-ray lady, whose protected health information I am now privvy to thanks to carelessness in the ER.

I get that the ER is a tough place to work.  I understand that people probably come in there all of the time faking injury/illness to score prescription drugs.  But honestly people, let's do a little profiling: when a panicky mother comes in with a squirmy 16-month-old at naptime requesting treatment (after being referred by another doctor, mind you), I doubt she is trying to buck the system to get a fix!  Did they think that I brought her in there for attention?  For my health?  Because I had money burning a hole in my pocket?  Because maybe, just maybe they were going to prescribe my 20-pound freaking baby Percocets, steroids, Oxycodone, Valium, or Xanax??  I think no-ot!  Trust me: IT WOULDN'T BE NEARLY WORTH THE TROUBLE OF WRANGLING AN OVERLY-TIRED BABY-MONSTER FOR 3 HOURS IN A GERM-INFESTED CUBICLE FILLED WITH SHARP AND POINTY "DANGER!" BREAKABLES TO SCORE SOME BLANKITY-BLANK DRUGS.  (Yes, ALL CAPS!)

Dr. CRNP? Paging Dr. Holler? Hmmm...

Ok.  Here's what the research says about my Dr. Sausage-Fingers internal dilemma:  While it is possible that "Doctor" Sausage-Fingers has a PhD...as I could obtain a Doctoral degree after a Master's degree in English to become a professor, "Dr. Holler"-style...he is not a Medical Doctor, which makes his "Doctor" nomenclature kind of misleading in his position within the medical field. So, it is likely that Dr. Sausage-Fingers calls himself Dr. Sausage-Fingers in order to command more respect from patients.  Maybe he thinks we would think less of him if he called himself Nurse Sausage-Fingers.  Maybe he watched the Focker movies and was traumatized by George Burns' treatment of Gaylord "Greg" Focker, the male nurse.

The bottom line: I am no closer to knowing the truth about the state of Doctor Sausage-Fingers doctoriness.  Maybe Dr. Sausage Fingers has a PhD--and a right to the title of "Doctor."  Or maybe he just prefers the sound of his name with Doctor in front of it.  It's a crap shoot.

What do I know for sure?  Well, I know that I used the word "maybe" a lot of times in this post.  I also know that I would sure like to be "Doctor Holler" someday.  Paging Dr. Holler.  Are you in Dr. Holler's class this semester?  Pause.  *Repeating mentally.*  That is actually the worst Doctor name ever!  Doctor Holler?!...that is like Doctor Pain...or Doctor Love.  It's like a bad joke.  Students would make a mockery of me (even moreso than poor Nurse Focker).

Life's dreams...up in smoke.  Thanks a lot Greg.   (Greg Holler, that is.  Not Greg Focker.)

Diary of a Wimpy Rider

I have been riding horses since I was five years old.  From the time I stepped foot in a stirrup, it was clear that I was meant to move on four legs, not my own two.  For me, riding was instinctive: my instructors told my mother that I was a natural.  Everyone just sort of knew and accepted--some grudgingly, some fearfully, and some proudly--that I was born to ride.

From that young age, I was fearless.  I rode full-sized horses--fiery, flighty Saddlebreds, no less--in the beginning.  Later, I began to ride horses and ponies over fences at a hunter stable.  I acquired my first horse at the age of eight, an adopted Mustang named Wildfire--appropriately.  My parents rethought that decision when 1,000 pound Wildfire took off with 75 pound me around our farm as they stood by/ran after helplessly, and that's when Zephyr came into the picture.  Zephyr was an athletic and spirited (but very kind-hearted in a gruff, manly sort of way) Connemara pony, and we raced around the farm and over tall jumps in....I'm not going to go so far as to call it a controlled way, but...a way that I was comfortable with at the time.  I was so confident when I rode Zephyr: I never had a worry about him missing a stride or refusing a jump.  With him, I was bulletproof.

As an adult, with brittle bones, more experience, and infinitely more to lose upon injury/death, I am becoming a wimpier rider.  Every time I ride, I do so with the knowledge that this one could be my last--and though I guess it is healthy to grip reality in this way and calculate my risks, it also takes something fundamental away from the experience.  I can't lose myself fully in a rip-tearing gallop the way I did with Zephyr day-after-day: I now wonder if there are holes or rocks in my path, I wonder if Finn will get hurt, I wonder if I will fall, and I wonder if it is worth these risks to let loose.  So I rarely do.

In fact, the last time I galloped until I was exhilarated and couldn't see a thing through the tears of joy (and wind-sheer) streaming down my face, I did so on a borrowed horse (thank you sincerely, Melvin)--and it was (a.) half an accident, as I believed Melvin to be the slowest horse in the world, and (b.) before I met Greg, and (c.) years before I had Brooke.

I value my life, and my horse, and both of our soundness so much now--I am acutely aware that he is the past, present, and future of my riding life.  He is my equine soulmate, I am quite lucky to say, and I fear injuring him because I am not certain that I'd want to ride another horse at this point--I mean really ride.  I trust my horse.  He takes care of me.  We understand each other, and partnering with him is a calculated risk that is still worthwhile.  He is my "me time."  Sitting on his back, I am graceful and daring and confident and happy and myself in a way that I cannnot achieve independently.  He is kind and gentle with my little children.  He understands our situation and his role in it.

So, now that you understand my crazy adoration and dependence on this horse...which borders on insanity and is certainly way past obsessive...I tell you that his back has been sore.  I have been riding him regularly, if not intensely, all summer, and recently I began jumping him again.  It seems that he may not have been fit enough to hit the course with as much gusto as I did--  But what can I say in my defense?  He is so fun to jump, that I have trouble controlling my urge to jump everything in sight (a couple of times!).  I feel terrible for being inconsiderate to him now, of course.  I have been stretching him, massaging him, doing acupressure on him....giving him baths with liniment.  I have given him days off, but still I can tell that he is sore.

I have a show planned for September 17 as my birthday present to myself.  I wonder if I should take him, or if I'm being selfish?

Somewhere even deeper inside my consciousness: I wonder if I'm just being wimpy?

WebMD or Real M.D. or Neither?

When I was trying to get pregnant with Brooke, my friend, Laura, made me promise to quit Googling or WebMDing (I am taking artistic license to make these verbs) physical conditions.  It was becoming an unhealthy habit to say the very least.  Thankfully, I managed to curb my addiction to random and useless self-diagnosis...  Yep, I left that up to the professionals who had us spend thousands and thousands of dollars to bypass our 99.9% infertility rate and help us conceive.  (We underwent months of cycle-charting, pill-taking, failed IUIs, hormone protocols--shots!!, and failed IVF, only to conceive Brooke naturally after we were told it was impossible.  In yo' faces doctors!!  *with all due respect, of course*)

Wow, that was the longest lead in ever...  Anyway, today WebMD reared its ugly head again, only this time, I was not the sole perpetrator.  Here's what happened:  Brooke has, in the past few weeks, begun to "watch" Baby Einstein developmental DVDs for about three point five minutes at a time.  She looked so cute this morning, propped against a "husband" pillow, cuddling her "ni-night" blankey, watching her DVD like a big girl.  So cute, in fact, that my mom--Brooke's "BeeBee"--had to take her picture.  The resulting image on the iPhone showed a white reflection on Brooke's right pupil.

Mass hysteria ensued, as my mom recalled reading an article on WebMD about infantile retinal blastoma (cancer of the retina), the main symptom of which is this weird reaction to flash photography, as the light bounces off the irregularity in the inner eye.  (The fact that my mom remembered this random medical factoid was in itself disconcerting, since she can rarely recall what she ate the previous meal...or what she was going to say when she decided to call...etcetera.)  So, we did what any loving guardian with internet access would do: we Googled the heck out of it.

A number of frighteningly serious, scholarly medical articles confirmed her concerns.  Retinal blastoma is usually diagnosed in children under the age of 2 (Brooke is 16 months), it will cause a white distortion on photographs where red-eye is often an issue, and it is often accompanied by fever (Brooke's had a bit of a fever for a few days).  So, I began to call every local eye doctor listed in the phone book; since it is Saturday, however, few were in.  Of those offices that were open, some had no doctor on duty, some were double-booked, some didn't see patients as young as Brooke...  Finally, I found a place with a pediatric specialist in the office: he told us to take Brooke straight to the emergency room.

I had it together enough to pack books, diapers, a drink, and some snacks for Brooke, and off we went to the ER.  Upon arrival, I realized that I had forgotten my purse--which obviously contains my wallet and insurance cards.  We had to double-back home to collect that.  Upon our second arrival to the ER, we were checked in and taken directly to an exam room.  Thank Goodness, right?

I was telling my mom how lucky we were to be seen so quickly and joked about how the one time when I was prepared for the long haul was the one time that it wasn't going to be a torturous wait.  Guess again.  Almost three hours later (three hours trapped in a 10 x 10 room filled with medical equipment and a hospital bed and a germy, germy floor...with Brooke and some books and snacks), a CRNP--not an MD--who had an immediately dislikeable nature came in.  By this point, Brooke was beyond control...as in, I could barely hold on to her, let alone subdue her and restrain her in such a way that a person could peer intelligibly into her pupils with a minute flashlight.

He performed an eye exam that my 7-year-old could have come up with and basically disregarded our photograph, our WebMD information, and our referral from the pediatric eye doctor.  From his 30-second exam on my highly uncooperative toddler, he was convinced that she was fine...and seemingly from his tone and commentary, that we (her guardians) were completely nutters.  "So there was no trauma to the eye?  And, she hasn't been presenting any symptoms?" he said.  "And you brought her to the ER because she took a bad photo?"  he implied very clearly without saying a word.  Needless to say, our protests about our online searches made us seem even nuttier...as for our pleading at him to look at the photo?  Well, we seemed completely wackadoo in the face of his resolute scientific physical proof burden.  Even we could tell that we seemed loco.

All we managed to successfully impart--that seemed to matter a whit to him--was that a doctor had told us to bring her directly to the ER.  But apparently he was an optometrist and not an ophthalmologist, so we were still screwed.  Nevertheless, he grudgingly agreed to call the place to speak to the "doctor" to find out what had had him concerned enough to send us to the hospital.  It seemed that he was doing it because we were crazy, and he was maybe a teensie bit scared of us...  Too bad the office was now closed.  Saturday!!

Crazy BeeBee went on the warpath.  She wanted to break every one of our non-doctors sausage-like fingers off (and this was an exact quote).  So, she marched right up to non-doctor-sausage-fingers' desk, and she told him to look up retinal blastoma for himself.  He explained to her in his soothing, calming, patient voice reserved for crazy people in the ER that he had very sophisticated software for cross-referencing systems, and she told him to shove his system up his behind and GOOGLE IT!  (Only in nicer language, I'm guessing.  I wasn't there.  I was in our exam cage trying to subdue our irate little patient.)  Now definitely very afraid of BeeBee, he did indeed Google our condition.  He was suitably concerned by it that he called the on-call ophthalmologist.  (All along there was an on-call ophthalmologist, yes.)  Thank you very much.

After consulting with the on-call doctor and doing some more examination, he did not think that the symptoms matched retinal blastoma THANKFULLY!  He thanked us for giving him the opportunity to learn something new and encouraged us to get a second opinion  from an expert on Monday.  And, so, we were discharged.  We were extremely relieved, and we appreciated that he finally took the time to listen to what we had to say instead of dismissing us willy-nilly, but we still decided that he was not our favorite non-doctor.  And his fingers really did look sausage-y.

So, chalk one up for WebMD.

Kind of.
 
But just one.

**Update: I am feeling guilty about calling our ER medical professional a "non-doctor" today.  I don't want to be mean or catty, I suppose I was just a little overly emotional at the time of writing this, and I guess my Mama Bear claws came out a little.  Or a lot.  However, upon further investigation, it is now clear that Mister Sausage-Fingers was actually a resident CRNP (certified registered nurse practitioner).  Not only, therefore, is he not an M.D., he is still a resident C.R.N.P.  He called himself "Dr. _________."  Is that kosher?  Is a CRNP to be referred to as "Dr. __________?"  Can anyone elucidate?

**Second update: Again, I don't mean to disrespect Mr. Sausage-Fingers.  Truly.  Even if he is only a resident CRNP.  He has a lot more education (specifically in the medical specialty) than I do.  I am actually quite jealous of his level of expertise.  I just really didn't enjoy his company in the ER yesterday...especially if he was calling himself "Doctor" without justification.  Because that would just be ever-so irksome.

For Kateri: Another Public Potty Misadventure (...You Guys Can Read It Too)

So, about three months ago, I went antiquing with my mom.  I found myself in desperate need of a bathroom (soda induced pee emergency, thankfully), while she was desperately in love with an old glass buoy and net...  I wanted to leave the store and book it home, but she loved this thing, and she was determined to find out how much it cost and hopefully purchase it.  The shop owners were busy ringing out and helping other customers, so I faced the music, handed Brooke to my mom, and went in search of the antique shop's quaint little antique bathroom.

And not to be disappointed!  This public bathroom was pretty cute and super-old, tucked into the space beneath the stairs.  It had a decrepit, miniature toilet--the kind with the (unsanitary) wooden seat--and a the tiniest porcelain sink that I'd ever seen.  The room also featured hand-stenciling along the top of its bead-boarded walls.

I used the bathroom (#1 only) and used a modest amount of t.p. 

I flushed.

The water in the toilet rose...AND ROSE....AND ROSE...and toilet paper shreds began to explode from the drain of the toilet like sewage seaweed.  PANIC!!  Nightmare!!  The water began to overflow the toilet bowl and cascade onto the floor!  A noisy waterfall of filthy torrents!

In a state of shock, I reached my bare hand into the toilet--I didn't know what else to do and was spazzing--and grabbed this huge wad of sodden t.p. that the toilet drain had regurgitated...  I threw it into the trash...  I tried opening the back of the toilet and jiggling the mechanisms.  After what seemed like an eternity, the toilet finally ceased its geyser impression, but the damage was done.  The whole ENTIRE floor was covered in toilet water.

I used paper towels and t.p. to try to sop up the mess and got the whole place reasonably clean--if you consider toilet water to be an acceptable cleaning agent, I guess.  Upon closer inspection, as I dried it, I noticed that the flooring appeared to be water-damaged and warped.

I can only hope that this indicates that I'm not the first person to flood the bathroom!!

Humilated and with skin damp with toilet water, I left the bathroom, my dignity shredded like the toilet paper that gurgled out of the toilet.  As I said, the evil potty had ceased its attack.  The floor was reasonably dry.  I am ashamed to admit that I didn't notify the gentleman who seemed to own the store of my mishap, but I was just too mortified. My mom bought the antique buoy...so at least one of us did something positive for the store during our visit to make up for my inadvertent vandalization...

When we got to the car, I scrubbed my hands with antibacterial gel and baby wipes out, out darned spot-style.  YUUUCK...  I still feel dirty.  Stupid old toilet!  (One time when you definitely don't appreciate an antique, right?)

Confusion: My BAD!

Guys, I was adding tags to some old posts, and they got scooted up to the present and reposted as "edited" posts.  I'm sorry! 

She Works Hard for Her Money

Momglomerate readers, I know that I have been posting much less prolifically lately, and for this I do apologize.

Oh, how I love this blog!  Unfortunately, while I enjoy writing my posts, and am just ecstatic with the increasing readership, I am not finding the blogging to be very lucrative at this early stage.  And by "not very lucrative," I mean not. at. all. lucrative.  At all!

So, in order to bring home the eggs to go with Greg(apostrophe)s proverbial bacon, I am spending less time blogging and more time working (...on things that pay more than $18 per six weeks--thank you, Google ads).   In addition to trying to keep the house and yard looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens 24-7, I have taken on some editing and typing assignments.  

You know how these momglomerates are.  Always changing.

I must go now.  I need to try to translate the wording on a W-4 (the hardest part about starting a new job; I swear that you need an advanced dual degree in economics and law with a minor in philosophy just to fill out one of these darned worksheets correctly!)  Then I need to photocopy my passport photo to prove that I am a citizen of the USA.  Then I need to do some laundry, followed by a bout of serious weed killing--using vinegar and soap! 

Could my day BE any more wildly-varied and exciting??  What did YOU do today?  Haha :-)

Misadventures in Public Restrooms: Please Do Not Do #2

Just a heads up: this post is about poop (and me), which is a decidedly unladylike topic of polite conversation--heretofore the crux of this blog, to be sure!  Read on if you dare...

I know that a lot of people have a lot of problems with pooping or not pooping or not pooping enough.  I, thankfully, do not.  Personal pooping doesn't generally even enter my radar, what with all of the poop issues that pop up around me:  I have to hear about Alyssa's poop, Greg's poop, and the most-dreaded "Mama, Mama, boo-poo, Mama" from Brooke.  Oh, the abundant joys of family life...

Today I had an appointment to have my riding jacket tailored because I have a show coming up next weekend (yay!).  All morning, I had been having wrenching stomach cramps, gurgling, just general garden-variety gastrointestinal distress. (Think: Pepto commercial.) Without getting too graphic, I will say that I tried to relieve my issues oftentimes without success; I even went so far as to around when I was driving to my appointment to try again at home.

Of course, as I entered the parking lot of the tailor shop, my stomach did it's ultimate drop, and I knew I needed to find a restroom fast!  Once inside, I inquired about a public restroom.  I was shown to a tiny room directly behind the front counter.  In spite of the restroom's lack of exhaust fan, paper thin walls, and absurdly close proximity to the staff and other customers adjacent in the front room, I was utterly relieved to be in there...until I sat down on the toilet and came eye-level with a neon, laminated sign from "the Management," which stated:

"Please do not do #2 in this bathroom.  It would be very inappropriate to do in our front counter restroom."

[the eeearrrrch sound of a tape rewinding]

Whaaaa?  Excuse me?! Inappropriate? It is not exactly a choice when Nature calls!  They don't say when Nature implores or inquires or suggests....she CALLS to action.  Believe me, it is certainly not that I WANT to do my business in their business.  I generally avoid using public restrooms altogether, and I would never do #2 in a friend's or family member's bathroom unless I had no other choice.  I think of myself as a very polite, and very personal pooper.

I seriously considered leaving the shop before my appointment even began.  I urgently needed a REAL restroom, and I was sort of indignant about the rules and regs of this quote-unquote public restroom.  What nerve?!  What a way to treat one's customers?  ...talk about inappropriate.

Can you even believe this?  Does anyone have any other misadventures to share?  Is this common?

"Bah Mook" (English Translation: "Bye, Milk")

Long, long ago I posted "Milkaholic."  I worried...in the 11th hour (read: month) of Brooke's first year...that she was going to be a tough nut to crack in the ol' weaning department.  Weelll, as usual, I was correct.

It's a curse.

Brooke, now 16 months and some odd days old, is becoming the creepy little milk-fiend I predicted.  At this point, she follows me around chanting: "Ahh Mama, Mama, mook."  She wakes up throughout the night and stands at her crib shouting pathetically: "Mook Mama Mook."  She climbs into my lap and fumbles with my buttons, becomes momentarily distracted by my belly button (which is her anatomical fascination du jour), and then paws at my bra: "Mook.....peeeez."

Creepy, right?  Yes, well, don't judge!  I had tried to implement a one-mook-per-day policy: a tranquilizing maternal beverage before bedtime only.  We went about a week before I cracked and did an emergency 3AM mook fix, which has now become the routine.  Brooke is such an adorable little mookaholic that I struggle to steel my resolve to cut her off cold turkey.  She still gets looped after nursing...

After her last nip of mook, she waved sweetly at my chest and crooned a boozy, "Bah Mook."  Sigh.

Can Mama's little mookaholic say enabler?

The Walls are Closing In...and Needless to Say, the Feng Shui is Just AWFUL

Now that I have started venting about my pent-up-ness, I just can't stem the flow.  I am wondering why I wasn't able to share my experiences of boomeranging back into my parents house with my family in-tow, although sharing would probably have been one fantastic way to blow a little hole in the walls that are stifling my mo-jo...a hole into the vast, wide open internet wilderness....a world outside my "four walls."

I guess I am embarrassed to be home again.  They say you never can go back home again, and I can say that that is not entirely true.  We are living to tell about it--certainly surviving, if not completely thriving.  I am just rather stifled.  All of my earthly possessions that aren't in storage....and all of my familiar animals and people (they wouldn't let us keep the kids in storage)...are stuffed into the four walls of my childhood bedroom.  And, for anyone out there who doesn't believe that clutter and room arrangement factor into one's happiness and productivity, I beg to differ: I am the pathetic living proof of a disastrous feng shui-busting experiment...merely a hollow shell of my formerly creative self ;-)

To add to my feelings of stagnation and isolation, I rarely have occasion leave the house, I have no work-work at the moment, Alyssa is back to school, Brooke is in that phase where she wants to read the same four board books all day long, and it's hurricane season, which this year equals rain every day...all day.

Surprisingly, I'm not at all depressed, though I'm sure my writing makes it sound that way.  I'm just all hemmed in, bursting at the seams with ideas that I don't have room for right now.  And, the thing is, it's not just the seasonal rain that's keeping us trapped indoors, or my very literal current cramped living conditions that are closing in and stifling me, it is my phase of life as the mother of a nappy, teething, tantrumy, not-so-fit-for-public, less-than-mobile toddler.  And I say that with all of the love in the world for Brooke who is at an incredibly lovely, fun stage...and with the time-tested knowledge that she, like Alyssa, will too quickly grow up!  It is a crazy phase of life for me, and one that I seemly fully understand while not being able to figure out.

Is anyone out there feeling this way?  If you understood that sentence about fully-understanding-while-not-being-able-to-figure-out sentence, I will be ever-so pleased...very deep.  How do you stay liberated when you stay home?  How does the caged bird sing?

Whoa, that's heavy.

I Have No Excuse...Here's My Excuse

I guess I sort of feel like sharing my life (at least the funnier parts that I have license to edit creatively) on this blog is--with every post--sort of like going to one's highschool reunion.

It should be noted that I have not attended any of my highschool reunions to date.

What I mean to say is: by posting, I share the innermost workings of my family...and my miiiind (a la Franc the wedding coordinator in "Father of the Bride").  I hold a microscope up to all of our triumphs and foibles, and I say, look at what we are doing!  Aren't we cute?  Aren't we funny?  Aren't we unique?  The whole point of sharing these anecdotes was to entertain you with how special we are...how special our experiences are (albeit weird, pathetic, shocking, and bizarre).

It has been as impossible for me to edit our current living situation into something worth posting on Momglomerate as it might be, say, for a person who has gained 400 pounds, been to jail 5 to 7 times, is thrice divorced, and appeared on Jerry Springer (insert your own unimpressive resume items non grata here), to attend their highschool reunion with their head held high.

Sidenote:  At the time of my five year reunion, I had quit college after attending three separate institutions, had a child out of wedlock, had been recently divorced, was living above my parents' garage, and was unsuccessfully trying to start a business, which would eventually fail....impressively.  In such dire straits, there was no way for me to present my situation in a way that would engender anything but pity from my peers, who were doubtless recent recipients of shiny college diplomas...on their way to starting graduate school or traveling the globe or embarking on fabulously exciting professional careers or planning their proper (unpregnant) marriages that would last forever--or at least longer than mine had.

Back to the present...come on, try to keep up, why don't you?  GOSH!  Currently, I'm working at a tiny table that my legs do not fit under smashed in the midst of the chaos that reigns supreme in my parents' office: ergonomically correct it is not; efficient it is not.  I access the internet through a little cord that is directly attached to the parental cable internet box thingy.  It is like a mini-analogy of my life: tethered to my generous parents by an as-yet un-snipped umbilicus.  I reckon that it must be akin to being re-virginized (which I have recently heard of) how I have seemingly re-entered the proverbial womb.

My independence--along with all of our stuff--is jam-packed into our storage unit, awaiting the glorious day--hark, October 18th--when we can move out of here and into our own space.  (At the risk of sounding ungrateful....and I'm definitely not.  Ungrateful, that is.  Thanks parents!!)  A space where someone doesn't say loudly things exactly like, "Someone used my pen!  I found it on the magazine beside the computer, and it is supposed to be on the base of the computer monitor!  And it's lid was OFF!  You CANNOT use my pen.  It was very expensive.  Like hundreds of dollars.  ARRRGGH!"

You try to find the inspiration to write a funny blog post in a room where a pen of that magnitude resides (on the base of the computer monitor).

I have no excuse for not posting regularly.

But if I did, that would be it.  The pen...or more precisely, its owner.  Sapping my creative energies.

I Just Posted, and the Immediate AdSense Ad Was About Depression Symptoms

How do they do that?

I typed something about rocking oneself in the fetal position in a darkened room and BAM! there is an ad about depression symptoms.  Well done, Google!

Where Does the Time Go?

It makes me laugh a little (not out loud, but very barely audibly on the inside) when I recall my last post: I was informing you that the packing and moving were completed and we were moving in with my parents, which I apparently thought would be:
a. funny
b. inspiring
c. time-freeing.





In reality, I spent about the first two weeks here teetering between migraine-inducing rage and the kind of hopelessness that makes you want to curl up into the fetal position in a dark room for hours upon hours.  It is true, as it turns out, that you cannot go home again...ESPECIALLY not with your two kids and two dogs and one ADHD husband.

My stepdad, Mike, is ADHD, like Greg.  He is very particular about his habits, schedule, and things, like Greg.  He is very quick to anger, like Greg.  Put the two of them in the same house, let alone the same kitchen, and you can only imagine the horrors.  Or maybe you can't.  It is still totally un-funny to me at the moment, as I'm still here living the nightmare until at least October 18th.

If I can think of some slightly entertaining...hopefully funny and lighthearted...way of exemplifying the insanity, I will.  At this point, all I can muster up is a list of current points of contention:
-dogs using the garden as a bathroom
-dogs using the house as a bathroom
-my dogs eating a food with grains in it
-incorrect dosage of dog incontinence pills
-incorrect dosage of earache medication
-incorrect usage of anti-nausea pill for t-storm tranquilizer pill resulting in dog's destructive psychotic episode
-parking vehicles nose-in
-using the bathroom scale
-using the remote control
-using the other remote control
-using the salsa
-using the cast iron pots
-using soap on said pots
-feeding the diabetic cat dry food
-not mixing in the dogs' wet food
-softball on Monday
-softball on Wednesday
-patio cushions out in rain
-dishwasher loading
-amounts of laundry detergent
-timeliness of washing pots and pans
-Brooke and the steps
-dogs and the front yard
-dogs and hiking
-logging off of the computer
-dripping faucet
-cracking driveway
-fountain care schedule
-the Furminator
-how many beans one should eat in a day
-how much oil one should use to cook things
-timeliness of drying cast iron
-location of kitchen utensils
-sugar intake of children

Ad nauseum.

I Didn't Want to Tell You This... BOOMERANG!

You all listened patiently (I assume) to my musings about having a house for sale.  I believe that I mentioned that, due to my psychotic, frenetic cleaning and staging behaviors (and perhaps among other minor factors as well), the house sold.  Well, readers, settlement is nearly upon us.  This is my last Saturday here, as settlement occurs next Friday morning.

Usually, the bummer of moving out of your home is buoyed by the excitement of moving into your next one.  Desafortunamente (that's Spanish for unfortunately, and I much prefer its ring), this is not the case for us.  The bummer of moving out of this house that we have loved...the one that Alyssa has gone to her first days of school from...the one that we brought baby Brooke home from the hospital to...  *wow--my inner English major is freaking out at the prepositional mayhem of those last sentences!* is actually compounded by the fact that we will be moving into my old room at my parents.

We.  As in me, Greg, Alyssa, Brooke, Ringo, and Hemi.  As in, all six of us and all of our beds and clothing and stuff.  We are all boomeranging back into my childhood bedroom.  At my parents home.  With my parents.  Both of them.  And all of their beds and furniture and clothes and stuff.  And all of their cat and three dogs that don't like our dogs...and subsequently, gnaw on them and urinate all over the house in retaliation of their imposition.

So, four adults, two children, five dogs, and cat will be roomies.  Cozy, right?  Well, this arrangement seemed like a feasible idea--never an easy one, but a doable one--when it was supposed to last for a mere six weeks.  Guess what?  Our new home's completion date has been rescheduled from late August to OCTOBER!!!  We are looking at three months, "best case scenario, with no weather delays," a la our realtor.

My poor, poor parents.  Poor doggies-mine, who will be used as chew toys by their petulant doggie "aunties."  Poor, poor, pitiful me!!

On the upside, this should make for excellent blog fodder, and I may even have time to post to my blog for the duration, as my friend  will be back from her maternity leave to attend to the accounts that I have been doing in her absence :-)

I'm cleaning out the old room this evening...  Since I left it twelve years ago, it has been used as:
-a garbage dump
-a playroom
-a craft room
-a knitting room
-a sewing room
-a nursery
-a spare bedroom
-a nursery again
-"Lila's" clothing boutique, per Alyssa
-an art studio
-a workout room
-a yoga dojo
-a reading room
-a man nest
-a decrepit furniture storage area
-collectible showroom
-photo shop
-framer's gallery
-pressed flower emporium
...dot, dot, dot.... (which so reminds me of the Bachelorette and smarmy Bentley).

Tune in to find out what I found up there...as the latest saga begins!

Pony Camp--Super Yankee the Wonder Pony Saves Momglomerate!

Ever since summer vacation started Alyssa has been looking forward to attending Pony Camp.  First, she was begging permission, then she was begging for the money, and then she was begging for new clothes, tack, and accessories "needed" for said adventure...

Well, permission granted, money saved and paid, equipment procured, cleaned, labeled, and packed--

People, this was no small feat!  Pony camp, for those of you who are uninitiated, involves sending your child AND YOUR CHILD'S (whole!) PONY to a stable for the duration.  So, not only did I have to pack up all of Alyssa's gear, we had to pack up all of Yankee the Wonder Pony's gear as well, and schlep it all to parts unknown.

Let me break it down for you.


Normal: Lunch, snacks, and drinks for child in cooler.
Us:  Lunch, snacks, and drinks for child in cooler.  Several 50 pound bales of hay, about 5 pounds of feed, two buckets, and a bulk bag of carrots in a wheelbarrow for pony.

Normal: A change of clothes and maybe a swimsuit for child in a backpack. 
Us:  Boots, jodphurs, half-chaps, tall socks, t-shirt, helmet, gloves, protective vest and a change of clothes in a backpack.  Halter, leadrope, flymask, bridle, grassreins, grabstrap, saddle, girth, two pads, bump pad, and crop for pony.

Normal: A few books and toys for child in above mentioned backpack.
Us: A few books and toys for child in backpack.  Brushes, flyspray, hoofoil, suntan lotion, diaper cream, and gear for pony.

Normal:  Child and backpack ride in a passenger car to camp.
Us:  Child rides in backseat of 3/4 ton pickup.  Gear rides in the bed of pickup.  Pony rides in a horse trailer to camp.

Let's just say this: normal didn't go to pony camp this week!

But...on the upside, Yankee the Wonder Pony has been babysitting Alyssa all week at said camp, so I actually got to write this mini-post :-)  BLESS you Yankee the Wonder Pony!

Life Update #2!

I believe I have had the funny knocked right out of me...

It is summer vacation, and now I have TWO uber-demanding ladies simultaneously demanding my attention from dawn until dusk and wellll beyond.  I also have been working, riding, and packing up my house.

In my free time, I sleep (and watch the Bachelorette, but don't tell anyone!).

Many of you have requested a next post.  I hear you, I hear you.  I do.  But, I just sat down to write this and company showed up.

It is not meant to be at this exact moment, but I promise to try again soon.  Don't worry--I will bring my funny then.

Nothing Beyond This Box IS FOR SALE!!!

As I was putting up my garage sale signs last week, my neighbor slash realtor quipped, "Whoa, I am pretty sure that your buyer thought that the garage went with the house!"

Little did I know how much genuine confusion there would actually be about what exactly was for sale at my garage sale.

I had set the tables up in a horse shoe around the perimeter of my garage, with the open end facing the open double garage door.  I placed them tightly against the edges to assure that my customers could see that they were to remain on the front side of the tables.  Our "cash register" boxes and pens, etc. were placed behind several tall kitchen appliances, well out of eye sight or reach of the customers in the middle of the horseshoe.  I even placed signs on some of our stuff so that no one would ask if it was for sale.

I thought it was a well-planned out, shopper-friendly, straight-forward layout.

Our first customer, was a man came who believed--erroneously--that EVERYTHING on any table--even those things that were well behind the taller objects and out of sight and reach of a normal customer on the customary front side of the display were for sale.

"There is a purse sitting back there with things in it.  Is this for sale?"  he says with a thick accent.  "No, it is not." We reply politely.

"The cell phone beside it.  Is this for sale?"  he continues.
"No, it is not." We reply a bit more forcefully.

"The box with the change in it.  This is for sale, no?"  (I kid you not.)
"No, those are our personal things that we need to have this sale."  We say, exasperated.

"They should not be at sale if they not for sale.  I give you $3 for this gold necklace with diamonds--if you have a magnet and a magnifying glass."  GET OUTTTTTT!!!!!!!!  Leave my garage sale NOW, I scream in my head.  I am mentally putting down my garage door, smashing this annoying shopper, and getting back under the covers of my bed.

Several more shoppers come and buy without incident.  I think we are in the clear when another non-native English speaker goes behind my horseshoe-shaped counter and begins examining Greg(apostrophe)s mountain bike.  "No, no that is not for sale," I say, pointing to the 8.5x11" paper sign with block letters that reads "NOT FOR SALE" that is taped onto the bike and a few other personal items that remained in the garage (behind the counter! like our stroller and bike trailer).

I herd him back to the customer side of my sale and begin sell something to someone else who is better behaved.  Seconds later, he has squeezed behind my tables again--placed rather tightly against the walls to make it obvious that shoppers were not to go behind them--and is rummaging through my shoe rack.  "NOT FOR SALE," I scold him more harshly, and gesture for him to get back onto his side of the tables, as he does not understand my words.

Flustered by this continuous invasion of my personal space, I set up large cardboard boxes around the perimeter of my tables.  I stack them on bins, step ladders, and other miscellaneous stuff so that they are unmissable at eye level.  I write on them with bold permanent marker "NOTHING BEYOND THE TABLES IS FOR SALE."  Then I place more signs directly on the objects that are not for sale that say, "NOT FOR SALE," in red, blue, and black marker.

As I am placing my last box, a woman is picking up one of the other boxes that says, "NOTHING BEYOND THIS BOX IS FOR SALE," and pushing the step ladder out of the way to get a better look at my shoes that say, "NOT FOR SALE."  I am beginning to lose my temper.  "No!  Those are not for sale.  Nothing behind the table is for sale!"

Her first-grade aged son explains to her in Spanish that the stuff is not for sale because she does not understand me or my signs.  She acts miffed that I have falsely advertised or misleadingly branded my junk.

I guess you need an advanced degree in world languages in order to successfully host a garage sale--ie., not lose any of your personal belongings that are labeled "NOT FOR SALE."  My fault that the signs that cordoned off and identified my personal space and belongings were not multi-lingual, involving at least 4 different languages and several more dialects.

Garage sales: no longer in the realm of the merely bilingual.