Photos by Amanda Naylor, PThreePhoto.com

Friday, April 29, 2011

"I'm Not Going To School Til I See That Royal Kiss!"

Oh, that is my daughter.

She is on the couch, totally ready to leave for school, wearing a jean jacket and shoes (fancy, bejeweled flats, perhaps in celebration of the Royal Wedding?).  She put her bookbag and lunchbox into the car in advance--commercial break.  We dried hair and brushed teeth in record time while the Royals are having their first reception inside of Buckingham Palace.

Now, Alyssa is doing her own countdown to the Royal Kiss. 9:19 and counting...

She says she will not budge until she has seen the kiss.  8:57.

We may be a bit late to school today.

You have to teach your kids about priorities.  Realistic ones.  As I am now.

The Royal Wedding

Just so you know, I did NOT watch any of the week-long lead-up to the royal nuptuals, nor did I wake up at 4AM to watch the whole of the coverage of the Royal Wedding.  (Are you kidding me?  Sleep is still sacred here, as Brooke still does not sleep through the night!)

I have, however, been glued to the tube since 6:30AM, except when the kids so rudely interrupt me for things like breakfast and diaper changing.

***

How beautiful are the Prince and Princess--and the HORSES? Oh, the horses were our favourites...!  (British spelling, hahahaha!) Alyssa and I were going crazy over the white horse-drawn carriage and cavalcade.

Well, sadly, have to get showers and pack lunches for our day in the "real world", so I must bid you good day!

...Is anyone else thinking that tonight might be a "Princess Diaries" marathon night?  Oh, Greg will just be thrilled.  He does love the "Princess Diaries" movies, so.  (Fortunately, I watched 2 heist movies with him this week, not to mention the NFL draft!  So, he totally owes me.)

Thursday, April 28, 2011

So Many Sticks, So Little Time

Yesterday, I spent many of my daylight hours picking up sticks.

This is not an uncommon way for me to pass the better part of a day, living next to a forest as we do.  I find myself being especially diligent in the stick relocation department now that we have the house on the market.  The sticks, they keep a'fallin' regardless of the weather.  But you know what really kickstarts a real stick fest?  Tornadic activity.

In the wee hours of this morning, Ringo, my dog-slash-in-home severe weather alert system, woke up and began panting loudly and pacing frantically.  (He has really long talon-like toenails, so you can imagine the clatter he makes walking with his short legs all over the hardwood floors.)  My first thought: Death to you, Ringo James!  Go back to sleep you crazy storm-a-phobe; it is not even raining!

It promptly began to pour rain, and rumble, and flash.  The wind was howling.  I made my apologies to Ringo.

My second thought: NOOOOO!!!  Wind equals increased stick deployment, and I just cleared all of the sticks from the entire yard in preparation for today's real estate showing!

Hours later (7 to showing), daylight revealed the devastation of my formerly pristine and stick-free yard.  In addition to being covered in an assortment of sticks, bark, and other tree shrapnel, the yard was flooded due to hours of torrential rains.

Hours to showing: 5.  Brooke and I were driving Alyssa to school when a tornado warning was declared.  You know what that means?  Pull over and hide in a ditch?  Well, yes.  That and: Infinitessimally more sticks.

Hours to showing: 3.  The local weatherman, Joe Calhoun, suspended the tornado warning.  School children were allowed to leave the cinderblock hallways and return to their window-full classrooms.  Normal people were allowed to re-emerge from safety of their basements.  And, since sticks were no longer flying sideways (or spiraling upwards)...but merely falling downwards at normal gravitational velocity, I decided it was a good time for me to perform stick remediation.

As I was trudging through my flooded yard in tall rain boots, collecting sticks in the left-over rain, I couldn't help but to feel thankful that sticks were all I had to pick through post-storm.  Sure, it was a major inconvenience to have a severe storm with damaging winds and flooding on the same day as my showing, not to mention wildly ironic that we have a tornado watch directly after I do an all-out stick pick-up, but compared to the poor people in the tornado-addled Midwest, I have no complaints!

The moral of this story:  When--on the same day as you happen to have a real estate showing--life hands you tornadic activity, make a big pile of tree shrapnel afterwards.  And hide said pile in the woods.  And, thusly,  make buyers believe that living here is easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy...and involves no stick pick-up at all.

No, I won't miss sticks when we move.  There are just so many of them...and so little time in which to pick them up.

Belly-Blowing Baby Nugget

Brooke--my almost one-year-old baby--and Greg--my husband--are sitting on the couch watching the NFL draft.  (Brooke is way into football.  Waaay.)

In preparation for the entertainment extravaganza that is the NFL draft, the two of them have been watching ESPN's, "On the Clock," for draft predictions all week.

In the midst of all of this excitement: Brooke, being the most brilliant and adorable baby in the whole entire universe, just reached over and picked up Greg's t-shirt, exposing his belly.  And then she leaned down and blew raspberries just to the left of his belly button!
 
Is this not so adorable that you could just gobble her up right now in one sweet and squishy little yum-yum baby nugget?

Technorati--I Am Claiming My Blog

Readers, this is another business blog.  I am trying to share Momglomerate with networking sites in order to increase traffic.  One of those sites is Technorati.  I have to show them this code--BF4EQNBCBBRX--in order to claim Momglomerate on their site.  Please excuse this totally unfunny post.  

I will be funnier next time, I promise.


For instance, I may write about Brooke's ridiculously high fever (obviously hysterical) in a post called, "Ice, Ice Baby"...  

You just never know.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Business 2 Blogger

Readers, as you can probably imagine, my husband, children, dogs, and horses like to eat (and wear clothes and go to the doctor's).  In an effort to continue these household best-management practices, I am trying to use my blog to earn money.

I have decided to work with Business 2 Blogger, which will give me opportunities to review products of my choice and give you honest feedback about them.  The idea is that I will be able to pass along information about products that will be beneficial to your Momglomerate in a way that is mutually beneficial to my Momglomerate.

Just wanted to let you know what I'm up to now!  Try to keep up :-)

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Somewhere Between "It's Too Late Baby" and "Stuck Like Glue"

So that you can understand what the hang I am talking about, I have provided links to several music videos for your listening pleasure.  First of all:

Gloria Estefan - "It's Too Late"

Sugarland - "Stuck Like Glue"

I hope you enjoyed these songs and that they are now fresh in your mind (and stuck in your head for the rest of the day!) because I think that these songs are representative of the extremes of married life:  On any given day, you're somewhere between "It's Too Late" and "Stuck Like Glue."  And that is okay.

You shouldn't expect to feel all Train - "Marry Me Today and Everyday" every day.  It's just.  Not.  Realistic.

Basically, as long as it's not, like, Joan Jett - "I Hate Myself for Loving You", Cee-Lo Green - "Forget You," or worst Ashton Shepherd - "Look it Up," you are doing just fine.  Don't call the clergy person, counselor, attorney, police.  Put the phone (and/or the weapon) down.

After all, "No One Said it Would be Easy" (Sheryl Crow).

*I dedicate this post to my bestie, Nikki, who uses songs in conversation like this all of the time!  If no one else does, she will truly appreciate this :-)

Well, If Vincent VanGogh Says So (According to Gauguin)...

“Oh yes! He loved yellow, did good Vincent...When the two of us were together in Arles, both of us insane, and constantly at war over beautiful colors, I adored red; where could I find a perfect vermilion?” -- Paul Gauguin
So, I once read somewhere or another that yellow was the favored color of the insane.  In spite of this, I have painted at least part of my house yellow ever since, and I am considering painting the vast majority of my "open concept" new house yellow because I think it is a great canvas.  I can paint alongside it bursts of greens, reds, oranges, and blues...

What doesn't "go" with yellow?

Still, I was having some reservation about siding with the clinically insane.  As a general rule, I try not to do this.

But, then I happened upon a quote by Gauguin (above)...and I'm thinking if VanGogh is the insane person who loves yellow, then we are golden--pun totally intended!

Yellow it is.

No body knows paint like VanGogh, am I right?

And ears are totally overrated anyway.

Feedback Reports: Bite Me!

So, we're selling our house.  You know this.

What you may not know is that, nowadays, when you have a showing, that the realtor gives feedback, which instantaneously (isn't technology grand?) pops up in your email.

(Back in the olden days, they just left you their card and a whole lot of wondering...)

This is just one more way to make an "intense" person like me go completely insane during the process of selling her home.

The "constructive criticism" that we have received thus far has been totally unconstructive, in my opinion.  It makes me seethe with rage.  Fury.  Code red style. 

After busting one's butt to speed-clean every crevice of the house to sparkling.  Making sure that every closet, cabinet, drawer, and appliance is also clean.  Staging in the form of putting out fresh flowers, baskets of fresh fruit, fresh towels.  Perfecting the lighting scheme.  Pulling weeds and sweeping walks.  Evacuating the house with the two children (and sometimes two dogs).  Lighting cinnamon bun candles...and going so far as to blow them out in the garage so that the smoky smell doesn't affect the buyer's first sensory impression.  It really BITES when the responses are like this:

Interest in property?  None at all.  Want a new home. 

Price of property?  Too high.  (BLOWING A GASKET!  EYE TWITCHING!  VEINS BULGING!)

Other: Too close to high traffic area.

In order to save whatever shreds of sanity are still intact, I have called our real estate team and asked them to cease and desist with the "feedback reports." 

Can anyone seriously take this type of useless b.s. and do something "constructive" with it?  I know I am a very sensitive flower, but I just feel that this type of ridonkulous commentary is enough to make any seller lose their will to go on selling.  Anyone know an auctioneer?

Why waste my time--not to mention my freaking cinnamon bun candle--if the buyer wants a new home/cheap home/home on a less busy road?  Can't possibly change the fact that this home was built in the 1950s/still has SOME value (down 25% already from 3 years ago!!)/is located centrally!!!

At the risk of offending you: BITE ME buyers with useless feedback.  If offending you, who do not appreciate this classic house that smells of delicious cinnamon buns and sparkles with cleanliness and sits on a stately piece of property in a convenient location, then I don't want to be right!

(Sorry, my realtors, if you happen to be reading this.)
(And, I KNOW that at the very least, my reader, Julie, is with me on this point!  Right, Julie?!)

Monday, April 25, 2011

I grew grass.

I may have mentioned that our house is on the market, which makes me
(a) a professional cleaner
(b) a professional stager
(c) a professional landscaper
(d) insane
(e) all of the above.

If you chose "(e)," you are correct!

As you may have guessed from the oh-so-clever-and-creative title of this post, it refers to my recent foray into professional landscaping.  In the past few weeks, I have weeded and edged the gardens, trimmed bushes, laid sod, and (drum roll, please) planted grass seed.

I have tried, unsuccessfully, in the past to grow grass from seed, so this time--with the sale of our home on the line--I followed the directions very exactly.  I loosened up the soil; I raked in topsoil; I raked in fertilizer; I spread the seed by hand with love; I covered the area with a disposable growing mat-slash-cloth; I watched it rain and rain; I hoped that the seed did not get drowned; I hoped that it was not to cold; I hoped that the sun would come out; I checked under the mat-slash-cloth; I checked under the cloth again.

Lather; rinse; repeat.

Finally this morning the green growth mat-slash-cloth looked to be a bit of a different color of green, and lo and behold, there were hundreds of glorious, perfect little grass chutes poking through it! 

I was so happy that I made Alyssa (and Brooke) come and look.  They were underwhelmed.  So, I took pictures and texted them to a select few.  I also did my happy dance.

I grew grass!

I Dare You to Disprove This: Kids vs. Wild Jungle Monkeys :-)

I am reading satire by Dr. Denis Leary, and in a chapter entitled, "Your Kids Are Not Cute," in a book called, Why We Suck, he has made a point that made me laugh out loud and then ruminate on all day long because, try as I might, I can't disprove it!

Point: "The only things separating children from wild jungle monkeys IS pants.  Kids have them.  Jungle monkeys don't."

Think about it.

Then, just try to stop.

I dare you.

(And THEN, apply it to the nudist children of the Fluffernutters from my previous post and think about it more!)

Have a nice day!

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I Should So Blog That...Wait, What Was That Again?

So, today post-egg hunt, I was sitting in the grass by my (now adult) cousins' (now old-old) swing set, which is on a bank overlooking our new homesite.  It was sunny and warm, with a nice breeze, and we were chatting.

We came upon a subject, and I thought to myself, I need to blog this...  I went so far as to tell my cousin's beau, "I should so blog that!", but do you think that I can remember what it was?

Of course not.  It was about Greg, I think...  And I thought that reliving the moment in detail would bring back the snippet. 

Maybe I will text my cousin to see if she (or her beau) remembers...

Nope!  No one else remembers either, although they remember me saying that I should blog "x."

It is so hard to remember the funny stuff when your day is so chock-full of baby-watching.  Brooke was adorable to the point of distraction...she was trying to eat nature: grape hyacinth, petrified walnut shell, grass, mulch, dirt...and then she was shredding leaves and stealing sunglasses only to toss them onto the ground, with a mischievious smile and her "ah-ah, ah-ah."  We remarked that her glee over the destruction of things was at odds with her adorable, innocent, tulle-ruffled squishy white baby cuteness.  We imagined that she had the capacity to become one of those deranged kids who pulls the legs off of ants for her entertainment.  I surely hope not!

She does love to torment the dogs, though...

And then, for some reason, I was talking about gay men loving Greg...and how he has standards for his would-be (if he was gay, that is) homosexual partner.  I explained about Harrison.  We wondered if we would still be jealous if our s.o. had an affair with a same-sex partner.  I said yes, I surely would.  Related story of some nasty text pics.  Ew.

I feel, for some reason, like the blog-worthy comment had to do with showers/bathing/personal hygiene.  Talked about Greg's oral hygiene, 7-minute routine.  Maybe I was just trying to "wash" the memory of the text pics away from my mind's eye?

Definitely discussed the future roasting of giant marshmallows procured by beau.  I said that the only other giant marshmallows that I'd seen were fruit flavored.  Discussed how unnatural it is to "toast" something that tastes like lemon, cherry, or orange.  Wood-smoke and fruit....

Greg went to the extreme, stalker-like conditions of calling me every 15 minutes for an hour or so to tell me about an oak table at a yard sale.... Oh, how well he has taken to the idea of antiquing...

Brooke tried to wear Molly's camera like a necklace but the handstrap just wouldn't fit over her head, in spite of the fact that she tried dilligently over and over again.  So, she settled for wearing it over the shoulder like a purse.

Still, it is not coming to me!  I can replay the events of the day in amazing detail...word-for-word, but can't remember what I was saying right before the fateful, "I should blog that!"  ARGH!

Wood smoke and FRUIT!!!  Fruit like grapes.  Grapes like jelly!  Peanut butter and jelly and fillet mignon!  Sweet Jesus, it is an Easter miracle...I pulled that from the corners of my amazingly complex mind.  I'm like Charlie Sheen, normal people can't even begin to understand me.  Haha :-)

So, it really has nothing to do with personal hygiene, as it turns out, but I wanted to blog about an experience that Greg and I shared while dating.

My parents sent us on a vacation to Jamaica.  Upon arrival to our resort, we noticed two peculiar things:
1.  Everyone in the lobby was nude, and
2.  There was a large banner reading, "Welcome Fluffernutters!"

We knew two things:
1.  We were not nude, and
2.  We were not Fluffernutters.

Shock faded into amused disbelief which turned into sheer amusement as we settled into the knowledge that we had been unwittingly sent to a nudist resort which happened to be hosting a swingers' convention.  (And I thought that a fluffernutter was a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich...guess I'll never eat one of those again.)

So, Greg and I entrenched ourselves what firmly in "prude" territory (versus "nude" territory).  The resort worked like this: nude was allowed anywhere (like, in the dining area...the disco...the gym), but "prude" was excluded from "nude"...so, you couldn't walk, while clothed, onto the nude beach, for instance.

I think that we "pruded" ourselves, at first, out of a deeply-ingrained sense of modesty.  After all, we weren't expecting to vacation at a nudist colony and so had packed lots of pretty clothes...  And, honestly, it takes some time/consideration/planning to wrap your mind all the way around being all sorts of naked.

As time went on, and we saw everyone else being nude--every body shape and age--I think we stayed alone on the "prude" side more for our protection than anything else.  We were definitely the youngest people there, and arguably the most attractive.  (Disclaimer: Not that I didn't find it beautiful that the nudists were so at ease in their skin [much of which was very baggy, saggy, bulging, protuberant, and crinkly-wrinkly]!)  *Yes, that's a double parenthetical...and, yes, it is within the limits of my artistic license.  I'm intense like that.

We became, like....MEAT.  Fresh, young, toned, fully-packaged meat.

The nudists were all over us to get naked.  After all, what did we have to be embarrassed about as the youngest, fittest of the guests, they asked.  Good point, we agreed (while remaining clothed).

The swingers urged us to swing.  Wives flirted with Greg in the presence of their husbands...  Husbands talked to Greg about me in my presence...  It was a very strange, new world indeed.  We clung more and more tightly to each-(STILL-fully-clothed)-other.

One man/wife were particularly interested in me/Greg.  The man told Greg that I was definitely "filet mignon" (and unfortunately implied that his poor wife was a "PB&J" in the process), as he said, "Listen man, I know your girl is prime like filet mignon, but even though filet mignon is delicious and expensive, if you eat it every night for dinner, eventually you are going to think...hey, I could really eat a peanut butter and jelly."

Greg took me by the hand and led me away after incredulously stating:  "Are you crazy, dude?  I hate peanut butter and jelly!"

And, we lived happily ever after...

in our clothes...

mostly.

Brooke's 1st Egg Hunt: It is Customary to REMOVE Shell Prior to Consumption

Today was Brooke's first family Easter egg hunt! 

I carried her, and she proudly carried her own tiny basket.  We found three eggs, and these filled her basket.

She was fascinated with the brightly colored-eggs, and she put them in her mouth (her first question about ANYTHING seems to be: how does it taste?) and got colorful dye all over her lips and hands.  When we explained to her that it is customary to remove the shell before eating hardboiled eggs, she banged two of the eggs together.  (I'm not sure that the two of those things were correlated as neatly as I have recorded it here!)

After she cracked herself up cracking the eggs, I peeled the shattered shell off of one, and she gobbled the thing enthusiastically, getting messy yolk up her nose and down the front of her new tulle dress!  (At least yellow is part of the pastel-y Easter color palette...)

Classic baby's first Easter: a ridiculously-fussy-fancy party dress, perfectly accessorized with egg yolk up the nose and grass in the toes!

It was a wonderful (surprisingly sunshiny, blue sky) day.  Brooke was in her element at the center of attention.  She was laughing and flirting, and everyone commented on how charming and pleasant she is.  I agreed, saying that she's laughing whenever she's not crying!

...And when she's crying, it's splayed out on the floor in uber-dramatic fashion!  Yep, she is innately a floor-crying/head flung back drama queen extraordinaire... :-)

Friday, April 22, 2011

I Used a Paper Towel on EARTH DAY! (It was recycled, but still.)

Any parent of a school-aged child knows that today is Earth Day...and, in fact, has probably been forcibly coerced into a litter pick-up walk at some point, if you are lucky--like me!  (Thanks a lot, Mrs. Hoover!) 

Alyssa and I put on our raincoats...and covered Brooke with a blanket...and picked up litter from, not only our current yard, but from our new lot as well.  The funny thing was that Alyssa became bored with the litter pick-up about 10 seconds and 2 pieces of litter in, although she was the one who had pestered me mercilessly to join her Earth Day crusade.

Being the excellent mother that I am, I forced her to at least accompany me while I cleaned the litter out of our yards.  She didn't enjoy the process nearly as much as she must've thought she would because (a) she has the attention of a gnat with ADD and (b) she doesn't like to touch "dirty" things. 

I'm not sure what she thought litter was exactly...

After playing this Earth Day charade, we came in to clean up for yet another showing.  Losing all track of what day it was, I used a (recycled) paper towel instead of a fiber cleaning rag and became a total Earth Day hypocrite! 

Here's Your Sign!

Parents, as a courtesy: Beware, this post is about sexual relations, and though I assume that you have--by this point--figured out that I have had them, since I have produced two bebes, I am also aware that you may not want to read about it here (or anywhere!).

For the rest of you:  Let's take it back...to the late 1990's.  You there?  Remember when that guy did those "here's your sign" bits?  It was stuff like: So, I was sitting along the road with the hood of my car popped up and smoke billowing from the engine, and some man pulled up and asked, "Are you having car trouble?" ...HERE'S YOUR SIGN!

Well, I'm aware that "here's your sign" in pop culture generally refers to stupid behavior, but in my house, "signs" are more often in reference to "friskiness," if you know what I mean.

When we were first married, I took notice of an interesting phenomena: every time I washed the sheets and remade the bed, Greg would inevitably initiate "frisky frollicking" that same evening.  Much to my initial annoyance, I might add.  I get it that all people enjoy the fresh scent and crisp smoothness of freshly-washed sheets...in that they would inhale their freshness and cuddle in deeper for an especially rejuvenating sleep experience.  Not that they would become so invigorated by the freshness that they would want to get fresh on the fresh sheets...thus spoiling their freshness!

This sheet-washing and immediately subsequent sheet-dirtying occurred with such regularity that I finally had to ask Greg what was up.  His answer made me marvel at the one-track nature of the male mind...  He said something to the effect of: when I got into bed and realized that you washed the sheets during the day, it made me think that you thought of sleeping in our bed tonight, and when I knew that you thought about tonight during the day, it made me wonder if you might have thought about getting "frisky" tonight, which made me "frisky" just thinking of you thinking about us getting "frisky."

Don't tell him this, but I can assure you that I was not thinking about getting "frisky" while I was washing the sheets.  I was thinking about washing the sheets.

Anyway, now I have to be careful about washing the sheets because now that we had the discussion about the sheets phenomenon, it has become a "sign."  Like shaving.

(Apparently he thinks that I only shave for his pleasure...as opposed to to keep my legs from looking like a woolly mammoth.)

Greenberries

Hello, all!

Just a quick post to let you know about a company that I have switched links with:  Greenberries!

Here is the contact information:
rachel baliff
owner, greenberries
a children's & maternity consignment boutique and toy shop
good for kids. good for you. good for earth.
www.greenberriescompany.com

Greenberries seems to fit right in with the theme of Momglomerate.  I hope that you visit her website...and her store :-)

More blogging to follow... (Must now speed-clean house and evacuate for a showing!)

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Clean and Green

Update: Almost a month ago, I told you that I was going to start making my own cleaners to save money and, well, THE WORLD! 

Well, I have been slowly integrating these homemade, eco-friendly cleaners as I have run out of my old ones...and, I have been running out of them more quickly than ever with the non-stop cleaning-fest that is having one's house on the market and showing it sometimes multiple times per day!

Currently, I am using:
-vinegar and baking soda to clean my toilets (fizzy and fantastic!);
-vinegar on the windows (stinky but effective);
-water and vanilla steams for the microwave splatterfest (you may be tempted to lick it clean);
-sea salt for baked on crud in oven (who knew?!);
-baking soda and a scrub brush for my sinks (amazing shine!);
-steam and peppermint essential oil for my hard floors; and
-liquid Castile, water, and almond oil for handsoap (not as pretty as my old soap, but who really cares?).

I plan to continue to swap out ALL of my cleaners/soaps/detergents :-)  I have also been trying to be much more disciplined about using washable/reusable cleaning cloths instead of paper towels. 

Please let me know how you are doing with your own green cleaning!

Synchronicity

I love the word synchronicity, and the phenomenon

My mom, who I am talking about non-stop lately (I know) will probably wonder what this word means, then skip over it, intend to look it up, then forget to look it up, then have no idea what this blog was about anyway.

So for her (and the rest of you) a definition:

Synchronicity
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events, that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance, that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner. The concept of synchronicity was first described by Swiss psychologist Carl Gustav Jung in the 1920s.[1]

My last posting was in regard to finding/doing/relishing in/profiting from doing the work that each of of us was born to do.  In my case (I think) it's writing.  In my mother's case (she thinks) it's creating useful pieces of artwork that make people smile, be it pottery or knitted momentos.  

We spent our mini-vacation discussing our work--our drive to complete it, our desire for it to be respected, and our need to contribute it.  And, today, as I was reading a copy of More magazine, for women over 50, (I look so much younger, don't I?  Fooled you.) I read an article about Barbara Corcoran, who said, "I think my entire career is nothing but one long attempt to prove to the world that I am not stupid."  Well, that gets right down to the point, doesn't it?

The tag of the article is "When Millions Aren't Enough," because Corcoran was a New York real-estate genius who has been called the female Donald Trump.  She sold her self-made company for $66 million dollars to spend more time with her young son.  As a homemaker, although she had already experienced power and earned respect, she struggled with loss of personal identity, and searched for additional work that would fulfill her.

She found it.  You know how?  By refusing to quit and working like h, e, double hockey sticks.  It seems that the recipe for success is the same as it has always been.  


Synchronicity: when what you were just talking about with your mama yesterday pops up in a magazine article today, and you realize that you must be on to something now!

  


 

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Let's make some $

I must admit that the ads that Google features on my blog do make me laugh. The dog crates, sinus medications, and rehab offers are relevant enough to my content to enhance the comedic nature of the posts...if you even notice them.

I was in the shower solo again today (which is obviously a really good thing because the quiet, meditative nature of washing ALONE clearly provides me with useful insight)...and I was contemplating my blog, making it successful and profitable, and something that my friend said to me recently: I was telling her how desperately I want approval and respect from my husband for my work with our children in our home. I want him to be proud of me and cherish me, but it seems that he is concerned more with money than anything. She asked me if it would be ENOUGH if he said that staying home and mothering our children was the most important thing I could ever do for us...if being an excellent mother with an appreciative husband would be EnOUGH success for me. I said no. I was shocked by my answer. And I felt ashamed.

Sunday, Rev. Brown was preaching about success and our culture's obsession with it. coincidence?

Clearly, I am not immune. I want to be successful so that I can base my self worth and esteem
on something tangible. I want my parents and husband and children to be proud of me. I want to be proud of me! I wonder how I can not be already, with 2 smart and beautiful WELL NURTUrED daughters. The answer is money...I equate success with money, and I have no money of my own. I want to be self-reliant.

The original purpose of this blog was to empower myself and other mothers. I think I provide a service through comic relief that is relatable, and I am proud of my 1000 reads in less than one month. But for those of you who are working hard and still craving some respect and some $: I hear you. No offense to Google, who I thank for the $8.46 so far, but I think I may have a brighter and more lucrative idea for us, momglomerate!

In addition to the funny posts about my misfortunes and adventures, I want to start using Momglomerate to enhance our power and wealth collectively. I know many of you are trying to bust into the world of commerce...and here we have a medium for advertising and linking and connecting and growing and enriching ourselves! I want to grow Momglomerate. I want to write and make money and make us proud.

You all are doing things in your lives to reach similar ends. I want to showcase the skills of other momglomerates. I want to help them grow their businesses of motherhood. Please let me showcase your businesses...I will review your ideas, goods, and services...and we will help each other. Sound good?

Watch out for Daddy's doo-dads

Greg has obviously made a full recovery from his surgery a few weeks ago as evidenced by his stellar performance at the opening game of the softball season last night. I was, as you know, out of state, and therefore unable to enforce the doctor's orders. Apparently he WebMDed the sitch, and found that more than half of the doctors online allow the resumption of contact sports 7 days post...which means that he probably could have returned to work/assisted with the great spring yard clean up in more than a supervisory capacity, too, but I digress.

I was just thinking back to his conversations with me...and Brooke and Alyssa...and his friends...and our families..and his doctors/nurses about his "area," which he has referred to in many unique ways (even in medical settings where I feel that the more PC "testicles" and "scrotum" would be de rigor).

He has routinely told the girls to avoid his "breadbasket" and "doodads," which seem to be his PG terms. Everyone else, including those esteemed in the medical community (and my mama), have been treated to: ball sac (that was a predictive text word!!!scary!!!), nut sac, nuts, balls, family jewels, nads.

He said nads to a nurse on the phone.

I just wanted to say, for the record, that since the man risked the family jewels in the cut-throat world of slow pitch, full-contact softball, that the period of doodad coddling as an excuse is officially OVER!

Monday, April 18, 2011

More crazy shiznit mom says...

My mom plays Scrabble continuously (on Facebook) "to keep my mind sharp." (and, yes, she is the same mom that I wrote about earlier who claimed not to care that she forgets everything...she probably forgot that she said that). Alas, I didn't quite realize the pervasiveness of her habit 'til today.

She just told me that her Scrabble nemesis, whom she doesn't know and who shall remain anonymous, she thinks may be an inmate. Apparently they don't chat much, but his few responses have been cryptic and lead her to the conclusion of his feloniousness. He also plays almost instantaneously, as though he is just sitting in solitary with his little iPhone waiting for her next move.

(possible flaw in logic: do inmates have continuous access to Internet capable devices?)

As if that wasn't weird enough, the Beeb now just claimed that Brooke smells like a rubber band.

I still forget where I was going with my last post, and my boob is so engorged that there is milk in my armpit, so I had best go and find Brooke, who is likely somewhere destroying the sanctity of Beeb's cottage, tossing things behind her, saying "ah-ah, ah-ah," wearing her "ms b havin" onesie.

That was quite the long (though grammatically sound) sentence. Adieu.

I don't care that I forget everything except that everyone thinks that I don't care...

I am at the beach with my mama and Brooke. We escaped for 30 hours between one am school drop off and another chiropractic appointment. She was needing to meet up with a kitchen contractor, and I was needing a break from my day to day.

Soooo, here I am sitting on the porch, listening to the waves and being bitten by the season's first black flies. I am hunting and a'pecking on an iPad with no keyboard...I can't see what I'm typing because of the glare, so good luck reading. These deplorable tying conditions are not conducive to good writing, I'm afraid, but we shall persevere.

the Beebs and I have been talking pretty much nonstop since we hopped into her car this morning, and she just busted out that line that I used as the title for this post. Amen to that! I have been forgetting everything lately....the juice box for Alyssa's lunchbox, the laundry mildewing in the washer, what I went out to the garage for... It has been really scary, and I attribute it to pregnancy brain and spending the majority of my time in the company of a semi literate toddler person.

(Whom, I might add, Beeba just woke up by stealthlessly attempting to "watch her sleep"...like a total cheese ball rookie, who obviously doesn't appreciate "me time" as much as this girl.)

Now, I attempt to compose with the meager and unsatisfactory keyboard, poor visibility, and the added torment of Brooke the Destroyer...who is currently raking her talons on the pillow that I am using to prop up the iPad on my lap, which is surely not advisable for the reversing of the reverse curvature of my neck :(

I was writing about being forgetful, and I have now forgotten where I was going with this...

Friday, April 15, 2011

Making Peace with the Multi-Legged

My whole life I have had an irrational fear of thousand-leggers.  I am okay with most rodents, serpents, amphibians, and insects, but show me a thousand-legger and I will go full-out girl on you, jumping on top of furniture and whatnot.

Alyssa seems to have inherited my fear of thousand-leggers...and her father's fear of all things serpent/insect.  She goes wacko at the sight of any kind of bug--even the harmless stink bugs of which she encounters 10-ish on any given day.

(To be continued... Brooke is crying/Brooke's nose is running/Alyssa needs to get taken to school.)

(And, three hours later: I'm back!)

Flashback: I am school-aged, and I find a thousand-legger in my shower about once a week.  Since I can't even manage to kill it or even drown it myself, I go knock on my mom's bedroom door, and she comes over and murders it with a shoe (usually), and sloshes its still-moving appendages down the drain after rinsing off the bottom of her weapon.  If she is not available, I may even resort to covering the thing with a lid or a cup and securely trapping it out of sight for the duration of my shower...and sometimes long after...until its many-legged body becomes a hollow shell of its former freakshow self.

Back to Present:  So, the cycle has come full circle at this point.  I was reading in my bed while Alyssa was showering in the master bathroom today.  She still insists that I be in the adjacent room while she washes, as if she is in danger of drowning in the shower stall at age 7, but alas...  Today, I guess it was a good thing I was there because right after she turned off the water, she screamed bloody murder and shot from the bathroom naked and dripping (and screeching).  She continued to scream as her wet body soaked the hardwood floor of my bedroom.

"What is wrong?  What?!" I said, fearing the worst.  Like imminent death.

She sobbed hysterically, and then she managed to spit out, "Thousand-legger!" between hiccups.

Now, I hate those things as much as the next delicate-rose of a lady-person, but this level of hysteria was out of control, even for a thousand-legger.  I told Alyssa to get a hold of herself and threw a towel in the general vicinity of her head.

She continued to cry and moan and hiccup and sob and sniffle until she managed to wake up Brooke, too, who joined in with her now all-too-familiar fang-cutting wail.  I threatened to send Alyssa to her room for the rest of the morning if she didn't shut her mouth, and she managed to quiet her freak-out down to a dull-roar of post-traumatic sniffles.  Brooke fell back asleep.

I knew it was now-or-never for my morning shower.  I hated to go into a room known to be currently inhabited by a thousand-legger, but I really needed that shower.  I peeked into the door and scanned the room: the thousand-legger was unaccounted for.  I assumed that the thing was as traumatized by Alyssa's outlandish terrified behavior as I was and was currently hiding under the bath mat, so I avoided that area and locked myself into the relative safety of the shower stall.

I proceeded to take a nice, hot, uninterrupted shower for the first time in about 7 years.  That creepy little multi-legged bug served as my bodyguard.  Alyssa came nowhere near the bathroom...let alone the shower.  It was fantastic!

I would consider employing the thousand-legger full-time, except s/he honestly still creeps me out big time...  and, based on Brooke's uber-agressive behavior toward any stink bug that happens to cross her path, I don't think that my thousand-legger would have a fighting chance against Brooke (she be fierce, though she has but 2 legs).

For now, I am just in awe of the circle of life: years ago, those thousand-leggers prevented me from enjoying a peaceful shower--and prevented my mom from sleeping in--and now, the thousand-legger provided me with the first serene shower of my life post-motherhood.  I salute you, thousand-legger...and for now, you are safe, hiding in the corner of the bathroom, right by the hinge of the shower door.  Don't think I didn't see you there.  Don't think I haven't checked to make sure you were still there a bunch of times so far this morning.  Don't think that just because I don't scream like Alyssa that I still don't have the power to stun you into a shocked stupor of stony stillness.

I warn you, however, that when Greg gets home... it's GAME ON!

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Out From Under the Literal and Figurative Raincloud

Today I met with the woman who is responsible for staging homes for sale and creating the brochures, print materials, and internet content used for selling our house!  She needed to see the entire house...including closets, cabinets, basement, and sheds...clean and staged today.  (And the whole yard landscaped, of course.)  This is basically an impossible task, made even more impossible-er when you have a husband, dogs, and children living in said house and yard. 

You should definitely try it sometime...just for the challenge.  I will come over and pretend to inspect your whole house.  NOT!

When she arrived, the place was mostly--miraculously--clean and staged, and she was pleased.  She took photos of everything except the pool, which could not be opened prior to her visit because of all of the rain this past week.  Everything looks so nice and fresh and green on this sunshiny Spring day: I would totally buy the place.

As she was going about her business, we were chatting, and she seemed like just the happiest, most successful, and together lady.  She was saying how all week she had been looking forward to Thursday (today) because it was finally going to be sunny...after what seemed like constant doom and gloom weather.  She said in her super-cheerful voice, "If I didn't see some sun, I was about to commit suicide!"

She surprised me so much with that frank statement that I had to laugh.  Thank God it wasn't just me!  I was so depressed and gloomy this past week, and I just couldn't shake it.  I feel like today a weight has been lifted--whether it is the glorious return of the sun or just the fact that I managed to get the house "just so" to make a good first impression is really unimportant.  I am so relieved to be out from under the literal and figurative raincloud!

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Enough Already: I'm Having a Pity Party for Myself. As Usual, Don't Read This Debi Pearl.

I had trouble writing this weekend because, as you know, Greg had surgery and was out of commission.  He was expected to return to work on Tuesday...and move on with his life...but things don't always go as expected.

He is apparently still having more pain than he "should."  So, the weekend of playing caring wife to the convalescing man-child has turned into almost a week.

Now, I struggle to be patient whenever there is man-child weakness...the audible moaning and sighing.  The continuous napping and requests for food-service, DVD inserting and removing, pill-delivery.  Sweet Jesus, I can't take it!

This week the man-child behavior has been out in full-effect.  In addition to the ever-present vocal displays of pain and misery, there have also been wincing and limping...graphic descriptions of the exact locale of the pain and misery...and my personal favorite, the under-the-breath comments about how, for example, getting up from the couch to let the dog out is "(mumble, mumble) exactly what I need right now...just walk around and hurt myself worse...(mumble, mumble) sure that's good for me..."

My eye begins to twitch, I get hot, and my heart rate spikes.  Code Red!  Mounting fury.

It has been taking every ounce of effort that I have left* not to attack him and really give him something to cry about!

*I don't have very much energy left to support this giant effort towards not doing physical harm to my pansy-*ass husband because this week has been hellish for many other reasons:
1.  I had killer PMS and now have a super-intense period.  Yay!  Excellent timing, as usual, Mother-frigging nature.
2.  Brooke decided to teeth...although she has only managed to sprout two fangs in the entire 11.5 months of her life thus far, this was the week she had to begin in earnest!
3.  It has been dreary and rainy, and I swear that I have seasonal dysphoric disorder.
4.  Alyssa has been extremely needy and jealous because her baby brother was born at her dad's house, and now the poor thing has two infantile siblings after being the only child for 6 years.  Talk about an adjustment!
5.  The entire house and yard and pool have to be perfectly clean because they are coming to take pictures for our sale brochures and online advertising.
6.  And, oh yeah, I am in intense pain from the reverse curvature of my neck, which I am futiley having treated twice weekly with chiropractic. 

Let's start with #1: The pain that I suffer during one menstrual cycle would surely kill my husband.  Dead. The cramping, the bloating, the headaches, body aches...  Then, I bleed profusely for an entire week!  And, let's face it--if you're not having a period, you are busy being pregnant, which is an even more intense physical test, at the end of which you push a child out of your vagina.  You tear from the inside out.  You get stitched up, and hours later you are up and caring for a newborn.  Mothers work through pain.

(HE FREAKING SERIOUSLY JUST TOOK A PERCOCET, LAID DOWN ON THE COUCH, TURNED ON SPORTS CENTER, AND IS ICING HIMSELF.  MEANWHILE I AM SITTING HERE TRYING TO TYPE WITH AN INFANT SCREAMING, TRYING TO CLIMB INTO MY LAP AND A VACUUM CLEANER PARKED BESIDE ME AND A STEAM MOP WARMING UP IN THE NEXT ROOM!!!!!!!)

Now #2:  Teething babies are miserable, angry little people.  (Understandably.)  Brooke just cries and cries.  She throws her head back and cries with her mouth wide open (so, at least I can check her teeth nubbins).  She lays down on the floor and cries.  And, my personal favorite, she stands up at my legs and cries.  I have been rubbing homeopathic teething gel on her gums, but it works in fits and spurts.  Mostly she just cries.  Sometimes it is very quietly.

Now #3:  Alyssa has been needing to cling and cuddle.  When she is not needing that, she seems to be needing to release massive quantities of pent up frustration in spurts of manic hyperactivity combined with high-pitched sounds that only dolphins can hear.  Unfortunately, she needs the cuddling time when Brooke is awake and clinging and crying at me/on me in one form or another.  She needs the hyperactive/super-loud time when Brooke is finally, blessedly asleep.  As you can imagine, it is impossible to excel in this parenting situation...  (And then there is the stupid, awful man-child who is more needy and exhausting than either of these actual children.)

Now #4:  Ah--add another number--I have these explanations switched up and out of numerical order.  This drives my order-loving self insane, but I have no time to edit, so... It has been raining for days now, and I seriously have the worst case of the dysphoric blahs.  This is not at all a good time for this paired with the PMS and various and sundry pressing responsibilities.  Not like any time is particularly appropriate for falling into a depressed funk.

Now #5:  The big stressor!  Not that I have any good reason to complain...again, the timing, it just stinks!...but, in addition to having lots of appointments to pick out the finishes for our new house, I am also responsible for getting the house and yard in perfect shape.  This week, the pool is being opened, and the house is being photographed for advertising purposes.  For all intents and purposes, this advertising is our "first impression" on buyers.  I have watched a lot of Sabrina Soto's "Designed to Sell" on TLC (before we got rid of our premium cable), so I am fully aware of how important cleanliness and staging are, and I have A LOT of projects...  Unfortunately for me--and the projects--I have no husband to help me complete them.  Also unfortunately for me--and the projects--it has been raining all week.

So, I (alone, just me) have been outside mulching, edging, sweeping, raking, weeding, trimming, pruning...in the rain.  Sometimes, even poor teething Brooke has had to come out there with me.  Thankfully, her jogging stroller has an intense weather-proofing hood and awning.  Unfortunately, the intense weather-proof jogging stroller is not sound proof.  So, I still have to hear the crying.  And, believe me, when she is strapped into a stationary jogging stroller while I weed along side her, there is a lot of crying to be heard.  Teething babies need movement...in addition to continuous attention and distraction.

Meanwhile, Greg is inside watching t.v. and laying on the couch with frozen vegetables defrosting on top of his underwear.  When he feels really motivated (and the rain lets up), he may venture outside, usually with a beverage in hand, probably what's left over after having washed down his meds.  I always hear him coming...due to the audible nature of his total lack of pain tolerance.  Then, I look up and see him limping towards me with one hand gingerly holding his man-parts and the other gripping his drink.  Generally, he critiques my work harshly.  Generally, I want to use whatever gardening instrument I have in my hand and bludgeon him with it.

Whenever I am not working in the yard, like in the darkness of night, I am cleaning the house.  It needs to be sparkling clean, not surface clean.  I have, therefore, been dusting the radiators and wiping down baseboards, cleaning the windows, and steaming the floors.  I have been washing the walls and scrubbing the grout.  I do this while holding Brooke in one hand, usually, since...as mentioned...she is totally, inconsolably miserable and Greg is unable/unwilling to hold her without risking the timeliness of his healing process.  When I have snapped into psycho-wife, I have insisted that he provide me with some child-care assistance...and he has done the muttery-under-the-breath-snide commenting, which makes me regret ever asking him for help in the first place.

And, #6:  Meanwhile, as I am doing the most intense physically demanding labor that I have done in all of the months of winter...I am still suffering from reverse curvature of the neck.  So, against all reason, I am attending twice weekly chiropractic sessions only to come home and immediately ruin any and every bit of progress that might be attained.  A total stupid waste of money.  But, someone has to be responsible for numbers 1-5, so #-freaking-6.

Just so you know, Greg is now napping.  Brooke is in her crib wailing.  The steam mop is ready for action.  Lovin' life.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Bad Kitty!: Child Services, Please Continue to Avert Your Eyes, Thank You!

I think I need to write a child-rearing manual, because I have pioneered a new form of child-training.

In theory, positive reinforcement is a beautiful thing...but, let us be realistic...

Case in point, Brooke had learned to use a shrill shriek to get my attention NOW!  This sound is so hideously irritating that for a while, its deployment instantaneously got her the attention that she was craving.  Anything to make it stop!

(Much less irritating is when she rocks back and forth in her highchair chanting "mama-mama-mama" maniacally whilst clapping her hands when she wants quick service at Cafe Mama...)

For a while, I decided to take the high road and utilize positive reinforcement to stop the madness.  I would turn my back to her when she shrieked, and if she continued, I would leave the room, returning only when she was quiet.  Unfortunately, she is much more skilled than I in the art of torture.  Quickly, I learned that my attempts to positively reinforce acceptable behavior were no match for her superior maneuvers in negatively reinforcing my failures to comply with her protocol.

One day, I was joking around that since positive reinforcement was no match for Brooke(apostrophe)s ear piercing assaults, and shouting back at her would be counterproductive...and slapping her silly is pretty much out of the question...I should spray her with a water bottle.  You know, like you do when the cat jumps up on the kitchen counter, for instance?  BAD KITTY!

One day, I was not joking around.  I actually tried it!  I swiped a spray bottle from Alyssa(apostrophe)s hair styling acoutremontes--I have no idea how to spell this; in fact, I may have made it up--and I waited (not very long) for the next outburst from the tiny dictator.

She screamed; I sprayed.  The execution was perfect, because the shock of the mist stopped her mid-shriek.  She sucked in her breath, opened her eyes, and moved on with her life.  It was just like in the movies: a person becomes hysterical, and a swift slap on the cheek brings them back to their senses. 

I now have spray bottles ("no-no bottles") stashed throughout the house and even in the cupholder of the car and stroller.  If the timing is right, the "no-no bottle" is a no-fail solution.  My only quandry has been what to do about shrieking-in-public, which is without a doubt the worst kind of shrieking overall.  I need some sort of a discreet mini-spray bottle for moments like this.

I could also really use a holster to keep the bottle handy as I go about my daily activities.  I picture myself slinging the "no-no bottle" out of its holster, twirling it around my finger, and spraying in one fluid movement...  Little Aubrey Oakley.

Watch out derelict baby, there is a new sheriff in town.

Please email me regarding book contracts for the next go-to guide in child-training.

All of My Blog's Google Ads are for DOG CRATES!

Google AdSense places ads around the posts in my blog.  The ads are supposed to be relevant to the content of my blog.  I just looked at my blog in a new window--ie. how you readers see it when you visit--and I realized that all of the ads were for dog crates. 

Clearly, I have written too much on my anti-free-range-ideas about baby crating.  I hope Child Services is not reading this.  If so, please avert your eyes!

More Awesome Stuff Alyssa Said

Both of these snippets occurred on Friday:

1.  "The clean wash is in the basket in the sunroom?!  Mo-om!  I do not want to walk out there naked to get my underwear.  The old people* will be able to see me!  Oh, well, I guess they are too busy trying to stay alive to care about one naked girl next door."

(* Our sunroom faces the back of a nursing home, and during the winter, when the forest is bare, I am sure we would quite visible to our elderly neighbors...if they could still see that far and weren(apostrophe)t so darned busy trying to stay alive...when we are in there--naked or otherwise.)

2.  "When we had show-and-tell at school, the other kids brought in stuff like Burger King toys.  Seriously?  They must not get to do anything!  I brought in Yankee(apostrophe)s bridle!  I guess I am lucky..."

(Thank God for show-and-tell putting things into perspective or she might never have noticed that she is living a charmed life...

P.S.  Yankee is her snow-white, fairy-tale pony---one of the herd of four ponies at her disposal.)

Warning: Do Not Eat the Vegetables

This weekend has been very trying for me, as I have been nursing Greg post-surgery, and Brooke decided that it would be a good time to cut some more fangs.  Count em:  Two cranky, stir-crazy patients.

So far, only Brooke has resorted to tears and rolling around dramatically on the floor, though I think that I would be seeing a lot more of that without Greg's steady diet of Percocets, takeout, and Redbox DVDs. 

All poor Brooke has is some homeopathic gum gel. 

Aside from freely flowing meds, we have also been using a lot of frozen products.  Brooke has been teething on anything that she can get her jaws around, from the remote control, to parental legs, to dog legs, to...when we've really got it together, the frozen plastic rings designed specifically for the purpose. 

Mama's other little patient was using an ice pack to pamper his privates, but somewhere along the line, he came to prefer the feel of frozen vegetables.

WARNING: It would be ill-advised to partake of any steamed vegetables from the Holler household for a while.

Greg thinks that because the vegetables are on the OUTSIDE of his new man panties, that somehow that makes them more appetizing in the future...  My general rule is that if a frozen product has been defrosted on anyone's groin--clothed or unclothed--it should be off the menu forever.  And ever.

Honestly!

I would love to post more, but I have vegetables to disinfect and return to the freezer...

Saturday, April 9, 2011

"I'm Sorry, Sir, But I Was Unavoidably Detained"

Bill Murray just said that in "Caddyshack," which Greg is watching while icing his wound, keeping his feet up, and enjoying his Percocets.  It made me think of my blog, which I have neglected these past few days.

I am sorry that I have not been posting as regularly as before, but Greg had some "special surgery" done yesterday, and I have been waiting on him hand and foot since then. 

His "surgery" took about 30 minutes and resulted in 2 stitches.

I gave birth to two human babies.

It is very, very clear to me now why females birth babies now.

Alas, his doctor told him to do nothing for 3 days (supposedly), so I fear that I will be unavoidably detained until Monday! 

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Revisiting the Chiro

Today was my second chiropractic appointment.

It went much better because I knew what to expect.  This time, I just laughed and laughed (OUT LOUD!) at the absurdity of the procedure.  It was very unprofessional of me, but I was just imagining my last blog the whole time...

Him "shaking me out like a dog-fur-covered rug" made me lose it.

Then we were working on "training it not straining it" to get my neck curvature back to where it should be.  The guy is just funny!

I even spent time standing on one foot and balancing on a ball today...  How much more fun can you have then play fighting, getting the giggles, and then playing with circus equipment?  And the good doctor gets paid to do this all day :-)

(Plus, he complimented me.  He said I was a "tall drink of water," and that I was in good shape for having had two babies, and he said I had nice guns.)

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Free Range Babies: On the Topic of Babies, Dog Crates, and Species Confusion

I'm sure you have heard newly-married people talk about getting a pet in order to "practice" for having children.  I love my fur babies as much as the next animal-lover, but believe me when I say: no matter how much you anthropomorphize your animals, pet-care responsibilities cannot compare to the gruelling undertaking of child-rearing*.

That being said, I am noticing many disturbing parallelisms between pet care and child care.  I have already told you that Brooke eats as much dog food as she can sneak, and that she uses the dog water bowl as a self-serve fountain.  She spends a lot of time lounging (and sometimes "reading") in the dog beds that are sporadically placed throughout the house.  Her favored toys are the dogs' Kong balls.  Heck, she even has had numerous pee (and poop!) accidents on the floor...

And then there is her fascination with the dog crates.  Thinking back, I can remember that Alyssa loved to pretend she was a dog and be "locked" into the dog crates.  Brooke tries to get into the dog crates, too.  She likes to put her little boyfriend into them and then close the door.  Dog crate...babies...dog crate...babies....

Today and every day, the babies range freely throughout the house, wreaking havoc and inciting riots (amongst themselves) in all rooms.  The dogs and I basically spend all day following them around, cleaning up messes and breaking up baby fights---over the items comprising the messes.  It is exhausting.

At various points, I have tried to corral the babies into certain areas for structured playing...with HUMAN BABY TOYS, of which we have various and sundry.  They laughed in the face of confinement and devoted all of their time and energy to escape.  They were always successful.  The only way to lock them down securely was making a continuous circle out of the baby fence.  Sure, they were contained, but they were also severely pissed and spent most of their time attacking one another, which led to us renaming the "play pen area," the Octogon...which is the ring used in Ultimate Fighting (UFC), where any type of fighting, grappling, boxing, martial arts, or wrestling is fair game and it is okay to punch and hit anywhere on the body.  It is pretty extreme...and the babies were fighting just as dirty.


And so, the babies made a mockery of my attempts at baby enclosure.  Since then, it has been utter chaos, which makes me think: If the dogs behaved like this, where would they go? ...

What ever happened to the concept of putting babies into a playpen?  It is a "crate" for babies.  It is brilliant.  My mom comes from a family of six and remembers the babies spending lots of time in their playpens.  Really, how else could a mother handle that many children of various ages?

It turns out that I, too, was a playpen baby.  My mom was talking about it with me today, and she told me (get this!) that she was actually able to go to the bathroom by herself and do housework while I played safely nearby in the playpen!  When did the playpen go out of style?  Why do we insist on free ranging our babies to the detriment of our sanity?

I'm about to move the Pack N Plays out into the living areas during playtime and experiment with "baby crating."  Instead of toys, maybe I will just throw some dog bones and balls in there with them...

*and I think it has everything to do with the CRATE.

My Eye Is Beginning to Twitch: CL Debacle Cont'd

I posted an old metal dog crate on Craigslist for $10.

The ad content: 
Metal dog crate with metal pan (some rust on pan). Otherwise, in good condition. W: 19", L: 24", H: 21". $10. Please call anytime.  We can text you a picture. Thanks!

Pretty self-explanatory, or so I thought.

I received this wackadoo email:
Please tell me more about this dog crate!

Are you kidding me?  What more can I possibly say?!  Should I measure the squares?  Should I rephrase the ad?  "Pamper your medium-sized dog-child with this luxuriously appointed canine enclosure?"

My less-than-kind response:
About the crate: It is $10!!  If it doesn't sell today, I am putting it out on the curb.

Craigslist...the misadventure continues.

Lifetime Television's "Craigslist Killer"

That was based on a true story.  So is this:

As I have blogged, we are selling various things on Craigslist at the moment.  Or, at least we are trying to sell them, but mostly we are just answering various detailed questions about the things, negotiating prices on the things, making appointments to show the things, and waiting for people-who-never-show-up to show up to supposedly buy the said things.  Noooo...I'm not bitter.  At all.

Anwwho, when people do arrive to buy things, it is actually kind of scary.  Here you have gone and given a complete stranger your phone number and address and essentially invited them in to case your house and get familiar with your family...  So that they can later come back and rob/kidnap/murder you in your sleep.  (We watched the Lifetime TV for women's dramatization of a true story, "Craigslist Killer," which I do not advise, if you ever plan on utilizing Craigslist.)

Since posting our junk on Craigslist, we have all been a little on edge about our personal security.  Code Red.  It reminds me totally of a time a long while ago, when I was taking a bath when Greg came home from work.  I had the bathroom door mostly closed and the lights were turned off.  I was just soaking silently in the tub.  Me time.

I heard him come in the door, but I figured he would figure out where I was...so, I said nothing.  Remember?  It was "me time."  I heard him walking all around the house.  I heard him opening closets.  I heard him go outside.  I heard him go into the basement.  I thought little of it because (a) he is generally a very strange man so nothing really seems out-of-the-ordinary about a teensie episode of erratic behavior, and (b) it was ME TIME! and as long as he wasn't in that bathroom, I was happy.

After a good 15 or 20 minutes, the bathroom door slllloooowwwwwlllyyyy creaked open, inch-by-inch.  I opened my eyes to see what was going on.  The business end of a tennis racket was stealthily pushing the door ajar.  What??

Greg was prowling the house (armed with sports equipment).

Greg (with relief): "I saw your car in the garage, so I knew you were home...But you weren't anywhere, so I assumed that someone was holding you hostage, and I was looking for them."

With a tennis racket.

Me:  "Why didn't you just call my name?  And, seriously, a tennis racket?"

Greg:  "We need to get a gun."

Me:  "Oh, no...we don't."

Can you imagine?

Well, If Benjamin Franklin Says So...

My daughter kicks cootie-coated boy butt!

Imagine this:  Yesterday in a lunchroom reeking of sloppy Joe, a mohawk-wearing first-grade boy takes a poll, by show of hands.

Boy: "Put your hand up if you wish there were never ever ever ever ever (ad nauseum) any girls in the universe?"

Alyssa:  "If there were no girls, there would be no boys, because girls are the mommies."  (Darn straight!  And don't you boys forget it.)

Boy:  Imagine some unintelligible, unimportant retort, like, "nuh-uh."

Alyssa:  "Besides, Benjamin Franklin said we are all created equal!"

Oh, yes she did!  She quoted (well, paraphrased) Benjamin Franklin.  That is my girl!  I couldn't even convince high school SAT students to use quotes as evidence in their essay arguments...  Look out world!  (Or at least, look out second grade!)

Snap, Crackle....POP

I went to my first chiropractic appointment today.

Why didn't anyone tell me that it was going to be RIDICULOUSLY, INSANELY, VERGING-ON-THE-INAPPROPRIATE weird?  (Not that I didn't like it...)

When I laid down on the table and placed my face in the little cradle designed for that purpose, I was prepared for something pampering and soothing akin to a massage.  These gentle thoughts were confirmed when the doctor told me to relax and breathe deeply.

"Everything's cool..." he crooned, RIGHT BEFORE THE ASSAULT BEGAN!

Several minutes of what I would essentially describe as a totally one-sided violent skirmish went down.  As the doctor soothingly murmured phrases like, "You're doing great...Hang in there...Just relax...Deep breaths," he was wrenching my head from side to side, kneeling on my back, folding my legs into positions that they don't go in.  The irony of the obvious juxtaposition between the words and the actions was not lost on me.

I felt like I was in the middle of a WWF Raw fight.  What's your finishing move, doc?

Strange and violent and violating as it was, it didn't necessarily hurt, and I heard more snaps, crackles, and pops than a whole box of fresh, delicious Rice Crispies would produce in a gallon of milk.  I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this procedure!  (And I have had Reiki, acupressure, acupuncture, and hot suction cup therapy--not making this up...so I'm down with un-traditional.)

So, when he tells me to flip onto my side, I felt very apprehensive...  I think this is justified.  I wondered if I should be prepared to fight back.  Perhaps sensing my trepidation...and worried that I may bust out some Sandra-Bullock-in-"Miss-Congeniality"-esque self-defense maneuvers on him...he engaged in more idle (surely, meant to be calming, reassuring, normalizing) chit-chat with me, but I had trouble concentrating because my cowl-neck sweater was all askew and my hair was still  mussed and in my eyes.

Before I could comment on the weather (rainy), it was back on!  He was bending my knee into my chest and using his hips to bump more crackles out of my clearly decrepit spine.   Seriously?  I just met you, dude.

Following two sides of this thrusting maneuver, the doctor picked me up in a crossed-arm bear hug and shook me out like a dog-fur-covered rug.  More crackles and pops.  Thankfully, the grizzly attack was the finishing move of his therapeutic smack down. 

I remained where he set me down, totally "decompressed," according to my benevolent attacker, and he retreated to the opposite corner of the room...  We were like boxers returning to our corners after a round.  I needed my corner people to come over and adjust my cowl-neck and possibly brush out my gnarly hair.  We both needed some Gatorade.  Amazingly, I was not injured (more so than I had been when I entered, anyway).

To add weirdness to...well, weirdness, the doctor took me to a bed and asked me to show him how I sleep.  I did.  It was apparently very wrong and bad.  He showed me the proper way to arrange my pillows and adjust my body.  As I have mentioned, this doctor is not gentle...very friendly and nice, but not gentle.  His manner is more like that of an athletic trainer or a coach.  As I'm adjusting the pillows, he is, like, inspirationally barking, "Now challenge that pillow!  ...Challenge it!  Bury your ear!  Point that chin!"  It was like boot camp for proper sleep hygiene.  I own my sleep position now!  I showed those pillows who was boss!  Can I do this?  Yes, yes, YES!

I have another appointment for mutually-consenting, totally one-sided assault on Thursday.  And twice a week for the next several months, as apparently this issue is going to be tough to beat.  (Haha, get it?  Pun totally intended.)  Between now and then, maybe I should watch some Rocky movies...get a sweatsuit...and begin drinking raw eggs to toughen up.

Seriously: this was an awkward, TOTALLY unexpected, thing for me, but can you imagine being the doctor?

"Hi, nice to meet you.  I think I can help you a lot.  Just lie down and relax.  Take a deep breath....good."
(Pounce.)
"Ha-yah!  POW!  Kazaam!"
(Retreat momentarily.)
"So, how about all this rain?"
(Attack.)
"Grr!  Karate chop!  BAM!"

The person who walked out of the adjustment room before me was an elderly woman... 

She must be one tough granny.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Tricking Out My Blog

As I mentioned, I am so lost about how to grow this blog.  The writing part is easy; it is the more technical stuff that I am struggling with.

I am just in awe of the other blogs that I am visiting!  They are amazing: the design, the content...the BLING!

Please visit the tricked-out blogs in the "My Favorite Me Time Links" tab at the bottom of the page to hear from other smart, sassy mamas.  Snarky Mommy makes me laugh until I cry!  So, so funny...

To these blogtastic writers: Go on with your bad selves!  And, please, please give me any suggestions that you may have for my bad self :-)  I can only hope that Momglomerate will one day be as successful as your blogs have become.

She Stuck Her Arm WHERE?

I am a bit delayed in blogging this piece of news because I was too traumatized until now to find any humor in it whatsoever, but looking back...

It was Saturday evening.  Greg, Brooke, and I were at the farm.  I had planned to feed the horses while Greg and Brooke tried out their new behind-the-bike trailer: a wild and crazy Saturday night in the Holler household, to be sure!

While Greg spent  "five minutes" attaching the bike trailer to his bike for the first time, I went up to the horse pastures to start the evening feeding routine.  The horses heard us down at the barn and were already waiting impatiently around the gates for me to place their tubs of pellets in front of their big mouths attached to overweight equine physiques.

I set about preparing and serving their feed as quickly as possible...to the sounds of their irritated wickers and pawing hooves.  After listening to/watching them rudely biting, kicking, squealing, and fighting their way to individual tubs of feed, for a while, all that I heard was slurping and grinding of teeth, as they happily inhaled their food.

Immediately upon finishing, Finn slowly laid down with a groan, right in the mud.  It was unusual because he didn't roll; he just hunkered down.  I went into the pasture to check on him, and I got him to stand up, but he immediately buckled at the knees to go down again.  I shooed him, knowing that he was beginning to colic.  He plodded around--head low, stopping to kick at his stomach and swish his tail.  Not good.

I got out the halter and lead rope and proceeded to walk him around the farm to try to ease his gastrointestinal distress.  We walked for almost an hour before it became apparent that the vet would have to make an emergency trip to the farm to give Finn a shot of Banamine...at least.

Not only, in this situation was I fearful of the outcome for my sweet, talented, beloved (not to mention, only-horse-my-size) Finny...I was fearful of the expense of the emergency farm call.

Sidenote:  Having kept horses for more than 20 years now, I have never had worse luck with the horses' health than I have in the past few months.  We have spent more money on their veterinary care since January than we have in the past 5 years combined!

Forty-five minutes later, the doctor arrived.  She listened to Finn's heart, checked his respiration, and listened to his gut sounds.  She agreed that he was colicking, and she administered a shot of Banamine.  After this comfort measure, she decided to do an internal exam to make sure that there were no impactions in the palpable parts of Finn's intestinal tract.

She took off her coat.  She took off her wedding rings.  She put on a plastic glove that went the whole way up to her shoulder.  In an attempt to soothe the horse--who was surely having misgivings about this scenario--she told us all that she has very thin arms, and that the other vets in her practice call her "Olive Oyl" for this reason.

Well, she proceeded to stick her entire (albeit skinny) arm all of the way into Finn, via his rectum!  At one point, she asked for a step stool and a snorkel.  I kid you not.  I was only able to provide the step stool.

Thankfully, she did not find an impaction.  She gave Finn a dose of Gastrogaurd (probiotics) and told me to call her in the morning.

I went up to the house, where Greg and Brooke had been waiting for me for several hours, and relayed the story to everyone.  Greg was incredulous, "She stuck her arm...WHERE?"

I replied with the scientific response: "Up his butt."

"Up to her shoulder!"  Mike chimed in, clearly impressed.

"No way!  She put her whole arm up his butt?!  If I would have known this was going down, I would have been out there taking pictures..."

Then, ever the penny-pincher, "Up to her shoulder, huh?  Well, that sounds expensive."

(A moment of silent contemplation for all.)

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Kibble Nibbler--Species Confusion

So, Brooke (my human/FURLESS baby)  is the same approximate size as our two small dogs (my fur babies).

She is on hands and knees at their level for most of her waking hours.

I have reason to believe that she may have some species confusion, at this point.

As I have already admitted, my baby eats (organic) dog food.  Yep, she is a total kibble nibbler!  Every single time she gets a chance, she crawls into the dog crates and snags a few kibbles, stuffs them into her mouth, and grips stragglers in her chubby mitts!  Never far behind her, I sweep the soggy kibbles from her mouth and pry it from her vice-like grip.  We wash her hands off in the sink.  She smiles triumphantly the whole time.  Girl loves her some dog food.

Disgusting?  Yes.  But it gets worse...

Today, I watched her crawl up to the dog water dish.  This, too, is a regular occurrence.  Generally, she just splashes happily until I swoop her up.  This time, she crawled up to it...and I said, "no!"  She stopped momentarily.  I praised her.

AND THEN she put two hands on the edge of the bowl and dipped her head, putting her lips on the edge!  It was as if she was using it like a giant cup!  "No, no, no.  Yucky!!  People use CUPS!"

We hastened to the refrigerator, and I offered her the sippy, which she chugged thirstily.  When she was finished.  She, as per usual, tossed it to the floor.  "Ah, ah...ah, ah..." she babbled.  (Translation: "uh-oh.")

Then, the ever-present fur babies licked up the splatters and the wet spout of the sippy cup...

Saturday, April 2, 2011

GRR! Craigslist "Buyers"!!

What is the obvious way to pass a weekend when you are suffering paralyzing neck and back pain?  You guessed it:  moving furniture, duh!

Well, we are gearing up to put the house on the market in a few weeks, so we need to unload some unnecessary furniture.  Also, this is Greg's weekend off, which only occurs once every six weeks.  Enter: Craigslist.  We have had really good luck selling things quickly on Craigslist in the past: truck, horse trailer, etcetera.  So, last night, I went crazy putting everything from a motorcycle to a dog crate in the CL classifieds.

Within, literally, minutes, we had sold a laptop and had calls on various pieces of furniture.  We made appointments to show the sectional this morning between 8 and 9AM: no show, no call.  So, we got up early on our one day off for no reason.  We had also negotiated a verbal agreement on price and set a delivery time of 11AM for the chair-and-a-half: no call.  Turns out the lady went out drinking last night and spent all the money she withdrew from the bank for the chair!  Wha--??  So, we moved the chair, found someone to help Greg load it into the truck, and rearranged our schedule for the day for no reason.  We are supposed to hear from the next "buyer" about an appointment at 1PM.  I am not too hopeful; we probably hung around the house all day today for no reason.

What kind of people have no qualm about disrupting/disrespecting others?  Craigslist buyers, apparently!  Get some manners, fools!

(OJ withrawal seems to be making me cranky.)

Friday, April 1, 2011

"They Asked Me to Go to Rehab...I Said No, No, No"

That is part of an Amy Winehouse song.  She said "no, no, no" to rehab when, clearly, she ought to have said, "yes!"

I think that the same goes for me.  Several months ago I woke up with a really, really HORRIBLY painful neck and upper back.  Greg took me (unshowered, in my pajamas, and folded into a very strange position) to the emergency room at OSS, where x-rays showed that my spinal cord (in the neck area) was actually arched the wrong way from the severity of my muscle spasm.

The doctor said he had never seen anything like it and found it really interesting.  (Well, you are welcome, doctor.)  He gave me lots of meds and an order for six weeks of tri-weekly rehab.  And I said no, no, no.

I did not have time for rehab...or a full course of steroids.

Well, you guessed it:  It happened again!  Tuesday night I felt things begin to go wrong, and now (Friday morning) I could barely roll over or get out of bed, let alone clean the whole house as I need to be doing for the real estate appraisal at lunchtime. 

I am sad to say that neither Lavender, nor any other aspirin-type medicine is even touching the pain today. 

NyQuil?