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.