Diary of a mad, mad housewife

Saga of the (not so) skinny pants

2009-09-28T09:13:00.001-04:00

Has this ever happened to you? You're standing in your closet, overwhelmed by the mind numblingly boring chore of figuring out just what the heck to wear, and something catches your eye...?

Way up high on a shelf, where you put them so you wouldn't have to come face to face every single day with the knowledge that you are a fat load who can't fit into them any more: your skinny pants.

Before you can stop yourself, your arm is reaching...

Stop it! Right this minute, young lady. Today is NOT the day to be doing this to yourself, if you know what I mean. You are soooooo NOT skinny today. I'm pretty sure I saw you eat an entire carton of ice cream last night. In fact, you could easily be mistaken for a beached, bloated whale. So why would you even try? You really DO hate yourself, don't you?!

But you just can't help yourself. You've already got them in position: Right up there, in front of your eyeballs. My butt can't be THAT big, can it? You're gonna give it a go. You give 'em a little shake and lower your arms, and start to balance on one foot...

Stop it now. Right this minute. They aren't even NICE. They are all ripped and everything! Why did you even keep them?! And why would you do this to yourself? What is your problem, you psycho?

But you are not listening any more. You are going to put those pants on, dammit, even though you are still wet from the shower and that isn't going to help tight jeans exactly glide right on. Apparently there is some itch for self-flagellation today, and you'll be damned if you don't scratch it.

You're a stubborn mule! I mean COW. What are you doing? Listen, lady. Do not come to me when you're crying into your farmer's market pie when this goes all wrong on ya', do you hear me?

And you keep going... and then you smile a little, as the pants make it over your hips. Hey! That wasn't so bad. They fit! They fit! There is even a little room. Wouldja look at that?! And you are so astounded, and happy, you do a restrained happy dance (there isn't, after all, a lot of space - it's a closet) and you smile and turn around to see if there is anyone to share your happy news. (There isn't - it's still a closet.) Even so, you are happy. And so damn proud of yourself. Dude, I am the balls, you think.

But still, something is niggling, there, at the back of your mind. You just can't shake it. Because deep in your heart, you know the real truth: you are not the balls. You DID eat that ice cream ~~and some pie. And two glasses of wine. OK, OK, three. AND some goldfish crackers.~~ Something - you just don't know what yet - is wrong here. Really, really wrong. Starting with their condition. They are not such great pants that you would have saved them. They are a little beat up, not too flattering, and well... not exactly worth being skinny for, really.

Still, though, the call of the skinny is overwhelming. Ugly or no, you are gonna wear 'em, dammit. So it only comes to you, sometime later, as you're standing there, looking for something to wear with the pants.

Something catches your eye. Way up high, where you'd put them: it's your skinny pants.

Hm, you think.

Ohhhhhh! you think, finally figuring it out.

Turns out, what you actually grabbed and managed to get on, you'd also put way up high on that shelf, to avoid coming face to face daily with another of your failures: finding time to take care of your yard. They're your fat gardening pants.

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The folks over at humor-blogs have a better system for keeping track of their clothing.

15 years of non-solitude

2009-09-24T13:25:00.002-04:00

Man and I have been married 15 years today, something to which I can really only credit ~~laziness. Also? vast amounts of alcohol~~ our willingness to listen to each other. To really hear. ~~Hard not to, what with all the shouting.~~

Now, I know, I know, 15 years is an awfully ~~or just awful~~ long time to be ~~put up~~ with someone, and y'all are probably wondering just how it's done. But really, that's the wrong question. The right question isn't how, but why.

So, herewith, in honor of my 15th wedding anniversary, I give you...

Mad Mad's Top 15 Reasons for Staying Married:

1. Those garbage cans ain't exactly gonna walk itself to the curb, you know.

2. Or back into the barn, either.

3. Those cases of wine aren't light, either, now that you mention it.

4. Who would take the kids to the hotel pool, huh? Exactly. And those are totally like the fifth circle of hell, at least. Between all the naked people (myself included), the hairy people, the splashing people and the shrieking people... AY-YAY-YAY! Totally worth keeping a husband for those occasions alone, I think.

5. When you need to interrupt your vacuuming to call someone and yell "Please tell me this thing plugged in behind the brown chair isn't the frickin' Nintendo DS charger Boy has been looking for all week and blaming me for throwing away ('You're such a mean mom!') or else I am going to unplug it and beat him about the head with it,'' it helps to have someone on the other end who might not call Child Services on ya'.

6. Do you really wanna have to start holding your stomach in all the time again to impress someone else? Nah, right? That just seems like a lot of unnecessary work.

7. Did I do the one about the garbage cans already? 'Cuz that's big. Oh, yeah, it's there. I see it. Hm... in that case....

8. Seriously, though. The garbage cans ARE important, you know.

9. Hockey. It's not for the single mom. No sirree. Three times a week, games God knows where, and at the crack of dawn. A person can't do it by herself. Two parents aren't enough. In fact, hockey might be the actual reason threesomes were invented.

10. I hate math homework. That new math crap. It's totally bogus.

11. Now you, personally, may not have this particular need, but I myself find it quite handy to have someone else's gene pool readily available to blame for our children's behavior (or lack thereof). Now you can probably also do this from a distance, but it doesn't have quite the same immediate rewards as when you can shriek, "Oh my God, she is exactly like YOUR MOTHER!" and, thus absolved of all culpability, storm from the room, leaving someone else to do the hard work. (See Math, above.)

12. Lightbulbs in this house are very high up.

13. It is convenient to have someone available for mice- and bug-removal, too.

14. Old house, old toilets. A person can only do so much plunging on her own.

15. But most importantly of all, I have to stick around a bit longer for this: I am still trying to think of a good comeback for his "compliment" the other day: "You should tell people you're 55. Then they'd think you're really hot."

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The folks over at humor-blogs have a feeling Man has his own list somewhere and think Mad Mad's probably very lucky he's blogless.

A knitter's fantasy life

2009-09-17T17:10:00.001-04:00

You know how sometimes, you put on that sweater you just made?

That frickin' fabulous-est sweater of all time, and you have just the right outfit, with just the right accessories for it, and it looks exactly like you thought it would. And you are the bitchin'est person alive, practically, you are sure of it.

In fact, you are so fabuloso you are fairly certain that on your walk to school this morning, cars are just going to slam into each other as drivers crane their heads to get a better glimpse of the awesomest sweater ever and the person cool enough to own it.

(You can't imagine they'd actually know you made it, but you figure you will explain that to them when they pull over and demand to know exactly where they can find such a great thing, and you tell them, modestly and even somewhat apologetically, that Oh, sorry, no, they can't have one, really. 'Cuz, heh, I made it. Yes, really. No, no. It's easy, really. No sweat! Anyone could do it! Yeah, yeah... Well, thank you!) And they will drive off into the sunset, shaking their heads at your sheer genius and pitying themselves for their incompetence.

The fact that none of this actually happens doesn't dissuade you one little bit. You know it's a great sweater.

Those people were probably just too shy, is all.

Or maybe in a hurry.

Or maybe freakin' blind, people, because it is awesome, dammit!

You are pretty sure you are right because some ~~weirdo creep~~ knitter from Germany keeps Googling the image from your old post so it must be a really good ~~bra!~~ sweater.

And then you arrive at school, in all your awesome glory and someone says,"O-oooo-oooh... Did you make that?"

And just like that: it's over.

Done.

Dead in the water.

Unable to withstand the barrage of questions your brain is sending it, your little buoy of knitterly happiness gets tumbled by crashing waves of self-doubt and sucked in by the undertow of humiliation, drowned in the seaweed of... Oh, I don't know! Enough with the dumb oceanographic metaphor, already! The point is, ya' got some questions whippin' around in your head that your ego can't possibly survive:

Why did she ask me that? What did she mean, exactly? Does it look "home-made?" Maybe she knows I knit? No, she doesn't know you knit. Is she being snooty? You can't tell. 'Cuz you suck at that. What did she mean then? Oh, I know what she meant: She meant my SWEATER SUCKS BIG FAT EGGS.

Just like me.

Oy.

So you drag your pitiful fat ass all the way back home and change into a boring T-shirt.

Fine! you think.

It's alright, 'salright, you tell yourself.

Tomorrow. That's a whole other day. And you are gonna be sooooo hot. You just know it.

Just wait and see.

Empire Waist Cardi

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The folks over at humor-blogs are not especially fond of knitters, but they think this particular knitter is especially nuts.

Checked by your mate

2009-09-17T13:08:00.002-04:00

You know how there are playdates, and then there are... playdates?

Even from an early age, there are those playdates where you are waiting at the window (head OUT the window, even) for the mom to just please hurry up and come, praying to every deity out there (and even a few new ones, such as Holy Crap and Mother of God What the Hell Did This Kid Eat, A Dead Body?), hoping against hope Mommy will pull up in her SUV in precisely that narrow window of time where you can still go, "Oh, look! Whoopsy! That must have just happened. Oh, well. Here you go. Have a nice day!" but before the miasma of whatever the hell that child pooped out permanently fogs your home.

Again. So sorry about those long sentences. I don't know why it happens. I just can't stop sometimes, once it starts, you know? I think it's one of the by-products of being a stay-at-home mom, to tell the truth. You finally get an adult to listen to you and you're afraid if you stop for even one second - one little second - they will get distracted by that damn Blackberry of theirs or one of the kids coming downstairs to whine about their homework or whatever other crazy-ass terrible thing you made them do that day when you are really needing to tell him about Sally Whatsherface and what she said at PTO this morning. And you want to do it now, before Grey's Anatomy starts, because once it does, you are done for the day. Done. You are going to sit there and watch TV and no one is allowed to talk to Mommy any more. Especially if they require three sheets of blue posterboard or 24 cupcakes.

Aw, man. Sorry. It happened again.

Anyway... where was I? Ah, yes.

Of course Mommy of Poopy Playdate never does arrive in that window. In fact, there is probably some kind of secret Mommy Poop Avoidance Radar they hand out at the hospital to the moms of certain "special" babies, for it will never fail that the mom will arrive EXACTLY the moment that you, having decided to tackle that diaper yourself because the fumes were causing the paint in your house to peel, have run the diaper to the garage trash, and are still behind the garbage cans, taking a second to recover from the involuntary retching muscle spasms in the comparatively fresh air.

That is when she will pull into your driveway. And you will get that look. You know the one. Oh... So... The kids are inside...? Alone...? Like you were out in the garage smoking cigarettes and not just disposing of their child's nuclear waste, which should have, if we're honest, been driven to the hazardous waste facility on the outskirts of town.

Anyway.

Playdates don't always get better as the children age, just less smelly.

There will still be plenty of times you will be waiting at the window for Mother of Whiny Obsessive Nose Picker/You Have No Good Toys-Food/Let's Play Toss All The Legos on the Floor Child to hurry up already and come get this little $%&*#@ out of here. The whole point of the playdate in the first place was to give you a break from entertaining your own child so you could finally get the laundry folded in peace, dammit. You were not looking for MORE kids ~~pains in the asses~~ to deal with, that's for sure.

But mostly they get a little better. And of course it goes without saying that if you read this space and your child has ever come to my house they are definitely one of the good ones.

For sure.

No, really, I mean it. I love your kids. They're the best, I tell you. The BEST.

Seriously.

But then just last week, I experienced a whole new category of playdate, one I had never, ever encountered before, in all my 13 years of hosting ~~coping with~~ playdates. It was the extremely rare, never before seen type where you come downstairs and are so awestruck by what is in front of you that all you can manage to do is grab the phone real quick and slink quietly outside, and jam your thumb to the speed-dial.

"What?!" Cranky Pants Man will gripe when he picks up, accustomed, mostly, I'll admit, to daytime phone calls from me involving unwanted information about what he may have done wrong at some point that morning.

"They. Are. Playing. Chess!" I whispered into the phone.

"Huh?!"

"Chess! Well, I'm pretty sure he's getting his ass kicked at it, but yes. Chess."

***silence***

"Hey!" I yell. "Can you hear me now?!!! CHESS! Chess, I said!"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard ya. I heard ya. I was just savoring it, is all. It's not often I get phone calls like these."

"I know!" We sit in agreeable silence, remembering phone calls of Principal's Past and thinking of ones of Parole Officer's Future.

"Well," I finally say, interrupting the silence. "What do you suppose I do?"

"I don't know, hon. Laundry, maybe?"

Oh.

Ech.

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You know who's probably good at chess? My friend Gray Matters.

At long last

2009-09-15T11:45:00.000-04:00

Just when you think it is probable you will never blog again, having decided there are too few brain cells left floating around in there to be coherent after a summer ~~beating your head against the wall~~ explaining ~~yelling~~ to children that no, they can't play Wii.

... or watch TV

... or use your computer

...until they finally left for school yes-ter-freakin-day... (Can you believe it? Girl may have actually been the last child on Earth to go back to school.)

Just when you think you are way too exhausted and overwhelmed from the mad back-to-school scramble of paperwork and cleat-buying and what do you mean you never ordered your summer reading book? And what you mean it will cost $24 to have it express-shipped and what exactly have you been doing all summer?! Playing Wii or something?!

...And from trying to figure out exactly how it is you will crowbar piano, tennis AND soccer (not to mention homework) into one. Single. Afternoon for ONE child and then still get dinner, baths and stories in BEFORE heading out for a meeting...

... and from realizing you are just way too old - too damn old! - for this nonsense and start fantasizing about sitting in a chair in an old age home propped in front of TV all day with drool dribbling out of your mouth, because that is all you can really handle right now, and actually, it seems too much even. What really would be even better, more appropriate, probably, God, if you're listening, is just one of those straight jacket thingies in a mental institution because you are just a whiny mess crumpled on the floor thinking, where is my knight in shining armor ~~arsonist~~ because I still have to CLEAN this place, too, for the love of GOD, it's disgusting!

CLEAN IT!?!

How?!

WHEN?

And your hair looks like hell because it's been 12 weeks since you had it cut ~~colored~~ and you have no good clothes because you are busy buying cleats for kids and so you wear dorky mommy shorts that might as well say "kick me" on the butt and your garden is a mess and... and... and... when would you write? And how on Earth could you be funny? You are too old and fat and tired as all hell.

And just when you've decided that's it, I'm done... put a fork in me, I'm just DONE already...

... you will walk past a draft of your son's homework.

And gasp and do a double take.

And then you will laugh a little.

Maybe because you finally had one day of kid-free rest - one whole day! - and can find the funny again.

Maybe because you're glad you have a blog to share it on.

A little background: I make Boy do a draft because, even though he is in third grade, this will be his first year writing English, and not just French, and he can use some practice spelling ~~I don't want the teacher to think he's a complete idiot.~~

Turns out it was a good thing:

I need to have a talk with that boy. Who du's not like pie crust?!

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The folks over at humor-blogs have enough readers. But I am pretty sure my friend Suzy, who is twice as funny anyway, is happy to know Boy has a firm grip on his bike. Bike, people. Bike. Get your heads out of the gutter.

That iCarly show must really be something

2009-08-26T09:30:00.001-04:00

I will say one thing about my children's obsession with the television: they will volunteer themselves up to do just about anything to get to watch it.

Anything:

Only a mean mommy would still say no.

Heh heh.

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The folks over at humor-blogs will point out the irony of denying one's children television even as one is using her laptop. Well, Mad Mad would like to point out to the humor bloggers what she pointed out to her children once ~~daily~~ when she was caught eating candy for breakfast: when you're the mommy you get to make the rules.

Additionally, while we are busy pointing things out anyway, I should point out the above are photos are of the cottage at the beach, not the real world, which should explain both the decorating and the glamorous attire.

Just bitchin' - I mean beachin'

2009-08-23T20:32:00.003-04:00

Could it be?

Really?

This whole time, I've been wrong?

And that maybe this whole beach thing...

isn't quite so bad as I thought...

if everyone just leaves you the heck alone?

Wait, wait, wait!

Come back a sec! I'm all done!

I need a picture! Thanks, honey! ~~Now go away again...~~

Ta-da!
Wool Bamboo Rickrack Rib Pullover (ravelry link)

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The folks over at humor-blogs are not going to make fun of me for wearing a hat AND sitting under an umbrella. Because it's not nice to make fun of the elderly.

True confessions

2009-08-20T12:28:00.001-04:00

So. Remember how I told you guys I was having a party? For my turning-40 brother-in-law?

Remember? What do you mean you don't remember?! Didn't I just tell you this?! What is wrong with you?! Seriously. Do I really need to have every sin-gle con-ver-sa-tion, two, three, four times!? Do you even EVER LISTEN TO ME OR AM I JUST TALKING TO HEAR THE SOUND OF MY OWN VOICE?!!!

Oh.

Oops. Heh heh. Wrong audience.

Heh. Sorry.

Um...

Anyway....

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. OK.

The point is that, in preparing for the party, I went down into my ~~wine cellar~~ basement to fetch some supplies, and found something very, very shameful.

I'm only sharing this with you because I know you're the kind of people who will be supportive and not mock ~~much.~~

OK. So here goes.

*Deep breath*

Ready?

Look what I found in the fridge:

I know, I know. It's terrible. It's AUGUST, for crying out loud!

And... Wait a second.

What's THAT? Over there on the right...?

Nooooo. Could it be?

O.M.G. Seriously, people. Clearly I have not been drinking enough white wine.

The folks over at humor-blogs wonder if maybe she could just keep the eggs till NEXT Easter. At this point it's pretty much six of one, half a dozen of the other, ha ha. Oh, God they crack themselves up.

Farmers' Markets for dummies

2009-08-18T10:11:00.001-04:00

You know how there's some bloggers out there who go to their local farmers' markets and take all kindsa fancy-schmancy pictures of the produce to post about, and you read them and end up feeling all guilty 'cuz the implication is that they are going to actually BUY that purple ruta-beeta-baga-cchio they are taking a picture of and put it in a nice Earth-friendly bag and go home and make something ~~tasty~~ healthy with it?

It often looks something like this:

(Except without the plastic bag.)

(Or the out of focusness.)

(Or the bag of candy spilling over in the background.)

Well, I am not that kind of blogger.

I go to the farmers' market and stare at the purple ruta-beeta-baga-cchio and am simply overwhelmed. I don't know what it is, but darn, it sure is dirty. I'm gonna have to lug the thing home, wash it, figure out how to cook it, and then figure out how to make a couple of kids and a husband eat it. And did I even remember to bring one of the four million shopping bags I bought in an attempt to be a good environmental citizen, but then always seem to forget at home? No. So now, on top of everything else, I have to face the scorn of the 18-year-old farm stand girl busy changing the world one organic ruta-beeta-baga-cchio at a time by asking for a plastic bag.

It just seems like a whole lot of work.

Especially when there's a nice man, the next stand over, selling pie.

So my technique, finely honed after three years of farmers' market-going, has been to buy a small decoy bag of vegetables (see above) solely to lend legitimacy to my pie purchases.

Typically, I choose something that deserves to die. Like green beans. (Seriously. What a waste of chewing that vegetable is. Ew.) That way I don't feel guilty when they decompose to a soppy heap at the bottom of my refrigerator vegetable drawer at the end of the week, and I can throw them out, er.... compost them... yeah, that's it, compost them at the same time I put out my empty pie tin in the recycling bin.

This system has worked well for me. I convince myself I support the farmer lady a bit, and, well, get pie with a little less shame.

This year, though, there was a new addition to my local market: A man selling cookies. COOKIES! I was so there.

So I stood there in his line, holding my pie, trying to act like that was a normal purchase at a farmers' market, pie (OK, OK, there were two) AND cookies. I tried to engage Boy in a conversation that would give my purchases less stigma: "Well, these will come in handy for the guests, won't they?"

"What guests?!" yelled Boy, joy and amazement mingling all over his face at the prospect of a party.

"Um... you know..." I said, adding a swift kick this time, and speaking through clenched teeth arranged in a smile: "The party."

He was still too excited to read my clues. "There's a party?! What party?!"

I give up. "Yeah, yeah. Just give me the damn cookies," I say to the guy. I wave my feeble bag of vegetables as though it were a required hall pass.

He smiled. "Welcome to the dark side,'' he said.

You mean... there's a side?

Just for people like me?

That is so awesome. I bet they even have wine.

MY FARMERS' MARKET DARK SIDE PURCHASES:

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The folks over at humor-blogs are drooling over that Banana Whoopie pie. And they should be, let me tell ya'.

Maybe there ARE cleaning fairies, after all

2009-08-13T09:19:00.007-04:00

Ay. Some days I despair - despair, I tell you - of ever being able to turn into a good parent. Twelve and a half years at it, and I still stink.

The thing is, no matter how hard I try, I always manage to leave something out of the overall lesson about life and how it works, or should work and maybe even would work if perhaps they weren't so busy beating the crap out of each other on the sofa all the time.

This morning, for example, I was explaining to 8-year-old Boy, that no, he could absolutely, positively not even think about having breakfast in front of the TV in the family room because a) NO TV! FOR THE FOUR MILLIONTH TIME! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE! ENOUGH WITH THE TV ALREADY, b) the last time he ate in there, the dishes stayed three days, and c) his uncle is turning 40 and we are having a party and I managed to convince his father to mop the floor for it (I may stink at this parenting thing, but damn, I am good at husband training!) and we didn't want to risk dirtying the floor again, and Boy's eyes widened in surprise:

"We have a MOP in this house?"

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The folks over at humor-blogs have been saying for quite awhile now that the word "housewife" in this blog title is a little misleading...

Just call me crazy pants, er... skirt

2009-08-11T11:09:00.001-04:00

You know how... 364 days out of the year, you drag your fat butt out of bed at 5:30, run your 5 miles, shower, shave the relevant/showing parts, put on your make up, tame the mop, put on some clothes, that, if they don't make you look all that stylish, at least show you passed kindergarten and know your color wheel, and brush your teeth, all before the demon seed even awaken, all just so you can get a jump on them for when they do?

364 days of the year, you do all of this, just so you can get them fed and readied, and dropped off at their respective activities while looking presentable instead of like the crazed beast that actually lives inside you and is threatening to burst forth Alien-like some day?

And then the one day of the year?

The ONE DAY that you decide, Eh, the heck with it, the one day you decide not to rush, and to treat yourself to a shower AFTER dropping your kid off, even though you are sweaty and might be the only person left in the whole entire world who still hasn't figured out people have been buying workout clothes since the Eighties, not jogging in huge, old T-shirts their brothers gave them from his days in the Air Force, and the shirt doesn't actually match the hand-me down shorts from your husband that you have cinched with an extra shoe lace, either, and you haven't shaved your legs, and forget shaving, it turns out you have actually RUN OUT of toothpaste (See? What did I tell you about the perils of owning two homes? You didn't believe me, people, but see? I never lie. Well, actually, the five miles thing is really only three. And I don't really shave every day. But other that, I mean.) and you will just go as is because WHO IS GOING TO SEE YOU ANYWAY?

You know how you do that, sometimes?

And then that is always the ONE day you drop your kid off at lacrosse camp and the coach introduces his friend, who is visiting from out of town, who will be helping him coach today?

And the friend is a guy who went to college with you?

And was good friends with someone you dated?

How come? How come that always happens?

Part II

And then how come... even though it makes no sense whatsover, because you have 1,000 things to do and the only reason you stuck your kid in lacrosse camp in the first place was so you could do them, you will run home and NOT DO THEM, but instead shower and shave and suck it up and use your kids' Watermelon flavored-toothpaste (YUCK, btw) and blow-dry your hair and IRON a skirt (seriously) just because someone who wasn't related to you once said it made you look thin, and even though you know it is very, very wrong to equate "thin" with beauty, you are going to do so today anyway because you are 42 and any little bit helps these days. And you will iron the skirt, thinking the whole time what an idiot you are, you have work to do, and who the hell shows up at lacrosse in a skirt?

And then you will, having blown the whole morning NOT DOING THE THINGS YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO, go pick up your son at lacrosse (wearing your skirt because you are a stupid dork and just could not figure out what the appropriate outfit might actually be) and walk on over to talk to the guy...

... and it will turn out he did. not. even. remember. you in the first place?

Yeah.

So anyway, how come? How come that always happens?

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The folks over at humor-blogs think it's time someone talked to her about these long sentences. Well, a few other things, too, actually, but maybe if we at least start with the sentences, she will seem a little less nuts.

10 things I hate about you, Miss Sweater

2009-08-06T11:26:00.002-04:00

1. I find it unseemly (I LOVE that word. So fancy!) that the pattern book alone costs $17.95 - and doesn't contain anything else in it I will make.

2. It is beyond unseemly that, after I quell the rising bile and suck it up and pay the $17.95 because I simply MUST have this sweater... your company decides to publish the pattern for free on the internet in order to move the yarn that apparently hasn't been a bit hit, perhaps because....

3. ...at $8.95 a ball, it costs $71 to make a sweater. (Give or take $17.95 that you may or may not have had to pay depending on when you decided to make it. See above #2, above.) Or...

4. ... perhaps because you didn't actually have the yarn available in stores until summer, which is, generally speaking, pretty much too late to start a summer sweater. (Unless you decide to give up bathroom cleaning in your household for a couple weeks. See "Not Me!" below.) Or...

5. ... maybe because the yarn was a tad splitty.

6. Moving on: I, like many other people who made the pattern (Ravelry link), also ran out of yarn using the suggested number of skeins... and had to buy another skein, bringing the total for the sweater to $98.50 ~~if you're keeping track, Man.~~

7. Something about you seemed to trigger more than my usual level of knitterly stupidness: I got all the way to the armholes on the back of the sweater before noticing it was a back only if the back belonged to a linebacker.... and had to rip it all out. I somehow ~~ENGLISH MAJOR~~ miscounted when trying to put the center panel of the sleeve in the center, where it belonged, and put it 15 whole stitches to the left... and again only noticed at about the elbow, and had to rip it all back. Only to start knitting with the longtail cast-on instead of the yarn itself.

8. Photos, as we know, are always a problem in this house... and yet, the photographers seemed particularly problematic this time:

Miss Out-of-focus:

Mr. Hahahahaha! I gotcher butt! I gotcher butt!:

~~Grumpy Old~~ Man stuck around for three tries before whining that "I do have a job, you know..."

to which he got his usual friendly a.m. send-off:

Have a nice day, honey!

I have a job. Puh-leeze. Does he have to rub it in? And DUH... Of course I know he has a job. Who do you think pays for all this yarn?!

9. Worst of all, the lengendary (some say "mythological") yarn fumes from this particular yarn were potent: despite the fact that, before even finishing what is typically the first piece of the sweater, the back (albeit for the second time), I had sworn off the manufacturer, the designer, the pattern, and the double moss stitch for ever, I was so overcome by the fumes that, upon a visit to the yarn store while still in the midst of the making of the sweater (What? Never seen an addict before?) I somehow managed to purchase an entire sweater's worth of yarn (and pattern book) by the same manufacturer and the same designer, only to bring it home and READ the pattern and learn it's the same double moss stitch.

I am a genius, I tell ya'. I plan to punish myself by making myself make - and finish - the sweater. (Ravelry link.)

Oh, where was I...?

9.? 10., maybe? You know, English major. Forget this counting nonsense. It must be around 10 by now. Whatever. Who cares?

So we're calling it 10. Ultimately, the whole process was a bit too much like pregnancy and childbirth: You bitch and you moan and you hate every single step of the way (not me, of course, I never whine, but some people apparently do, I'm told), but then, at the end... you're kinda like:

Whoa. Lookie what I made!

I love her.

And I bet she doesn't pee on the toilet seat, either.

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The folks over at humor-blogs say, Hm... now that we look at it closely, maybe the sleeves are a little long.

Not Me!

2009-08-04T10:30:00.000-04:00

Everyone's familiar with Not Me, right?

That guy who arrives unseen in the middle of the night to mess up bedrooms, finish cookies, leave toys in the driveway, and never sticks around for the repercussions?

Yeah. Well, him.

He came by the other day, and what a doozy, I tell ya'.

Apparently, he (and how I know he's a he will become obvious in a minute...) really needed to pee, because he managed to hit the OPEN seat lid (that there is the how) that was resting against the tank, causing pee to ricochet onto the wall NEXT to the toilet and drip down attractively INTO the cracks between the mopboard and the wall, and ALSO onto the floor below. Conveniently...? ALSO into the toilet scrubber brush holder cup thingy, and of course, it goes without saying, ALL OVER the brand new seat I just bought at Home Depot (Remember? Wasn't that just like, Oh, a week ago?) because of prior pee stains.

If that all was too long a sentence to follow - some of you have complained - let me make it more clear: I am very frickin' cranky.

What makes this vast quantity of pee in non-pee-approved places all the more appalling, however, is that Not Me chose the guest bathroom for his efforts and, since I do not tend to use the guest bathroom, what with my permanent resident status in this fine place, I did not actually notice this situation for long enough that the pee has now become semi-permanent. (Sharpie Markers should call us.)

Sentences still too long? Lorena Bobbitt cranky.

But... The first task in any major industrial accident/hazardous waste cleanup situation is to assess and assign blame in order to get out of it, and so I set about that task immediately:

Man said Not Me! and I tend to believe him, what with peeing on walls - or even toilet seats, if I'm completely honest - not generally being among his faults.

Boy said Not Me! and of course I don't really believe him, except.... this has never happened before, and I would have thought that if squirting down the bathroom with pee was gonna happen, it might have happened before one was 8 years old.

Still, and all, I know for sure it was certainly Not Me! so I left it another couple of days, hoping against hope it would just go away on its own (that doesn't work, btw) while I speculated about the possibility it actually could have been Dog, struck with guilt about all the snot of his I have to clean up all day long (and of course, the need to pee), suddenly learning to use the toilet.

Yeah.

Dog found a way to say it was Not Me, too.

So. I don't know really.

Maybe it really was Not Me.

What I do know is this: It took me four days to clean that oven fan thing; I'm done for the month.

So guess who's cleaning this bathroom?

That's exactly right:

NOT ME.

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The grown up folks over at humor-blogs don't let pee just sit there so long they need to repaint.

A couple o' questions

2009-07-30T11:10:00.003-04:00

1. Are you a bad person if, caught in a sudden downpour with only one dog poop bag to spare, you leave the poo so you have a plastic (it's biodegradable, don't shoot me!) covering for your newly blow-dried hair?

And, perhaps more importantly:

2. Is it ever appropriate to wear a poop bag on one's head?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

Oh well.

In my next life, that's when I'll be cool.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs nevah get caught in the rain.

One cheese, one pepperoni, please

2009-07-29T10:52:00.013-04:00

Today, dear world, I became a grown up.

No, no, I didn't get a real job, or have a baby, or finally achieve a zen-like state of satisfaction with my lot in life. (C'mon, people. That might be asking a little too much.)

Nope. Today, people, I cleaned my stove-range-fan-thingy.

(OK. Yes, knowing the real word for the thing might better support my declaration of achieving adulthood, but still, people, baby steps, baby steps.)

The point is, until last night, I did not even know you were supposed to clean the thing (I don't know what I thought happened, exactly. Cleaning fairies? That it didn't get dirty? I don't know. I admit it still confuses me a little. What is that brown crap up there, how did it get there, and why is it dripping into my chili?) and TODAY, to-freakin'-day - a mere one day later - I cleaned that darned thing, even though no one is going to care or even know except me (well, and now, all of you), and I did it anyway.

Dude.

That is so darned grown up I can barely stand it. I think I am probably going to have to start looking into one of those adult-only ~~old age homes~~ living centers now.

I went from someone who essentially dealt with the too-messy in her life by moving to a new place to someone who "solved" problems like brown thick goopy condensation dripping into her chili by putting a lid on the chili to protect it, to someone who put on her big girl pants and whipped up a batch of baking soda and vinegar (yeah - I don't know why, except it seemed more grown up than my normal just spit) and started a-scrubbin'. Dude!

But that is not all, people that is not all!

What usually happens when I take on a "project" to avoid sitting at my computer and doing real work is that I decide about five minutes in that THIS IS STUPID because you know what? Why am I the one cleaning this? Am I the one who peed all over the mopboard?! No, I don't THINK so! And it's not like I'm getting PAID to wash this floor, and who is going to know anyway? It will just get dirty tomorrow. This is a Sisyphean exercise in futility. I went to too much school to be sitting here spending my days shoveling dog hair around...

And then I just quit. And leave it for someone else to finish. But there is no someone else, so... things tend to sit.

But not today. Today, on this very morning, even though I looked into that grate in the sky and though, Gee, how the heck would I possibly be able to clean between all those ridges? It doesn't make any sense! You would never be able to get it all clean. This is a Sisyphean exercise in futility....

I did not actually stop.

There must be a way to take it apart, I thought.

Eh. I don't wanna do that, I whined. My life sucks, I whined. Why is this MY problem? I whined some more.

But, long, boring (and somewhat whiny) story short, I freakin' did it.

I took it all apart. I figured out how. Even though it is a GAS stove and I didn't think - well, until this morning - that I had a death wish. And I WASHED all those pieces. In the sink and everything.

Wow, me. I'm the best, I tell ya'.

This being a grown up thing is very, very impressive. I'm thinking I can even die now, since there will finally be something to put in the obit.

I'm not 100 percent sure what the next step in adulthood is... vacuuming UNDER the couch? Cleaning BEHIND the dryer? Scrubbing that gross black stuff off the washing machine soap dispenser? In back of the toilet? THE MUD ROOM!?

Ay.

It's hard work, this grown up thing, that's for sure.

And eh - maybe I'm not quite ready, after all.

Plus, also? I still have to figure out how to put my stove together again.

Or maybe just get pizza...

*************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs know I have the pizza guy on speed dial.

Hello, World! It's Amsterdam

2009-07-26T21:00:00.002-04:00

When Man told me our flight home from Paris had a stopover in Amsterdam, instead of my usual annoyed whining shtick, I was all like, "The Netherlands? I know a blogger there! Let's stay a couple days, and maybe I can meet her!"

And ta-da! I did!

Hm. Maybe I should visit doctors Troy and McNamara...

Nadine from Hello, World, It's Me! has always been one of my favorite reads, and she was kind enough to take the hourlong train ride from The Hague with Monkey to meet us at one of the coolest zoos ever. It was the best day, I tell ya'. She is simply stunning, and we had such a great time getting to know each other.

No pleasure is without its pain in my family, however, and so I spent the time trying to ignore ~~the fact I apparently have negative number boob size and~~ the images put there by 12-year-old Girl, earlier in the day:

"How old is this Blogger we're meeting, Mom?"

"I don't know, honey; she has little kids. Could be anywhere from mid-twenties to early 30-ish."

"Ooooooh! So if this were the Gilmore Girls, she could be your daughter!"

Yeah.

So.

Any-way. We had a blast, monkeying around:

One of my favorite parts of the whole trip: holding a cute widdle guy again.

Little kids are the bestest things, and Monkey was an especially good one. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact I couldn't understand a word he was saying. And while I did enjoy mightily the fact he didn't call me old or ask for stuff left and right, or roll his eyes at me even once, it was more than that. He really was good as gold. (Unlike some people we know. But they shall remain nameless. Though their name rhymes with Oy! for a reason, let me tell ya.' )

Thanks, Nadine, for the wonderful time! It was great meeting you guys!

Postcards from Paris III

2009-07-14T07:52:00.000-04:00

Well, this much is true: those French people really know their wine.

How did they know WE were coming, though? And that we would like ~~need~~ such a nice big bottle?!

*****************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are going to Google stuff and tell me that's a Californian wine, aren't they?

Postcards from Paris II

2009-07-09T09:00:00.002-04:00

Now people, just because you have been married 15 ~~looooooonnnnngggggg~~ years AND ~~are stupid enough to~~ bring your kids to Paris, doesn't mean it can't be romantic.

It is, after all, the city for lovers.

There's just something in the air there, ya' know? You almost can't help but be affected by it.

You just have to know where to look.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked Man after I'd just herded the kids safely across a busy street in the Marais, and turned to find him still in the middle of the crosswalk, struggling to free the camera from our wicked cool backpack, instead of focusing on getting out of the way of the crazy Parisian drivers. (I cared deeply about his safety because if there's anything worse than bringing your kids with you to Paris, it's doing so by yourself, after all. ~~Also, I didn't know how to get back to the hotel on my own. Or where he put our money.~~)

Man was taking a picture of a dog that had lagged behind to... take care of some business.

"It's for your blog," he explained.

Awwww. Now isn't that nice?

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs probably get better love letters.

Postcards from Paris

2009-07-06T17:30:00.000-04:00

Who knew that ~~because you were stupid enough to bring your kids to Paris - seriously, what the hell was I thinking?!~~ you could travel halfway 'round the world and still end up doing many of the same things you do at home.

Like watching your kids restraining yourself from hurling your body full force against the metal fence repeatedly or munching vast quantities of the little pebbles on the ground in front of you in an attempt to make it all end at assorted playgrounds:

Cringing at silly behavior in public:

Putting certain people ~~spawn of the devil~~ in time outs:

And enduring eyerolls:

Fortunately, it works both ways, this same-as-at-home condition.

So, when we arrived in Paris just in time to experience its annual citywide music festival and found ourselves at a restaurant in front of a French rap group... well, if there's anything worse than middle-aged surburban mommy trying to be gangsta... it's her trying to do so in front of the coolest of the cool, those French peeps:

I think the scarf and wine glass really make it work, don't you?

Mais oui!

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs know way better than to bring their children to Paris.

Je suis allee

2009-06-29T09:00:00.002-04:00

It is a funny thing, this blogging deal.

My couple of posts last week notwithstanding, I'm not actually here.

I am, if my timing is right and luck is with me, sitting in an Amsterdam cafe sipping a frosty glass of Dutch ale with the lovely Nadine, whose blog never fails to put a happy smile on my face, while our kids (hers are the cute ones) romp in a nearby fountain or park ~~learn bad English swear words from my punks~~.

All while Blogger and the miracle of the pre-scheduled post do their thing.

(I hope. You are talking, after all, about the person who couldn't figure out how to use a Blackberry to post from abroad, so had to settle for hurriedly writing several fairly crappy posts before she left for her two weeks overseas. It did wonders for my packing, let me tell you. In fact, I probably spent last week walking around Paris with only one pair of underpants, some mismatched socks, and my cat-vomit sweater, doing absolutely nothing to battle the Parisian image of Americans as icons of style.)

Just kidding. I did not bring my cat-vomit sweater. Come ON. I'm not stupid. It's summer there, silly!

But I can't actually tell you what I did bring, because well, in this crazy future post world, I haven't actually packed yet, because, like I said, I am busy future-posting. Keep up, wouldja?

I do know that, in a sad state of affairs, I did have my knitting planned out a month in advance, down to the crappy plastic needles there is no way any flight attendant could find reason to take from me. I am taking the 18 charts of Nefertiti to assist in my valiant efforts to keep my Air France flight aloft through the sheer combined force of distraction and busywork. And some other projects to do while I'm there, sitting in assorted cafes and drinking wine. (But not smoking cigarettes, Jen. I promise.)

The kids and I were also kept company on the flight over by another bloggy friend, who kindly provided us with the fruit of her many, many hours of toil:

Can you even imagine the sheer awe in oneself and utter joy at seeing your name on the front of a book? (Well... I mean, provided it isn't one about you committing securities fraud or being involved in a prostitution ring, of course.)

Anyway, there is really no one more deserving of having her own book than Denise, who is probably one of the strongest women I've ever known, and also one of the kindest. Go buy her book, darn it.

And I'll be back next week to tell you about my adventures in France and the Netherlands. I may actually be back home, now; this future post thing is hard to keep track of.

But if you're looking for something fun to do in the meantime, and know what's good for you, go get Denise's book.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are definitely going to buy Denise's book. 'Cuz it makes a great gift, and because I said so. And I come from the future, so you should listen to me.

Boy 1, Mommy 0, Girl -10

2009-06-25T09:39:00.002-04:00

Sometimes you just know something's gone incredibly wrong with your parenting methods and you are at a complete loss to explain just how you were so outmaneuvered.

The other day, I replied to my son's perpetual "Kywchtv?" (Can I watch TV?) with "No... how 'bout you write a thank you/goodbye note to your teacher to give her on the last day of school?"

And he said, with the sincerest little face:

"Thanks, Mom. That's a good option for later. Kywchtv now?"

I'm pretty sure there isn't much worse than having an 8-year-old patronize you ~~so I'm putting him up for adoption.~~

~~No. Really. Just let me know in the comments.~~

~~Or even just an email.~~

****************************

On the handy other hand, I have figured out how to best my daughter, and it is such an excellent plan, and so much fun, I've decided to generously share my newfound knowledge with those of you moms who agree public humiliation is a legitimate and even proper parenting method.

For those of you who don't, ~~bite me~~ you simply haven't hit the pre-teen years yet. Come back in a couple, and we'll talk.

Anyway, this has been the most fun I've had all week. I loaded up my Walkman (and definitely, call it a "Walkman," because that only adds to your allure) with HER songs, and then let her have a bunch of her friends over and proceeded to parade through the house wearing my "Walkman" wailing things like "People in the PLACE! What do you want for LUNCH?!" all while incorporating hip hop (-ish - I am, after all 42) gestures into my singing ~~caterwauling~~.

'Cuz nothing says "cool" quite like white suburban mom trying to do rap. Or hip hop. With her Walkman. And some air guitar. With a bit of air drums because you couldn't resist, even though they didn't really go.

Ah. It's the BEST. The BEST, I tell you. You should have seen their little faces. They ALL just wanted to die. Not even just my own kid. In fact, it's possible I've completely obliterated the need for playdates and sleepovers here altogether.

Feel free to use it:

Just look how well it works!

Boom-boom-POW.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs don't raise smart-alecks AND know how to dance.

The Garden Club called...

2009-06-22T08:00:00.002-04:00

...they want their membership back.

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The folks over at humor-blogs don't rely on squirrels to do THEIR window boxes.

Do not disturb

2009-06-17T21:35:00.002-04:00

Heretofore seen only in captivity, in the controlled habitat of a school classroom, and indeed, thought to be extinct in the wild (if not an entirely mythological creature altogether), A Boy Sitting and Reading was spotted recently in the suburbs outside Boston.

His appearance caused much consternation and a flurry of activity, including a shushing of all other possibly distracting living beings at one nearby home, and a blur of flashbulbs. One particularly crazed witness was heard making desperate phone calls to neighbors and to a nearby school, and yelling into the receiver, "Come see! Come see! Lookit! Lookit! I am too a good mother!"

There was even an ignoring of the need for sunscreen and previously unthinkable offers of lemonade and cookies - before dinner! - were made in hopes of encouraging the ~~beast~~ specimen to settle in longer.

This particular Boy Sitting and Reading, which weighed in at about 70 pounds and measured almost 56 inches in length, is thought to be approximately 8 years old. His stay was reported to be about 45 minutes, though those reports are unreliable because witnesses were in too much shock to be trusted with recalling specific details.

In hopes of attacting him back to the area, his mother went out and bought the sequel.

Even though it was in hardback.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs know how to raise boys who like to read. And make cupcakes.

TMI at the HD

2009-06-14T21:00:00.001-04:00

If you should happen to be a woman of the single persuasion interested in changing your marital or boyfriendal situation, I would recommend ~~NOT doing so!~~ visiting your local Home Depot, where men abound in such numbers ~~But seriously. I wouldn't.~~ that I began to wonder if women were even allowed in that crazy place.

What I would not so much do, however, is go there to buy a toilet seat.

Or at least perhaps not announce it to the strapping young man at the door who asks if he could help you.

But what exactly was I gonna do, say, "Oh, no thank you. Just browsing?"

In a Home Depot? I don't think so.

So my mind froze and, well... Well, I told the truth.

And then his mind froze - probably because it was busy being assaulted by images of toilet seats and what people do on them that might require replacing them - What I do on them, maybe? Was he thinking that? Oh, dear LORD! - and he drew a blank.

He froze for so long that another guy saw him standing there dumbstruck and came over to help, concerned perhaps I'd broken the floor model greeter. "Is something wrong?" he asked. He looked at me, though, like I was the one who might have done something wrong. Me!

"Uh..." Guy One stammered, sneaking nervous peeks at me. "She... she... she needs a toilet seat." He said the last really, really fast, like that would make it all just go away.

"Well, not to USE!" I exclaimed, slightly defensive.

Because that was helpful information.

"I mean, I mean... It's not for me, I mean. Well, it is, but not NOW. I mean... Oh, you know what? Could you just tell me where they are?"

"Yeah, sure," Guy Two says, but he looks awfully suspicious.

Or maybe like I'm crazy. Probably that was it, now that I think of it. Crazy.

A crazy lady talking way too much - She broke my new guy! Doesn't she know we come here to get away from the wimmens! And here she starts in blabberin' 'bout how someone in her house who shall remain nameless but he doesn't sit down to pee, if you know what I mean, whizzes all over the toilet seat all the livelong day and it's stained something terrible and she's having company so now she needs a new one? Just send your husband next time, lady, like the rest of your folk do! Haven't you noticed there are no other women in here? NONE. Zero. Zip. And all the men are really big and tattooed? I think you all girl-kind are allowed in for one hour every Sunday. That's it. And only in the paint section. You pick out something pretty and all 'Ooooh, pink!' and then you leave. Got it?

"Lar-ry!" his voice booms down the huuuuuge aisle to a man standing way at the other end. "COULD YOU POINT THE TOILET SEATS OUT TO THIS LADY HERE?"

And to the 25 or so guys whose keen interest level I am gauging based on just how fast their heads whipped around, thankyouverymuch.

I try to put a brave face on it. "Hi, boys..." I say brightly, all chipper and friendly-like as I walk past, very matter-o'-fact, like it's no big deal at all that I am about to buy a toilet seat. I hold my head up high and march down that aisle of shame to get my seat. Because I am a grown-up who can buy these things. But I am so going to kill that damn that Boy when I get home! The stuff I am forced to do because of him!

And then...

Do you happen to know just how many toilet seats they sell in the Home Depot?

Rough estimate? 65. All lined up and waiting for you to pick one out.

While assorted men walk past you in the aisle, and you pray little prayers in your head that the right seat is the very first one you see and is right th-... Oh, my God, 50 bucks? 50 bucks for a toilet seat?! NO WAY. Are they smoking crack?!

Sadly, it comes to pass that you said that last part aloud.

Just as someone of that big male and tattooed persuasion is walking by.

"Hm?" he says, looking a tad alarmed that a woman is talking to him. In his sacred place where he comes to be alone. She probably wants my big manly tattoed advice, he thinks, puffing up, and turning to me to solve this toilet seat problem the stupid lady seems to be having.

I am so not going to talk about toilet seats with some random man I don't even know.

Shoo! My hands make the gesture before my head can stop them. I just actually shoo-ed Godzilla in the aisle of Home Depot. "I mean, I mean... I'm good. All set! Yep. That's me. All set. Thank you, though."

He gives me the same exact look the second guy at the door did, and ambles off. I turn my head so I won't see in case he starts doing the spinny-finger-around-the-ear thing. There is only so much humiliation one can take in a day. And I am NOT going to be called crazy by some guy too stupid to even be wearing sleeves in 50 degree weather. (As an aside... Hello, global warming? I want my polar bear donations back!)

I finally grab my new seat, and carry it, in all its HUGE and growing HUGER by the moment glory, All.The.Way.Back to the front of the store.

Past the same 25 guys still standing there - probably in shock, for all I know - ("Hi, Boys!") past the two guys still at the door ("OH, I SEE YOU FOUND THE TOILET SEATS! THAT'S GREAT!") - wondering if I should just sling the sucker around my neck like a life preserver and wear it like some kind of big Scarlet Letter (T?) of shame, and head straight to the self-check out aisle so that there can be absolutely, positively no further discussion about any of this, with anyone. Ever again.

Only now some guy is running at me.

"Hey!" he yells.

Oh, my God, did I STEAL IT? Just kill me now, God. Please. Please! Why? Why me? I would be the only woman in history to go to jail for stealing a toilet seat. Just end it now, God!

But it's just the guy from the toilet seat aisle.

"Hey!" he lands right in front of me. "Ya' wanna go out?" he asks.

Really, God. Same request. Any minute now. I'm waiting.... Please. Just do it! I'll close my eyes. You do it fast.

God is apparently busy today, so I am left to my own devices.

"Huh?" I manage. And I am soooo not going to church on Sunday. Take that, You.

"Yeah. Ya' wanna go out?"

"Oh. I... oh. Oh. Um. Yeah. No. I... I... I, um, don't think so. Gotta go put this in, doncha know," I say, waving my new seat around in the air.

Seriously.

So anyway, like I was saying: If you're interested in a guy, that one might still even be there. Tell him I'm sorry I dropped the seat on his foot when I fled, and I hope he wasn't too badly hurt.

And, um... If you don't mind too much, could you bring the seat back with you if you do go? Cuz there's no way I can manage going in that crazy place again.

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The folks over at humor-blogs must know some good on-line places where you can order these things and have them come in a plain brown paper wrapper.

Things I lie awake at night worrying about...

2009-06-11T10:51:00.001-04:00

So.

Last week, faced with the need for three separate batches of cupcakes for different events and something to occupy a certain someone who is already on summer vacation, I thought I had a stroke of genius:

And all was going really well, until suddenly, I had this thought:

Had I really taught her how to fish ~~freed myself up to blog~~ or... to grow up into the one who has to make the cupcakes?

Darn.

I've already messed up, haven't I?

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The folks over at humor-blogs know how to raise good feminists.

Aw... shucks

2009-06-09T12:00:00.004-04:00

Aw.... shucks, guys, you are the BEST. Really.

Every comment is like a big fat hug and now I am soooo over the fact that I am old bag who not even the 8-year-old wants to be seen with, and who can't even get cars to stop so she can cross the street anymore, much less cause the traffic accidents of her youth. (OK. Apparently not totally over it, but getting there.)

Blogging can be overwhelming to me sometimes, fueling my already large sense of inadequacy - I have the design skills of a 18-month-old let loose in the living room with a red magic marker and tend to stick my head in the sand about technical updates as well. I don't think half the blogs on my blogroll are still alive, even, and the fact that Google alerts people that I've written a post kinda freaks me out. What if they're busy right now, Google? What if you make them come all the way over here, and I don't really have a decent post? Why can't you leave them alone already? They'll click on me when they want to, is what I say. It's just too much pressure on me if you're going around bothering people, Mr. Google. And Follower? What the heck with that? Now we have to collect pictures of everyone?

It's really just too tiring.

So anyway, I'm very appreciative of all of you who come around despite my bad blogging skills and tendency to talk too much.

Thank you for all your suggestions for getting out of funks, too. Chocolate and wine were the most popular suggestions, followed by exercise of some variety. A couple of people ~~who are clearly on crack~~ suggested having a baby, but... yeah. No. Have you not been paying attention? I think that's what got me into this mess in the first place. (Feel free to send pics of yours, though, because they're awful cute - especially when I'm not the one in charge of taking them to baseball or figuring out how to papier-mache a solar system for them at 9 o'clock at night.)

Obviously, my favorite suggestions were those that claimed to come here to cheer up and I tried my mightiest to make the random generator spew out one of them as the winner, alas, to no avail. Still, I'm pretty happy with the actual winner, though: You gotta love a woman who can work the word "buttular" into a comment, right? So Seanna Lee, email me with your snail mail addy, and I'll send out my latest creation:

a summer scarf out of CEY Silky Alpaca laceweight.

Um... when I finally finish it.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs get their summer scarves ready BEFORE they hold the contest.

Ah, family... Can't live with 'em, can't flush 'em

2009-06-05T13:15:00.002-04:00

Oh, come ON, now!!!!

Seriously!

Very helpful. Just one extra minute, is all it would take.

And this one musta thought they were being twice as helpful:

Happy weekend, everyone! May there be a little less baseball in yours than there will be in mine. I'll be back Monday (-ish) with contest results and a big thank you for all the awesome bloggy love.
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The folks over at humor-blogs raise families who put the toilet paper rolls ALL the way on the thingies.

Two years

2009-06-03T16:02:00.007-04:00

I know, I know. I haven't been around much, of late. ~~Not that anyone asked.~~

Oh, sure, I've been busy, but who the heck isn't busy in spring, with baseball, lacrosse, end of school cupcake-making.

It's more that I had a little touch of something.

No, not swine flu.

Worse.

See, Mad Mad turned two this weekend, and, as is to be expected, is undergoing a touch of the usual mid-bloglife crisis: Why is she here? What is the point, even? And who really gives a crap about all her silly nonsense anyway? Why doesn't she just email her two readers if she wants to let them know what's going on in her life?

And speaking of life, isn't it about time she got one already?

For some very strange reason, Mad Mad's existentialist crisis coincided with my own. At the ripe old age of 42, I, too, have questions no slick new convertible and young bimbo are going to be able to fix: Why am I here? What is the point, even? Who really gives a crap about all my silly nonsense anyway? And, most important, when exactly is my ass going to get smaller?

Sigh.

There ain't a convertible big enough to ease the pain.

So there has been some moping around.

I tried to shake it off a bit. I even had a couple things I wanted to tell everyone, and went to the effort of finding myself a new photographer. One that wouldn't think taking pics of my butt was quite so funny.

She has her own issues, though:

(Seriously. I truly don't understand how she got herself into private school, that one. )

I went back to my old photographer, and surprise, surprise:

Apparently he's still a little snot. So that didn't help either.

A few ~~death~~ threats later, I got a barely passable shot of my Tangled Yoke in Elsebeth Lavold Silky Wool, but then I noticed something else:

And also? Who the hell wears cardigans? In SUMMER?! Little old ladies, that's who. And worse? Little old ladies KNIT cardigans.

There I am, a little old lady knitting my own cardigan in my Carol Brady hair.

I couldn't suck more.

Now just listen: if you happen to be a little old lady, please don't write in about how YOU are even older, or how you are sure I am an awful person who doesn't like old people. I got nothing against old people. It's just the one looking at me in my mirror that is troubling me some lately. She's always wanting to know where all the brown spots came from and why things keep sagging, and I just don't know what to tell her any more. Mostly I avoid eye-contact, brush my teeth and get out quick before there's more questions.

Most days it works. I am lucky enough to live in New England, after all, where usually one can hide many ills in a nice pair of jeans.

(Provided you don't happen to live in a changing room at Lord and Taylor's, where there are mirrors positioned so you can see your butt in those jeans. Because THAT is not pleasant. At all. Ask me how I know. Oh, don't bother. We're getting to that part. I'm not the most short-winded of people, as some of you have kindly pointed out, thankyouverymuch.)

Any-way.

Summer is coming and well, I needed a bathing suit. (That's how I know. See? I get there. You just have to be patient, sometimes.)

I was hoping to find one that made me look 15 years younger and like I had a good body.

Yeah. Apparently they don't sell those.

It wouldn't normally matter, because, Heck who do I know at the beach? And what do I care what they think? But now, see, we made some friends there. And it turns out I actually like them.

So I don't need them to see me in excruciating detail because I don't want them passing out in shock or falling off the boat and drowning.

So I needed a bathing suit that covered pretty much everything, from wrist to ankles, but didn't look too frumpy because these friends are younger and I don't want them to think I'm an old boring lady. (Who knits cardigan sweaters in her Carol Brady hair.)

It took me a long, agonizing, tear-filled while, but I found something that wasn't too bad.

And then I spent $150 on two cover-ups to cover it all up, just to make sure.

So anyway, long story short, if you're looking for me this summer at the beach, this is what I'll look like:

That oughta do it. Doncha think?

*******************
For those of you paying attention, yes, I did say Mad Mad turned two, and she LOVES presents: Tell her how you get out of your funks, and she'll put you in a little drawing to win a little something. Hand-knit, of course. Maybe a wool thong, though, if she's still cranky.

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The folks over at humor-blogs don't pass out when they look at themselves in the mirror.

Nope. Still not a knitting blog...

2009-05-14T13:22:00.007-04:00

Regularly, someone asks me why I don't write more about my knitting.

By "someone" I don't mean to imply I am deluged with emails imploring me to write about knitting. By "someone" I just mean Bells. But she is quite persistent.

And while I'm pretty sure I've said it before, and maybe even before that, it's because this is supposed to be a fun place, where we forget about our problems, big and small. Who needs more reminders of the tragedies in life, right? Especially in these trying times.

Also? It is actually very, very hard to be a knitting blogger.

First, you have to actually finish something:

Icarus.

(Here's the ravelry link for the knitters out there.)

Three whole years in the works. Not because it was so hard, per se, but more that I suffered from a bit of a motivational issue: I mean... Shawl!? C'mon.

I am not a granny:

I do not really like ~~know how~~ to accessorize:

So, see? No real motivation to finish. What was I gonna do with it, after all? Still, when I noticed I had put it down last summer ONE MERE ROW from finishing, I thought, Hm... You know, Mad Mad... A lot about knitting doesn't always make sense. Why start now?

Also? It beat playing with my at-home sick kid. And so I up and finished it while he watched TV.

But even after that not-inconsiderable hurdle of finishing, you still have to find willing models to show off your work.

Hm. Guess not there.

Or here, really:

Then you have to chase them all over the house, yelling, "Are you freaking CRAZY, Mutt?! That is SILK! Give it back right now!"

Then, once you give up on finding any cooperation whatsoever, and try to just pose it on your furniture...

...THAT'S when they decide to "help."

So see? It's very hard. Still, I really like Bells. So I put in the extra effort, despite all these hardships.

I went for the classic "shawl thrown over yard bushes" pose.

It always looks a little easy on those knitting blogs.

But the reality was far different. There were bees, and thorny things that kept catching on the thread...

It ended up something more like this:

And then there was a mad rush to untangle it all before the neighbors got home from work and wondered just what the heck that loony is doing out there NOW?

Then, you have to give it a bath....

and lay it out on your blocking table in the attic, just so...

and wait for it to dry...

Feel guilty that this entire time, your sick son has been twiddling his thumbs, and that a good mom would at least use the time to recount the myth of Icarus and Daedalus to him.

Realize in hindsight that a good mom probably wouldn't end the story with "See? And that's why you should listen to your parents. Otherwise you'll die."

Convince said son the next morning to take a picture of you by bribing him with the heretofore forbidden Nachos school lunch, even though you are a vegetarian. Except when you really need a burger. Or decide that maybe we should have some fish, and can't remember what kind has mercury in it. Or sometimes chicken. But absolutely NEVER school lunch meat. (Unless you need a shot of your Icarus, apparently.)

Cope with fact Boy thinks it's really funny to take many pics of your butt instead.

Engage in much yelling and screaming, while neighbors wonder, "What is that loony doing out there now?!

Finally get two blurry, icky pics by reminding Boy about the Nachos. Also, the Icarus-and-not-listening-to-your-parents thing.

So.

It's not so much that I don't want to write about my knitting. It's just that it's really, really, really hard.

Still, though, I do need a lightweight, long project for some upcoming travel I have planned.

And I think I've taken some steps to make things go a little smoother, like farming out some of the work to make things go more quickly.

Or maybe not...

Ay!

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The folks over at humor-blogsknow how to wear THEIR shawls, I bet.

Life lessons

2009-05-13T09:00:00.004-04:00

Things not to say to one's 8-year-old son:

"I'm gonna have to see some actual vomit for you to stay home from school today."

Just trust me on this one.

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The folks over at humor-blogs have even better parenting tips.

It's the thought that counts

2009-05-11T08:52:00.000-04:00

Boy tells me he has a present for me for Mother's Day, and drags me into his room.

"Look what I did for you!" he says, proudly.

"WOW!" I say, trying very, very, very hard to not to let my eyes drift down...

Or to the right...

... and trying very, very, very hard not to wonder exactly WHO is organizing the rest of his book shelf.

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The folks over at humor-blogs may have noticed my family's present choices seem to indicate they are under the impression I ~~am a psycho~~ like things clean. I'm just happy we're done celebrating a holiday that seems to require so much help from its intended honoree...

I shoulda just asked for jewelry

2009-05-08T13:54:00.002-04:00

"For Mother's Day," I say to Man, "I just want you to clean my car. It's so gross."

It is February.

I believe in planning ahead.

Man has known me too long to flinch at the peculiarity of my demands or of their time and place. At least outwardly. I cannot actually vouch for what happens inside his brain. Still, he appears legitimately relieved not to have to come up with an idea for a present himself.

Me, too.

Ahem:

Christmas 2007

And ahem:

Birthday, 2006

So. Anyway. Just so we are on the same page, I repeat: "That's ALL I want. You to clean my car."

"Alrighty," says Man, using the tone most people reserve for annoying people who repeat things. I know the only reason he isn't snapping at me is that he is battling conflicting emotions: annoyance, yes, but also pride at his having married one of those women who doesn't need expensive things.

As tempted as I am to let him think something nice of me (after 15 years of marriage, one needs as many check marks in the nice column as possible), I feel honesty is the best policy here: "No, no, no," I say. "I'm repeating to make sure you don't forget. I want you to clean my car. It is soooo bad, that it will be a big undertaking. And I want it so badly that that's all I want."

"Fine," he huffs and rolls his eyes.

Fast forward to earlier this week.

"I have an appointment to get your car detailed Friday," Man tells me proudly.

"Oh," I manage. This is not what I asked for. Detailing involves taking my car somewhere else. Which means I will first have to empty it of assorted lacrosse, baseball and tennis equipment, my emergency knitting, the phone and phone book, the library books, the winter coats, hats, gloves, the umbrellas, granola bar wrappers from dinner Tuesday (and Wednesday)...

Which means I could just clean the car myself.

"Hm..." I say, stalling and trying very, very hard to be nice and all "thought that counts-y."

Two fingernails suffer an early demise in my attempts to keep my mouth shut. A back molar takes a severe grinding that I'm sure my dentist is going to want to discuss with me later. All I wanted was for you to vacuum out last summer's sand and throw away the candy wrappers in the back seat, I want to explain, but not in a nice way. You know... with tone. But I manage to stay quiet. Three more fingernails die nasty deaths.

Finally I eke out an "OK..." and content myself with rolling my eyes behind his back.

"But I'm going to the Sox Thursday," Man adds, "so you'll have to empty your car."

I cock my head, way, way, WAY over, so that my ear almost touches my shoulder, and arch an eyebrow, in that universal sign language for ~~"Are you freaking on CRACK?!"~~ "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you clearly..."

Man repeats his situation.

I just smile and walk away, which I take to be the universal gesture for "I don't think so" (but is interchangeable with "Bite Me") and he interprets as the universal symbol for "OK." (Interchangeable with "OK.")

Fast forward a little further, to 6:30 this morning, where man is ~~swearing~~ grumbling audibly in the driveway, trying to avoid getting his suit trashed by a rain-soaked SUV while he leans in to drag out lacrosse, baseball, tennis equipment, assorted umbrellas, and my knitting. (As an aside, there is something a bit fun about seeing a cranky grown man in a suit carefully rewinding your bright purple Noro sock yarn and tucking it gently into the passenger seat of the other car.)

I watch all this from my laundry room window, where I am busy cleaning other things, winter coats that need to be put away and game day uniforms that the kids need for today, but finally take pity and decide to go help.

In my bright pink pyjamas. With some crazy patterned rain boots. (I figured at least the neighbors could have a little fun.)

~~Cranky Pants~~ Man is still ~~cursing~~ grumbling as I arrive to help, and full of directives for how I can spend the rest of my day: "Tell those kids I'm going to kill them for trashing this car" and "You better not let them do this to mine today," and the one that really, really hurt, "You better not blog about this."

So, yeah. Happy Mother's Day to me.

Still, though, I'm going to try to look on that bright side. Unless something very bad happens, I'll have myself a clean car at the end of the day.

And I didn't have to do (much) of it myself.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! May they all be a little less like... every other day.

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And go say hi to all the mothers over at the new blog in town, The Mouthy Housewives!

Soaring! Flying!

2009-05-01T08:50:00.002-04:00

Red Tail Hawk #1: Just keep circling. Maybe she won't notice.

Red Tail Hawk #2: Damn! She caught us! Imagine, having nothing better to do with your life than to stand in the middle of the street gaping up at us. Go get a job, lady!

Red Tail Hawk #1: Well... we are pretty damn fabulous, if I say so myself.

Red Tail Hawk #2: Yeah. Still, though. What a loser. Think we can take that dog of hers? I'm hungry.

RTH #1: I dunno. He's gotten kinda heavy - and she's kinda lookin' like a porker, too. Look at those thighs. Fatty. Come to think of it, she hasn't been waking us up much at her usual 5:30 any more, has she?

RTH #2: Hm... you're right. But it was a pretty cold winter. And they got that new bed. Some kind a foam thing. She just keeps hitting snooze, and saying, 'This is the BEST!' Bothers the crap out of her husband, who would rather not be woken up every 9 minutes for an hour.

RTH #1: I don't know what you're talkin' about. You need to stop looking in her windows, you weirdo. Whoa! She is STILL there! Looking at us! What is up with that!? She's the last one left - if it wasn't for her, we'd have this whole neighborhood back to ourselves, now that all the smart moms have gone back to work.

#2: Actually, I heard she got a little something.

#1: What?!

#2: Yeah! I was thisclose to getting that squirrel that's been buggin' us... You know the one? Well... it was sitting on her front porch, with one of her tulip bulbs, which would totally piss her off if she knew, but she didn't know, and the squirrel was all happy as a clam, crunchin' away, la-dee-dah, didn't notice me - right there - but then that little jerk of the lady's started banging on the piano and scared the poop out of the squirrel, so it took off just as I was about to snag it, and I missed, darn it!

Anyway....

I heard her say, "Who's going to make you play piano if I go back to work?"

#1: Uh.... Yeeaahhh....? How exactly does that mean she has a job?

#2: Well, would you let me finish my darn story?! Always interrupting, you are.

#1: OK. Fine. Go ahead.

#2: No. You can't make me. I'm not gonna tell any more, so there.

Wash me!

2009-04-30T08:04:00.008-04:00

A friend stopped by last night to help me dust off the blog and scrape all the pollen off its windows. She's the BEST, I tell ya.' Today's Martha, if you know what I mean. And she's giving away a wedding dress. (I know! It floors me, too. ~~And not just because at least half the days I want to set mine afire and stomp on it.~~)

Anyway.... It has been a little busy around here this spring. I am working on something for tomorrow, I promise. Right now, though, I have to go pick the watermelon seeds out of someone's breakfast so that they'll actually get some fruit into them. (Busy AND exciting, as you can see.)

In the meantime, don't forget to vote for my good friends Wendi, Kelcey and Jessica, so that their panel, DYING IS EASY, COMEDY IS HARD, gets chosen for the BlogHer '09 conference in Chicago this July. You do have to register to vote, but it doesn't commit you to anything - you're only voting to put them on the schedule. And I can't imagine a more fun thing to watch ~~now that Gray's Anatomy stinks.~~

Anyway, you can get to the voting page by clicking here:

See you all tomorrow!

Road map to a woman's mind

2009-04-16T11:20:00.005-04:00

Dear Man:

OK. I know it might seem like a bit of a nonsequitur* when I mutter "Oh, just shut the hell up"** when you say, "I made the bed for you this morning."

But that is only because the male ~~pea-sized, sexist pig~~ brain cannot keep up with the many, many reply options that roil through a woman's head, leaving her opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water, sifting through the possible (and all correct, but somehow not quite enough on their own) choices before she arrives at one.

So. It's a tad Google of me, but let me draw you a map:

Start at: "I made the bed for you this morning."

1. Take a sharp left three neuro-synapse thingies later at:

" 'For you,' huh? Hm. The implication of that is that you think it's MY job, huh? Well then, thank you for stooping and for your help, you sexist pig."

2. Wonder if that's too wordy and proceed straight to:

"Ya wanna medal?"*

3. Decide that's too brief, and you have more anger pent up in there that needs venting, so bear right at:

"Oh! The bed you also slept in? Why, thank you, and have I mentioned you're a sexist *&^^%$#$ pig?!"

3. Thought construction requires a bit of a detour-digression. Bear right at:

"Was he always this much of a sexist pig? How did I miss that? What was I thinking?! How did I end up here, being a presumed bed-maker?! I was gonna be somebody some day. I must remember to tell Girl not to ever, ever, ever get married. They are tricky little bastards, these men."

4. Take a left onto:

"Oh, that's nice, honey. Because I was busy making the grocery list for your dinner, and putting your breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. "

5. Eh. Find scenery there boring; also, skip through the obvious and too trite:

"And I made you two kids."

6. Pass, too, right through the intersection of I HATE YOU!!!!! and Would this hold up in divorce court? because even in your agitated state you realize that might be a little bit much (just a little, though) under the circumstances and you don't really have the time for that kind of thing right now, but someday, SOMEDAY, it's all just gonna add up and be the last straw, and and and and... Alice, right to the moon! and then? And then? I'm going off to live in Paris all by myself and smoke cigarettes and knit and no one is going to tell me they made my bed, dammit.

7. Take a big sigh, and finally arrive at...

"Oh, just shut the hell up. "

See? Not all that complicated. You just have to keep up, is all.

* Really. That's how it's spelled. I don't like it, either. But there's rules about these things, you know. You can't just go spelling things however you like just because you don't think it looks pretty.

** OK. That's a lie. But this is a somewhat family-friendly place. OK, that's a lie, too. But you know, I try. OK, OK. Three lies in one sentence, you got me. I said some other things, OK? Feel free to substitute your own inappropriate word. Or three. OK, happy now? Yes, I used all three.

*** (Thanks to the ever-hysterical Barb who reminded me of that one!)

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The womenfolk over at humor-blogs know it's hard to always just smile and keep your head down and go along.

Lay off, already

2009-04-09T14:00:00.016-04:00

Madoff, schmaydoff.

It's time to bust up the virulent Ponzi scheme of someone far more detrimental to us regular folk:

Dear Easter Bunny:

It is with absolutely no regret whatsoever that I write to inform you that your services will no longer be required in the Mad Mad household.

I did not shed so much as one nostalgic tear when eight-year-old Boy cocked an eyebrow at me, and put finger quotes around the words "Easter Bunny" when we talked about our plans this weekend. We're never really sure what's going on in Girl's head, to tell the truth, but she is 12 now, so it's probably for the best we have a little talk with her before she gets beat up behind the gym.

You're so outta here, bunster.

And unlike the thousands of people who've lost jobs in the past couple of years through no fault of their own, you deserve every bit of pain and shame coming your way and I hope Mrs. Bunny shoves hard-boiled eggs down your throat till you choke when she tires of you sitting on her couch all day and hogging the remote.

OK, OK, that last might have been a little mean, but you know what? I have found you, at best, to be an uncooperative "employee," and frankly, I am just tired of holding the bag for you all these years.

Oh, sure. You say you're gonna do it, but when push comes to Good Friday, who is out there shopping and hiding stuff and picking that staticky fake grass crap out of the cracks in my floorboards so no one will suspect anything, and dealing with eggs and painting and class parties and regular life laundry and unpacking from vacation and planning a vacation and Easter is just not timed very well, now, is it?

Perhaps you should have thought of that, Bunny man. Of course, I don't know why I'd expect you to think of anything yourself. This whole gig of yours is on the backs of other people. And by other people, you know very well who I mean, right? The womenfolk, you anti-feminist, oppressor, bad Bunny man bent on keeping us all at home, cooking, cleaning, shopping for stupid outfits it's always too cold to actually wear on frigid Easter mornings in New England.

We do all the work, you get all the credit.

Yet there's no end to the number of new moms you're able to recruit to go lemming-like into your tyrannical regime, only to come out the other end in a few years, dazed, confused and feeling vaguely dirty from engaging in the mental contortions required to explain a bunny laying eggs that you have to find really, really fast because we have to get to church because...

I don't know, actually, how it's related, honey. No... uh, there's not a bunny in church. The bunny has nothing to do with church. But it's a very important day at church, so we have to go. Noooo, nooo... there's no eggs involved, really, either. Um... Yeah, I don't know, honey. Yeah. And chocolate, you're right... it is interesting, isn't it? Well, yeah... Hm.. I don't know. I do, know, that God probably will think it's OK if mommy has a quick mimosa on her way to church, 'cuz she has a really bad headache now. Just have some more chocolate and get dressed, OK, sweetie?

So, anyway, like I said: Good riddance, bud. It's been real. A real pain. Don't even think of coming to me for references. Your tyranny ends here.

Sincerely,
Mad, Mad

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The folks over at humor-blogs know a cranky, holiday-crazed, strung out mommy when they see one. But they wonder what exactly she's doing at the computer, when she should be vacuuming and cleaning dog snot off the windows for the guests who are due to arrive?

It's no NYC....

2009-04-08T08:50:00.007-04:00

"So, what do you want to do with your day off Friday, honey?" (Because yes, heaven forbid I go a whole week without a child taking a vacation day.)

"I want to take you to the supermarket and show you where they keep the good cereal," Boy answers.

(Because apparently THAT was the problem, my not knowing where they kept the sugary stuff.)

The supermarket, though. He dreams big, that one.

Still, there is no way I'm going to into a grocery store two days before Easter, honey. Maybe that can be our April vacation plan. Take it slow, really enjoy the place. An-aisle-a-day kind of thing... Good times, good times.
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The folks over at humor-blogs don't make their kids eat Kashi for breakfast.

A mother's dream come true

2009-04-06T09:00:00.008-04:00

It is difficult to describe, or even quantify, the many horrific thoughts that float through a mother's head as she rushes into a room to her child's shrieks of "Mom! Mom! I can feel the hairs! I can feel the hairs!"

It is equally difficult to describe her dismay when she finds that the reality was worse than her wildest dreams:

I swear, he's gonna kill me. ~~If I don't kill him first.~~

And when is she gonna get here, already?

Happy Opening Day, baseball fans!

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The folks over at humor-blogs know very well I wouldn't know a baseball from a softball, or even, for that matter, a golf ball, and that it's all just a shameless plug.

Au revoir... and OUT!

2009-03-31T10:00:00.000-04:00

Phew! It's finally over.

Please excuse the blurry photo. It's really hard to stay in focus when you barely slow down enough to let the kid out of the car.

Haveagreatday.Begood.Loveya'.

Now get the hell out. I have to recover: Summer vacation starts in nine weeks.

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The folks over at humor-blogs know better than to enroll their children in schools with different vacation schedules.

As the mom (re)turns

2009-03-30T06:37:00.006-04:00

Welcome to this weeks episode of "As The Mom Returns." Last week, we saw Mad Mad Mom take off for NYC with her 12-year-old daughter, in an attempt to throw money at a three-week-long spring break problem in hopes it would just go away.

It did, mostly, but many an unanswered question remains:

Will Mad Mad return at 7 p.m. Sunday to a clean home?

Hell, dinner, even?

OK, she'll settle for just some groceries to kick off the week.

Will Man notice the basket of clean laundry Mad Mad left by the foot of the bed in hopes he would notice the hint and deal with it in a satisfactory manner?

Will Man actually take out the trash and recycling, as opposed to just stacking it all by the back door in the expectation that "someone" will deal with it eventually?

Will Man be able to satisfactorily explain why there are four days worth of newspapers strewn over the kitchen table, or why her Star Hydrangea is suddenly dying despite EXPLICIT instructions it needed to be watered?

Will Man remember the coffee POT needs to be in place before one turns on the coffee maker and leaves the room?

Will Man have even begun to tackle the mound of school paperwork Boy brought home at the weekend? Written the school lunch check for the upcoming month? Filed away the relevant notices of upcoming events?

Will Mad Mad accept "We had lacrosse" as a suitable excuse for ignoring all of the above AND only walking Dog ONCE in the entire four days?

Without further ado, we present this weeks episode:

No.

Be sure to tune in next week to find out the answer to just how Mad Mad deals with the news that, in her absence, Man has volunteered her to host his entire family for Easter.

Will he live? Or will there be a freak accident involving a former Star Hydrangea pot?

Duhn-duhn-duhn-duhn!

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The folks over at humor-blogs are too smart to leave their husbands at home and expect much. Or anything at all, really.

Ay!

2009-03-25T14:30:00.006-04:00

So.

This school "vacation" thing is a little bit distracting to a stay-at-home ~~mother~~ ~~writer~~ blogger.

Too much "Can I have a play date?" nonsense and "Um... are you going to make lunch? It's 3 o' clock..."

Or worst of all, the "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll just go sit in my room and read. Did you know I read 245 pages yesterday?"

You are consumed with bad-mom guilt (even though it's not like you were off gallivanting around town getting your toenails done, you were at the supermarket buying her that damn lunch she needed so badly) to the point you agree to a re-enactment of this event from last year, from which you're STILL tired. Not to mention 10 pounds heavier. But you're doing it anyway. What the heck, right? It gets the job done.

I'm definitely adding in a yarn store, though. No more Ms. Nice Guy. I want some Habu for a Kusha Kusha. (OK. That sounds WAY more exciting than it actually is. Maybe I'll even leave out the hyperlink so you all can think I'm doing something more exciting than getting dragged to tourist traps by my 12-year-old.)

On second thought, I don't think I want virtual strangers - Heh heh... Get it? "Virtual"? Virtual Strangers? I crack myself right up! (See? This is what happens when the kids are home. The jokes are so much worse!) having images in their heads about me doing "exciting" things.

So forget that. Here: Kusha Kusha.

Anyway. The long story made short version (yep, that's what you did, honey, made a long story short, uh huh) is this: I'll be away from my computer till Monday.

But then I'll be back, Girl will be in school and I'll surely have some fun stories to tell.

And some news about some exciting things.

No, seriously. The real kind of exciting. Not just like Kusha Kusha Scarf exciting.

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The folks over at humor-blogs wish they could knit a Kusha Kusha, don't they?

More reasons to have children

2009-03-19T10:15:00.003-04:00

It's Girl's Spring Break. Of course it is. Because it's been a whole week since Boy's February vacation ended, and it would simply be unreasonable for me to have too much free time, peace and quiet to get things done ~~read and write blog posts.~~

I am, after all, a mom, and it's apparently my duty to busy myself entertaining the masses.

Which is OK, because the masses are always so appreciative and the experiences are always so rewarding.

Yesterday, for example, I took Girl to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts.

The ticket seller asked us if we were related - since we "look so similar."

What an idiot, I think.

Or course we're related, I wanted yell, adding a shake, and maybe even a slap upside the head. (Two school vacations in a row tends to make a mommy a little tense.) But c'mon. Hel-loo? Does your average child kidnapper yank a kid off the street and then escort them into a museum and pay $34 to look at some paintings? I don't think so. Who the heck else would I be? Of COURSE we're related!

"Yes, we're related," I tell him politely instead, throwing in a smile to try to compensate for all the mean thoughts I'd just had about him and his upbringing and probably not been able to entirely avoid filtering from my facial expressions. "She's my daughter." I add, for good measure. 'Cuz I really do try to be nice. (Shut up. I do, too.)

What an idiot, Girl says out loud, as soon as we are out of earshot.

"Mom. Even if he did think you were my grandmother, we'd still be related."

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The folks over at humor-blogs probably don't walk around art museums shaking their heads in wonder, trying to figure out which part of that story is the worst: the part where she thinks you look like a grandmother, the part where you wonder if someone dropped her on her head when she was little, or the part where you realize Boy's April vacation starts a week after Girl's Spring Break ends.

Why everyone needs kids - have two, even

2009-03-15T18:10:00.004-04:00

Boy heads over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands for his after-school snack.

"Wow!" he says, looking around. "You did all the dishes!"

"Yeah? So? Don't I always do the dishes?" I ask, somewhat confused and more than somewhat irritated. I mean, to borrow a phrase or two from him, "Hel-loooo?" and "Duh-h-h-h."

"Noooo," he answers, very sincerely. "I've never seen this sink empty."

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Girl has a Target gift card burning a whole in her pocket. We head on over.

I'm standing with her in the book aisle, staring at book jackets while she finds one she wants badly enough to spend her own (free!) money on.

One book catches my eye.

"Eh. I used to work with that woman," I said, pointing at it, while trying really, really hard to fend off the raging jealousy and brace myself against the waves of plummeting self-esteem it will take weeks to recover from.

"Mom!" she says. "Did you notice it said 'New York Times Bestseller'?"

No, actually, I hadn't. But thanks for pointing it out, hon.

Cheerio, dahling!

2009-03-12T09:18:00.004-04:00

OK, I'm sorry to drag you guys all the way across the internets just for this, but I was wondering something:

How come the very same activity you thought marked your child for greatness (The Presidency, even!) at six months - that ability to single out a lone Cheerio from a bowl of hundreds and carry it ever so carefully to her mouth - Come see, honey! What a GENIUS! - is the very same one that 12 years later is going to make you reach across the table and strangle her for eating so slowly? Come see honey, why I'm about to kill her. She eats them this way every morning. One. At. A. Freakin'. Time! Every morning I'm hoarse from yelling to hurry up!

How steep exactly is this Cheerios consumption learning curve?

ROFL, sistah!

2009-03-09T17:38:00.037-04:00

I don't often mention awards (not that I'm swimming in them or anything) but sometimes it feels a little... you know. Unseemly. ~~Wicked cool!~~

But I got two ~~look at me, kicking some major bahookie~~ last week that were worth mentioning for a couple reasons. I mean, other than showing off.

The first comes from the awesome Susan, one of my first blog buddies evah (she taught me how to load a picture - all the way from Australia. If you can do that, well, then, you can do anything.

And she does. She's got land, and goats and cats and dogs and quilts and yarn and always has guests coming over and it just sounds like fun is happening there all the time. Like the kind of mom you wish you were, but you are way too anal and uptight ~~mean and bitchy~~ to be.

I always leave with a smile, or inspired. And she gave me this, apparently because I have an Attitude ~~problem.~~

I am to nominate five other Bloggers and will get around to that soon. But maybe not, because if there's anything more uncomfortable than receiving an award it's the Sophie's choosing of a recipient to whom to pass it along, if you know what I mean. I am not giving up any of you guys to the Nazi soldier at the train. NOOOO! Wait. OK, now I have to go lie down to get over those images. Back in a bit. Possibly tranquilized. God I HATE that movie. WHICH after all, would you choose? I just don't need all that going on in my head right now. There's already enough nasty crap in there, frankly.

OK. Where were we? Ah, yes... ~~I was bragging.~~

I got this award, too, after being nominated by the very funny ~~Even though he is a guy! And a British one!~~ Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin.

The ROFL's are awarded each month by Chicky Chicky Baby and Oh, the Joys, who are both a lot of fun to read on their own, even when they're not introducing you to so many other funny bloggers, which they do every month. The rules and other recipients are posted here. Go check them out for some fun reading.

And thanks, Mad Dog and Susan!

And happy birthday, Kim!

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I'm sure the folks over at humor-blogs don't use so very many words when they win awards.

This one's for my pal, Amy

2009-03-09T08:57:00.004-04:00

My bloggy pal Amy is a mom of three, going through that sort of overwhelming stage of parenting when you can't see the forest because the trees are still nursing.

And preschool-aged.

And in kindergarten.

Only she's homeschooling them.

So... no forest anywhere to be seen, frankly.

I try to tell her things will get easier when they get older. Which is a bald-faced lie, to be honest. The forest gets overrun with the kudzu vine of soccer, hockey, lacrosse, book reports and drama - let's not forget the drama! because OH, THE DRAMA! It's all just a different kind of bad when they get older, but most nights you at least get a little sleep. Which does help. Some.

But for some reason she doesn't believe me. Maybe, though, a picture will help. They say they're worth a thousand words, and even I, who never met a word she couldn't somehow crowbar into a sentence, can see how they come in handy at times.

And I took the perfect picture last week for you, Amy. Just to show you things DO get easier.

In no time at all ~~(another lie)~~ yours will be big enough for this:

And if you do it just right, he'll even say crazy ass things like, "This is SICK! What ELSE can I vacuum?!" when he's all done with the playroom.

And you'll say, "Hm. I don't know if you deserve to vacuum any more. You are not even dressed for school yet."

And he will buy this load of bahookie - I recommend you start practicing your straight face right now to be prepared - and run and get ready for school and then....

vacuum the hallway, too.

It's the best, Amy, you'll see.

Almost enough to make me have a couple more kids.

'Cuz he didn't have time to do the downstairs, too.

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The folks over at humor-blogs have the Department of Child Services on speed dial for when they read my posts.

You know you're really old when...

2009-03-06T09:00:00.001-05:00

...you've lived long enough for your hairstyle to cycle through again.

Eighteen:

Forty-two:

I suppose it didn't take three hours in a salon back when I was 18, but whaddaya gonna do? Anything to fend off the return of what I looked like at seven:

(By the way, do you think it's possible to retroactively call the Department of Social Services on your parents? Seriously. They let me out of the house like that? And on Picture Day, for cryin' out loud! I don't care if it was the seventies. It's no excuse. )

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The moms over at humor-blogs make sure they're kids have good hair on Picture Day. And maybe some teeth.

Whine, whine, whine...

2009-03-05T09:24:00.006-05:00

Kelcey of Mama Bird Diaries, a woman of many a great idea, led her readers here a few days ago, and I've spent quite a few hours riveted - and laughing.

Today I got up the nerve to submit a Secret Whine of my own...

(And not to whine, but I wish I'd known sending it in automatically published it. So be careful there, if you submit.)

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The folks over at humor-blogs never whine in secret.

How to get through a PTO meeting

2009-03-03T12:04:00.000-05:00

Every so often, I hear a mom say she doesn't go to PTO meetings 'cuz it's all the fancy moms who go there.

After I'm done wiping her face of the spit I've just spluttered all over it from having burst out laughing, I explain, that no, no, she has it all wrong.

It has nothing to do with fancy (though a nice piece of jewelry does wonders for covering up those Barilla splatters from dinner so people don't discover you're such a pig you have yet to learn how to successfully navigate a forkful of sauce-coated pasta from your plate to your mouth) and everything to do with something else entirely: meetings are a great way to avoid having to put your kids to bed yourself.

And while it is admittedly unfortunate that they do not generally allow wine at these events, this is more than compensated for by the lack of a need to read Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Vol. 1, a one hundred and fourth time as a bedtime story, or to have to yell that, no, that definitely was not a long enough tooth-brushing session. Get back in there, young man!

Yes!

Because I said so!

Just do it!

NOW! YOU LITTLE...

So.

I go to every PTO meeting I can.

Sometimes, even, to ones not in my school district. This additionally serves as good practice for not volunteering for things. (Or conversely, I suppose you could volunteer away at one of those, and it would make you make you feel like you're doing something without any of the pain of actually having to do it. But then again, that would make you one of those moms - a cupcake pox on their souls! - who volunteer for things AND. DON'T. ACTUALLY. DO. THEM. Which is unspeakable. May they fall in a vat of horse cartilage.)

Anyway.

The point is, PTO meetings can be a tired mother's friend. ~~Especially since getting her out of the house will distract her from the fact she is on a wine diet. Only on weekdays, of course. There is only so much you can ask of a mom, you know.~~

Still, I can see how a PTO meeting can be intimidating to a first-timer. A room full of weary, wine-deprived moms could potentially be a hazardous place. So, in my new found spirit of helpfulness, I thought I'd pass along a few tips for the successful navigation of a PTO meeting:

Fitting in

1. Suck your stomach in really, really hard as you enter the room, so you can be as skinny as all the other moms (Which is what you were really worried about all this time, weren't you? Admit it.) Don't worry. It will only be for a few seconds. Soon, you can sit at a table and let it all out. Try not to unbutton your pants. No. Really. I don't care that you had a big dinner. And speaking of dinner, what's up with all that garlic, by the way?

2. Try to make friends with the moms at your table by offering to oversee the over/under bets on how long the meeting is going to take.

3. Switch seats when the mommies give you a bunch of dirty looks. (Don't forget to suck in your stomach as you go looking for a new table to hide your gut behind.)

Paying attention, and other thoughts on managing your self esteem

1. Try to keep your focus on what the nice lady at the front of the room is talking about and avoid letting your mind wander. It is very easy, at the end of the day, to fall into a sort of hypnotic coma ~~DTs~~ in that overly-warm ~~wine-free~~ school library. Not only do you risk drooling, but also, and far more dangerous, you risk not noticing when everyone in the room is suddenly looking at their shoes - a sure sign the nice lady's asking for volunteers and your cue to quickly grab your bag and start digging through it, pretending your phone is ringing with urgent news from the sitter.

2. Do not let your eyes wander around the room. Chances are, your face is tired and droopy and possibly, oh, let's just say it, a tad grumpy-looking. Anyone who catches you looking at them is going to think the look is directed at them, and assume you don't like their outfit or have issues with their parenting style. (We're a delicate-tempered lot, us moms.) Many a friendship has been ruined by a glance deemed judgmental at a PTO meeting. So: avoid eye contact.

3. Try distracting yourself instead the way I do: holding my thighs up off the chair so they don't look so fat when they're squished down against the seat and praying that in my next life I will get long legs that won't flatten so much when I'm sitting at PTO meetings (because I figure there's no way I was good enough in this life to be reincarnated past PTO meetings, but certainly better legs isn't too much to ask) until, like one of those birds attracted to shiny objects, I suddenly notice and become obsessed by the pretty accessories on woman nearby and start wondering why I am such a loser that I forget to put on accessories, too. Then I busy myself feeling bad about being so uncool (and fat-legged) as to need reminding about dressing like a grownup with accessories, and put on an unhappy face just as the bejeweled woman catches me staring, and assumes the look is directed at her. And her brooch. Or whatever that thing is. You don't need to know now because she is never going to talk to you again, anyway.

Volunteering, or, better yet, not

The one real risk to attending PTO meetings is that your presence makes it harder to pretend you don't know they need help with assorted things, and chances are you will get roped into something. It's not always a bad thing, though, as long as you remember to avoid certain activities. ~~Like any that involve actual children.~~

~~Or their parents.~~

Anything else, though. You're in! Totally. Sign me right up.

Especially if there's wine. Speaking of wine, Thursday is kinda like the weekend, right? And the kids are probably already asleep by now, so you're golden. It's safe to go home. Hopefully you've sat near the back...

Oops. Did I forget to tell you to do that? Sorry!

Guess you're stuck, then.

Me, I'm grabbing my "ringing" handbag, miming a few additional gestures that have everyone thinking there is some kind of emergency but that I'm too polite to interrupt a meeting for it, and sneaking off.

Have fun, though, you. Thanks for coming!

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The folks over at humor-blogs go to all the best PTO meetings.

How cool is this?!

2009-02-28T13:51:00.001-05:00

Whoa!

Have you seen it?

Mommie Dearest II

2009-02-27T10:55:00.002-05:00

Seriously.

You would think I fed my kids moldy bread and rusty, leaded tapwater, in between wire hanger beatings.

Some weeks ago, we saw Boy's sheer joy over the arrival in our home of a bag of pretzels. Pretzels! Not even Doritos or Cheetos or Fritos, for goodness' sakes. Just plain ol' pretzels.

This week?

I was too exhausted to come up with a dinner plan after one particularly bad stint at my day job as chauffeur to children with back-to-back evening piano lessons and a ballgame, and so I said, "You know what? I'm just making mac n' cheese. From. the. box. The blue box, even. Not the purple! (What? I hear it's done. All the time! Leave me alone.)

Boy's eyes would only have shone more if I'd said he could have a BB-gun.

"You?" he asked. "Would do that?

"For ME?"

It's just bad on so many levels. I wonder if the Department of Social Services has ever had anyone turn themselves in?

It's the "For ME?" part that's gonna haunt me.

Well, for a second or two, anyway.

Now, where did I put those wire hangers?

Kidding!

I use plastic. I mean paper, of course. No, plastic. Paper. Plastic. I forget. Did you ask me something?

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The folks over at humor-blogs do not have wire hangers in their closets, let me tell you.

This much I know is true

2009-02-25T09:35:00.002-05:00

It occurs to me that, as a mature 42-year-old of some worldly experience, I should occasionally ~~publish a stupid blog post~~ share with the world some of the vast wisdom I have gained over the years.

This little nugget here, for example:

It turns out that, if you are an homo sapiens of the female variety, you can count on one thing for absolute certain: If you happen to drop your purse/handbag/knitting bag/ski bag in a public area - say, for example, a ski lodge full of punk surly teen snowboarders during February vacation - it will always come to pass that a tampon will roll out.

No matter what kind of pretty little demure pouch you've purchased in which to tuck them away, no matter that you thought you'd zippered them into a side compartment. Those buggers have a mind of their own, and, like toddlers hopped-up on Motts, will manage to squirm their way out of anything, and run on down the road.

An interesting and important corollary to this is that the larger the crowd of witnesses, and the more... um, male, the bigger the tampon that will fall out.

(The absolute only exception to this rule is when and if you actually need a tampon, in which case you could drop three entire suitcases off the Eiffel Tower in front of a gang of tattoo-ed bikers and... nothing.)

Anyway. As I was saying, provided you do not actually need a tampon, one will always roll out.
And, as I was also saying, because apparently along with talking a lot I like to repeat myself, the larger the group of male audience members, and the more testosterone permeating the air, the larger that tampon of shame will be.

In fact, you are quite sure that this tampon, the one now rolling between the legs of some fancy plaid-coated, zit-encrusted but too-cool-for-words 16-year-old, this ginormous tampon McGyver could've used to staunch a burst aorta, is sooooo big it cannot even be one of yours. You, after all, only buy those skinny demur ones that come in a pretty flowered wrapper. This one, however, is clearly an elephant's.

How did it even get into your purse? you wonder, and your head starts mentally cataloguing the possibilities, instead of focusing on important things, like getting that sucker back into hiding, and getting your passport in order so you can flee into exile. But your urge to deny it all is so great, you cannot stop yourself. Maybe Susie asked you to hold it for her? Oh, puh-lease! That tired excuse? You were using that in high school to explain the cigarettes in your room.

Still, it is NOT YOURS, and the urge to disassociate yourself is so strong, you will actually find yourself looking around the room to see just who else happened to drop their purse at the exact same time because there is no other explanation... only to find yourself looking into a sea of horrified punks and their equally horrified 45-year-old dads (Do moms not go skiing?!) and realizing that unless punk snowboarders or their fathers have discovered a cool new use for tampons, it must have come from your purse after all.

Still, though.

No.

You refuse to accept it. The urge to deny continues to be so strong, you will find yourself saying, "But it can't be. I don't even have my..." except that even as you are saying it, even as you are crawling on the disgusting sand- and grit-coated floor of the ski lodge with your butt in the air to retrieve this Elephant tampon that is so not yours, the words will flit through your head first and you will stop yourself right there young lady because it occurs to you that telling people you don't even know that you don't have your period does not actually help anything, and you will stop in the nick of time.

And you know what?

Despite everything - despite the gigantic butt in the air and the escaping Elephant tampon and the humiliation of crawling on your hands and knees to retrieve this not-yours tampon, you will be just the teensiest bit proud of yourself. Just for knowing to stop talking. And doing it. For maybe the first time in your life.

Sometimes it's important we celebrate the little things, you know.

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The folks over at humor-blogs never drop their bags.

SorrySorrySorry!

2009-02-24T09:16:00.005-05:00

Aw, thanks, guys! You're all very sweet.

But I am fine, not stuck in a snowbank, not inundated in some bizarre yarn avalanche, not suddenly swept into the real world workforce by an obviously desperate employer.

There is, I'll admit, a touch of the February going on, but mostly it's the February school vacation that's to blame. There were children around, and it requires most of my intellect and all of my energy to entertain and feed them ~~keep them from burning down the house~~ and I had little to spare for blogging between that and the standard tour of Boston kid museums ~~perp walk.~~

So. That's all, really.

I'll be right back.

Watch a little TV or somethin'.

How to get through another stupid snow day

2009-01-28T09:27:00.002-05:00

5:45 a.m. Stumble downstairs and stand in front of television set watching school names scroll by while computer boots up.

Alternate holding your breath with offering up several prayers of the trade-off "I promise not to/if" variety while you wait for your children's schools' names. (I would think about that apostrophe placement a little harder, but - and not to wreck the surprise or anything - I have two kids at home wanting stuff, like food, and playdates with other snow-covered children, so I can't focus.)

See the relevant names scroll past.

Wipe tears from your eyes, and check the computer listing.

Just in case.

Sob quietly when - surprise, surprise - they're there, too.

Debate in your head waking them up at their usual time "so they stay on schedule" ~~because if you're suffering so should they~~ or letting them sleep to spare yourself the extra hour of kids underfoot wanting things, like food and playdates with snow-covered friends.

5:48 Go back to bed and hide under covers.

5:59-6:10 a.m. Fail to fall back asleep against the rising tide of "What will I do with them today?" and "What the heck am I supposed to feed them?" and oh, my heck, "ALL DAY?!" "Really?" questions.

6:15 a.m. Decide to go work out as a stress management preventive thing ~~because wine is not an acceptable beverage at 6:15 a.m.~~

7:30 a.m. Boy wakes up. Hear the footsteps as he comes looking for you.

See his feet from your hiding place under the bed.

"Mom?" he inquires, heading off downstairs. Breathe a sigh of relief, then become seized by worry about whether you've properly hidden the matches, and anyway, there are quite a few gross things under this bed.

Decide to be a grown up and start your unpaid day job, arguing with Boy over proper amounts of TV consumption.

10 a.m. Debate in your head waking up Girl. On the one hand, it is so darn peaceful if she's asleep. On the other, well, why does SHE get to sleep?

10:02 a.m. Send Boy in to do the job.

10:03 a.m. Savor the screams for a bit.

10:03:30 a.m. Until they get annoying.

10:04 a.m. Add your own to the mix, warning everyone to JUST BE QUIET!

10:05 a.m. Realize that you stupidly let them get up - and now have nothing to do with them. Begin hyperventilating. Tell yourself to Pull yourself together, woman! It's just a day! You can get through it. You will even helpfully whip up a blog post to help others get through theirs.

10:08 a.m. Realize it is 10 a.m. and Dog has not even been out to pee yet. And you're the only one there to take him. Also? That you're the only one home to shovel out the snow, too.

While all that sinks in, realize you're going to have to go dig up the snow clothes so the kids can all play outside. For 3 minutes before they get cold and come in, leaving wet clothes and boots strewn all over the entryway. For 2 minutes before they get bored and ask if they can have a friend over to play outside with. For 5 minutes before they ALL come in and drop their wet clothes all over the floor and ask that perennial question: "CAN WE WATCH TV?!"

Decide taking dog to pee is easier than having to contend with the whole "who to call" thing, and what will you feed THEM, anyway, since you haven't been to the store, and have nothing but leftovers and junk you can feed your own kids, but not someone else's.( At least not if you don't want them to talk about you behind your back at the next PTO meeting.) Tell your kids you're off to pee the dog.

"Dad took him," you're told by Boy.

Hope rises. "How do you know?"

"I saw footprints and yellow snow."

Pat yourself on the back for what a great job you've done raising your child: not only did he observe the small details of life, but thought to inform you of them in a helpful way. What a great kid!

Until you realize he probably lying.

Go look out window for footprints. See none. Wonder if the yellow snow is old yellow snow. Spend valuable time in which your dog could be peeing trying to track down your husband at work to see if the dog needs to go out or not.

"Did you pee him?" you ask, when you finally find him.

"No. Of course not. I brushed off your car, though."

Well that's helpful, honey. SINCE I'M NOT GOING ANYWHWERE!!!!

Bundle up to take dog pee. Advise him repeatedly he better get it all out now, 'cuz we aren't coming back out for awhile.

Go back in, take off wet garments, dry off dog, start pile of wet crap on floor that is going to bug you all day long.

Come face-to-face with two unbreakfasted kids looking at you expectantly. Buy time by going to wash hands. Find yourself hyperventilating again.

Begin negotiations over going sledding. Explain to children that outdoor crap in snow is in Man's parental contract, not yours. You just cook. This nonsense of digging up snow clothes and driving to the hill and standing there in the snow and cold is not really your cup of tea. (Probably not Man's either, but you don't care about that. He didn't even pee the dog, for cryin' out loud!)

Realize you are not going to win the negotiations and call Man back to find out where the heck the snow clothes are. And does he think maybe he can come home early?

Realize you have no idea how you're going to get through this day, and had no business promising relief to others.

In fact, wish me luck, wouldja? It's a looooonnnnnng way till 5 and wine, from here.

Well, make it 4:45.

It is, after all, a snow day.

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The folks over at humor-blogs probably live somewhere good and snow-free, like Florida.

I had a dream once, too, ya' know

2009-01-22T10:52:00.006-05:00

One of my biggest pet peeves (and admittedly, there are quite a few. Just ask Man, who claims my grave should read: "We have a new rule") is the overuse and abuse of the whole I had a dream thing. You know what? It was an important speech, with an important message. It just seems disrespectful to use it to sell coffee or hand lotion.

That pet peeve is closely tied with another dream-related one: that of people telling you their dreams. Not like MLK did, of course. I mean the kind of dreams people have when they're asleep. (Particularly when said people are 8 years old, and the dreams involve longwinded, convoluted stories about Pokemon that make you want to gouge out your eyes with the knife you're using to spread too-cold peanut butter onto bread for their school lunch), but really anyone's dream will do.)

I tell you all this because in my head that somehow will negate the fact I am about to violate both rules to tell you about a dream I had.

It was a weird dream, but ~~heck, I needed a blog post~~ I think it says something important. ~~Like that I am, apparently, willing to sacrifice my principles at the drop of a hat.~~

It was a couple of days ago, so I am already foggy on the details (which makes the story EVEN better), but for some reason I was going to a job interview at, of all places, Macy's. The job involved organizing something or someone. And I thought, heck, I am great at bossing people around and keeping schedules, so even though the whole shopping thing isn't really, exactly my thing, I'll just go and see what happens.

When the time came for me to get dressed and go, I did what I usually do when forced to face an outfit change, and decided that what I had on was good enough. In my defense, I live in an old drafty Victorian that I refuse to heat because it just seems wasteful, and so taking off clothes in January is usually an extreme sport, and one in which I'm not willing to engage. So off I went to this interview, wearing...

flip flops.

Except that then I remembered I had stored some real shoes in my locker at the supermarket, which was conveniently located under the Macy's.

But when I got there, the locker was empty! My shoes were STOLEN! Can you believe it?!

So I started to go to the interview in my flip flops. BUT THEN? My jacket, which was pink (Now I don't know about you, but I don't normally wear a whole lot of pink, especially not to an interview. I came of age at a time when, to get a job, women felt like they had to dress like a man, complete with shoulder pads a mile wide.

Perhaps it was to counter all the big hair. )

Big hair, shoulder pads, 1989, first newspaper job. That day's assignment: bimbo pose for lottery story that someone else got to write.

In my dream, the jacket I was wearing for my interview - with my flip flops - was one of those gorgeous Jackie O ones, with the wide collar. I don't know what they're called, but there is one on this great sweater Jane made. Ain't it purty?

In any case, back in my dream, the pink jacket began to unravel. From the neck down. Quickly. And so I was left clutching scraps of fabric against my chest to cover up, and fled in my flip flops, looking something like a crab scuttling away, trying to keep everything in place. Well, if a crab had boobs it needed to hide from the public at Macy's.

What?

Oh, yeah. Hm. I see your point. OK. Exactly like a crab, then.

Anyway, I ended up throwing in the towel on the whole interview thing, and going home. The rest of the dream is kinda fuzzy now and boring, involving deep thoughts about just what the heck I was doing with my life if I couldn't even get it together to get dressed for a job interview.

But the point of it is that, when I went to dig up the big hair picture to show y'all what exactly I meant, I found an even worse outfit:
Same newspaper job, circa 1989. That day's assignment: Bimbo pose for article on shopping at thrift stores that someone else got to write.
Still and all, as bad as it was, at least I was 22. Ah, to be 22 again. You forget that even gross clothes and nasty-ass hair can't hide the amazing lack of wrinkles.

Of course, some things, even being 22 can't fix:
YIKES!

Oh well. You know what was worse, though? The day they put us (there were two of us, women-folk, back in the day) into a Mercedes convertible for a story (that someone else got to write) on PICKING UP GUYS at the beach.

We've come a long way, baby!

Said the housewife.

******************

The folks over at humor-blogs never compromised their principles for a job, but say thank goodness Playboy apparently never came around or who knows what she would have done for her dream?! And why is she leaving us to tie up all the loose ends and make the connections here? Is she in a hurry to get to the grocery store or something? Is the washing machine exploding? Is she late for a meeting? We just don't get her point, here. She's all over the place in this one. And she thinks the Pokemon dreams are bad. Dear Lord!

A Housewife's New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-16T06:35:00.001-05:00

I tried hard to have some deep, deep thoughts about what I should accomplish this year.

It took me a while.

There was so much to think about. This blog, for starters. What the heck is it anyway? It's embarrassing how I can't keep up with the bling-y aspects. Even Blogger.com is sending me emails saying, "Look, you loser. This place could be waaaay better. Do you even know how to operate a camera? Why aren't you using Flickr and Twitter and all the other pretty stuff we give you?" And the writing. Maybe I should commit to something, have a plan. Say, oh, two times a week, and figure out a way to handle comments. Decide to drive around the U.S. of A. to meet readers. I don't know: Something cooler.

But then I remembered, "Oh, yeah! I'm not actually getting paid to blog, and so spending more time thinking about it really only gets in the way of Thing I'm Supposed to Be Thinking About No. 2, which is coming up with something more exciting to say when people ask me "And what do you do?" than "Uh.... Nothing, hee hee hee. Have another cookie. Don't trip over that skate."

And so I spent some time thinking about that. But it turns out that 12 years of having your soul sucked right out of you doesn't leave you with enough energy, wits or stamina to figure out how to get out from under the laundry, let alone develop a major life plan that you are able to convince yourself you can actually do.

So you know what? I tossed out the deep thought plan.

There is no shame in it. It was weighing me down and causing me to be even more neurotic than I already am. If you could see my head, you would know: It's really dark and scary in there. Don't make me go back!

But I have a new plan: SHALLOW thoughts for the coming year. I figured I could manage a couple o' those for all the people - Hi, Dad! - who've been waiting so patiently. And here they are:

Mad Mad's Resolutions for the ~~Coming~~ Already-Started But Still New-ish Year:

1. This year, I will scrape the dog boogers off the window BEFORE the Garden Club meeting, and not after serving the egg salad sandwiches.

(Speaking of Garden Club, I will remember to sign up for bagel duty next Christmas, too, because apparently no one eats carbs any more, and thus you can bring home the entire batch untouched, and recycle them for church coffee hour the next day, where Wow! Ditto! and then send them off to school teacher luncheon Monday before throwing them away, still largely untouched, shaking your head about waste and starving people in India. (Wait-wait-wait. Are people still starving in India or did we find a new country? I think they're all set in India now, aren't they? I'll have to ask next time I call customer service about my microwave.))

2. I will stop trying to trick my kids into thinking I've used regular sandwich bread by flipping the butt ends toward the inside and hoping they won't notice, all because I just couldn't stomach a trip to the grocery store.

3. Speaking of those fiery pits of hell, I will recognize that convincing myself to get to the supermarket by telling myself the Necco candy hearts might be out already is really only setting myself up for failure in my attempt to lose the five ~~ten~~ pounds gained over the holidays from consuming too much food ~~wine~~.

4. I will promise that in my next life, I will have real job BEFORE my child wears the same shoe size. (I'll still not let her wear my shoes, though. So she should not even ask. Especially while we're still in this life.)

5. I will work harder at getting it through to my kids that a rousing debate over whether it is better to be a poo or some pee - complete with gory instances of each - is not appropriate dinner table conversation. Especially not when we have guests.

6. I will stop testing whether I have become allergic to cats and just accept that when one leaves the animal shelter covered in hives and gasping for air, it's probably time to finally put away the litter box that has been sitting on one's stair landing, catless, (but happily, poo-less as well, which is not something I can say for the one in the basement...) for two years.

7. I will stop bragging about how great it is that both my dog and my son - back when he was still crawling - play(ed) ball by themselves. Dog will bounce the ball and catch it over and over and over, and it reminds me of when Boy would throw it and crawl after it. And throw it and crawl after it. I will recognize that the widened eyes are not shorthand for How cute! but instead for What was that number for Department of Social Services? And that a story comparing my son to a dog does nothing for my son. ~~Or my dog, if truth be told.~~

8. I will stop trying to teach people to knit in odd circumstances. The particular low this year came when I tried to teach an acquaintance to knit AS I DROPPED HER OFF IN FRONT OF THE HOSPITAL FOR HER CHEMO TREATMENT.

"No really, you can do it. It will make the chemo more fun."

(OK, no. I don't know that I actually said that. But each night as I'm trying to fall asleep and I replay all the stupid things I've ever done - What, you don't do that!? - that's how I imagine it.)

9. I will try to be kinder to myself, and let things like No. 8 go.

Because really? I'm not wrong: It would make the chemo more fun, darn it.

On second thought, perhaps all this is a lot to expect of me. I forgot, after all, if I'm busy with all that, who is going to do the laundry? So I think maybe I'll just go check out the soaps, instead.

And where'd I leave those bonbons?

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are thrilled I got that planning over with and can continue with the regularly scheduled ~~psychosis~~ programming.

If Martha Stewart and Mommie Dearest could have had a love child...

2009-01-15T09:05:00.002-05:00

It would, apparently, be me.

Boy, upon noticing the groceries still on the counter when he got home (there were blog posts to not write, after all), had this to say:

"You bought pretzels? And we're not even having a party?! WOWIE -WOW-WOW!"

Puh-lease.

Like I'd ever serve pretzels at a party.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs would say I was missing the point. And possibly a few marbles.

Oh, that river in Egypt

2009-01-13T14:20:00.003-05:00

Ahhhhh, denial.

If only my resolve were as firm as my conviction that this much yarn was absolutely, definitely going to be enough to finish 15 more rows of scarf:

Twisted Vine Neckwarmer

It wasn't:

Oh well.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are wondering just why I'm talking about knitting so much. Weren't my New Year's resolutions supposed to be in today?

Sock it to me

2009-01-09T09:39:00.006-05:00

You know ~~you might be too knitting-obsessed~~ something has gone very, very wrong when you have to put your life on hold to handwash your socks.

And you think that's completely normal.

Eh. Might as well wait till this one's ready, too. Noro Sock. Not as itchy as you'd think. (Hm. You just know they're gonna contact me about using that as a logo.)

************************************************
The folks over at humor-blogs wear machine-washable socks. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Snow more on the deep, deep thoughts

2009-01-07T18:40:00.008-05:00

OK. So this time I was totally ready.

The fridge was stocked. The laundry done, the house cleaned.

The deep, deep thoughts and I were going to spend the day together. All by ourselves.

Until we weren't:

Snow Day.

So anyway, ix-nay on the deep thoughts day.

Part of me thinks maybe God is trying to tell me something. Maybe he's all like, Hey, you, down there! Yeah, YOU, the annoying one. Enough already! You're just a housewife. Get OVER it all ready. I have more important things to do here than listen to your whining!

But part of me thinks Monday might be a better day.

Well, let's say Tuesday to be on the safe side. Yeah. Tuesday at the latest. That's not too bad, right?

Deep, deep thoughts on the New Year

2009-01-06T18:00:00.001-05:00

There I was, the laundry all done, all set to have some deep thoughts about my future and 2009, when I realized...

We have no food.

(Or laundry detergent.)

So... yeah.

The deep thoughts will happen tomorrow.

For sure.

Almost certainly.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs will notice that, yes, we DO have four different types of peanut butter in the fridge. You got a problem with that?

A Housewife's New Year

2009-01-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Whew! ~~Thank God they're gone and that nonsense is over with!~~

I apologize for being possibly the only blogger left worldwide to not have contributed her New Year's resolutions to the greater blogsophere. In fact, Blogger just made me sign on, password and everything, like I was some kind of weirdo stranger or something. I didn't actually even remember my password....

I do take some comfort from the fact that even Oprah is five days late starting her Best Life. I mean, if Oprah can't get there on time, who am I to argue with her calendar?

Anyway, I know y'all think I'm a slacker, but it's different when you're a mom and there are people around. It's kinda like Bring Your Kids ~~and husband~~ To Work Day and all anyone wants is multiple trips to the snack machine. And oh, by the way, did you get a present for my teacher? And bake cookies for the party that will take place during the one hour I am actually at school before you need to pick me up and drive me three towns over to a party celebrating the end of school? And do I have an outfit for Christmas yet? And by the way, these shoes? No way do they fit. Am I old enough for heels? Has anyone done any laundry?

For 14 days in a row.

Maybe it was 15. Or 200. I don't remember any more.

So I do apologize, but it is really hard to have deep thoughts about the clean slate of a New Year when you have all that, plus have to step over ice hockey equipment and ski clothes and suitcases and gift return piles of things that didn't fit were really too stupid to even discuss, but I'm sorry, NO, a game of Pente is NOT on any woman's wish list. Really. I'm not kidding. And running clothes? Seriously. C'mon. Wasn't there a yarn store anywhere?!

I need a clean (empty!) house before I can have deep thoughts about whether THIS will be the year I finally send out that resume ~~What resume, you big liar?!~~ or don't let myself get overwhelmed and discouraged by the fact that $25 for a piece it took hours to write is really too stupid to even bother with sending in in the first place. Or whether THIS will be the year I decide what it is I want to do with my life, and stop messing around on Blogger reading about the lives of people who have one already and on Ravelry finding new things to knit.

It it time to get on with my life.

So today, now that they are all gone, I will think some deep, deep thoughts. And then I will get right back to you about my plans for the coming year.

First, though, there is a little of this to vacuum:

and a little of that to put away:

Some ski clothes to wash, fold and put back in these bins so I can get them out of the hallway and back in the attic where they belong:

Some other stuff to wash and fold:

~~Some wine to drink:~~

But right after all that. Yep. I'll sit right down and ~~cry~~ figure out my life.

Shouldn't take long at all.

Nope.

In the meantime:

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs probably have their resolutions already taken care of.

Merry, merry!

2008-12-25T10:33:00.009-05:00

WHEW!

Or, as I said to Man the other night, you know you are really tired when you make your wine selection for the evening based on which bottle has a screw top - because the additional effort of walking the six feet to the drawer with the wine opener seems overwhelming.

In between all the usual cookie-baking and toilet-plunging there have been a few other things keeping me busy, a stomach flu (That was a hang-over hon. No it wasn't. Yes it was. No, it wasn't.) and a birthday from which to recover. (You look good for 42. Thanks honey. Pretty sure you're supposed to say I look good for 21. Oh yeah. You look good for 21. Yeah. Thanks. You're the best. )

Anyway. Busy, like I said.

But Merry, Merry to you all. Or, as Boy insisted on saying to the Episcopal. priest. on Christmas. Eve: "Happy Holidays!"

"You never know, mom. He might be Jewish."

Happy holidays to you all!

Dog: Gone

2008-12-10T16:16:00.001-05:00

Yeah.

I don't know where she went, either.

Something about stupid Santa obviously being a man, how he needs so much help to get a job done. Something else, too, about the subjugation of women, blah, blah, blah, and how's she supposed to get a job if she has to buy stuff and make cookies, blah blah blah.

I try not to listen too much. I would go crazy.

I just hope MY stocking isn't empty this year. God knows, it doesn't deserve to be, not after all this stuff she makes me wear.

Also? If she doesn't take me out soon, it's gonna be more than just pee on the next person's foot, lemme tell ya'.

*****************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs got their shopping done early.

Enough with the Thanksgiving, already!

2008-12-04T08:58:00.004-05:00

Dearest (*eye roll* *eye roll*) Mother:

I know you're busy, but.

It's time someone told you this: Thanksgiving was a week ago.

Please stop scraping the icky crumb things off the cheese in the fridge and serving it up to us with some stale crackers as dinner. Club soda with a lemon - especially not those left over dried up wedges - is not an adequate juice substitute. We did not like those cut up peppers - no matter that they're such a pretty orange! - when you served them up 6 days ago, they are certainly not going down the hatch now.

You cannot send your son off to school with rosemary garlic crackers and goat cheese for snack time. It is unseemly. His friends are going to laugh at him. It was bad enough when my friends overheard him say we needed to invite his little buddy over for a "dinner party" instead of a "play date."

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

But.

So anyway. I know you hate the place with the fiery white heat of a thousand blazing suns, but... do you think you can get to a supermarket any time soon? We're kind of afraid scurvy will be setting in soon.

XO -

Your favorite daughter

****************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs know when Thanksgiving is over.

Thankful for blogging

2008-11-24T10:23:00.001-05:00

So.

Yesterday?

I was all...

And a little...

with a bit of

thrown in.

But Man? Nothing.

Boy? Nothing.

Girl? Nothing. (But there probably wouldn't be because she's so busy rolling her eyes all the time that she can't see straight anyway.)

Dog? Ugh. I'm still not talking to him, so I don't care what he thinks.

So I took myself off to church, hopeful strangers would be more polite. Still, nothing.

I even stayed for the coffee hour.

NADA. Zero. Zip.

After lunch, I headed to a craft fair, thinking that perhaps the refined sensibilities of artists, even if they ended up being the kind who make things out of toilet paper rolls, would do the trick.

Nuh-thing.

But my mother-daughter book club ~~excuse to drink wine at 4 in the afternoon~~ was coming over later. I held out some hope. Surely then. They are, after all, my FRIENDS, people.

But no.

In desperation, I even threw out a little...

to get the conversation going.

Best Seller Yarn Harlot's Baby Mine Sweater (Bestest EV-AH!) Sundara Sock Yarn (Ditto.)

I just left it on the counter, all casual-like, with the rest of the mess, as if I had just thrown it there so I wouldn't forget to drop it off for the silent auction next week.

Hellooooo? Anyone?

Nada.

That's when I remembered you guys. You're the best. You wouldn't leave a girl hangin', wouldja?Not after all my troubles of the past.

So.

Ahem.

No, really, I mean it.

I'm talkin' to you, missy.

That's right. You.

Gathered Pullover Interweave Knits, Winter 2007, 3 Skeins Louet MerLin

Anyone? Anyone at all. You're not going to make me beg ~~more~~, are you?

*********************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are thankful for blogging, too. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Bad, bad boy

2008-11-21T09:39:00.001-05:00

What is the matter with you?

Are you kidding me?

Look at me when I'm talking to you, mister.

Look.

At.

Me.

I cannot believe you behave this way. I did not raise you to be a little monster. What is the matter with you?

I give you everything you could possibly want and I can't bring you anywhere without you embarrassing me. This is not the way we behave. This is awful!

And in public! What are people going to think? It's bad enough that I am just a stay-at-home mommy - and that I'm not even a really good one. Do you know that at this very minute I am wearing a Sponge Bob Band-aid on my knee? And that's not even the bad part. The bad part is I had to dig it out of my purse and blow the lint off it, and also unstick a - I think used - Life Saver candy off it because we didn't have any Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet. (Though someone was kind enough to leave the empty box on the shelf for me to dispose of. That's always helpful.) But what kind of stay-at-home mom runs out of Band-Aids? Isn't the whole point of staying home so that you're around to take care of these Band Aid-related emergencies?

So, see? I stink. But the whole world didn't know it. For all the world knew, I was this together mom who had Band Aids in her medicine cabinet and maybe even an unexpired tube of that Neosporin stuff.

Maybe they thought I was a mom who knew what I was doing.

But noooooo. You had to go and mess it all up.

Did you REALLY have to go and pee on that lady's foot?!

Bad, bad Dog.

For all those of you who care about such things and will ask, but without leaving your email behind, Dog is a mutt: German short-haired pointer and American Lab. Or, as the vet said, "Oh, nice. Two crazy breeds."

Yeah.

Also? Bad.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs probably have better dogs.

A work in progress

2008-11-12T10:28:00.000-05:00

Today marks the anniversary of the day on which I first started becoming a grown up.

I say started becoming because I am still a work in progress.

And I confess to using the term progress a bit loosely because after 12 whole years I'm still not 100 percent sure why Cherry Air Heads can't be considered lunch and never mind the whole patience and selflessness thing.

That part is really, really hard.

I'm thinking I'll need at least another 12 years. Maybe more. In fact, maybe around the time there are grandchildren, I'll be ready to give up the Air Heads (and probably because by then I won't have any teeth) and be a fully cooked grown-up.

No promises I'll like changing their diapers any more than I did yours, though.

Happy birthday, Girl!

You learn a new thing every day

2008-11-06T09:09:00.006-05:00

So the other day, I'm standing at the edge of a soccer field with a fellow mom.

"I am sooooo tired," she said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "The time change, the election ~~kids, husbands, this damn, interminable soccer, dishwashers that don't empty themselves, dinners that don't cook themselves, school lunches, homework, PTO, birthday parties, dogs that need walking..."~~

"Ugh," she continued ~~interrupted~~. "I was in bed till 7:20, when the kids got me up to take them to school, and then I drove them in my pajamas and when I got home I went back to bed."

I scraped my lower jaw off the turf, where it had first landed when she said 7:20 - Hel-loo! That's practically NOON! - and then stayed for the rest of it.

"Wait-wait-wait. You went back to bed? You're allowed to do that?!" I asked.

"Oh, Madmad," she said, "you are so. darned. funny!"

Yeah.

No.

"Seriously. You can do that?!"

She is busting a gut laughing now, slapping her knee and everything, so obviously, I have to pretend that this, in fact, is what I intended.

Yeah, that's right, funny little me, not stupid little me who apparently forgot to consult the rule book on these matters.

So I let it go, and pretend I'm all funny and stuff.

But yeah.

Seriously. You can do that? How come no one ever told me?!

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs know how to be real housewives.

Remember Rhinebeck?

2008-10-30T13:48:00.003-04:00

In my typical with-it, on-top-of-things fashion, I am finally getting around to reporting a story that occurred a couple weeks ago.

Anyone remember Rhinebeck?

Perfect. Then this will come in handy. Just as in handy as my last post, with all those pictures of me... which I meant to post BEFORE going to Rhinebeck so that my internet friends could find me in the crowds.

So, yeah. That worked out great.

Anyway. Rhinebeck. For all of those who don't know ~~care (and what's wrong with you anyway?)~~, Rhinebeck is a county fair type thing held in very gorgeous Rhinebeck, NY, in the fall, and focused on sheep and wool stuff. So you know: yarn, knitting.

Hey!

Get back here. Right this instant! Don't make me come get you, now. 'Cuz I've got practice:

We're talkin' knittin' here, and you sit back down right this minute. I don't care if you don't like it. You should.

Anyway. Once again, my trusty companion Persnickety Knitter and I drove off into the sunset.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove until we could drive no more and had pretty much even run out of anything to say. Just kidding. Like I could ever shut up. In fact, I bet poor Persnickety was tempted to just plunge the minivan right into the Hudson River to get some peace and quiet. But she's a good person, and so we made it to the hotel dry.

We met up with the fabulous Melissa and her fun friends Rue, Katy and Kristen. Melissa was frantically knitting, struggling mightily to finish a sweater of her own design in time for her book signing event the next day.

Which would have been fine and dandy, except she would have needed to finish two sleeves and a front in order to be ready. While this might seem like delusional thinking to the average person ~~everyone, actually~~ you never toss around words like "deluded" to a determined knitter with sharp sticks in her hand.

So while others offered advice on speed knitting techniques, I just poured her some wine, because I find that it helps ~~not care~~ the best.

I do not think she finished her sweater in time.

We went out for some Nuevo Latino food. Nuevo Latino, for those who don't know, is just a fancy word for burritos that are not sold by chihuahuas. They were quite good. Or maybe that was the pitchers of margaritas. I don't remember.

Then we turned in early to ~~sober up~~ get a crack at getting up early to beat the crowds at the fair. Now you non-knitters (and again, what is wrong with you, anyway?) would never in your wildest imagination believe this, that there actually is a need to RUSH THE FAIR. Yep. But there was. And not just that, but there was actually a WHOLE LINE OF CARS STOPPING TRAFFIC, all filled with people trying to get into a yarn fair.

It's a crazy world we live in.

Also? FREEZING. Even true knitters were just giving up on the wool thing. Yep, those sheep sure looked cute in their down jackets.

And while you're all distracted, rolling your eyes at my lame joke, I will sneak in a little confession: Sacriwooligious as it may seem, I was not in it so much for the yarn, as I was to meet (and re-meet) some of the awesome people whom I've "met" blogging. And to stalk a few others.

I was so excited to finally meet Barb from So the thing is... and Connecticut co-workers Kim and Tracy, whom I'd met this spring, but was happy to see again, and the four of us poked through the fair together like old friends. It is always hard when you meet people for the first time - or second - because you want to look presentable ~~like you're hip and pretty~~ and you only have one day/outfit to do it in. But it is especially hard to look presentable when your nose could replace Rudolph's and is running like a faucet and you have on five layers of clothes and staticky hat-hair.

On the plus side, after a day of hanging out with runny noses, five layers of clothes and hat-hair, you succumb to the reality of the situation, and give up trying to impress and just settle into being friends, which is altogether more fun.

We ran into Leslie and her sister. (The combined beauty and uber-coolness emanating off those two required looking away lest we burn our retinas in the glow.) I pretty much copy everything Leslie does in a futile attempt to be uber-cool myself, so of course the second I got home I went out and bought 17 skeins of yarn to make this sweater, which her sister was wearing.

(Some of you might ask why, in the midst of, you know, a sheep and wool festival, I didn't just buy the yarn there. It's very complicated. ~~Just shut up.~~)

Anyway, at the end of the day, all those lightweight weenie-pantses headed home, to be warm and knit or something, but Persnickety and I were just getting started. We went back to the hotel to get ready for the Ravelry party that night. 'Cuz we are rocking party machines ~~wanted to win us some yarn/stalk some knitters.~~

Persnickety had bought a lot of yarn during the day, and decorated her bed with it... you can see it here, on Melissa's blog, because I was stupid and didn't bring a camera. (As an aside? Having a hotel room without men or children is GREAT. Persnickety both puts the toilet seat cover down AND takes her hair out of the shower drain, and there was no snoring ~~to get in the way of mine.~~ In my next life, I am sooo going to work on this lesbian thing. It seems like it would make life a whole lot easier.)

Anyway. So we went to the Ravelry party, which was OUTSIDE in 25 degree weather, so as you can imagine: fun, fun, fun. With a bit of cold thrown in. I did not win anything, but I did get my picture on their website. If you look at their pics, I'm in the very last one, "Raffle hopefuls," on the left, looking very, very cold. Which I was.

As another interesting aside, the Elks Lodge guys that booked the event were probably laughing their little antlers off at the idea of knitters renting out their space, but we showed them, didn't we, when those police officers came to bust things up. ~~OK, OK, just to make us move our cars is all.~~

Anyway, it was very fun ~~cold~~ and those people who run Ravelry are so darned cute, along with running a fantastically fabulous website, that you just want to squeeze 'em. Cute as buttons, those people.

In stalking news, I espied New York Times Best Selling Author The Yarn Harlot. In fact, she came right over to talk to Melissa while we waited in line and I again did my thing, where I just stand there and don't breathe in hopes no one will notice me. (I find it works great, if you're interested. She did not notice me.) The next day, she had a book signing, but the line was very long, and Man was threatening to leave the kids alone to go on his business trip, so I settled for sneaking quick glances around the curtain while she signed other people's books and got myself an unsigned one. (It still works, you know. Just not as well.)

Anyway. Before heading home, we stopped in at the wine tasting booths, where I tried very hard to like some wine.

I know!

Can you even believe I just said that? Me, either. But seriously. Now, I don't know whether it is just that taste-testing wine at all of 10 in the morning is a little odd (even for me) or just that, um... New York wine is not... er, French, but I was having some issues.

But the worst thing was that when you tasted the wine, you had to proclaim right there and then in front of the guy's face whether you liked it or not. And I am not good at that. I can't just hurt someone's feelings. On purpose. (Off purpose, it happens all the time.) So I just bought some of that Cherry Chocolate whatever and decided ~~Dude! Save it for a Christmas present for Man!~~ to quit trying any more wine lest I finish off my ~~Christmas list~~ bank account.

Persnickety and I poked around a little more on the way out - a lot of the yarn was already sold out - and then decided we should head home ~~to see how badly our husbands had trashed our houses.~~

And that was it, really. We came back. To laundry, homework and PTO meetings and school visits and soccer practice and within moments we were gasping for air and wondering why we had to wait another 364 days to go back.

How to take a picture for your blog

2008-10-28T10:34:00.000-04:00

For some time now, it has bugged me that I may be the only person in the history of the blogging world who does not have a cool little picture up there with her name.

First step?

Filing the appropriate work requisitions forms:

Boy! Get down here! I need you to take a picture!

Re-submitting them after they are declined.

You have till I count to 10 to get down here or you will lose TV FOR.EV.ER!

Thank you. Now take Mommy's picture.

Ew. I look really tired. Take a better one.

Yes.

Because I said so.

NOW.

Nah. Too deer in headlights. Take another.

If you do not get back here right this INSTANT, YOUNG MAN....

UY! Way too happy!

Too nightmare.

I don't like it. No, I don't care that that's what I really look like. That's only what I really look like when I'm talking to YOU. The rest of the people do not generally require my I-mean-business face.

Oh, that's just great. I'm not even looking. You know what? I'm getting your sister. ~~You stink.~~ This is not working.

File appropriate work orders:

I don't give a hoot about your homework. This is important. Get down here, and take Mommy's picture!

Hm. Try again.

Seriously?!

Waste precious fading daylight arguing with whiny daughter over her ~~suckiness as a photographer~~ inability to take a decent picture. Prove that yes, you can take picture from this distance with out it being out of focus ~~much~~:

Hand her back the camera, with your best warning look:

Get this anyway:

Watch as she manages to figure it all out... in time for you to look like this:

Throw in the towel. Decide you'll take your own pictures, thank you very much, and stomp off to the bathroom to do so:

Oh. Now that's nice. Just lovely.

OK. Try again. Smile, lady:

Um... yeah. Decide suckiness at photography runs in the Mad Family, and throw in the towel.

Give up and go to bed ~~drink wine.~~

Allow eight weeks to pass. Decide on a whole new tack. A regular head shot isn't you anyway. You need more of a themed approach for it to work.

Re-submit work orders. (See above.)

It's crooked. Hold it straight. ~~Dammit.~~

Wait-wait-wait. I wasn't ready. ~~Dammit.~~

Get back here right this minute! I mean it, young man!

That's IT. You are in so much %$&^* trouble, mister!

I quit!

Hm.

You know what? Maybe that first one was the winner after all.

And, you know, if it says "tired," well, I guess that's true, ain't it? So after a bit of a nap... I'll try to remember how how to put it up there.

I told her and told her... she shoulda gone with a picture of me.

Life lessons

2008-10-27T11:24:00.001-04:00

In my next life, I am going to try harder to remember not to warp my children by parenting before coffee. ~~Also? After.~~

That, I believe, may be the best way to avoid scenarios like the one this morning, when Boy came downstairs bright and early and launched into a retelling of his dream, which sounded suspiciously like the plot of a television show he was not supposed to be watch.

"Boy?" I said, "A) That dream sounds suspiciously like the plot of the television show you were not supposed to watch and B) it's waaaay too boring and convoluted for me to follow at this moment and C) This bang-bang-bang thing where you mimic mowing people down with an Uzi is highly inappropriate and completely unacceptable. Guns are not toys. Do you understand me? Just last night some poor little 8-year-old boy had his head blown off by a gun because some grown-ups thought it would be fun to have a pumpkin shoot at the local gun club. With an Uzi, for the love of Pete! And if that can happen with grownups around, just imagine! You are never, ever, ever supposed to even LOOK at a gun. Do you understand me?!

"Alrighty then, honey. Have a great day at school."

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs have even more parenting tips.

Brain surgery: It's not like it's housekeeping, you know.

2008-10-23T13:45:00.005-04:00

I simply do not understand how brain surgery could possibly be any harder than this.

Oh, sure, brain surgery involves some affinity for blood and perhaps some skill at skull-sawing, but no requirement you actually be able to alter the laws of physics and bend time to accommodate concurrent soccer practices on opposite sides of town.

At dinner time.

When you have no dinner anyway. Because really, when exactly were you going to shop or cook? Certainly not during the hours you were participating in some demented teacher's vengeful scheme wherein you were supposed to shadow your child the entire school day.

You went along with it, well, because you didn't want everyone to think ~~know~~ you are the cranky mommy who doesn't think these newfangled ideas are just fabulous and that really inside you were like, "What?! Are you kidding me? I pay this much money and you want me to STAY?! THE WHOLE DAY?! Really? No? You're not kidding?"

And you even threw in an "Oh! What a wonderful idea!" for kicks, and hoped no one noticed the choppiness to your words as you choked them out while simultaneously gasping for air and praying no swear words would accidentally fly out, too, as though you'd been suddenly stricken with a bad case of Tourette's.

And so you come home after this 6.5-hour shift and there is no food and no clean uniforms since they used them the day before, and you are forced to decide... What is really important here? And so of course you wash the uniforms, because, after all, you cannot have them show up in mud-splattered uniforms and expect to have people respect you in the morning.

And what's a little nutritional neglect between friends?

So now you head out to the practices and juggle in your head the Sophie's Choice of leaving one a little early to possibly get stolen by strangers or one a little late to have her mommy judged for being a bad mommy who brings her kid to soccer late, all the while feeling a little queasy (what with that no dinner thing), and then you shove them out the car door, crossing your fingers it will all be OK, and then try to be in two places at once to WATCH the practices like a good mommy would, all while enduring the effects of still not having had a chance to unpack your winter coat and woolens from the attic, even though its 30 degrees out and now where are you going to wipe the snot?

And then you round everyone up, chip the frozen snot off your cheek and go home praying there is still a box of Cheerios or something they can eat because, hey, you won't be eating - you have to head back out for a three and a half hour stint working the school garage sale thingy.

You did not even know there was this much time in a day, people.

Those early days of holding a warm, squishy baby in your lap and wondering if you'd ever master the feed/poop/nap cycle well enough to get out of the house by noon seem so easy now.

What is even stupider is that I remember thinking in those early days that school was going to be the answer. That that's when I would have some air, some time to breathe. Some time to think about a real job, and what I should do with my life. And so I counted down the days.

Babyhood just seemed so busy. You know: You'd just finished cleaning off all the poop that had squirted clear up to your baby's neck folds and re-changed her and were finally, finally headed out the door, when the phone would ring and you, because you were so damn lonely, would answer it because it could be an adult for heaven's sake, and you haven't talked to one of those, in oh, I don't know, three months? So you pick up the phone, but of course it's only a telemarketer and by the time you reassure him that No, seriously, you do not want any vinyl siding right now. You really mean it. In fact your house is made of bricks. Really. OK, OK, fine, fine, call me again next year.... it is time to feed her again.

And so you sit back down in that rocker again to feed her, knowing that the whole cycle of poop, clean up, nap is going to start all over and you may never get out that door and then the next thing you know, your husband is coming home from work and looking around with that slightly bemused expression, like What the hell does she do all day? and all you know is that he's really lucky you don't happen to own an ax.

Because no jury of your true peers would even bat an eye.

Yeah. Those days would seem like a vacation in Aruba right about now.

And so. All this, just to say that I want to write about Rhinebeck, I really do.

And about all the great, great, great, great, great, great people I met. And the great ones I met the week before. And the great one I plan to meet next year, but haven't even told her I'm going there yet... But there is a dishwasher to empty, a soccer uniform or two to wash, some dinner to round up. And I'm hoping to find some time in between all that to dig up my coat.

Or at least some Kleenex.

That pride, she always cometh...

2008-10-21T09:06:00.008-04:00

Yesterday, I beat the pants off Boy in a foot race across the school field.

I basked in his obvious admiration, not letting the fact he is a mere eight years old dampen my sense of accomplishment one little bit. Nope. We lowly stay-at-homes take our victories and successes anywhere we can. Also? I was not even wearing running shoes. So that should count extra.

"Wow, Mom!" he said, looking very, very impressed. Without any hint of irony whatsoever, he added: "You are soooooooooooo fast for an old lady."

For an old lady.

Alright then. Guess he won after all.

**********************

Tomorrow: Rhinebeck. I have some laundry, cleaning and grocery shopping to do first. You didn't really think Moms were allowed to just drive off into the sunset and have fun without paying for it somewhere, did you?

How much longer is this gonna last?*

2008-10-15T10:40:00.003-04:00

Thank you everyone, for all your kind comments and emails.

There is no need for concern - I am here, and fine and dandy, just suffering a little from having to share a computer with a middle schooler who actually "needs it for homework, not stupid blogging, Mom" and from my own ~~stupidity/inability to say no~~ very important volunteer work in the community, where I am apparently desperately needed ~~now that everyone with any sense went back to work.~~

But don't worry your little hearts about me; it's incredibly rewarding work. The title of this post, for example, is what one happy camper asked my friend and I as we were about five minutes into our nature lecture the other day. Today? I am off to sort through people's old clothing for a community garage sale.

It just doesn't get any better.

Thank the good Lord for wine, and that it's a more appropriate day of the week for drinking, than, say, Monday, though I think anyone could forgive even a Monday bottle after enduring a three-hour stint of picking through a box of someone else's musty clothes, right?

Anyway.

Next week will be better. I will also be coming off a weekend getting high on wool fumes, which makes everything better. Leave a comment if you'll be there so I can look for you.

Just don't bring me a box of your old clothes to sort.

Here's what I look like:

I'm planning on leaving the duster at home. The face, though, I think it's now frozen that way.

(Thanks to the wonderful Nadine, for the awesome apron from the Netherlands, where she lives, works and raises two of the cutest little kids ever. The photo is part of a post I have coming... one of these days.)

Just twist that knife, why don't you?

2008-10-03T09:39:00.003-04:00

Mom! Mom! Mom! The teacher let Suzie Q sign up for TWO activities during the school day, even though she is only in seventh grade! She just has to alternate days on the schedule is all. But Mommy, Mommy, can I ask if I can do that, too? 'Cuz Mommy, that way I could sign up for knitting as a second activity!

Pause for heart to swell. Did she really say "knitting?" She wants to take knitting?

"Oh, honey, that is so nice. I love that you want to learn knitting. But, see? Here's the thing: I can teach you knitting. For free. That is one thing I happen to actually know how to do. And so it's kind of a waste - and I can't believe I'm actually used that word to describe knitting time - for you to take knitting at school when you could take something else instead that you couldn't get at home."

Aww, Moo-oo-oom! You are so MEAN. Why don't you understand anything? It's not ABOUT the KNITTING, Mom. Who CARES about the knitting? It's the PEOPLE in the class. I hate KNITTING!

Gasp. She did not just say that, did she?

Girl stomps off while I pull the knife from my heart. She pauses at door, and swivels back on her heel:

And you can put that in your BLOG, too!

Alrighty, then.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs do as they're told, too.

Not a Maple tree

2008-10-02T13:22:00.001-04:00

Boy turns 8 today.

A better mommy would write something sappy, but just look at that face up there.

It just doesn't quite scream "turn into a maple tree in early spring," now does it?

No. Truth be told, it is highly possible that the only reason we've even let ~~Mr. Cranky Pants~~ him stick around this long is because he is so. darned. funny.

Funny goes a long way in my book. It makes up for ~~many,~~ ~~countless,~~ ~~innumerable,~~ a few assorted flaws.

On that note, and because I have a mere hour remaining before pickup time at school and need to fortify myself for the onslaught of a Boy on Birthday, I bring you one of my favorite summer memories of the guy:

We were at a somewhat fancy restaurant in Provincetown, Massachusetts, when Boy decided to go to the bathroom.

(No, no, hon - this isn't the story where he locked the bathroom door by accident on his way out, and then we spent the rest of the dinner watching bemused and varyingly patient men trying to get in, and DID NOTHING because we were too embarrassed to be THOSE PARENTS - the ones who bring kids who are too young into fancy restaurants. It's the other story.)

"Awwww, man, this place is CHEAP!" Boy said, when he got back to the table from his visit. "They sell napkins in the bathroom for 25 cents!" he said. "Twenty-five cents!" he repeated, indignant.

It took us half a beat, trying to figure out what he was talking about, but ultimately we laughed so hard it's a wonder we didn't get kicked out of the restaurant.

The kid can read all the minute details on the side of a sanitary napkin dispenser on the wall, but not whether the sign above the bathroom door says Women or Men?

How could you not keep him around?! Happy B-Day, big guy!

Lookie! I even cut your sister out of the picture, just for you. But just this once.

**********************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs like to laugh, too.

Dog days

2008-09-30T09:45:00.004-04:00

I'm not sure how this happened, exactly.

No, I had better plans for my life. Nothing spectacular, really. I didn't need to be president, or say, Oprah, but certainly something a little less crazy lady who talks to her pets and a little more Leslie Stahl-ish.

Someone serious, with dignity. Someone other people respected. I admit it is often tricky to pull that off, what with the voices in my head and all, but still, I make every effort to appear normal, like a sane person who has it together.

Today, for example, I even wore a scarf.

Accessorizing as evidence of sanity notwithstanding, I guess there are some things you just can't hide.

And it would have been alright - I was just coaxing the dog past a particularly scary corner (THREE LEAF BAGS!) but noooooo, I couldn't leave well enough alone, and just had to go and add that extra little bit.

"Whoa. Look at that great lawn! Isn't that a great lawn, Dog?" when I turned my head and practically ran smack-dab into two construction workers who overheard me talking to my dog like he was a person who noticed and cared about such things as neighborhood yard maintenance.

I may go down in history as the only woman ever to not have been cat-called by construction workers.

If that wasn't bad enough - and I'm only admitting this because we're really good friends - I think they may have taken two steps back.

I'm pretty sure it wasn't to look at my scarf.

****************************************************

Construction workers whistle at the folks over at humor-blogs.

How I Spent My Summer, by Girl

2008-09-09T10:13:00.001-04:00

9 A.M. Use pillow to cover head and drown out whine from outside my door. Something about "Just what do you think this is, Missy?"

Hmm... let me think... Maybe summer vacation, Mom?

*Snore.... *

9:30 A.M. Am jolted awake by someone re-enacting some wrestling moves he learned on television that he was not supposed to be watching.

"Mom said I should wake you up!" my brother yells, as he jams his elbow into my rib cage.

I could complain to my mom, but then she'd be like "Well, I guess you should have listened to me the first time." No sympathy there, let me tell you. And she'll be happy to provide a list of all the things she's already done this a.m. while I lay in bed like I was some kind of princess or something.

So I'm not going there.

I stumble downstairs but don't even bother asking about breakfast either, lest I get the "What do you think I am, a short order cook?" spiel. "Breakfast was two hours ago," she'll say.

Hel-looo, lady, I want to remind her, she doesn't actually make breakfast then, either. Really "making breakfast" is passing the milk across the table so I can pour it onto these cardboard flakes she insists we eat for breakfast.

In any case, I say nothing and pour my own breakfast. It's important to avoid as many of these lectures as possible, because God knows there are enough of them already, and we've already checked off two, between the "Are you kidding me? Fighting already? It's 9:30 in the morning!" Or, "Are you talking to ME? You better not be talking to me, young lady! If you want to talk to me, you come here. I will not have this shrieking from three floors away nonsense." (Of course, when she wants to talk to ME, she just yells.)

Mom leaves the room. Something about how she can't bear watching me eat, I take so long. Well maybe if she didn't serve up cardboard flakes, I could put them down more than one at a time.

10:40 A.M. I finish. NO, just kidding. It didn't take that long. ~~Yes it did.~~ No it didn't. ~~Yes it did.~~ NO, it didn't! You're such an exaggerator. ~~No you are.~~ I HATE YOU!

Mornings are not good around here.

Well, neither really are the days or the evenings, when you're a pre-teen girl who can't see two feet in front of herself because it is necessary to roll my eyes up into the back of my head in order to emphasize every point around here, but still.

Anyway, that describes pretty much every morning of my summer, except for the two heavenly weeks I went to sleep-away camp, armed with enough sunscreen to coat the entire camping population and assorted hats, too. Just in case.

The days themselves all varied, depending on where we were, and what we were doing, but I developed a handy-dandy 1-10 ranking system based on how much my mom embarrassed me in order to tell them apart.

A 1, for example, would be the mild, generic type of embarrassment, where your mom wears her dorky khaki shorts to drop you off at camp.

And then says hi to people. (Actually, the "hi" part steps it right up to a 2.)

Automatic 3 for the day if she wears that darned hat, too.

Unfortunately, with my mom, most days ranged in the 7-10 category, as you probably know, from reading this blog of hers.

You shoulda seen the day we non-stalked the Yarn Harlot, a raging 12.5-er, as I live and breathe. But I'm not going to tell you about that day, because she already has, and I can't possibly bear to live through it again, so I will tell you about another one - a mere 10.5 on my scale - which also occurred while we were on the Cape, but this time spending a day in Wellfleet with some good friends who were visiting. (Apparently this tendency toward long sentences is inherited.)

We stopped in at a popular restaurant for lunch, and my mom and I go ask the hostess for a table. The lady says there is a long wait.

My mom goes, "Forty-five minutes for lunch? I don't think so - and certainly not with these two," she adds, using her head to point to me and my brother, who is busying himself kicking a stranger's chair. "Especially not that one," my mom says, grabbing him. "We could rent him as birth control."

The lady laughs, but I can tell that inside, she's like "What a dork!"

But that's not even the worst.

We're pulling out of the lot, and my mom suddenly screams, and then yells for my dad to roll down his window and practically climbs on top of him to yell out: "Hey, GATHERED PULLOVER!" at some stranger sitting there, minding her own business and taking in some rays while she waits for her table. (Because she doesn't have kids, apparently.)

The lady looks up in shock.

"Gathered pullover," my mom repeats, gesturing from her rather awkward position at the woman's sweater. "It looks great!"

The lady smiles (but I know inside she's like "What a dork!") and says, "Um... thank you," with that tell-tale pause that means she wanted to add, "you dork."

Then my mom asks her what yarn she used because it looks so nice. And then my mom tries - from her butt-in-the-air position in the car, to discuss her own adventures with the making of the gathered pullover and the bad, bad, bad yarn she used.

The lady does not look like she gives a crap. I mean, a patootie. But my mom perseveres, because, she is flippin' nuts, and she thinks that just because a person knits they are insta-buddies or something.

And that is not even the worst: As we are pulling out, my mom yells to the car of our friends, and POINTS out the lady like she is an exhibit in the zoo, so they can all look at her sweater, too.

Some days I am so grateful the back windows of our car are darkened and no one can see in.

Then, all the way home my mom says things like "Isn't that so cool?" when no one in the car really thinks it is.

My dad pretends it is for a little while, and then says, "Does this mean we are we stopping at the yarn store on the way home?"

Mom actually says "No, no, don't mind me. Besides, I am on a yarn diet, and I have to finish these three ~~six~~ sweaters first before I buy anything else."

But there isn't a soul in that car who doesn't know she is going to obsess about this yarn until she gets her hot sweaty hands on some.

~~Nuh-uh.~~ Uh-huh. ~~Nuh-uh.~~ Uh-huh. ~~Nuh-uh.~~ You're such an exaggerator. ~~Am not.~~ Are too. ~~Am not.~~ Are too!

~~OK. Just a little. It's on order, though. So I don't technically HAVE it.~~

Any-way...

So that's pretty much it. Every day, really, was just about finding ways to hide. You shoulda seen the day I had to bring her to school with me for orientation. The teacher told us to tell everyone something interesting about our parents, and I was like, "What the heck to I have to say about her? She has a blog and yells a lot? I don't need people thinking I am the daughter of a loud-mouth, flat-chested porn star!"

I finally came up with something that made her look smart and you shoulda heard the gasp that came out of that lady's mouth. I was soooooooooo embarrassed.

The very worst day, though, was the last. She got an invitation to try out for that TV show Wife Swap, and she just laughed and laughed, though of course she will talk about it incessantly because it's probably the most interesting thing that happened to her all summer.

"Can you even imagine?!" she says, pooh-pooh-ing the idea like it's just some crazy talk.

Actually, I want to tell her, we really, really can.

Take my mom. Please!

********************************

The folks over at humor-blogs are not embarrassed by their moms.

Au revoir, mes enfants!

2008-09-08T09:47:00.008-04:00

Ahhhhhhhh.....

Peace n' quiet.

I'm going to sit here and enjoy it.

Just sit, and not do anything.

The dog needs-

NO.

We're out of...

NO.

You're supposed to call -

NO.

And there's laund....

SHHHH!

That's the phone...

JUST LEAVE IT!

The books are due...

QUIET!

Hel-loo? Din-ner... We've got nothin'...

Alright, alright. So that was a fun 5 minutes. Back to work.

******************************************************

Fellow blogger Jake has started a new humor blog round-up, at The Muter, for anyone interested. There are weekly assignments and everything. 'Cuz who doesn't need a post idea every now and again?

I really, really need a job

2008-09-05T10:20:00.002-04:00

The whole fact that I am a raging liberal - and she is the exact opposite - notwithstanding, the fact that a mother of five is two stones throws from the highest elected office in the land makes total sense to me.

Well, duh.

Of course a mom is the best man for the job. (I'm wishing the mom was a certain mom of ONE, if you know what I mean, but I guess that ship has unfortunately sailed.) Even just your average mom is a highly organized, efficient, no-nonsense machine. Maybe not every day. But on balance. We're all out there, gettin' it done. Soccer, dinner, school supplies, homework, library books, blah, blah, blah. Whippin' a couple men into shape in Washington doesn't seem all that hard - just one more PTO meeting to add to the calendar, if you think about it.

So I take no issue with it being A mom up there. It's THE mom chosen.

I mean, c'mon.

I was free. Why didn't he pick me?

It hurts a bit, I admit. It just doesn't look good when a woman only a couple years older than you gets the VP nomination. And she has more kids, and they're not already half-cooked like your own two, but only five months old.

You are forced to do a bit of self-reflection.

But then I had two concurrent soccer practices on opposite sides of town to get to, dinner to figure out, a charity event blow-up to resolve, a committee to weasel my way out of, and a few last-minute school supplies to get before school the next day, and I promptly ~~gave up the idea of not drinking anymore on Tuesdays and~~ forgot about the whole thing.

And then came my daughter's seventh grade orientation.

Now, we all expect to be humiliated by our children at some point in our lives. But we mostly kind of think that point is over once the nose-picking and diaper-leaking or hitting and biting our friends stages pass.

We don't really think it's going to be at the hand of our 11-year-old daughters.

So there I was, innocently day-dreaming out the window, minding my own business, wondering when the hell I can get out of this joint, and did anyone remember to pee the dog? and if she lets us out of here in the next 15 minutes, that means I will have exactly 30 left before I have to come back to get Girl, and that might be enough time for a quick market trip, and... suddenly I hear the teacher telling the students to introduce their parents and tell everyone something special about them.

Yikes.

We hear about So-and So, who heads up the oncology department at such and such, and that one who wrote a book about something, but what I can't tell you what because I didn't even understand and a third who also must have done something really important but I AM NOT EVEN LISTENING ANY MORE BECAUSE I AM WONDERING WHO TOOK ALL THE AIR?

And what is Girl going to say, exactly?

What if she says something like, "Oh, this is my mom and she has a blog," and then all the moms and dads in the room look over and think I am awfully flat-chested to be a porn queen.

Or what if she told everyone "This is my mom, and she yells. A lot." Which, while true, and probably very well known to most of our neighbors, isn't something you need flashed around the middle school in front of oncologists and the like. Especially when they already think you are a flat-chested porn queen.

But no. It was worse.

Way worse.

Seriously. I can barely even say it out loud, that's how bad.

OK. *Deep breath.*

Here goes:

"This is my mom. She - oh, God, seriously, I cannot even say it - took French in high school."

She.
Took.
French.
In.
High.
School.

Oh, lookie, how cute - it would even fit on a headstone. Just dandy. THAT is the summation of my freakin' life?!

And I don't even think I got an A. In French. In high school.

But that yelling thing? When she gets home? There's gonna be a lot of it. Also, some blogging.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs took French in high school, too.

Oh, I don't think so, honey

2008-09-04T12:41:00.002-04:00

When you have a daughter, there are certain things you kind of expect to happen over the natural course of her growing up.

Oh, you know...

One day she'll come downstairs wearing, oh, I don't know, the wrong amount of eye-liner or too short a skirt or a T-shirt of which you don't approve or earrings that are way too long.

Or all of the above. Who knows? ~~Exactly what kind of mom are you, anyway?~~

So. I. Am. Ready. For that. Bring it right on, baby. She ain't getting past this mom.

But I have to admit to being thrown for quite a loop when Boy came downstairs one morning and demanded he be able to go to school like this:

Oh, yeah.

Right, honey.

Snowball's chance in hell, pretty much.

Let's get you some more eye-liner.

Ha ha! Just kidding, Grandpa!

This was the real back to school pic: (Same attitude, though. And now, because of the bandana, messed up hair, too.)

One down, one to go.

Is Girl the only kid out there who hasn't started school yet?

***********************

Tuesday's contest winner was Jennifer from With Both Feet for answering correctly the question of whose Cape Cod vacation I was copying: The Yarn Harlot's, of course! (The most hysterical answer was Suzy's, but that shouldn't surprise anyone who reads her regularly.) Jennifer, email me your address and I'll send you your prize, some hand-knit (By moi, but they actually fit. No seriously, they do. No, c'mon. I'm not kidding. Really. I promise.) fingerless gloves. (Unless you live in Florida or something, in which case I'll find you something a little more climate-appropriate.) Thanks for playing, everyone!

* For those of you who wondered, to Kinnear someone is a phrase coined by The Yarn Harlot when she encountered actor Greg Kinnear in an airport and snuck a picture of him with her cell phone.

A non-story about my non-stalking

2008-09-02T20:22:00.001-04:00

It's an homage, really.

Homage is just a French word I'm throwing around to cover up for the fact that, once again, in my continued pursuit of that ever-elusive thing called a "real job," I have only found yet another one at which I'd stink: stalking.

So really this is a non-story about my non-stalking abilities. But with pictures. ~~Yeah, cuz that'll make it better...~~

Anyway. It's about how a couple of weeks ago, a famous person came to the very shores on which I spend so much of my summer whining, and I missed her.

She came to the same bar where I slug down my own beers (so much so that I knew where she'd been because I recognized the three inches of table visible in a picture on her blog) and I still missed her.

Not that I would have done anything even if I hadn't. (Which only furthers the case for my lack of stalking capabilities, I know.) The fact is, I probably would have hidden under the table (with my beer, of course), or fallen off my bike on that bike trail, before I'd summon the nerve to actually talk to her or intrude on her privacy, anyway. But still. I would have at least seen her.

I might have even Kinneared* her.

Anyway, I recreated her post, just to show you how close - this close! - I came to seeing her. The first 10 people to guess correctly whom I'm copying will be put in a drawing to win a little something.

First up, one of the Mad Family's favorite places, Provincetown, Mass. She went for Carnival. We like just like it there. It's fun, it's carefree, and well, it's pretty much always Carnival. What's not to like?

(This picture is futher proof I stink as a stalker. I couldn't even ask him to hold my knitting. Because I was too shy. So I opted for this oh, so subtle Let's pretend we just happen to be taking a picture of me in front of... Oh, sure, this T-shirt store, why not?... when this guy just happens to walk by ploy. It's hard to decide which of us is more subtle, isn't it? The fact that my knitting also happens to be a lace-weight Icarus shawl on slippery Addi Turbos needles played a small part, too, in my not wanting to ask him. You can't trust just anyone, ya' know. Even if they are wearing a dress.)

Next up, the National Sea Shore...

That's not actually me, but boy, that slouch captures how I feel about the whole beach thing. And this isn't really my beach either. In fact, I probably wouldn't have seen her at the beach. Cuz normally I'm too busy shielding my eyes from all the sights. I just needed a beach picture.

And a feet picture:

Say hi to Icarus. He's about, oh, three-ish now. And still... not... done.

This one is apropos of nothing, really. I just wanted to say hi to my friend Leslie. Hi, Leslie!

OK. Here we go, back on track...

Is Girl giving me the finger? They don't do that at 11, do they?

And here's the restaurant. See? How good am I? Just from that table:

Not Ken.

Also not Ken. Or Joe. Or Icarus holding-worthy:

But actually quite cranky, though:

Life was sooo much better, before she started this blogging nonsense. Oh well. At least I got a soda out of it. She doesn't usually let me drink soda.

* I'll explain with the next post. It would be a hint, and there have been hints aplenty. Get your guesses in!

**************************************************

I'd bet the folks over at humor-blogs are better at stalking than I am.

What's that definition of insanity, again?

2008-09-01T18:23:00.002-04:00

Seriously.

Yay for the solid flooring that comes with summer's unofficial end, to bring me my different results.

Happy ~~back to school~~ Labor Day, everyone!

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The folks over at humor-blogs do not drop their needles.

Crazy, crazy, crazy and a little nuts, too

2008-08-25T11:40:00.002-04:00

Dear Internets:

I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I am the worst blogger ever.

It was bad enough when it was just that I didn't know a flash drive from a hard drive or even a hot dog, for that matter, or when I'd make you squint a little to get my pictures in focus (that's going to come up later, by the way, so be ready), but now I haven't even been posting, either.

It's just that it has been a little crazy here.

And I'm not even talking about my usual whining about the crazy that comes with the trials and tribulations of being a homebody who is forced at beach ball-point to make weekly trips - away from her yarn collection! - back and forth to a sandy little beach shack where people want to go to the beach and you're forced to engage in fun activities like examining other people's moles and other assorted physical anomalies.

Or have their friends over. That part is really fun. Because not only is it more towels and sheets and being forced to blame all your loud soda-burps on the dog so no one goes home and tells their mom you are a TOTAL PIG as well as a non-provider of healthy foods and allower of bad movies with too many swear words. It is also an education, people: they explain to you that PG in the "olden days" - like, you know, 1989 - isn't the same as modern day PG.

(And you are gong to try really hard to remember that little lesson because nothing is quite as exciting as shrieking, "Close your eyes! CLOSE YOUR EYES! I think I hit the porn button by mistake!" at some innocent little 11-year-old girls who probably aren't supposed to know the word "porn" in the first place. On the other hand, it will probably help keep the guest list down for next year...)

Anyway. So there is all that fun going on, while you, the allegedly responsible parental party, are also having to contend with a growing concern over the fact that all this back-and-forth nonsense has made it nearly impossible for your children to come into even remote contact with so much as a single fresh vegetable or fruit in nearly three months and it is definitely going to take you more than three months to work off the daily ice cream habit and more importantly, do they have clothes for back to school yet? Hell, forget clothes - do we have any PENCILS, even?!

And your real house is causing you some angst as well, especially how the weeds are coming very, very close to engulfing it entirely, and so you find yourself spending what little free time you could have been blogging filling scores of yard waste bags instead, just so that your neighbors won't come home from their vacation to confirm their belief that we are the kind of people who should just throw our car up on some cinder blocks and call it a day, already.

But no, I'm not talking about that kind of regular crazy.

I mean, crazy crazy.

Like when you find yourself checking in on the batch of 24 new baby spiders hatched in the bin for your garbage cans....

(This is the part where you're going to have to squint again. Sorry. Also, I tried to blow up the picture so you could see the cute-widdle baby spiders, but as I said before, this isn't a "good" blog. Or Animal Planet. So you'll have to trust me. They're baby spiders. While we're at it, how come I haven't learned to do a caption yet?)

... and worrying that they aren't going to get blown away like they do in Charlotte's Web if they're in a closed container.

Also, you think it's possible you heard somewhere that Mommy Spiders eat their babies. So you decide to leave the door open so they can get blown away and escape.

But then you come back half an hour later thinking that maybe their mom knew what she was doing and who are you to interfere?

And perhaps they are getting too much sun, what with that lid open. So you close the lid.

And then half an hour later... go open it again.

And then go close it.

And then realize that, Seriously? There probably aren't enough meds for you in this world.

Especially when you catch yourself idly pondering the possibilities of knitting baby booties... and doing the math on that while you walk the dog. Eight legs, twenty-four babies... Hm. What size knitting needles...?

But - believe it or not - that's not even the craziest part.

The craziest part is later, when you find yourself happily knitting away on the screened-in porch at the beach (not on spider booties, fortunately, but sadly, not on a project that was on your original knitting packing list, either) when....

Oops! One of your double pointed needles slides out of your knitting and falls into the cracks of the floor boards three feet down into the sand below.

And you spend 25 minutes that you could have spent cleaning, washing towels, finding a fruit for your children to eat, pulling a weed, buying pencils... on inventing contraptions and devising methods of extracting said needle...

... successfully retrieve it (complete with triumphant dance), wipe off the dust, sand and some dead bugs, recommence knitting, only to find, a few rows later...

IT'S NOT THE SAME NEEDLE YOU JUST DROPPED!

Which means, you did this last year...

and don't even remember it.

***************************

So, anyway, Internets, what I'm trying to say, I suppose, is, they don't let me write much, here from the loony bin.

The good news is that I hear a rumor about a release date sometime next week, when school is back in session. I'm hoping it's true. In the meantime, since some of you have asked for and about it, I'm trying to work on Girl's contribution to the summer of fun series, and for those of you who were away and wondering what I'm talking about, the rest of the series is set up on a sidebar thingy over there. (You can't see me, but I'm pointing to the right. No, your other right, honey.)

Enjoy the rest of your summers (or winters, for my all my Aussie friends)!

Love and kisses,

The Mad, Mad Housewife

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The folks over at humor-blogs are not crazy. Much.

Life is a beach

2008-08-04T08:10:00.007-04:00

Longtime readers of this space already know my feelings about the beatch. I mean bich. I mean beach.

And I can accept that very few actually agree with me. So I won't bore everyone with the details again.

And it's not really so much that I don't like the beach. The beach can really be a lovely place, now that we've all apparently decided lung cancer is a fair exchange for skin cancer and just blast ourselves with that easy sunscreen spray mist stuff that coats our lungs but no longer requires prolonged wrestling matches with our children to slather on the greasy stuff.

And now that the kids are old enough to carry their own crap.

So it's really not so much the beach, itself.

It's the people.

And, no, no, not really their size or their hairy-ness or the nudity. (Though could we just make a plan right here and now that anyone over, oh, say 35? should probably leave the bikinis at home? Even if you did happen to be as slim and pretty, unlined, un-moled and unsaggy as you think - which you probably are not - you would just be showing off. So just accept your fate and put a wear a tankini with a skirt like the rest of us.)

That would be nice, thank you.

But it's not really so much what the people look like that gets to me.

It's the stupid stuff they say.

Like this weekend.

Girl and I set our chairs up, while Man and Boy go take a spin on the kayak.

A considerably large crew plunks itself next to us.

One of the woman starts talking about how she is hoping the sand will buff the yucky stuff off her feet.

I spin my head in her direction, hoping that this universal symbol for Are your freakin' kidding me, you disgusting crazy person? Why don't you just go pick your nose and eat it or something? will be enough to remind her that she has apparently begun discussing her hygiene habits in public, and oops, should perhaps excuse herself and do what any normal person would when facing a similar lapse, go commit hara kiri as a courtesy to her fellow humans.

But nooooooo.

She keeps going.

Something about cracked heels.

I gasp, and repeat step one.

"A really long one that goes all the way up my foot."

I gasp really, really loud, repeat step one (my neck is starting to hurt) and add a visible shudder, and clutch at my chest like I am getting faint. (Which is not that far off the mark, if you want to know the truth.)

"Yellow heels."

I actually remove my sunglasses to fix her with my piercing death glare.

Apparently it's not all I've cracked it up to be.

Because then she says how her doctor says she "actually had a form of athlete's foot."

I repeat all previous steps and borrow from my southern friends, exclaiming "Well, I nevah!"

I must have gotten the accent wrong because she. Didn't. Stop.

It went on and on and by the time she uttered the words "cheese grater," I have fallen out of my chair, unconscious.

Somehow, when I come to, the talk has turned, inexplicably - or at least I hope so - to Velveeta.

I pass out again.

OK. But that's not even the worst part, believe it or not.

A man in the group starts talking about some surgery his wife had.

"I heard her scream, so I whip back the curtain and her head is in one of those Frankenstein head brace things and they have popped out her eyeball..."

I start quick combing the crowd to make sure I'm not being Punk'd or something. This can't be a real surgery, can it? (Readers, I don't really want to know, so do not feel the need to help me out here with further details.) But if it is, do we actually think it proper to discuss it in public in front of 11-year-old girls and their weak mommies? I don't think so.

The details continue. I cannot repeat them because by now I have copied Girl's approach and have jammed my fingers in my ears and the two of us are singing la-la-la-la-la-la to drown out the noise.

But you wanna know the really weird part?

The left us.

Saying something about the crazy people you find at the beach.

******************************************************

The folks over at humor-blogs like the beach.

Follow me!

2008-08-02T06:00:00.002-04:00

Psssssttttt! I'm over here today... C'mon over! I think she has a pool!

How Man spent his summer

2008-07-30T11:00:00.004-04:00

Weekday: Work, work, work. But, as ~~Crazy~~ Lady says, Who cares about that? I get paid, I get to pee in peace, and I get to leave it behind at the end of the day. So she doesn't want to hear about it. So I'm assuming you people don't want to, either.

6:30 p.m. (On a "good?" day): Turn off ignition and try to roll into driveway quietly. Open windows and listen for screaming.

All is quiet. Do not allow myself to be deceived by the apparent lack of trouble this might convey to the uninitiated. Sneak quietly to back windows to peek inside for additional clues.

Notice open bottle of wine on kitchen counter.

That is good. She'll be calm.

Or, maybe it's bad. Maybe she "needed" the wine.

Damn. Now I think I am a little bit scared. Is it too late to run away? And where is everyone? Did she kill them for real this time?

Stupid Dog sees me and starts barking.

I take a deep breath and open the door. I try very, very hard to remember to lock it behind me to prevent the Big Ax Murderers the ~~Crazy~~ Lady thinks apparently lurk in our neighborhood from getting inside and killing the family. But I forget. Because I am a man ~~and I can always hope, right?~~

Dog growls at me. I quick make sure the ~~Crazy~~ Lady isn't looking and give him a kick. ~~Crazy~~ Lady's head whips around and her eyes narrow. But she's not sure, so she doesn't say anything. But she looks very, very suspicious.

I quick try to think of diversionary tactics.

Do I ask about her day, or will that just kick off the "IT STUNK! When do I get a vacation? When is it MY turn? When is someone going to do MY laundry and make MY dinner and drive ME to camp?" lecture?

I definitely shouldn't ask about dinner, I know that much. That will only kick off the "What do you think I am, your personal chef? Why do you just assume there will be a dinner? I wish someone would make MY dinner every night" lecture. Or, its very sarcastic cousin lecture: "I don't know, what did you shop for/make/buy? Huh? Huh?"

So I'm thinking, I'm thinking....

Damn.... What do I say, what do I say... Oh-oh-oh! I know! I know! I know!

"You look nice." I try to sound chipper, even.

~~Crazy~~ Lady's eyes narrow even more.

~~Crazy~~ Lady makes a sound I can only describe as something like a cross between a growl and a snarl. I think she's hanging out with that dog too much.

But OK, OK... I see the error of my ways, now that I have a good look at her. Khaki shorts, a T-shirt, flip-flops and a ponytail - it was too obvious a lie. Oh, and look! That tell-tale zit on the chin that it has taken me 14 years of marriage and four years of dating to figure out means DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! SCARY DAYS AHEAD! WALK ON EGGSHELLS!

I am saved by the children bounding down the stairs, though.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" they yell.

Out of the corner of my eyes I see the ~~Crazy~~ Lady imitating them and rolling her eyes. Then I catch her actually saying something that looks a little on the snide side to Dog. That part confuses me a little. Does she think he actually understands her? Has she gone around the bend for real this time? I will think about this later. Or, more likely, forget. But it troubles me a little. Maybe. I don't remember. What was this sentence about?

Now the kids are yammering about something. Everything. Too much. There is so much talking, my head hurts. I look at the clock. It has only been 30 seconds. ~~Crazy~~ Lady's eyes meet mine over their heads and she looks triumphant. See? her eyes say. AND IT'S ALL DAY LONG. Just like that. But with Eye Rolling and Attitude. And tantrums. And laundry. And sunscreening. And constant demands.

I shake my head to clear it and try to focus. OH, my Lord it's hard. They just don't stop, do they? And now they are hitting each other. How is that possible? I don't understand. Two seconds ago, it was fine, and now... why are they hitting each other? ~~Crazy~~ Lady slugs back her glass of wine and marches over, pulls them apart and plunks one into his seat at the table and tells the other to pour the milks for dinner.

Oh, good. So there is dinner, that means. Phew. I was hungry. And I will say this for the ~~Crazy~~ Lady. She is a good cook. You're just not allowed to ask about it, apparently. Eat it and shut up, is the way it works around here. The kids do, and bolt away, off to play something they invented with their Ugly Dolls.

OK, OK. I am figuring this day out, here. This apparently was a good day. It's hard to tell sometimes. Sometimes it's not. There are the days when she is waiting at the door with a glazed look and crazy hair and the dog's leash and poop bags right in her hands, ready to go. Sometimes she even actually forgets the dog, she's so eager to leave. Those days are easy to figure out.

And the good mood days are easy to figure out, too.

But it's the days in the middle that you just never can tell. So far, this one, for example, seems to be going well. But then all of a sudden, she turns to me and declares: "I am in a really. Bad. Mood."

I look around, surprised. What happened? Did something just happen to change things? I don't see anything. I look back at her. She is waiting for me to catch up, here.

"Ye-e-e-e-es?" I draw it out slowly, wondering if it's something I did. Did I leave the towels on the floor? My undies? (I mean, boxers, or whatever I call them, I don't exactly know.)

"This morning..." she starts.

Shit. It was me. What did I do, what did I do? I try to remember what I might have done. It was the undies/boxers probably.

"I was talking on the phone... " she continues.

Oh, phew! It wasn't me! I was in meetings all morning. No phone calls.

She names the friend with whom she was speaking, and continues: ... "and SHE said, she MISSED her kid who was at camp. And that it was eating into their time together this summer. It's just DAY CAMP, for crying out loud! And I am thinking I cannot even relate to this. So then I started feeling like a bad mom because frankly, I WISH my kids were at camp. The all-day, all-night kind. Because I need a break. I am kind of done with this parenting thing. When are they going to be grown up already? I am so tired. They were not kidding that this is a damn marathon. And I think I messed it up and sprinted, dammit. I don't know if I have another 10 years in me. I just. Don't. Know. I am so, so, so tired."

There is more, but too many sentences together starts to confuse me. But I have learned over the years that I should nod. Just nod. Vary the rates of speed to break things up a bit, but keep on nodding.

And then I say, "School starts in just a few weeks."

Before she has a chance to process the fact that this will only be all new kinds of trouble, but trouble nevertheless, I quick hand her the knitting bag.

And some more wine.

And go put the kids to bed.

And hope that it will be over with tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow, thank God I get to go back to work.

I wonder if I can stay late?

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The folks over at humor-blogs are probably much better moms.

A post on the post vacation

2008-07-28T19:12:00.004-04:00

Setting: The laundry room. (Of course.)

I am idly Spray n' Wash-ing some neon orange substance off Boy's shirt before tossing it into the washer.

The thought vaguely flits through my head that it was kind of whoever it was out there who did so to do a craft with Boy; this mom doesn't much do them.

OK, OK. Ever. I'm among friends. I can be honest with you guys. EVER. They are a waste of my time and I HATE THEM. (OK. Maybe not so honest. I apologize.)

Anyway. I find some more orange on Boy's shorts, too, and don't think much of it, until...

I discover one of Girl's shirts has some.

And then one of Man's.

The truth slowly sinks in, and I feel like I've been lipstick on a collar-ed.

But worse.

You little bastards had Cheetos without me?!

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The folks over at humor-blogs are not Cheeto thieves. Least I don't think.

Ta-da!

2008-07-23T12:15:00.004-04:00

OK-OK-OK.... a little more to the left... nope, nope... too much! Now a little higher...

There-there-there. Yep. Perfect! Stop.

Just right.

Whaddaya think?

How beautiful is THAT, people?!

I treated myself to a blogiversary present (a little late, but still well within the acceptable parameters) and finally, finally, joined the "real" blogging world! (I know, I know - I'm only seven months behind on the New Year's resolutions, too.)

Yay, me.

I was poking around on Jane's blog the other day - she has such wonderful pictures and ideas - and ~~the pusher~~ she happened to be showcasing some new stationery she had purchased. Being almost as big a fan of stationery as I am of yarn, I hustled on over to the etsy shop she mentioned and fell. in. love.

Seriously.

I stalked this poor woman's etsy shop like the world might be running out of notecards and I should stock up now. And then I emailed her and asked if she might consider whipping up a banner thingy for me in the same style. (That's just how I said it, too: banner thingy. You can ask her.) And she said she would.

And I have to say, usually I am very nervous when I ask someone to do something. Because usually people have no idea what I'm talking about - I blither on and on and hope some of it sticks. But this Megan is smart, people, and didn't even blanch when poop actually came up in one of our emails. (Or perhaps she did blanch and that is why she was so quick with the whole order. Probably she was thinking, let's get rid of this crazy lady as fast as we can!)

And while normally I would be all "What if I don't like it, and then I'd have an ugly banner and have to use it until one of us died or something" I just knew Megan would come through. And not only did she, I had such a hard time choosing between the options, I had to call on a few trusty friends to help.

Anyway, I just love it. Go check out her beautiful note cards. She has some floral ones that are to die for. And they come in these beautiful boxes, too, perfect for gifts.

Thank you, Jane.

And thank you, Megan!

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The folks over at humor-blogs all think I'm a big weirdo for taking this long to get myself a real banner. Wha-ev, people.