katydidnot

she runs her floured hands over your hair, Hope does.

2011-10-19T20:01:00.001-07:00

She speaks with a slow Southern drawl,
Hope does.
Looks at you over her shoulder
With her rolling pin in hand
Telling you to just sit right there.

She moves over nearer you,
Confounding Hope.
In the way of sweet vaporous despair
Standing there hands on hips
Daring you to go around her.

She watches you watching the door,
Vigilant Hope.
Offers you sweet tea
Shows you the basil she’s growing
There on the window sill.

She runs her floured hands over your hair,
Hope does.
Pulls something sweet and new
From the oven
And sets it on the table to cool.

She sits with you, humming something low,
Abiding Hope.
She settles in heavily
To sit at the table next to you
While you wait.

For Jessica Rose, who's biting her toes.

Hope, Gustav Klimpt

i wanted a crash with fire. with heat that sizzled the paint off the car and the skin off his hands.

2011-05-27T15:29:00.001-07:00

Prompt: Good, evil, gray

I dreamt of his death. But that didn’t make me the villain in this story. I did, though, long for the phone to ring. For someone to tell me of some terrible accident. A crash, maybe. But not an ordinary crash, I wanted a crash with fire. With heat that sizzled the paint off the car and the skin off his hands. Or a flood. Being swept along for miles, then hanging onto a tree branch, the current pulling relentlessly, remorselessly, his biceps burning, and knowing in that moment that his fingers slipped off, he would drink death.

I became the villain in the moment when I stopped dreaming of his death and began planning his death. The wishing away of someone, that can’t be such a mortal sin, can it? Because that is just a malevolent wish—perhaps that an overlarge boulder should ease itself loose from the edge of the cliff that overhung the road he drove on his way home and that it should happen at exactly the moment that would mean it would fall on him and him alone, with such force that his bones would splinter and pulverize and mix with his blood and skin and lung tissue. And that the ligaments that held his bones to bones, and the tendons adhering muscles to bones, should snap and pop audibly. Snap! Out loud!

But that was just a wish, and mere wishes are not plans, and wishes, especially wishes of such absurd specificity, are neither likely to come to pass, nor punishable, should they come to pass. The worst I would have been accused of, should he become muscle and tendon and bone porridge, was being prescient.

When I began designing ways that my wishes might be brought about, that was the moment I gave over to the darkness and became the fishwife, foul-speaking murder. No longer were these just gruesome and poetic wishes, but instead, they became crude and inelegant plans, as if I were trying to build a life raft from broken kitchen chairs, long braids cut from the heads of little blonde girls, and the damp boxes that lettuce is delivered in. That was when I gave over to the darkness.

we have had black eyes

2011-04-27T23:44:00.001-07:00

You and I, we are not the same
Us and our daughters.
You have yours
A woolly caterpillar curled on your lap
Singing to you about her ladybug friends.

Another, over the fence which splits
Her grass and my gravel.
She has hers
A bright eddy swirling around the sheets
She hangs on the line over the grass.

Me and mine, we are not caterpillars
Or eddies.
Curling and swirling.
We are made of moths and tornadoes.
We have had black eyes.

Image: Black Moth, Kazuya Akimoto

tucked between the ends of white bread turned upside down

2011-04-21T21:29:00.000-07:00

She smells like justice and might.

Her hair smells like light and brilliance
with undertones of jasmine.

When she passes you in the hallway
you smile remembering something
from somewhere
that smelled so good.
And you can't remember what but it makes you think that
Walt Whitman or Margaret Atwood wrote about it.

Sometimes she smells like grilled cheese.
And Campbell's tomato soup.
The grilled cheese my mother made when Megan Swanton was
mean to me.

With a slice and a half of American cheese
tucked between the ends of white bread turned upside down
so I wouldn't know they were the ends.

She smells like peppermint when she's angry.
And eucalyptus when I'm sad.

She smells like teen spirit
and new tennis balls when you first open the can
and like Axe when I miss my son.

She smells like the back of Obi's neck and the top of Levi's head.
And sometimes like the air in the moment after lightening strikes.

Campbell's Soup Can, 1968, Andy Warhol

they wear their certainty like they wear their freckles

2011-04-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

Who are these girls
With their faith and service in Guatemala?
They wear their certainty like they wear their freckles,
Dotted on their noses and cheeks.

Who are these girls
Who keep their hair in fussy ponytails,
Exactly disheveled, and banded with elastics the color of the dresses
Their sisters wore to catechism.

Who are these girls
With their grandmother’s crosses?
They wear them on anklets to the beach on Sunday
And they borrow someone’s sunglasses.

Who are these girls
Dating Jesus and the rowing captain?
Will they make promises under stained glass windows
And then work in real estate?

Who are these girls
With their devotion preprinted on cards?
They carry St. Francis’s prayer in the inside zipper pocket
Of their Tory Burch handbag.

Detail of the Last Supper, Andy Warhol

abiding hope

2011-03-15T21:55:00.000-07:00

She speaks with a slow Southern drawl,
Hope does.
Looks at you over her shoulder
With her rolling pin in hand
Telling you to just sit right there.

She moves over nearer you,
Confounding Hope.
In the way of sweet vaporous despair
Standing there hands on hips
Daring you to go around her.

She watches you watching the door,
Vigilant Hope.
Offers you sweet tea
Shows you the basil she’s growing
There on the window sill.

She runs her floured hands over your hair,
Hope does.
Pulls something sweet and new
From the oven
And sets it on the table to cool.

She sits with you, humming something low,
Abiding Hope.
She settles in heavily
To sit at the table next to you
While you wait.

For Jessica Rose, who's biting her toes.

me: yes, they do. it’s like an eye chart. but with, like, pie. and tiger lilies.

2011-03-11T22:30:00.001-08:00

When I got home from work today my house smelled bad. Really, very bad. And The Very Bad Smell needed to be found. And gotten rid of. But The Very Bad Smell was very hard to find. It was everywhere.

I walked all over the house going what is that horrible smell? And The Third Grader was following me around the house going I don't smell anything.

Me: What is that horrible smell?

Him: I don’t smell anything.

Me: How can you not smell that? We need to have your smelling checked.

Him: They don’t have that.

Me: Yes, they do. It’s like an eye chart. But with, like, pie. And tiger lilies.

We could not find The Very Bad Smell. Anywhere. Because it was everywhere.

And the smell? Was his socks. The ones on his feet. And he hadn’t died of the smell. In fact? He couldn’t even smell the smell.

This wasn’t a regular bad sock smell. It was supernatural bad sock smell. Because The Third Grader? Has a new sock system. Here’s how it works:

I go 'put your dirty socks in the laundry room. And he goes okay! And then he puts his dirty socks in the laundry room. On the shelf next to the door. And then in the morning he goes into the laundry room and gets the very same socks off the shelf next to the door. And puts them back on his feet.

I know. Shut up.

We peeled them off his feet and I washed them twice in hot water. And then I threw them away instead of drying them. Because Christ on a crutch can you imagine that smell wetted and heated up?

Pennies

2011-03-05T12:44:00.000-08:00

His mouth is open
When he sleep-breathes.
Open for flies to fly in.

She wonders if she can drop
Pennies in his mouth
While he sleeps.

Rene Magritte, The Lovers

indiscernibly in abeyance

2011-02-11T23:45:00.000-08:00

It sits in latency, indiscernibly in abeyance.
At intermission
And postponement,
It is in here and out there and throughout.
Under and around and in between the spaces between.
Just around the corner.
Just there.

It is essentialness, of inherent utility.
And therefore
And thereby
It can be tranquilized, but not euthanized.
Because it is elemental and requisite regardless of prerequisites.
Fundamentally available.
Out there.

It is always integral; a certain accompaniment.
As is Aristotle
To Plato.
And so it must be suspended only briefly until reconciliation.
Interrupted but
Right here.

Red, Orange, Tan, and Purple, Mark Rothko 1949

because christ on a crutch, lost writers, stop playing mad libs with the scripts

2011-02-05T20:38:00.001-08:00

I started watching Lost a few months ago on Netflix. And now? I have a new Least Favorite Game. It's called Let's Ask Mom Six Thousand Questions While She's Watching Lost Season 4 Even Though She Doesn't Know What The Monkeys Is Going On And We've Never Watched An Episode All The Way Through.

It goes like this. I select the next episode of Lost from Netflix and watch while I clean the kitchen or fold laundry or whatever and then the Third Grader and The Girl tromp in and out of the family room a hundred times in the next 43 minutes, look at the TV for ten seconds and go hey, Mom, who is that guy? And I thought that guy died. And what's that guy doing with that? And where are they going?

And frankly? I have no flipping idea who that guy is or if that guy died or what that guy is doing with that or where they're going. Because Christ on a crutch, Lost Writers, stop playing Mad Libs with the scripts. The flash forward? That's not even a real thing. What? The? Monkeys?

So when they go hey, Mom, did they get rescued? I go I have no idea. And when they go why are they still on the island then? I go I have no idea. And when they go did that guy die? I go nothing because my head exploded.

There's only one question I can always answer. When this guy is on and they go hey, Mom, who is that guy? I go my husband, now go away.

how to integrate such notions

2011-01-21T21:16:00.001-08:00

How to understand

Such acquaintance

That introduces you newly to the entire world.

And how to integrate

Such notions

That shake your intimate understanding of yourself.

And how to embody

Such prehension

That means that you are the quintessence of everything.

Painting: Fermented Soil, Hans Hoffman

or paint the dog blue or whatever?

2010-12-12T22:26:00.001-08:00

You know how sometimes your kids are bugging the shit out of you and they ask if they can do something and you kind of just go yes, fine, just please stop making that noise. Or yes, fine, just please stop jumping on that. Or yes, fine, just please stop doing that to your face. And then an hour later you realize that you told them they could, like, cut their sister’s hair while she’s asleep or paint the dog blue or whatever?

Okay. So this is just like that except I told the Adolescent Boy he could go live in Australia for six months.

Starting this Friday.

I am not making this up.

He’s going to live with my sister and her family for six months. In Australia. Starting Friday.

Which was totally fine. Until I Googled the town where they live. And found this:

I don’t even know what that means.

Australia. Six months. Motherf**k.

guest post from the adolescent boy: i hear the little monkey and the usually calm tiger fighting in the jungle

2010-12-01T22:40:00.001-08:00

When I step into the grand double doors of my house I feel like I'm walking into a castle, my own humble abode. The doors are painted with beautiful navy blue like the calm sea, carrying boats to shore. As I take my first step I see the stairs laden with carpet and I think, "Oh how I love the warm feeling of the carpet as I set my foot on this first step." As soon as I step on the last step I hear the little monkey and the usually calm tiger fighting in the jungle I call my room. When I turn around to leave without having to interfere they seem to sense me. I turn even faster to run, as I come careening down the stairs they catch up, so I turn and see the monkey jump to attack. I jump for the couch which sucks me in while the monkey and the usually calm tiger come in for the kill.

"NO!!!" I scream as the lips of the two come straight for my face.

"DYLAN!!! You're back!!" they say and then the lips hit me like little bullets.

The 3^rd grader and the 5^th grader got me, and I can't fight back or even hope to stop them. When they finally decide to let go, all the craziness has made me hungry so I get up and head to the kitchen. I take a step off the carpet and onto the cold, bare, wood floor of the kitchen it sends chills up my back. I open the fridge door and all the delicious food stares at me with worry as I try so hard to decide which one of them will be eaten. I give up on the fridge and head to the pantry. I open it and there sit the cookies, the peanut butter, and the doughnuts. I can't decide there either so I open the fridge again, and then the freezer and the pantry all at once and try to find something quick and easy.

As I look around, waiting to see what will rise up to be eaten, I see all the different colors of the walls and the various assortments of pictures hanging up. The wall colors remind me of a great jar of candy. The art covering them adds to this effect but also adds something of its own; it adds great happiness and smiling faces and all the different colors. Our walls of art shows me proof of something my aunt once told all of the family: you can't mess up a drawing, painting, or anything that you are creating, you just make it some other part of the picture. I go into the dining room to sit down and eat and as I'm walking in I look at the chandelier hanging so low from the ceiling and think to myself that if the table wasn't where it was then everyone except the 3^rd and 5^th graders would hit their heads a lot. I also see all the PEZ dispensers that we have collected over a long time. They kind of make me think that we have our own little Hollywood on the window sill of our dining room window. They act like a little mini Hollywood too, because if one of them gets tapped just slightly then they all topple over and it takes a lot of time and energy to put back up.

The whole house, the dining room, the walls, the couch, the kitchen, the upstairs disaster area, and the little monkey and the usually calm tiger all make up the little place I call home sweet home.

[Written as a homework assignment about personification, metaphor and simile.]

and had to unwrap about forty individually wrapped pats of butter that i found, inexplicably, in a little bowl in my fridge

2010-11-28T19:43:00.001-08:00

Here’s the thing with me. I am a kickass good cook, but I’m always ill-prepared to put this skill to good use. However, I really kicked Thanksgiving’s ass this year. By kicked Thanksgiving’s ass this year I mean I kicked Thanksgiving’s sorry turkey ass this year.

I kicked its ass with a turkey purchased nearly three entire days before I had to put it in the oven and stuffing that started out as, like, bread and celery and onions and butter. I kicked its ass with mashed potatoes made from potatoes that had actually been peeled and cranberry apple sauce that was made from cranberries and apples. I made green beans almondine with actual almonds instead of whatever pinenuts/soy nuts/pecans I could find in the pantry and made bread out of things like flour and yeast and water and such like. I further kicked its ass with homemade key lime pies made from the lime juice and lime zest of something like a thousand actual key limes and a graham cracker crust that began as actual graham crackers. I kicked leftover ass with turkey noodle soup and turkey green chile enchiladas and cranberry apple crisp.

It was perfect. Except one thing. I had to go to the grocery store thirteen times, served the stuffing with a spaghetti server (which totally worked), and had to unwrap about forty individually wrapped pats of butter that I found, inexplicably, in a little bowl in my fridge as if I’d stolen them from IHOP, which, by the way, I haven’t been to in the last two years.

Whatever. Because Kicked. Thanksgiving. Ass.

me: yes. jesus. i bought groceries. not, like, an island.

2010-11-22T23:39:00.001-08:00

My son has very little faith in me. Or just really gets me.

Me: Help me bring the groceries in.

The Adolescent Boy: You bought groceries?

Me: Yeah.

The Adolescent Boy: Really?

Me: Yes. Jesus. I bought groceries. Not, like, an island.

The Adolescent Boy: Still…

[While unloading groceries.]

The Adolescent Boy: There’s a turkey in the fridge.

Me: Yes.

The Adolescent Boy: It’s just…

Me: What? Jesus.

The Adolescent Boy: Is it for Thanksgiving? The turkey?

Me: What? Yes. Jesus.

The Adolescent Boy: Huh.

Me: WHAT?

The Adolescent Boy: Well. You got a turkey already. We’re just not usually on top of stuff that way.

And you know what? I love him. Because he said we. We aren’t on top of stuff—WE aren’t.

and the girl is in san diego paying no attention to the fact that i will be dead in 20 minutes

2010-11-07T20:17:00.001-08:00

The Girl has Facebook. I know, whatever, bad mom, la la la can’t hear you.

The rules for the Girl having Facebook include me having her password so that she thinks I could spy on her at any time and all of her notices get forwarded to me. When someone posts on her wall, comments on her status or sends her a message, I see it. Usually, I scan and delete because it’s all exactly like this: lol! that waz fuuuuunnnnyyy!! and omg u r a nerd!!!! or k i cen do tht iff u can!! or a;lie u i lol!! omg!! a;oenskl gon 2 b u!!!.

But tonight? Christ on a crutch.

She got a message which read: If you love your mom post this on your wall within 20 minutes. One girl didn’t and her mom died. (How does the phrase her mom died not get an exclamation point from people who overpunctuate everything?) (Everything!) (Her mom died!) (Her mom! Died!) (Died!)

This message bothers me. But not for the reason you think.

You see, I am in Jacksonville, Florida for a golf tournament (I don’t really understand that either) and the Girl is in San Diego paying no attention to the fact that I will be dead in 20 minutes.

Plus, now if I ever tell her to get off the computer, she could just go I can’t because I love you and you might die if I do. But that won’t actually happen because I’ll already be dead. In 18 minutes.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

erm…candygram.

2010-10-31T12:13:00.001-07:00

The Third Grader: *knock knock*

Me: Who’s there?

The Third Grader: Mrs. Blumeantar…phewph…?

Me: Who?

The Third Grader: Er…plumber.

Me: I didn’t call a plumber.

The Third Grader: Erm…candygram.

Me: Oh, candygram? Oh, yes, come right inphmmgrrphm… [gets eaten by the land shark]

with equal aplomb and sometimes together

2010-10-03T23:22:00.001-07:00

One could take a thousand random samples of the population of the world and never find a subject who reflects her. There are no others who are her equal in all the ways she is extraordinary. Her gifts are countless, and her willingness to share them is limitless.

She is fallible and imperfect in ways that make her flawless and ideal. She wears evening gowns and studded leather bracelets with equal aplomb and sometimes together. Her way of being in the world is fiercely unapologetic and endlessly forgiving. She is never demure or sedate or wavering.

She loves Adam Lambert and the Dalai Lama and probably Jimmie Carter, and her writing is equal parts Mark Twain, George Bernard Shaw, Barbara Kingsolver and entirely her own. Her heart is part Mother Teresa, part Jesus, part Eleanor Roosevelt and probably a little bit Adam Lambert.

She has given me friends, a therapist, cupcakes, a best friend for my daughter, a place to fall apart, a place to come together, an ice cream maker, a Volvo and a pair of sparkle-toe Chuck Taylors (eventually). She knows what kind of tortilla chips I like and when my children's birthdays are. And she wears t-shirts with my name on them.

Today is her birthday, but she is the gift.

Painting: Woman with a Green and Beige Background, Willem de Kooning.

Jack + Joan = 50 years

2010-09-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

Honestly, fifty years? The toast for fifty years is maybe: Fifty years? Holy shit.

But fifty years with my father? That is an especially ridiculous proposition.

He's cranky and stubborn and picky and finicky and surly.

Fifty years with my mother, though, is likewise a preposterous notion.

There was never a woman who knows, less often, where her glasses are. Or her keys. Or her backpack or her wallet or a pen. Not a specific pen, just any pen.

So these fifty years seem especially remarkable. And the gift, of these fifty years, has really been to us. They have been a gift to me, to my brother, to my sisters, and to our families.

They gave us the gift of a nap in the guest room when we were new mothers. They gave us the gift of hidden tree forts for our boys and an infinite supply of paint and glitter and beads and tape for our girls. They gave us a place to bring our turkeys and mashed potatoes and chocolate cream pies at Thanksgiving, and a bonfire and a snowball fight on Christmas Day. They gave us long nights around a fire shooing away mosquitoes in July and summers filled with swimming in the lake. They made chocolate chip muffins for our children for breakfast and taught them how to hide their broccoli in their milk at dinner.

And they gave us a home. They gave our children a home. Twenty-five years ago they bought this ranch with nothing but those old corrals. And they turned it into our home.

This ranch is bordered by national forest and bounded by unreasonable love. It is lush with Aspen trees and wildflowers and overrun with grandchildren and their dogs. There is a fox who comes by in the winter and eats the bird seed that spills out of the bird feeders and little boys who never pick up the Legos that they dump out onto the kitchen floor. There are mountain trails that lead to meadows and ponds and cabins in the woods. And there well-worn paths that lead each of us back to this place.

And after fifty years, my dad stills carves their initials into trees.

And my mom still lets him in the house at night.

she has tarot cards and, like, some really smooth rocks in a dish on her coffee table or something.

2010-08-24T23:44:00.001-07:00

My therapist has recommended that I consult with an intuitive counselor.

I am not making this up.

An intuitive counselor.

Which is, I assure you, a real thing. In California. And probably, like, nowhere else. An intuitive counselor? Is a psychic. Pretty much. But not a regular psychic. She’s a real psychic. She has tarot cards and, like, some really smooth rocks in a dish on her coffee table or something.

She also has a Scottish accent. Sometimes. If the spirit moves her. Because she’s not Scottish. At all.

I am not making this up.

I really do want to see her, but I’m not sure if I’m willing to surrender myself that completely to being a Californian. But I do want to see her, because apparently? She’s the shit. The psychic shit. With smooth rocks and everything.

(I copped this image from Google images and I have no idea why these smooth rocks are on a green sweater, but if she wears a green sweater to our first session then I will try to get a photo.) (I am not making this up.)

I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT HER LEARNING TO LOVE HERSELF! NOT SOME SWARTHY UNSHAVEN CHUMP!

2010-08-20T11:20:00.001-07:00

Last night, my wife picked me up from my therapist (do you have any idea how delighted I am to be able to write a sentence like that?) (seriously, I have a wife and a therapist) (California much?) and took me to the movies. We went to see Eat, Pray, Love, which I was pretty excited about. It seemed like a perfect après-therapy sort of thing to do.

I didn't read the book. You should know that now. Usually I've read the book and delight in telling everyone as we leave the theatre how the book was better than the movie. Even when the movie is better than the book. Because whatever. I think it’s important to pretend that the book is better even when it isn’t. And even when I haven’t read the book, per se.

So we went to see Eat, Pray, Love. And I enjoyed it. I loved this woman leaving her life for a year to find herself. To find a way to be just fine without a man. Yay her! She went to Italy and nary a romantic flirty word was said. She went to India and somehow managed not to fall for an Indian guy with their dreamy accents and technical knowledge (ahem, Tech Support), which frankly, would be impossible for me. Then she went to Bali and spent time with an old toothless guy. It was perfect. She was on her quest.

And then? The fuckers ruined it. Here she was riding her bike along and the camera cuts to a guy in a Jeep, and I saw it coming. Not the near-miss where he almost runs her over, but the romantic story line emerging. I turned to Cheri and said, quite coarsely and loudly, IS THIS A GOD DAMN LOVE STORY?

And she goes Honey…Eat…Pray…Love. What did you think it was about?

And I went, quite coarsely and loudly, I THOUGHT IT WAS ABOUT HER LEARNING TO LOVE HERSELF! NOT SOME SWARTHY UNSHAVEN CHUMP!

And then the woman next to us threw some dirty looks to the bitter divorcee who was ruining Javier Bardem and Julia Robert's god damn meet cute. And I told her to fuck off. (Not really.) (Yes, I did.) (Not really.)

And then I turned back to my wife and said, quite coarsely and loudly, I WANT YOUR MONEY BACK!

And then I spent the next 20 minutes going I hate that guy under my breath every time Swarthy Javier Unshaven Chump Bardem came on screen. Or actually, mostly it was just every time he said something in his Swarthy Javier Unshaven Chump Bardem Stupid Accent.

because frankly? my wife, my friend, jamie, my 14 readers and i? we think i shouldn’t settle.

2010-07-24T23:28:00.001-07:00

498 days ago I saw these in the Macy’s on Union Square in San Francisco while I was there for a conference. Where conference equals shopping at Macy’s shoes on Union Square in San Francisco. What?

And I loved them. With an unabiding, incalculable, illimitable (totally a word) love meant to last forever. They were perfect. Where perfect equals sexy arch-revealing inside cutaways and come-hither outside scallops and flirtatious yarn pompons hovering coquettishly over exactly right peep-toes on a canvas of indescribable lime green suede.

Then I took a photo of them. Where took a photo equals tried them on, lied about being a photojournalist freelancing on assignment for a mockup of a new magazine form the publishers of Vogue targeting posh gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered urban readers, and then slipped my crap ass Chinese Laundry caramel patent pumps back on and went back to my hotel.

Then I blogged about them. Where blogged about them means hey, remember when I had more than 14 readers? (Hi, Mom.) (And Jason.) (And people I’ve dated.) (Yes, you. Stop looking.) (Not you. Not the one who sometimes leaves the ridiculously expensive eco-friendly, hypo-allergenic, biodegradable laundry detergent in my driveway with a bow on it when I run out on the day the Adolescent Boy is in the hospital. You can stay.) (And I’m out of shampoo.) (Just saying.)

Then my wife and my friend, Jamie and I spent several months alternately Googling lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes and lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pom-poms on the toes just in case Google can’t get from my correctly spelled pompons to the Internet’s pom-poms.

We found and rejected these flats

and these with the pink

and these not peep-toes

and these again with the pink, Marc Jacobs?

Because frankly? My wife, my friend, Jamie, my 14 readers and I? We think I shouldn’t settle.

Then my wife wrote a letter to Marc by Marc Jacobs. Where wrote equals emailed. Natch. And letter equals lawsuit. And where that all equals emailed a lawsuit which obviously means filed a lawsuit. Metaphorically. Because she put heretofore and quasi-contract and reasonable cause in the emailed letter/lawsuit. What?

Then I checked Zappos. Where checked equals stalked. And Zappos equals this guy, George, who works in marketing at Zappos who comes to San Diego for the weekend sometimes and makes the mistake of Tweeting his San Diego location where crazy people looking for lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes can find him. Where that all equals thank God my wife’s a lawyer.

Then I enrolled in grad school and forgot about lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes.

Where enrolled in grad school and forgot about lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes equals on Day 490, my ethics instructor in grad school used the Zappos code of ethics as an example of ethics awesomeness which reminded me to Google lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes because I hadn’t in the last three days and Google had obviously heard about how I was trying to find the lime green suede peep-toe oh for the love of God, with this again? and redesigned Google Image Search for me and I found them. In my size.

And then I died.

And this is what my feet will look like when I’m dead.

Booyah, Baby. Lime green suede peep-toe pumps with navy blue yarn pompons on the toes. My toes.

I found them. On day 490. I am not making this up.

My wife, my friend Jamie, my 14 readers and I? We were right. I should not settle.

my mom: well, darling, that was really just for your benefit. i'm a little bit surprised you believed it, actually.

2010-07-11T23:34:00.001-07:00

The Little People are visiting my parents in Colorado and there was all this big talk before they left about how they'd come home after a couple of weeks and then maybe go back for another visit in August for a week or so.

And that? Apparently? Was crap.

My mom with her we'll just see how it goes and maybe they'll stay for a couple of weeks and her sure, they'll probably really miss you and they may want to come after a couple of weeks. And I was all yeah, they really will probably want to be home more this summer and I was all they'll probably want to go to the beach and do some skate camps and things here, right? And my mom was all yes, let's just have them stay for a couple of weeks or so and see how it goes.

And the Little People? Were all bwahahaha! We're never coming home!

And my mom knew it all along.

Yesterday I called to check in on them and they couldn't come to the phone because something something going out to shoot prairie dogs with our bows and blah blah blah have to go play bumper boats on the kayaks in the lake and shit like that.

Whatever. Like I care.

So I talked to my mom instead, and that went well.

Me: Mom, the kids don't seem like they really have any intention of coming home next week or like, at all before school starts.

My Mom: Yes, we know that, Kate. We don't really have any intention of sending them home next week. Or ever really.

Me: So what about all that talk about how they'd just visit for a couple of weeks once or twice this summer?

My Mom: Well, Darling, that was really just for your benefit. I'm a little bit surprised you believed it, actually.

Me: Awesome. Are they okay? Do they miss me? So they seem sad?

My Mom: Oh, yes, Kate. They're very sad.

(My mom can do sarcasm like nobody's business.)

I probably should've seen this coming what with the one way tickets.

Whatever. Like I care. They’re not even that cute.

in case one of them accidently wandered off the plane and back into the airport and eventually into East LA to be lost to drugs and gangs forever

2010-07-02T11:07:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, the Little People flew to Colorado to spend a few weeks at my parents' ranch. They flew by themselves. Without me. Which obviously went really well as these things tend to do for me.

I asked the People Who Work for the Airline if someone would escort the Little People from the gate to the plane. The People Who Work for the Airline looked at me like I was cracked and said things about how the path from the gate to the plane was fairly easy to negotiate, in that it was an enclosed tunnel that led to absolutely nowhere except, like, the plane. And the Adolescent Boy earnestly whispered at me that they'd be fine and that they weren't babies and that he was pretty sure he could find the plane which was exactly at the end of the tunnel that leads absolutely nowhere except, like, the plane. And Jeez, Mom.

So I left them at the gate and waved and yelled goodbye and reminded the Adolescent Boy not to lose the Second Grader and that if Grandma wasn't waiting at the other side they were to sit down exactly where they were and not to move one inch from that spot until someone finds them. And he said things about how he had his phone. And Jeez, Mom. And then I called my mom and told her to be sure to get a gate pass so she could meet them at the gate and that if she wasn't there when they deplaned they were to sit down exactly where they were and not to move one inch from that spot until someone finds them. And she told me that she'd go out and wait on the tarmac and would that be okay? And Jeez, Kate.

After I put them on the plane, I went around the corner to watch them board and watch the plane until it left in case one of them accidently wandered off the plane and back into the airport and eventually into East LA to be lost to drugs and gangs forever. And I also gave the pilots the evil eye and tried to determine if they'd been drinking.

And then? I heard the following announcement looking for the Second Grader:

Allegiant Air is paging passenger Owen Wheeler. If passenger Owen Wheeler is in the boarding area, please board immediately. This is the final boarding call for passenger Owen Wheeler.

And then I died.

And then I ran to the gate and said things about how Owen Wheeler is my eight-year-old son and that he just boarded. And they? Said thank you for letting us know. And the People Who Work for the Airpline checked his name off the list.

And then I died.

I politely and calmly told the People Who Work for the Airline that they'd better get their asses on that plane and make sure he was in his seat. (I also asked them to remind them that if Grandma wasn't there to meet them when they deplaned that they were to sit down exactly where they were and not to move one inch from that spot until someone finds them.) (And to check to see if the pilot had been drinking.)

I am now on the no-fly list. Natch.

befriending a wild horse in a bikini

2010-06-21T22:11:00.001-07:00

There are not that many people in the world who look truly great in a bikini.

There are only a few people in the world who can befriend a wild horse.

There is only one who can do both at the same time.

She is my sister.

She signed me up to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Peanut butter. And jelly. Sandwiches. Motherf**k.

2010-06-17T18:28:00.001-07:00

The Girl kind of has no faith in me.

She was in a school play this week for which she needed a costume. And which was scheduled for 10:30 on a Tuesday morning. And after which was a luncheon potluck. None of these things was a problem for me. But the Girl was unconvinced.

She was playing the emcee for an awards show recognizing the greatest people of the 20^th century. For this she needed a tuxedo. Or she would die. A tuxedo. I am not making this up. I suggested to her that a female emcee might wear some kind of an evening gown or cocktail dress. Of which, I have several and could certainly fix one up and help her accessorize. But that? Was not okay. She needed a tuxedo. Or she would die. I didn't have a tuxedo. And I certainly didn't have a tuxedo for a fourth-grade girl. But I also didn't want her to die. Eventually I convinced her that an emcee of a historical show might wear a Zoot Suit, which I could put together with a belt, a pair of big pants, a jacket with overlarge shoulder pads, a pink tie borrowed from a friend and a fedora from Target.

She also worried that I wouldn't get to the performance on time. Or at all. (Because I don't love her enough.) I showed her my calendar with the morning blocked off. Then she was still concerned that I would have to leave early. Or not come at all. (Because I don't love her enough.) So I took the whole day off. She requested verification from my boss. I told her to stick it.

Then she began fretting about the potluck. I don't know why. I can cook. I make baked brie that will make you cry. (In a good way.) My ham pinwheels? Bom. Diggity. My chocolate chip cookies? Men have proposed to me for my chocolate chip cookies.

But the Girl? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this child. She signed me up to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Peanut butter. And jelly. Sandwiches. Motherf**k.

So now I was looking forward to walking into the potluck with a plate of fifty peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Kill me.

But that? Is not even the worst part. The night before the play I was in class she texted me to tell me that she was going to make the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches herself, because she thought I wouldn't have time. (Because I don't love her enough). So now I get to walk into the potluck with a plate of fifty God help me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that she would be sure to tell everyone that I didn't even make. (Because I don't love her enough.)

Fuck me.

stop.

2010-06-01T22:44:00.001-07:00

Kate Wheeler did.

Stop.

For three days. With two Little People. At one dive hotel. With eight hot spring pools. And three good books. And 125 ounces of 30 SPF. And one million Joshua Trees.

her research included a lengthy interview with my friend, juan, and me reading aloud emails between me and my friends about the arizona immigration law

2010-05-27T23:04:00.001-07:00

Tonight was open house night at the Girl and the Second Grader’s school. It was uneventful. Mostly.

The Girl recently completed a report on US/Mexican immigration issues. Her research included a lengthy interview with my friend Juan, and me reading aloud emails between me and my friends about the Arizona immigration law, as well as some online research.

I talked with her a bit about the issues and about people we know here in San Diego and back in Colorado who have immigrated from Mexico, some legally, some not so much. Which I think? Is fine. Whatever.

Her report was well thought out, well organized and included a comprehensive bibliography which included Wheeler, Kate (my mom) and her friends, (2010). Emails sent between May 15 and, like, right now. Her report was so good that her teacher posted in on the wall for everyone to read during open house.

I had not read the entire report until tonight. When I read it? I immediately called my mom and dad and read them the closing paragraph. Mostly the closing sentence.

“The topic of immigration is important to me because my mom has a friend named Juan who lives in Tijuana, Mexico. Juan commutes to the US everyday legally for graduate school and work. My grandpa has a friend in Colorado who is from Mexico who lives in the US illegally. He got a fake green card and works for my grandpa.”

While that’s not exactly what I told her. It’s still entirely awesome. Obviously my dad thought so too.

Also? I had to Google “fake green card” for an image for this post, so I’m pretty sure Arizona is on its way to deport me. And the Girl. And Juan. And John Quiroba from Google. And now all of you too.

And my dad. Naturally.

the second grader [despondently, from under the table]: monkeys. m-o-n- k… e… y…… s…….

2010-05-22T00:02:00.001-07:00

Me: You need to pick up your room. It’s a disaster.

The Second Grader: Disaster. D-i-s-a-s-t-e-r. Disaster.

Me: Okay.

The Second Grader [walking away]: Disaster. D-i-s-a-s-t-e-r. Disaster.

Me: Weird kid.

[Later.]

The Second Grader: Mama!

Me: What!

The Second Grader: I DON’T KNOW ALL THE HOMOPHONES!

Me: Um. What?

[Here he slid off the chair and under the kitchen table.]

The Second Grader: I CAN’T REMEMBER THE HOMOGRAMS!

The Girl: A homogram isn’t even a thing. Hehehe.

The Second Grader [from under the table]: SEE? I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHICH THINGS ARE THINGS ANYMORE AND I CAN’T REMEMBER THE HOMOPHONES!

Me: What? The? Monkeys?

The Second Grader [despondently, from under the table]: Monkeys. M-o-n- k… e… y…… s…….

The Girl: You forgot to say the word again. Hehehe.

The Second Grader [still on the floor]: I DIDN’T FINISH YET! I DIDN’T FINISH! I WAS SAYING MONKEYS! MONKEYS! MONKEYS! MONKEYS!

Me: Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

The Second Grader: MAMA! I’M IN THE SPELLING BEE AND I CAN’T REMEMBER THE HOMOGRAMS!

The Girl: Homophones. Hehehe.

The Second Grader: I KNOW! STOP SAYING HOMOPHONES!

Me: You’re in a spelling bee?

The Second Grader: YES! AND IT’S TODAY! AND I DON’T KNOW THE HOMOPHONES!

The Girl: Did you know that homonyms and homophones are the same? Hehehe.

The Second Grader: I don’t even know what that means! MAMA! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

He came in third. The word he missed was weather. He spelled whether. And then he died. The end.

who currently seemed to be exiled from the bed and made to sleep on the tattered braided rug that covered the wide-planked floor

2010-05-16T23:39:00.001-07:00

I wrote this in response to one of Deb’s PROMTuesdays, and then waited a really long time to finish it. Until today. It was in response to a photo of a place in the mountains. Or that’s what I remember. And the prompt photo was something like this.

She pulled the Jeep to a stop and switched off the headlights. Pulling the key out of the ignition, she sat back and looked at how the years had faded the wood siding to the soft gray of ocean-facing decks on the Oregon coast. The ticking of the cooling engine played in rhythm to Tom Petty telling her it would be alright, even if the sun don’t shine. She hadn’t seen the cabin in years and felt the absence of her dad. They’d never arrived here without her dad having gotten there ahead of them to start the fire and switch on the water heater.

Birdie sat up in the back seat, and looked out the windshield over her mother’s shoulder. She unbuckled her seat belt and squeezed in between the two front seats to sit sideways on the console. “Where is this, Mama?” she asked as she pulled Mrs. Squirrel and Mr. Pants from the back seat.

“It’s where we are, Birdie,” she said.

“Is it where Dad is?”

“No, Birdie. Dad’s not here,” she said. “Grab your hat, Baby.” She watched as Birdie pulled on her hat and wrapped the blanket she’d been sleeping under more tightly around her and Mrs. Squirrel and Mr. Pants.

Birdie climbed into bed with her early, having woken with the sun. There were no curtains here. The windows were uncovered, with nothing to blunt the force of the morning cold.

“Mama?”

“Good morning, Lovey.” She whispered.

“Is this where we live now?”

“No, Birdie. This is just where we are now. Soon we’ll go home. You’ll go back to school, and I’ll go back to work,” she said.

“But Dad won’t be there.”

“Dad will be there. Dad will always be there, Birdie. Dad just won’t be the one who drops you off at school anymore.”

“Yeah.”

They laid in bed for another few minutes enjoying the sensation of cold noses and warm bodies that was unique to camping and mountain cabins. Birdie chattered to her about Mrs. Squirrel and Mr. Pants and what they thought of the cabin. (Mrs. Squirrel was concerned about how far it was from the grocery store, but Mr. Pants was sure that he could capture a deer if they got very hungry.) (Mrs. Squirrel didn’t think she’d like deer very much though.)

“How the fuck do we have no curtains and no coffee maker?” she muttered after pulling herself out from under the down comforter. Birdie was still in bed, deep in hushed conversation with Mrs. Squirrel, having covered Mr. Pants, who currently seemed to be exiled from the bed and made to sleep on the tattered braided rug that covered the wide-planked floor, with her discarded hat.

“Mama! Don’t say fuck!” shouted Birdie as if she were four miles away.

“Ears like a bat, this one.”

“Bats don’t hear with ears, Mama, they hear with sonar,” Birdie shouted.

“Birdie! Are you making things up?” she shouted back, as if she were five miles away.

She breathed deeper when she heard Birdie giggle.

“Mama! You know about the bats!”

“Yes, I do know about bats. Didn’t you know that I lived in a cave when I was a little girl?” she asked as she filled a tea kettle with water. “We lived in a cave in Argentina, and I had to translate for Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Gabby to ask the bats not to eat their brains while we slept.”

“Mama!” She watched while her daughter wrapped Mr. Pants tighter in her hat and put him away in the drawer of the night table. She pulled bowls from the shelf above the sink and listened as Birdie chattered with Mrs. Squirrel. “He has to stay in that drawer for a while, Mrs. Squirrel. He might be able to come home. But he probably won’t.” Birdie closed the drawer and helped Mrs. Squirrel with her sweater and sat her up on a pillow.

Birdie pulled a scarf out of her backpack and tucked it around Mrs. Squirrel’s legs and whispered something in her ear. After checking on Mr. Pants in the night table drawer, Birdie moved tentatively into the kitchen.

Her daughter looked lost. As if her very own arms and legs were strangers to her. She pulled a chair from the table over to the counter and climbed up on it, looking over her shoulder to be sure Mrs. Squirrel was okay.

“Hey, Chickie.”

“Hey, Mama.”

“How’s life, Kiddo?” she said.

“Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Mr. Pants doesn’t want to stay in that drawer.”

and then my dog licked his toes and woke him up

2010-05-13T23:53:00.001-07:00

So today? I got to take care of this guy:

And he really is exactly that cute. Times infinity.

And we had a perfect lovely day. And I? Totally put him to sleep. Without his mother. Or her breasts.

True story.

It took me four days to get him to sleep and this is how I did it:

I sang him a song and gave him a bottle. Then I fed him some yogurty oatmeal stuff. Then I sang him a song and gave him a bottle. Then I took him outside and rocked him and sang him another song.

And then he fell asleep.

And then my dog licked his toes and woke him up. Which delighted him.

Then I fed him some organic Cheerio things and played peekaboo with him. Then I sang him a song and gave him his pacifier. Then I took him for a walk in the stroller. Then I sang him a song and gave him a bottle. Then I took him outside and rocked him and sang him a song and gave him a bottle.

And then he fell asleep.

And then the Second Grader shot him with a Nerf gun and woke him up. Which delighted him.

Then I fed him some rice pilaf with carrots. Then I bounced him around and let him play with my sunglasses. Then I fed him some more organic Cheerio things. Then I sang him a song and rocked him.

And then he fell asleep.

And then the Girl grabbed his toes to play This Little Piggy and woke him up. Which delighted him.

Then I rocked him and sang him a new song, which went like this:

Hushabye and goodnight, wake this baby up and I’ll kill you.

I’m not kidding, I’m not joking, slam that door and you’re grounded.

Hushabye and goodnight, get away from me this instant.

If you maa—aake any noise, I will take all your toys away,

And I’ll sell them, to the neighbors, and you’ll never see a dime.

Hushabye and goodnight, if you touch him, you’re grounded…

Booyah. Sleeping baby, Baby.

so then i went home and spent two hours deciding which shoes to wear on our wedding day.

2010-05-05T23:59:00.001-07:00

The Girl had an orthodontist appointment today. And now? We’re engaged.

He didn’t propose. Per se.

He said that he would need to see the Girl more often because something something time to move forward with the next phase of her orthodontic treatment in order to blah blah blah correct the misalignment of her bite and la la la close the space between her upper teeth.

But really, he needs to “see” her more often? I think we know what this means.

It means he needs to see me more often, and that it’s time to move forward to the next phase of our relationship in order to correctly align ourselves with one another and thus close the space between us, Baby.

What? Don’t be jealous.

Then? He proposed. Pretty much.

He said he liked my shoes.

And that? Is exactly the same as saying I get you, Baby.

So then I went home and spent two hours deciding which shoes to wear on our wedding day.

Obviously.

Because they will remind him of the day he proposed.

What? Shut up.

A space for love and leadership.

2010-05-01T20:02:00.000-07:00

and i was for sure the worst mom in the world because i wouldn’t even let her have her tiny baby goldfish that already loved her

2010-04-28T23:10:00.001-07:00

The Girl got a goldfish today. Over the weekend she and her brother went to Petco and tried to buy goldfish, but Petco apparently has a strict policy of not ever selling goldfish to minors without a parent or legal guardian present. I have no idea why.

Really, what is this policy protecting against? Parents calling the store to complain that their children came home with a goldfish and now what in the world will they do with this tiny, one-inch, entirely silent, peaceful creature that will probably die of natural causes in ten minutes anyway?

I don’t know.

So she didn’t get her goldfish this weekend, but her teacher announced on Monday that he would give away the class goldfish. And to get a class goldfish? Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. In order to become eligible to adopt a class goldfish, she needed a) a duly-witnessed, notarized statement from her parent or legal guardian stating that she could, in fact, have the goldfish, b) a proper tank to take the fish home in, c) to have all homework completed and turned in, and d) to win the class goldfish lottery because there were four fish and six hundred fourth graders who wanted a fish. The Girl? Won the lottery.

Naturally.

Drama ensued last night during my Strategic Planning class when the Girl realized that she needed an ASPCA approved goldfish carrying container to bring her goldfish home tomorrow. And holy monkeys but she needed to have it RIGHT NOW! And NO, a Ziploc bag would NOT work at all! And I was for sure the worst mom in the world because I wouldn’t even let her have her tiny baby goldfish that already loved her and which she won FAIR AND SQUARE!

So I? Went to Petco and got the effing goldfish carrying case. And she brought her newborn baby goldfish that already loved her and which she won fair and square home today at noon. And she was so happy and I was the best mom in the entire world and maybe even better than Grandma and now she finally had the tiny baby goldfish she’s always wanted, always! She named him Ponyo and she was going to be his mommy.

At 1:10 she called me at work.

Me: Hello?

The Girl: Mom?

Me: Yes.

The Girl: Guess what happened?

Me: What?

The Girl: That fish died.

Me: I’m sorry.

The Girl: So can I dissect him?

Me: What? Dissect him? Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

The Girl: He died. So can I dissect him?

Me: I don’t really know. This is kind of a weird question that I am unprepared to answer. Um…

The Girl: Can I?

Me: Well, I guess I don’t think you should.

The Girl: Why?

Me: Because I think it’s weird that you want to and because that’s kind of a creepy thing to want to do. Aren’t you sad?

The Girl: Yes, I was really hoping you’d let me dissect him.

because if he just told me to have an apple instead of coffee, i think i might actually kill him

2010-04-23T23:13:00.001-07:00

Did you ever have a friend who went to UCLA on a tennis scholarship agree to be your own personal trainer?

No?

I did. And I do not recommend it.

All that being healthier and svelte and fit and able to wear your skinny jeans business? That’s all fine. Until he says things about not drinking coffee. I am not making this up. He said no coffee. To me.

I know. What? The? Monkeys?

And then there’s this business about replacing the coffee and most of the food with some ridiculousness about syrup and fresh lime juice and water. Uncaffeinated syrup and fresh lime juice and water. He said no coffee and drink this business. To me.

I know. Whiskey Tango Monkey Foxtrot?

And then he emails me on the second No Coffee Day, or, as I like to call it, the Second Day of Us Not Being Friends Ever Again and goes how are you? And I go I’m fine. Goodbye. Forever.

And then he emails me a while later and goes you’re doing great, you can do it! And I go I think I really need coffee or I’m going to die. And he goes nooooooo coffee. And I go I really have a horrible headache, really. And he goes you should have an apple. And then I was all holy fucking hell, did he just tell me to have an apple? Because if he just told me to have an apple instead of coffee, I think I might actually kill him. And I was also all I DON’T NEED AN APPLE BECAUSE THE HEADACHE IS FROM NO COFFEE, YOU NITWIT! THIS IS REAL WITHDRAWAL, PLEASE GOOGLE CAFFEINE WITHDRAWAL AND MEET ME AT FUCKING STARBUCKS. And he goes you can have a salad.

I know. He said that. To me. You can have a salad. What? The? Motherf**k?

And then I died. And he felt horrible forever and wished every day that he’d just let me have a cup of coffee. The end.

Juan, are you reading this?

an american song. in english. at the multicultural fair. obviously his teacher is a republican.

2010-04-16T23:32:00.001-07:00

The Little People and I attended the multicultural fair at their school last night.

It sucked. Suck-tuh.

It wasn’t just ordinary school function suck. It was like multicultural über-suck.

It was hot. It was noisy. There was a four-mile long line to get these crap ass passport things which turned out to be a piece of construction paper folded in half with some crookedly cut loose leaf paper stapled to the inside.

Suck-tuh.

The Second Grader’s class sang a song. An American song. In English. At the multicultural fair. Obviously his teacher is a republican. (Not really.) (Yes, she is.)

His class sang a song, but he may or may not have. I think that kid in the red circle is him, but frankly? I don’t really know because it was like that photo times infinity and blurrier.

The Girl played the clarinet. I think. I could neither see nor hear her, so I don’t really know. She was prepared to play Hot Cross Buns, Mary Had a Little Lamb and Jimmy Crack Corn. For the multicultural fair. Multi. Cultural. Some kids sang songs from the Sound of Music, so that’s, like, German, right? And someone did Oklahoma! Which is obviously culturally awesome.

There was a Hawaii table, and they spelled it with the apostrophe, making it quite culturally diverse: Hawai’i. The table was being manned by a middle-aged white couple in Hawaiian shirts who I’m pretty sure don’t even have kids who go to that school. They had a photo album from their vacation to Maui and some of the little shampoos from the Wailea Marriott. (Not really.) (Yes, they did).

At some point I decided the Second Grader and the Girl must have been finished performing, but I had no idea where they were.

Me: Where are the little kids?

The Adolescent Boy: Outside by the map.

There is a map of the US painted on the courtyard in front of the school office.

Me: They are?

The Adolescent Boy: Yeah, they’re showing everyone where Tijuana is.

(Not really.)

(Yes, they were.)

I totally love my kids. Because hello? Tijuana. Ti’juana.

because hello? Coffee Guy Who Can’t Remember Me? YOU called me.

2010-04-14T22:11:00.001-07:00

Do you remember that Seinfled where Elaine goes out with this guy just because he can’t remember her? I think I’m going to do that. Coffee Guy Who Can’t Remember Me called today. He called me. And then? He was kind of all okay, so what did you need?

When I couldn’t remember why I’d called him (wait…what again?), he asked me what my plans were for the next few days and I told him that I was fairly open. (I don’t know why.) (What?) (Shut up.)

After an interminably long conversation about, let me see, nothing, he worked back around to my plans for the next few days. And then the call dropped. And I? Assumed he would call back, because hello? Coffee Guy Who Can’t Remember Me? YOU called me.

He did not call me back.

Naturally.

He did though, email me several hours later to say that his phone died and his charger was something something blah blah blah I stopped listening, but that he’d give me a call later tonight. Which he did not. Because Coffee Guy That Can’t Remember Me? Can’t remember me.

I’m definitely going to date this guy. And he? Will totally remember it.

oh, yes…well, hmpphf, yes, la la la whatever you said and so do you want to go for coffee sometime

2010-04-12T22:50:00.001-07:00

Um. Hi. Hello.

Did you ever meet someone two years ago and that person asked you out and you were like meh, you seem pretty boring, but you met him for coffee anyway, and he didn't have cash and the place didn't take credit cards and so you paid for both coffees and then he didn’t call you and you didn’t really care because he was pretty boring and then you met him again two years later and he emails you and asks you out and you're like well, we did that once, remember? and he goes wha...? and you're like yeah, we went for coffee and you didn't have cash, and the people didn’t take credit cards, and you still owe me five bucks and plus you didn't call afterward and he's like oh, yes…well, hmpphf, yes, la la la whatever you said and so do you want to go for coffee sometime and you're like yeah, not really that much because I think you still don’t remember but if you want to get me a Starbucks and bring it to my office tomorrow, I probably won’t kick you in the shin.

Did you?

Me either.

(Shut up.)

and a few days after i try conditioning it with mayonnaise

2010-04-12T00:12:00.001-07:00

The woman who cuts my hair? She’s awesome. I just wish she knew how to, like, cut hair.

She’s the sweetest woman on the face of the Earth. She’s about four and a half feet tall and can’t really reach my head at all when she’s giving me a haircut. She also speaks almost no English, which helps. And she adores my kids. They love her too. As long as she does not ever try to cut their hair.

I get my hair cut about once or twice a year, when there’s nothing more I can do to it. Usually about a month after I’ve trimmed my own bangs. And a couple of weeks after I’ve tried to trim the split ends with the Second Grader’s safety scissors. And a few days after I try conditioning it with mayonnaise.

That was today.

And guess what?

This time? I got exactly the haircut I wanted.

In 1994.

When Ross and Rachel broke up. The first time.

You know what though? It only costs me $14.

Four. Teen. Dollahs.

Booyah, baby. That’s a lot of extra money for hair mayonnaise.

sister mary francis would believe they were wearing nylons, when, in fact, they were not

2010-04-09T21:05:00.001-07:00

My mom grew up in Brooklyn, and she’s always more than happy to regale anyone who cares to listen with stories of growing up in a brownstone on Coney Island Avenue with her grandmother and grandfather.

She was, most of the time, up to no good. I know about how she’d tell her grandmother she was going to the candy store and then sneak out the back door to meet her boyfriend, Tommy Kelly. I know about how she’d tell her grandmother she was going to sit on the other side of the church with her friend, Virginia, during mass and then sneak out the side door to meet her boyfriend, Jimmie McGillicuddy. I know about when Sister Mary Edward caught her wearing lipstick and when Sister Mary Margaret caught her smoking, and I know how she and Virginia used to draw lines up the back of their legs so that Sister Mary Francis would believe they were wearing nylons, when, in fact, they were not.

I thought I’d heard all the stories. But apparently? I was wrong.

Apparently? My mom shared some stories with the Little People that I never heard. On the news this evening:

Anchor: A French tourist dove in the East River today to rescue a two-year-old girl who had slipped and fallen from a gangplank at the South Street Seaport Museum.

The Second Grader: Hey! The East River! That’s where they throw the bodies!

Me: Wha…?

The Second Grader: Yeah, Grandma told me! That’s where they throw the dead bodies!

Huh. I guess I haven’t heard all the stories.

oh for christ’s sake! no, that is not a real number, nothing with a made up word in it is a real number!

2010-04-06T22:46:00.001-07:00

Guess what? I have a new Least Favorite Game. It’s called Is This a Real Number?

Is This A Real Number is best played on a day where one must drive 200 miles, sit in an airport for four hours, and then take a two-hour flight.

The Second Grader: Mama? Is this a real number—ninety-nine kajillion ninety-nine trillion forty-four thousand forty-four hundred forty-four?

The Second Grader: Mama, is it?

Me: Hmmm?

The Second Grader: Mama? Is this a real number—ninety-nine kajillion ninety-nine trillion forty-four thousand forty-four hundred forty-four?

Me: Mmmm. Maybe. You’d say four thousand four hundred probably instead of forty-four hundred if it was part of that number.

The Second Grader: Okay. Mama? Is this a real number—ninety-nine trillion ninety-nine billion ninety-nine million ninety-nine thousand ninety-nine hundred and nine?

The Second Grader: Mama! Is it?

Me: What? Why are you saying numbers?

The Second Grader: Maybe it’s homework.

Is This A Real Number gets even better if the players are running from one end of LAX to the other in 8 minutes while talking on the phone to someone with a really thick accent who has just lost your dog.

The Second Grader: Mama? Is this a real number—ten billion million ten trillion ten million ten thousand and ten?

The Second Grader: MAMA! You aren’t listening! Is it?

Me: Maybe. I don’t know what a billion million is though. Hurry up!

The Second Grader: It’s like one billion millions. Of dollars maybe!

The Second Grader: So, is it? Mama? Mother! Muh-ther!

Me: Jesus Christ! Yes, probably that’s a real number. Now hurry up!

The Second Grader: Is this a real number—sixty-six zillion fifty-five billion forty-four million thirty-three thousand twenty-two hundred and…one. NO! And eleven!

Me [answering my phone]: Hello?

The Second Grader: Mama! Is it? Is that a real number?

My Friend Juan Who Was Taking Care of My Dog: Please tell me you had someone come and pick Fritzy up. Please…

Me: No. What? Why?

The Second Grader: MAMA!

My Friend Juan Who Might’ve Lost My Dog: Um. Nothing. Nevermind. I have to go. *click*

The Second Grader: Muh-ther! Sixty-six zillion fifty-five billion forty-four million thirt….

Me [calling My Friend Juan back]: Yes, that’s a real number. Jesus, God, are we done now?

My Friend Juan Who Had Indeed Lost My Dog: Bueno?

Me: Did you lose my dog?

My Friend Juan Who Had Just Found My Dog at My Crazy Russian Neighbor’s House Because She Dognapped Him: No. He’s right here.

The Second Grader: Mama! Is this a real num…

Me: OH FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! NO, THAT IS NOT A REAL NUMBER, NOTHING WITH A MADE UP WORD IN IT IS A REAL NUMBER!

Is This A Real Number can also be played on a short flight while you sit next to really large chatty guy from Yakima while your opponent is two rows behind you on the left, thus requiring him to SHOUT.

The Second Grader: MAMA! HEY MAMA! IS THIS A REAL NUMBER—NINETY-NINE BILLION BILLION NINETY-NINE MILLION NINETY-NINE HUNDRED AND TEN? MAMA? IS IT?

The Second Grader: MAMA! HEY MAMA!

Me: *Nothing because then my head exploded. The end.*

the easter bunny just remembered

2010-04-03T22:27:00.001-07:00

The Easter Bunny just remembered why he never hid the eggs

outside,

when the Easter Bunny lived

in Colorado.

Now the Easter Bunny has decided

to retire to Boca.

Because Christ on a crutch, it’s cold as fuck out there.

there he goes again with this crunchy peanut butter business. and i? kind of freak out.

2010-04-02T22:00:00.001-07:00

Every time the Adolescent Boy goes to the grocery store with me, he asks if we can get crunchy peanut butter. And I? Kind of freak out.

I have no idea why.

He goes Mom, can we pleeaase get crunchy peanut butter this time? And I go no! We’re not buying crunchy peanut butter! Why do you have to ask me that every single time? And he must be thinking What? The? Heck? But he just shrugs his shoulders and gets the Pop-Tarts. Because he has asked for crunchy peanut butter one thousand times before, and I have said no one thousand times before. I know. Shut up.

Then we go home and he helps bring the groceries in and helps unpack the groceries and helps put the groceries away. Even the creamy peanut butter, which I’m sure he calls effing crapass creamy peanut butter. Then he goes Mom, next time, do you think we can get crunchy peanut butter? And I go Jesus, Mary and Jospeh! And he goes gah! Nevermind. But then the next time we go to the store there he goes again with this crunchy peanut butter business. And I? Kind of freak out. Again.

So there I was in my mom’s kitchen eating apples with peanut butter this afternoon. Crunchy peanut butter. And I actually thought oh, shit, I need to eat these fast so the Adolescent Boy doesn’t see me with crunchy peanut butter and get some big ideas about me buying crunchy peanut butter.

And then? I thought what the monkeys?

I have no idea when or why I drew the line on crunchy peanut butter. I don’t hate it. I don’t believe it’s less healthy than the smoother variety. We can afford two kinds of peanut butter. So, what the monkeys?

Apparently, at some point I must’ve decided that having two different kinds of peanut butter was too extravagant for us.

and snow boots, many with someone’s small sock sticking out of the top, having been left behind and orphaned when it came off with the boots

2010-04-01T22:41:00.001-07:00

I’m at the ranch with my children and my mom and dad. It is April 1st and snowing like a mother. The snow is disconcerting because it isn’t easy for me anymore.

The wall by my front door was painted green. Not a regular green. A green much like the color of Shrek, a shade of green without a specific name. On the green wall by the front door was a line of hooks that could never be seen in winter, because they were heaped with jackets and scarves and ski pants and snowsuits.

Each hook was different. Some were covered in chipping white paint, some in bits of etched mirror, some slightly rusted curly-cued metal, and all topped with a colorful glass ball. All but one, actually. One of the colorful toppers had broken off or had fallen off when a ski helmet or jacket was pulled down by someone too short to really reach it. That hook’s glass ball-topper had been lost forever under a couch or down a heating vent. But I’d replaced it with one of the Second Grader’s marbles and later with a super ball when the marble fell off.

On the hooks were jackets, ski pants, scarves, ski helmets, goggles and snowsuits. On the floor under the hooks were baskets of mittens and hats, many wet from having recently kept hands and heads warm while making snow angels or eating forbidden icicles off the roof. Next to the baskets were ski boots and snow boots, many with someone’s small sock sticking out of the top, having been left behind and orphaned when it came off with the boots. The snow was easy. We were ready.

Every so often, I’d walk by and pull the wet socks and mittens and hats out of the baskets and boots and toss them in the dryer or lay them on the heating vents to dry for the next round of snow angels and icicles. And every so often, I’d abandon my desk and pull on my coat and hat and mittens and boots and walk with my kids down to my mom’s house. Because my house was here, on the ranch. Just up the hill from my mom’s, on the other side of the corrals near the trail that leads to my brother’s house.

Visiting my mom and dad is perfect, with the muffins and chickens and always-ready coffee in the morning. It’s perfect that I stay in the upstairs guest room and that I can leave it as messy as I want to and my dad won’t say a word. It’s perfect because in a snow storm on April 1st, we can sit at the kitchen table making bugs out of Play-Doh while eating artichokes that my mom made just because the Girl likes them. It’s perfect because my brother is just up the road and there’s a fox that comes by to eat the spilled bird seed in the mornings.

My house is still here, and the wall by the front door is still green. And that will make me a little bit sad forever. Because it’s not my wall and it’s not my house anymore. The snow isn’t easy for me anymore because I don’t have a wall full of warm winter-y things for me and my children.

I took the hooks off the wall when I visited last summer. They’re still sitting in a suitcase, never unpacked. And now that I’m here, in the snow, I’m sad that they’re not still on the green wall by the front door of my house, just up the hill from my mom’s, on the other side of the corrals, near the trail that leads to my brother’s house.

then the other nitwit dramatically goes ta-da! finger or toe?

2010-03-09T22:18:00.001-08:00

I have a new Least Favorite Game.

It’s called Is This My Tongue or Is This My Bottom Lip?

Here’s how it works. The Girl looks at her brother and goes okay, now watch! But don’t look! And the Second Grader goes Ahh-hahahaha! Okay! And then the Girl turns her head away from the Second Grader, covers her face with her hands, yells IS THIS MY TONGUE OR IS THIS MY BOTTOM LIP? and then either sticks her tongue out a little bit or sticks out her bottom lip. Then she turns around to face the Second Grader, and he guesses if it’s her downturned bottom lip or her tongue sticking out a little bit. And then she tells him that whichever one he guessed is wrong, and they fight about it for fifteen minutes. And then they start all over.

Once they’ve played four rounds of this, the game is elevated to the Now Mom Has to Guess Lightening Round where they simultaneously go okay, now watch! But don’t look! And they turn around and cover their faces with their hands and yell IS THIS MY TONGUE OR MY BOTTOM LIP? And I guess which one and then the Girl tells the Second Grader that he didn’t do it right and she demonstrates while he goes I KNOW HOW TO DO IT!

And then the game isn’t even over yet. Because holy monkeys, this is fun!

Once we’ve completed these preliminary rounds, we move on to play the bonus round: Is This One of My Fingers or One of My Toes?

Which frankly? Is pretty gross. One of the little nitwits sticks either a finger or a toe through a little hole that they cut in a pillow case, while the pillow case covers all the other fingers and toes of the participant. Then the other nitwit dramatically goes ta-da! Finger or toe?

And then my head explodes and they get to have pie for dinner. And that’s how they win the game.

and i explained what an adverb is four thousand times. with a ukulele soundtrack.

2010-03-04T22:11:00.001-08:00

We had a sick day today. This was our 8th sick day in the last two weeks. First the Girl was sick. She missed four days of school last week, and three so far this week. And then the Second Grader got sick. While the Girl was still sick. And then the Adolescent Boy got sick. While the Girl was still sick. Then the Second Grader and the Adolescent Boy got sick. While the Girl was still sick. So today? We were all here together. We had a family sick day.

No, you don’t understand.

The Adolescent Boy? Bought himself a ukulele recently. And the Second Grader? Bought himself the 20th anniversary edition Mad Libs book. It contains one thousand Mad Libs. And today? We did one thousand Mad Libs. And I explained what an adverb is four thousand times. With a ukulele soundtrack. All. Day. Long.

He followed me around for six hours going Mommy, adverb…Mommy, ADVERB…Mommy, name of female in room…Mommy, noun…Mommy, noun…Mommy, noun noun noun noun…Mommy, adverb exclamation noun body part exclamation noun noun adjective adverb adverb color nounverbadverbnounVERBNOUNADVERB! NAME OF FEMALE IN ROOOOOM!

The Second Grader: Adverb.

The Second Grader: MOMMY! ADVERB!

Me: LOUDLY!

The Second Grader: What’s an adverb again?

Me: A word that describes a verb. Or sometimes an adjective or another adverb. Often it ends in –ly.

The Second Grader: But what is one?

Me [to the Adolescent Boy]: Would you please play that effing thing in your room for a while?

The Second Grader: What is one?

Me: Quickly, quietly, curiously, obtusely, disingenuously, stupidly, heart-wrenchingly, [to the Adolescent Boy] ear-splittingly!

The Second Grader: Exclamation.

Me: Oh, cabbage!

The Second Grader: Cabbage…hehe. Noun.

Me: Banana.

The Second Grader: Banana…hehe. Adjective.

Me: Furry.

The Second Grader: Furry…hehe. Adverb. Wait…what’s an adverb?

Me: A word that describes a verb. Or sometimes an adjective or another adverb. Often it ends in –ly. Brightly, dimly, dumbly, terrifyingly, [to the Adolescent Boy] excruciatingly, noisily, ridiculously…

The Second Grader: Noun.

Me: Squirrel.

The Second Grader: Squirrel…hehe. Body part.

Me: Nose.

The Second Grader: Nose…hehe. Adver—

Me: WE’RE NOT DOING ADVERBS ANYMORE! OR UKULELES! Jesus Christ!

The Girl: Exclamation!

Me: Smartass.

The Girl: Noun…hehehe.

i might be serious enough about this whole “dinner” thing to actually “cook” something

2010-02-22T22:07:00.001-08:00

My kids are such whiners. Whine. Ers.

This afternoon, I asked them what they wanted for dinner, which I said in order to make them believe I might actually make dinner.

And they were all wow, Mom, you mean we’re not having cereal for dinner? And I was like puh, like we ever do that. And they were all heh, whatever, Mom. And I was like nothing, because frankly? Raisin Bran is a healthy meal when paired with a banana or, like, a strawberry Pop-Tart. Because hello? Raisins, dude.

Me: What sounds good for dinner?

The Girl: What do you mean?

Me: Dinner. You know, the evening meal?

The Girl: You’re actually going to make “dinner”.

I swear to God she used finger quotes.

Once they decided that I might be serious enough about this whole “dinner” thing to actually “cook” something, they started complaining about other nonsense. They were all you never make anything good. And you only ever make chicken…there are other meats you know, Mom. And I was all oh? Really? Other meats? Okay, let’s have baked Second Grader and Girl Kebobs then. They were all everything you make is always boring…really, really just so boring Mom.

And then? They made sleepy noises. They were all honk shoooo….

So I? Made meatloaf cupcakes for dinner.

Those are Italian turkey meatloaf cupcakes with mashed potato frosting and broccoli sprinkles.

Booyah. Mom, 1; Little Whiner Babies, 0.

Boring who, bitches?

probably because he wasn’t being a good little minion and doing her bidding

2010-02-07T22:34:00.001-08:00

My daughter? The Girl? She is the awesome. The Second Grader was bugging the living shit out of her yesterday. Probably because he wasn’t being a good little minion and doing her bidding. She’s a little bit bossy. Where a little bit bossy means Christ on a crutch, this child.

The Second Grader walked in the kitchen yesterday crying. Sort of. He was fake crying to get his sister in trouble. Which is getting less and less believable, frankly.

The Second Grader: Mama! THE GIRL SAID SHE’S GONNA PUNCH ME! TO MAKE ME BLEED!

Me: Do you think she meant it? The bleeding part?

The Second Grader: MAMA! I’M SERIOUS!

Me: Me too. Do you?

The Second Grader: Not really. BUT THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!

The Girl: No, I didn’t…hehehe.

And then? She cracked up. She was like, completely laughing her ass off. So I? Got suspicious.

Me: What did you say?

The Second Grader: SHE SAID SHE WAS GOING TO PUNCH ME!

Me: Sh. Stop yelling.

The Second Grader: I! AM! NOT! YELLING!

Me: Right. Okay. What did you say?

At this point she was basically rolling on the floor laughing.

Me: What’s funny?

The Girl: I need to call Papa. Papa’s going to love this.

Me: Oh shit. What did you say?

Because Jesus Christ the things that my dad would love? Eeep.

The Girl [gasping to get her breath through her laughing]: I told him…gasp…because he was complaining about something…wheeze…that I was gonna…gasp…gasp…I told him that I had some…gasp…MEDICINE FOR HIM!…and that…gasp…it was…gasp, wheeze…

And here she cocks her arm back and makes a fist.

The Girl: …I told him…gasp…that IT WAS PUNCH FLAVORED WITH AN AFTERTASTE OF BLOOOOOOD! …gasp…Hahahahaha…wheeze….

Me: Jesus Christ.

The Second Grader: I TOLD YOU!

Me [trying so hard not to laugh and handing her my phone]: Here, go call Papa.

The Second Grader: MOM!

if i tell her he’s here he will fail out of school, start doing drugs, and become a shoplifter and a jehovah’s witness

2010-01-30T17:54:00.001-08:00

My Russian Neighbor is a total loon. She’s just, like, utterly mad. Apparently she saw the Adolescent Boy reading a book once. And now? She brings him all her old crapass books. Today she brought a stack that included a biography of Shirley Temple, a biography of Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy and The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court by Bob Woodward and Scott Armstrong. I am not making this up.

Even more awesome? She also brought over a copy of something by Tolstoy. In Russian. Heh.

My Russian Neighbor: Katya, your beeg boy, he is how old he is?

Me: Thirteen.

My Russian Neighbor: He is learnink Russian now. I half book. He is learnink Russian.

Me: No, I don’t think he is.

My Russian Neighbor: He is home?

Me: Um…

The Adolescent Boy is hiding in the hallway gesturing wildly at me something I assume to mean that if I tell her he’s here he will fail out of school, start doing drugs, and become a shoplifter and a Jehovah’s Witness.

My Russian Neighbor [yelling at her dog who is whining]: DON’T CRYINK! DON’T CRYINK, DOG!

My Russian Neighbor: He half to be learnink Russian now. I half book.

Me: ?

My Russian Neighbor: What vill he is vhen he is man? He like readink. DON’T CRYINK! DOG! DON’T CRYINK! He vill be smart man. You tell him no droppink! NO DROPPINK!

Me: Wha..?? Droppink?

My Russian Neighbor: When man is readink, he is readink he say, she say, only then droppink! He is beink readink this book and learn speak Russian. NO DROPPINK!

Me: Right. Got it. No dropping.

I have absolutely no idea what this means.

The Adolescent Boy is making puppy dog eyes which mean Mommy, please, if you love me at all, please don’t tell her I’m here. I nod to let him know that I would never do such a thing.

My Russian Neighbor: Katya, my George is comink home next week. You vill meet my George then, no? Your man is no here anymore, no? You vill maybe see my George then, yes?

Me [I am not making this up]: Oh. Wait. The Adolescent Boy? Yeah, he’s here. Hang on…

Mom of the year for sure.

PROMPT: and snapped several shots of a pair of ugly crows perched the branch of a long dead tree

2010-01-25T23:10:00.001-08:00

I decided to write again. But I’m not sure what I’m willing to write about. So I went looking for a prompt. And what do you know?

PROMPTuesday. From last week. Because I’m prompt like that.

From Deb:

Your car breaks down on the side of the highway during a cross-country road trip. What happens next?

She listened to the tinny ringing from her cell phone and spit her gum out the window aiming for the sun-faded 7-Up can half hidden in the tall grass beside the road.

“Hey, Morning Glory, what’s your story?” he answered, pushing back from the drafting table.

“Hey, you need to DVR The Bachelor for me tonight, and don’t screw it up.”

“Got it, Sweetness.”

She opened the door and reclined the seat halfway, propping her feet up on her car door in front of the side view mirror. “And you have to call me and tell me who gets sent home. Which means you have to watch it, at least the end.”

“Can do.”

She knew he wouldn’t, but she liked that he pretended that he would.

“When will Triple A be there?” he asked.

“About an hour after I remember to pay the god damn renewal notice that I didn’t pay four months ago.”

“Awesome. That sounds like an excellent plan,” he said.

“I called information. A tow-truck is coming. When they get here in four or five hours, I will pay them two or three hundred bucks for a non-flat spare tire. Then they will say things about Triple A and roadside assistance and emergency preparedness. Then I will tell them to fuck off and continue on to Santa Fe.”

“Also an excellent plan.”

She pressed the button to switch to speaker phone and pulled her Nikon out of the bag on the passenger seat. “What are you doing right this minute?” she asked as she switched lenses and snapped several shots of a pair of ugly crows perched the branch of a long dead tree. “Right now, what are you doing?” she asked again.

“I just looked up co-opt on dictionary.com.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed to make sure it meant what I thought it meant so as not to sound like a jackass.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me. I think you were doodling your initials and mine in a heart like an 8th grade girl.” She rested the Nikon in her lap and pulled the rearview mirror down to smear on some lip gloss. “What’s the context?” she asked.

“The context is as follows, Smartass, ‘The planning department is endeavoring to co-opt the resources of the inter-agency planning group to prop up their accelerated management solutions for repurposing the now defunct youth center.’”

She laughed. “God, I love it when you make shit up.”

She dropped the lip gloss in the cup holder and put the camera back in the bag after deleting the ugly crows from the memory card.

She tilted the rearview mirror back up when she heard crunching gravel behind her and watched as an old truck pulling a horse trailer slowed to a stop behind her car. “The cavalry has arrived, but they’re trailering their horses. Hang on, Tex.”

He switched her to speaker phone and picked up the file he’d been working on and dropped it in his briefcase. Smiling, he drew a heart on the graph paper in front of him and began filling it in with her initials while he listened. He heard a muffled exchange of car trouble? niceties and what sounded like the tail end of her explanation of the two or three hundred dollar non-flat spare tire that was on its way.

He began drawing a second heart, outlining the first, when her throaty laugh cut off abruptly. The thin cylinder of graphite in the pencil snapped, second heart unfinished, when he heard her scream. The scream was cut short and became a low guttural howl. He heard the car door open, slam shut and then her phone snap closed.

(Credit where credit is due: Thank you to my Portland friend for the opening line inspiration on Morning Glory.)

1:14 pm: your hair looks weird. 1:15 pm: but your still pretty. 1:15 pm: [blank]

2010-01-18T20:59:00.001-08:00

The Little People had the day off from school today. At about 12:30 this afternoon, sitting on my couch in my pajamas drinking my fourth cup of coffee, I decided to check my work email. Guess what? My office? Not closed on Martin Luther King Day. Frick.

Anyhoo.

It rained today. It really, really rained. So the Little People were relegated to the inside of the house. Which, apparently, for The Girl? Is exactly the same as being locked in a law library and being forced to read about tort reform. (Or like watching the new Bachelor do anything.) (Zzzzzz.) (The new Bachelor looks exactly like a Ken Doll, but, like, less lifelike.)

I spent the day sitting on the couch writing a paper and drinking coffee. And the Girl? Spent the day texting me. From the other end of the couch. All day.

12:21 pm: i’m boooooored. love you.

12:45 pm: hello mamamia. i’m booooored. you MUST help me.

12:46 pm: dear mommy, you must help me. support finding a cure for boardom.

12:47 pm: i love you.

12:59 pm: i am really sufering here. you must help me. help find a cure for boardom. give now to stop the sugering.

1:00 pm: sufering.

1:14 pm: your hair looks weird.

1:15 pm: but your still pretty.

1:15 pm: [blank]

1:18 pm: dear shannon kate wheeler, hello mamamia. did you know that i am boared? oh. you did?

1:24 pm: boooooooorrrrrrrreeeeeed

1:32 pm: stop the sufering! give now! find a cure for boardom today!

1:33 pm: you will give money to the homeless guys but you won’t help your only daughter at all. boo hoo.

1:33 pm: boo hoo.

1:35 pm: abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz hehe

And then my head exploded. The end.

i stood there alone, at checkstand thirteen, while the elves went off to the soda machine.

2009-12-25T17:08:00.001-08:00

Every chump in San Diego likes Christmas a lot...
But me? Who lives just North of Nordstrom does NOT!

I just dislike Christmas, the whole Christmas season!
I can’t tell you why, I don’t quite know the reason.
It could be the photo cards or lame Christmas letters.
It could be, perhaps, the Jingle Bell sweaters.

But I think that the most likely reason of all,
May be all the anxiety I feel at the mall.
But whatever the reason, the sweaters or malls,
I look on at Christmastime hating it all.

The reindeer on rooftops the penguins on lawns,
The candy cane sugar buzz and snowflake long johns,
The only part that I like, though completely cliché,
Are the twinkling and dazzling, bright light displays.

And one night I saw the most brilliant exhibit,
fantastically, wonderously, luminously lit,
in Ranch-o Penasquitos, just North of the city,
comprised of two billion, six hundred and fifty,
of the smallest, most perfect bright twinkling lights,
It dazzled my eyes and lit up the night.

I became so inspired, enthralled and bemused,
I went off to Target, completely enthused.
I stood there in Seasonal, not hating the shoppers,
Seeing rope lights and snowmen and star-shaped tree-toppers.

I felt mirthful and smug at the clearance size prices,
On all manner of decorative Christmas devices.
We loaded the cart, my three elves and I,
With plenty of bulbs to light up the sky.

I sneakily snuck in some presents as well,
Legos, Transformers and an American Girl Doll,
Covered in towels I claimed that we needed,
The elves went along, presents unheeded.

And what happened then? Wait ‘til I tell...
I'm afraid that everything just went all to hell.
I stood there alone, at Checkstand Thirteen,
While the elves went off to the soda machine.

I swiped my check card, and winced only a little,
The transaction transacted and I awaited transmittal.
I looked at my haul, just a tiny bit bit queasy,
And knowing, for sure, the lights would be cheesy.

“Declined! Not approved! We don't want your kind!
Take your card and your elves or you'll surely be fined!
Your gold card is not good, it's quite totally lame,
We don't want you here, go back as you came!”

“You have sullied our store, with your Declined and Disproved,
Now go! You must go! Or we'll have you removed!”
I blushed and I stuttered, while the team members glared,
I knew I had money! I had some, I swear!

But Wells Fargo, it seemed, was out for the count.

Their systems were down, as was my account.
I had nothing! No checks, no Discover, no Visa or cash,
Christmas spirit was gone, it dissolved in a flash.

My Grinchiness came back, and came back with a fury,
I wanted to get out, and get out in a hurry.

My check card and Target, the tree-topper star,
I wanted to load them all up in my car,
with Santa, the penguins, the trees and the presents,
and then drive them all up to the top of Mt. Pleasant.

I’d push it and pull it and get to the tip top somehow,
And shove it all over the edge to below!

Kiss it, Christmas.

I wrote that in 2007, but I still think the same thing, except now? There are two five-foot tall inflatable penguins in Santa hats on my lawn.

my mom always says my dad's name in italics.

2009-12-18T09:35:00.001-08:00

My mom called me this morning. My dad was with her. It was like talking to the Costanzas.

My mom: Hi.

Me: Oh! Mommy! Blah blah blah blah blah blah for exactly an hour.

My dad (in the background): Come on, Joan, I'm waiting, Jesus Christ.

My mom (to my dad): Just a minute, Jack, she's talking to me.

Me: Oh, sorry. What's up?

My mom: Your father needs your address.

My dad (in the background): I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY HERE!

My mom (to my dad): I'm getting it, Jack.

My mom always says my dad's name in italics.

My mom (to my dad as he writes my address on the package): You forgot California, Jack.

My dad (in the background): Jesus Christ.

My mom (to my dad): There's no A, Jack.

My dad: (inaudible, but I imagine God damn tree-hugging liberals in that state).

My mom (to my dad): In San Diego, Jack. There's no A in Diego.

My dad: (inaudible) Jesus Christ (inaudible).

My mom (to my dad): It's an E.

My mom (to my dad): Stop crossing it out, Jack. They'll know where it goes by the zip. Stop screwing it up.

My dad: (inaudible, but I imagine God damn horse's ass post office windbag liberals.)

My mom: He's sending something to the kids.

My dad (grabbing the phone): WHAT DO YOU WANT?

Me: You called me, Dad.

My dad: Jesus Christ.

because i was distracted. by free tampons that cost $18,000 per semester. it’s like i’ve become george costanza. (if he was like, you know, a chick.)

2009-12-01T21:58:00.001-08:00

I know you’ve been waiting for something to happen. Something big. Because hello November 1st post, what the f are you still doing here?

And now? Something has happened. Something big.

The University of San Diego? Gives away tampons. FOR FREE. And I? Took a photo. (Of course.)

USD just gives away tampons and pads in the ladies' rooms. Isn't this amazing? I have never been anywhere that gives away free tampons. The little slot where you put in the quarter? It has a sign taped over it that says free. Free!

(Where free equals $18,000 per semester.) (Shut up, it still counts.)

And now I have four tampons and two pads in my school bag because I had to test it and see if they really are free.

They are.

Then? (I haven’t told anyone this part yet.) I left the ladies’ room without zipping my jeans. This is the first time this has ever happened to me. What’s worse though is that I left the bathroom and was all hey, these jeans feel loose, I must be losing weight. But the jeans? Not loose as much as not zipped. Because I was distracted. By free tampons that cost $18,000 per semester. It’s like I’ve become George Costanza. (If he was like, you know, a chick.)

But it gets worse. I considered not blogging this, not because it was, like, super dumb, but because I was afraid the USD Free Tampon Program was some sort of pilot project started by some intern in the 90s which was later forgotten about and that if I wrote about it then someone at USD might read this and put an end to the Free Tampon Program as a cost-saving measure. (Please don’t.)

I have class again tomorrow night. In a different building. So I’ll let you know if the USD Free Tampon Program extends to West Campus. And maybe I’ll check the dorms too.

(Also? My dad reads my blog.) (And he has no idea how to make this not be his homepage and if November is any indicator, he’s going to see this exact post every day until 2010.) (Sorry, Dad. Go ahead and gouge your eyeballs out now.)

he didn’t even buy fish food. just the fish. in a bag. which he left in the kitchen sink.

2009-11-01T23:46:00.001-08:00

The Adolescent Boy has some good latch key freedom after school. He rides his bike to and from school, and lets me know where in San Diego he is between the time he gets out of school and the time he has to come home. Usually he goes to his best friend’s house, whose mom is really mean, but pretty much leaves them alone. Sometimes he and his best friend go to the frozen yogurt place. Sometimes they go to Barnes and Noble, where they do something that never includes looking at books. Sometimes they go to the bike shop. One time they went to Petco and bought goldfish.

Apparently they didn’t have enough money for anything else, but goldfish are, like, cheap. So they each bought three. Goldfish. In a bag.

Now understand, we don’t have fish. We didn’t have an aquarium to add the goldfish to, we didn’t have an old fish tank in the garage we could clean up and put the fish in. So really all we had was three goldfish. In a bag. He didn’t even buy fish food. Just the fish. In a bag. Which he left in the kitchen sink.

I pulled some old crappy glass vase out of a cabinet and put the fish in it with water. And then I kept forgetting to go buy fish food. And like, a proper fish bowl. I tried feeding them squashed up bits of oatmeal, but they didn’t really like it.

And then they died.

We got a fish tank. And stuff to put in the fish tank. Just no fish, per se.

We were going to set it up and let it run for a few days before putting fish in it. So I set it up. A couple of weeks ago. And we still don’t have any fish to put in it. Which I think? Is totally fine. Because a fish tank without fish? Is perfect. It doesn’t ever. Have. To be. Cleaned.

The kids are all we need to go get fish for the fish tank. And I’m all yeah, no, we’re not doing that. I’ve convinced them that goldfish are unhappy in captivity and that they’re raised on fish farms that don’t treat them humanely and that the constant cleaning of a fish tank when it contains, say, fish? Is bad for the environment.

Booyah. Mom, 1; Little People, 0.

hello unlimited texting plus bored 9-year-old.

2009-10-15T20:36:00.001-07:00

The Girl stayed home from school yesterday because her knee really, really hurt. So I stayed home with her. Sort of. I ran back and forth between my house and my office all day. Go to a meeting, be a mommy, go to a meeting, be a mommy, go to a mommy, be a meeting. Blah blah blah. Before my first meeting we watched the Today Show together. She loves the Today Show. (I don't know why.)

Featured on the Today Show were these stupidly extravagant Christmas gifts, like a Jaguar and diamond encrusted bra and shit.

And cupcake cars.

I know, right? They're awesome.

The Girl agrees.

For my 10am meeting, I left the Girl at home with her cell phone. Hello unlimited texting plus bored 9-year-old.

The Girl: for Christmas will you get me a electrical vanilla with cherry frosting cupcake car?

The Girl: please say yes!!!!!

The Girl: please txt me back faaaassssttt!

Me: Of course.

The Girl: thanks that’s why I love you so much. I love you.

The Girl: oh by the way they are twenty five thousand dollars each but you already said yes

Me: I know, I will buy you two.

The Girl: 2 that is even awsomer!!!

The Girl: can I have a coke?

Me: no.

The Girl: you should get youthology for you eye wrinkles.

The Girl: can you text me how to make French toast.

The Girl: text me back faaaassssttt! i’m starbing.

The Girl: can I use the markers on the awtaman?

Me: yes

The Girl: thanks! i love you! i miss you!

the second grader: i don’t even have ANY SHOES. AND I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!

2009-10-12T22:39:00.001-07:00

Me: Wake up.

The Second Grader: I’m not going to school.

Me: Alright. Get up anyway.

The Second Grader: Okay.

Me: Go eat breakfast, Chipmunk. Hurry up.

The Second Grader: I don’t have to. I’m not going to school.

Me: Okay, go eat breakfast anyway.

The Second Grader: Okay.

Me: Get your backpack, we have to go.

The Second Grader: I don’t need a backpack BECAUSE I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!

Me: Okay, just get your backpack anyway.

The Second Grader: OKAY!

Me: Where are your shoes?

The Second Grader: I don’t even have ANY SHOES. AND I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!

Me: Okay, just get the shoes you used to have.

The Second Grader: FINE!

Me: Let’s go. Get in the car guys.

The Second Grader: I AM NOT GETTING IN THE CAR BECAUSE I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL!

Me: Okay. Just. Ride. To school. With us. Anyway.

The Second Grader: OKAY. But I am not. Getting. Out. Of. The. Car.

Me: Bye. See you after school.

The Second Grader: I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL. I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL. I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL.

Me: Get. Out. Of. This. Car.

The Second Grader: OKAY! BUT I AM DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO SCHOOL TOMORROW.

And then my head exploded. The end.

Is it really bad to flip your child the bird if they don’t see you do it?

i felt worse about the goldfish than i did about missing back to school night.

2009-10-05T23:29:00.001-07:00

What the hell do you mean I have a blog?

I’m sure I’d know if I had a blog. I’d write things on it and shit.

And what the hell is Tom Delay still doing on Dancing with the Stars?

In other news. I need a haircut. And to shave my legs.

I still have children. But they seem to be a lot less interesting than they used to be.

I don’t seem to have time to unload the dishwasher or buy milk, but I have time to play Wii Ping Pong.

The Adolescent Boy went to Petco and bought three goldfish after school one day. This is how he spends his latchkey time.

The goldfish all died.

I felt worse about the goldfish than I did about missing Back to School Night.

That is all.

this post is about 5am. which i can’t really write about as much as i can theorize about.

2009-09-28T22:18:00.001-07:00

What in hell is Tom Delay is doing on Dancing with the Stars?

Do you think Robert Reich will be the next Bachelor?

That’s not what this post is about. This post is about 5am. Which I can’t really write about as much as I can theorize about. Because Jesus, Mary and Joseph how the hell does anyone get up at 5am?

In an effort to save some money on child care I devised this whole plan based on fucking 5am. It went like this:

Get up at 5am everyday. (Except one time when I was catching a flight to Mexico, this has never actually happened.)

Get ready for work and make breakfast for the Little People before they get up. (I have made them breakfast a total of eight times on in their whole lives. Three of these were Christmas morning, one was where I bought Egg McMuffins at McDonalds on the way to the airport for a flight to Mexico, two were when I offered to share my coffee and three were times I made scrambled eggs or pancakes for dinner because Jesus, Mary and Joseph I just cannot remember to defrost chicken.)

Leave for work at 6:30, leaving the completely competent Little People to get themselves up and ready to walk to school. (They are totally incompetent.) (And these are people whose shoes can be on their very own feet and they still cannot find them anywhere.)

Have the Little People walk home from school and spend thirty minutes doing homework without supervision until I get home. (Seriously, this was my actual plan.)

So far, this whole plan is totally working. Except the part where I get up at 5am. I could save $864 per month in after school care if I could get my ass up at 5am. But when my alarm goes off at 5am? I would happily pay someone $864 just to turn it the fuck off.

because that? is all i’ve got [1]. and it is phenomenally, fantastically, fuck-all boring.

2009-09-21T23:11:00.001-07:00

Hi.

So. Unless you want to know some shit about the most boring 37-page paper ever written about the social welfare state, which was written by Ph.D. candidates at UCLA, and was presented at a conference called some shit like The Dead Sea Conference for Third Sector Research into Nothing That Is At All Interesting then you’re in the wrong place.

Because that? Is all I’ve got [1]. And it is phenomenally, fantastically, fuck-all boring.

That said, though, I have found that this interminable 37-page blah blah blah paper to be quite useful for one thing. Before class, I was trying to finish reading it and the Second Grader kept bugging me about shit. He was all I’m hungry, what’s for dinner? And I need help with my homework! And how do you spell Colorado? And I think my whole stomach is really empty of all food, I’m HUNGRY!

(It’s like he thinks I’m his mother or something.)

And I? Could. Not. Fucking. Hear. Myself. Think.

So I starting reading it aloud.

I was all throughout the western democracies there has been a convergence toward a neo-liberal ideology, or what Jessop terms “Schumpeterian workfare postnational regimes.” These are described as increasing reliance on supply side strategies to strengthen the competitiveness of relatively open economies (Hasenfeld, pg 8). [2] [3]

And the Second Grader was all What? The? Heck?

And then he grabbed a Balance Bar out of my purse, put his hands over his ears and walked out of the room.

[1] Since composing this post, there is other news. News which I will tell you. Or which I will bury in the text of my 10-page response/reflection paper to the fuck all boring 37-page paper and post here to see who’s really motivated.

[2] Hasenfeld, Y. & Garrow, E. (March 2007). The welfare state, the non-profit sector and the politics of care. Working draft 3 as presented at the Dead Sea conference for third sector research. Israel.

[3] Look how fucking awesome I am at APA format. (Booyah 2009).

she’s texted me six times from the other end of the couch

2009-09-17T13:14:00.001-07:00

The Girl is in charge of walking the Second Grader home after school and hanging out with him until I get home approximately twenty minutes later. I got her a cell phone for this reason. She texts me every four minutes. Which is awesome. Because her texts? Make me want to scoop her up and carry her around in my purse.

The Girl: i am picking up the second grader bye

The Girl: i picked up the second grader bye

The Girl: we are walking home bye

The Girl: we are home when will you be home how many minutes bye

The Girl: i changed my signature see Giggle

Last night, while I was in class the Little People were home with a babysitter.

The Girl: i took one of you yellow pillows to sleep with cause they don’t hurt my ear don’t respond unless its not ok because i’m going to turn my phone off in a minute Giggle

The Girl: ok i guess its ok i have your yellow pillow if you want it when you get home ok bye Giggle

Then this morning she wasn’t feeling well. I had to go to the office and pick up some things to work on at home, she stayed home while I went to my office.

The Girl: how many minutes will you be gone bye Giggle

The Girl: i changed my signature see Giggles

The Girl: when will you be home i changed my signature again see You Goofball Girl

The Girl: are you coming home soon and you don’t have to if you dont want or need to because i’m fine i dont need you to come home bye You Goofball Girl

And then? I came home. Because are you kidding me?

She’s texted me six times from the other end of the couch. And she’s changed her signature eight times in the last twenty minutes.

and i’m just all jesus christ, is robert reich still going on about this?

2009-09-13T22:41:00.001-07:00

Dude.

Here’s the thing about graduate school. They totally want me to do homework and shit.

They’re all four-page self-reflection on your role in blah blah blah in APA format and further discuss Mr. Reich’s assertion that something something whatever as cited in The Journal on Economic Something or Other.

And I’m just all Jesus Christ, is Robert Reich still going on about this? Can’t he get a gig on the Daily Show or something?

Then they’re all also, please read The Netherlands policy on social welfare which can be found on the Internet but we’re not telling you exactly where and we really mean the one written and published by The Netherlands not some shit someone summarized on Wikipedia and we’re also not telling you if the “the” in The Netherlands should be capitalized but we’ll definitely take off points if you’re wrong.

And I was all you’ve got to be fucking kidding me with this.

Because The Netherlands? Like, the country? They want me to read the social welfare policy of an entire country? And it’s not even some crappy no-welfare country like, the Bahamas or something, but The Netherlands? Are they for real with this?

I thought about going to IKEA for some experiential learning, but then one of my classmates was all that’s Sweden, not The Netherlands. And I was like, details, baby, because have you seen the Vreta Footstool in Mjuk Ivory?

Also? I just checked and the is not capitalized in the Netherlands. But it is capitalized in The Bahamas. Which is awesome. Because of course, I had it the other way. The only one I was right about was that the the in the Daily Show is not capitalized. So that bodes well.

Also? I just Wiki’d The Bahamas, and they aren’t even a fucking country. They’re a commonwealth realm. And a commonwealth realm is different from a country in that a;lsketn ieeru ern a;kcn eialtrwi’wlei.

Fucking school. I’m so screwed.

captain annoying: did you dye your hair?

2009-09-09T17:05:00.001-07:00

You remember the Second Grader’s friend, Captain Annoying, right? Here he becomes ever more annoying.

Captain Annoying: Are you wearing a wig?

Me: No.

Captain Annoying: Did you dye your hair?

Me: Um. Sort of. I highlighted it.

Captain Annoying: Oh. A lot, huh?

Me: Yeah. A lot.

The Second Grader: Do you like it?

Captain Annoying: It’s pretty weird. And it looks like a wig. So that’s good.

it makes it clear, i think, that i might just slip into a coma at any moment, so you shouldn’t bother me.

2009-09-02T00:38:00.001-07:00

I have a new favorite thing. I mean my oh, holy hell, favorite thing ever.

(Not that.) (Heh.)

I got a sleep mask. And I? Love. It. At first, I thought it was just sort of funny, and I’m pretty sure it’s just like, a free gift with these pajamas I got. I just sort of put it away and forgot about because, hello? I’m not Goldie Hawn. Or like, Danielle Steele or something. But the sleep mask? I. Fucking. Love it.

I felt a little bit silly trying it at first. But then?

Oh. Em. Eff. Gee.

It’s like a puppy. For your eyes. Or like chilled cotton candy pillows on your face. But not sticky. Or like, coldish cucumbers on your eyes. That don’t slide off. Or get eaten. You don’t have to do all that extra work to keep your eyes closed when you sleep either. It’s like topical Ambien.

But my favorite thing about it? Is pushing it up on my forehead in the morning and wearing it around the house while I drink my coffee. I really think that my desperate need for coffee is more believable with this prop. It makes it clear, I think, that I might just slip into a coma at any moment, so you shouldn’t bother me.

It also makes me kind of want to eat bon bons though. And wear high-heeled slippers with feathery fuzz on the toes.

that’s the whole plan. kansas. for the weekend. to shoot prairie dogs.

2009-08-28T23:31:00.001-07:00

Apparently? The Adolescent Boy has gone with my dad to Kansas for the weekend to shoot prairie dogs.

That’s the whole plan. Kansas. For the weekend. To shoot prairie dogs. Which look exactly like beanie babies.

Yes, shoot them. Just, like, totally shoot them dead. With guns, I guess. And my dad? Is pretty sure that this activity is the key to keeping the Adolescent Boy from becoming a liberal at some point in his life. This is the girding on which he is building his defense against pretty much my entire belief system.

And probably? He’s right. Because, come on, if you can shoot one of these guys?

Then I think, you could probably vote for one of these guys.

And this is not a baseless theory. Because look, Sarah Palin has clearly done some prairie dog shooting of her own.

where taking care of things means hello, student loans, i’ve missed you, baby

2009-08-27T15:53:00.001-07:00

I’m starting a master’s program. At a real university. Classes start on Wednesday, freshman move in tomorrow, so I spent the morning taking care of things at school. Where taking care of things means hello, student loans, I’ve missed you, Baby. And school means Jesus, Mary and Joseph I’m old.

The Woman at the Entrance Gate: Hello.

Me: I need to go to financial aid, the bookstore and wherever one goes to get a student ID.

The Woman at the Entrance Gate: Oh, and is your student with you?

Me: Um. Yes. Me. I’m the student.

The Woman at the Information Desk at the Student Center: Hello.

Me: Where does one get a student ID?

The Woman at the Information Desk at the Student Center: Oh, and is your student with you?

Me: Um. Yes, no. My student is me.

The Woman Taking Photos for Student IDs: Hello.

Me: Hi, I need a student ID.

The Woman Taking Photos for Student IDs: Oh, and is your student right here somewhere?

Me: Um. Yeah. Right here…somewhere…let’s see…. Hi there.

The Woman at the Bookstore: Hello.

Me: Hi, can you tell me how to find a book for a particular class?

The Woman at the Bookstore: Certainly. Is your student here with you now?

Me: Um. Yeah, no. It’s just me.

The Woman at the Bookstore: We really prefer to show the students, themselves, how the system works.

Me: Um. Listen, lady, I need a book, and you’re going to tell me how to find the fucker, ‘kay?

I have never, ever felt so exactly almost 37 in my whole life. Assholes.

The Girl: MAMA CAN HEAR YOU! AND SHE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU AT ALL!

2009-08-21T14:15:00.001-07:00

My kids are weird. The Girl called me yesterday.

Me: Hello?

The Girl: Hi Mommy! Hehehehe.

The Girl: The First Grader said to tell you that he can’t remember you at all and so he doesn’t want to talk to you. Hehehehehe.

Me: Tell him I said First Grader who?

The Girl: MAMA SAID FIRST GRADER WHO?!? Hehehehe. SHE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU!

The First Grader [in the background]: SHE DOES SO REMEMBER ME!

The Girl: NO, SHE DOESN’T! SHE SAID FIRST GRADER WHO! Hehehehehe. He said you do so remember him.

Me: I know. I can hear him. Do I need to be here for this?

The First Grader [in the background, half singing, half yelling]: Mommy, Mom, Mama, Mom, Mom, Ma-Mom-Mom, Mommy!

The Girl: He’s going Mommy, Mom, Mama, Mom, Mom, Ma-Mom-Mom, Mommy!

Me: I know. I can hear him.

The Girl: MAMA CAN HEAR YOU! AND SHE DOESN’T REMEMBER YOU AT ALL!

The First Grader [in the background]: SHE DOES SO REMEMBER ME! Mom, Mom, Mommy, Mom-Mom-Mom-Ma-Mom, Mommy, Mom.

The Girl: He’s going Mom, Mom, Mommy, Mom-Mom-Mom-Ma-Mom, Mommy, Mom.

Me: I know this. Because I can hear him.

The First Grader [In the background]: Let me talk to Mom-Mah-Mom-Mom-Mommy-McMommy-Mom.

The Girl: NO! She doesn’t remember you.

[Tussling noises]

The First Grader: Hi Mom-Mah-Mom-Mom-Mommy-Mommerson. Hahahahahaha!

Me: Who is this?

The First Grader: It’s the First Grader.

Me: The First Grader who?

The First Grader: Knock knock.

The Girl [in the background]: WHO’S THERE?

Me: Oh, Jesus Christ.

the spitwads have been on the ceiling of my shower for quite some time

2009-08-12T23:37:00.000-07:00

These are the spit wads on the ceiling of my shower.

Please note that I did not say there are spitwads on the ceiling of my shower. Instead, I said these are the spitwads on the ceiling of my shower. This is like saying this is the spider that lives in my bathroom rather than there is a spider in my bathroom. One implies permanent residency while the other implies recent discovery.

The spitwads have been on the ceiling of my shower for quite some time. And I noticed them quite some time ago. Yet, still, there they are. I only remember they're there when I rinse the shampoo or conditioner out of my hair. And then I can't focus on formulating a plan to remove them, I just wonder about how they got there.

I mean, I know how they got there. But I wonder about the process and planning of getting them there.

You see, there isn't paper in the shower, so that leaves one of three options:

a) one of the Little People saw some paper somewhere in the bathroom, got out of the shower, grabbed the paper and shot the spitwads at the ceiling instead of washing his hair, or

b) one of the Little People thought of this while in the shower, got out of the shower to find some paper and shot the spitwads at the ceiling instead of washing his hair, or

c) one of the Little People pre-planned this and brought the paper with him into the shower and shot the spitwads at the ceiling instead of washing his hair.

Frankly, I'm not sure which is true. But I'm pretty sure that one of the Little People is the First Grader.

where awesome means holy fucking hell, i hope they don’t fire me.

2009-07-27T17:22:00.001-07:00

Did you ever have that day where you find a mistake in a letter you already mailed?

Yeah? Me too.

But did you ever have that day where you find a mistake in a letter you already mailed to 4000 people?

No? It’s awesome. Where awesome means holy fucking hell, I hope they don’t fire me.

This was such a stupid mistake. And it’s going to be seen by all the right people. It’s this little fucking typo in our annual appeal letter. A letter which is bulk mailed to 4000 people. Not a big deal, they will probably barely read it. Probably no one would ever know.

But I also gave each of our board members a stack of anywhere between twenty-five and two hundred letters that they personally sign and mail to all their very best friends. Asking for money.

Slightly bigger deal.

And also? My boss. She got 500. Which she already personally signed. And noted. And mailed. Asking for money.

It was also maybe the best letter I’ve ever written.

Fuck me.

that might be everything. just the quiche and sleeping naked.

2009-07-23T21:27:00.001-07:00

Okay so the whole having no kids around all summer thing that I’m doing? Is going really, really well. Except the part where there are no kids around all summer. That part? Kind of sucks.

What I mean to say is that the things I’m able to do now that there are no kids around all summer are sort of okay. Like sleeping naked. I don’t really like it that much, but I can do it. So I’m gonna. So, suck it, pajamas.

Also? I made quiche tonight. Not only did I make quiche? I made quiche with feta cheese. And spinach. And I never had to explain to anyone about feta cheese being, like, food. Or spinach not being swamp grass. Not one person walked into my kitchen the whole entire time and said you’re not putting THAT in the dinner are you? So I was just all hello, spinach, I’ve missed you baby.

That might be everything. Just the quiche and sleeping naked.

And I don’t really like the sleeping naked that much anyway. So…what else…

Oh…I can watch The Office without the First Grader bugging the living hell out of me about it. Is it funny, Mama? Is this the news? Who’s that guy talking to? Do they vote someone out at the end? He just doesn’t get The Office. He doesn’t know if it’s like Dateline or a PBS documentary or a reality show being filmed in an office or what. What’s that guy doing, Mama? Who’s that guy talking to?

Actually, I’m not sure that I get The Office either. It seems like it should be funny, but really? Meh, who cares?

So that’s it. The sleeping naked, the quiche thing and The Office. So you can see how the whole having no kids around all summer it’s going really, really well, right? Whatever. Shut up.

he didn’t want me to get killed. by a squid.

2009-07-17T17:04:00.001-07:00

About three times a week, I spend my lunch hour hiking here:

It’s about ten minutes from my office. I know, you hate me. Don’t care. Not the point.

The Little People know about this hiking thing and frankly, they’re not at all envious, because they hate hiking. Unless it’s all downhill. With cookies. And, like, five bucks.

Anyway. As you know, the Little People are at my parents’ ranch this summer (where there is probably no hiking, ever, but they still get cookies and five bucks). The Adolescent Boy called me today and was all Mom! You cannot go to the beach today! Seriously, I mean it, you have to stay away from the beach! And I? Thought that maybe my mom had some weird dream that I died at the beach and told him to call me. Because she’s weird like that.

Me: Hello?

My Mom: Hi. Is everything alright?

Me: Uh-huh. Why?

My Mom: The kids? Are the kids alright?

Me: Uh-huh. They’re fine.

My Mom: Can you see them? Each of them?

Me: Uh-huh. Why?

My Mom: Well, I didn’t want to upset you, but I had a dream last night.

Me: Oh. And we all died some horrible death in the dream?

My Mom: Well, no, but I was was wandering around our old house carrying a baby. And I kept dropping the baby.

Me: ?

My Mom: So you’re all alright?

Me: Uh-huh.

My Mom: Okay, I’ve got to call your brother and your sisters.

*click*

This happens fairly frequently, actually. Only sometimes it’s my dad who’s had the dream, but it’s still my mom who calls. The only difference is that she says well, I don’t want to upset you, but your father had a dream last night. Because he’s pretend psychic too.

Anyway. There wasn’t a dream this time.

Turns out? The Adolescent Boy was reading the newspaper this morning (and again, how exactly is Grandma’s house more fun than mine?) and he read an article about giant man-killing squid all over the shallow waters off the San Diego beaches. (I don’t know why this made the news in Aspen.)

The Adolescent Boy: Mom. I’m serious, listen, [and here he proceeded to read the article aloud]

Thousands of jumbo flying squid [!]— aggressive 5-foot-long sea monsters [!] with razor-sharp beaks [!] and toothy tentacles [!] — have invaded the shallow waters off San Diego, spooking scuba divers and washing up dead [!] on tourist-packed beaches.

The carnivorous [!] calamari [!], which can grow up to 100 pounds [!!], came up from the depths last week and swarms of them roughed up unsuspecting divers…. [swarms Mom!]

Stories of too-close encounters with the alien-like cephalopods [Mom! Cephalopods!] have chased many veteran divers out of the water.

Me: Awesome. Okay, gotta go.

The Adolescent Boy: MOM! I’M SERIOUS!

He didn’t want me to get killed. By a squid. While I was hiking on the cliffs a hundred feet above the beach. I totally love him the best.

where fuck it, i’m going to bed means fuck it, i’m going to pf changs for more lettuce wraps

2009-07-14T22:42:00.001-07:00

So. Turns out? I have no life. I do, however, have crispy green beans, sesame chicken and lettuce wraps from PF Changs. And frankly? I’m okay with this. Because have you tasted their lettuce wraps?

Along with this having no life? Is having nothing at all to write about. Seriously. I’m going to have to start making shit up. Because I’ve got nothing at all to write about. I’m thinking of going to the midnight showing of Harry Potter tomorrow because I have nothing at all to write about. Unless it was tonight. Then I’m not going. Or maybe I will.

But, I’m trying really hard not to try to cut my own hair, or like, fix my own car.

Although…I think that the right (or left) brake light is out on my car. Because now when I turn on my right (or left) blinker, it goes really fast. Instead of going tick – tick – tick - tick. It goes tick-tick-tick-tick. I think that means the bulb is out. But I’m not sure. I need someone to follow me around some turns and call me on my cell phone and let me know. Where call means text.

Also. All the light bulbs in my hallway are out. I have two ceiling fans with three bulbs each. All six are out. Or the chains are pulled the wrong way. Probably the bulbs are out, but I’m not sure. Maybe I need to have someone stand at the other end of my hallway and turn the light switches on and off while I pull the chains and then call me and tell me if the lights turn on. Where call means I’ve got nothing at all to write about.

Okay. So I’m going to try to figure out if the 12:10am showing of Harry Potter listed at the very end of the Tuesday, July 14th schedule of movies is at 12:10am tonight, which really makes it Wednesday, July 15th, or if it really means it’s tomorrow, which is technically 12:10am Thursday, July 15th. Maybe someone could go to the theatre and call me and let me know. Where call means fuck it, I’m going to bed. Where fuck it, I’m going to bed means fuck it, I’m going to PF Changs for more lettuce wraps. Because have you tasted their lettuce wraps? Where have you tasted their lettuce wraps means I have nothing at all to write about.

to recap: 7-11-09 jess + adam

2009-07-11T21:22:00.001-07:00

There are no words for this kind of fun.

Guess how this ended…

That is totally a six-pack of Bud Lite in cans that they went to the general store for. In the four wheeler thing. Swear to God.

I’m sure there was a groom there, but frankly? Who remembers with this girl around?

July 11, 2009 Jessica + Adam

2009-07-11T08:31:00.001-07:00

Pierced Niece is getting married today. She asked me to write something to read today for her wedding.

Even those who have experienced love like this are quick to say that sometimes love isn’t enough. But it is. Love is enough. Love is more than enough. It is everything.

Love is ridiculous. You see that, don’t you?

It makes the preposterous seem sensible, the absurd seem reasonable. Here you stand, without any notion of what life has in store for you, no idea where life will take you, what life will give you, and you can say assuredly, that you know who you want standing next to you for it. But that is the absurdity of love. That you have no idea, today, what tomorrow holds. But you know who you want standing next to you for it. And of course you do. Because love? Is enough.

Love is foolhardy.

It makes us do bold things. Think daring thoughts. Make brave promises. Today is a promise. A daring promise. Today, Jessica, you are promising to choose Adam. And Adam, today, you are promising to choose Jessica. You are promising to choose each other a hundred thousand more times. How can you promise something so daring? Because that is the audacity of love. Promising, blindly, to choose each other every day, for the rest of your lives. But of course you are. Because love? Is enough.

Love is remarkable.

It is a revelation. It makes our breath catch and hearts beat. It is an extraordinary gift given to those who are open to it. A sublime experience reserved for those who will tend it. So, Jess and Adam, I wish you countless more moments of breathlessness. I wish you a lifetime of remarkable love. And if you ever think that love isn’t enough, remember that it is. Remember that it is everything. And tend it like it is everything. Because if you do? Then it will join you together in ridiculous, foolhardy, remarkable ways. Because love? Is enough.

and my sister? makes it so easy for me to do my eddie haskell thing.

2009-07-08T22:49:00.001-07:00

I revert to a fifteen-year-old when I stay at my mom and dad’s house. But not in a way that resembles my actual fifteen-year-old self. I revert to this sort of Eddie Haskell version of my fifteen-year-old self where I want to be the favorite. There’s no hope of my mom ever choosing favorites. She’s just all I love you all the same and you’re all so smart and beautiful and blah blah blah. But my dad? Can totally be bought.

This morning I offered to make him farina for breakfast. And if you had any idea how much I loathe making farina, you’d understand my weird desperation to be his favorite. All the whisking of the milk, the bringing just to a boil, the god damn stirring over medium heat, the fuckall pain-in-the-ass simmer until thickened. Gah! I hate it. But I did it. Because favorite daughter.

And my sister? Makes it so easy for me to do my Eddie Haskell thing. Like she never ever parks her cars where she’s supposed to. My dad is very specific about where it’s okay to park. He spends days and weeks putting reflectors on fence posts and big rocks along the driveway and shit like that to delineate where it’s okay to park. My sister? Totally ignores this. Which for me? Is excellent. Because then? When my dad’s all Jesus Christ, these god damn kids just do whatever the hell they want like they own the whole god damn place…. I can be all yeah! Jesus Christ! I’ll move the cars for you Dad, because hello? Have you met me? Perfect. Daughter.

The Sailor is my ace in the hole for this. Because he? Sent me a hat from his ship for my dad. And I totally didn’t know this until my dad told me, but there’s this patch on the side of the hat with some pirate flag or something on it because the Sailor? Is totally chasing pirates around the something something classified yada yada sea. And my dad thinks that is awesome and he’s pretty sure the Sailor’s a republican. Which seriously helps me.

Anyway. It seemed like it was all going really well. My dad and I were out doing ranch things together while my sister sat around not making farina and not parking where she’s supposed to and not being at all republican. But then he asked me to help him run the horses up to the high pasture, so he could take down an electric fence, which, of course, I did. But then? He laughed his ass off when he turned on the electric fence while I was holding it. Zzzzttt. My sister thought it was funny too. As did my brother. And like, everyone else.

But the Sailor? Better not be laughing.

we had to eat eggs. like straight from the hens. which i think? is gross.

2009-07-05T21:39:00.001-07:00

So. Here’s the deal. The Little People? Totally don’t want to come back to San Diego with me. Oh sure, on Friday, when they hadn’t seen me in 192 hours, they were all when will you be here? We miss you, we want to go home when you go home. And by they I mean only the First Grader. And then? When I got to my mom and dad’s house they were all Mama! We missed you! Okay, go home now. And by they I mean including the First Grader.

And frankly? I’m just all meh. Grandma’s house. Whatever.

Because it’s not like it’s a little log cabin on a ranch

by a lake

exactly right in the middle of the mountains

like all covered in rainbows and unicorns and shit.

What? Shut up. There are no unicorns.

But, so, here’s the deal. The Little People? Want to stay.

They’re all Mama! There are chickens! And a hen is going to have chicks! Really soon! And Grandma makes muffins whenever we want!

And they’re not even making it up. There are, like, actual chickens.

Just like, totally hens sitting on nests . There’s also a rooster . And one of those is it, but I don’t know which one. (And thank God there’s a rooster. Because when I was a kid and the hens laid eggs? My mom actually made us eat them. We had to eat eggs. Like straight from the hens. Which I think? Is gross. But now? There’s a rooster, and a hen on a nest, which means that we can buy our eggs at the grocery store like normal people.) (72 at a time.)

And there really are muffins. Really effing good muffins. With cranberries and something orange . They taste like orange spice tea. If it were a muffin. And my mom just totally made them this morning. And then? She let me eat them. Right away. I didn’t have to save them for guests or anything. Because I? Am the guest.

But still. I’m all meh, Grandma’s house. Whatever. Let me know when there are unicorns.

because when i get bored? i get grandiose ideas of my own competence.

2009-07-02T16:32:00.001-07:00

You know how people say that only boring people get bored. Well, turns out? I. Am. Boring. Because hello? I'm bored out of my mind. Seriously. Somebody needs to give me something to do. Something that's not work and not laundry, because those things? Are totally boring too.

The Little People? They are not boring. They are witty and clever. They are puckish little imps. At least when I haven’t seen them in 192 hours. Otherwise, when not separated by 800 miles, this is pronounced: annoying wiseass troublemakers.

So with the Little People gone, I'm just bored. Apathetic. Disenchanted. Lukewarm. I'm just all meh.

And bored doesn't work well with me. Because when I get bored? I get grandiose ideas of my own competence. I suddenly think I can do things for which I have no training or aptitude. On Monday night I decided that I could probably pull the hard drive out of my old laptop lover and recover the files from it. In order to do this, I just needed to get a screwdriver, which I didn't have, clear a surface on which to work, which I didn't use, and discharge any latent static electricity akwen bwel;y7r wie h1awerhxky, which I didn't do. Then I just needed to pop the hard drive out of the old computer, swap it with the hard drive in the new computer, transfer the old files onto an external hard drive and then put the new hard drive back. Without losing any screws. Screws which are the approximate size of a carbon atom. But slippery.

So then I did all of that, and I killed my new computer a little bit.

It wouldn't boot. Or anything. Even with its own hard drive back in, it wouldn't do anything. And then? After reseating the battery and hard drive and power supply, and praying and maybe crying a little bit, it turned back on. And then? I actually considered trying it again.

And so tonight? I'm going to highlight my own hair and wax my eyebrows (and…ahem…some other parts). Because really? How hard can that be, right?

and frankly? this having no kids around is fun for like an hour. after that? it’s just kind of meh.

2009-06-28T22:41:00.001-07:00

The Little People are all off doing, like, whatever. Summer vacation shit. And I? Am not. And frankly? This having no kids around is fun for like an hour. After that? It’s just kind of meh.

I called the Adolescent Boy and I was all hey, Dude, how’s Florida? Do you want to come home yet?

And he? Was all we went out on the boat! In the ocean! And we saw a million dolphins! And then we went to the beach and we saw a million more dolphins! And now we’re having ice cream for dinner!

And I was all oh…well…

And he was all so I gotta go!

*click*

And I was all hello…?

Then I called the Girl and I was all hey, Mouse Girl, how’s the ranch? Do you want to come home yet?

And she? Was all the electricity went off for the whole entire day! Because it’s raining! And there was no phone and no TV and it was awesome! And there was no hot water! And it was raining super hard! And so we put on our bathing suits and went outside with soap and shampoo and took rain showers! I swear! And Grandma did too! And then it stopped raining, but we still didn’t have electricity and so the stove didn’t work! And Papa made a campfire! And we roasted hot dogs and s’mores for dinner! Because there was no electricity! All day!

And I was all ermph, whatever.

And then I talked to the First Grader and I was all hey, Chipmunk, how’s the ranch?

And he? Totally misses me. He actually cried.

And I? Was all you have always been my favorite.

i got a new computer. and i’m totally going to marry it

2009-06-26T23:38:00.001-07:00

Hello.

I got a new computer.

And I’m totally going to marry it. Because hello? Would you look at this fashizzle?

Do you see? Do you?

Now…just how in fuck am I not going to lose this magic pen?

fragile do not drop yada yada brie under C key

2009-06-24T11:09:00.001-07:00

Hi,

Blog broken. Back soon.

Okay, thanks. Bye.

Kate

PS. Piece of shite crap laptop dead because la la la coffee spills something something fragile do not drop yada yada brie under C key.

PPS. Little People leaving for the whole entire motherf**king summer because something something we love Grandma blah blah blah horses and dogs and swimming in the lake blah de blah pancakes for breakfast.

PPPS. What. Ever.

we got seriously screwed at the fair . seriously. screwed.

2009-06-20T23:52:00.001-07:00

The First Grader: Mama, do you swear you'll write them a letter?

Me: I swear.

The First Grader: What will it say?

Me: It will say Dear San Diego County Fair, We hate you. Sincerely, The Wheelers.

The First Grader: I HATE THE FAIR! Can you send it to the president?

Me: I'll copy him on it, okay?

The First Grader: And Tony Hawk.

Me: Okay.

We got seriously screwed at the fair . Seriously. Screwed.

And I don't just mean the kind of screwed that comes from $6 sodas and $8 funnel cakes, because let's face it, funnel cakes? Are totally worth eight bucks . And I don't just mean the kind of screwed that comes from 77 tickets for $50. Fifty. Dollars. Fifty American dollars, not like, some crappy Australian dollars or Canadian dollars, or, like Trinidad and Tobagan dollars . Fifty. American. Dollars. I also don't mean the kind of screwed that comes from the impossibility of dividing 77 tickets by four kids, because hello? 77 tickets ÷ 4 kids = fighting and crying.

I mean the whole cheating little kids out of the giant stuffed tigers they just won fair and square kind of screwed.

We paid the five bucks each for three wiffle balls. We listened while the guy explained how easy it is to win. We nodded while he demonstrated how easy it is to win. We watched while he handed the First Grader and the Girl each three wiffle balls . We listened while he told them to go ahead and toss them. We cheered when they both got a ball in the basket.

1. The First Grader and the Girl each tossed a wiffle ball.

2. The First Grader and the Girl both got a ball in the basket.

3. The First Grader and the Girl both won.

Not.

The fuckers said they didn't win. Oh, yes they did so. They said because the two balls touched each other on the way into the basket, they didn't win. Fuckers.

Oh, I tried to get them the tigers. I tried like hell. I tried while they pretended they couldn't hear me explaining about how we won, you motherf**kers. I tried while they pretended not to be able to understand me when I asked who was the motherf**king concessions manager. I tried while they pretended they couldn't see me pointing to the sign that clearly said not one motherf**king thing about the balls can't touch.

I tried without once saying the f word even though I was totally thinking it at them. I tried at the fair office. I tried with the Midway Manager. I tried at the concessionaire. I tried at Guest Services.

They finally gave me one giant stuffed tiger to make me go away. Which, as you can imagine, went over really well with my two children who'd each won a giant stuffed tiger, fair and motherf**king square.

And then I gave up and bought them all Icees . And they cried all over their Icees all the way to the car.

And then? This part is why I love my kids. They spent the entire car ride home laughing while devising horrific ways that they could injure and/or humiliate those assholes if we ran the fair. They went from flinging them off the slingshot ride into the ocean, to pinning them to the dart game wall instead of balloons to making them bungee jump in their underpants, to grinding them up and making funnel cakes out of them, to deep frying their fingers like they do Snickers bars .

My kids? Don't mess with them.

(Also? I have know idea why the First Grader thinks that Tony Hawk can help.)

the cheese gets warm and melty by lunchtime and it's gross

2009-06-17T22:00:00.001-07:00

The Adolescent Boy: Mom, could you not make me a ham and cheese sandwich tomorrow?

Me: I don't know.

The Adolescent Boy: The cheese gets warm and melty by lunchtime and it's gross.

Smart Sister: Do you have an ice pack you can put in the their lunches?

Me: An ice pack?

Smart Sister: For a lunch cooler...oh forget it, look who I'm talking to.

Me: I have some frozen chicken breasts. We could put one of those in a Ziploc baggie and use that for an ice pack.

Smart Sister: Oh, Jesus Christ.

exactly one actual granola bar and exactly no actual pop-tarts

2009-06-15T08:46:00.001-07:00

The First Grader: There's nothing for breakfast! I'm hungry!

Me: Have some cereal.

The First Grader: There is nothing!

Me: There's like eight boxes of cereal in the cupboard, surely one of those will work.

The Adolescent Boy: No, Mom. There's like eight cereal boxes in the cupboard, not eight boxes of cereal.

Me: What?

Apparently, while this may look like the place we keep cereal

It's not. It's where we store the cereal boxes once they are completely empty.

Upon further investigation, I discovered that the place where I thought we kept the Pop-Tarts and granola bars is really where we keep the Pop-Tart and granola bar boxes and exactly one actual granola bar and no actual Pop-Tarts.

What? The? Fuck?

Slacker kids.

and let me be clear. when i say lucky? i mean that things happen when i wear these pants.

2009-06-11T22:00:00.001-07:00

These?

Are my Lucky Blue Pants.

And let me be clear. When I say Lucky Blue Pants, I mean that these are pants. Blue pants. Blue pants which are lucky.

And let me be clear. When I say lucky? I mean that things happen when I wear these pants.

Things like professional golfers giving me $170,000. Things like my ass looking good. Things like my Russian neighbor giving me this awesome mirror which makes my hips look good in my Lucky Blue Pants which make my ass look good.

Every time I wear these pants, good things happens.

But here's the weird part. I almost never wear them. They go with everything. They fit perfectly. They look great with heels. These supposedly dry clean only pants? Can totally be washed in warm water. They never need to be ironed. They are magic pants.

But I almost never wear them.

Because what if there's only a certain amount of lucky in the Lucky Blue Pants?

My Lucky Blue Pants are legend in my office. So when we're waiting to hear back from the Vice President, for example? Of the United States? Everyone's all oh, Kate, wear your Lucky Blue Pants tomorrow. And all I can think is what if one day we're waiting to hear back from the actual President. Not the Vice President. And I've used up the last of the lucky in the Lucky Blue Pants on the Vice President?

What then?

The pressure of owning the Lucky Blue Pants is killing me. Because today? I gave into the pressure and wore my Lucky Blue Pants. And the Vice President's office called. And now? I'm pretty sure the President never will.

the world's worst yard sale. epic yard sale fail.

2009-06-08T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Little People and I had a yard sale this weekend. No, let me clarify. We had the world's worst yard sale. Epic yard sale fail. We had good shit to sell. We had signs. We were well-staffed and had lots of change and excellent merchandising.

Seriously, we had the requisite rusty bikes and old giant TVs and a dented file cabinet and like, some awesome one-legged dollies. We had a futon that may or may not fold out and a chair with elephants on it and like, every kind of Avery label one could ever need.

The Girl bought an Avery nametag kit for $.25 from our yard sale. They were the cool conference nametags, with the plastic sleeves with the little white elastic cords. She made us all nametags that we were required to wear for the rest of the weekend. And then she made all of her stuffed animals nametags as well. And ones for Grandma and Papa and Aunt Smart Sister and the Sailor too. Oh, yes she did so.

The Girl's friend bought two cool glass paperweights, which I actually didn't mean to sell. Awesome.

The Adolescent Boy put his bass out to sell. Then brought it back inside. Then brought it back out to sell. Then brought it back inside. Then brought it back out to sell. Then lowered the price. Then raised the price. Then took it back inside. Then brought it back out to sell. Then someone considered buying it. Then he took it back inside and hid it under his bed.

The First Grader kept trying to sell my shit. And his sister's.

At 1:30 we called it quits and packed everything back into the garage. And then the Girl and her friend spent the rest of the day arranging all the shit we tried to sell into a house in the garage. Now it's exactly like Eric Foreman's basement, except without the pot smell.

or like three minutes of, um, nothing, but nothing in a weird way and with a soundtrack by the fray

2009-06-05T09:58:00.001-07:00

It's always interesting to download the photos off my camera, because the Girl and the First Grader often borrow it. And they're weird. So I always end up with about a thousand bears:

And a hundred epic battles:

And dozens of dogs:

Which is made even weirder by the fact that we don't even have one dog.

Sometimes I find a series of actions shots like these:

Or penetrating self-portraits like these:

Or like three minutes of, um, nothing, but nothing in a weird way and with a soundtrack by the Fray:

I can't wait until they learn how to edit.

and arranging them so it looks like the eyeballs are staring at him

2009-05-28T23:29:00.001-07:00

Someone posted something on Twitter tonight asking for parenting strategies for keeping kids happy on long car rides. Other than I Spy. People had parenting strategies. Me? Not so much.

(I'm not even sure I know the rules to I Spy. I try to play I Spy, and the First Grader spies Something Blue. And I go the sky? No. That house? No. That car? No. My shirt? Your eyes? My purse? Your shoes? That guy's shirt? That road sign? That smurf? The Girl's backpack? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, which smurf? No, no. And I go okay, I give up. And he goes the earth, from very far away or the IBM logo. Or some shit.)

My best parenting strategy is that sometimes the Super Balls Need To Be Washed. For real. This technique can bring the First Grader back from most meltdowns.

I go hey, the super balls need to be washed. And he goes I'm not doing anything you ever say, EVER! Wait. Wha...?? I tell him the super balls are dirty. And sort of dull and gray-ish. And I go get this giant jar of super balls and tell him that I don't have time to wash them, and could he do it, and I'll pay him a dollar? And he does it.

He dumps them all out into the kitchen sink, and he rolls up his sleeves and fills the kitchen sink with soapy water and sits on the kitchen counter with his feet in the sink and washes each super ball. After he drops them all into the water over and over while making pshew pshew sounds and whispering to himself about the Great Super Ball War. For an hour.

And then he drains the soapy water and rinses them off. After thoroughly washing his hands and feet for the first time all week. By accident. For twenty minutes.

And then he lays them out to dry. After he rearranges them sixteen times and sorts them by color and size. For thirty minutes.

And then he puts them all back in the jar. After washing the jar six times with organic window cleaner and arranging them so it looks like the eyeballs are staring at him. For half an hour.

Booyah. Mom of the Year.

fully intending to let any calls from school, like, the health office, specifically, go to voice mail

2009-05-26T22:57:00.001-07:00

I had a Mom of Year sort of day today.

Last night, the Girl's eye was bugging her. And I? Was all hmmm? What?

This morning? Her eye was a little bit light-reddish. Shut up. That's not the same as pink.

I read to her class this morning. We're in the middle of Because of Winn-Dixie. I didn't look directly at the Girl. Because her eye? Was still a little bit off-maroon. Shut up.

And then? I left her at school. And went to work. (Not really.) (Yes, I did.)

What? Shut up.

I had meetings.

And then? I spent a half an hour on the phone with the doctor's office begging them to just puh-leeaze call in a prescription for translucent-scarlet eye. I even played the working single mom card. (Not really.) (Yes, I did.) But they still wouldn't. F-ers.

So then? I spent the rest of the day screening calls. Fully intending to let any calls from school, like, the health office, specifically, go to voice mail. (Yes, I did.) (Yes, I did.)

What? Shut up.

It's not like pale-claret eye is painful. It's just itchy and like, gross.

But they didn't call. She did go to the health office, but the nurse? Apparently? Is also a working mother. Because the nurse gave her a wet washcloth and sent her back to class.

When I got home I Googled pinkish hue in the ocular area. And Google? Was never a working mother. Because Google? Was all take her to the doctor you slacker maternal unit.

but i really am thinking about going back to church, at some point. where at some point means meh, let's go to the beach instead.

2009-05-23T23:51:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking of dragging my sinning ass back to church, so I've been researching churches in my neighborhood. Where researching churches in my neighborhood means we went to a yard sale at one last weekend , we're pretty sure this is the church that had swine flu , and we gripe about this eyesore whenever we drive home from the airport.

But I really am thinking about going back to church, at some point. Where at some point means meh, let's go to the beach instead and build things that look like churches. Where things that look like churches means clearly, my children have no idea what a church looks like .

So we were going to try this church which is just down the road from our house. Where just down the road from our house means why in hell did Google Images give me Ricardo Montalban when I Googled St. Gregory the Great church San Diego? And we're thinking about trying this one which is on the USD campus. Where on the USD campus means hell to the yes I just got admitted to the graduate program in USD's School of Leadership and Education. Where hell to the yes I just got admitted to the graduate program in USD's School of Leadership and Education means booyah, Baby, I should be getting a raise in two to three years from next September.

But then? We drove by this one church . And this one church? Is most assuredly the church for me. Where most assuredly the church for me means look at these statues . Where look at these statues means look how they fixed the lamb statue when its legs started to give out:

It's a lamb. A lamb that's throwing up on the front lawn of the church. Where a lamb that's throwing up on the front lawn of the church means this is the place for me.

(Yes, Mom. I know I'm going to hell.) (Also? Mom? Remember when you told your grandmother that you and your cousin Carol were just going to sit on the other side of the church during mass? Where sit on the other side of the church meant sneak out the side door and go to the party down the street at Tommy O'Sullivan's house.) (Just saying...)

but then it sounds stilted and dotty and lame-ish.

2009-05-19T19:41:00.000-07:00

We're prompting. On Tuesday. Because I'm all PROMTuesday this and PROMPTuesday that.

Today's prompt from Deb is to write a narrative of no more than 250 words in ten minutes. The narrative must be set in Calgary and begin with the phrase "jello wrestling seemed like the only real alternative" and use the words "flamingos" and "bologna".

That's not true. That wasn't the prompt. But a lot of them are just like that. This week Deb asked us to listen to a song and write a poem inspired by the poetry of the lyrics.

Which kind of freaked me out. So you get this:

What if the poem is really about death?
Or redemption.
What if I compare it to Shakespeare’s Macbeth?
When really it’s more akin to Poe or to Plath.

What if the writer meant to sound happy?
Or Despondent.
If I interpret the lines as romantic and sappy.
Or applaud at a line not meant to be clappy.

What if a line of a stanza of my sonnet or lyric?
Lacks profundity?
Driving reader upon reader to believe it’s satiric.
When really I meant for it to seem more vapirmic.

What if I try for St. Vincent Millay-ish?
Harp Weaver-y.
But then it sounds stilted and dotty and lame-ish.
Like a poem from a painting that looks rather Monet-ish.

Say the codes that make rhyming dictionaries work?
Get screwed up.
And the algorithms for rhymes go completely berserk?
Then my lines and refrains must all be re-worked.

What if I misunderstand meter and meaning?
For acromonogrammatic verse.
Or worse.

i'll Google it and let you know if there was an earthquake in just your room

2009-05-18T08:12:00.001-07:00

The Adolescent Boy [coming out of his room]: What was that?

Me: What was what?

The Adolescent Boy: That, what just happened.

Me: What?

The Adolescent Boy: My whole room just shook.

Me: Uh, sure. Alright.

The Adolescent Boy: I SWEAR!

Me: Alright.

The Adolescent Boy: Mom. I think it was an earthquake.

Me: Uh-huh.

The Adolescent Boy: There was an earthquake.

Me: But just in your room.

The Adolescent Boy: I FELT IT!

Me: Alright. I'll Google it and let you know if there was an earthquake in just your room.

And what I meant by I'll Google it and let you know was go back to bed, I have emails to read. Because come on. If there was an earthquake in my house? I would totally feel it.

So I made a show of Googling earthquake San Diego (which, by the way, is spelled l-i-m-e g-r-e-e-n s-u-e-d-e p-o-m-p-o-n p-u-m-p-s), I noticed I had a new email. So I abandoned my search for ~~shoes~~ news in favor of reading email. And the email? Was all EARTHQUAKE! Did you feel it? I felt it! And the Adolescent Boy, who was reading over my shoulder, was all I KNEW IT! And I was all alright, jeez.

where awesome means holy fucking hell, my neck needs botox.

2009-05-14T12:21:00.001-07:00

My loon neighbor has been angry at me and not speaking to me for the last couple of months. Where angry at me means I am being so angry with you, Katya! I am not being speakink to you! Except all thees time where I am standing and SHOUTINK AT YOU! And all thees times vhen I ask for you to read to me my mail and vhen I am needink to be tellink you about my George. My George, he ees single like you, no?

But apparently? She's over it. She's no longer mad at me. Which is awesome. Where awesome means holy fucking hell, make her go away. In fact, she's so much not angry with me now, that she gave me these shoes. Which are awesome.

Where awesome means holy fucking hell, those are the ugliest shoes I've ever seen.

She gives me stuff all the time though, and she's totally sneaky about it. She alternates really horrible stuff with some really good stuff. And I can't just take the good stuff and say no to the crap. And I can't just say no to all of it, because, whatever, I like new stuff. New good stuff. Not new crappy stuff.

She never just brings the shoes or whatever out and says, you are being vanting these shoes? Instead, she makes me commit one way or the other, site unseen. She tells me how she has something really great and would I like to have it? And I'm all um, well, I don't quite know...maybe I could just see it.... And she's all you are being vaiting right here, Katya. And then she comes back with something like this awesome crockpot.

Where awesome means holy flipping perfectly brand new crockpot.

And then a week later, when I've been seduced by the crockpot, for example, she'll go I have somethink for you, Katya, you vait here. I vill give to you. It is from good store, you must be vearing it eef I give to you, Katya. And I go oh, well, um, maybe I should just, like, maybe...um, hang on there.... Because you just never know. It could be an awesome French pashmina.

Where awesome means holy fucking hell, my neck needs Botox.

Unless I wear it like this which is awesome. Where awesome means holy fucking hell this thing is choking me. Where holy fucking hell this thing is choking me means who the hell cares because neck wrinkles.

But that's the thing. Once it was the lovely French neck-wrinkle-hiding pashmina. But once it was a pair of white polyester pants that looked exactly like this. Except pants.

the apple doesn't fall far

2009-05-11T21:47:00.001-07:00

I thought

that they thought

that they might get lost

between here

and their closets.

But now?

I think

that the apple

doesn't fall far

from the shoe apple tree.

removed the paint and dirt from himself, and applied it carefully to the bathtub

2009-05-10T20:05:00.001-07:00

I have the most craptastic patio furniture on Earth. No, worse than yours. And yours. Seriously. Crap. Tastic.

But when you have truly craptastic shit, and someone proposes to do something with the craptastic shit, you're all meh, whatever. So when I was whining to the First Grader about my shitty patio furniture and he was all hey, I know what we could do. I was all meh, whatever.

And the First Grader? Took craptastic, like this:

to booyah like this:

in one afternoon. Of course, you realize the entire side of my house, the whole yard and most of the trees were all Jackson Effing ~~Pollack~~ Pollock. (Motherf**ker. Will I ever learn how to spell his name?)

And this was all after he spent the whole entire morning helping me take my super-craptastic front flower bed from Weedy O'Spiderburgh:

to Foxglove McLavenderland:

And then the First Grader? Removed the paint and dirt from himself, and applied it carefully to the bathtub and bathroom floor and at least two new towels and then promptly went to clean his room.

I was all hey, dinner's ready! And he was all honk shoooo.

Mother's Day? Check.

like, what utensil can she use as a close approximation of a teaspoon.

2009-05-05T20:41:00.001-07:00

A few days ago the Girl and the First Grader made biscuits. And here's the thing about me. I don't own any actual measuring devices. I don't have measuring cups or measuring spoons, or, like, anything, um, useful for measuring things. Except, like, a coffee pot with hash marks .

The Girl: This pan?

Me: No, use the other one.

The Girl: Which one?

Me: The one that I used as a lid when I steam broccoli.

The Girl: Oh-kay... Stir together flour and one and a half teaspoons of...Mommy, what's a teaspoon?

Now, here's the great thing about my kids. They are adaptable. Resourceful. She doesn't want to know where the teaspoon is, she wants to know what a teaspoon is. Like, what utensil can she use as a close approximation of a teaspoon. Because hello, have you met me?

Me: Use a regular cereal spoon , just heap it up a bit. That'll be about one and a half teaspoons.

The Girl: Uh...okay. Heap...it...up...wha...?

The Girl: Mommy! How much is a cup?

Me: Like about two-thirds of a coffee cup.

The Girl: Kuh. Which one? This Flossman one ? Or like your coffee cup size ?

Me: Two-thirds of a Flossman one. One of mine would be like a cup and a half.

The Girl: I need a quarter cup of butter.

Me: Just scoop out a couple of spoonfuls out. The little blue dish should be about half-full.

The Girl: Okay. Fine. Now, what's a tablespoon?

Me: Use this one .

The Girl: Well. It has holes, though.

Me: That's okay, it'll work for flour, it wouldn't work for sugar though. Well, brown sugar it would work for, just not white sugar.

The Girl: Um. Okay. Now I need a third of a cup.

Me: Use the spoon we use for gravy , and heap it up a little.

The Girl: Heaping up again. Awesome. (She didn't really say awesome, but she thought it.)

And remember how I said resourceful?

Today she made these cookie/brownie things all by herself. And I was so pleased, she didn't ask me how to measure anything. Because she's resourceful. Where resourceful means cheater.

Because Easy-Bake . Cheater .

further evidence that my kids are weird

2009-05-03T17:20:00.001-07:00

Hypothesis: My kids are weird.

Evidence: The Girl somehow got herself a blow up pool. And rather than, like, splashing around in it, she spent the day like this

And while it looks like she let her friend and the First Grader play too. She didn't really. The First Grader had to agree to be the subject for the experiments and her best friend had to record her hyposynthesises, evidence and conclusions. I told the First Grader in no uncertain terms not to eat or drink anything they provided. He probably did though, because now he's all my stomach hurts.

Conclusion: Yeah, totally weird. Also? The bottom of the pool dissolved.

And now I need to buy more dish soap, club soda, salt, vinegar, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, pepper, cake sprinkles and vanilla extract. And I'm guessing, probably some grass seed and Mylanta.

i haven't experienced ebola, necrotizing facsiitis or like, oprah's book club

2009-04-29T23:32:00.001-07:00

I've never been one to get all freaked out about potential epidemics.

I never got mad cow disease. I'm pretty sure I didn't get SARS or what's the one with the mice? Hunta virus. (Smart Sister just fainted.)

I haven't experienced Ebola, necrotizing facsiitis or like, Oprah's Book Club. But Swine Flu? I has it. (Smart Sister just fainted again.) (Both from the potential exposure to Swine Flu from reading this post and by my use of lol-esque I has it.) (Not really.) (Yes, she did).

There is a school next door to my house that has been closed due to an outbreak of Swine Flu. (We're waiting while Smart Sister dips her laptop in Purell). And when I say next door to my house, I mean somewhere in the general vicinity of Southern California-ish. (Poor Smart Sister.)

So the Little People and I are pretty sure we have it. And what I mean by pretty sure we have it is that I'm pretty sure I could get away with calling in sick tomorrow and Friday and going to Joshua Tree for a long weekend.

And then we're thinking of exploring the recent E.Coli Scare because Yosemite.

and you took my silk scarf and dug my lip gloss out of my purse

2009-04-28T14:16:00.001-07:00

It was summer. You were two months old. While your mom worked, you and I spent our days together. You cried. I cried a little bit too. I set you in the swing, wound it up and sang you songs. I sang the songs that I heard Mama sing to you. And some Duran Duran. You fell asleep in the swing, and I lay on the floor under it so I could keep pushing it after the winding ran out.

It was dark. You were two years old. While your dad cleaned the kitchen after dinner, you climbed onto my lap, and we read Pat the Bunny. Judy could pat the bunny. And so could you. You turned yourself around and looked back at me and around your pacifier, you said, bunny. And then I said what does the bunny say? And you scrunched up your nose and squinted your eyes. And you? Looked just like a bunny.

It was winter. You were seven, nearly eight. You climbed into my car with your sleeping bag and your backpack, and you went to college with me for the weekend. We ate Cookie Crisp cereal for breakfast and didn't tell your mom. I put your hair in French-braids on the first night, and you left them in all weekend and looked frizzy and unkempt when we went ice-skating on Sunday.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon. You were twelve. We were in the school auditorium in rehearsal. I arrived after work, and you took my silk scarf and dug my lip gloss out of my purse. I sat in the second row with my script and yelled at you to enunciate. You rolled your eyes and smeared your lip gloss and said I AM.

It was midday. You were nineteen. You tracked snow in through my front door, and then you spent the day in my kitchen and made homemade soap for your mom and two chocolate cream pies for your dad. You gave me some of the soap and kept me company and made me smile while the world fell in around me.

It is April 28th. You are twenty-three. You own a house and a wedding dress and a dog. I love you. I love to sing you songs. And pat bunnies with you. I love eating Cookie Crisp cereal with you and sharing my scarves and my lip gloss with you. And I love making chocolate cream pies and soap with you.

Happy birthday, Pierced Niece. Jessica Rose is biting her toes.

because hello? for reals?

2009-04-27T19:05:00.001-07:00

The Girl? She is a total suck up.

I have no idea what she wants, but I'll probably give it to her. Because hello? For reals? Her mommy is the best katydid mommy in the whoel katydid world.

And she really says it like that. Who-el. Two syllables.

The whoel world.

and you will explain to her about jumping rope and huck finn. and she? will freak the fuck out.

2009-04-22T21:41:00.001-07:00

I have always been one of those moms who opts her kids out of standardized testing. Ever since I learned that all standardized test are optional, I've been opting them out.

When you opt your child out, the school principal will call you. She will start saying things about how your third grader needs the practice for the SAT and the MCAT and the LSAT and the GRE. And then you will say things about third grade and jumping rope and reading Huckleberry Finn. And then she will say things about assessing your child's strengths and challenges and individual teaching plans. And then you will just keep saying I want to opt her out, I want to opt her out. Opt out. Please, we're opting. Out.

And you will start to feel a little bit desperate, because, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's easier to quit the gym than to opt your child out of standardized testing.

But you will hold firm and opt your child out. And your child? Will melt the fuck down.

And you will explain to her about jumping rope and Huck Finn. And she? Will freak the fuck out.

And you will explain about the third grade and the tests being optional. And she? Will fall down and die.

After telling you that Huck Finn's mother would let him take the tests. And you will start yelling about how Huck Finn didn't have a mother! And she will start yelling about how she wishes she was an orphan toooooo! Waaaahhh!

So you'll give in. You will let her take the god damn tests. And then the night before the tests begin? She will flip the fuck out.

She will yell about how she has to have blueberries! And bananas! And how she needs to eat a healthy breakfast like OATMEAL! NOT! COLD! CEREAL! And how she needs at least ten hours of sleep! So would everyone please BE QUIETER! And how she needs gum! But not THAT KIND! It has to be PEPPERMINT! Because PEPPERMINT(!) helps make Japanese factory workers smarter!

And then you will drive her to the principal's house and drop her off with her sleeping bag, a bag of god damn blueberries and nasty note written on the back of the school flyer which gives parents and students helpful tips for testing week.