Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

The bride was radiant, but the groom was just so pretty.

First, this: Massive Black Hole Stumps Researchers. (Link from Angela)

They won't tell you in this article but the black hole on the top of my head continues to defy explanation. Since I'm not a martyr, why else would I have a big fat black hole on the top of my head where a $75 highlight should go?

We may never know.

Onto the wedding.

Logan has a very special relationship with John, I've mentioned that before. In fact, I think John helped to create the metrosexual monster I live with at the moment.

I can't really blame Logan, have you seen this boy? He's really very pretty isn't he? I think maybe Logan suffered an inferiority complex having to be around someone so pretty day in and day out and so he decided he wanted to be pretty too.

Now they're both pretty. But if they were in a pageant, I'm sorry but John is totally winning the Pretty Pageant. And this is very good news because I never signed up to be married to someone prettier than me, and I'm not starting now.

The Last Diaper.

There are a lot of ways to get your child to use the toilet. And like just about everything else, I think whatever works for you and your child is absolutely perfect. I can offer you what worked for me and my child....but in the end, you'll find out what works for you.

With Madison, what worked was a hellish week of me suggesting every 5-15 minutes, 'Why don't we, in the sense of you, try sitting on the potty now?' I didn't know that she was ready, but I didn't know what 'ready' would look like so I thought we'd give it a whirl. It was about 3 days of actual hell.

Hell in the form of a child sitting on the 'Potty', peeing just a tiny little bit, standing up all excited about the pee pee she just put in the potty, and peeing all over the floor in celebration.

Hell in the form of a child sitting on the sofa, calling her mother over, staring vacantly at the television while pointing between her legs. Her mother looks and sees her daughter urinating all over the sofa.

I made a deal with myself to try the potty training thing for 7 whole days and if at the end of those 7 days there was more pee pee in my sofa than in my potty....we'd quit and try again when she was 30 (really we'd try again in a month.)

Thank God she got it in 3 or 4 days, because I'm not sure I ever would have willingly revisited Potty Training Hell.

But last week I had to revisit Potty Training Hell because Max is over 3 now and I told myself I would suck it up and do it over the summer and now it's summer and it's time. I'm tired of changing diapers and I'm tired of buying diapers and I'm totally ready for Max to go to preschool in the fall so all signs pointed to potty training.

The Black Hole In My Head.

First the bags under my eyes became an undeniable reality. Instead of saying to myself, "Well, that's just a bad picture."

I had to admit it was uncanny that 9,652 digital photos were coming back with the same bags under my eyes. It's not a lighting issue or an angle issue...it's just the fact that I have bags under my eyes.

Then Logan took this shot of me and that's not Photoshop adjusted folks, my roots are officially taking over the top of my head. (Don't look into the darkness for too long without protective gear...bad things happen*.)

*If I were clever I would put that evil cat eye thing from Lord Of The Rings in that black hole. But I'm not.

It actually looks like the top of my head is nothing but a big black hole.

Well, Uh...Ha ha!

So yes, the cat thing wasn't all that funny was it? But did you try watching it after 2 jumbo margaritas? It's really funny then.

The reason I gave you such a lame post was that I really wanted to write something at Dot Moms. It was long over due.

It may be more entertaining than the cat thing, but really....did you notice how the music was blaring that feel good music and the cat was just laying there totally oblivious? Didn't you see the irony? He wasn't the Dancing Queen at all, he wasn't dancing, he wasn't digging it. HE WAS JUST LAYING THERE!

So, go ahead and read: Expertise over there. Although, I can't guarantee it's any more amusing than my Cat! Sitting Around Like The Lazy Animal He Is! While Abba Blares In The Background! Comedy like that doesn't come around very often....

At least not if you're sober.

Dancing Queen.

I'm really not sure this is funny if you haven't spent a lovely afternoon at various sidewalk cafes drinking margaritas and eating chips and salsa with your favorite father (not mine, my favorite...it's Logan).

On the off chance it's actually funny without alcohol, I thought I'd share this little 30 second video of my cat. My very large, very lazy cat...who I suspect is a panther and also a closet Abba fan.

I'm ashamed of how many times I watched this movie on Sunday evening. I think I should get a dog. I'd feel better showing you video of my dog.

This Cat Is Totally Not Digging The Dancing Queen.

You need Quicktime to view this 1mb movie, it takes about one minute to load. You can get Quicktime here.**

**Oh, by the way. I got a digital camera!

Posting Elsewhere.

This has been a very busy, very fun, very child free weekend.

Sidewalk cafes, an art show, margaritas and Bell's Oberon were all an integral part of the festivities.

I wanted to write something wonderful about my loving spouse who equipped me with the sperm to make two of the most adorable children ever....but I don't have time.

Instead, I wrote something at Jenn's since she's out of town.

He can also do this!

I've mentioned before how talented my loving husband is. His talents seem limitless really.

He can bake and decorate amazing cakes, he can take a design from "concept to completion", he grills a mean salmon, he can rewire a room, he can ride 200 miles on his bike in two days and have you seen his eyelashes? Jesus.

He can also make tiny chairs out of champagne cages (link via Rebecky)

We first saw the chairs at a restaurant in Traverse City in Northern Michigan while on our honeymoon. The food was sublime and this eatery boasts wonderful views of the bay out of the windows and some very clever soul decided to name the restaurant Windows.

But really if they were naming the restaurant for it's wonderful features they would have had to name it 'Windows and Also Clever Champagne Cage Chairs'.

When we got home from the honeymoon he started making the chairs. We amassed quite a collection rapidly. Which is odd because champagne isn't exactly our drink of choice. Who do you think we are? The Rockefeller's?

This is his best work and it's from our first anniversary. It was the last bottle of the champagne we were gifted with for our reception, and though it's gone, our sublime memory of it's bubbly goodness lives on in the form of a classically styled tiny chair in a tiny cabinet in our dining room.

As I was looking over our collection to post these pictures, I found these oddly labeled (and also rather poorly focused) pictures. They show our champagne chairs from 12/25/99.

It was once tradition and also necessity to drink a lot of champagne with just a splash of orange juice for color (sometimes I'd just wave the orange juice over the glass....just to get the essence of the orange) on Christmas morning.

Something about spending Christmas morning with the beady eyes of someone (who happens to be related to you by marriage) boring into your very soul with hatred and anger...makes you crave an appropriate morning libation. My tastebuds had not yet evolved enough to embrace tomato juice and other spicy things.

According to the champagne chair(s), 1999 was a particularly trying year of endurance for me.

At least we have the chairs to remind us.

Simply Put: You're An Idiot.

Logan was away this weekend riding his bike for an unholy number of miles. 200 miles. 100 each day.

I tried to do this ride one year, it was a horrible mistake. A horrible mistake involving swearing and a man with a siren and a bike thrown over the side of a hill in a fit of rage.

You could say, I'm not into it...the biking thing.

But Logan loves this ride. He claims he does the ride because he's passionate about Multiple Sclerosis, but really he's only in it for the fashion (photo not of Logan). The body concious shorts and jerseys appeal to his obvious metrosexuality.

It also seems he loves the feel of a bike seat JAMMED into his ass for 7 hours (each day) until he has no feeling left and his butt cheeks are nothing but a bloody mess.

Personally, if I'm getting away from the kids and my responsibilities in this house for 2 days, you won't find me riding until my ass is screaming. But I guess we're all kind of different aren't we.

Last night he was telling the children the story of his adventure. He told Madison he rode his bike a very very long way. He explained how far he rode in relation to the long trips we take.

"It was farther than gramma and poppy's house. It was like I rode my bike to and from their house almost 5 times." (It's 45 miles to get to their house....though I haven't done it in almost 2 years....I'm just saying!)

Madison's reply assures me I am doing my job right.

"Why didn't you just drive?"

I ask you, how can I not worship this child?

Internet!

You know, Internet, I am trying to be understanding and patient....but why do people do this? Why? WHY? WHY???????

It's Trying To Break Me

I've been doing this 'running' thing for 7 weeks now and I have one question.

Is it possible to break your tailbone on the treadmill? Because I may have to sue my local YMCA for having such a violent treadmill in the fitness room.

I don't know what it has against me. I'm doing the best I can. I'm nice, I don't sweat all over it and then leave it like that...all covered in bodily fluids making it entirely untouchable like some other people.

This is a good place to laugh at me, but before we laugh at me can we say 'Wow' at me?

Today I ran 2 miles in 23 minutes...and this included a 4 minute walking warm up! Of course I broke my tailbone doing it and I screamed obscenities at that horrible treadmill the entire time. (I really do hate that machine and the feeling appears to be mutual.)

Now let's laugh at me.

In 1997 I decided to try running on the treadmill. I started the belt and I really had no idea how fast the belt goes when one is running. So I decided to make it go very, very fast.

For contrast, I now run at about 6.3 miles per hour. It's a pretty fast pace (for me) that I've worked up to over the last 7 weeks. That day I decided to try running on the treadmill I set the belt at a super sonic 8.0 miles per hour. I think it was the 'Running From A Rapist' setting on the machine.

I was really running.

I'm listening to my walkman and it's clipped on my shorts and I'm keeping up with the belt, only through my music I start hearing this loud banging sound. I'm subtly looking around as I keep running...really fast.....wondering what the hell that banging sound is. I notice people are looking at me and I'm wondering why. Haven't they seen anyone running from a rapist before?

Suddenly I realize the entire treadmill is shaking violently and I then realize it is my pounding feet causing the banging sound echoing through the entire gym.

Only the minute I realize it's me making that sound my walkman falls right off the waistband of my shorts and crashes onto the very fast moving belt on the treadmill. Upon impact the batteries come shooting out, spraying the fitness room like bullets. Everyone ducked.

I didn't duck, I tripped on a battery. This sent my body flying like a rag doll against the wall behind the treadmill.

After the initial impact I was faced with a horrible dilemna. How can I possibly save face now that I've been literally flung from the treadmill?

I considered screaming for management and threatening a lawsuit...but that seemed a little 'showy'. I considered running from the room away from that horrible place forever!!!!!!

Which would have been a very wise choice all things considered.

Instead I picked up my walkman and my body and I mounted the treadmill again and silently begged it not to throw me. To assure that didn't happen, I set the speed at a matronly 3.0 miles per hour and pretended none of it ever happened.

When I started this new 'running' thing, I set the treadmill at 3.8 miles per hour and I wear protective gear, you know, for safety's sake. Yes the 60-something ladies were walking faster than I was running and yes they were laughing at me, but I don't think anyone would be laughing when my batteries become high speed projectiles and are lodged in their foreheads.

It would be nice if the treadmill and I could start getting along now.

Puppy Love

Whittier Elementary held their annual Fun Fair last Friday.

The term 'Fun' is, as always, subjective. But if you are 5.5 years old the Fun Fair is a whole lot of Fucking Fun! I kind of had fun....I at least had fun watching my daughter have fun.

I pretended like the hot dog stand was actually a sushi bar and I pretended the slushee machines were actually margarita machines. I pretended the moonwalk thing was actually a giant bed and I imagined myself sleeping on it (minus the bouncing children).

The visit to the Fun Fair had two highlights:

Bake Sale Failure

I've had some very long days lately and my children are now practicing (with excellent results, depending on the results you consider 'excellent') needling. Meaning if they want something they ask over and over and over and over and over. and over and over and over.

Max has a more hysteric method of asking, then screaming when I give the wrong answer. Then he asks again and screams when I say no...again. Repeat. All day. Everyday.

Madison has discovered the nuances of needling. She asks a question, if she doesn't like the answer I give, like 'No' or 'Maybe, let me think about it.' Immediately she segues into the "Can we do that tomorrow?" or "[sigh]....I sure wish I could do that." and then "When do you think we can do that?"

It's given new meaning to the term 'Relentless'. I did not enjoy the days of raising a newborn. In fact, I truly suck at it. I could not be worse at it if I tried really hard. Most of the time I'm thrilled to be beyond the newborn part of my life.

But this needling thing is making me yearn for the pre-verbal days of my children's first months on this planet. Those days that were silent, mostly, except for the crying. Oh, and the endless demands. Well, and the not sleeping. And the stroller and all that carrying....I don't know, the needling still sucks pretty badly.

When the ice cream man dies.

The other night, I had a meltdown. It was an ugly meltdown, full of "What the Fucks?" and "Jesus God Damn Christs" and all the while my daughter called out, helpfully, from the other room, "Uh....That's a junk word Mommy!"

She was right. Her mother was screaming filthy obscenities and it was wrong of her to do that. More than likely she'll never go to college because she has a mother who can not control her filthy mouth. She'll probably swear in front of her own children and someday I'll have filthy mouthed grandchildren and I'll hate myself for the legacy I've left behind.

I did apologize, but that God Damn Ice Cream Truck Has Been In Front of Our House For 18 Minutes and Counting And I'm Losing My Fucking Mind!

Push Puppets!

Thank you Pinky for the name of the dancing thingies I mentioned not long ago.

Here is a nice collection. As an aside, that lady's collection is far superior to mine. She has Wallace and Grommet! And a SMURF!

It appears she does not collect bandwidth so if the site is broken you can see all the wonderful possibilities at Ebay or you can Google it yourself!

Enjoy.

Collections.

Could someone possibly hate me for collecting vintage wedding cake toppers? Let's find out!

This is my cake topper collection. I've been collecting them since after my wedding. We were all set to use someone's vintage cake topper, but then 3 short days before the wedding the owner of the vintage cake topper casually mentioned her violent opposition to the upcoming nuptials. This left us feeling a little awkward as you can imagine, so we decided to go with some simple flowers on top of the cake instead.

At that point I had already fallen in love with the cake toppers. I'm not exactly sure what it is about them, simply nostalgia? I also love vintage locker baskets and what do they represent? Smelly clothes and wet towels in musty lockers? Maybe I just like the aesthetic. God! Get off my back.

"Drunken Galavanting"

I suppose what I write on this little website puts me in a position to be attacked for whatever reason someone attacks another person with a personal website which she chooses to read.

It doesn't make sense to me to expel hateful bile at another human being you really don't know. It makes no sense to me spew all sorts of horrid spelling mistakes and sweeping statements about my mothering abilities and my ability to care for my small children without exposing them to a "...totally fucked up...." mother.

But then there are a lot of crazy people in this world and I can't even begin to understand those people so, for the most part, I let these vicious attacks roll off my back. I must tell you I've been shocked to find the internet so full of angry and unhappy people who have to tear at another person to feel better.

Better about what? Themselves? Their choices? Their own shortcomings? It's really unclear to me at this time.

I mean, I knew the internet was full of perverts and quite honestly, at this point, I'd really like a pervert to take a shine to me and send me erotic stories starring me rather than all this mean spirited hatred I've been reading this last week.

This seems like a nice place to give you a reminder about how this 'Weblog' thing works, because it seems some of us have recently had a little communication breakdown.