Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Tips For Painful Living!

The kids and Logan went to meet his parents for dinner the other night. While chatting with a friend she said, "Wow, I'd like a night alone in my house."

Here's how you can get a night alone in your house in 4 painful, heart wrenching, soul killing steps!

Step 1: Argue endlessly with your in laws in various forms for 10+ years.

Step 2: In the 10th year, after a particularly ugly offense, tell them you will never spend time with them again.

Step 3: Send your husband and kids to spend time with the parents/grandparents they love.

Step 4: Feel glad your husband and kids can enjoy their family, but mostly feel glad you don't have to anymore.

'Virtual Partner': Gateway to Extramarital Affair.

I swear to you I have gotten better about spending money. I'm so careful now. I watch every cent and I now realize there is no such thing as 'just $20' and I realize going to Target is a dangerous endeavor I should try to avoid.

However, our taxes came back from our extremely [fingers] creative [/fingers] accountant and Logan and I made a joint decision to each take a small amount of money we can spend on whatever we'd like.

Logan's decided to get a fancy GPS/Heart rate monitor for running. "It can tell you WHERE YOU ARE! Babe! I get a virtual partner and that's not cheating since I'm only running! It's so cool!"

Boooooorinnnnnng. But he's into it. It's his hobby.

I'd decided to buy a new storm door for the house and new wood blinds for the kids bedrooms and a long overdue haircut and highlighting. For the love of God a haircut. I need a haircut in the worst way. My hair is currently so bad that the best hair day I've had in a long time was this morning immediately after I got out of bed. When I showered and tried to re-dry it, the moment was gone. Back to ugly hair.

But then, I keep going back to something. Something I've wanted for a very long time. The Digital Rebel 300D. I have always loved taking pictures and I've taken some nice ones with my film Rebel and it's something I've been sad about since I got the SD110. My pictures...suck.

It's like going back to a point and shoot and I hate not having control over my photographs.

I'm not an excellent photographer by any means but when I get a great shot, I'm happy. When I look through our photo albums, there are some shots that are so good they melt my heart and make me ache for the babies I was photographing. With my original Rebel SLR the pictures I wanted to take sometimes showed up on the film as I pictured them when I shot the picture. Of course, film is expensive and processing the film, at $15-$25 a roll was ridiculously expensive. Especially considering it takes me about 10 shots to get one worthwhile photo.

So I decided to go digital. With the SD110, I can see the shots I'm getting and I'm not wasting money on pointless prints of shots taken while trying to get it just right. However, I rarely get the shot I imagined by the time I'm finished. I'm frustrated by my pictures and my inability to catch the image I want. Except at the bar. At the bar the images are exactly as I remember them. But I'm also drunk at the bar so I don't know if that's how I want to chronicle the growth of my family. Through a crappy point and shoot haze.

On the one hand I feel horribly guilty for wanting such a luxurious and selfish item. On the other hand, my kids are only this age once and when I think of all the cherished family images I'm missing out on with my inadequate point and shoot digital. I want to catch all these moments. And honestly, taking pictures is a hobby of mine and I'm willing to skip at least another year of professional haircuts and color for this luxury item.

Besides, it's my hobby and while Logan's hobby involves a 'Virtual Partner', mine involves the chronicling of our family's history. I think it's a worthwhile thing.

In the mean time, I'm obsessing like a maniac. So much so that here's my desktop (courtesy of Logan).

Wish me luck.

Big night out.

Last night we finally got to go out for a full dinner with other people. People who don't bring small lunchboxes full of matchbox cars or polly pockets to entertain themselves at the table. It's been at least three months since we dined with actual adults. Winter in Michigan makes you hibernate a bit and having no cash makes you hibernate as well. We ate dinner with Mr. Zilla and Ms. Luminescent at Cafe Habana.

Remember how I said Logan was a bit freaked out to meet people "from the internet"? That was actually true, he was nervous. He wondered why I'd emailed a stranger and asked if they'd like to get dinner. But here's the thing, he actually loves to meet new people. He thrives when meeting new people. I on the other hand, set up meetings with internet people and then, as we walk to the restaurant I totally freak out. Until Logan says, "I'm going to start a blog and tell people what a lunatic you are."

And to that I say, Ha Ha! I already did.

But instead, all my social anxiety was entirely wasted as it was a wonderful meal and excellent conversation. What did we talk about? Many things, right now I'm remembering a conversation about cats. A conversation I enjoyed more than I'd like to admit. We've concluded, FYI, that cats are all attracted to office supplies: rubber bands, pencils, white out....q-tips (it's a stretch, fine) and this means cats are planning on taking over the world, administratively. We also had a memorable discussion about the portly professor Natalie had in school who was actually from Transylvania. We dubbed him 'The Littlest Vampire'.

After dinner, and a mojito for me (yum!), we went to Gusoline for an after dinner drink (or two, literally). There we found out Dave used to work with and still knows the one boyfriend my sister had who my brother and I loved and wished with all our beings she'd marry. We wished it so hard that now, just under 10 years since they dated, my brother and I end our phone calls wistfully, "Remember that guy, Monday? God Damn it...I wish they were still dating."

Oh also a guy with crazy eyes heard Logan say the word 'Rottweiler'....we were not talking about Rottweilers. But Crazy Eye guy really wanted to talk about Rottweilers. Badly. New tagline for the Davezilla website: "Crazy People Love Davezilla"

Interesting to note about Dave: Dave is 41 years old and looks like he graduated from high school maybe 10 years ago. I think he's the blogging Dick Clark.

Interesting things to note about Natalie: She's been dubbed by me, most likely against her will, "The Tiniest Canadian." She's a wee thing and I feared I might crush her with the weight of my massive teeth. Thankfully no one was hurt in our parting hug (Yes! I hugged! Without incident!).

Today we had Max's birthday party and you know I want to tell you all about it and the lovely cake Logan made for the event but it's nearly 11 and now I have to go be the easter bunny. March is wearing me out.

Also, I have declared a constitutional amendment banning Will Smith movies from ever again appearing on our Netflix list. Logan keeps choosing these monstrosities and I'm about to vomit all over the screen. Not because it's bad, but because I do not want to see these things happening on the screen claiming to be entertainment**.

**Dave said this and I'm now shamelessly using it. But, as is my rule. I'll cite my source three times, after that it's all mine.

Randomly

Yesterday I was five minutes late picking up Madison from school due to a long running playgroup which was at a home a little further away than I remembered.

As we walked back to the car Madison said, "Mrs Rutherford likes Oprah too!"

I said, "Really? Wow."

"Yep, I told her you were probably late because you were watching Oprah."

Mrs Rutherford must think I'm one excellent parent. For the record, school gets out at 3:25 and Oprah doesn't start until 4pm. It's a good thing I don't like Dr Phil though since that starts at 3pm and runs until 4pm, I'd never pick up Madison on time.

Max's birthday party is this weekend and I'm so excited. There will be lovely Happy Birthday signs and little favor bags and not a single party store theme item and I can't wait.

It also turns out having a birthday party that isn't a theme from the party store takes a lot more time and energy. Damn it. You can never have it all can you?

I'm also busy working for the realtors. Do you remember me coveting thy playdates furniture? Well it turns out Stephanie's parents (who are also the realtors I'm working for) are really great people. They like each other after so many years of marriage and they make each other laugh and the seem to genuinely enjoy each others company. Also her dad is a big teddy bear ish looking person and quite honestly, there's a big aching hole in my heart where a good father may have gone so I'm drawn to men (in a non sexual, admiring kind of way) who seem like good guys.

So not only do I have furniture envy for my friend, I also have a crush on her parents. Great! I promise I won't lick them.

[adding]

Who set up the printer to function wirelessly this weekend? Me. Who doesn't know how to do that? Logan. Only because he has a personal constitutional amendment banning instruction manuals or the 'help' function on a computer.

Logan thinks it quite comical that I brush my teeth while I go to the bathroom before bed. Tell me I'm not the only one who uses this time management technique? Besides, I often read email while using the bathroom so suddenly the teeth brushing seems fine doesn't it.

Don't worry, I've never sent you email from the toilet. Unless you're my sister, then I may have. Unless it totally grosses her out...then I definitely have.

In so many words. Oh...God...so many words.

A few weeks ago I went to the coffee shop to be interviewed for a piece in my local paper about buh-logging. The nice gentleman who interviewed me was entirely unfamiliar with blogs (even mine, which we were there to discuss) and I sat for about thirty minutes giving him a probably horribly inaccurate picture of blogs and blogging.

As Max and I waited for my interviewer to arrive I thought I saw Davezilla walk in. Dave often posts odd conversations he hears around Royal Oak and I have been known to neurotically check his site to make sure he hasn't overheard me screaming at my children or saying something retarded to Logan in public. It's one of my irrational fears, finding myself a subject at Davezilla.

I wasn't certain it was Davezilla, so I did not say hello. I wasn't willing to walk up to a stranger and say, "Hi, are you Dave of Davezilla?" Only to have him stare back at me blankly. Instead I behaved as the nerd I am and emailed him after the fact.

He sat behind us and as I discussed blogging with my interviewer I was very worried Davezilla would hear me and reveal me to be the total blogging retard I am. But then, on the bright side guess who we're having dinner with on Friday? Dave and his lovely bride to be, Natalie.

This is all freaking Logan out. Meeting 'internet people' and he has already run through about 30 conversations we'll have on Friday night. The best ones start with Logan saying in a very good Napoleon Dynamite-esque voice, "Hello Davezilla....can I call you Dave? So my wife tells me you have a [fingers]blog[/fingers] and you write [fingers]funny[/fingers] things."

What I wanted to tell you about was the interview and the article which ran on the front page of our little local paper on Thursday.

The article was chock full of errors and inaccuracies, like Logan's new career as a Public Relations executive. You can imagine how shocked Logan was to find himself checking colors on print materials he designed in L.A. last week only to find out he's NOT A DESIGNER!

"Husband Logan is an auto industry public relations specialist."

Also, this while somewhat true isn't entirely accurate is it?

"That's one thing about my blog. Even the hardest things to write about have humor in them. Otherwise, I'd just be a whining crabby housewife."

I'm not just a whining crabby housewife. I'm a funny crabby whining housewife!

I'm sharing the article with you all in spite of it's inaccuracies because I wasn't going to mention the contact I've had with agents until I actually had a book sold. But writing a book is hard. Writing a book proposal is hard. Deciding if I even have a God Damn story to write is incredibly difficult.

I start in one direction and suddenly switch gears and start typing without even meaning to:

"BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH! You're not the first ambivalent mother out there you dumb ass. You write a blog you don't write books."

But then I feel myself letting a chance at something big and good and wonderful for me personally slipping right through my hands and it's a feeling that keeps me up in the night and makes my arms ache and I feel like I'm doing something wrong.

('And by the way, book proposals with run on sentences? DON'T SELL YOU IDIOT!!!!!' See? How did I get so fucking mean to me?)

Sometimes I'll be plugging away and I'll think, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I do have a story and a voice unique enough to tell it in a way someone else couldn't.

('My aren't we full of ourselves today!? Wow! Melissa certainly thinks Melissa is pretty awesome!' I'll then think. Also I'll think, 'You asshole, can you ease up on the exclamation points? AND THE CAPS SUCK so cut it out.')

Then I'll move into failure after I do all this work to write a book. Watching as Jay waits for his book proposal to find the right editor but in the meantime faces rejections. Seven or Eight so far. I don't know if I can handle it. Because all the things the rejecting editors say are all the things I say to myself. Maybe they're right I'll say to myself. Never mind. Screw it I can't do this!

(Internal dialogue: "Jesus Christ you are so God damned insecure. You're even annoying me now. SHUT UP!")

So this article is a wonderful thing but the bigger issue is the fact that the book proposal is a load on my head. And it's affecting my ability to write anything here because I keep telling myself, "This is nothing but a personal buh-log and you'll never be able to make more out of it."

The pressure has been maddening and I haven't wanted to talk about it here but maybe it's fair to tell you why I'm letting you all down. Why I can't seem to write anything worthwhile here. I'm struggling to figure out how to do this book thing. To figure out if I can do this.

So now I've gone on and on and I haven't even gotten to the funny part. The funniest part of my newspaper experience was when the photographer came to my house to get a photograph of me. I assumed it would be a picture of me blogging all over the place. Hot!

I came up with some ideas myself. Some set ups which would convey how I neglect my children for the computer all day. For example:

Me, scantily clad, vacuuming with one hand and typing on the laptop with the other. Cocktail?

Me, smoking a cigarette (must buy these), holding Max (who will be crying and gagging from the smoke) and checking my email. Hair in rollers?

Me typing on my computer as a half dressed, slightly blurred and very dirty Max cries in the background!

I think if we make 'Blogging' look dangerous it can only be a good thing. I mean we've seen how much air time the "FIRED FOR BLOGGING" stories have gotten. Blogging could get you fired! Do it at your own risk! But the photographer thought we should go a different route with the picture.

Instead the photographer had me lean over my laptop with my head in my hand, like a Glamour Shot (as Davezilla noted). It was also much like a very bad senior picture and I know bad senior pictures. No I'm serious, look.

But then I knew it was going to be a really bad picture when he knelt down below me seated at my dining room table. Shooting a subject from underneath inevitably makes them look fatter than usual and also adds to the appearance of any extra chins. All in all you end up with a very unflattering photograph and this was no exception. Unless you like looking up my nostrils, then you'll probably love the photograph.

When I told Logan how horribly the shoot went he asked if I'd 'Art directed' the shot. Why yes, honey! Of course I did! Photographers love it when 'Bug loggers' tell them how to do their job!

I was thinking a lot of things while the photographer was here taking my picture.

"Wow, I haven't had a hair cut in a long time."

"I wonder how many chins I'll have in this shot."

"What smells in here?" (I add that one because doesn't it look like that's what I'm thinking?)

But really, here's what I was thinking:

So there you have it. Jesus that was long sorry.

(Internal dialogue: 'What the fuck can't you tell a sucinct story?' oh and then: 'What the hell? Can't you spell succinct?')

Max is Four Years Old Now.

Today Max turned four and I'm really having a hard time coming up with both the time and the words to express what it's really like to watch my baby boy grow up.

And since I'm sick (sore throat is gone but now I'm coughing until that post partum incontinence rears it's ugly head) and since Logan's been home for just over 24 hours but has only been in our home for about 12 of those hours 10 of them sleeping. (God bless his robotic soul he's working his ass off)....I'm just going to show you a few pictures of those first moments of Max's life. Those moments I kind of wish we could freeze but it's probably good we can't because I'd have 10 children at this point with the memory of those times.

This is immediately following my c section. I think I was crying about the Virgin Mary over there out of the frame as I came off the anesthetic but Logan and Max were bonding. You'll notice Logan's JET BLACK hair. It took another year before he developed that hot salt and pepper look. You'll also notice how cute my baby is post partum. Being a c section baby he endured very little trauma in the birthing process. Unlike his sister who was traumatized by her birth.

Here I met Max on March 21st. At 1:30am. I look pretty happy and at peace there, except I was actually completely blitzed on morphine and praying to go to sleep. Hooray C Section!

Here is Max going home in the sweater I made him. Moments after this photo was taken he grew right out of this sweater. Thank God he was born 3 weeks early or else it wouldn't have fit.

Here is Max at 4 days old laying on my abdomen. How the hell did he fit in there?

I love this shot because Max looks totally wasted and awestruck.

I wish I had a picture of him from now but the thing is: I'm so sick. His birthday party with his buddies isn't until next weekend (ELEPHANT BIRTHDAY PARTY! No stupid party store bull shit!) and then I'll share the pictures.

I'm disappointing you I know but the nyquil is kickinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Hey I said there would be rambling. Not drunken though.

I have a sore throat. I would rather puke out of my nose than have a sore throat. Sore throats render me a lifeless pool of sobbing like no other ailment.

The good news is that I found a bottle of nyquil in the linen closet last night with one last dose of mind numbing goodness. Then the bad news is that sometimes when I take nyquil, once my body processes the alcohol (with amazing efficiency) THANK YOU IRISH GENES, I wake up wide awake a few hours later.

We ate pizza in front of the tv (if Logan could have seen the crumbs all over the rug he would have exploded!) and watched Pee Wee's Big Adventure for the fourth time this week. I ate my pizza because the scratchiness felt good on my throat and then fell asleep for most of the movie while the kids watched and/or wiped tomato sauce all over the sofa. (Again, Logan goes down in flames!)

I took the nyquil at 8:15 after I put the children in bed and begged them to learn sign language- Stat! because talking was hurting my throat. If I ever wondered how much talking was involved in raising children I felt every painful word I have to use to raise these children last night.

Because my body processes the nyquil so fast I found myself wide awake at 11pm. And my throat still hurt and this is the awesomest awesome! My period started! With cramps even!

Frankly I was sort of relieved to find the period started because it was over a week late and I started to envision some freak mutant sperm who'd been stalking my uterus since Logan's vasectomy over a year ago and the three sperm free samples he'd had checked at the lab. Oh yes and there's the part where I had the lining of my uterus burned out rendering it unusable for sustaining and growing life.

But believe me, it's the kind of thing that could happen to me. Seriously. The other good news is that my annual is next week and oops! I guess I'll have to reschdule. Hooray.

Anyway...I sprayed my throat with chloroseptic, took more motrin and fought my way back to sleep and then this morning my children GOD LOVE THEM! Woke up and played quietly in their rooms and then Madison got breakfast for them both (eggs benedict even! ha ha ha) and then they played until 10am without fighting and let me sleep for over 12 hours total.

I don't even need Logan.

Well except that it's 11am now and we're all still in our pajamas and Max has asked me 3 times if we can go to the toystore to pick out a plastic shark. And when I tell him, "Your birthday is TOMORROW! We're not buying toys." I guess he thinks a birthday means the END OF ALL TOYS! Because he starts crying and sobbing and yesterday he did this all day too.

He had a meltdown which ended in a nap because I wouldn't take him to the park where he lost the first plastic shark....NINE MONTHS AGO....because he KNOWS it's still there.

It's not still there. I'm sure of it.

Hey Happy St Patricks Day!

"I" feel like "I" only talk about me all the time. "I"'m wondering what's going on with you? "I" mean as long as we don't stop talking me about me. "I" just really like talking about myself. No really, "I" do!

My brother loves St Patrick's day, they attended a party and wow those Krazy Katholics love to party. Not only did my brother end up in new clothes:

He ended up with an Irish Mullet:

And then an Irish Toupee:

Finally to celebrate the big holiday my brother got himself a transvestite amish wife who happens to be sort of Irish:

I hope your St Patrick's Day was fun. Logan's was spent in a Trader Vics in Beverly Hills and then Tiki Ti. Which means he is officially not inheriting a single penny from my Irish family. We named our baby after my fresh off the boat grandmother, and Logan spends St Patrick's day in a tiki bar?

Clearly he has a problem.

I'm giving up my T day for you people.

I think what happens is that I set myself up for something really good and when you tell yourself you're going to write something really funny, all the funny juice dries up and you're left laying diagonally across the bed playing text twist, snoring and drooling and NO ONE CAN STOP YOU! You're all alone!

So let's just ease the pressure okay. I'm not funny. Let it go.

A week or so ago I helped pop popcorn at Madison's school for the big Popcorn Sale. I did it to help out at the school because I'm trying to help where I can. I also did it because being able to operate a popcorn machine can only add to my skill set and make me that much more employable.

Unfortunately after seeing what goes into the popcorn, I can never eat popcorn again. The butter is not regular butter, it's the kind of butter that may as well be shaped like a bullet and plugged right into your arteries. Oh well, if it makes money for the kids and makes them obese...I guess that's swell!

But the part where I made popcorn (and awkward conversation with the other moms) isn't the amusing part of this story. It's also not the part where I operated the popcorn machine and flailed about screaming because I was convinced I'd burn my hands off. The part where the popcorn kernals weren't quite popped all the way when I opened the tub thing to dump them out and they came flying at my face like tiny bullets threatening to blind me and I screamed out and made the school secretary come running isn't the funny part either.

Now there's the pressure again. The rest of this story had better be pretty funny or I'm going to end up drooling and snoring in bed again.

I've been avoiding the PTA because I wore out my ability to tolerate large groups of parents with the MOMS Club Follies. Plus there was that day during Lice Fest where the PTA President "helpfully" suggested I use a chemical shampoo on my daughter's lice infested head.

DEAD TO ME.

On the day I was there popping popcorn and threatening to maim myself, there was a PTA ruckus right before my very eyes.

The PTA president was in the room working on something at the table whilst ducking to avoid being blinded with the projectile popcorn kernels. She was discussing something in a heated way with another PTA person.

She left the room and came back 5 minutes later sobbing hysterically.

"I GIVE MY HEART AND SOUL TO THIS SCHOOL!" she said, as she collected her things. "I will NOT BE TREATED LIKE THIS!"

And I thought to myself....maybe someone treated her like an ignorant moron and it hurt her feelings. The shoe is on the other foot now isn't it Ms Harper Valley?

I couldn't say any of that because she dramatically made an exit. Leaving everyone stunned (and some of us....me....amused).

A few moments later the evil woman who caused the PTA President to run crying from the building came in the volunteer room and tried to speak to the PTA Secretary. Who informed her she "Didn't want to hear it."

And the perpetrator said, "I don't even know what I said to anger her so much."

The secretary said, "I know you don't like her, so just avoid her. Why can't you just avoid her."

(Here I thought....Me me me! Just like me! I avoid her!)

The perpetrator said, "I do try to avoid her and that's why I asked her if this was the last year I'd have to deal with her. I just said, 'We'll be rid of you next year, won't we?' "

With that the secretary rolled her eyes and said, "I can't even talk to you."

At that point I shoved a stick of that nasty butter in my mouth to keep from shrieking with joy! She didn't know what angered her? I love when people say mean things, then shrug and say 'What? What did I say?' when the other person responds.

On the other hand, I'm kind of glad she'll be gone too because I'm a bitter little woman and that day when she found two nits on Maddie's head and suggested I use a chemical on her head. After I'd ALREADY used a chemical on her head. AND soaked her head in mayonnaise for 3 hours. AND picked through every inch of her God Damn scalp 400 times.

Also it made me feel much more comfortable with my decision to focus my volunteer efforts on Madison's classroom and not the PTA. Plus, I think the teacher really watches out for me and Sarah* because neither one of us has any friends.

*Not her name!

Am I going to call this an entry?

Mommy Tired.

Tomorrow, I promise. More.

Good night.

The house is talking.

I'm starting to feel like my house is nothing but a ticking time bomb waiting to plummet us into financial ruin. I swear I hear the house speaking to me all night.

"The furnace," the house whispers. "It's older than even you. It's going to die."

The oven, calls menacingly from the kitchen, "I'm malfunctioning!" (It began attempting to ignite WHILE IT WAS TURNED OFF on Sunday afternoon.)

The sewers continue to hold untold damages and it looms heavily over my head.

On Monday morning I was expecting three mothers and their collective seven children to my home. My toilet broke. Contrary to popular belief I don't live in the nicest part of town. There are many things to love about our part of town, walking distance to downtown restaurants, shopping and the library. There are other things which are not as appealing, like the transients. The renters all over. The lack of young families. Most of the moms I meet in Max's preschool live in lovely homes in lovely neighborhoods and I feel insecure about where I live in spite of myself.

It just doesn't help my insecurity about my home when I have to tell the moms, "Hey! I have to manually flush the toilet for you!"

Awesome is what it is.

Two playgroups (one involving quite a few bloody marys) in two days leaves a mother feeling a wee bit exhausted.

I am so exhausted, I can't even get a buzz so there will be no drunken ramblings yet. However, I will tell you there is are bright sides to my spouse being out of town.

I can read in bed as late as I want.

I can post to my blog. In bed!

We have a full sized bed, so having it to myself is like having a queen!

When you know you're responsible for everything you plan your day accordingly instead of hoping your husband will be home from work in time to decide what to feed the children, you just do it. (Which leads to....)

"How about cereal for dinner kids?!" (It does have vitamins, so stop looking at me like that.)

I don't know how to talk about my kids and how much I love those little fuckers without sounding like a stupid cliched Hallmark card. But some days just run so smoothly and make me feel like I'm actually doing just fine as a mother and even though I'm insane and ambivalent and sometimes I feel resentful and overextended....I'm doing so many of the important things right and I'm blessed with really good kids with their own faults, (just like everyone) who I'm so proud of.

I just don't know how to say all that on a regular basis without coming across trite and vomit laden.

Today I worked in Maddie's class and I had the distinct impression that her teacher felt sorry for me.

Soon, I'll be rambling. This isn't rambling.

We took the children roller skating Saturday and after observing all the skaters over the age of 12, I realized it's simply impossible to look 'Cool' while roller skating.

After watching the 50-something man doing something he calls 'Roller Dancing', I realized it is possible to look exceedingly 'Un Cool'.

It must be noted that although I have not been roller skating since the mid 80's, I'm still able to spin and skate backwards and I'm thinking of maybe just wearing roller skates all the time! It's like riding a bike, you never forget.

I'm so tired of weekends which resemble a high charged set of weekdays. Thank God tomorrow is a Monday.

Best part of my weekend? Logan asking where his summer clothes are. (The attic). Watching him pull his summer clothes out of the attic and quickly realizing he needs summer clothes because he's going to a place where it's like summer.

He's annoyed that I'm resenting his trip. He works hard to support this family and he deserves to have the warm sun baking his skin for a few days.

At the same time, I think we need to take a moment to step back and remember that we all contribute to our family's success. For example, this weekend Logan worked both days and well into the evening and in order for him to do that work, I had to be here with the kids. I'm just saying. We're all putting in long, lonely hours.....and some of us get to do those long lonely hours where the sun actually shines on your face and it's warm enough to require summer clothes being brought down from the attic.

Tomorrow I'm (finally) hosting a playgroup for some of Max's buddies and their mothers...who appear to be very fun. It should be a fun playgroup. The only thing that could make it more fun is if it was in, I don't know....Los Angeles? Ha ha ha. Wow! I'm bitter.

Since Logan will be gone this week, you can expect lots of drunken ramblings from me. Usually when Logan gets home the flood gates open and from my mouth spills copious amounts of totally useless data. I've just been starved for conversation all day and I have a lot I need to say. For the next 5-7 days there will be no one to receive all that verbal diarrhea. Except you, Internet.

You can hardly wait. Right?

school is hard.

I was a horribly unpopular girl in school. Maybe the word wouldn't be unpopular, maybe the word is non existent. I was non existent in school. I have a keen sense about people and their moods which was most likely born out of my alcoholic parent headed household. There is a lot of watching when you're in a home with an angry drunk. My keen sense of others allowed me to avoid the radar of scorn or popularity. I was relatively invisible.

It's hard to make friends when you're invisible and the other invisible friend I had became highly visible when she found herself using various drugs and later pregnant. This was somehow frowned upon at Seaholm.

I remained anonymous and invisible until finally I was released from that hellish existence.

There is a little girl in Madison's first grade class who I can not stand. I know she's just a first grader and it's not nice to have negative feelings about a child but that's why I am not a teacher.

Every time I work in that classroom I find myself gritting my teeth and trying "not to see her" when she raises her hand.

Her: *Hand Goes Up*
Me: *Hey! What's that in the hall...I'd better check.*
Come back in.
Her: *Hand Up Again*

I try to be nice and I try to help but she and I don't mesh well and she is a sparkling reminder of why I abandoned that early education major.

Maddie doesn't like her either and we've had lots of talks about this little girl. Talks where I think to myself, "Of course you don't like her! Jesus did you notice how she......." but then I catch myself and realize that's horribly inappropriate.

Instead I started telling Maddie how it's okay if she doesn't like this little girl. You don't have to like everyone. In fact you can hate some people with a fiery passion, but even if Star Jones and George Bush are in your first grade class you have to be polite to them and treat them kindly.

Maddie mentioned how this little girl doesn't have any friends and even though I totally know why she doesn't have any friends, it broke my heart because as I've said I was invisible all through my schooling.

I told Maddie about my last years of high school where I didn't have a single friend and how hard it was to eat lunch in the orchestra room everyday. I told her how maybe it didn't seem like she could be friends with this particular little girl, but maybe she could leave her mind open to it. That maybe this little girl didn't know how to be friends and she needed help to learn how to be friends.

Just like I needed help.

Apparently I sent my teenaged heart to school with Madison in her back pack, because the next day at dismissal Maddie hopped up to tell me that she "Told Mrs Rutherford that we have to be nice to Sarah* because my mommy didn't have any friends when she went to school and it was really sad for her."

I'm so glad Mrs Rutherford knows how I struggled through school. No really, I'm glad.

*Made up name.

Hooray! Logan's going on another fabulous trip!

About a week ago Logan came home, after I'd spent 4.5 hours shoveling the mountains of snow surrounding our house, and said, "Great news! I'm going to Los Angeles!"

I stared at him for a moment.

WOW! THAT'S GREAT NEWS! A week alone with the kids! Without regular adult interaction! While you're off having fun in the sun with printer's reps who want repeat business and are invested in making sure you have fun! That's so great! For you.

Wait, why is that great? I'm happy for him and all the lovely meals he'll eat and the things he'll do. Like when he went to New York for 5 days and ended up eating wonderful meals and sitting front row at The Producers. Or when he went to Utah for 10 days and had a private hot tub on his mountain side terrace and he ate sushi every night and went to the mountains with beautiful models and beautiful scenery. God I was so happy for him!

But uh, could he maybe pretend it's not great news.

The best part though is when he says, "Oh no, it's going to be horrible. I'm going to be stuck at the hotel waiting to hear my stuff is ready for the press check and we're printing so many catalogs and all I'll be able to do is watch scrambled porn all day."

To that I say, "Or you can just SIT AT THE POOL and have drinks brought over by the cabana boy and then you can eat sushi and they can call you for the press check and then you can go back to the pool and most importantly, YOU'LL BE ALONE for most of the time because I crave alone. I crave alone like you would not believe.

It's unfortunate I don't know the difference between Pantone and Pantene because I'd be in my element in a lonely hotel room watching scrambled porn and waiting for the call to check the presses.

I think though they'd be pissed if I said the catalogs didn't look shiny enough and maybe they forgot the Pro V vitamin formula?

Featuring The Titanium Liver!

I often think about the super powers the members of my family might have. If Max had a super power it would be his uncanny ability to always offer up the foot which is opposite of the shoe I have ready for wearing.

Madison's super power is her incredible tastebud enhanced finger.

If Logan were a super hero and not just a robot, his super power would involve his titanium liver and a special emission of alcohol fumes which would render his enemies 'stupid drunk'.

We learned this at Mike and Rachel's house on Friday night. We also learned at Mike and Rachel's house that I am truly retarded. I SINGED THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE WHILE SMELLING A CANDLE.

It would appear my super power is Jackassery™.

I've made progress on my New Year's Resolutions. There was the Mayo part which is going swimmingly. There was the Phone Phobia part, which isn't going very well at all.

The other day I contacted a woman about helping out during her knitting shop's inventory. She asked what I'd like to count, notions or yarn.

I replied, "Oh I can count anything!"

I can count anything! I should never talk on the phone. Or speak in general.

The hug part of my New Year's Resolutions though is an even bigger hang up. While I've made progress, and have dropped the 'tap tap tap' out of my elderly robot hugging routine, I still give horrible hugs.

Another super power for me! I'm the 'Empty Hugger'!

I realized my hugs were really not improving though at Sarah and Bryan's going away gathering on Friday night. I give empty hugs but when I'm preparing to deliver the hug I mean to deliver it with feeling. Instead it all comes out wrong and feels hollow. Also the attempts to deliver the hug feel awkward, often resulting with a punch in the face as I reach around or perhaps a poke in the eye or a trampling of your toe.

Why is the hug so difficult for me to understand? Logan's a hugger. He's a robot and he can give nice hugs that make people realize he considers them a friend and he holds them dear.

I, a warm blooded human woman, can't give a meaningful hug to save my ever loving life.

If I know you and you've been disappointed by my hugs, please know I'm sorry and I'm working on it. Also, I have excellent personal liability insurance so direct all calls about physical injuries incurred during an attempted hug to Jackson Mutual.

Detroit. Stop it.

This weekend I worked extremely hard.

I drove to the beautiful Fisher Building in Detroit and then I counted skeins and skeins of yarn for the inventory at City Knits. I fondled Classic Elite Lush and my God, I would have licked it if I wouldn't have gotten a hair ball.

Driving into and out of Detroit the last 2 nights has given me additional feelings for you, Detroit. First of all, you make me feel uncomfortable and stupid in my mini van. You make me feel ashamed of myself in my stupid suburban car with my stupid sensible bob. Perhaps if I were more 'urban' I wouldn't feel so out of place.

Also, Detroit, frankly you scare the shit out of me. I'm afraid of you. Your abandoned streets and ghost town appearance make me extremely uncomfortable.

And then, when I feel horribly guilty for being afraid of you, you make me sob like a fucking baby. Because as I drive down Woodward avenue and I look at the majestic homesteads on either side of the road. Especially neighborhoods like the Boston Edison district I can't believe what's happened to you. That you used to be full of life and now you are nothing but an empty and very scary shell of your former self...it's sad.

How the Hell are you going to GET IT TOGETHER for the Super Bowl? Tell me because I want to know. I know we're supposed to be talking about all the great things happening in Detroit, and there are lovely things happening in Detroit. But could you stop scaring the shit out of me?

Why do you do this to me. I try so fucking hard to love you Detroit but you keep being so stupid. STOP IT.

Other highlights from the weekend: A farewell party for our friends Sarah and Bryan on Friday we didn't attend nearly long enough.

Cards with Rachel and Mike also on Friday where I burned my fucking nose smelling a fucking candle. I have a small red spot on my nose.

Finally, some people are getting their shirts.

So much is happening right now Internet. I want to keep you up to date but God, it's hard. I'm exhausted. Let's meet up again tomorrow night.

Prestige...

Yesterday I watched a car pull up outside on the side of my house, outside the dining room window as I worked at the table. I then watched a couple begin frantically making out. Then, I watched seat belts come off and then saw frantic arm movements centered around the male drivers crotch. I drew the line (finally) when her head went into his lap.

Does anyone remember when 'L' told me in my comments I was "sacrificing my mental health" for my "prestigious address"?

Indeed. It's so prestigious cheating couples like to park right in front of someone's home, where the young inhabitants are watching dora the explorer, while you get a hand job! In broad daylight! As 12 year olds walk home from school! Prestige!

Last night we had our friends Sarah and Bryan over for cards. A last game of cards as they're abandoning us for the beautiful wilds of northern Michigan. Before they even had their coats off I blurted the story out to them at the back door, because I can't help myself when I have an exciting story to share. I HAVE TO TELL IT RIGHT NOW!

Sarah was entirely outraged by this story. Outraged! Because the driver of the car with his hand job and interrupted blow job was totally a taker and what about her? Didn't he care about her needs?

No wonder he's cheating on his wife in his large green luxury sedan in a residential neighborhood. He's a selfish asshole.

In other news: I bought a $25 lap top bag yesterday and I have heartburn because I just spent $25 on something extra. Budget living is really cramping my shopping. Coming soon! Asa (who is expecting a very stylish little girl in June) will take us to her favorite baby stores.

[Edited to add: My camera is kept in a chest of drawers near the dining room window. If I'd stood up to take their picture (and believe me I would have loved it) they'd have seen me. When her head went down I simply stood up and started walking toward the window and off they zoomed. How I wish I'd have written down their plate. I'd publish it and send it to the local paper too. Because I'm a bitch.]

Are you sure?

Today I spent about 24 minutes (including the time it took to google 'Creating an Excel Spreadsheet') fiddling with Excel and creating a spreadsheet to track my hours and earnings in my new job.

This only adds to my horrendous humiliation over the last interview where I was asked to create a spreadsheet with a formula and could not do it. What I did instead was humiliate myself by admitting my limitations and driving directly into a brick wall outside the office.

And to think, all of that could have been avoided if I'd spent 24 minutes looking at the program prior to the Interview From Hell. I am ridiculous.

I can typically be really hard on myself. Perhaps I'll mail myself a check and become my own professional mistress. I may as well since I beat the crap out of myself mentally every single day. However, in fairness to myself, I didn't actually have excel at my house at the time since my laptop died and was being replaced at the time.

I'm sorry mistress.

The new job is hardly a 'job' but it's making me some extra cash which is making me feel more productive than my cats, (as Angela would say. I'd show you the specific post she said that in, but she doesn't have permalinks. They're against her religion) because I'm earning actual dollars.

I'm doing some office type work for a realtor couple who happen to be the grandparents of one of Max's best buddies who is also named Max. So far it's going well, except that one of our cats has developed a frightening addiction to rubber bands.

Some of the work I'm doing involves rubber bands and one of the cats can smell rubber bands where ever they are. Often, she'll sit at the window sill crying out and yearning for the office supplies at the neighbor's house. So far the cat has destroyed 2 manilla files and several envelopes in her quest for the rubber bands. She must have the rubber bands SO HELP HER!

In honor of this [fingers] job [/fingers] I've gotten, I thought I'd share a little about another of my worst jobs ever.

At some point in high school I started a job as a telemarketer. Technically we were selling a safety kit, and a portion of the proceeds would go to charity.

I'm not much of a salesperson. You either want to buy what I'm selling or you don't. As you can imagine most people don't want to buy things from a telemarketer. Because telemarketers are even worse than the spam-bots. At least spam doesn't talk and interrupt your dinner and make you angry!

I made a few calls that first night on the job and the response was a little lackluster. Ranging from polite declines to angry refusals. But then there was the call where I realized I should just stop making calls and never go back to this horrible place once my shift was over.

I asked the gentleman if he was interested in our safety kit, a portion of the proceeds go to an excellent cause. He replied, "No".

Because I was such an amazing sales person I quickly flipped through my salesperson file of tricks and shot back, "Are you sure?"

Are you sure? That was my attempt to seal the deal?

I've come up with the subject of the book people seem to think I should write!

"Are you sure? Little known sales techniques which will make you run screaming from your job!"

Unfortunately, the approach was shockingly ineffective. The man on the other end of the line said, "Uh....yes, I'm sure."

Since I'd used all the tricks in my bag, I was left with no options, "Okay. Good bye!"

It's all over the place and I'm so sorry. I can't get it together.

Around March of each year I start to feel extremely tired of winter.

I know you're thinking I'm always tired of winter and the endless hours of disc spasming shoveling but I'm not. I've lived in Michigan for my entire life so I am mostly used to the Season Of Gray. The longest season where we have no sun and only gray skies and dirty snow for months and months. I've accepted winter as reality but near the end of the season I start to feel extremely angry about the lack of sunlight and the shoveling and the lack of sun and the fact that leaving my house is sometimes like an arctic expedition.

But it's not enough to be angry at this weather. I also get angry at Michigan all around. I start to feel like Michigan is letting me down. Frankly, I just want to be able to go outside. Max is going to gut me like a fish if I tell him one more time, "Well it's very cold out, I thought we'd just hang out here!"

He does not like that answer.

...

Max had a horrid tantrum on Friday as we left a playdate. It was as horrible as you might imagine. He threw a car at his pal. He gnashed his teeth at the other mother. It was purely horrifying.

When we got home I let him scream in his bedroom for a bit and then I came in and laid down with him. Which was a smart move because I saw, with my own eyes, the moment Max's soul returned to his body and he realized he was once again Bill Bixby, not the Incredible Hunk (that's what Max calls him).

"I think I'm ready to get it together now."

I really love him, especially after the fury of being 3 passes.

...

Maddie is learning how to use [fingers] quotation marks [/fingers] at school. The teacher is concentrating on the written version of the quotation marks to signify speaking. But Madison is working on the "ironic" concept of the [fingers] up and down fingers [/fingers] and I love it. Except that she, at this early point, uses the fingers at the most ridiculous non sensical moments.

I'm currently trying to teach her to use the 'Fingers' for things like, "Well yes George Bush is our [fingers] president [/fingers], but really?"

...

I'm feeling so very scattered these last few weeks. I apologize. I've no idea how to [fingers] control [/fingers] my brain.

All this 'working' is wearing me out.

...