Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

I think it's actually a cult, not a club.

Yesterday I made a trip to Costco. Every year Jesus smiles upon Costco and brings my favorite beer there and drops the price of it so drastically it's like buying water, or Michelob Ultra (same thing, really). So I stocked up on my favorite beer and then felt a little silly buying just a couple cases of beer. So I grabbed a pack of 600 batteries for our Flip camera and a big bag of those Baby Bell cheeses.

I had also set my mind to finally just buy a pair of shoes already, (thank you thank you thank you all for your suggestions). So I headed over to the shoe store. The car was a little hot because the sun has finally come back to my part of the country and I worried about leaving my cheeses in the car. I shopped for shoes with a giant bag of cheese in my purse.

Gosh I wish someone would have stolen my purse.

I found shoes, these, that are different than my favorite shoes but I think they're cute.

I hate "Savings Clubs", I don't want to carry around your stupid card to get the sale price and "special offers" in the mail. I just want to buy your stuff at the price you want to sell it at, okay? I refuse to join these clubs. It's my tiny, and frankly, ineffective act of rebellion.

So yesterday when I brought my shoes up to the counter with my purse and my big bag of cheese, I politely declined my cashier's offer to join the "Savings Club". "Oh, no thanks." And then I smiled, politely as well.

I was being very polite.

But oh boy, she really felt concerned about my refusal to join the club.

Friends With Training Wheels.

The problem with blogging while you're in emotional flux is that you start to write and realize you're questioning everything you think and say. "Am I being defensive here?" "Maybe I'm transferring here...." "Maybe I'm glossing over my emotions?"

So all you can do is I don't know. Not post?

I've been looking forward to the day both my kids would be in school every single day since I found out I was pregnant with Madison. I saw those two pink lines and first I thought, "Wow, the pill really can fail." and then I thought....well if I hurry things along they'll both be in school every day when I'm 32."

I even put school supplies on my baby shower registry.

Max starts kindergarten on September 6 and all last year as I tried to keep up with the frenetic pace of Flogging Baby I dreamed of the day I'd have 3 hours to work every single day free of guilt. Guilt because Max watched way too many hours of television in order for me to meet my quota each month.

I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I get a little thrill when thinking about the afternoons of freedom awaiting me in just over a month. But, something very bad has happened. Something I didn't believe possible.

I am crying when I think of summer being over.

At Max's preschool I made friends. Friends who I love and need in my life so much. I used to feel sad all the great women I've met through this website didn't all live on one single block in well maintained homes where we all had the same tolerance for loud stupid music blaring for all the world to forcibly listen to. (This tolerance would be: zero.)

I often felt, through my years with the MOMS Club, that I was a misfit in this place. Motherhood looked different in other places, why couldn't I find mothers more like me?

And I found my friends and I don't mean to rub your noses in it, because I know so many of us are still feeling lost amongst the mothers in our vicinity. But I feel so lucky to know these women. I need them as much, actually I think at this point I need them more, than I need the internet mothers I know.

Since our kids have been in preschool together for the last two years, we've seen each other almost every day. At preschool pick up and car pool pick up. We've had weekly playgroups and we've had girl's nights in where I shared more of myself than I ever have with real life people besides Logan, we've had family nights where we talk and laugh and our kids play and then nights out where we have fun like adults.

I'm not very good at intimate relationships. It's amazing Logan and I have been able to forge the relationship we have. It points to both my honesty with myself and even more so, his extreme patience with difficult women.

I've often called my friends my "friends with training wheels". Sometimes, during conflict with someone or another I feel like I bring Helen Keller to the table, flailing about, to their Anne Sullivan trying to give me the gift of communication. ("It's 'Water' Helen! W-A-T-E-R!")

(As an example: Me: "I just don't know how to tell you when I don't like something you've said. Tell me how I can do it without hurting you." Her: "I don't know....don't personally attack me?" You mean that's not 'helpful'?)

("That's right Helen! It's a doll! D-O-L-L!")

One night early in the summer Leslie talked about how it's not going to be the same in the fall. All our kids are going to different schools and/or attending different kindergarten sessions (some gluttons are sending their kids to AM (insane!), while other lazy people (me!) are sending their kids to PM).

At first I told Logan how sad I was for Leslie and Andrea who both still have 2 and 3 smaller kids at home even though they're oldest kids are starting kindergarten. The other three of us are sending our youngest kids to school, which is like entering a whole new world of living. I was still busy thinking only of the 3 hours I'd have every day to myself.

For the ones with younger siblings at home, they still need as much support because it's hard being at home with little kids all day. It's physically exhausting and emotionally draining. At least it was for me and I only had two little kids at a time.

That night (where we stayed up until 2am on a Thursday talking about, you know, everything) when Leslie brought up how different everything will be next year I tried to contrast Leslie's talk about it being 'different' with how it won't be different. I said we'll still be able to get together as families. We can still have girl's nights. We'll have playdates on half days and vacations.....

But then I started to cry because it will be different and different is scary.

We've all been running in a hundred different directions this summer and it's already different. I'm trying to keep breathing but sometimes, when I let my brain go I start to flail ("It has a name Helen!").

I'm not very good at making friends. It took me nearly seven years to find these friends and I'd like to think the training wheels are working and showing me how to reach out to other people. I know all my friends are great at reaching out and just being who they are and attracting people to them.

I put a helmet on and knee pads and wrist guards and without the training wheels I drive my bike directly into the nearest tree. So I retreat to the safety of my crossed arms standing alone praying for the safety of The Circle Drive.

I was feeling bad for Leslie and Andrea who still have little kids to entertain and take care of all day. But what I realized is I'm also feeling bad for me because I'm afraid of being left behind.

Keep your face normal and do not talk with your hands.

As promised, I attended Exposure.Detroit on Friday night, I also sat in the car outside Karas Bros. Tavern saying to Logan, "I don't want to do this. Why did I say I would do this? Why am I doing this to myself?"

And Dr. Logan walked around to my car door, opened it and said, "You said you would go because you want to go and because you know this is the kind of thing you have to do to get better in the ways you want to be better."

He then pulled me by the arm out of the car and I tried to take a deep breath and be brave. While being brave I wrapped myself around his head a lot like a cat will do when frightened.

Then I took a deep breathe and swallowed a beer bottle whole and tried to talk to new people. And you know, once again it wasn't bad, it was fun. We met Melissa/Mainegal whose pictures I'd admired for a while, especially that marathon one of you-know-who and my spouse.

As an aside, I still haven't been introduced to my pretend boyfriend but still Logan certainly knows how to take one for the team. The other night I said, as my face exploded with a pimple, 'John would never even notice me.' Logan said, "John would want to dip you in honey."

Which, unless honey is an astringent, was a lie. But still it helped Logan get lucky.

We also met UrbanTiki and his lovely wife Tiki, and this is so weird, but Bobby doesn't really write a blog I've ever seen. I've seen his amazing pictures of Detroit and other things and his adorable daughter and beautiful wife and I've read the captions for his pictures but just from his pictures and his short words about his work and family I thought I'd like them. And I did.

Or maybe that was the simple fact that Tiki allowed me to wrap my body around her head to save me from my social anxiety.

We also met tEdGuY49 and his wife Chris, whose stories of her children filled me with hope for the future. That perhaps when my kids are grown I'll still be able to speak in complete sentences which aren't punctuated with, "Hold on, it's mommy's turn to talk now."

It would be nice if I had some more pictures of the people we met but Logan was in charge of the photos that night and this means about 48 of the 231 include my ass, which must not be viewed without protective eyewear, and also several nonsense photos like this one:

Here is a picture of me, where you might think, at first glance, I'm happy and not a socially anxious freak. But in fact, I think I may have been having a seizure in this moment. I think I'd just bitten my tongue off, which is easy to do when your teeth are as large as mine. Look out!!!

In this photo I demonstrate the correct way to check for testicular cancer, you can see how thrilled my conversational partner (who I think is this guy) is to be discussing this with me. (But just you wait, it gets better.)

After I realized I'd once again spoken with my hands in an awkward way, I proceeded to do something with my face I'm not sure I've been able to do before or since. Maybe while in labor I made that face, but other than that I can think of no excuse for me making the face you see below.

I think I was talking about how I always close my eyes in pictures. But instead I demonstrated how I always close my eyes and have a seizure in photos.

The good news is in spite of that face I made above, I did not fling any actual Fiats, but you realize the Fiat thing was just a metaphor for what I did in that picture above. What you see right there is a Fiat being flung. But still at least no one was maimed by that Fiat and the bar itself was left unharmed by the flinging Fiats.

Besides that face I made, the only other flung Fiat came at the hands of Logan. Logan's worked hard over the last 8 years to come up with his own set of 'Dad Jokes'.

'Dad Jokes' are those ones your father always does and which always make you say, "Oh MY God You are SO embarrassing! Will you drive me to the mall now?"

Logan's repertoire includes:

Shift the car into drive when really you need to reverse but look back like you're reversing and act surprised every time the car lurches forward. (This is my personal favorite.)

Kick the flip flop off everyone's foot. (This one is big with the 3-5 year old set.)

Walk up behind an unsuspecting person standing and talking to a group of people, take your knee and bump it into the back of unsuspecting person's knee, which will cause their knee to give and they'll stumble a bit. (I don't understand the allure of this joke, but I think this is his favorite gag.)

This is a picture of Logan slinking home after performing this gag on Bobby. He has bad knees and was forced to sit in a chair crying silent tears of pain mixed with rage at Logan the rest of the night.

I hope Logan's proud of himself and his Tomfoolery. Let this be a lesson to you all, if you approach an event without any social anxiety you'll probably maim someone by the end of the night. At least my face only repelled people, but didn't actually harm anyone.

So I did it anyway and I made a few really stupid faces while doing it but still I did it and had fun and proved to myself for the 3,592nd time that things are never as hard as I imagine them to be. Maybe someday I'll actually trust these things.

In other news: let's meet back here to talk about how much I must hate Madison because I am making her go to swim lessons even though she almost drown today and probably will tomorrow too! I can't believe you don't care about me at all you are a horrible mother and I hate you.

She'll probably wrap her body around my head tomorrow as we walk to swim lessons like a scared cat.

I just can't imagine where she got that......

I have a headache.

Wow, even disagreeing with another blogger gets you called names! Woooo!

I disagree, admit that I'm seeing things with a red hot topic button blazing red and still I'm called, fat and lazy and miserable and those types of things. Sometimes I just want to pinch you right on your petoskies* Internet. (*Max's new favorite name for his behind.)

A friend and I had a long talk about the whole weight posting of last week and we agreed that usually I am able to let to opposing thoughts hang in the same area. Usually I'm able to say, 'There are a million right ways."

But this has been very different for me and it's because of this: I spent years in therapy being told that my body was not who I was. That putting on weight would not make me a bad person. That my outside was not who I was. I've worked really hard to believe that over the years.

Sometimes other opinions are directly opposed to those things I need so badly to believe. I have to believe that weight doesn't matter, that I'm okay no matter what size my pants are. That life is okay no matter what size my pants are.

But then I also have to accept the reality that people view you differently with extra weight on your body. That you present a different person to the outside world. And all of that flies in the face of those things I had to believe to make myself eat like a normal person again.

It's proven very difficult to have both those thoughts in my head at the same time. I was supposed to believe that weight didn't matter, but then I also have to believe that weight does matter. Knowing that weight does matter gives me a horrible tingling of anxiety in my stomach.

The problem is the thought of trying to control my body, or do whatever it takes to remain who I was as a younger person....it makes me feel like dying.

I'm not simply laying around waiting for a crane to come and carry me out of the house. I am doing what I'm willing to do but I just don't want to, can't force myself to focus on working out as much as it would require for me to be thin.

But then I'm back at the weight does matter....

And so I'm depressed.

I'm sad one person's opinion opened her up to vicious and ugly personal attacks. I'm sorry my personal opinion opened me up for the same. But I really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

I'm really sorry weight matters so much because it all seems like such a waste of energy.

But you know what wouldn't be a waste of time? Taking this survey. I'm sorry to ask you twice but this one's super short and don't you love talking about yourself anyway? And it's all anonymous, so you can give your opinion and no one's going to call you a lazy bitch who's way uglier than her husband.

Lucky you.

The universe: reacting to trolls with philosophy.

Sometimes I'm just stunned by the universe when things like this happen. This is the fortune Logan got in his fortune cookie last night at his weekly pool league.

Yes, I realize there are women at the pool league. Not to worry I strapped my Man Saving Panties around his head to protect him. He's mine ladies....all. mine. And I am grateful he even came home after wards.

Hey! I thought I was over it but I'm not.

The ironic thing is, Logan is never uncertain about his beauty, he never stops beholding it. But then there's me drowning in self-loathing and doubt and I can't get a fortune cookie like that to save my f-ing life. Life is funny.

I've decided the Internet is having it's period and that is why it's being so bitchy. I was actually sort of surprised at how long the Internet has been kind to me. But then again, the first comment Bethany left about not leaving my husband while I go on vacation because he'd cheat on me, I didn't take as a slam but then it was! Duh!

Look how numb I am to your hatred PMS Internet. I don't even notice anymore when you're slamming me. The part where you said, "Your kids will be happy you're gone." Nice touch I didn't even register until you called me ugly. Woooo! Try some Midol and maybe Yasmin birth control because I hear that's good for PMS.

But I was wondering when the hatred would flare up because a lot of nice things are happening to me. But then when bad things are happening I get shitty comments about gratitude and etc. So hey! I guess I just have to not care anymore.

In California Heather revealed her biggest trick for dealing with the hatred which inevitably comes with writing on the internet. "Ignore and then? Ignore some more."

When she said that I was thinking, "You know, I've really started to get the hang of that." Which was a lie. I don't have the hang of it at all.

But you see the crappiness is not just happening to me. It's also happening to Very Mom. And Amalah's gotten an earful about a particular dress (but don't talk about it....she's over it and you should be too) and her decision to work outside the home.

So my theory holds up. The Internet is having it's period and soon all the raging hormones will stabilize and we'll all get along. Until I go to Amsterdam (the 23rd...we're not all going at the same time...though that would be really funny. A bus tour of nerds!) and then some of the Internet will be jealous, and when some people get jealous they don't understand that feeling and are uncomfortable with it. So they make that emotion about something else and they lash out in hateful ways to make other people feel badly.

On a related note: I've realized how I can't write about celebrities anymore at Flogging Baby. Last week I wrote about Britney's rumored next pregnancy and then yesterday I had to write about the car seat debacle. I've been making an effort not to be judgmental about the celebrities, to not say much because we don't know them. We know them even less than people know bloggers and I know how much it hurts when people say shitty things to me. Even still, the vitriol, hatred and judgements hurled at Britney, Katie and Angelina by the commenters on those posts...it's stomach turning.

Whenever I write about a hot celebrity my email fills with these words and also, I think, bad karma.

The problem is, let's be straight here, Blogging Baby is a blog which is based on good writing and interesting links and news but also as much based on traffic.  But Suburban Bliss is just mine. Traffic is of course something a personal blogger loves...but I loved writing this site when I had 8 people reading it.

You'll note the celebrity and gossip blogs have insane traffic and amazing ad revenue, because people love it. They eat it up like a big fat buttery biscuit. So, it just is a necessary evil at Blogging Baby.

But I think my karma is paying the price for writing pieces which put celebrities up for ridicule and hatred. Perhaps the universe is trying to teach me a lesson for letting people leave comments like this:

"I feel for little Sean. I can't imagine what his life will be like."

Because people have said something to that effect to me on this website.

"Um, wow if she actually is pregnant... her hubby acting the way he does, and she's stupid enough to have another one of his offspring?"

Ouch. I wince.

I won't even go into the Angelina/Brad debacles. Oh the rage the general public unleashes on celebrites who cheat (because you know, regular people never have affairs and start over with new lovers)...I've got a lot of shitty comments coming my way if that comment thread is any indication.

When you look at it that way, that I'm putting out even more opportunities for people to spew hatred and judgements at people in the world, perhaps I don't deserve to expect to be treated any differently in my own public forum.

So no more celebrity news other than birth and pregnancy announcments. And I will defer to the rest of the writers to report Katie Holme's delivery or Angelina's because even just a birth announcement sends people into a judgemental and nasty froth.

And my karma inbox is full.

James Frey and his 999,998 pieces of things you can believe in.

I would like it stated that, although I have read about the lyrics of My Hump, or is it My Humps? See, look how uninterested I am. I would like it noted that I have no idea how one would hum that song. I have no idea what the words are. I have heard it twice and each time I have been able to shut it out of my mind. It does not make it's way into my psyche.

The only explanation for this is: I am a Jedi Knight, because there is no way to resist the "unfiltered evil as we are likely to see in this world" that is My Humps. The Force is strong with me.

The James Frey thing has also been on my mind lately. Last week we had a Girls Night In (as we often do when a spouse is out of town)(Thank Fucking God), and we watched James on Larry King all together because we were all interested and/or touched by the book.

Two of us hadn't read the book but were interested. Two more of us had read the book and were interested because the story touched us. Then there was me, who was interested because the story touched me but also because I couldn't help thinking, "Wow, this was published and Oprah picked it?" because a lot of the writing struck me as something a whole lot of bloggers could write.

He wrote like I write when I'm trying to convey how things feel.

After listening to Mr Frey on Larry King and doing some reading about the issue, we all seemed to come to the same conclusion: the story was still compelling in it's own rite, even without the extra, what? 20 pages which are now up for debate.

I left after our night in believing that. But something still didn't sit right with me. So I kept reading because on the one hand, does reading other people's opinions create your opinion? Or, does reading lots of opinions give you the information you need? I'm not sure.

However, I read one piece on Slate, about James Frey and "Why his fakery matters".

After I read this piece I realized how sad I was for James. The idea that James Frey couldn't admit to himself he was a victim, a victim who was not so tough. He was a child of a western Michigan town who could not find his way in spite of a relatively good upbringing. He was a victim of nothing but himself. He was not the hard core drug addict who punched policemen. He was the polite boy who was arrested for drunk driving, and who could not control his addiction.

Why did he go so much further than what you'd expect from a boy from a good small town family?

That's the story I would have liked to hear. That's the story I'm not sure publisher's were willing to tell. What upsets me about this story is that I really don't believe the story would have changed that much without the "lies" James Frey told to make the story more interesting. Would that story have been published though?

I've joked often, I wish I had a past drug problem. Like a woman I know through the internet got an agent and actually had a story to tell in book form (Imagine that! A book!) did.

If I were to write a book it would be a memoir, and that memoir would be about my life. I'd like to say I wouldn't embellish the unpleasant things which happened to me, but I also know how much I would like to have a book published with my name on the cover. I can understand the desperation which might come with spending all that fucking time writing a fiction book, and being told it can't be sold. But if it was a memoir. A memoir to fill the bottomless bucket which is the public's need for 'reality'.

Never mind that Reality TV is anything but reality, it's a story which is told to fit into what people can relate to. I'm not even knocking that but let's call it what it is. It's a story which is told to fit into a model of dramatic television we've always been exposed to. Life doesn't generally work that way. Life isn't linear.

A few years ago I spent some time in a hospital on the mental health ward, I haven't talked about it but that's because it's awkward for people who love me to talk about. I had a book on my nightstand before I ended up in the hospital, it was called 'The Liar's Club' by Mary Karr. I do not remember how that book ended up in my hands but the irony could not be more dramatic if I was James Frey trying to create drama from real life.

So today I read a piece in the Christian Science Monitor about this whole issue, I was especially happy to hear Mary Karr check in on the topic.

But first, because Logan said as I was writing this post, "Maybe you need to see it from both sides."

I think I do. I know that if I one day write a book thing will be mostly true. I will write about the events of my life as honestly as I am capable of. Will it sell? I'm not sure and that's why I haven't written about the bad things that happened in that house I grew up in. 

I will write about the events as I experienced them. I do not think I will create things that never happened. I do not believe I will tell untruths to sell my story, but frankly I may tell things as Melissa and not as a journalist or biographer. I will tell my stories from the point of view of a 6, 8, 15 year old Melissa who lived those stories. Will my 'Essential Truth' come into question as I write my experiences? I don't know.

In that Christian Science Monitor article Lili Wright wrote, "You're taking the highlights of your life. It's a work of art, it's selective, it's subject to memory. A memoir is art, it's literature. It's not journalism, it's not a documentary."

However, with all my empathy and belief in James Frey's 'Essential Truth', the quote from Mary Karr speaks to me most clearly.

"My experience is there's no way you can manufacture events and find the truth," Ms. Karr says. "Great memoirs don't take bizarre experiences and make them more bizarre and outrageous. They take bizarre experiences and make them familiar. That's the power."

I hope to one day take the bizarre experiences of my life and make them familiar. I love that people relate to me and what I write here. I think even the ugly things I haven't talked about here, I think I can make those things relate to a lot of people.

Yes, I broke Typepad.

So some of you noticed that late Thursday night I posted something and moments later I had to remove it. Sometimes I let my own emotions about that "situation" we've been dealing with for the last billion years with the you-know-whos interfere with my spouse's emotions and that's not all that fair.

When I removed that post, it appears I broke all of Typepad. Yes! Typepad really wanted me to have this forum to openly share old links relating to the you-know-whos. Things like this and also this.

I've been scapegoated many many times in my life, some of the examples would make your hair stand up, so it's easy for me to see how I broke all of Typepad.

I hate when I must be vague in this forum. I have my girlfriends whom I've shared all with. I've written unpublished pieces about the situation but there is something so therapeutic about writing it all out on Suburban Bliss. That's just not possible.

This has been a painful past few days. Thank God Logan and I know how to talk, once we yell and cry and scream. Let's see how vague I can be but give you all a glimpse of what we're going through.

There was this very painful thing that happened three years ago. When I think about this thing that was done to me, I can easily place it in the bottom half of the top five most painful things I've been through.

This is remarkable since I have an incredibly painful past (and that's not even the half of it).

Sometimes when people do cruel things, the only way they can live with themselves is to deny they ever did it. To put it out of their minds, because, gee, what kind of cruel person would do that to someone else?

I can't tell you the anger that bubbles up in me. But this isn't the time or the place to vent that anger.

Just know that it's there and it's making it hard for me to think about much else. Now that Logan and I have gotten on the same page (once again) and clarified certain things it's time for me to let go of some of the pain and my own anger and support my husband.

Because as much as all of this has hurt me, it hurts more to see my husband in pain.

So why don't I shut my God damn piehole and do that?

I'm trying. I'm trying so hard.

Suburban Bliss: Serving Soap Opera Fanatics!

While searching Google for something on this site which subtly explains the situation with my in laws, for something I'm writing for Flogging Baby, I came across this quote from a message board.

Someone had asked what exactly blogs were and this woman replied:

Don't have one but avidly read 2. Dooce.com and suburbanbliss.net

The second one is a friend of mine's sister in law who they are estranged from. She used to write mean things about her inlaws (including my friend) but stopped when she was outed by my friend. So it is like my online soap opera. I have since started to secretly like this woman and find her blog enjoyable. Just don't tell my friend.

The first one I found as a link on the second one. She is like the most famous blog out there I think. Last month she was on ABC nightly news, The New York Times and Day to Day on NPR. She is cool.

Other reports from the weekend coming soon. Including how I nearly died from urine poison on the ride back from Ann Arbor. Logan laughed. A man with the world's tiniest bladder, should never laugh as one suffers from a painfully full bladder. We met an astronaut! We were overwhelmed by the incredible mass of people in UofM's stadium. We went to a tailgate unlike any I'd ever been to before. I went to bed at 8pm!

Pictures and story coming soon.

Updated: I guess I'm not even allowed to share what other people say about my in law situation. The rules are so difficult to keep up with!

Blobbers.

There are a few things currently eating at my stomach lining.

Jenn of Mommy Needs Coffee sent me a note saying she was hosting a seminar at Blogher and would I go? My first thought was, dear God, No! I can't go. I just went to Texas for a long getaway and used up most of Logan's frequent flyer miles and now I'm going to use up the rest of them for another getaway?

But then I asked Mrs Kennedy (yes, I know she has a first name but I will always call her Mrs Kennedy) and Alice if they would go and they were all for it! And they want to share a hotel room and Alice promised she wouldn't be naked around me.

Although, God think of the content.

So I did the research on all the things I need if I'm to go, and it's really not that much money. My flight would be just $100 (Logan would need to gift me his frequent flyer miles), the hotel would be hardly any money and the conference is $100 but enh. If I eat beer and peanuts (as Mrs Kennedy suggested) for the 2 days and 2 nights I'm there, it's actually a very affordable, fiscally responsible, frivilous trip.

Logan said, "You have to go! I want you to go. Put some crap up on Ebay and that will take a bite out of the cost. I really think you should go." So that night while emailing with Alice and Mrs Kennedy over a few before bed drinks and I thought, "YES! I'm doing it!!!!!!! WOOOO HOOOOO!!!!!"

Then in the morning I thought, who the hell do I think I am? I'm not financially stable enough to be able to take weekend trips across the country to meet the people I wish lived around the block. I also berated myself for saving all that money to buy a fancy camera just for me. I berated myself for our difficulty to live within our means.

Also I realized Heather would be there and while I love her, she's very tall and when I am around tall people I feel extremely portly. In fact if I do end up at Blogher at the end of July I'll write "The Portly Blogger" on my name tag, just so everyone knows.

So then I said, No! No way. I can't do it. I'm not doing it.

But when I told Alice and Mrs. Kennedy, they said, No, you have to go. You're going.

I sometimes think Bloggers take themselves awfully seriously. We like to talk about it a lot and I really feel like the word 'Blog' doesn't come out of my mouth without a whole lot of heartburn following behind. Although, someone in my family calls them Blobs. Which works surprisingly well.

However, there are some times I find it worthwhile to discuss the Blobs. When my inlaws went up in arms and Logan was extremely angry with me in April because a reporter wrote that my in laws don't speak to me anymore, I emailed a group of my favorite Blobbers to vent and ask if anyone had ever gotten divorced because of their blob.

One of those women called me (yes, I used the phone!) and we talked about our similar struggles with the blobs and our spouse's boundaries and the friction it causes sometimes. And it helped a lot.

Perhaps I'm trying to put an intellectual spin on the Blobher conference so I can feel better about flying across the country to meet some remarkable people I've come to love in an internet way and also drink my face off.

I told Alice and Mrs Kennedy and Jenn to give me until Wednesday to decide.

And I know this is why I can't save money and why we are always barely treading water financially, but i don't see how I can not go. Hearing about it and not being there will hurt my Blobber soul.

No, I'm not selling the God Damn Camera on Ebay, so don't even.

My family is insane.

Every family has at least one member no one quite understands. That person who is a little off, maybe even crazy. That person who you hope doesn't get famous because you'd have to claim that person as one of you. Family events sometimes center around discussing how crazy this odd ball of the family is.

In my family we mainly sit around at Thanksgiving dinner and discuss the normal people, because the majority of people in our family are, to put it mildly, completely insane!

Instead of sitting around and wondering how that one person turned out so odd, we sit around and debate how that one person turned out so normal all things considered.

One of my cousins is seriously bizarre. At this point nothing this cousin does shocks me. Burning down a garage? Doesn't shock me. Smearing a stolen lipstick all over the women's bathroom during a posh country club family wedding. Not surprising. Juvenile hall stay? I wasn't shocked but did feel somewhat safer.

My cousin was a troubled child obviously. He's grown into a troubled and sociopathic adult.

One day not too long ago, he began calling my house. Frantically. Over a period of 3 days he called me literally 35 times. I counted them on the caller id because I refused to pick up until I had some idea what he wanted. I called my mother and he had talked to her.

Nothing my cousin does shocks me anymore, but his choice of careers shocked the living hell out of me. My sociopathic cousin is a knife vendor. Not just any knives, really sharp knives.

He was calling to see if I, and dozens of my friends would like to buy knives in my home from a sociopath.

Gee, sign me up!

"Oh hey Jennifer, Chrissy, Andrea.....do you guys want to come to my house to look at extremely sharp knives with my sociopathic cousin? Just be prepared to buy because I'm afraid of him really."

I didn't return his call.

The Yard Sale.

Well it was huge and embarrassing. But most of all it was exhausting.

I could not believe all the stuff I had in my basement. When it was all splayed out on the driveway I felt a mix of hysteria and humiliation.

A lot of it wasn't necessarily a by product of my love of shopping, but rather my love of entertaining and gift giving. For a long time I believed this would be our 'starter' home and I believed by the time Madison was a little older we'd move somewhere a bit bigger. But it's now been seven years and we're not leaving for at least another year or even three. So all my shelves of extra vases and bowls and gift items just had to go.

The nice thing was that once everything was actually out of the basement and on the driveway, the basement was a lovely cavern of emptiness. In the past we've cleaned the basement by virtually moving all the crap from one end of the basement to the other. It's all gone now.

Now I can see a small playroom for the kids where all their large annoying toys can go so that I don't have to look at them every second of every day. A place for me to sew and work on projects that isn't in the middle of my dining room where the children are tripping over cords and fabric is everywhere.

The sale was a success in the dollar sense but I should have made more. Some of my nicest things didn't sell, some of my bigger ticket items didn't sell. But we made a dent in the clutter and made a big fat donation to the salvation army last night after dinner.

I hope someone skinny with a taste for Ann Taylor evening wear and ONE THOUSAND STUFFED ANIMALS (seriously....what the hell?) makes a stop at the Salvation Army store on Fourth street this week.

I met Amy (who calls herself Amy In Motown in the comments) and her adorable and angelically sleeping little girl. She bought quite a few toys from my friend Stephanie and listened to me talking a mile a minute because I just couldn't even wrap my brain around all my crap out on the driveway. I also met Nancy and her INCREDIBLY patient daughter. Nancy reads this website and lives just around the corner from me. (Actually Nancy, I saw you walking down your street last night as we were on our way back from dinner at the brewery.) She bought quite a few things from both Stephanie and I. Some great clothes, some toys and the cute toddler bed we used for both Maddie and Max.

Then today we went to the Apple store to get Logan an overpriced armband for his iPod shuffle and on our way out someone (Hi Emily) said to me, "I love your website," and I said, "uhhhhh." She recognized Logan, which you realize makes Logan's head swell to mammoth proportions. But it was actually a good time to see someone who likes my website because I had a eyeful of irritation last night.

I'm feeling slightly depressed about the condition of the internet. The internet is in a bad mood with me and it appears it's angry with a few other people too. Yesterday evening after being away from my computer most of the day I found 3 'helpful' emails from people and I found the emails sort of 'not helpful'. I also found several comments which made my eyes cross and sent my body reeling into convulsions, WHY IS ANYONE SO PISSED OFF BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE THE IDEA OF SPENDING $750 ON AN UGLY AND STUPID STROLLER?

I've also decided, as the owner of this personal and self absorbed website, that I'll be deleting any comment I don't like and I'll quite possibly be banning the ip's of people I don't want to listen to anymore. It's very dictator-ish isn't it?

I mean, what? I only want people to say nice things?

Wow, that's weird....why would I want people to say nice things. I don't hang around people in my regular life who spew hate at me. (Certain people I don't speak to anymore come to mind.) Why would I want to read it in my inbox or on my personal website?

You actually can disagree with me but calling me or other commentors names is really not allowed. If you feel like you can't control yourself (like Stephanie Bryant who "tried" to control herself but then JUST COULDN'T!) then maybe you need a hobby?

If you'd like to disagree with something I think I'm open to discussion. But don't tell me what I would or wouldn't do. Please don't tell me what to do. Please, oh dear God in heaven do not tell me to act in a mature or reasonable fashion because I've already told you. This website and my life would be unbelievably boring if I never got unreasonably upset about stupid things.

Penile Misunderstandings.

Misunderstandings are the theme of my weekend.

I wrote something yesterday and I really wasn't talking about me. I've actually come to a place where I am satisfied with where things are going. I'm only 31 and there's time for me to write something and maybe put it into book form. It's not time for me to do it. But when it is time I won't be slapping a cover on my blog and calling it a book. That's all I was saying really. I'm obviously still processing my feelings about that since I let other people get under my skin so deeply in this regard but....ah well.

When I'm 40 I'm going to be mature. I thought it was 30 that would make me mature, but that hasn't worked out very well.

I needed a new icon for my website and I tried to find a picture of myself but I have ugly years, and 2005 is an ugly year. So I was out. I moved on to pictures of the kids, but without Photoshop skills it's impossible to get them close enough together to make an icon-worthy shot.

I thought to myself, "What pictures have made me happy lately?"

My feet have made me pretty happy lately. I know that's odd, but I'm in utter shock that my feet can look this nice plus that picture of my feet at the pool immediately makes me smell sunscreen (just a number 4!) and remember how I didn't have a single fucking thing to do all day.

It's an addicting feeling, having nothing to do. The picture of my feet reminds me of when I didn't have anything to do all day.

I should have known that posting pictures of my feet and writing about my ticklish feet during a pedicure would bring out those people who have a fetish about feet. Especially ticklish feet.

In the last week I've gotten 7 emails from men, about half of whom claim to own a nail salon. Amazing! They read about my pedicure and just 'had to laugh' because they've had clients who are very ticklish. They happen to find it very "amusing" [read: "arousing"] to watch their clients pretend not to be tickled when they are so obviously struggling with the 'intense sensation' of having someone touch their feet.

Uhm......okay.....

Also, they hope I don't mind but I have lovely feet and would I ever want to chat via Yahoo or MSN?

I have maintained, since the mid 90's that there is a penis behind everything on the internet. The penis drives the internet.

trying to be a grown up and it's not going well.

Today I've been trying to remember how hard it was in the past to deal with my in laws and the most difficult part of dealing with them was two fold.

The first part that made it difficult was the part where they make you feel crazy, even though you know they're behaving in a bizarre manner. They truly believe they are right and when they make mistakes....shockingly God forgives them. But not anyone else.

The other part which made it difficult to deal with my in laws, was the simple fact that it is extremely easy to get dragged back to the past when discussing the present with them. How that ONE THING YOU DID destroyed their family and explains away any other ugly thing they've ever done.

***When I was 21 I sent a note to my sister in law which was extremely awful. We'd had words and I felt justified in explaining my truth to her and expected her to accept that as her own truth. This was a horrible mistake and one I have apologized for and paid for OVER AND OVER AND OVER. and over. Ten years later it still comes up as a justification for whatever horrendous thing they've done or said.***

So I keep trying to think of how I'm not going to fall into those traps. You can never convince my in laws of anything and they will never stop trying to convince you they're right or holier or whatever they want to convince you of. They will always be who they are and that's why I stopped having contact with them.

I guess what I'm frustrated with is the fact that I'm expected to change...simply because they force themselves to read this website and then scream at ANYONE who will listen....including my husband and even a professional journalist (which was extraordinarily humiliating for me).

But I'm still mulling all these things and deciding exactly what is emotionally healthy to say at this point and honestly, most of what I just said above isn't where I want to be emotionally. I've spent a lot of today scrubbing my kitchen floor and mumbling to myself. I wish the fact that my in laws angrily emailed my spouse a dozen times and called a newspaper columnist hoping to tell the "real story" and screamed into my husband's cellphone didn't send me to the kitchen floor scrubbing and mumbling. I wish I could rise above them.

The best choice I ever made was to bow out of that relationship and their behavior this week is a prime example of why I couldn't be a part of their lives. They were upset that I told a reporter I don't speak to my in laws any more and I am not allowed to speak about the specifics of our relationship falling apart. THAT caused them to go on a tirade. You can imagine what happened in the past when I actually opened my mouth and they opened theirs.

Christmas with them was awesome!

Even though I just wrote 468 words on this subject I still haven't made any decisions.

You couldn't even count how many thoughts I've had about this subject. But your emails have been great and some have had wonderful input and others have made me smile and some have made me cry and I really love you sometimes Internet.

Sometimes though I wish you'd let me go to bed a little earlier.

Now, let's look at pictures of the lovely children Logan and I had sex to create. Did you read that In Laws? Logan and I love to have sex in the context of a loving union. Perhaps they'll leave now.

ha!

I love Flickr a lot like I love the Internet. Even though it keeps me up just like you do.

Some favorites of late:

My father had a beer fridge in the dining room. I have a beer cart and my young charge pushes it. I knew I had kids for a reason. *The cashier at Trader Joe's said to Max, "I'm definitely going to see your id." And I said, "I'm buying for him!"

I love this one because of my notes (Notes= Another reason to want to lick Flickr.)

[Deleted because not only do I offend my in laws with my website. I apparently offend people from preschool as well! Weeeee! This website is working out swell for me this week. Holy Jesus Fuck. God damn it I just offended someone else. Awesome!]

This is our cat, Gary. He is huge. He is currently digesting our son.

Madison loves to sleep on Gary's belly...because she wishes she could eat Max too.

Good night Kelly! Hey, thanks for reading!

Everything Dies In April.

I think my father died today.

There were daffodils, but no tulips. Because the daffodils come up before the tulips.

I know it was sometime around now, but I don't know the exact day. Isn't that odd.

Logan works across the street from the "Memorial Garden" my father is buried in. I drive past the cemetary on occasion while meeting Logan for lunch, as I pass the southeastern most corner I briefly ask myself, "How does this make you feel?"

I answer to myself, 'Nothing really.' I then ask myself, as a therapist from my past did, "What do you imagine someone in your position might feel? Passing the cemetary her father is buried at. The father who committed suicide. The father who was not very good at being a father. What do you think she might feel?"

This weekend Logan and I were driving to Ann Arbor, alone, with no kids, which means we can talk and I mentioned how I don't know how I feel about it all. Logan said, "Well, you know how you feel about it." This website is volume upon volume of how I feel about things. Logan has listened to how I feel about things for nearly 12 years now. Where Logan has often struggled to pinpoint his feelings, I typically know how I feel about things. Sometimes I'm so sure about how I feel, I know how he feels too.

But I replied that no, I really didn't. And I don't, exactly.

For most of my childhood he drank on the weekends only. Which doesn't sound that bad, except that he started after work on Friday and drank all night and all day right through until he blacked out on Sunday. Then on Monday morning he pulled himself together and went back to work and all was relatively calm. Until the next weekend. I hated the weekends. I cried as I rode home on the bus on Friday afternoons knowing what the weekend would hold.

At some point after the first suicide attempt he just stopped getting up on Monday morning. He stopped going to work, he stopped pulling himself together to face the week like a normal person. They tried not to fire him. I remember co workers coming to the house, begging him to get help. To come back to work. To get it together.

For some reason, this finally broke my mother's will to make her marriage work. And God love her she tried to make it work for so damn long. The cost of trying to make it work is something I still hold anger in my soul about.

They divorced and my father refused to leave. He lived in the living room for nearly a year while my mother went through the long drawn out process of evicting him from the home. He watched the Gong Show and became quite adept at The Price Is Right. The house was silently stewing with anger and grief.

Walking into that house felt like dying.

One day my mother sent us to a friend's after school and we knew what was happening. The police came to physically remove my father from the house my mother had been awarded in the divorce. He'd been preparing for this day. He'd started loading up our only car (which had been awarded to my mother as well, but she cut her losses on that one, happy to have him gone) with his belongings. He'd put a chain lock on the bedroom door. And most importantly he'd stacked cases of Old Milwaukee in the bedroom.

After he was gone I would have nightmares he came back. I'd come downstairs in the morning and he'd be sitting on the sofa watching The Gong Show

"This Unknown Comic, would you look at him! He's got a God damn bag on his head! He's hilarious!"

I'd look at my mother and she had no answers. He was back. It was all starting over again.

After he left I'd see him around town. The sight of a brown Town and Country station wagon with wood on the sides would give me panic attacks on the bus. I would duck so he wouldn't see me. He'd fallen hard and fast to the gutter type of drunk once he finally left the safety of the Gong Show and the living room sofa.

A girl I knew in high school saw him at the fast food restaurant she worked at. He told her he was my father. This bloated homeless looking man who drove with all his belongings in a station wagon was my father. He told her to say hello to me. So she did. I'm sure she also mentioned it to her friends.

"Melissa Williams' father is a bloated homeless man who hangs out at fast food restaurants."

This did not help my invisibility cause.

When my father died, it was all so horrific. Not the death, but the whole life before that single event where it ended. It sounds horrible to say but his death was a release from the guilt of having a father I had given up on. A father I was humiliated to have. A father who had let me down.

I was 15 or 16 when he died. I remember my therapist from that time saying to me. "You lived with him for 15 years of your life, it will take that long for you to feel removed from all that pain and suffering. It will take at least that long to be separated from the shame and memory of where you come from."

At 18, thirty looked so far away. But he was at least sort of right. I can write about it now. I can think about it now. Except now that I'm removed from it, I'm able to actually grieve it in a way I couldn't when there was so much shame piled on top of me. Shame of where I came from. Shame of who and what my family was.

I didn't and still don't for the most part, feel sad about his death or the way he died. I feel the most grief for the way he lived. And what it cost us all to live with him.

Updates 2.0

This week was Spring Break. You didn't realize that did you? Because I didn't whine or complain about it even once.

I am very proud of myself because summer is just around the corner and we all remember how that went last year don't we? Relentless activity planning packed into endless rainy days with a mother who desperately needed medicating but kept running on a treadmill to avoid medication.

I have my annual next week and I'm hoping the topic of summer and my medication comes up because I think I may need a 'Summer Dosage'. I keep trying to imagine how I'll bring it up to the doctor without a deranged look in my eye. Maybe I'll do it during the actual pap smear so he can't see the crazy. Unless my vagina is also looking deranged. It's possible.

This week was only a little bad. There were some days where we didn't have much to do and we were all feeling a little bored and stir crazy. So bored were we that I found Madison in the living room playing 'Rock Paper Scissors" by herself.

That's a fresh brand of bored.

The weather was good on a couple of the days and that always helps my sanity. One day we walked into town to the library and the post office and to the bagel place for lunch. Those are the types of outings which make me love my neighborhood and my stay at home life. The warm sun on my face and the chatting which isn't contained in the confines of our house for 12+ hours a day.

We had some other outings and play dates and none of these events ended with my son gnashing his teeth and throwing objects at other's heads. So this was good and helped the week go by with little whining from me.

...

The link I shared with the unbelievably priced Canon Rebel, totally horrific. I should really never have posted that. I did some research about these companies and heard some awful stories. Do NOT purchase your camera through Royal Camera, US Photo Nation or A&M Photo World.

This leaves me at a price point which is significantly higher than my 'fun money'. So I've made up my mind, I am definitely purchasing the Rebel. I am definitely obsessing about the Rebel. But it appears the time I will have to obsess about the purchase of the Rebel is going to be longer than I first imagined. Damn.

But this is good for me and my continuing understanding of money and how we made the financial mess we are now climbing out of. You must save for the things you want. You can't always have what you want the minute you see it! We must be grown ups, and not consumer credit crazy Americans. Even though US Bank LOVES ME and wants me to have what I want. Right now! No no no. That isn't how a grown up handles things. And I am a grown up.

I promise that when Logan goes out of town for TEN EVER LOVING DAYS later this month I won't throw caution to the wind and purchase the camera with whatever funds I can come up with. That would not be like the new me. I mean it. I'm absolutely not doing that. Don't try to convince me to do it Internet.

...

The book and the story I can and should tell remains something which taunts me. It pains me. It gives me anxiety attacks. It makes me want to leave my family and become a crack whore in Detroit just so I have a STORY TO TELL. Imagine how entertaining that would be. It has situational comedy written all over it.

Instead I run in circles in my head. I read emails of encouragement and speak to people who encourage me but I stare at a blank page and berate myself.

I did have one idea, tell me what you think. Let's say someone could pick their nose with their tongue. That's kind of compelling, right?

Right. I'll keep thinking.

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.

Am I going to call this an entry?

Mommy Tired.

Tomorrow, I promise. More.

Good night.

If it doesn't work, just scream and cry.

One of the things we'd really like to teach our kids is 'Adaptability'.

It's a kind of vague term I know but I think it's probably the life skill I am most lacking and it makes it difficult to live in this world.

My daughter gets lice...."Oh my God I'm dying!"

I don't get the job I want...."Holy shit! What do I do now?"

I could go on but then I'd be embarassed.

Sometimes we think we're doing a decent job raising kids who can 'bounce back' from disappointments.

But then one day Max can't walk through a gate because he's pushing it the wrong way and he stands there screaming like a lunatic as I calmly try to tell him to pull the gate toward him. No, the other way Max!

It's then I feel a sense of impending doom picturing my children standing screaming at the gate they can't open (in all it's varied forms) and they'll be unable to do something differently so it will work.

I also realize I spend a lot of my life standing at the gate I can't open and crying because I don't know how else to do it.

Bloody Marys Have No Place After 4pm.

A few things I've been meaning to talk about but I haven't been able to make up a clever post tying them all together.

A couple of weekends ago at a wedding we attended I was lamenting the fact that Logan had expressed some annoyance with my inability to put a meal on the table at the end of the day. I guess he felt that after working ten to twelve hours he didn't really want to come home to his wife sitting on her ass watching Spongebob with the kids while he fired up the stove to make something.

I thought he was a robot?

Anyway I mentioned this to another mother at the wedding and she said, "You know what you need? A crockpot! Because then you could have cocktails all afternoon at your play dates and dinner would still be ready afterwards!"

I fell a little bit in love with her in that moment and I sort of wanted to make out with her and share a bloody mary. But that would have been totally inappropriate. A bloody mary at six pm on a Saturday?

Then today I turned in an application for employment at my local YMCA. I decided it would be a nice stop gap until the perfect daytime position comes along. I turned in the application and went to pick up Max at his gym class and when I came up to the courtesy desk again the nice lady behind the counter said: "Can I schedule an interview with you?"

And I heard, "Have I scheduled an interview with you?"

So I replied, "No."

And she said, "No? I can't schedule an interview?"

Then I melted into the ground and I realized why I can't get a fucking job....because I beg people not to hire me. Yippee!

Logan vented about work tonight and I think he might have a program malfunction or something because robots don't complain about work right?

Also I have something kind of awful to tell you.

It turns out the Gossip Geyser doesn't read my website. HOWEVER, someone called her and told her that I wrote about her on this website. Isn't that just so wierd? She never even read the website but sends me an angry email about it's contents?

I owe the Gossip Geyser an apology. It turns out there is some confusion in my MOMS Club about which position the Gossip Geyser has actually held in the International MOMS Club organization and it wasn't actually her who was responsible for the polite request for me to remove any mention of the MOMS Club from my website.

She still has a constant stream of gossip spouting from her face but she does not appear to be responsible for the polite request for me to remove any mention of MOMS Club from my website.

In finding this information out, more information was revealed to me and I realized in the course of this discussion how people are just unable to be up front about anything. It's annoying because now I've hurt someone's feelings because of someone's inability to just tell me who it was who brought this issue to the fore.

I do feel badly for publically venting about someone who didn't have the part in my MOMS Club situation I thought she did. But then, as is my rule, I never say anything on this website I'm not willing to say in person. I can only apologize to her for taking the misinformation given to me and getting pissed about it...but I can't apologize for thinking she's a gossip.

So.....anyway I'm so ready to be done with this. But I really wish that when people had a 'polite request' to make they'd just do it and not cloak it in higher ups that want me to remove content from my website.

Just say what you have to say. It's true I may alienate quite a few people but you'll always know where I stand with you.

Let's wrap this up with something nice and happy and light.

At the wedding I mentioned above, the groom chose a song from Crowded House for his first dance with his lovely bride Rachel. I don't typically get hung up on music but I absolutely love this song. It's titled "Private Universe" and you should go to iTunes right now and look it up. I swear this song has been a part of a movie soundtrack. I don't get excited about music and I especially don't get excited about music from a guy who has Michael Jackson songs loaded on his iTunes library for God and all the world to see. But Mike picked this song and I love it.

Also, you should know that I'm cool with the Bloody Martini for after four pm consumption. I first had one at Bab's in Ann Arbor. (I love you Ann Arbor but not as much as Chicago) I loved those Bloody Martini's so much I puked out of the passenger side of the truck while in a parking space waiting for Logan to come drive me home.

See? Now I'm crying about the damn truck again.

Oh, I almost forgot. Talk me out of buying a nice new pair of dress up shoes to replace my six year old dress up shoes which have seen better days. I promise I'll just go to Payless and find something decent to wear to the big party we're going to Friday night. I'm thinking if my shoes are at least new no one will notice that I haven't had a haircut in TEN FUCKING MONTHS.

Coffered Ceilings Hurt Me In My Heart

Continuing on the same theme, sort of.

I need to move to Atlanta.

I already knew there were all sorts of new developments there which are exactly like our house only new but still beautiful and full of the same character we love in our current home.

The tour of this model made me throw an Atlanta or Bust sign on the mini van out back and start frantically packing up all our belongings.

Seriously, look at the coffered ceilings (which we put in our bedroom ourselves) and the bookcases, which are exactly like the ones in my own living room....except better because they're bigger.

And don't tell me you don't wet your pants a little when I show you the Chelsea, because you totally did.

Except then I remembered Logan loves his job and he's never leaving.

So tonight when a friend emailed me this, I knew it was destined to be.

We leave tomorrow.

All the praying and the manischewitz I've been drinking worked and I have an interview tomorrow. It's at a synagogue so bagels and matzoh here I come! Thank you God.

Now if you're Jewish you can't really say or even type the word God, correct? But the same friend who sent me the great news about Tiki Atlanta also sent me great news about taking the name of Jesus in vain instead of God. If I'm Jewish, I don't believe in Jesus so I can swear about Jesus Fucking Christ all the time!

I can't wait to say that in my interview.

You may have noticed this about me but I'm the type of person who likes to think about things. A lot. I like to think about things until they're begging me to stop thinking about them. I like to work through every possible scenario before I even have any idea what the real scenario is so that I have enough time to worry about every possible scenario.

Obviously if I waited for the scenario to be revealed I wouldn't have enough time to worry about every possible one. Logan just doesn't understand, but he's a robot so he just waits and waits until situations present themselves and then he figures them out as they happen.

Ha! What a fool.

So far today I've cried 3 times because Max got his progress report from school today. I know Max is seriously psychotic and he STILL wets his pants some of the time and I know he has that temper problem and I know that in the past I've thought about selling him on Ebay, but today he got his progress report from school and his Presbyterian teachers love him.

And I know all Presbyterian people gather in the moonlight and dance with Satan, but they really warmed my heart today with their nice words about my son.

"Max is a delightful boy. He is intelligent, well-spoken and has a sense of humor that is highly developed. In short, we love having him in our class; he cracks us up."

There were several areas of evaluation on this report and all of them were graded as 5's, which is the best you can do if you go to Presbyterian preschool. But after the area titled: "Communicates with others well." There is a hand written note which reads, "Max is extremely articulate."

And do you know what that really means? It means what I've been trying to tell all of you people all fucking summer. THEY TALK ALL THE TIME AND THEY NEVER STOP!

So I'm crying because I'm going to have to pull him from his Satanic Presbyterian preschool unless one of these jobs turns out to be a MWF type of position. And if you transform yourself into Logan and say, "Don't worry, it will all work out." I will lodge a matzo ball in your throat and you'll die while I say, "Don't worry, it will all work out."

I'm going to make a great Jew I think.

Tonight at dinner Logan and I were discussing the progress report and Madison heard us say the word 'articulate' and we ended up in a 20 minute long discussion about what articulate does and does not mean. It does NOT have anything to do with a particularly nice piece of art. Yes, just like the word 'Fart' doesn't really have anything to do with art. And on and on until I said, 'Why don't we turn on the idiot box now.' (which is the tv of course)

In fairness I have to tell you about Madison's report card which was all O's for Outstanding and O+ for She's Just So Great I Can't Even Believe You Could Do This With Formula! And also she got some S's and S+'s and those are just super too.

Guess what her highest marks were in?

Talking. If they gave grades for talking she'd have an OMFGSTATFT! (Oh My Fucking God She Talks All The Fucking Time!) But no really her best grades were in reading and her teacher wrote a nice note which reads: "Madison is making excellent progress in first grade. She is interested in learning, a hard worker and a good listener."

In my mind she wrote a note which read: "Could you try to talk to your daughter less because she's talking all the time and she asks so many questions I think my face melted off today."

At conferences Logan and I asked how she was doing socially. She just turned six a couple of weeks ago and most of the children in her grade have been six for quite some time. Some of the girls in her class even turned 7 in September and October. I worry all the time that she's not able to handle the pressure of being the youngest in the class.

The teacher said she had nearly forgotten about all the crying she did at the beginning of the year, because she's totally fine now. She's just like everyone else, except, the teacher said, she certainly talks a lot doesn't she. Then she laughed nervously.

And I said, lady, until she calls you into her room at 11:30pm to ask you what 'disembowel' means, I don't want to hear your whining.

Good night.

Please, just don't.

Isn't it funny how you can be sitting down on a Sunday night, your husband has a really retarded movie ordered up on Netflix and you're thinking, 'Maybe this is the chance I have to write a real post on my website. An essay of substance perhaps.' and then ***BOOM***

The president of your local 'MOMS Club' emails a polite request to remove a post which offended "A Few People" who have read my website. I guess they were offended by the fact that I mentioned MOMS Club specifically. I am sure the complainant wasn't the Diet Coke Breastfeeding Nazi I mentioned in the post.

In fairness, Hey! Look! Diet Coke Breastfeeding Nazi MOMS Club.

This email just made me so incredibly angry that Logan sat next to me watching The Princess and The Warrior and shaking his head. Because it's a horrible idea to ask me to remove something simply because it expresses an opinion you don't like. If you were reading last year my In Laws were pretty pissed off about the opinions I expressed on this website and they threatened to sue me because of the opinions I expressed on this website.

The thing is, I love my husband and I don't want to hurt him by hurting his family so I agreed not to discuss my in laws any further on my website. I wouldn't have agreed to it, except....have you seen him? He's so incredibly adorable I had to ease up on the In Laws.

But Stupid MOMS Club? Please, please let them sue me for expressing my dissatisfaction with a member, an Executive Member, of their organization.

Let's talk about my weekend for a bit before I go to bed though.

Last night we went to our sixth wedding since June. Everyone we know is now, just now, getting married. Logan and I have been married for 7 years. We've had kids for 6 years. Suddenly everyone decided it was a great idea to get married.

I'm happy about it, I really am. Everyone we know is getting married and some of them are having babies. And now they'll be in the same boat we are.

Except, babies and six year olds are really different.

Six year olds talk and three year olds talk on your vibrator...as if it's a phone. Newborns though, newborns make you think you'll always be at the top of your game.

There are those months at first where you think, "I suck at this!" or "I can't do this!"

But then pretty quickly you'll start to realize babies are easy to fool. You'll realize, I can easily distract this baby and they don't remember anything before that big rattle came in front of their face. But a three year old will remember that phone they were talking on that one time many years ago, forever.

So even though everyone we know is getting married now, we're still not fitting in very well.

Speaking of not fitting in. I wore a skirt from Ann Taylor last night. The skirt was a size 4. I tried it on and thought it would never fit. But it did fit, except that in the past when it 'fit' it fit just above my hips. Last night it fit as I eased it over my hips and then it fit around my waist, about six inches above my belly button.

I was nearly severed in half on Saturday night. Look at me struggling to look happy while my waist band tried to kill me. But, it was worth it because that skirt looked very nice and also two people I'm very fond of got married.

The wedding was a lovely affair and I promise, someday soon, I will write a real essay for your enjoyment.

The Current Hair Situation.

Most of this year has been made up of a string of bad hair days.

In February I had a bad haircut. I felt very self concious about it and it made me look like someone else. Kind of like an exuberant soccer mom preparing to take over the PTA via any means necessary. It was a mushroom cut and everytime I looked in the mirror I was startled by the mushroom on my head.

In an attempt to fix the bad hair I committed a senseless act of violence on my hair. It was so awful I still tear up when I think about it.

Then throughout March I talked about my hair as I waited for it to grow a little so it might be fixed or made better. Somehow I survived into April with this horrible hair. At that point I was at 47+ bad hair days in a row and not happy about it.

I can't believe this is true. I have had perhaps five good hair days since that time. I haven't mentioned my hair because, Jesus, that's annoying. But it totally stopped growing at some point between May and August. During this summer I was in such a shitty mood almost all the time I think my hair rebelled and doomed me to live with it looking this stupid forever.

Now that I'm medicated and taking a daily vitamin it's finally started growing again and it's long enough to get it fixed up and make it look, decent and if not decent at least better than this.

But I still haven't made a hair appointment. Because I'm afraid. I am afraid to get my hair cut. I'm suffering with Post Traumatic Hair Trauma.

I don't want to go back to that mushroom headed place I found myself in February. I certainly don't want to find myself stuck in that massacre the second stylist committed. But then it's so bad now. It's lifeless and in dire need of a coloring but I don't want to color it while it's this lifeless and stupid looking and what if the color turns out wrong? I'm sensitive, I'm not strong enough to handle any more hair trauma.

But then I'm also finding it hard to live with this hair. Jesus. It's horrid...like I soaked it in a vat of dirty dish water.

Look at my family. My beautiful family. My metrosexual husband. My lovely children....and there's me hovering over them like a big ugly monster with dish water hair sticking to her head for dear life.

I'm also convinced that my dish water hair clinging to my head is making me look even more fat in the face than normal. Or maybe that's just all the halloween candy which keeps showing up in my mouth.

Something has to happen, I have two weddings coming up this month. I can't keep looking like this, but God I don't know that I can overcome my fear. I can't live through another year with the mushroom head.

medicating mommy.

Thank you all for your reassurance, kind words and understanding.

Most of the time I do think Madison is just who she is and I didn't 'make' her that way. Just like I didn't make her a Potty Prodigy and I didn't make Max a Potty Retard. It just worked out that way.

Sometimes though, especially when I'm just emerging from a time where I haven't been the best mother I could be, I feel tremendous guilt and I worry about who my children are and how who I am affects them.

I worry about that more than anything else about being a parent. I can't change who I am that much, so I'm just holding my breath and hoping I do enough things right so they still turn out to be happy, smart, self actualized adults. Okay, not self actualized, but it'd be great if they never formed a John Tesh Fan Club. Mostly I just hope they'll let me be a grandmother to their kids one day because I think I'll be a lot better at grandmothering than I am at mothering.

So hopefully I apologize enough for all the things I'm doing wrong. Also, I hope this medication works and makes me less freakish. It might also help if we move somewhere with year round schooling.

I really love my kids. I think they're cute and smart and sensitive and well behaved (generally). I adore my little family and I feel so lucky to have them.

I'm just really not very good at the actual work of raising a family and keeping a house. Most of the time I take that statement as a simple fact. It's just how it is. Other times I feel like a terrible failure at the most important job I'll ever have. I truly wish I was better at this part of my life.

Hopefully school for the kids some of the time and medication will make it a little easier to do my job here. Hopefully it will at least allow me to let go of the guilt and be a better mother.

We're going to Chicago this weekend for a family wedding. My whole family is going and I think we'll avoid giving my mother a stroke or a heart attack. But if this wedding sucks, all bets are off and Mom is becoming our source of entertainment.

Don't act appalled....you and I know you're hoping the wedding sucks.

Pre-Medication

Oh Internet.

I wish I had more for you these days. I really do.

Pretty much everything is the same here.

Children who need ANSWERS about EVERYTHING. Mother who needs medicating. Father busily juggling.

But school is starting in just 7 more days...not that I'm counting. Medicating will begin soon. Father will continue to juggle and hopefully the Mother Medicating will make it matter a little less.

There's not much happening here. Other than continued neurosis on my part. Same old, same old.

Other than that though, I've decided the only thing I can do, as a job, is write. It's the only thing I can do relatively well and that I also enjoy doing and I don't see anyway around it.

I have to make writing my 'job' because every other job I can come up with has the same appeal as, say, eating lunch with Dr. Phil every day for the rest of my life, getting meaningless advice in the form of nonsensical catchphrases.

Me: "I don't know Dr Phil. I'm just struggling through everyday and this job isn't going that great so I'm going to need a new job and it's all really overwhelming."

Phil: "You don't need anyone or anything to poop on a cracker."

Me: "What?"

Phil: "You don't need a spice rack to dare to be stupid."

Me: "What!?"

Phil: "You don't need to send out a press release to eat a bug."

Me: "Look, this bullshit might work on Oprah, but not me."

When I look back over the jobs in my past, I realize I sucked at every single one of them, except the Life Drawing job since all I had to do was sit there.

There was the summer I worked as a bank teller. I never once balanced my drawer at the end of the day. It was never a significant amount, but enough that my line at the bank was always the longest. I thought it was my cleavage, but then I remembered I don't have any. Probably people were lining up to visit my teller window since I was giving away extra $20 bills with each transaction....because I'm too stupid to be a bank teller.

There was the job at the service desk of a large discount store where I worked for exactly 2 hours before I excused myself for a bathroom break and ran screaming from the premises. I'm not kidding, I actually just left without saying a word.

Even at Crate and Barrel I was mainly good at meeting future spouses. On the other hand, I was really quite bad at cleaning merchandise displays. In fact, once while cleaning a display of handblown beer mugs, I pulled out one particular beer mug which had a pivotal role in the complicated display.

By 'pivotal' I mean that one beer mug was holding up the other 199 beer mugs in the display and when I pulled out that 1 beer mug...all the others (and about 6 bottles of sam adams beer) came crashing to the ground. Loudly, as you might imagine because glass breaking on a wooden floor in the middle of a store is typically kind of loud.

That's $1,781.05 in merchandise for those of you playing along at home.

Etc etc....office jobs were less dramatically horrid, retail jobs were varying degrees of hell. Now I'm 'working' as a stay at home mother and we've established how Awesome! I am at this particular job.

By 'Awesome!' I mean 'Really Bad', only I can't quit.

I can't excuse myself to go to the restroom and then slip out the side door. I can't break $1,781.05 in merchandise and get sent home for the day (but I've tried, oh, I've tried.) No one lets me leave.

Unless I get a job. But I can't think of a job I want because there isn't a job I've ever had I really liked.

Can we add this to the 'Great Big List Of Things That Keep Melissa Awake At Night' please?

Another thing to add to the 'Great Big List Of Things That Keep Melissa Awake At Night' (Read the post, then read the comments....). I thought my weekend was pretty fucking fun, but now my weekend seems downright provincial.

This Summer Is Never Going To End. Ever.

If you've been noting the drop in my writing around here...it's because I have officially reached Summer Saturation and I'm considering eating my children (and not because they're so cute I could eat them up.) If I could dip them in chocolate, as my friend Emily suggested, they'd be goners.

We spend every single minute of every single day together. I don't spend every single minute of every single day with anyone. If I did, I'd want to eat them also. Dipped in chocolate.

Sometimes, things get so intense, I picture those fancy pretzel rods. Except it's kids and not pretzels under all that delicious chocolate. It's all I can do to keep myself from taking a big chomp out of them.

On the bright side. Max has been sleeping in his bed for the whole night because we found an elephant shaped paper lamp. That lamp saved my son's life.

On another bright side, school will be starting in 4 weeks and 2 days, but who's counting?

Yesterday, I asked the children (who go to sleep asking me: "What are we going to do tomorrow?" and wake up asking: "What are we going to do today?" and end each activity by asking: "What are we going to do next?") what they would like to do today.

Their answer?

"We'd like to drive you to the very limits of your sanity and make you fantasize about dipping us in chocolate like pretzel rods and swallowing us whole!"

And I said:

"But we've done that every single day this summer!"

So they decided they'd like to swim in the inflatable pool. Hey! That's easy enough!

So I drag the electric pump from the basement and I lug the extension cord upstairs and then I clean out the pool that hasn't gotten a lot of use this year because it's always raining or 69 degrees. It takes about an hour total to fill it with air, clean it, start filling it, find the pool toys they want, get them into their suits and get myself set up outside to get a little work done while I watch them playing. (Have I mentioned lately how I love my iBook? I would never dip it in chocolate and eat it. How can the stupidest thing I ever bought be the very best thing I've ever owned?)

We all settle into play and 10 minutes later!

They were done!

And do you know what they asked?

"What can we do NOW?"

I hate those moments of frustration. I hate thinking ugly and not nice things about my children. (Like I want to eat you.) But I spent an hour getting ready for the pool and they spent 10 minutes in it. I wish I was a nicer person, I really do. I try to be nice. BUT THEY SPENT 10 MINUTES IN THAT POOL.

The other day we went to the park. I brought a picnic! And a blanket! And my book! There was a big play structure, which children like! I thought they could play and I would lay on the blanket and read a book and I would look up and make sure they were playing nicely and not with kidnappers and then I'd read some more. On occasion I'd yell, "DO YOU HAVE TO GO PEE PEE????" It would be a nice way to spend a couple of hours.

After 10 minutes, Madison was sitting on the blanket next to me because she was bored and she wanted to go home.

I'm trying to remember what it was like when I was a child and my mother was home with us during the summer. I don't remember going to the nature center, I don't remember going to the pool, I don't remember movies and bowling and trips to the state park and the beach. I don't remember going to the park even! In fact I'm pretty sure we played with rocks and stared at blank walls and we were happy. Why can't my children be happy?

If you happen to see me at the store buying suspiciously large quantities of chocolate, be alarmed.

Business Trips

All my husband wants in life (besides regular sex and more of these tender moments) is a Jeep.

He's busily preparing to fly out to Virginia for Camp Jeep. Which is funny because he tried very, very hard to get a Jeep to attend 'Camp' with, but as is horribly typical for my automotive challenged husband, he has been forced to drive the one car he would like to never drive, even in spite of my insistence that we will eventually cross over into the dark side. He'll be attending 'Camp Jeep' in this.

This tickles a mean part of myself that's facing 5 days (including two very long weekend days) listening to a lot of talking from two people who are so smart and so inquisitive, I sometimes wish I'd drank, just a little bit, while pregnant so they wouldn't talk so much.

Thank God I didn't breastfeed, imagine how smart they'd be at this point.

But then another part of me feels sad for my husband who can't get himself behind the wheel of a Jeep to save his life.

But then I remember how these 'location shoots' work and I don't feel bad anymore. He assures me he'll be 'working really hard', but you'll forgive me if the memories of Utah with it's beautiful scenery and it's sushi dinners into the wee hours and Lake Tahoe with it's gambling and massages, are still a little fresh for me.

But, no, really...I hope he has fun....in his mini van.

I have all these pictures to share, but there are so many of them...I don't know what the best way to share them would be..or if I should even. You see we were at a bar on Saturday, late at night, and there were many beverages shared....and we all know that sometimes alcohol affects my ability to judge what is actually considered 'funny'. Do I need to remind you of The Dancing Queen? I didn't think so.

So while I ponder the comic value of these pictures let me share this one where Asa (Ah-Sah) is molesting this glow stick thingie we were gifted with and this one where John has drunken bedroom eyes for my spouse.

There's a lot more comedy where that came from Internet. I haven't even gotten to my new favorite game, "Walk Up To Someone, Pretend You're With Them And Have Your Picture Taken". It's truly amazing how willing drunk people in Royal Oak are to have their picture taken. Even though what they really want is, you know, sex. They aren't getting it here, our needs are taken care of.

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.

Random Weekend Bits.

Logan's been off work for the holiday since Friday. We'd decided to devote the entire long weekend to FUN FOR THE KIDS!

We decided this since the last 3 weekends have been devoted to 'Keeping Our Yard From Overtaking The House', which is un-fun from anyone's point of view really.

Not that we've actually done anything but clean up the stupid yard. No flowers, no tomatoes, no new top soil. Just weeding the 30 year weeds. The same ones I've seen every year since we moved into this house.

My gardening knowledge is extremely limited. Last year I made a pretty valiant attempt to domesticate our yard. I bought real plants and I worked very hard to grow them. Then there were the bugs...and the bugs left me utterly clueless and so they ate quite a bit of my garden. Then there was another predator. Logan.

Mayonnaise Rages

This recipe for Wasabi Bloody Marys makes me wish I had plummeted a little deeper into my relationship with alcohol so I could wake up tomorrow morning and race out to the store and buy all the necessary ingredients and whip up a few.

Although I could not garnish it with pickled asparagus because Logan made me sign a prenuptial agreement which specifically limits the introduction of pickled products into our marriage. Dill pickles and sweet pickles are just barely acceptable, they must be quarantined in plastic food storage bags in the fridge away from the rest of our food. Other pickled vegetables require me to forfeit all claims to our joint marital property and assets and leave this home immediately with nothing but my pickled produce and the clothing on my back.

It seems harsh I realize, but you don't understand how deeply into Logan's soul the hatred of pickled products goes. Please, let's not even discuss his psychotic rages over anything resembling mayonnaise in any way.

I do have a love for pickled vegetables which is kind of unnatural but I limit my consumption to brunches at one of our favorite spots with a Bloody Mary Bar where I come back with my drink in one hand and 3 small plates piled high with all classes of pickled vegetables. Sometimes before I'm even done with my drink I go back up for even more. One day I'm going to ask for a Bloody Mary minus the tomato juice and I'll just add brine to my vodka.

Just imagine how bloated I would be by the end of that brunch. Go ahead, just imagine.

This is the 76th time I've mentioned my hair, and I'm not done yet.

Though I know it's getting old for you, imagine what it's been like for me. 49+ bad hair days in a row over the last 7 weeks.

Finally it got long enough to get it reshaped a bit and hopefully make a little more sense out of it...but it didn't work out. Well, it does make more sense now, but only if having a post high school 'Beverly Hills 90210' Jennie Garth hairdo makes sense to you.

Bring It

If those rats come any further south, there are going to be some serious issues.

I am so repulsed by this pack of rats, why couldn't we be over run with these?

At least it's not one of these.

Because a pack of these roaming my 'hood would have me moving away, effective immediately.

Speaking of disgusting animals, would you like to know what my cats most often hear from Pants? Of course you would.

"Come On" This is a barked set of two words which comes out as a single angry word. It's probably the thing the poor animals hear the most. In fact, I'm guessing they think it's actually their name.

"Would you sit the fuck down?" This is part of our nightly 'Let's All Get Cozy On The Sofa To Watch A Little Tee Vee Together' ritual. It's obviously one of Pants' favorite times of the day.

"Would you get your ass out of my face." I think the cats are taunting Pants with this one. They somehow always include a 'butt showing' in the nightly 'Let's Get Cozy' ritual.

"God damn it, you really stink." I've mentioned before, several times, how badly my cats smell. How unclean they are. This one is entirely not surprising.

Normally these things Pants barks at the animals are at least somewhat tempered by the heaping mounds of love Maddie pours all over them. After 10 lonely and loveless days of angry barked "ComeON's" and "Sit The Fuck Down's" and nothing else the cats have never been so happy for the suffocating attention of the only people in this house who feel anything resembling love for them.

Sure this love involves a lot of 'strangling' in the form of hugs, but you know, sometimes love hurts.

Welcome Home

Today we flew home from Texas. We flew back to this place where the sky is always grey and salt eats away at your car and you have to wear a down jacket, sweater, hat, gloves and scarf simply to jump into your pre heated car.

We left Texas with a few things. Big things, like a reconnected sense of extended family. Little things like fond memories of tamales and margaritas.

We also left with a very strong desire for more than 100 days of sunshine in an entire year.

Usually, I think cats and dogs are somewhat easier than children. They don't talk at least. However, today that changed after a 3 hour flight with a very loud, very unhappy cat who meowed continuously for the entire fucking flight.

Sure, my kids can whine but I've yet to see them do it for 3 hours straight. And yes, my son's diaper filled so full it leaked....everywhere....but at least he didn't scream 'Meow' for 3 hours without stopping.

If you're booking a Northwest Airlines flight anytime soon, I would highly recommend you avoid seat 15-C. I realize my son's diaper didn't leak on every plane in the entire Northwest fleet, but since I have no idea which plane it was, I'd try to avoid all seats marked 15-C just to be safe.

I'm just saying.

I'm kind of depressed about this.

This person really hates 'blogs'.

The Starbucks Suggestion

Ive always been a bit of a complainer. I'm not sure I'd know what to talk about if I wasn't complaining about something. Even in the height of my happiness I have to find something to temper all that good feeling so that I'm still 'me'. Cynical.

I had a group of girlfriends, none had children. We'd go out and talk about dating (or relationships, in my case), sex (I was the only one having regular sex....but this was in the year after my son arrived, so not very often), and our work. We'd complain about each of these things on some level.

They complained about bad dates, in a way I'd do the same, but I was trying to date my husband while lugging around two small but demanding children.
They complained about not having sex, in a way I'd do the same, though I wasn't in the mood for a lot of 2001.
They complained about their jobs, in a way I'd do the same, only my job happens to be motherhood.

When someone asks, 'And, what do you do?' I generally prepare for one of the most annoying conversations of my Stay At Home life.

me: 'I'm at home with my kids.'

them: 'Well then you have the hardest job!

Here is where I smile and say:

'You have no idea.'

And this is also where they think:

'I just told her she has the hardest job, only I have no real idea at all what it is she does. But it would be really rude to say what I actually think she does...which involves a lot of nothing.'

I realize people are trying to be supportive but the truth is they really don't have a clue what my day looks like.

I mean sure, I sleep....more than any mother of 2 should reasonably expect to sleep. Sometimes I have playdates that involve bloody marys. Somedays I think how lucky I am to be here watching my kids grow up...how lucky I am I don't have a cubicle. How lucky I am to not have to deal with a boss I have no undying and passionate love for.

But then other days, my stay at home life is like a bad day at the office that never ends. It's relentless and brutal and involves a lot of other people's poop. Somedays I feel like I would rather chisel out my ear drums than listen to another ridiculous and entirely age appropriate set of questions, comments and whining.

Something Pants and I realized about a year ago, and forgive me if this seems far too simplistic an idea for us to have taken 4 years to figure out, but:

Somedays his job is harder and mine is easier, somedays my job is harder and his is easier and in the end it all balances out and they're both real jobs and they both have benefits and drawbacks and we both bring a huge part of the equation to the table.

It took us, parents who are living this dream, four years to realize this. It's really not surprising most people who don't have kids haven't figured it out yet and though they say they really 'admire' my choices and they have such 'respect' for the work I do....in reality they can't respect or admire my job until they are in the position to either do it or make the choice to not do it the same way I have chosen to do it (both equally respectable choices).

My single and childless girlfriends used to tell me all of the usual things about my job as a stay at home mother. They'd say things like, 'Oh, I could never do what you do....' but I came to realize shortly before we parted ways that really, they didn't quite get it and what I realize now is they couldn't really get it.

This moment of clarity came during a particularly hairy part of my job as stay at home mother. I was doing my fair share of complaining. We were all complaining. One was working long hours and not getting ahead, another was facing the constant stress of impending lay offs and the other was a contract worker not being hired and getting very frustrated with the situation.

I was feeling underpaid and overworked and kind of exhausted...just like they were.

The odd part was the helpful suggestion they made to 'fix' my predicament.

Them: 'You should get a job in the evenings and on the weekends working at Starbucks.'

It still stuns me to this day that they said this and truly saw no problem with it.

Let's try to reverse the reasoning on them to see exactly what irritated me beyond repair about this helpful suggestion.

Them: 'I am so tired of working so hard and being underpaid and underappreciated. My boss is a tyrant! I'm stressed out and exhausted. At the end of the day I can barely see straight, all I want to do is come home and watch tv and sleep until I have to get up and do it all over again.'

Me: 'Wow, I know how hard your job is. Hey, I have a great idea! How about you get another job you can do when you're done at that other job that has you totally falling apart and unhappy. That way you can race home from your first job to spend the evening doing another job and I'm sure then you'll be happier.'

I don't know...I just don't see it and I guess I felt a little misunderstood. Which really isn't surprising...since my girlfriends have not had kids and have no idea the relentless joys that await them as stay at home parents.

Someday, if they do have children, I hope they remember The Starbucks Suggestion and if they're feeling a little overwhelmed by working their asses off to raise their kids 24 hours a day 7 days a week, I hope they'll consider slinging coffees in their 'downtime'....because really that's the secret to happiness as a stay at home mother.

More work. Well, that and great friends who are always there to help you out!

All Over.

I've decided I'm done being upset about no more babies in this house.

I mean, the desire lives on and no matter how unappealing her writing tries to make it, it's still somehow oddly appealing. Even though it makes no sense, there is still such a pull to create new life. To grow this little family of ours. To see what other amazing little person who swears like a trucker we could grace this world with.

But you know, I'm just going to have to stop thinking about it like that. It's silly to let my mind wander there....to that secret kicking from the little person growing inside...to that lovely newborn baby smell...to that easy to please infant who smiles just because you've miraculously reappeared from behind that blanket....

No, I'm not going to let my mind wander there. It's over. We were rendered 'Sperm Free In 2003' and that is that. I'd have to face this mourning of the 'Baby Years' eventually. I could put it off, I love procrastination, but at some point....after 2 kids or six or, God Help Me, 15....I would have to face this sadness. Right now is as good a time as any.

So what is actually good about that choice?

Well, here's a little list I've been working on.

1) I will never again have to purchase or, more to the point, have reason to use this.

2) I gave away this monster and I will never again have to scream in the mall, 'LOOK OUT! I MAKE WIDE TURNS!!!'

3) I will never again find my breasts attached to heavy machinery, while making appointments in my day planner. I'm all for multi tasking but that just has no appeal to me at all.

4) If I am awake at 2 am and really upset about it, it will probably be because it's last call, not because my child is trying to kill me in a slow and ominous sleep deprivation plot.

5) 'Buh-Bye' Postpartum Hormones!

6) Farewell bottles!!

7) No more 9 month stints as 'Designated Driver'.

8) I never have to try to look 'happy' with a baby strapped to my body.

9) Cocktail hour, every hour!

10) I don't have to leave the house for a few errands with a suitcase. I can now carry my little handbag and there's only a wallet, lipstick and just a couple of toy cars and a container of play-doh for emergency entertainment at restaurants.

11) I've been changing diapers for the last 5 years of my life. The end is not here this minute, but I can see it blazing over the horizon. This summer I will be free of my diaper bondage.

Looking over the list, it logically makes sense. I mean, of course I don't want another baby! For God's Sake, just punch me in the face repeatedly and I'll get the same effect.

But not really.

Odd how all the bad stuff gets balanced by that amazing little person...no sleep, hormones, diaper bondage just doesn't seem to matter as much when faced with this.

I suppose this is easier for me to say since I got 10 hours of sleep last night and I already have two great kids and there's really no physical way I can have another baby. But damn it this is hard.

Pictionary For Cheaters.

We played Pictionary with our friends John and Julie.

John and I played on one team, Julie and Pants on the other. Now you wouldn't guess this from Julie's calm and kind exterior...but when under the influence of Pants...she cheats like you would not believe.

Perhaps it's because Julie and Pants are both artists and so they have a leg up on John and I.

Maybe they're psychically connected...maybe they're just really in tune with each other.

But forgive me for thinking they're CHEATERS. I don't think you can blame me when you look at this picture.

Now tell me what you see.

Logan drew this picture in about 3 seconds and before his pencil lifted off the pad of paper, Julie cried out....this word.

And if you tell me you knew exactly what he was drawing...then you're a liar and you cheat as bad as Julie and Pants.

John and I may get our asses kicked everytime we play Pictionary, but we're honest and we rule at Euchre.

Budgets and Porn

As I've mentioned before the 'theme' of my year is: "Debt No More In 2004"

The reality of this sentence has been a little 'upsetting' for me. I feel a little like a screaming newborn, cold and wet ripped from my 'Happy Place' where debt is simply a part of life and 'Well, it's not that bad' is a justification that makes sense.

I knew that being a stay at home mother would require some sacrifice, I just didn't realize it meant I would have to drink Michelob Ultra and never eat sushi for the next 10 years.

I'm a little thrown by this new reality and I'm just not sure how I'll be able to absorb it all.

In an attempt to make me feel a little better, my Nicer, Funnier Sister in Law shared a little something she found while cleaning her basement this weekend. She thought it might help, but it hasn't actually helped at all.

Not since the 'Penile Implant Revelation of 2000' have I been so boldly slapped in the face with my dead grandfather's sexuality. That story came during a long evening of drinks and euchre and my brother told the story with a look of anticipation, he reveled in the look of horror which crossed my face as I realized there was no punch line. That in fact, the punch line was that my grandfather had a penile implant. My brother also seemed strangely relieved not to be carrying the full burden of this information any longer.

So, yesterday, my sister in law was clearing out the crap out of the basement and found a box full of memorabilia from my mother's home. A baby book for my younger sister, with just the first 3 pages filled in...the rest left blank as though my mother said, 'Jesus, this is exactly the same as the crap I wrote the last 2 times....she can just read it in there.'

Next to the baby book was a crudely homemade book with the title, written in child like script on the cover: 'Sexual Revival For Abandoned Parents'. I'll spare you the horrifying details of the inside of this book but let's just call it soft core porn.

Keep in mind I'm reading some outtakes from this book, wondering how my brother got it in a box of his memorabilia, having no clue who the author is. Until the end of the email....

"Inside the cover is typed Copyright 1970, EVBOB Publications and on the front it reads Book By [My Grandfather's Name] and [His Longtime Lady Friend's Name]"

Let me explain to you what I've been absorbing all day long.

My grandfather and his lady friend wrote soft core porn together.

I'm not entirely sure the ramifications of this have hit me yet. I mean, on the one hand...God love him, he was a sexual being right up to the end. On the other hand.

Ewh.

Suddenly Free.

I've been busy all week stressing over a lot of details for the party I was to throw Saturday.

But, I was relieved of those tasks yesterday at 6pm.

The party is cancelled.

Mark my words, I will never again host a shower as long as I live.

Mark. My. Words.

It's official.

My son has been professionally deemed anally retentive by an expert. We saw the Pediatric Gastroenterologist today. (Who was very good at his job. Considering he gave my son an anal exam...and the boy still spoke to him when it was all over.)

This means my son can poop but he is trying not to poop.

What this really means is that poop is going to remain a major focus of my life in the day to day sense.

Far too many of my conversations start or end like this; "He pooped a little this morning." or "Hey, did Max poop for you today?"

I'm so happy about this!

And, as a matter of fact, Beerzie, I did get a badge.

I Heart The Rich Girls...

I know it's silly to torture myself like this. But ever since I heard the 'Jaime' character discuss how midwesterners don't go out and buy cargo pants as a fashion statement. Rather, we midwesterners, buy cargo pants because they have lots of pockets for our stuff. I just can't stop thinking about it.

She was serious.

I am a practical person, I give her that. However, if I bought a pair of cargo pants, I wouldn't be thinking about wearing a pair of stilettos with them. Not because I'm out in the field, but because I'm living my wretched existance, waiting for my pillow top mattress and therapy from the Rich Girls.

Secondly, I would never buy a pair of cargo pants because the last thing I need is added bulk on my legs. And no offense Jaime, you might want to follow suit. You're not exactly 'lean' as we midwesterners say.

How I love the Rich Girls.

Also, in the same episode, Ally expressed some concerns about living outside her father's shadow and making a name for herself.

I have great news for Ally. She has made a name for herself and it's something like 'Stupid daughter of Tommy Hillfiger'

Knitting Like Life

Tonight I attended knitting class, where I'm ferociously knitting an adorable bikini* for a certain still-gestating baby due in February.

The instructor was discussing the use of her knitting machine. The machine was not meant to replace her hand knitting, but was instead a tool to deal with the tedious or 'boring' parts of knitting.

I realized this is the exact reason I would like a nanny. For the tedious parts. The rest I can do gladly.

I don't know, I don't see it happening. But if it ever does, I will totally win the Mother Of The Year title!

*it's not really a bikini, it's a turban

This week, on 'A Very Special Rich Girls'

Sometimes I like to torture myself by watching things like 'Rich Girls'.

Episode three is a very 'special' Rich Girls...the girls get in touch with the harsh realities of third world living. They watch a video and find themselves reeling at the 'massive therapy' these poor people will require. Suggesting maybe a mattress manufacturer would donate their damaged mattresses to the cause. Wow, this is exactly the kind of humanitarian aid the Ethiopian people need. A pillow top mattress and some couch time.

I like to imagine the girls watching a video of my own daily life, I like to think of the shock and horror they'd experience.

'The Rich Girls Take A Deeper Look At The Harsh Realities Of Middle Class Suburban Living'

Ally: 'Oh my God, look at her, she's wearing Old Navy jeans....and those...those are knock off boots. Those are from TARGET!'

Jaime: 'Look at the size of her bathroom...Ally, how is her hairstylist going to fit in there with her...and where is the natural light going to come from for the makeup artist.'

Ally, looking gravely at Jaime: 'Jaime....she doesn't have a hairstylist...can't you see those roots? She hasn't had a highlight in at least 6 months.'

Jaime: 'Ally, I think I'm starting to cry.'

Ally, leaning over and hugging Jaime: 'I know, it's so sad. So, so sad. I had no idea people lived like this.'

Jaime, visibly disturbed: 'Why is she doing THAT?'

Ally: 'She has to drive herself around, she doesn't have a driver.'

Jaime: 'Please, turn this off...it's too much. I can't watch this before Yoga, it's so, so...unsettling. They let children live like that? I just don't believe it, I can't believe it. Promise me Ally, we'll never go to this place called 'Michigan'. I can't go there, let's never go there...'

Ally, comforts a now sobbing Jaime...and scene fades.

Fat

As an 8 year old, I started an obsession with being fat. I don't really know why it started then. I do remember my brother teasing my sister mercilessly about her 'Bubble Butt'. I think he was saying it in an ironic way really...since my sister was about 50 pounds when soaking wet. I don't know that my brother's teasing created my obsession, since he also called me 'Pig Nose' until I was 23 years old. If his teasing about weight created my weight obsession, his teasing about my nose should have created a rhinoplasty obsession as well.

I remember at eight I had a few totally bizarre fears. I worried my top front adult teeth were too big...buck tooth like. I thought they made me look fat. I also worried at eight that my lips were too fat. I wasn't yet aware of the hips, ass and breasts I would be getting in a few years. This obsession went on throughout my entire adolescence, sometimes taking ugly turns into self destruction.

By the time I met my husband I was at a healthy weight, very thin but still healthy. In my mind it was the upper limit of what I could tolerate. I remained rather vigilant about what food passed through my lips. Somewhere along the 4 years we dated, I stopped feeling fat. I stopped feeling fat, but still, at 5'6" and 110 pounds, I still felt I could be more toned. I felt I needed to wear these types of torture devices just to be sure I wasn't going to bulge out of control. Always in my mind was a voice saying...'If you ease up you will lose control....this is as big as you will ever let yourself be.'

I got married, and I lost weight during that engagement. Not really on purpose, but I was working as a housekeeper while finishing my degree and I had a goal to buy the smallest off the rack dress for my wedding. I did it, and it fit, without a single alteration. I was proud of myself and I was happy, not about my weight but about my life. The happiest I had ever been in my entire life and it all seemed to fit and I thought perhaps this was my natural state of being. My obsession about my body was so much a part of me I didn't even notice it anymore. I thought this was what my body was always going to be. I mean I was 24, if I was going to blimp out, surely I'd have done it by this ripe old age.

Then, six months after our wedding, we got pregnant. It was a surprise, I was scared. One of the ways I eased into my role of 'Pregnant Mother To Be' was with french fries. Fries and I got very close during that first trimester. Fries seemed to ease my anxiety...I could eat what I wanted and I didn't even have to feel guilty about it. I started out that pregnancy at 115 pounds...and immediately, with the help of my friend Fries, I jumped to 130 by the end of that first 12 weeks. My doctor warned me that the weight you gain in the first trimester is all weight that will cling to you after pregnancy.

I drove home through tears. I had never before in my life been told I was getting fat. Ever. It depressed me for days, but as that little voice had warned me...once I eased up, I lost control. There was no going back to my restricted eating. Besides, I was pregnant...how bad could it get? I went out to Old Navy and bought a pair of GASP size medium overalls and another pair of M drawstring pants. I stood in the dressing room and jutted my stomach out as far as it could go and I truly believed that was as big as it would ever get.

Sweet Jesus, I was wrong. Everyday I was shocked by what my body was doing. I looked at my stomach and thought it really couldn't stretch any further, I was going to explode. I was shocked by what was happening but in the end I was also so amazed my body could do all this work. It's been said before, but watching my body grow a little person...made me feel a lot nicer to my body, less betrayed by it.

I gained a lot of weight...a lot of weight and like what that voice in my head had always told me...I was losing control, and I didn't mind. At least until my daughter was born. I brought my size 4 jeans to the hospital with me...convinced I would be one of those irritating women who talk about wearing their pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital. I had visions of delivering my daughter and then flying around the room like a deflating balloon. Then, voila! I would be thin again and I would regain control and everything would go on from there. I didn't wear those size 4's home from the hospital...the overalls I bought early on that I thought would last me through the entire pregnancy...just barely fit. As it turned out...my life barely fit.

I had grown into being pregnant and being fat and I had enjoyed it. Now I was bam not pregnant, deflated like a balloon, tired, riddled with hormones, a mother. There was no easing into motherhood. I was stuffing myself into my pants and stuffing myself into the role of motherhood...and neither seemed to fit me very well.

Slowly my life started to look like something recognizable. At least it started to feel like the new life I had and that started to seem normal. My body also settled into something that was a version of what it had once been, but like my new life it was kind of like the old body...only different. This new body, was a little weathered. It seemed to have given up a little bit and so had my power over it.

As I settled into my new life as a mother, there didn't seem like a lot of time left to obsess over my body. It didn't seem to fit into my plan as well as it did when it was just me. To be honest I didn't really want to obsess about it anymore. I went to the gym, mainly so the baby could be with a babysitter and I could be guaranteed a long hot shower. I lost most of the weight of pregnancy, and since the world didn't fall apart as I went above that 'upper limit' I had mentally set for myself, I thought I would be okay. I crossed that line over to 'unacceptable' and nothing really bad happened. I had a beautiful daughter, an amazing husband and a softer body and an even softer desire to control it.

Honestly, I liked not worrying so much about my body. I was self concious about it, but I had no desire to control it the way I once had.

I got pregnant again, and I gained the same amount of weight and this time the role of 'Frazzled Mother Of Two Young Children' took a lot longer to fit correctly. That first year, was a haze of survival. A cocktail of zoloft and tonic held me through while I waited to sleep again. I woke up somewhere after my son turned 15 months old. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, it was like the harsh flourescent lighting saved for dressing rooms and as I started to go toward it...I realized I was fat. I was well above that mental number my mind had given me. I hit a double digit pant size and I thought I might fall apart.

'See,' my critical mind said, 'I tried to tell you...if you let go, if you ease up....you will lose control.'

I missed my old body.

So, I decided to put back on the suit of armor I used to wear. The suit of armor that allowed me to eat without allowing food to touch my lips as I pulled it off my fork with my teeth. The suit of armor that allowed me to chew stick after stick of chewing gum to avoid putting food in my mouth. I tried to regain control...but my old techniques didn't fit with the new person I had become after two children. I couldn't make it a priority to eat 1200 calories a day and exercise for an hour and a half every morning. It didn't fit the life I had now...it wasn't important enough to me anymore.

I did try. I started going to the gym again. I switched to Michelob Ultra...I tried to follow Pants' example. Eating, not for pleasure, but for fuel....and I lost some weight. But my body still didn't look like my old one and I'm not sure how anyone can be happy drinking Michelob Ultra on a regular basis.

The other day Pants told me he missed my body the way it was when we were married. He said this in the name of 'honesty'. I have been reeling backwards for a week now. How could he? Did he miss the seminar titled: Your Wife's Body, Miss It Silently Asshole.'? I keep running my mind in pyschotic circles trying to understand what that comment means.

He misses my old body. So do I. I miss my old life too. I miss having all the time and energy in the world to devote to my body and what I put in it. I miss being the skinniest person in the group. I miss going to the Gap clearance racks and finding all my size just waiting there for me to buy. I miss people telling me if I lost anymore weight I might just blow away. I am sad when I hand my skinny clothes down to my sister...and they fit her, the bitch.

I don't miss being obsessed with what I eat. I don't miss feeling hunger as power. I don't miss being afraid of losing control. I don't miss Michelob Ultra. I don't miss being so self absorbed that the best thing I could worry about was my weight and my body.

Recently Pants decided he could lose some weight. He started eating a lot of Turkey Jerky, he started running so much...his toenails are falling off. He's really thin now. He's getting so fit, the gay men at the gym with him each morning at 5:30 am are starting to take notice, and he's kind of okay with it. I've said it before, I'm proud of him that he decided he was unhappy with something and he found some inner strength and dedication to make it happen for him. I think it's great that he's happy.

If you want to hear what I honestly think, while we're being 'honest' with each other. I would rather bash my face with a brick than wake up at 5am to run on a treadmill. Even less so would I like to get up at 7am on a Saturday to run in 30 degree weather until I feared I might lose my bowel control and my toenails fall off. Even at my very thinnest, I was lazy. In all honesty, I think my husband's obsession with weight and appearance is bordering on the psychosis I suffered all through my life before kids.

If you want to hear what I really think: I simply want to be happy in the skin I am in. I have worried about my body at 110 pounds and I worry about it at 140 pounds. It's really pointless and painful to 'miss my old body'. Because missing my old body is missing my old life and who I am today doesn't at all resemble that 24 year old self obsessed lunatic.

Pants wishes I made my body a priority. I've been wondering why I can't make my body a priority. Then I remembered: It's because I have 30 other things pulling at me every single day. Daily showering is a priority at this point. Two young kids, marriage, work, taking care of this house, taking care of myself and then most importantly....trying to live with who I am, not who I was.

Weight is an issue I am not willing to give a whole lot of time to. I'm too busy worrying about how my daughter is going to learn to read. Too busy wondering if my son will ever be able to poop without intervention. Too busy planning birthday parties and cleaning toilets and dealing with tantrums. I don't have a lot left after doing all that.

If I were morbidly obese, I'd reconsider my priorities, but at 5'6" and 140 pounds my health is hardly at risk. I'd also rework my priorities if I could be a stay at home mother, with daily childcare help, lunch dates at the club and housekeeping help. You wouldn't find me out running like one of those lunatics, you might find me at daily yoga sessions though. Perhaps that would free my mind up to regain control over my body. I guess I don't think I can ever get that body back and having that as a goal is about as ridiculous as hoping to have my old life back.

If this is 'settling for what is' rather than 'striving for better', then so be it. I see it as living within what is, giving my time to the things I'd like, doing what makes me happy...and since we're talking 'honestly' here, I have very little respect for someone who wishes for the past and doesn't accept the present...warts and all.

I thought cats were clean?

Why do I have the most disgusting and rancid animals in the world? I keep finding them covered in shit. They step in it in their litter boxes...and I am finding the entire thing so repulsive I can't even walk without shoes on in my own home.

Do I have to teach a cat not to shit on itself? Because if I do they are far too high maintenance for me and they must go live elsewhere. I'm sorry but I don't love animals enough to live in their fecal matter.