Snow Time

I'm ready for snow.

Not, mind, that I'm out actively blasting this all over town as loads of folks are not going to share my view. However. It's winter. In America. In the Northeast. We're supposed to have snow.

It feels weird not to have snow.

More than that, I feel like I'm not getting my monies worth out of the condo fees. I didn't benefit from the roofing redo they did, but I paid the extra dues. Now, I'm not even getting any use out of snow removal. This morning? A bunch of guys showed up to mow the lawns, in snow turning to sleet turning to rain. I didn't bother to ask how the mowers were going to work.

Since they are technically Summer Equipment it would be my understanding they don't do well in, shall we say, adverse conditions.

I also feel badly that they were not dressed properly. Heavy sweatshirts under a waterproof vest in my book defeats the purpose. All that water soaked up from the sleeveular area is indeed, going to get sucked into the chestular part of the sweatshirt.

The vest, therefore, a useless fashion artifact.

I took out Pucker, who usually adores the snow: she sat, outside, but under the overhang, watched the water fall, got three droplets on her head and came back inside. I don't blame her. I too am of the opinion, rain if it's going to rain, freaking snow if it's going to snow.

May not do both.

Mother Nature is rather having her cake and eating it too. Natural Limbo holds little appeal for moi.

I like to know where I stand, but more importantly, what it is I'm standing in.

I found someone else who agreed with me; the mailman. I can say that since ours truly is a man; otherwise I'd have used mail person. Or mail deliverer. Either way, he prefers snow as well. He stays drier. It's also prettier. Worse to drive in; those cutie little mail trucks have horrendous tires. Kind of surprising since they're expected to deliver in all kinds of weather - it's even in their slogan.

Then again, let's recall that having a slogan, doesn't always mean it's followed. Recall my trip to that Big Box Store I won't name? (Home Depot) The whole You Can Do It! We Can Help! Yeah....they didn't want to do either. It should have been We Might Help, If We Feel Like It. Mostly, We Don't.

Weather limbo leaves most of us testy: it's grey, overcast, a combination of cold, raw, wet stuff falling, most of it defying description.

I don't like it.

I want snow.

Rants and raves.

Watching the rest of Breaking Bad, a tv show on Netflix that J got us into?

Fabulous.

Him feeling me up while we watched it?

Less so.

I adore spending time with him, from mundane things (the grocery store) to better, more fun places...say, dinner. Laughing like hyena's while wrapping Christmas/Santa presents in the basement lugging a screeching baby along with the array of presents? Funnier still. Smooching on the sofa while GiGi takes a nap? It's those moments that breathe life into relationships, help them last a lifetime.

However.

Things that do not assist in that?

Moving the recycling as I requested out of the kitchen, but only one foot away into the hallway to collect there until someone trips over it. He'll Swiffer the floor; leave the dog sized fluff ball anchored by dirt and those rubber bits leftover from football season - who said turf fields were a good idea? - in the corner by the stairs. The one that the kids wander through tracking it up the stairs.

Dog has an accident on the floor? Okay. Shit. It's not great, it's not fun, but leaving the &%I$O#G paper towels on the spot does not earn you brownie points - what are you trying to do? Make sure I see that you attempted in some respect to pick it up? When it's on the wood floor it doesn't matter if some of it went into the paper towel. The floor joists - don't bother correcting me that the joists are under the floor, not actually what the spaces between the wood is called - still turn black. The floor, will, indeed, still smell. The dog will, still, find that particular spot and revisit. Like a serial killer, only more dangerous. She repeats the crimes, not just stands there feeling her bladder fill while longingly staring at the spot, holding it until someone takes her out.

No sir.

She'll pee right there.

How do I know this for certain? She's my fucking dog. I raised her. I potty trained her. I've stood in the blazing sun burning the top of my skull right off my head, tramped through snow so thick I had to pick her up over the drifts to find a place to go - the one I shoveled out for her - all so she'd go outside. I walked her, not just visited the Field Selected By The Association For Pet Pottying. Yes, I should have realized that there was a problem....her Indoor Icky Habits were not, in fact, a sign of GiGi Jealousy, as previously thought. Nope. She has a UTI, backed up -well, nevermind what was backed up, I paid my lovely vet to fix it today, since I couldn't do it myself - not to mention, the weight I thought she lost? Yeah, she gained it. The new collar was simply larger, so her Muffin Top over the collar wasn't noticeable.

I won't tell you what she weighed. She and I both peed on the floor in embarrassment and shame. Her more than me. Okay, only her. But I thought about it.

Did you know that if you leave baked beans, and entire can of them, on the stove, on 4, not, say, LO, half of the can will burn right into the bottom of the pan. The new pan. The one you told me not to buy any more of, because you had a whole entire set you were bringing with you. The fact that the pots didn't show up, but a complete set (and I mean ENTIRE set) of Christmas Cookie Sugary Bits that rival mine did? Boggles my mind. Not that you had them; but that they cannot be disposed of. Oh, no. We need two freaking sets of fucking red and green sugar, tree sprinkles and mint extract that lives ON THE COUNTER. We hardly have room to sneeze on that counter and capture our own snot, but let's liven it up a bit with some decorating crap.

Right. The pan. Soaking away in the kitchen sink (duh, what other sink would I soak it in?) with baking soda and soap, I'm not hopeful for it's salvation. Evidently, when I asked if he had tested the bbq pork loin in the crock pot to see if it fell apart, he started up the damn beans and assumed I'd do it.

Because I can read minds.

So twenty minutes later, while he and GiGi are watching some wholly inappropriate TV, he asks if I plan to touch the roast. Huh? Fine. I'll put dinner on the table. The roast is fine. The baked beans however have taken out a pan. I convinced the kids that those black bits? That was bacon the company put in there for flavor. Seriously. And they bought it.

Go ahead, pick a fight over something stupid, like whether or not I take the dog to the vet with or without the baby, and make that decision on my own without your input. Personally, I highly doubt exposing our baby to the stuff that lives in our dog's ass is healthy. Plus also? I don't want to lug her and a dog that fits me at the door to the vet. Add to that? You're whole "what if I wanted to do something this afternoon?" - really? Like what exactly? We spent the morning snugged up together watching Breaking Bad, and now, now you suddenly have some Important Things You Need To Do?

Spare me.

I need to go to the vet, the grocery store, the damn pharmacy alone.

Do you know why?

It makes waking up to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you, snugged up under my b-graffe blanket special.

Fabulous.

Spending Grown Up Alone Time together then?

You bet.

Details details.

I'm a detail girl. Honestly.

Overlooking some minor details goes with the territory and title of being a New Mom. As well as an Old Mom. I have issues sometimes finding the right word for things - things or people or places I can see in my head? Do not always translate into what flies out of my mouth.

For example, when someone asked me what J's ex-wife does, and I said, she works at a hospital in town, they asked (duh, the next question in line - but the one I was hoping they wouldn't ask) - what department?

Yeah, this is generally where the train goes off the rails.

I could see the office. I knew what they did there. My response to this query?

The Titty Fairy Office.

My mouth hung open too - I swear, that is not what I meant to say...only...I wasn't entirely sure what to say. For the very life of me, I couldn't recall (or perhaps find?) the words: Plastic Surgery. Gaping about as a fish out of water, we stared at each other, waiting for someone to say something. My laugh sounded hollow even to me.

Add to this auspicious I'm Becoming A Complete Moron list:

Totally forgetting the baby is on Miralax.

No I did not forget to put it into the bottles, or cereal and fruit, veggies, etc - I looked up the signs for cereal, peaches, pears, fruit, carrots....cow....c'mon, who doesn't need to know the sign for cow? Right. Okay. So I recall to feed the baby. That's well established; look at her fabulous cheeks - eating well is no secret in this house.

However.

(this is a big however)

I feed the remaining cereal to Pucker.

Yup.

This would be where one of those pesky details - like the freaking laxatives in the baby food along with bowel moving produce products - turns out to be rather important. The damn dog is so regular she hardly knows what to do with herself; she was pretty regular to begin with. Perhaps, as you might imagine, she hardly needs help on that end. I looked at it as a bonding thing with GiGi - see? Jealous of someone that sits in a chair that drops food constantly along with toys? Doggie heaven. Clean floors without my bending over? Better still.

Dog eating laxative infused poop-inducing baby food?

A nightmare.

Explains why some nights she cannot get through the night without either a potty break, or, some Surprise Poop. I'm starting to think it surprises even her. I've only taken a laxative once or twice, but I recall distinctly the Surprise part.

I've been lucky.

I still recall how J takes his coffee (iced, cream, sugar, huge cup, straw). I remember the diaper bag, though not always diapers. Or wipes. But I forget them at different times. I take the dog out, but forget the leash. (that one's a stretch, I know...I just hate the leash) I've run both the washer and the dishwasher without soap, walked into more rooms than I care to admit completely blank on why I am there.

Dressing GiGi to leave the house, in matching clothing, tights and shoes? Having her look so freaking cute no one pays attention to my lack of make-up?

Pfft.

It's all in the details.

Thinking about it.

My latest and greatest statement (which I've taken to using for just about any occasion, as it fits, truly, any occasion) is: "I'm giving it some thought."

Currently, the rather sizable stack of laundry baskets lining both of the dressers (I'd say all three, but I don't really care about his dresser currently) has, I admit, sort of blocked J's path to the bed. He's been nagging about when we were going to "manage this", one of his favorite expressions (right up there with "business", which refers to damn near anything that anyone could do). Apparently, the fact of the matter is, we shoved all kinds of stuff among our collection of clean clothing baskets awaiting their tun in the "managed business" line, so we could host Christmas Dinner.

We did that after we moved all the furniture around.

All.

The.

Furniture.

We lost a dining room chair in the process; let's just say, that comment I made? The one about Aunt H coming back to haunt us by removing a chair? Even though everyone can admit she was a royal pain in the ass, that went too far. Clearly, I have discovered how to make friends and influence my soon to be MIL. J and I searched the entire house; no chair. C shows up, his brother, the search the house again - which personally, I believe was a deliberate move to avoid participating in any conversation in the living room. Especially after I dropped the H Haunting Chair Stealing bomb; the room became as quiet as a tomb. Wait. That was a bad comparison.

But I digress.

I do not have a problem getting from the door of our room to the bed. I can reach the crib in a moments notice (but I've nearly convinced J he's better at getting her back to sleep in the middle of the night - how's THAT for talent, hmm?) and while I find the trek through the laundry spilling out of the closet a bit of a trial to reach a bathroom at night, somehow, I manage. (There are nights when I have used the powder room, but why admit to that?) The hallway there is tiny, the laundry closet opens into our walk in closet, so the only place to sort (and store) dirty laundry? The hallway. The one leading to the bathroom. The pathway leading to house egress in case of fire or emergency? Goes right past the powder room. That path is always clear. Sometimes more clearish than clear, but whatever.

Right. Back to J.

Tonight went something along the lines of this:

J: "I can't even reach the bed" (use your whiniest voice)

R: "Hmm." (another great expression, by the way)

J: "You don't care because you don't have to do anything to get into bed. I do."

R: "I have to listen to you bitch, so, you know, there's that".

J: "Well, (add in a pissy, yet still kind of whiney voice) what is your plan then?"

Fair enough. I use My Plan quite a bit. I figure, if I have a plan, and it fails, I may fall back on my position that at least, at the very least, I, had a plan. Whereas, clearly, he was simply running around like a chicken without a head.

R: "I'm giving it some thought."

See?

Fabulous conversation ender. Should he ask me what my thoughts are, I simply go one step further: "I'm formulating A Plan. Don't rush me."

Dead freezer, vacuum arriving downstairs DOA, rather sizable pile of crap to go through (distinctly different from the Basket Stack, ps.), that pesky engine light coming on in my car - when do I plan to deal with all of this?

I'll have to get back to you.

Currently, I'm thinking about it.

A reposting.....for someone special.

A reprint....for a very good reason, for a very lovely person, whose heart is breaking, again. Not that I blame her. My heart is breaking again for her.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2010

Note to you....

...and you know who you are. :)

My Very Dear Friend,

I have trouble, finding words, as you know, to express the depth of grief in which you find yourself; dealing with the twin demons of overwhelming desire to hibernate (only I learned something gross: bears reuse their own urine, so I'm thinking? not a good choice anymore) along with the Flogging Rod, we use, on ourselves, for not being the parent we think we need to be: strong, unflappable, there, for our kids, who are also going through this process. How to find the strength, to someday, even take a breath, as your heart, so shattered, fails to beat, your lungs, not even wanting to draw air - only you have to, because there is no way to walk away, for a week, a month, a year, to fold in on yourself, and let that part of you that did die with him, be buried.

You, are, an amazing parent, warm, loving, strong - even when you don't feel it. Beautiful people can and more importantly may have ugly days, so angry that yes, you throw dishes (or in my case, double bag them and bang them against a wall -they were ugly, I wasn't keeping them anyway!), days you're so sad that allowing kids to find their own way into the pantry qualifies as dinner. Put on your After 5's, even if it's only 3pm. Allow your friends voices to wash over you, on the answering machine, even if you don't feel up to answering - because, really, you need to hear: we love you, we'll never know, how it feels to lose your soulmate; only you know that - the parts of grief some of us do understand? It hurts. A lot. Grief rears it's ugly head in the lightbulb aisle of the grocery store, on a random day in July, not just around the holidays, or anniversaries; mourning the losses, all of them - him, you, you as a couple, your plans, your life - know, honey, the light, at the end of the tunnel, isn't the train doubling back to nail you, it's flashlights of your friends, your loved ones, doing the only thing we can: lighting your way to the other side.

We (and yes, I speak for everyone here, rude though that may be) will never forget him; never forget you. Even when you think you've forgotten you - but then, maybe that was just me.

Ah, yes, my point: call. Middle of the night, when you've a moment, alone, to realize you're so blasted angry this happened to you! That it snowed, and dammit, YOU had to shovel, take out the trash, make sure the oil gets changed, the home insurance is in place - all those things that weren't your job. Regardless of how you got here: Welcome, to Single Parenthood - it comes with the Rights To Bitch on the phone, to eat pop tarts for dinner, and to smell socks to see if they're clean enough for a re-wear. Laughing is okay, I swear - even if it's at all the screw ups in the day - or you were screaming so loudly, home alone, you wet your pants. (again, that may just have been me :)

I'm glad you know I called, that I'm thinking of you, often; keep an eye out, I've a book in the mail to you - I love it. It's a total Fluff Read, but in the middle? When she totally melts down? There's a woman there, who tells her:

Honestly, chicken, you don't have to know everything, just what comes next.

Like putting on your After 5s, popping in a movie with the girls around you, opening up a fresh box of pop tarts, served with those fabulous Fruitables juice boxes.

Love you.

Always.

Chatter up someone else please. Anyone else.

No one has listened today.

They've been too busy speaking.

I've repeated myself so many times I might as well have graduated from journalism school; stop that, knock off the rough play, listen please, I don't want to have to repeat myself....again.

It's not nearly as bad when they take turns being the Total Ass of the day; when all three decide to do it jointly?

Well.

That's an ass of a different color, now, isn't it?

Let me assure you, it is. It means, one of you, that when you narrate the entire damn day, even after I've asked you, then told you, then yelled at you to not do that, when you do it again? Thank your lucky stars we don't live fifty years or so ago - I would have landed you into the middle of next week. All three of you, stop horsing around at Grandma's, listen to your sister when she asks you in a very whiney voice that goes up me sideways to stop being ugly with the doll house furniture because if I need to be involved?

You. Won't. Like. It.

Do not, under any circumstances, get into a beyond stupid argument while leaning over the half wall in the loft over whether or not someone said something on the bus or not. Especially when I am a, trying to get Gillian down, and b, am in the same room as you.

Yep, I realize, my patience has snappeth; I'm allowed to have a day when everyone around me annoys the living daylights out of me to the point when I wonder why on Earth I wanted this life. (yeah, I really do love my life, for the most part. you know, my X notwithstanding. oh, right, and the two ho bags, Fuck Me Pirate Barbie and Emmy who slept with my other X) All three of them have been so irritating, my palms itch to plant one on them. I don't really care where: swing a wide left hook and nail and ankle? Fine with me. Whiff past the hair with a backhand? Good with that too. Throw them out in the cold to watch them shiver out their energy until they shut up? OMG. That might be the best idea I've had in a long time.

All the kids are currently eating "treat", something that came with J, and his kids, so they alternate which night of the week is treat night, and which isn't.

Were it treat night for me?

They would shut the fuck up. All of them. The dog. The baby. The triplets. The phone. The moaning fridge. Even J's voice.

Just. Shut. Up.

Up to brush teeth? Talking wafts down, loudly, from their bathroom. I reminded them (sort of) gently, to brush, not talk. Whispering began. Jonathan yelled up in his I Mean It Voice to brush; they got a bit quieter. I threatened to come brush their freaking teeth myself, which would be when the water turned on. Brushing for a nanosecond commenced. I'd be upset with the length of time spent not brushing, were my nerves not soothed by the fact they had shut up at all.

Sure, it could be PMS. It could be, I'm tired, overwhelmed, under-xmas-shopped, stocking stuffer short, with frayed nerves too boot. Or, it could also be the three of them have managed to reach critical mass in the time it took me to climb out of bed (at 7:30am...on a SUNDAY), walk into the kitchen, and pour a cup of coffee.

I was patient.....then.

I am not patient....now.

I'd go kiss and hug, say goodnight....only no one is listening.

They are too busy talking.

The Ice Man Cometh. And Leaveth.

With a very heavy heart we discovered that there is indeed a life expectancy to the ice crushing motor in one's ice crushable fridge. Evidently (as with, alas, most of my motor-operated machinery) in my home, being owned by moi significantly lessens that life span. Not only am I in no-crushed ice agony, but the entire fridge is beginning to make horrendous groaning noises.

I have noted, from great personal experience, this is not a good sign.

No, I'm not terribly proud of this knowledge, being able, that is to distinguish between Regular Wear and Tear of a motor operated item (any motor operated machine, ps.) and those in any stage of The Agonal Stages Of Death. First, as with the fridge tonight, the settling in moan turns ever so slightly to a far more sinister groan. Even the water, as it lovingly enters into my much loved ice making feeziery part sounds tortured. When the entire thing sort of shifted it's weight, settling into the floor with a death rattle, much akin to say, my rotund dog digging her heals in, refusing to do anything, unless she wills it, the poor bastard I believe, has crushed it's last cube.

Much to my dismay.

And Danielle's.

Since it will be to her house where I will find myself, at the wee hours of the morn, (read: ten am) to fill 'er up. Her crushed ice, by the way, should you be curious, remains far superior to mine. We have similar models, however, her ice has a greater trapped air quantity, making it the perfect edible crushed ice submerged in water, devoured with a spoon. I've kept my maker on Quick Ice, with the hopes of repeating this amazing frozen feat; I've come close, however now, the bushings (weird motor holding piece thingies) are not handling the ice correctly, thus jamming the blades.

My standing there, swearing, shoving at the ice tray, bouncing it up and down is not helping. Or so I've been told.

This whole enigma with freaking motor operated stuff in the house (or, perhaps, best said, my possession) annoys the living daylights out of me. The blender? Overuse. Same with two of the Blackberry cell phones. The little bally mouse thing broke. Twice. One of them taking a spin through the dishwasher did not help. The car? Totally Mother Nature on that one. However, I can say, with incredible certainty the Carpet Cleaner was murdered. In cold, soapy blood too.

I'd know by whom, but I'm still awaiting the results from the fingerprint lab.

A washer died, two years ago, from some sort of weird ailment, beginning agin, with a funky noise, followed quickly on the heels, by the death rattle.

The "all appliance insurance policy" the current condo owner purchased apparently didn't cover whatever killed the washer.

I don't even dare call regarding the little matter of the Groaning Fridge.

I'd simply replace the parts, but doing that is damn near three quarters of the fridge itself! And that is simply not in the budget.

I suppose, (sigh), for the time being, I'm going to have to put the thoughts of a new fridge, on ice.

Ice Cold

I've taken to eating ice.

Copious amounts of ice.

Enough ice that our fridge is constantly set to Quick Ice. Two reasons for that really; one, I prefer the ice that is flash frozen as it contains more air, reaching the "right" consistency much more quickly than the non-flash frozen ice, and two? We run out of ice, otherwise.

Not a good plan, I've been informed, if (when) we run out of ice.

Turns out, other folks that live here enjoy ice in their drinks; however, they do not...say...enjoy the cube the same way I do. Currently, my water glass is indeed water, simply frozenish, sporting a long handled spoon, as for some odd reason, the littlier icy bits fall to the bottom underneath the Not Ready For Consumption ice.

Some people I won't name, (Jonathan) labeled my affection for The Cube as obsessive, or, (gasp) an addiction.

Seriously.

Who becomes addicted to ice? No. One. Do we, the anemic, enjoy the ice? Yes. Is it better than the other option anemic folks choose? Since they eat dirt, I'm going with a resounding yes. I could totally stop at any time....I simply don't want to. It's also a free, both financially and calorically snack, one I may indulge in whenever the mood strikes. This proves especially helpful when a houseful of halloween candy decorates nearly every bowl, tray, or oversized plastic bag on the table by the door.

See? Pass on the Snickers; grab a glass of ice. Should the ice be stuck together? Find a grapefruit spoon...part spoon, part ice pick. Fabulous!!!

I'm the first person to tell the kids not to eat ice; it's horrendous for your teeth, snapping the irreplaceable enamel right off their teeth. Or how they could choke on a not chewed bit. Knowing how vain I am about my teeth, Jonathan (and others) find this ..... concerning.

More in the addictive/obsessive category.

I disagree.

I think the whole thing harkens back to spending a year on a liquid diet, followed by another near year on another weird medically necessary diet, neither of which had any crunch. I'm not obsessed.

I'm making up for lost time.

Which is great, because I need to go.

I'm out of ice.

Answer A

Living beings in my house tend to fall into two distinct categories:

A. Despite careful tending, they die.

B. Despite total lack of care and attention, they live on,

I am convinced, to annoy me senseless.

The only person who seems to care that the (unwanted...on my part at least) guinea pigs in the basement have made such a mess, have spent quite a bit of time (more than I care to admit) without a serious cage cleaning, we are attracting mice, is me.

Mostly, I am sure, from Lois' side of the condo wall. I suppose however, that once they penetrate the hallowed halls of my home, I should cease to care from whence they came.

Truth be told, I'm not a huge, shall we say, fan, of these idiot animals, since in my book, pigs live outdoors, eat outdoors, poop outdoors, right before they turn into some lovely bacon. These pigs? Shit in the house. Sigh. While I'd like, in the most nebulous way, for them to cease to exist, I'd rather not be the one to find the bodies, or, have to break it to the kids, they are not taking a "long nap", or, hibernating for the winter.

Thus.

I looked online, to find the best (read: easiest) way to clean a piggie's cage (without actually touching anything) only to find that first, I'd have to touch everything. I'm pretty sure that's when the gagging began. Either way, I'd need to move piggies out of their habitat (I don't really want them getting too accustomed to the idea of this being "a home") then, touch all their unwanted bedding, prior to filling water, food pellets, raw veggies, etc.

I'm awesome at cutting up their veggies. I'm even pretty darn talented at delivering them, when needed. Mostly. So I forget some days. I'm not the only one who does, so I am free to pass along that blame. Perhaps, onto someone who actually claims ownership of these guys. I'm guessing they are guys, a, because they lady at the pet store told J they were guys, and b, I currently am unclear on the anatomical differences between the two. So far, whether they are gay pigs or lesbian pigs, they have not (thankfully) reproduced.

Gloves, clearly, were a must; the bedding that smells lightly of lavender a huge bonus, as these aromatic pests - I mean - pets, are not stunning the world as the latest perfume to be carried by Estee' Lauder. The online articles (yes, I read more than one - want to make sure I'm doing this correctly, lest I be the cause of their demise) gave me a handful by handful accounting of my upcoming laborious process, along with the list of "acceptable" vegetable matter they should have daily. A cup of it, per pig.

I read the list. (far easier than beginning the cleaning of The Cage)

Now, keep in mind, our pigs diet consists mostly of raw veggie table scraps, along with the cheapest carrots one may find, along with a steady stream of vit C rich spinach, and apples, cut with cores and seeds altogether.

The list suggests (rather highly, I gathered, since it listed it twice) staying away from feeding them a diet too rich in those foods; they should be given in pretty consistent moderation. Stay away from apples seeds, cherry or apricot and peach pits: all contain arsenic.

Not here.

The fine print, after the discreet star above the veggies listed, warns against kidney failure, too much vit A making them dreadfully ill, just prior to killing them.

I read this, complete disbelief dancing across my face, as this proved one thing, and one thing only: despite my best, well-intenioned feeding of these guys, I've been unintentionally poisoning them. We have been doing this for going on two years.

Leads me to the only possible conclusion: no matter what I do.....

They. Will. NEVER. Die.

Why is choice A never the right answer?!

The Plan. Is. Sacred.

It is Wednesday. Just remember that piece and we'll all get along just fine. Sadly, someone didn't remember that is was freaking Wednesday.

Having gone from one child, to four, with all the inherent changes (the laundry pile practically eats me alive, and since the washer/dryer are right in front of the closet, it gets ugly, fast....the grocery shopping is another interesting olympic sport we engage in weekly) I like to have A Plan.

I'm pretty scheduled.

Sort of.

Okay. Maybe not totally.

But kind of.

Enough that when the schedule is thrown off by something stupid? Chaos Theory Reigns Supreme. Little things, tend to throw one over the edge. (now, while I am aware, I have, maybe, one or two naggingly annoying habits, we are not here to discuss my shortcomings; just a little aside) The dishwasher, for example. It's yawningly empty. So empty it echos. I know this, because I emptied it, twice, Tuesday, so all the bottles and parts for them were not only clean, but sanitized. Imagine my surprise then, when not only did I make dinner (a lovely dinner, might I add!) but found (to my horror) all the dishes lined up nicely on the counter ABOVE the dishwasher Wednesday morning, I wondered:

What. The. F.

Seriously?

If you're already standing at the dishwasher, one you don't even have to empty to fill! why not bend at the waist instead of reaching up to stack the dishes? Plus also? Then I might have had a clean bottle for Baroness Von Bitchenhausen, who has currently taken over possession of my baby girls disposition. When she's hungry, she would enjoy her bottle RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND. So, fine. Men are notorious at being unable to appropriately load a dishwasher (ladies that I have spoken to all agree) - we get more in there, neatly, so all the dishes get cleaned the first time around. Perhaps, then, I could look at this as the "if you want it done the way you want it done, then you do it" -

I don't want to.

So Wednesday is off to a rocking start in this house. The screaming has reached a decibel that if the doorbell rang and Pucker wasn't here? I don't think I could hear it. Wednesday are about my favorite part of the week, and that is for one reason: Jonathan, Lovely J, makes dinner. Yep. He's in charge of choosing, prepping, cooking, and serving something hot, and cooked. (as you can tell, my standards are not that high at this point in our lives) Shoot, Mac and Cheese with hotdogs in it counts. Hot? Yes. Cooked? Yes.

Do I need to give a thought to dinner on Wednesday?

No.

A gift from heaven.

So when football practice was switched to a field closer to us, so we could practice under the lights, we went from a 5:30-7:30pm schedule, to a 6-8pm. We are now, about four minutes from home, versus nearly 20. (I swear, I am getting to a point. It may not be a great point? But I have one) I sent J the email from coach, so he was aware: evidently, while I was balancing Screech, as she is affectionately known around here in the mid-afternoon hours, I did not check my email. I did not see the "why don't you feed Fox a great meal before practice, and just snack him for second dinner".....and when I did? At 5:15pm?

I was annoyed.

Not at the suggestion. (Hmm...okay at that too) But because it is Wednesday night.

I have no dinner ideas, no dinner prepped, nary a slow cooker, sauce pan, or fryer going. The oven is cold enough to store meat. I do not make dinner on Wednesday nights. Toss in there, that Screech, on her best days hates her car seat with a passion I save for my X, or eggplant, no matter how it's cooked, now is going in the car, to the highschool, to be passed off in the rain to daddy, because he had to get gas on the way home. (I get the getting gas, but for pete's sake, take the baby with you)

I am now doubly annoyed.

Lest I beat this dead horse into total submission (yes, I realize, it may be there by now) it is (say it with me here)

Wednesday Night.

We have a plan. We follow the plan. We do not deviate from said plan, especially last minute when I'm really not in the I'll Flow With The NEW Plan kind of mood. Oh, I may bitch about football, the cold, the rain, the snow, the freezing metal bleachers when I forget to bring my own blanket so my ass chills my back all the way up to my neck, and down to my toes, a cold so biting it takes hours to warm up after (it is worse when the temp is below 55, I admit) - but in the end?

I have grown up conversations at football. I see other people at football. Usually I take Screech, so it's a doubly nice treat that she is staying with Daddy on a (obviously) sacred Wednesday night. The same night I don't have to cook, because that is not in the plan.

Why, might you ask, is it not in the plan?

Yep.

That's right.

Because.

It. Is. Wednesday.

Sigh.

Breakneck Speed.....

Pucker and I went for a walk, at a pace best described as breakneck.

I trotted, she nearly broke her neck trying to go in the opposite direction. Alas, she did realize (faster than I expected, quite frankly) that I was leading, not following. She did quite well, trotting along beside me, chest heaving, tongue lolling (did I mention, it's near 60 degrees? so clearly, not that hot) stopping only about a dozen times to mark over someone else's territory.

Or, she was faking it, just to catch her breath.

I realize we've taken shorter walks, more along the lines of strolls, where she has had ample opportunity to take the lead - and, sadly, has - as it's a challenge to steer a stroller, balance the never empty Glass of Shaved Ice (a necessity in this house) while re-instructing Stupid to heel. Nearly impossible, though, I've been told, quite amusing to witness.

I don't think it's that funny, ps.

She's jealous of the baby. I understand that. I applaud her method of acting out, since it does not involve biting, scratching, injuring or eating GiGi in any capacity, even when GiGi grabbed a handful of her lip and whiskers, refusing to let go. Instead, she's taken to (brace yourself) Diaper Diving.

Not just dirty ones either. Clean diapers. Diapers pilfered from any diaper bag lying around (or perched up on a sofa, supposedly out of her reach) even the box the diapers came in. She eats them. Not the exterior part, or the tabs, but the weird sucky-uppy-gel stuff that lies beneath the Comfort Layer. This, should you be interested to note, creates a unique texture upon reappearance, as it soaks up fluid, expands, and ends up a good deal of the time as Surprise Poop.

Evidently, she blames me for bringing home that attention sucking miniature screeching beast, as she has gotten back into the sink, to taste my underpinnings. And, you know, her old habits....eat the center out of them. I hate that.

I'd like to know why she doesn't go after J's things. It's not as though I am solely responsible for bringing a baby home. J's underpinnings are on the blasted floor for heaven's sake, (hmm...not entirely sure how they got out of the basket....details details) whereas to reach mine requires a balancing act that had I not seen it in person, I would never believe she could pull off. At her weight, "nimble" isn't an adjective I'd reach for to describe her overall balancing abilities.

Nope. Only my clothing ends up in places I'd never leave it: her crate, under the dining room table, under the sheets on the bed.

So tonight, I took my "first" baby girl for some Just Her and Mommy Time. Time well spent, if you ask me. I left Screech at home with Daddy, Pucker and I had not only a decent walk, but a lovely chit-chat about how she would be in really big trouble if she kept up her current unacceptable behavior. Diaper eating is gross. More importantly, they're expensive, and the more she eats of them, the more I have to buy, the less money I will be able to funnel into fabulously expensive tough to destroy toys for her. I could afford to take her to Doggie Daycare more often. That kind of got her attention. But a moth flew by, and all inroads I was making into her thick skull evaporated.

I know.

I should get up in the morning, early, with J and the kids, take her for a nice long walk, GiGi in the stroller, to get our day started. Except, I kind of have issues with that.

1. I do not like birds. They are the only ones up at that hour, they're so freaking happy to be alive, and chirping all about it, it's quite annoying.

2. I am not a morning person by nature, and really, should we be fighting Mother Nature? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

3. I'm really intimidated by all the other folks around here who hop out of bed, don some fancy jogging togs, hit the road, and do a quick 5K before breakfast. For the record, it's not that I don't have the right clothes - I totally could, but then I'd actually have to wear them for their intended purpose.

4. (this is a really good one): Pucker is not a morning person either. Especially on Saturday or Sunday mornings. THIS is an attribute I am greatly fond of, and would hate to break by some ridiculous need to (gasp) exercise first thing in the morning. She would come to expect that.

I'm positive I don't want to set the bar that high.

Rather round robin, we've come: I'll walk her at night, escaping Ms. Screech Til The Cows Come Home (which will take a long time, as we don't have cows) at a lovely pace. If she continues to eat my underpinnings, she won't have to worry about breaking her neck yanking on the leash in the opposite direction.

I'll break it for her.

Crisis. Averted.

J is having a Massive Shoe Crisis.

He cannot find the one pair of shoes he wants to wear.

Personally, I find this highly amusing.

Or, at least, I should say, I did...right up until he started swearing, tossing things around the bedroom and closet, and the Blame Game. Now, thank goodness he landed on the one human being it's totally fair game to blame after any visit, for any length of time, even if over a year has past: MiMi. MiMi adores being helpful (read: putting everything where she thinks it should live) but generally fails to leave a key code as to where to find things.

Anything, really.

I couldn't find the egg beater. Checked all the kitchen drawers, all the places it should live, only to not find it. (When this happens to me, it's highly annoying) So to a certain extent, I can understand the whole Shoe Crisis, from beginning to end.

I suppose I should toss in there these are his Funeral Shoes, to go with the one suit he owns (that is SO going to change being married to me) The Funeral Suit, which I have now selected the appropriately somber tie/shirt funeral combo. Only thing missing? The damn Funeral Shoes. And, okay (add in a huffy breath) for the sake of true understanding, we are indeed going to a funeral.

I could point out that since GiGi is going, and she has new shoes (ones I can even lay my hands on right this very second!!) no one is going to be even looking at J.

I could point out that since I am attending as well, and I have fabulously attractive shoes, not to mention the ultimate accessory to any outfit: The Well Dressed Baby Girl, people will hardly notice he's even there.

I could also comment that if people are staring at his shoes, he's doing something seriously wrong.

Or, they are more interested in him....say, perhaps....in the Biblical sense. Quite creepy at a funeral, but I've heard it's been done before. I'm not entirely sure how they'd explain to their grandkids how they met over an open casket....how their eyes held for eternity over the cookie and coffee table, they knew the moment they held hands for the final prayer at the gravesite that they just knew the were meant for each other.

I can say, without a doubt, that a woman is not going to fall for a man at the viewing for his blasted Funeral Shoes.

Plus also?

For the record?

And hour later?

I found the shoes. In the one place he didn't look: the damn shoe box in the closet, on the shelf.

Really, hold your applause. It's enough for me to know The Crisis Has Been Averted.

The Maine Event

Dear Beth,

Your cottage leaks like a sieve, your neighbor raped my dog, and your shitter is held steady, a term I use in the loosest sense, by a wooden shim. It’s a bit off-putting to say the least; I’ve utilized steadier facilities with less fear of falling in or off on cruise ships in a hurricane. The poor dog, bless her heart, came home with tooth marks in her head, with a little hitch in her giddy-up. I’m hoping it was your dog that did this, and not either of your drunk teenage boys. I’m still unclear on why exactly it is that the loo wasn’t updated, at the very least, a new wax ring thing that keeps the smelly part of the septic tank down. It might even have balanced out the shaky shitter, thus getting rid of the Holy Very Scary Shimmed Shitter.

The toaster, perhaps the first one ever invented, as it retains the cloth sewn electric cord, eats whatever is popped inside, with little regard to my feelings. Currently, it’s enjoying the remainder of a cinnamon pop tart. My cinnamon pop tart. The one I was planning on enjoying for breakfast. The one now missing giant toaster sized bites out of the frosted side. It couldn’t even be considerate enough to gouge out the non-frosted side.

The stove burners, in case you didn’t know, have only three that work, and one, that finds heating to high such an exciting experience it practically orgasms under the pot boiling the baby bottles. We are both hoping this does not shatter the glass bottles our little sweetie requires, as no one up in this corner of non-commercialized Hell carries them. J and I whipped up blueberry pancakes, which to our great horror, as three whiney, starving children were chomping at the bit for these pancakes, remained stuck so firmly to the bottom of the “pan”, we could not pry them off to flip them. Or, at all.

The oven, should you be interested to note, has one setting: Burn It. Be it set at either 200 or 400 degrees, anything inside comes out bearing a striking resemblance to remains at Chernobyl. A frozen pie left in for less than the time recommended for baking a thawed one burned so fully even the dog, who eats anything, turned up her un-sophisticated nose.

Bacon, if watched carefully, turns a into a lovely crisp almost momentarily.

I’m rather impressed with the fridge, circa 1963: the Standard Factory Recommended Setting freezes milk within an inch of its life overnight. We’ve been freeing ice from the bag with a screwdriver, as the sporks and knives left for our use, in a drawer under the one housing ant bait, an egg beater that should rest in peace somewhere in an antique shop, snuggled up in the septic installation directions do not penetrate the Siberian cold of the freezer.

The coffee pot brews coffee. Thankfully. I admit, I’m a touch annoyed that it’s safety features (turning itself off so as to not burn the house down) also allow the coffee to cool prior to the first cup being fully poured. Jonathan, bless his heart, drinks iced coffee in the dead of winter - prefers it that way, so this doesn’t really seem to faze him. I, however, would rather sip coffee so hot it scalds my liver as it passes through, have finally come around to complaining about the lack of updated amenities including (but certainly not limited to) a microwave. I’ve openly berated Jonathan for being a spoiled diva for always staying in his families houses that have had one, while climbing upon a white horse declaring their lack of value in quaint summer cottages.

I have changed my tune.

This is the closest to camping I will ever come to again in my lifetime. I do not enjoy camping. I do not enjoy bugs, snakes, or whatever in God’s creation graced us with it’s frightening growl last night. Upon further investigation, we could find nothing; but it’s convinced me that Sasquatch truly exists. I highly doubt it arrived to sample any fine cuisine we may have turned out off a grill so small I think Barbie and Ken used it last.

Needles to say, in case you missed reading between the fine lines, your add was a tad short on details, and long on filler. There are indeed two docks; we did indeed, bring a boat. Much to my shock, the boat with a hole in it floated, the motor works, and okay, so it isn’t going to keep up with the skiing crowd out here, we might, on a good day, be able to get a kite off the ground if the wind is in the right direction. There is a tub, but the shower you promised? It’s. The. Lake. Yes, I am most likely breaking a ton of regulations here, but I will washing up the chitlin’s evidently the way you intended....in the dark, in the lake, behind the neighbors back.

The neighbors, the ones you were sure to be interested in us, sure were. The same kind of “interest” I reserve for my neighbor, Lois. They were most interested in discovering when we are leaving, as well as counting down the days, hours and minutes until we do so. I daresay, if given the chance, they may help us pack up. The fact that their dog barks so obnoxiously all day and night escapes them - their hearing aids do not register that noise - but God forbid our children get a tad rambunctious on the floats - the ones you specifically pointed out were for our use?

They beg to disagree.

Trust me when I tell you, the crying baby they most assuredly will complain about? Hardly the same decibel level as that blasted mop of a mongrel they call a dog. Not to mention, we actively calmed our dog, tucking her into the house, or on the long line if she could not obey, or, bayed so outstandingly we were concerned for other’s comfort.

They felt no need to be so considerate.

The septic tank backed up, into the tub and sink, so we’re down to a Once A Day Flush, meaning that on our trip out, to replace a float of yours the kids popped (the one I no longer feel any compunction to replace) I strongly encouraged them to leave any of their waste in the bowls in the hallowed halls of Walmart. Yes, that’s right: I drove my children, at least two of the big ones, and the one who thankfully (I never thought I would say this) shits in her diaper 20 plus minutes away to stink up someone else’s loo. One of them, told me she was fine, she’d go at home - originally, she did not grasp the severity of our toileting issues. Once explained? Well. All of us went home a good deal lighter than when we arrived.

In short, or should I say, closing, I will point out that despite the obvious drawbacks (if you were unclear what might annoy a renter, now you’ve a concise picture) we did indeed have a great time with the kids. They went out in the boat, swam, fished, and all three rotated through the much non-coveted position of being the one child we planned to drown at the earliest opportunity. The original fight over sleeping in the loft ended abruptly upon finding out your latest decorating technique: huge, empty, stick embedded bee and hornet nests. Seriously? As if the oversized cock in the kitchen thruway wasn’t enough artistic horror.

My personal favorite, gee, we had such a hard time leaving it behind, was the hand made (quite possibly by you, or a passing three you old) birch bark lamp shade, decorated with acorns, dried berries, and some weird beads I couldn’t name. A lovely compliment to the eagle lamp perched on a dresser containing in the top drawer, a scary compilation of your stained underpinnings. We made a game out of who could look at the huge two pieced string bikini you obviously still don left hanging out in the open living space the longest with becoming physically ill.

We’d like to thank you for the memories we made, the laughter your home inspired, and assisted us in making a list of what we don’t want in a summer vacation home next year.

I fully expect my deposit back, since I not only had to clean up our own mess, but the slimy, disgusting remains of your septic contents from both the bathroom sink and bathtub.

Our Family

ps. The marriage quilt adorning the bed in the master bedroom, the one with your names cross stitched on the back?

Yeah.

We had After Baby Sex on it.

Hope that’s not a problem.

We've truly been blessed.

The baby is stunningly beautiful - at least, that's what I'm told by everyone who sees her - so clearly, it's not just me. And no, I don't have to ask for compliments; seriously, if you need ask if your child is beautiful?

The answer is no.

So here we are, two weeks out, and so far? Having GiGi is a breeze compared to Fox. She sleeps. Eats. Goes back to sleep. Okay, sure, she's five (or is it six?) weeks early, but still. Fox couldn't sit still long enough to check out the back of his eyeballs from day one, so this whole napping concept?

I think I'm in love.

I'm also quite fond of the teeny tiny clothes, which she will not grow out of anytime soon - when you arrive into this world at less than a 5 pound bag of flour, all those "normal" sized clothes are a thing of months from now. Cute jammies? Maybe Christmas time,they'll fit her. He feet are so small, my fingers are longer, and I'm pretty certain she has more hair on her head than I have.

She for damn sure has more hair on her back than I do. (ps. I have a hairless back, thank you for asking). It's to help keep her toasty warm....which it does not do on it's own. Hence the multi-layered look she's sporting in the dead heat of summer. Complete with hat. That sadly, covers her hair. I suppose, that's okay, since it's not long enough yet for hair bows. J and I did agree that she wouldn't wear any of those headbands - regardless of how big the bow, how much I might have loved them on her - so long as there were no monkey clothes. None of that sock monkey nonsense for my little princess.

Okay.

So I admit.

She's not totally princess material. She eats like she's slurping out of a trough, burps like a frat boy doing keg stands, and farts like ..... nothing I've ever heard coming out of a being so small she fits nearly in one hand. I'm kind of surprised her colon hasn't flown out on the backside of some of the wind she breaks.

I'm pretty sure she gets those attributes from J.

Certainly not from me.

I suppose, I can teach her to not do all those ghastly behaviors when she's older. Yeah, I can give on that now, so long as maybe, just maybe, she gets my teeth.

Which, with my luck, she'll push aside her gorgeous hair, whip out a perfect smile, and belch, like a sailor on shore leave.

Germ.....aphobia rears it's ugly head

Know when you start to doubt your ability to carry a child to term and freak out about disease around every corner?

Right about the time they tell you you're expected up in Infectious Disease. Where people with Japanese Encephalitis go (ps: four out of five of them die...only the pamphlet points out that one in five live - a nice touch, maybe, if you're the one guy that made it) or Writhing Nematoads, or some other really freaking, disgusting, Holy Very Scary infection end up.

Like me.

They would not let me check in for my appointment from the doorway. I was laughed at when I produced my very own Lysol and alcohol wipes - really, I was already in agony, no need to add insult to injury, no? Yes, I got diagnosed with something frighteningly disgusting, that usually does not end up in one's failing kidney. Fine. Tell me how to treat it, and I will be out of this office and into a shower in no time. Any clothing entering a hospital? Left at the bathroom door. No, it's not contagious; but other things in hospitals are.

I've had it three times. It involves huge needles that stick catheters up my arms, and nasty horrible headaches, and the antibiotics? Almost worse than the illness itself. (notice, I did say almost) I got C. Diff. Let's just say, if you're interested in losing the lining of your interiors? This is the bug to have. It. Never. Leaves.

So naturally, you can see where lately I've been a tad more....cautious about what I touch, where I go, what I'll put near my face. Things I never gave thought to before: my big one recently?

Elevator buttons, in parking garages.

Sure, there are folks paid quite well to keep hospitals clean; even the stairwells of the parking garage. I've never seen (and would be hard pressed to find someone who has) to find someone, anyone who admits to wiping those buttons down - either inside the elevator, or outside. I've urged small children with weaker immune systems I'm quite sure than mine to belly up to the button, and have a go! Really, I don't mind....could you press five for me? Thank you! What a big boy you are!

I never used to be a proponent of revolving doors - they never moved fast enough, and Fox used to get to frustrated he'd go after the door, the door would stop moving, that obnoxious voice heard overhead to not touch the door.....now? I'm in love. It's the ultimate weapon against the Staph Wars. Or at least one of them. The nicely placed hand sanitizer at the door, should you have been forced to enter in through any other means, thereby using your hands? A thoughtful touch. Too bad it's located right near where all the scary really sick people that need to be picked up because they cannot make it to the parking garage tend to congregate. And cough. Or sneeze. Or....you know...........be so rude as to breathe.

I don't have to touch a door handle. Knob. Push bar. Glass. Even freshly polished glass. Glass I've just watched someone finish polishing? No touch. Don't get me started on handrails on stairs.

J thinks I've really gone round the bend on this one. Truly, he has. He swears he never touches elevator buttons with anything but his knuckles...but hello! Germs are like cooties - they don't stay in one place. If they did? Well. We'd know exactly what to avoid, now wouldn't we? Hmmm? But we don't.

We do know that market carriages carry more E. Coli (found in poop, ps.) than the inside of a toilet. (Gah). I used all those wipes before it was popular, back when everyone thought I was nuts for needing not just one, but two of them, since you should really wipe down the seat, where the handbag is going to rest. Hello! Most people put fragile produce in that space. Or eggs. Or other delicacies that might be totally germified if not for the fab wipes at the door.

I'm trying hard not to get too carried away....I don't boil water, or silverware for heaven's sake. That's what the Sanitizer button on the dishwasher is for. One of my big pet peeves with M? (aside from sleeping with my friends, obviously) is he used to run all his dishes through the system on the "quick wash" cycle. Not. Good. Enough. 26 minutes does not rinse, suds, scrub, and clean dishes. Does the water even heat up thoroughly during a mere 26 minutes? I hardly think so.

J? Now, bless his heart, he cannot load a dishwasher to save his life - at least in the I Can Shove Way More Stuff In There Than You Can Way that women naturally do - but he knows the lowest setting is Pots and Pans. Want to know why I'm such a huge fan of the all in one Cascade Complete packs? No one can skimp out on the soap. And I swear, they have bleach in them.

In olden days, people went to the hospital to die.

In some ways, we've come a long way, baby. In other's? You still go there and die. Even a surprise death, believe it or not. Oh, sure, it's not from nurses or doctors, who wash, sanitize, practically steam themselves clean between patients - I bet you dollars to donuts that the sickest folks in the hospital got that way quite naturally:

They pushed their own buttons on the elevators.

A toast

"To your bravery, and a toast, to your grief."

- "Hanging Up"

I started the movie, reminded of how much I miss seeing Walter Mathau, how talented he was; what a gem we lost....the mother of the doc that she nails with her car sits her down for coffee, listens to the worries she carries, and toasts her, with the words of wisdom above. Words, I've been hard pressed to find, yet ones that carry so much gravity and truth.

I visited Memphis. I realize, at 30 weeks pregnant, with the amount of trouble I - we've - had getting this far (and no, I also realize I didn't keep ya'all posted) traveling is the absolute last thing I should be doing, and yet, Mom said she was looking forward to seeing me. Me. Perhaps, in her own "very special" way, she was; in my world...not so much. I still do not care for cherries. In pie. Jam. Jelly. Preserves. I do not take my coffee black. (I do believe this has been well established). I watched, from the tables edge as J went counter top to counter top with her that I indeed did care for cream and sugar in my coffee; I don't care for cherry anything. I love him for that. I hate the pair of them for her believing him, but not me. As J lovingly pointed out, this is the only "me" she knows...the one she's constructed in her head. The "me" in her mind, I'm supposed to be. Should you find yourself at her house, and I'm there in Memphis, and you can't find me? Run your hand along the woodwork; chances are high I'm simply blending into the background somewhere. It's safer, easier, better that way.

Returning from that trip, I've tried to make peace with who she is, and what she is, her personal challenges, how they've shaped herself, me. So a toast, to my bravery, to go to a house I'd not stepped foot in for five years, five years of holiday memories I'm glad I'm not a part of; and to my grief, for not being a part of them, in a way that would have held any meaning for me whatsoever. For not having the mother I needed, either now, or then, but perhaps, being, the mother my little guy needs, whom Jellybean will need, when she arrives.

ps: that will be sooner, rather than later.

I'll skip the gory details: this pregnancy's been a BITCH. I may well be falling apart, she is (thank the good Lord above) perfectly healthy, if not on the wee side. Who can say "wee" without smiling? Who doesn't adore a tiny little peanut? The best surprises are not always found in little velvet boxes, when perhaps, you've an inkling they are coming. Sometimes, it's when you least expect great news, when you've charted a course, only to find, something amazing got placed in your way, that changes the path, alters a course, leads you to a new you not even you knew you were capable of.

I look back, on the last 30 weeks, in awe that I've come this far - as has she - with kidney issues, and C Diff; infections and vomiting. I marvel too, where I found the strength to go on somedays, okay, lots of days; what a miracle it is that she's doing great.

Life isn't perfect, sometimes, it's messy, ugly, overwhelming, and gritty. We all get through it. One day at a time, one minute at a time, one deep breath at a time.

To our strength, and, to our grief.

Breed all about it

My idiot bunny chasing howling dog is going to get us kicked out. It's nearly 11pm, and she's out there, banging away on her walk, a total embarrassment to my household....though most likely, a credit to her breed.

I wish she'd never figured out that beagles were hunting dogs. Of some kind. Birds. Bunnies. Moths. If you count Florida, lizards. I do rather wish she'd read the handbook on how to be a lazy-ass French bulldog. Their idea of a stroll is through the living room and back. I'm not sure they have a purpose other than ornamentation. Either way, I've already been nailed by the association (read: Lois, in that snotty cut glass English accent I like to use when discussing her) for her barking "unattended on the deck" - Fox came in for a sweatshirt before going back out - and her "voiding" on my lawn. Naturally, I was reminded it wasn't my lawn, but rather, a public area to be treated as sacred ground.

Stupid bitch doesn't know that getting pissed on by my dog counts as a religious experience.

Now that I can pee standing up on one side, I have this fantasy that I go out there and write her name in her lawn. Or just leave a giant mark, so she'll think some huge, mangy dog lurked around at night, waiting for her to leave her perch in her kitchen window (when she's not torturing us with her "musical inclinations") to leave his scent and a yellow stain on her pristine lawn. Of course, I, the shocked and horrified neighbor would need to write her up immediately, because, DUH, we simply cannot have that kind of undignified behavior going on.

Not here.

And most assuredly, not there.

What kind of example is a past president setting if she's allowing beasts of all size to piss on her lawn? Of course, no one would think of me, per se - I've made it pretty clear I wouldn't piss on her if she were on fire - instead, clearly, the blame would be placed elsewhere.

If it continued (and let's face it, it would) Lois would be fined, and asked to leave.

I'm just hoping that she gets asked to leave before my dog does. In fact, she'd have to be, since the proof is right there, on her lawn, and no one can prove that it was my stupid beagle among the many that reside here who found bunnies in our back "voiding area as drawn on your homeowners map".

It could have been one of the many Molly's. They all walk back there.

Since Lois went to Vassar, (said in the same snotty tones, with the Snob Curl of the upper lip going as well) she truly is a credit to her breed as well. Nosy. Overbearing. Snotty. Not terribly attractive; an uptight cousin to the Chinese Crested, who has tufts of hair hanging off their heads, and out their ears.

My dog may be an embarrassment to our house; but at least it's not a human who is.

Email Orgasm

I nearly orgasmed reading my email.

Williams-Sonoma is having a cup cake pan, decorating kits, essential decorating items (for me, that would be ALL) sale this weekend, at Wrentham outlets.

That's right; good ol' J doesn't have to do much in the way of foreplay when there's a Dyson sale on somewhere, a floor cleaning model show, or, the Mother Lode, cake stuff on sale. To look at. And touch. And decide if I've already bought it, truly need it (that would be, ahem, yes) as well as if the sale is large enough to captivate my interest.

Naturally, while down there, I most assuredly should check out the place settings, serving pieces, Easter items.......really, kind of like porn, for girls.

I had a girlfriend tell me we were going to a Pampered Chef party, to look at bakeware - was I in? Well, DUH! Of course!

It wasn't that kind of party.

It was a sex toy party.

I didn't really enjoy it all that much. I learned some new things I didn't know (like the fact that clitorises come in all shapes and sizes - the book they had? some woman had one that looked like a daffodil in full bloom - her hubby ought to be able to find that I would imagine) as well as all sorts of creams that taste like stuff, and accessories to purchase for your shower, that look innocuous, but allow your partner to stand at the right height. I wisely kept my mouth shut through the majority of this raw experience; reaching orgasm isn't something I think should be done alone. Why do something myself, when someone else could do it for me, eh?

But I digress.

What annoyed me the most, was that I really was all primed to see bakeware. The host thoroughly enjoyed the look on my face when the Athena, Goddess of all that is sensual (oh boy) brought out her first lubricant, and it wasn't the new Crisco with Flour already in it that I was looking forward to.

That spray for baking? A Godsend. Seriously. Now? I cannot find it on the shelves anywhere. Amazon didn't even carry it...not, mind you, that I would be so ridiculous as to order bakeware coating spray including shipping charges, simply because I couldn't find it elsewhere.

Oh, all right.

I would.

I'd even pay shipping.

I cannot wait for Saturday. I don't really care what J and the kids do; I could spend hours in that store, cheeks pink, fingering all the wares, wondering if I would indeed use the cake mold that looks like a train. (I so totally NEED that).

Honestly.

If I'm going to be all hot and bothered over cookware?

The least I can do is order the appropriate lubricant to go with it.

Life isn't fair.

Having spent four days in the care of a local hospital, I had loads of time on my hands to consider that. Having a kidney diagnosed as 5 times it's normal size, and being unable to surgically repair something for which they've yet to figure out what the issue is, my Doc went the obvious course:

Use a mallet to drive a giant spike in my back, shove in catheter, and retreat. Fast. Especially since they couldn't give me all the good meds, only the local ones. Finding my "happy place" turned out to be a hell of a lot harder than I anticipated - though I will admit, the shock of looking over on the sterile tray of instruments to watch Mr. Surgeon lay down a mallet proudly bearing True Value on the side left me shocked enough I nearly missed the 30 foot needles they stuck in my back too.

Notice, I said nearly. .

Personally, I prefer to aim for as close to unconscious as possible when undergoing a procedure not only ensuring you a several night stay in what is not a spa, but is jamming something deep enough in to penetrate vital organs. My eyelids fluttered when I listened (sort of, since I was still swimming in agony) to the possible list of issues....mostly the leaking of ickiness into the abdominal cavity causing death. Maybe, one might have mentioned that prior to whacking away, hmmm?

It was about this time I contemplated becoming a drug addict. I don't really care much which drug, but one centered on reaching oblivion would be a great place to start. Morophine leaves me itchy. Percoset isn't all it's cracked up to be. I've heard cocaine is lovely? But a, where do I get it, it's not as though I've those kinds of contacts, a b, yeah..........I don't snort stuff up my nose. Clearly, I've an issue with needles, so heroin is out. As is anything else you inject. Have you seen what meth does to your teeth? Fine. Hospital grade narcotics it is. Instead, surfing through all three channels on the tv, in silence, since I dropped the nurse calling thingie where the volume came out, I contemplated instead, just upon whom I might wish this particular, un-medicated, totally awake, not sedated procedure.

The list? Very short. Kind of fat, but short, really. The offense to deserve such torture, unintended by physicians or not, should honestly be for a particularly nasty offense. Like, maybe, hurting my child. Or fucking my ex. More than once. And lying about it. Which basically, in a nutshell, breaks the All Time Girlfriend Code: do not ever get naked with someone who belonged to a friend, acquaintance, or the gal pal who you already royally screwed over. Especially if you met him at HER house. It's unkind. Unfair. But mostly? Rude.......although I prefer downright despicable - especially since the I have the kid thing to throw in there too.

The beds? Not spa-ish at all. The food? J will eat anything, and when came to visit, every night, bless his heart for dinner, but wouldn't eat what was on a tray? That's some seriously bad food. I was pretty careful not to share too many of my hospital provided, perfectly proscribed narcotic mental meanderings with J; though I must admit, when Mag's dropped by? We had a really good laugh about them - terribly uncomfortable with something hanging out of your kidney - but worth it, nonetheless. My personal favorite? Hmmm. Nevermind. It's quite hysterical, but requires some action on my part, so best saved for another time. Let's just say, to the victor, go the spoils.

I'm home now, surrounded by my friends (who are really my family), with J, totally adhering to the list of items I'm Not Allowed To Do (read: everything). He walks the dog, in the rain, totally exhausted from making sure I don't fall out of bed, or that I find the pain meds in the middle of the night, so perhaps, I can go from a 10, down to a kind of bearable 8.4 on the pain scale. He's cleaned house, done laundry, washed my hair, let in the visiting nurses, that come at this point, on a daily basis, learned how to clean stuff, bandage stuff, while not ripping skin off with surgical tape removal.

In the long run, (in four short days), I found out what many of us take years to learn: my soon to be spouse isn't nearly as squeamish as I am (thank goodness), will take me as I am, one good kidney, one on the DL, keep my dog from sleeping atop me, when I finally nod off, and insist that I let him do things. He's amazing to me - still a tad tough to get used to - however, nodding off the last night in the hospital, mostly dazed out of my skull, it occurred to me: I won't be an over forty, pushing 200 pound man-stealing pathetic loser. Single, loser, ps.

I got the spoils.....and spoiled rotten. I've gotten everything I've wanted. A great guy, who is currently encouraging pedicures, since he doesn't "do" toes, while manning (pardon the pun) every appliance in the house.

My drug induced revenge fantasies receded along with the dosages; I suppose, I don't really care what happens to her. Taking what I had won't get her what I have.

Gosh, I guess life really isn't fair.

All packed up with nowhere to go

I do my absolute best packing when I'm two and a half minutes from leaving the house. I hardly forget things...and those that get forgotten? Really, they do indeed have a Target, a Walmart, a CVS or something similar nearby. This whole Let's Pack Today So We're Ready To Leave Tomorrow......Get A Jump Start This Afternoon?

Not my idea.

Is J's idea.

On paper, in theory, this looks like a fabulous plan. Unfortunately, it gives rise to the Inner Perfect Mom With A Cape (I am NOT that person, ps.) who whips the house into perfect shape, for a homecoming akin to entering a spa. Well organized outfits march across the bed, one with fresh sheets, a duvet cover with nary a dog print or fur upon it, all possible needs not only considered, but planned for. Dude, I'd be, like, so prepared I'd have time to whip up a healthy meal, in a shirtwasit dress, crinilin crackling, peals perfectly in place, before consulting my carefully already drawn plot plan for loading the Jeep.

Pucker? She's totally packed. Ready to go. Working out her Inner Energy Requirements for two days at doggie daycare. I'm so proud. It's 2pmish, and I've one child packed.

Three more, and myself to go.

Since the weather is going to be screwy at best - i.e., 70s during the day, but 50s at night, there's a good deal of layering going on. And while it was my (stupid, dumb, I don't even know why I suggested it) idea to pack for three days, and simply wash clothes while there? I honestly don't want to spend cocktail/snack hour wondering if it's time to roll the loads, if I got all the socks, underpinnings, tees and whatever else we got loaded with sand at the beach while everyone else relaxes with ease in the evening breeze. Pucker, laying, or playing nicely nearby.

Sort of Norman Rockwellish. Only with some Ozzy Ozbourne influence thrown in. I'm not sure any child has a collared shirt packed. While I've tried to make sure that each and every outfit matches each other on any given day (hello! photo ops!) I'm mentally preparing myself for that not actually occurring. Emotionally however, another kettle of fish altogether. One I have this distinct feeling that if I wade into those murky waters, J and all the kids will mutiny against me, totally not understanding the concept of how we will look in the pictures.

Okay, so I'm snotty. I think about these things. Not, mind, that that indicates I've picked out or packed a thing for myself; Lilly Pulitzer, for the record does not lend itself to matching camo shirts decorated with orange lettering of some coffee related thing or another. (I've learned to steer my eyesight away from shirts, so as to a, allow for someone to stretch his own stylish muscles, and b, not go blind.)

The real issue is that it's the first time that J et al is meeting my dad, and my step-mom. While I love them all dearly, the three kids when left to their own devices tend to resemble refugees washed ashore on the latest typhoon. Not exactly the impression I'm hoping to create. I figure, day three should be sufficient to display mismatched I didn't choose or approve of outfits that may indeed break the camera lenses.

So I'm doing my absolute best to respect style preferences, while instill some sort of decorum upon medium sized kids who really? Don't give a shit one way or another what they wear to play in the sand.

Damn.

I knew I should have waited until tonight to do this. At say, 4am since we're leaving at 5.