This time I really mean it!

You know – every time I post a new entry, I think to myself, “See – that was easy! I am going to blog every single day from now on!” And I totally mean it at that moment. And that night, something will happen that makes me think, :I should blog about that! Or that! Or that! (or any of the million things that go on in my life every day). But then the next day rolls around and I am tired, or cranky, or crazy-busy and I think, “OK – I couldn’t do it today, but I will blog tomorrow for sure. And the tomorrow rolls around and either a) I am as tired/cranky/busy as I was the day before, b) I can’t remember the million things I wanted to talk about, or c) I remember them, but suddenly they seem uninteresting and stupid.

So anyway…Hi! Here’s what’s been going on lately:

1. We brought the puppy home! Yay! We went through several (hundred) names before we finally settled on Charley. It suits him. He’s really cute and sweet and lovable and a big pain in the ass. I totally forgot about the getting up at all hours to take them out and the incessant whining. The whining/crying/screaming as if being murdered was the worst part, but luckily, he has grown out of that (thanks to my twitter friends for reassuring me on that). He still gets up to pee in the night, but it’s down to once. Still – interrupted sleep = me being even more forgetful and spacey than normal. Good times. Behold the cuteness:









































2. Halloween! We went to the annual party that my niece Scabs throws. It’s my favorite party of the year. Mainly because we are an evil bunch who use Halloween as an opportunity to torment and ridicule each other. If you have ever done something embarrassing – it will be used against you on Halloween. One year, we all dressed as Scabs. One year (the year of the punching the crackwhore story), someone came as Drunken Poolrat Gina and someone else came as Beaten Down Crackwhore. This year, I went as Scabs. Now, it may seem repetitive, since we went as Scabs before, but this time around, I went as Scabs looking how she did when she earned her nickname. See – many moons ago, Scabs worked at a bar and she invited mr b and I to the bar’s Halloween party. Well, she had been drinking all day and by the time we got there, she was sitting at the bar, dressed as a clown, makeup smeared, cigarette dangling from her mouth and she croaked at us, “Where in the HELL have you been?” So from then on, She became Scabs, the Chain-Smoking, Hard-Drinking, Pissed-Off Clown. Thus:

Scabs (with a scary Nanny McPhee in the background):


















Blind Ref:


























Flapper (when she told her firends she was going to be a flapper, they all asked, "Who's Flapper?")



























You're fired!





















Snooki was there, too:






















3. Football season is over! I repeat – football season is over! Finally a break from the constant cheer and band practices, games on both Friday and Saturday/Sunday, and driving all over creation to get to them! All season, I couldn’t wait for this moment. And yet – don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think I’m a little sad about it.



4. And speaking of football, our high school is getting a new stadium, and the last game in the current (70+ year old) one was a big event, with players from the very first game, alumni parties and former cheerleaders and band members on the field to participate. I joined up with the alumni majorettes and expected that we would be doing a simple salute to SSB & alma mater. Imagine my surprise when I got to practice before the game to discover we had an entire routine to learn. It was insane, but fun. And the boys won, meaning we won the very first and very last games in the stadium. Unfortunately, I put mr b in charge of taking photos, so I ended up with 65 shots of the fireworks and the backs of the heads of the people in front of him, but no really good shots of my super twirling skills. Sigh.

The closest thing to an action shot that mr b got - note the lack of zooming and the partial head in the foreground:


















The boy and me on the field together. I love that he wasn't embarrassed that his mom was twirling.
























5. Unrelated to anything else I have been talking about, I left my checkbook on the table yesterday morning, after writing one for the kids’ school photos, only to come home last night to discover that the girl had written herself a check for $1000.


6. Finally – go here and help the kids.

Halloween is scary for many reasons

Last night, we went to our small town’s Halloween Parade. Before it starts, the local businesses hold a Trick or Treat and the library has activities, so my friend and I headed down early to the girls could enjoy themselves before meeting up with their cheer squad to ride along in the float.

There is nothing like Halloween to bring out the crazy. We saw our fair share of skanky costumes, pushy parents, misbehaving kids, and general impoliteness, of course, but the kids had fun. At one point, as we were making our way down a crowded sidewalk, we noticed a woman standing there wearing the most hideous, pants that you have ever seen – they were possibly pajamas – pink and furry and tight. We saw her a few times over the course of the evening and every time, she looked crazier and nastier than the last. But when we passed her on the sidewalk, she was talking – both to the person on her cell phone and a person standing next to her and taking up valuable space on the already crowded walk. I remember thinking that people without kids should really try to get the hell out of the way and let the kids through.

Shortly after we passed her, I noticed a little boy walking very close to me. It was so crowded that I didn’t really think anything of it – just assumed his parents were behind me. That is, until we walked about a block further and away from the main area. We went to sit down on a bench and noticed that Buzz Lightyear had joined us. I realized that this little boy had just sort of attached himself to me. I asked him if he was lost and he said yes. He told me his name was Andrew. He seemed a little vacant, but I assumed it was because he was scared. So I asked him who he was there with and he didn’t answer. I asked if he was with his mom and he said no. The same for his dad. I asked who he was with again and he said his dad. It became clear pretty quickly that this little boy was special needs. So I took his hand and led him back into the fray, hoping to find a frantic parent looking for him. Otherwise, I figured I’d pass him on to the first police officer I came across.

He wasn’t afraid of me at all – he willingly took my hand as we walked around. Because he wasn’t able to communicate much, I had no idea of a last name, who we were looking for, what they looked like. I tried to jest walk slowly to give the parents a chance to spot him. And hoo-boy, did they. I heard a screeching, “Where were you!?! “ and looked up to see none other than Miss Crazy Playboy Bunny Pants heading towards us.

I could tell that she was CRAZY AS SHIT a little upset, so I tried to greet her kindly and say that he got mixed up with our group, but she cut me off by screaming at the poor thing about how he’s “not supposed to run away.” I spoke up and tried to shoulder the blame, claiming that we had stepped between him and her as we walked by and he got pulled along with the crowd (which isn’t really what happened, but I was trying to divert her ire a little). But it took everything in my power to not scream right back at her and tell her 1) that he ended up separated from her while she was completely distracted and talking on the phone, 2) that while we teach our kids not to wander off, when they are that little, their safety is ultimately OUR responsibility, and 3) that as a special needs child, he obviously needs even more supervision, especially given his trusting and willingness to take a strangers hand and walk away with them. Not that I would have had a chance to say all that anyway, since she grabbed his hand from me (the poor thing was hanging on to me for dear life) and dragged him away, still yelling. People really suck sometimes.

Oh – and totally unrelated, but I have to share: When I went to meet up with the boy after the parade (he marched with the band), he was holding hands with a girl!!!! And I don’t care how much burghbaby hates multiple exclamation points – sometimes they are needed. Like when your baby boy is HOLDING HANDS WITH A GIRL!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I really did want to beat her with my baton

Growing up, I spent a ton of time at my grandparents house. And next door to them was another older couple whose granddaughter I went to school with. Let’s call her Tammy Sue. That’s not her real name, but I had to come up with something that could express how annoying it was when her mother or grandmother would call for her in their high pitched, screechy voices, “Tammy Sue, sweetie! Tammy Sue!” See, Tammy Sue’s mother was possibly the most annoying person that ever lived. Except maybe for Tammy Sue’s grandmother, who treated her daughter, Peggy Lynn, the exact same way that both she and Peggy Lynn treated Tammy Sue – like she was the bestest, greatest, most wonderful, popular thing that ever was.

Now, don’t get me wrong – we all think our kids are great. But while most of us will show up at our kids soccer game or dance recital and take some photos and videos, Tammy Sue’s family would all pack up and go to every practice, with full-on photographic and video equipment, staging and restaging things – putting Tammy Sue in front. Peggy Lynn is the stereotypical pushy pageant mother, only without the pageants, though in her defense, she seemed to have gotten it straight from her own crazy mother.

Once, when I was very young, I was playing with TS at her grandparents’ house, a neighbor girl named Kelly came by and asked if she could play with us. That’s it – just, “Can I play?” I said yes, but before Kelly could even open the front gate, Tammy Sue had run inside and told her grandma and grandma came running out of the house with a big wooden spoon and chased Kelly home. I left immediately, went to Kelly’s and never played with TS again. Because even at age 6, I knew a crazy fucker when I saw one.

But I always felt a little bad for TS. Her mother was always pushing her into the spotlight, whether she wanted it or not. TS was a reasonably popular girl – she was a cheerleader and seemingly had lots of friends. But no one was really a friend, because she (or her family) would scare people off – they were pushy and competitive and crazy.

Normal parents would send some cookies or candy to school for the Halloween party. I remember Peggy Lynn delivering Tammy Sue’s treats to our 4th or 5th grade Halloween party dressed as Daisy Mae from Li’l Abner. Now, most of you are too young to know what I am talking about, but she was dressed almost exactly like this (only with shorter shorts):

























We were young, but not too young to know that it was totally inappropriate. I remember telling my friend Carol about it afterward, and describing Peggy Lynn’s look as “An H-O-A-R” (my spelling has since improved). The thing is – Peggy Lynn wasn’t a skank – but she thought (and acted like) she was Tammy Sue’s sister rather than mother, and she needed attention – for both her and for her daughter. I can remember thinking – even as a child – that Tammy Sue wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if it weren’t for her mother and grandmother.

Everything with her mother is a competition - and not a subtle one, either. She’s the type that will ask straight out what you paid for your house or how much you make. Then (if you are stupid enough to tell her), she will proceed to tell you how much more she (or her kids, or husband) paid or makes. Once, when we first built the addition on our house, we were both in the hair salon. Someone mentioned how nice our house looked, and Peggy Lynn almost went ballistic, pulling out photos and dropping measurements and prices about HER recent addition. As three or four people came in and out of the salon and made comments to me about our house (we live in a small town, but on a well-travelled road), she would just get madder and madder, and shove her own room addition photos in their face. This is a 60 year old woman, people!

Aaaaanyway, there is a point to this story. On Friday, I joined the alumni marching band on the field for the final game at our town’s 70+ year old football stadium, and when I showed up for practice before the game (yes – practice – the majorette coach actually made us learn and perform a routine, which was a delight), I heard the voice – that screechy voice. Yes – Peggy Lynn was an alumni majorette and I had to spend the evening with her. Yay me.

From the first moment of practice, when they lined us up to learn the routine, I watched this crazy ass bitch push and shove her way to the front (and center). Every. Single. Time. Every run through – every photo, for the pre-game festivities and the postgame festivities. The worst was when we were lining up to march across the field for the post game routine. We didn’t have assigned spaces – it was just get on a yard line, stand at attention and do it quick. Well, as we were spreading out, she ended up getting pushed further down toward the end zone. And she was NOT happy about it.

I could hear her screeching from 25 yards away, “But I was on the 45 yard line in practice! I need to be on the 45 yard line!!!” And although people were telling her to shut up and not worry about it – it didn’t matter where we were lined up, she just kept at it, “Hey! You! Move down – I’m supposed to be on TH 45 YARD LINE!!! “ Since no one was listening, she decided to start yelling at the only person she knew – me. “Gina! Move down! I’m supposed to be there (I was on the 45). I yelled back that I had nowhere to move (we were spread almost the entire length of the field -everyone was in place and at attention – we weren’t going to rearrange our positions seconds before the cadence, just so some crazy bitch could put her big face front and center. Everyone ignored her (most rolled their eyes). And then, she took a full on tantrum on the field, stomped up to where I was and shoved her way in between me and the woman who was standing on the 40 yard line! So now – she is the only person not on a yard line and she refused to move. Everyone else was forced to shift positions so she could be front and center.

And then I beat her to death with my baton. Or maybe I just vividly imagined it. One of those.

Vagina!

I can’t stand Leah Remini. I was never a fan, and then a few years back when she jumped into the Tom Cruise Crazy Scientology Postpartum Kerfuffle, I decided she was an idiot. Or an asshole. Or both. Her unkind and downright nasty criticism of Brooke Shields was insulting and dangerous, not just to Brooke Shields, but to all women. But like any other annoying gnat flying around your face, I soon forgot what and irritating idiot asshole she is. Then this week, she reminded me again.

On Monday, I got a call from the school nurse to pick up the girl. I brought her home, got her settled, and the sat down with my computer to finish my work for the day. The TV was on in the background, and the annoying new show – The Talk – was on. Think The View with more (and more annoying) hosts, one of whom is Leah Remini. They were discussing using the correct anatomical terms for genitalia with children (which, truly, I thought was an issue we figured out sometime back in the 80s). And as soon as the word “vagina” was spoken, Leah Remini opened her big annoying mouth and started screaming. She wouldn’t let anyone else talk, and every time they tried to defend their reasons for not using cutesy little words (she prefers “cupcake.” WTF?!?!), she yelled, “That’s DISGUSTING!”

Personally, I think Leah Remini is disgusting. But I do know that she is not alone in her demeaning, sexist opinion.

Vagina. Why is that word so intimidating to people? Nobody flinches when they hear penis. But vagina? Wooo, that can set some folks off. I’m getting so tired of people reacting to that word like it’s something dirty. It’s degrading to those of us who actually have them. Vaginas, that is. I mean, when it comes to the male anatomy, penis is pretty acceptable. In the mid-eighties or so, when popular opinion changed about using the proper terms for our genitalia, we all felt a little silly at first, but soon penis became a household word. A non-offensive, easy to say, completely correct term. But vagina? Vagina never totally caught on. It was definitely used more, but penis went mainstream and vagina kind of stayed indy. Thus, it’s 2010 and the same person who could work “penis” into a sentence without flinching would blush and stammer and get all tongue-tied at the mere thought of the word vagina.

I was in the hair salon recently (my friend Tee’s place), and a few of us were talking about childbirth and teaching hospitals. I was saying that I don’t mind letting students, etc, in, because they have to learn somewhere (of course, as soon as they find out that I am pro-student, they had half the medical school in with me. It was like a big party that had the bonus of freaking my mother the hell out. Anyway, a few of the women were saying no way, they don’t want all those people in there. In typical fashion, I said, “eh, what’s the difference? By the time you make it to labor, you don’t even care anymore. I let them all in, like ’welcome to my vagina.’” Well, one woman in there got a look on her face like she just smelled shit. The word vagina was so distasteful to her that she looked liked she was about to choke. So of course I said it as many times as possible after that. Vagina. Vagina. VaginaVaginaVaginaVagina. I know, I’m non-confrontational and sensitive to people’s needs like that.

I just don’t get the VaginaFear. I think it stems from the bajillions of years of female inferiority. Before men caught on to their part in conception, women were revered for our childbearing ability. The vagina was a magical, a life giving, mysterious treasure. But as soon as the cat was out of the bag that we didn’t do it alone, the vagina became dirty and shameful, something we didn’t talk about. Back in biblical times, women had to live outside the group in the red tent (if you haven’t read The Red Tent, you should) when menstruating. It was unclean. The bible, written by men (after the realization of their part in conception, of course), has passages about the uncleanliness of women, based on what makes them women: in Leviticus, we are told that menstruating women are unclean, as is anything they touch, and anyone that touches them. In particular, one verse tells us that on the day after her bleeding ends, a woman must take a sacrifice as a SIN OFFERING, so the priest can make an atonement for her.

So, the bible, this book that so many folks use as a guide to life, is telling me that I am a sinner simply because I am a woman (and I know, supposedly, we are all born sinners - whatever. But I have a problem with being somehow more of a sinner simply because I was born with a vagina). And then we have another passage in Leviticus which tells us that after childbirth women are dirty. And if she has a boy, she is unclean for 7 days and must purify for 33 days. But if she has a girl, oh boy, she is unclean for 14 days and must purify for 66 days. And again, a sin offering must be given. Of course, Leviticus is also cited by the crazies when they carry their “God Hates F*gs” Picket Signs of Idiocy and Hate, so you know what? Fuck that noise. And you know what else? Vagina. VaginaVaginaVAGINA!!

And so here we are, thousands of years later, throwing out “cock” and “dick” and “wang” and “schwartz” and “dong” and “prick” and “schlong” like nobody’s business, but let someone utter “vagina” and Aaaccckkk! For Pete’s sake, we’re women. Not demons, not aliens, and certainly not second-class citizens. We’re not dirty or nasty by nature. There’s nothing inherently dirty about a vagina. If a vagina is in fact nasty, it’s directly proportional to the nastiness of its owner. It’s not nasty simply because it is a vagina. And I’m sure there are eleventy-million or so skanky penises out there, too, so shut it.

I’m not saying we have to talk about our vaginas ad nauseam. We don’t have to share vagina stories with everyone we meet. I have elbows and toes and armpits too, but I don’t talk about them constantly either. But we should be able to say the word - “Vagina” - without someone blushing or cringing or wrinkling their nose. It’s not a bad word and yet there are people out there who would rather their kids say shit or damn or fuck than vagina.

And tell me - what are we suppose to say instead? Genitals? Too clinical and non-specific. Pee-pee? I think not. Forget about the cutesy shit – cupcake? Come ON - it’s ridiculous. Somehow I don’t think that the people that are offended by vagina want to hear pussy, cunt or twat, either. It’s a vagina and all women have one and it’s not dirty and it’s just as special and important as your penis and I will be calling it by its true name and GET OVER IT, VAGINA-FEARERS!!

As for male vagina-fearers, suck it up, bitches. It’s the thing you want over all others and you can’t even fucking say it? But somehow, I don’t really expect much more from you. But female vagina fearers (like Leah the asshole Remini)? What in the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A name for something that you and every other woman have. It gives you pleasure, it brings life. It makes you special and you still can’t speak its name?

IT’S A VAGINA, NOT VOLDEMORT!!

My Sweet Baby Girl

I have been getting ready to go away for a few days for Awesome Company's annual retreat. In the past, we have brought the kids (or one of them) along, but this year, we decided to get away alone. Unfortunately, mr b is super busy right now (actually, I should say fortunately, because when you work for yourself, being busy means getting paid), and he decided he can't afford the time away. So this year, I am heading out on my own. I'm bummed I'm not getting to share the trip with any of my family, but I will have a good time regardless. How can I not? We're heading to a lovely resort, there will be fun and good food and flowing drinks.

Anyway, last night as I was getting into bed, I discovered a note from the Girl sitting on my pillow. She had drawn a picture of the two of us and written, "Mom ples look at the back of this papr. Ples look now."

And on the back, she had drawn some more pictures - of us together and smiling, and of us apart, looking sad. And written above the latter was, "Mom ples andrstand that I am gowig to mis you on your trip. From Emily. Ples look now."

*SOB*

Dear Sweet Baby Girl,
Please understand that I am going to miss you too. And please understand that if I was given a chance to pick out the perfect daughter, I would pick you exactly as you are. I love you, baby.
Love, Mom

I Can't Wait to Bring This Guy Home!

Homeschooling is Looking Better Every Day

We were riding along in the car recently and the boy said, “Hey mom – did something in Civics to see what political party we are and I’m a republican.”

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And then there was much crying and sobbing and wailing about how I have failed and rending of garments.

OK, not really, but admittedly, mr b and I were all WTF? Because while we are all for freedom and opinions and differing views, we’re pretty much firmly planted over here on the left. And I, myself, am a full-on liberal (Archie Bunker would call me a commie pinko for sure). So needless to say, it was a bit of a surprise to hear my son - the young man I am brainwashing teaching my values to call himself the exact opposite of me.

Obviously, I wanted to know more, so I asked how exactly he came to this conclusion. He told me his teacher had given them a quiz to take and their answers to the questions determined their political party. We asked him for some examples, since I can’t imagine my kid really knowing enough to even have an answer to questions that would truly determine something like political affiliation, and he gave us this gem:

“Well, mostly they were about stuff we liked and didn’t like. Like, they asked if we hunted or liked hunting or if we though hunting was bad. And I don’t think hunting is bad, so I’m a republican.”

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And then there was much crying and sobbing and wailing and rending of garments.

For real this time. Because – say it with me – WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK??
This is clearly not an unbiased quiz. It was obviously created by someone with an agenda. A right-wing agenda. And I was pissed. I understand that people have different views. And I accept that I am surrounded by conservative good ol’ boys who want to poison people into thinking stupid shit, like how democrats want to take all their guns away so they can’t hunt, or that Obama wasn’t born in the US, or that Sarah Palin has a fucking clue.

But I always figured I can teach my kids my own beliefs, or at least present them with facts, so they can form their own opinions. But it’s awfully hard when the schools are feeding them this kind of biased bullshit. And thatis what this is about – the bias and lies. If they had given a quiz that was biased in the other direction, I would feel the same way. As much as I would like for my children to share my beliefs, I want them to make educated choices, not drink the crazy kool-aid and jump on the bandwagon.

So after a long, heated talk about such biases, and lies and truths and the different parties’ views on several important issues, the boy admitted that the quiz questions might not have been the best judge of political affiliation. But he still wanted to defend his teacher, who he likes.

“Mom, you can’t blame her though. She didn’t write the questions! She got them on the internet!”

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*HEADDESK*

A Winner! FINALLY!

OK, I have to apologize, because while I was supposed to draw the winner for my Libby's giveaway last week, fate intervened and knocked me on my ass with a nice early case of the flu, followed by a pneumonia chaser. I am finally feeling a little bit better, so let's take care of unfinished business!

So, according to random.org, the winner is...















Dina! Dina, send me your address and your prize will be mailed directly to you from the sponsor!

Thanks to everyone who commented, shared their tips, and donated to the virtual can drive. You guys rock!

A Story in Pictures

Ball? Ball? Ball!?! Ball!?!?! BALL??? BALL?!?!?!?!?!






















Wait, what?























Oh.....gross!
























Hey! What are you guys doing? Are you playing BALL?? Wait for me!
























Ball? Ball? Ball!?! Ball!?!?! BALL??? BALL?!?!?!?!?!























BALL!

Giveaway!

So I told you previously about getting a chance to help out The Motherhood and Libby's help some people in need.

Well, I did just that last week and had a blast. I met some very nice bloggers, including the quite Amazing Hannah Keeley. Talking to Hannah about my own dinner issues was great - she gave me some great ideas, and not for one moment did she make me feel like I was any less of a mom than her (even though she is totally SuperMom - I swear, she is. Also? Tall and thin and gorgeous).

After we talked to Hannah and had some yummy appetizers, we brought out all the items for our care packages - there were tons of Libby's products, family calendars, activities to get families to the table, recipes, and lots of cooking utensils and gadgets. Each of these care packages will go to a family moving into their new Habitat for Humanity home.

I have to tell you - one of the reasons I was intrigued by Libby's Back to the Table campaign is that my own family struggles with finding time to sit down together. We don't eat as healthy as I would like, either. I know many of you are in the same boat as me, as far as having busy schedules, and long commutes, and work, and insanity. So Libby's is giving me a chance to have a giveaway. one lucky commenter will win a nice prize, including a reusable grocery bag, Libby's product, and this cool can opener.

All you have to do is leave a comment with your best tip for getting your family back to the table - whether it's how to keep communicating, dinner activities, getting help from your family, meal ideas, etc. I want to hear them all!

You get bonus entries (1 each) for following Libby's on twitter, fanning them on facebook, or creating a profile on the virtual can drive. Just leave another comment for each one, with a link to the tweet/profile/etc.

I'll leave it open until Wednesday, since the weekend is just beginning and you folks - unlike me - have lives and do things other than chauffeur and drink and piss around on the internet on the weekend.

Nothing to See Here...

I have been super crabby these past few days. I'm always on the go and it is wearing me down. mr b is self-employed and self-employed means long hours - working late & working weekends. Which means everything else falls to me - the cleaning, the carting kids around, the cooking - everything. And while I understand that he has to work that way if we want to get paid (which - duh - we do), I can't help but feel a little resentful.

I find myself unable to keep up physically or emotionally - I forget things, I run late, I am exhausted. And I can't get everything done - so the housework gets pushed aside, which only makes more work for me down the road, which I still can't do because I don't have time to do it in the first place much less extra catching up stuff. Which makes me more exhausted and forgetful and distracted and so on and so on and so on until I explode. or at least feel like I am going to. So I end up crabby and mean and find myself barking at people when I don't even really mean it and yet can't seem to stop myself. Seriously - I can be bitchily ranting at someone when in my head I am thinking, "OMG stop it already" and want to hug them, but I literally CAN NOT STOP.

Even though I know it's hard on mr b working like he does, I can't help but to occasionally start thinking that he does it on purpose - to get out of things. I mean, what better excuse for not helping out than "I have to work because we need money to buy food TO STAY ALIVE"? So I get resentful and I feel like I can't complain about it because then OMG I don't even care if we don't have money to pay for food TO STAY ALIVE - how irresponsible and selfish of me! And then I waver between getting passive-aggressive and mean and being disgusted with myself for being that way. Which makes me feel worse. And crazy. It's a vicious cycle.

And when I'm like this I read non-existent meaning into everything. Person A didn't return my text: SHE HATES ME! Person B ignored my tweet: HE HATES ME! I forgot to send a school form in: TERRIBLE MOTHER! My cat died: It's my fault!

Don't I sound like a real delight to be around these days?

No really - this is how crazy I am lately - yesterday I was driving home and a pretty little butterfly flew in the window of my moving car and landed on my shoulder. He sat there the entire hour-long drive home and then when I got home and got out of the car, he lifted up off my shoulder, flew around me a few times and then flew away.

For a few minutes, I had the reaction of a normal (or medicated) person and thought, "Oh, how sweet! What a nice reminder that life is good and I need to stop feeling so bad!" and then a minute later, I had the crazy person's reaction of "OH NO - now he'll never be able to find his home again because I drove him miles and miles away from it and OMG - what if he was some sort of sign and someone in my family IS DEAD?!?!?!?!?!"

Yes, my friends - I am that crazy!

I need a hug. Or a drink. Or some prozac. Maybe all three.

Do any of you ever get crazy like this or is it just me?

Feeding America

Anyone who knows me knows I love doing good deeds. And I was recently lucky enough to be invited to get involved in a project sponsored by The Motherhood and Libby’s (as in “Libby’s Libby’s Libby’s on the Label Label Label…” Are you guys old enough to remember those commercials? If so, you will be singing that all day won’t you? You’re welcome). Anyway, Libby’s has a great new project called Get Back to the Table, which is encouraging families to do just that – get back to the table. I’m sure we all know that having family dinners together is important. It leads to eating healthier and also helps families take the time to talk to each other and spend valuable time together. Believe me – I am as guilty as anyone of eating meals on the run, whenever and wherever we can – usually in-between running back and forth to work and school and kids activities. But I am making a pledge to try and fix that. My family deserves it, and yours does, too.

And now, Libby's is partnering with Feeding America to help people in need. So on Thursday, I, along with a group of bloggers will be meeting up to put together some lovely care packages with Libby’s products, along with other kitchen and family related goodies which will be distributed to some folks in need. In addition, Hannah Keeley will be there to help and share tips. If you are interested, Hannah will also be at the Market District store in Shadyside that night from 5 – 7 PM to have cooking demonstrations and share tips. So drop in to see her!

In the meantime, you can help Libby’s and Feeding America to..well…feed America. One in six Americans is struggling with hunger, including millions of children. Just check out my virtual can drive and give if you can. Every $5 you give provides 35 meals for hungry families. And every dollar we raise will be matched by Libby’s, up to $40,000!

And next week, Libby’s has been kind enough to allow me to host a giveaway here, so think about your best tips for getting your family back to the table and when I ask you to, share them for a chance to win a great prize from Libby’s.

Christopher M. Panatier

I didn’t know Christopher M. Panatier. I had never even heard his name until I heard it read along with 2,995 others. And though I know I heard it read, I don’t know that I really even took notice of it. 2,996 is a lot of names. It’s especially a lot of names when we’re talking about people who lost their lives.

Christopher Panatier was 36 on that day. Six years younger than I am now. Many, many years younger, I’m sure, than anyone ever imagined they would lose him. Christopher was a foreign currency trader for Cantor Fitzgerald. I imagine he left for work that day in the towers thinking the worst thing he would deal with was traffic, or irritable clients, or a busy day. Instead, he – along with almost 3,000 others, lost his life in the one of the worst tragedies we have seen in this country.

Christopher was a husband, a father, a son. He married his high school sweetheart, Carolyn, and they had two children, Annie and Christopher. His children were only 6 and 4 when they lost him. Too young to lose their father. Especially to lose him that way. Too young to even understand how something like that could happen. But really, there is no age, no amount of knowledge or wisdom that could ever make sense of what happened that day.

Everyone who talks about Christopher seems to mention what an amazing, adventurous, and funny man he was. People were drawn to him.

So even though I didn’t know Christopher, I am remembering him along with the other innocent victims of the September 11th 2001 attacks. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. Because of that, his legacy lives on.

He will be remembered not only for how he died, but for how he lived.


This post is a part of Project 2,966. Go there to see more tributes.

If Children's Books & Shows Were Real...

Once upon a time, there were some children who had a friend named Barney. Barney was a dinosaur. They played and sang and danced together. But then one day, Barney – being a dinosaur – ate them. And then social services came and arrested all the parents for letting their kids play with a freaking dinosaur. The end.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Madeleine. Her parents were always leaving her in the care of her Rottweiler, Carl. And then one day social services came and took her away, because who the hell lets a freaking Rottweiler baby-sit their kid? The end.

Once upon a time there was a sister and brother name Ruby and Max. No one knows where their parents were – maybe smoking crack, since they always left toddler Max in the care of his barely older sister. Then one day social services came and took them away, because what the hell? The end.

There once was a boy named Timmy Turner. Timmy was batshit crazy, but his parents didn’t seem to notice. So one day the school called social services and they came and took him away. Then Timmy got some Ritalin and calmed the hell down. The end.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Charlie Brown and his sister Sally. The only supervision they and their friends ever seemed to have was their dog Snoopy. And so one day social services came and took the lot of them away because again with the dog? The end.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Dora. Dora traveled all over the land by herself with just a monkey, a backpack and a map, all of whom talked to her. And then one day social services came and took her away because who the hell lets their toddler run all over creation by herself with a monkey? Monkeys will mess you up. The end.

Once there was a boy named Tommy Pickles. He and his brother Dil and their friends – despite being babies – often escaped their baby cages and traveled the world. And then one day social services came and took them all away because their parents were clearly unfit. They were babies for Pete’s sake – they need some supervision. The end.

Once upon a tine, there was a little boy named Diego. He never had any parental supervision, but he roamed the dangerous jungle all by himself. He kept a jaguar as a pet. Then one day animal control got wind of the jaguar and called in social services, but it was too late. The jaguar had already mauled him to death. The end.

One day there was a boy named Norville, but his friends called him Shaggy. Shaggy always had the munchies & thought his dog talked. The gang had an intervention about his weed & LSD use, and Norville went to rehab & grew up to be an insurance salesman. The end.

There once was a group of kids who liked to hang out with rapping bear called Hip Hop Harry. Then once day social services came and took all the kids away because they had learned from the experience of the whole Barney debacle. Then they shot Harry and made a rug out of him because he was annoying as hell. The end.

Angus

We called him The Squatter. Because one day in early October 2005, he showed up on our porch and claimed squatters rights. He wasn’t going anywhere. He looked to be about 4 – 6 months old and he was starving. Every rib was visible. He had clearly belonged to someone at some point, because he had a collar. He had clearly belonged to someone stupid because the collar was meant for a dog and too heavy for him – it was dragging him down. And he hadn’t belonged to them in a long time, because even in his starving state, the collar was biting into his little neck, almost choking him. It had to be cut off. He almost smothered me with love when I got it off him.

At first, we didn’t let him in – partly because we already had a cat and partly because he was afraid to come in. So he became our porch kitty. I made him a little bed and put food and water dishes out for him. But as it got colder, I couldn’t stand the thought of him shivering on the front porch, so I coaxed him in. He would come in for short periods of time, but the outdoors were ingrained in him and he preferred to spend most of his time outside, often just sitting on the other side of the door, staring at Pussty (our first cat).

We went through several names before we finally settled on one. We called him Milo and Kitty and Asscat and Mike and Balls (OK, only I called him Balls), and the girl – who was almost two at the time, just called him “My cat! My Cat! MYCATMYCATMYCAT!!” Eventually, we settled on Angus and it suited him perfectly.

Little by little, he spent a little more time inside, but mostly wanted to stay out. Pussty was getting older and more frail by then, but Angus didn’t care – he chased him and tackled him and loved him relentlessly. But as much as he loved on Puss, he wasn’t the kind of cat to sit on a human lap. Until December of 2006 when Puss was very sick and we knew the end was near. On the evening of the 9th, I knew Puss wouldn’t be with us much longer. And in the middle of the night that night, Angus jumped into bed with me and snuggled up. I sort of half woke, wondered why the change of heart and went back to sleep. The next morning, Puss was gone. I swear Angus knew and was comforting me. From that day forward, he came a mostly indoor cat.

He thrived in the next few years – he got fat and happy. He still wasn’t a lovey-dovey kind of guy, but he doled it out when he was in the mood – mostly when you least expected it. He loved me, though. Every night, when I would go to bed, he followed me in. As I laid in bed, he’d come over and push his head under my hand so I’d pet him. After a few minutes, he’d be satisfied and settle down in the crook of my knees. We slept like that every night.

When we got the new cat this December, he spent four days grumbling and mumbling and griping and hiding and asking us, “Are you KIDDING ME??” but then on the fifth day, we discovered the two of them wresting and tackling and playing and rolling around. They'd race into the basement and then come back up with cobwebs all over their heads and whiskers, looking nonchalant. It was good for Angus –he was more active than ever and he lost weight. We had to stop calling him fat (except for his head – it didn’t change, so we could still call him fathead).

About a month ago, he came in limping – not using one of his front paws at all. We took him to the vet who thought it was a battle wound of some sort, gave him some pills and fixed him up. For the couple of weeks that he was recovering, we were able to keep him inside. We have never been outdoor cat people, but since he came to us as an outdoor cat, it was hard to break. We didn’t want anything to happen to him. But as he got better, the call of the wild obviously pulled at him. He would sit at the front door and look out – hollering at anyone in the vicinity to Let! Him! Out! NOW!!! Try as we did to keep him in, he was having none of it. He would lie in wait for the door to open and zip his newly svelte body through the open door. He didn’t stay out long, but he liked to spend a short time out every day.

On Sunday night, he was on the porch playing his “Let me in! PSYCH! Let me in! PSYCH! Let me in! PSYCH!” game. We were tired and eventually went to bed, knowing he would sleep on the porch chair and come inside in the morning (maybe after a few more rounds of “Let me in! PSYCH!”) But Monday morning came around and he wasn’t on the porch. Mr. b found him in the driveway, under the van. He liked to lie under there and spy on everyone, so mr. b didn’t really think anything was wrong. But it was very, very wrong. Our Angus was gone. He didn’t have a mark on him, so we think it may have been poison. I am going to let myself believe it was accidental because anything else is too painful to imagine.

I laid in bed last night waiting for a little fat head to come push my hand and settle in behind my knees, but it never came. God, I miss that cat.

I'm Talking About the Dog & Cats Again...I KNOW!

I am pretty sure this conversation happens every night in my house, just as we are trying to go to sleep...


Cat: Hey! You! Cat! PSST…CAT!

Dog: I’m not a cat.

Cat: Whatever. I’m bored.

Dog: Not ”whatever”! I’ve told you a million times I’m not a cat. You’re just being mean.

Cat: Sorryyyyyy!. Jeesh. I’m bored.

Dog: Go to sleep.

Cat: In the middle of the night? What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you sleep in the day like a normal cat?

Dog: I’M NOT A CAT!!! And besides – everyone’s sleeping and we have to be quiet.

Cat: Wooooooooo! Weeeee! Zip! Crash! Sliiiiiiiiiiiide…BANG!!

Dog: Be quiet!

Cat: Oh, you wanna do it too. Come on! You can’t catch me! Weeeeee!

Dog: Can too! Raaawwwwrrrr! Stomp. Thunk! Scramble…BANG!!

Cat: WOOOOOO!!! WEEEEEEE!!!

Dog: BARK! Ohhhh…..shit! You made me! I hate cats!

Cat: You hate yourself!

Dog: I! Am! Not! A! CAT!!! BARK BARK BARKBARKBARK!!...........shit!

Other Cat: Yaaaaaaaawwwwwwnnnnn….strrrrrrrreeeeeeettttccccchhhh…what’s going on out h….Hey! FUN!! Weeeeeee….WOOOOOOOO!!!

First Cat: WOOOOOO….WEEEEEEE…..CRASH!!

Other Cat: CRASH!!!

Dog: CRASH!!!!!.......SHIT!

Both Cats: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Dog: I hate cats!

Cats vs. Dogs

I was talking to someone about the movie Cats vs. Dogs recently, and they asked if I was a Cat Person or a Dog Person. I can’t really answer that, because I guess I am both. But it got me thinking – do I prefer one over the other? So I sat down and tried to figure it out.

Poop:

Dogs would rather eat off their own foot than poop in the house. Dogs do NOT want to disappoint you.

Cats can’t wait until you slip up and neglect to clean their litter box at exactly the right moment (approximately 5.3 seconds after they are finished, but don’t even think about coming around a millisecond too soon and looking at them, you disgusting pervert) so they can poop on the floor next to it to just punish you.

Advantage: Dogs


Attitude:
Dogs: “I love you! I Love You!! I LOVE YOU!!! YAY!! LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!!!!! YAY FOR LOVE I LOVE YOU LOVE LOVE LOVE!! I LOVE YOU!!!!

Cats: “……….whatever……….”

Advantage: Dogs


Baths:

Dogs (or most dogs), are not at all interested in getting a bath. They will hide under the bed, run around the house to escape, put their brakes on, brace themselves against the door frame, and cry like a baby when being forced into the bathtub. And then once they are in there, they will sit down so you can’t rinse their ass, shake dirty dog water everywhere, and jump out and run immediately to a nice, dry, non-wet-dog-stinky piece of furniture. And don’t think just because your dog likes to swim or play with the sprinkler that it means they will be good in the bath, because dogs have no common sense. And here’s a little known fact: Dog dirt cannot be cleaned – it can only be transferred to another surface. So when the dog is finally soft and fluffy and fresh you and your entire house will smell like a wet, dirty dog.

Cats clean themselves. I have only had to bathe a cat twice. Once when he got a pitcher of kool-aid dumped on him…by a dog. And once when he was peed on…BY A DOG.

Advantage: Cats


Home alone:

Dogs need someone to look over them. You can’t leave multiple days worth of food because they will eat and eat and eat until they explode and then they will look for something else to eat. They have to be taken out and loved and played with and talked to.

Cats can be left with a vat of food and a big bowl of water (which they will ignore in favor of the toilet).

Advantage: Cats


Intelligence:

Dogs: Become startled by their own farts. Regularly tangle themselves up in their leashes.

Cats: Can’t find the treat sitting directly in front of them. Lose a battle of the wits against tape.

Advantage: Tie


Critter patrol:

Cats like to hunt. Most cats can be counted on to seek and destroy mice, rats, moles, centipedes and spiders.

The most you can expect from a dog is a resounding “SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL!! SQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRREL!!!” and the damned squirrel is outside and not bothering anyone. If you are lucky, they will also attempt to rid your house of mail carriers and their shadow. They will fail spider miserably, though.

Advantage: Cats


Coming Home:

Dogs don’t care if you were gone five days or five minutes – their reaction is always the same: “You’re back, oh my God, I am SO HAPPY! I was so worried about you because you were here and then you were gone and I was thinking about you and then you CAME BACK! YAY!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!!

Cats didn’t even know you were gone. If they happened to be walking through the room when you return home, they might give you a barely noticeable glance to let you know that they want food and a clean littler box.

Advantage: Dogs


Protection:

Dogs will do almost anything to protect the people they love. At the very least, they will bark and let you know someone is coming (and sometimes, continue barking and barking and barking).

Cats will hear a noise in the house at night, puff up, looked totally freaked out, take off and hide under the bed. Cats do not care if you are slaughtered.

Advantage: Dogs


Noise:

Dogs: Bark! Growl. Snarl. Wine. Cry. Sniff. Snort. Slurp. Chomp. Chew . Yack. Snore. Howl. BARK! BARK!! BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!

Cats: purr…meow…silent, evil stare…meep…purr.

Advantage: Cats


Disposition:

Dogs: Assholes

Cats: Assholes

Advantage: Tie


Smell:

Cats basically have no smell. Unless they have one of those weird I Refuse To Clean Myself compulsions, they are obsessive in their hygiene. Other than the occasional I Just Ate, Can You Smell The Tuna On My Breath moments, they are pretty pleasant.

Dogs…Lord. If the non-bathing and bathphobia weren’t enough, let’s add in the ass breath. And the dogfarts. And the fact that they like to roll in poop and dead things for fun. Dogs – though delightful – are gross.

Advantage: Cats


Loyalty:

Dogs are loyal. They will love you no matter what you do. You can screw up again and again with a dog and he will still think you are the greatest thing ever. You always hear stories about heroic dogs saving their owners, or walking hundreds of miles to find their family again.

Cats, on the other hand, will give you ONE chance to not screw up. In fact, cats are already plotting your death simply because they can. Cats don’t save their owners – cats eat their owners after they fall down the stairs and there’s no dog to run for help.

Advantage: Dogs



So there you have it. The final tally:

Dogs: 5

Cats: 5

Humans: 1,000,000 (or possibly minus-2, depending on how big of an asshole the dogs and cats are being at the time).

Fall is Coming

Do you feel it? That little chill in the air? In between the hot sun and the quick rain showers? You know what that is? That, my friends, is FALL!

Fall is my very favorite season. As much as I love swimming in the summer and snowstorms in the winter, it’s fall that I love the most. I love the falling leaves and the corn stalks and the pumpkins. I love harvest colors and hot soup and mashed potatoes. I love warm cider and sweaters and campfires. And even though it breaks my heart into a million tiny pieces to have to give up sandals, I still love fall. Actually, who am I kidding? I wear sandals until my toes turn blue. And then I’ll throw on my rainbow toe-socks and my Birkenstocks and my family will all distance themselves from me in public and then I’ll sing Friend of the Devil at full volume so they stay away for a while longer and give me a few minutes of peace. Hee. Except the girl, that is. She doesn’t give a shit if her mom looks like a deranged blind woman who got dressed while drunk and apparently poked out her eardrums in the process, what with the embarrassingly loud and off-key singing. Nope, she just cares that I am soft (which I am) and have snacks (which I do). So we’ll hold hands, wear matching rainbow toe socks and we’ll go jump in the leaves. Because I Love Fall!

Fall is a nostalgic time for me, and though it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, it also brings on some sort of sad feelings as well. Actually, I don’t know if they’re sad exactly. More like bittersweet. Fall makes me feel young and makes me feel old. Mostly, Fall takes me back to college. Not the semester after I screwed up, when I lived at home. Not the following years, living in the city and working and finishing up. Don’t get me wrong, there were great things about those times, but I am talking about College. When you leave home for the first time and live in a dorm and have real honest-to-goodness ivy covered walls and you feel like a grown up. That college. I went to a very small, private college in an Amish town. It was heaven, except for when it was hell. The hell part is where the bittersweet part comes in.

I was always the really smart and fun-loving, well-liked but never quite in the “in-crowd” types. I expected to breeze through college the way I did high school. And I would have, too, if it hadn’t been for the freedom. After years of being entirely controlled by my mother, the damned freedom got me. The staying out and partying and eating whatever the hell I want without looking over my shoulder got the better of me. I was having the time of my life, but I had no idea where to draw the line. All my life so far, I had lived under her thumb. I never really had much choice in what I ate, or wore, or where I went and with whom. I had an early curfew and little trust, although unwarranted. And suddenly, I was On My Own. Oh Yeah.

At first, I was a typical college freshman. I missed some early classes and went to parties and drank too much and acted stupid. Just like everyone else. But in time, the parties and the fun became the primary activity and the actual schooling secondary. I think the shit really started to hit the fan when I took a class on Victorian Literature, or The Most Boring Class in the Entire World, Ever. It was at 2:30 in the afternoon, in Old Main. And too often, as I would be walking across the quad, I’d see my fairy godfather in the distance, who would spot me and yell, “Hey Gina! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet!” And off I would go. There was the campus weed dealer who had the market cornered on freshman girls. He would always have it at the parties. He would never smoke any himself, but he was very generous with the freshman girls. The whole first couple of months of school, it was always there, always free. Then, when those girls started seeking it out, he started charging. He must have made a mint that way. He was a great salesman, really.

So the partying started to take the front seat, but I still managed. Then, my sophomore year, things went downhill even faster. My two good friends, who partied with me but also kept me a bit reined in, both graduated. I had joined a sorority, and even though I loved those girls, I never quite felt like I fit in. I always felt like I was on the outside. My really good friend from freshman year ended up in a different sorority and suddenly she was better than me. Another good friend dropped out. So there I was, a loner. An overprotected child who never quite lived up to her mother’s standards. A sad girl who felt entirely alone in the world. A lost soul who wanted to feel accepted and loved but never did. I know, everyone feels that way. But still, it dominated me. An injury had me on a break from the swim team, and when I went back, I felt like an outcast. So I quit. I quit the majorettes. I quit life.

I looked for love in every guy who looked my way. I drank, I got high, I escaped. I made some new friends and made excess my middle name. I had a ton of fun, but when I think back on it, I feel as much sadness as happiness. I thought I was finding myself, but it turned out I was losing myself.

I can’t help to catch myself occasionally wondering “what if...” What if I had just kept it under control? What if I had been stronger? What if I had met the right person instead of all of the wrong ones? Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I love my husband and kids and if things had been different, I wouldn’t have them right now. But the “what ifs” still plague me. I wonder what people really thought of me. Probably not much. I was the class clown. The fun-lover. The party girl. But I wasn’t the girl you took to the formal. Or home to meet mom. I was the one you could count on to drop everything and make a beer run. I was the one who was always up for just one more. I was the one you could tell little lies to and would pretend to believe them, just because it felt good. At least in that moment.

And still, somehow, I love Fall. It’s a new beginning – new chance. It’s canoeing on the lake and outdoor parties and walks in the woods and shooting cows with Nerf darts. It’s Wish You Were Here and dorm fridges and care packages. It’s rainbow vanilla at the ice cream parlor and undercooked pepperoni rolls. It’s sweetness and romance and lying on a blanket watching clouds. It’s the crunch of leaves and the sound of a marching band. It’s brand new notebooks and pencils. It’s flannel shirts, it’s toasted marshmallows. It’s the past. It’s the future. It’s ivory silk and burgundy velvet. It’s bringing them home for the first time. It’s the first day of school and hayrides and little boy smiles. It’s fairies and goblins. It’s football and hot chocolate and little girl giggles. It’s swinging in a hammock with your son and daughter, wondering why you ever thought “what if…”

I love Fall.

Jerry Garcia ≠ Bruce Vilanch

This guy has been sitting on my desk at work for many years:

























One day, a while back, a coworker and I were talking in my office and I made a reference to Jerry Garcia.

Suddenly, it was as if a lightbulb went off in her head and she pointed at him and said, That's who that is! All these years I have been trying to figure out why anyone would want a doll of that jackass from Hollywood Squares!"


.

Life With a Teen

Last week…
The Boy: Are we going to Kennywood on community day?
Me: No, because we are going next week for your band day.
The Boy: what day?
Me: The 19th.
The Boy: OK

A couple days later…
The Boy: What day did you say we were going to Kennywood?
Me: The 19th.
The Boy: I think it changed.
Me: Yeah – it changed TO the 19th.
The Boy: No – I think it’s another day.
Me: I’m pretty sure it’s the 19th.

A couple days after that…
The Boy: Kennywood isn’t the 19th.
Me: Yes it is. I checked after we talked about it.
The Boy: No it isn’t.
Me: Yes, it is.

Two days ago…
The Boy: So and So’s (band friend) pool party is the 19th.
Me: It can’t be – Kennywood is the 19th.
The Boy: I told you – Kennywood got changed. It’s the next day, AFTER the pool party! Even Mr. K. said so! (this said in full-on DUH tone)
Me: Dude – I checked again last night – I have an email for the band boosters saying that Kennywood is the 19th!
The Boy: MOOOOOM! It’s NOT! It’s the NEXT DAY!!
Me: Whatever. I’ll have to email them again and find out for sure.
The Boy: WhatEVER!

Today…
Me: Hey – I checked with the boosters and Kennywood is definitely on the 19th.
The Boy: I knooooow – that’s what I told you!!!!
Me: WHAT? You argued with me for days about how it was the 20th and it got changed and the pool party was the 19th and how I’m wrong and blah blah blah!
The Boy: MOM! I SAID IT WAS THE 19th!! And YOU said it wasn’t. I can’t believe this!
Me: I WHAT? YOU WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???
The Boy: You just always have to be right.
Me: AARRGGHHLLLFFFMMMPPPCCHHHKKLLLRRRTTMMFFPPHHH! Thud.

Never Ready

We came home from The Girl’s cheer competition at Idlewild Park late Sunday night (more on that later), and I knew as soon as we pulled into the drive that something wasn’t right. Usually, the instant your tires hit the drive, you hear the sound of the barking barker who barks and barks and then barks some more. But that night, there was no barking. I thought maybe the dog was sleeping, but as I was getting out of the car, I heard some loud banging coming from the open window.

My thought went from OMG something is wrong with the dog, to OMG someone is in the house, to WTF? It turns out my first thought was the correct one.

Before you get too worried about us, let me say that he is OK. But that night, we weren’t so sure. We walked in to find puddles of vomit, poop, and a cowering dog. At first, I thought he just chowed his food too fast (and he always cowers when he’s guilty), but then I saw how much there was and I knew it was something more.

I went to pet him and it was obvious something was very wrong. He couldn’t seem to control his body. He tried to get up and kept falling over. When he did manage to get up, he just went in circles. His eyes looked…I don’t know…blank.

Within 30 seconds, both kids were crying and mr b and I were terrified and trying not to cry ourselves. Mr b took the dog outside while I tried to calm the kids down. The whole time, all I could think was “Not yet. I’m not ready.” But, you know – you’re never ready. There is never a good time to lose a loved one – even when it is a pet and you know it eventually has to happen.

Every time I have lost a pet, I have gone through a brief, but intense period of I Am Never Having a Pet Again Because It’s Too Painful, and then I come to my senses and do it all over again. Last time – with my cat – I found that it was easier to go through because we had another cat at the time and it didn’t feel so empty, so…catless. And I came to the conclusion that maybe two dogs or cats are better than one. So I got yet another cat.

And lately, we’ve been thinking about getting another dog. Not because of the reasons I just described, but just because. We talked to a breeder and made plans to send in a deposit. And then Sunday happened and I found myself feeling guilty – as if I was “replacing” my dog before he was even gone. I know it’s silly, but I felt almost responsible for what happened.

First thing Monday morning, Mr b took the dog to the vet and was told that he would most likely recover. And so far so good – he’s getting around almost as good as before, he’s eating and barking and being his pretty much normal goofball self. But I find myself worrying about him every day, spending more time playing with him and petting him, which he loves, of course.

And I’ve gotten over my ridiculous guilt – our puppy-to-be will be born in a few weeks and we’ll have him in late October. And in the meantime, I am just loving the dog we do have, and trying not to think about what’s in the future, because no matter how much you try and prepare for it, you’re never, ever ready.

Private Public

Mr b called me something last night that got under my skin a little. No, not a bitch, or a nag, or crazy, or OhMyGodWomanDoYouEverShutUp, or any of the other many things I could be called. Instead, he called me “private.”

My first thought was Me? Private? HAHAHAHA! I mean, I am a blogger! If there is one thing that – by definition – bloggers are not, it’s private. We write about our lives and out kids and our families and friends and then put it out there on the internet for seventy hundred million people to see. I have a facebook page and a twitter account and about a million photos on flickr that pretty much anyone and every can see. I’m not private!

But then I started thinking about it and well, maybe he’s right.

The conversation started because I mentioned that the boy wanted to friend me on facebook and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Not because I don’t’ want to be friends with him, but because – and I know this will come as a HUGE shock to you – I have a potty mouth. I know!! You all thought I was a delicate flower, right? I have gotten friend requests from a few of the younger family member and have largely ignored them (other than some of the older teens, since they already know how I am) because of this – I don’t want to have to censor myself on facebook. I already censor myself at work, and in many social situations, and at scout and band booster meetings, and cheer practice – I don’t want to do it on facebook, too, dammit! Fuck! (see what I mean?)

Anyway, I made the decision that I would hold on to these years before he would die of embarrassment if I tried to “friend him” on facebook and let him in, but when he searched for me, my name didn’t come up. I mentioned that I might have my privacy settings set so people couldn’t find me, and mr b jokingly (mostly) (I think) said, “You and your privacy – you don’t want anyone reading your facebook, you have a blog I’m not allowed to read…Jeez!”

And he is right – one day last week when he was using my computer and I left facebook open, he teased that he was reading it and I jokingly (mostly) (I think) said, “I don’t want you reading it!” And when he recently started expressing interest in my blog, I jokingly (mostly) (I think) said “I don’t want you reading it!”

I felt a little bad each time, but brushed it off. But it – along with the latest proclamation of me being private – got me wondering: Why am I so secretive?

It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong – I’m not meeting guys or posting naked photos of myself (God help us all), or saying terrible things about him, so why wouldn’t I want him to read it? And I have come to the conclusion that the answer to that is the ever-logical “Because.” And that? Is no reason at all.

I think there are a few things that contribute to my being the way I am. For one – mr b has never had any interest in this stuff. So for the years that I have been blogging (and more recently “facebooking”), it has been mine. My own little escape – my thing that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Anyone who is married and/or has children knows that it is hard to do or have anything that belongs only to you. I ask you – parents of young children – when was the last time you got to take a long, relaxing bath, or have a phone conversation, or read a book, or watch TV, or even go to the bathroom without someone interrupting you? Can’t recall? Exactly!

And then there is the way it has been approached. I would have been far less likely to bristle if mr b had said he wanted to sign up on facebook and add me as a friend. But sitting down and reading my page felt a little more intrusive.

But mainly, I think my “private” nature was something that I learned from years of dealing with my mom. I never had any privacy or control growing up. And before you go all parent on me and say that parents need to know what their kids are doing, blahlblahblah, I am not talking about normal parenting. I’m talking about a mother with a terrible suspicious streak and an assume-the-worst nature. She read my diary – not only did she read it, she blatantly broke the lock open and didn’t even try to hide it. And then pretended like nothing happened. She would open my mail. Not college acceptance letters and the like, but personal letters sent to me by my best friend in Florida. When we were 10 or 11! What could a ten year old girl in 1978 possibly have to say that she had any interest in? She went through my purse, read my notes, searched my room, listened in on my calls, and told me where to go and what to wear and what to eat and so on and so on and AAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!

I grew up longing for privacy, and the ability to make even the simplest decision for myself, and time alone, without someone looking over my shoulder. It trained me to hide things that needn’t be hidden, just for the sake of hiding them, rather than for any real (or scandalous, or interesting, or juicy) reason. It’s not that I have been trying to keep mr b out of that part of my life, it’s that I have spent a lifetime just trying to keep a part of my life to myself.

Every five minutes I go back and forth, thinking, “I’ll let him read it.” Then, “No – it’s fine like it is.” Then, “But there’s no reason not to!” Then, “It’s FINE!”

Right now – at this moment – I don’t know what I will do. I want to open up a little more. And I decide I will. And then the thought of it actually takes my breath away a little.

But I’ll try. I’ll think about it and I’ll try. It took a lot of years to break me, I can’t be fixed overnight.

I am in Trouble with a capital T

The girl saw this photo the other day:

























.

And turned to me and said

- and I quote -

"He's so cute when he's wet."


Does anyone have a big tower with a really good lock that I can borrow for about 20 years or so?

It was nothing like that Marilyn Monroe scene

I read something on twitter a couple of days ago and it brought to mind an incident that I had clearly repressed because it's too damned embarrassing to remember.

It was about 11 years ago, and I had to visit our company's main office in Maryland for a meeting. As it turned out, there was a celebratory lunch the day I was visiting, so I joined the office waking to a local restaurant.

Being the 90s, I was wearing a long, flowy flowered dress. And also being the 90s, there were no such thing as Spanx. You may not know this, but I invented Spanx. See, back in the day, when I wanted to suck it in a little, I would wear control top pantyhose. but if it was summer and I didn't want hose on, I would cut the legs to accommodate my clothes - at the thigh for short skirts, near the knee for longer dresses, etc. So this day, since I was wearing a long dress, underneath I had on a pair of ratty black control top hose, sloppily cut off at the knee.

As we left the building to walk to the restaurant, we broke off into little groups. I was walking with some coworkers near the front and most of the office was behind me. And directly behind me was the owner of the company and all the other top brass.

About a block from the office, we walked over a grate and - you guessed it - the metro went by at just that moment, blowing my long skirt up. And not up in a cute, sexy, Marilyn kind of way, but up as in OVER MY HEAD. And then, to make matters even worse, one of the buttons got caught in my hair, meaning that it took me two million years to get my damned skirt down. Or something like that. It might have only been one million years but it seemed like two million.

My bosses and coworkers were kind enough to pretend like they hadn't seen anything, but I could see that their eyeballs were all bleeding.

And then I died of embarrassment. And then since that wasn't enough to cover it, I came back to life so I could die of embarrassment again. The end.