My mom came to visit the other day for approximately seven hours. I think it's a sign of good mental health that I used to spend weeks freaking out about a visit from her, but this time I only had a short amount of stress the morning of the event. A 9am Bloody Mary took care of it. She is, by the way, a lovely person, but I always feel judged in categories that I cannot compete in: cleanliness and godliness (mostly the first one). The woman, as I may have said before, makes Donna Reed look like a crack whore while I make Roseanne look like a domestic goddess.
She wanted to come and shop for the boys' Christmas presents with me. I could have just called her and given her a list, but in the back of my nefarious head, I knew that we could finish that task pretty quickly and move on to a free (for me) lunch and some boot shopping.
She was shocked that we have shopping in Fort Collins becuase I apparently never mention it. Uh, that's because I never shop save for the odd trip to the GoodWill or a one item trip to some place like Kohl's. It took about two seconds to buy the boys a Wii (Yeah, now I can get a WiFi modem and let them watch Netflix documentaries on the TV) which left plenty of time for my first trip to Panera and my first trip to a shoe store in over 2 years. There will be a beautiful pair of brown boots for me under the Christmas tree. Then, she wanted me to pick out something in the $50 range which ended up being a great new bedspread for $120 and a pair of yoga pants for $25, but that's close to $50.
Then, we found the boys who delighted in telling the woman that I smoke when I drink (jerks). Allegedly I deserve this becuase I spilled all of my mother's secrets when I was little. Then, they told her about Toby's 22 naked laps around the backyard in the 19 degree snow the other day. Luckily, they didn't tell her about his nude face front snow angel. And she told them about a little kid who was being taken away from his mother on negligence charges because he was found wandering around barefoot in the snow. Of course, I could see a few holes in that story, and a couple of questions revealed that the kid was a toddler who didn't know where he was. The boys assured her that they were not three and that they were in their backyard barefoot and completely aware of where they lived not lost miles away.
I've always been more impressed with their logic than annoyed by the fact that they argue (about everything), and I'm glad to see that they can break down her story as well.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Good Moods, Amazing Friends and notes to Old Almost Lovers
Once again, I cannot shake this good mood. All the happiness is starting to wear on me as it chips away at my snarky veneer, but what's a girl to do when she has such a fabulous life, amazing friends and amusing children.
One of my friends called me the other day to tell me that she was so wrapped up in the acid scene that I had written that she wondered away from the coffee bar and completely forget about the mocha she ordered. That's one of the sweeter things anyone has ever said to me, but probably, in reality, I need someone a little meaner and less mutually enamoured with me to read my stuff.
In the back of the journal I kept during that same acid trip, I found the name of a boy. Thanks to the power of the internet, I was able to send the following note to this chap after I searched for him on FaceBook: "Hi. I found your name scrolled in the back of a blue journal that I wrote after a four day acid trip and after not sleeping for seven days. I think we spooned on a ferry while you were on your way to Crete and I was leaving Greece. Hope you're having a lovely life."
And with that note, those friends, and these hilarious kids, this fat housewife is duly sated and amused.
One of my friends called me the other day to tell me that she was so wrapped up in the acid scene that I had written that she wondered away from the coffee bar and completely forget about the mocha she ordered. That's one of the sweeter things anyone has ever said to me, but probably, in reality, I need someone a little meaner and less mutually enamoured with me to read my stuff.
In the back of the journal I kept during that same acid trip, I found the name of a boy. Thanks to the power of the internet, I was able to send the following note to this chap after I searched for him on FaceBook: "Hi. I found your name scrolled in the back of a blue journal that I wrote after a four day acid trip and after not sleeping for seven days. I think we spooned on a ferry while you were on your way to Crete and I was leaving Greece. Hope you're having a lovely life."
And with that note, those friends, and these hilarious kids, this fat housewife is duly sated and amused.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Santa: To Lie or not to Lie
So I never told my kids that Santa was real. The first time that Santa visited them, it was actually Father Christmas as we were in England, they were three and one. They got an orange and a piece of chocolate shoved into their socks which were left by the fire, but by the next year, they had re-imagined Santa into hero status.
Over the years, I have never lied to them, but they have occasionally of their own wit decided to believe in him (just as they have believed in Batman and Jesus and Zeus). "If Santa's not real, who drives those flying reindeer." --Boy One when he was Age 5.
As a non-Christian, I can't tell them that Santa's real while also telling them that I don't think that the baby Jesus is a god. I certainly don't want to push the gross-Santa stuff over the great-Baby Jesus stuff. I love the nativity story. It's so sweet, and all of the Jesus metaphors resonate so well with the light traditions that have been carried on for thousands of years by people during this time of the year when the world is the darkest. Santa, on the other hand, mostly represents consumeristic crappy bullshit, and I'm not going to push that story.
I like talking about it the Santa myth though. The other day, we were talking about when flying reindeer where added to the myth (probably about 200 years ago when The Night Before Christmas was written and the author described the reindeer flying to the roof). Boy One added that Santa did not fly in the Christmas scene in the Little House in The Prairie books. "Christmas was a lot different then. First of all, Santa was real," he said, and then, he went on and said a lot of other adorable things.
However, it's pointless to lie. Kid's brains aren't like ours--they're more fluid and less locked in dualism like fake and real. They can completely believe and completely not believe. When the stockings are found on Christmas morning, they completely believe in him. (even though they really know that it was me that slipped in the thrift store book, the deck of playing cards, and the candy).
I'm not ruining childhood by not lying to them about Santa. I'm just recognizing childhood for what it's capable of which is a hell of a lot of magic.
Over the years, I have never lied to them, but they have occasionally of their own wit decided to believe in him (just as they have believed in Batman and Jesus and Zeus). "If Santa's not real, who drives those flying reindeer." --Boy One when he was Age 5.
As a non-Christian, I can't tell them that Santa's real while also telling them that I don't think that the baby Jesus is a god. I certainly don't want to push the gross-Santa stuff over the great-Baby Jesus stuff. I love the nativity story. It's so sweet, and all of the Jesus metaphors resonate so well with the light traditions that have been carried on for thousands of years by people during this time of the year when the world is the darkest. Santa, on the other hand, mostly represents consumeristic crappy bullshit, and I'm not going to push that story.
I like talking about it the Santa myth though. The other day, we were talking about when flying reindeer where added to the myth (probably about 200 years ago when The Night Before Christmas was written and the author described the reindeer flying to the roof). Boy One added that Santa did not fly in the Christmas scene in the Little House in The Prairie books. "Christmas was a lot different then. First of all, Santa was real," he said, and then, he went on and said a lot of other adorable things.
However, it's pointless to lie. Kid's brains aren't like ours--they're more fluid and less locked in dualism like fake and real. They can completely believe and completely not believe. When the stockings are found on Christmas morning, they completely believe in him. (even though they really know that it was me that slipped in the thrift store book, the deck of playing cards, and the candy).
I'm not ruining childhood by not lying to them about Santa. I'm just recognizing childhood for what it's capable of which is a hell of a lot of magic.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
So now that I'm lucid (as lucid as one can be after a couple hours in their own head and a few glasses of wine), I realize that my reaction to the kid's distaste for conclusions was not really appropriate.
It doesn't bother me at all to edit out a lot of Twain's narrative exposition. It doesn't bother me to rewrite snatches of Peter Pan as I read it aloud, but their distaste for conclusions bugs the crap out of me.
Last night, Peter killed Hook, and the little jerks said, "Oh, the book is over." The book was not over at all so I yelled at them a bit and tried to plow through the ending. This is not a new problem: Crusoe gets rescued, eff the rest of it. You can make up your own examples, but as far as they're concerned, it's climax and shut the book (maybe it's a male thing). Anyway, when the shouting (mine) subsided, I just pouted and read the beautiful conclusion to myself. Then, I told them about it tonight while they ate a bedtime snack.
But it doesn't seem right to scream at them just because they don't dig endings so maybe I have to accept that shortcoming in their personalities and move on.
That's it. Happy Thanksgiving.
It doesn't bother me at all to edit out a lot of Twain's narrative exposition. It doesn't bother me to rewrite snatches of Peter Pan as I read it aloud, but their distaste for conclusions bugs the crap out of me.
Last night, Peter killed Hook, and the little jerks said, "Oh, the book is over." The book was not over at all so I yelled at them a bit and tried to plow through the ending. This is not a new problem: Crusoe gets rescued, eff the rest of it. You can make up your own examples, but as far as they're concerned, it's climax and shut the book (maybe it's a male thing). Anyway, when the shouting (mine) subsided, I just pouted and read the beautiful conclusion to myself. Then, I told them about it tonight while they ate a bedtime snack.
But it doesn't seem right to scream at them just because they don't dig endings so maybe I have to accept that shortcoming in their personalities and move on.
That's it. Happy Thanksgiving.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Four Shoes? Five Shoes? Other Big Decisions
Recently, the man got a bonus, and while I was looking up at him, I said through a mouthful of cock, "Oh, omniscient, great one, you earned that bonus, you spend it however you want." It was actually easy to do that because I don't pine for material possessions (usually).
About five years ago (I apologize if you've heard this before but it was a big moment for me), I noticed that I was fixating on a new futon cover. I realized that I could either spend forty dollars or I should stop thinking about it. At that moment, I didn't have forty bucks so I slung a red sheet on the futon and called it good, and literally from that moment, I have not allowed myself to pine for material possessions. ever. It's such a waste of mental energy. I wish I could stop my brain from perseverating on the million over non-important issues that it seems to fixate on, but that's just a wish at this point.
After I was done blowing him, I did let my mind wonder into the wanting side for a while, and I realized that I could spend a grand pretty quickly (new furniture, better wall pictures, new wardrobe, and a bedspread), but alas, I've shelved those ideas.
However, I do have to make one very important decision about shoes. Years ago, the Evangelical housewife told me that she only needed two pairs of shoes (flip flops and snow boots). I adjusted that to four (flip flops, snow boots, dress boots and chuck taylors), and I've been shoe-tastic ever since. However, about a six months ago, I bought some running shoes so that I could do the couch to 10k. I never even made it to the preposition in that proposition, but I did get some nifty shoes out of the deal. Sadly, I've just noticed that my Chucks have a hole in the sole, and this is the problem.... do I stick to my four shoe guns or yield to the need for Chucks?
It's an important issue that I'm going to ponder over a bottle of Pinot Noir. Two kids at a sleepover, one man at work, and one toddler going to bed soon (Yeah!!!)
About five years ago (I apologize if you've heard this before but it was a big moment for me), I noticed that I was fixating on a new futon cover. I realized that I could either spend forty dollars or I should stop thinking about it. At that moment, I didn't have forty bucks so I slung a red sheet on the futon and called it good, and literally from that moment, I have not allowed myself to pine for material possessions. ever. It's such a waste of mental energy. I wish I could stop my brain from perseverating on the million over non-important issues that it seems to fixate on, but that's just a wish at this point.
After I was done blowing him, I did let my mind wonder into the wanting side for a while, and I realized that I could spend a grand pretty quickly (new furniture, better wall pictures, new wardrobe, and a bedspread), but alas, I've shelved those ideas.
However, I do have to make one very important decision about shoes. Years ago, the Evangelical housewife told me that she only needed two pairs of shoes (flip flops and snow boots). I adjusted that to four (flip flops, snow boots, dress boots and chuck taylors), and I've been shoe-tastic ever since. However, about a six months ago, I bought some running shoes so that I could do the couch to 10k. I never even made it to the preposition in that proposition, but I did get some nifty shoes out of the deal. Sadly, I've just noticed that my Chucks have a hole in the sole, and this is the problem.... do I stick to my four shoe guns or yield to the need for Chucks?
It's an important issue that I'm going to ponder over a bottle of Pinot Noir. Two kids at a sleepover, one man at work, and one toddler going to bed soon (Yeah!!!)
Monday, November 14, 2011
Mice! (Freakin' Out!)
Oh my god. I just saw a mouse. I was taking the bag off my vacuum cleaner so that I could shake it out and reuse it, and the little fucker darted right past me. Shit! Shit! Shit!
Right, I know it's not a big deal. I deep cleaned eight or so days ago and didn't see any poop so I'm pretty sure he/she is a lone agent, and I've set 8 traps (which is a lot considering this place is less than 1000 sq feet). So, it will be okay.
But rodents symbolize failure to me. As my mother says, "Only dirty people have mice" Well, maybe she doesn't say that, but I'm pretty sure she thinks it. I think she actually said if you're clean, you'll find the poop before you see the rodent. Whatever.
We had mice over-running our last two places, and it was completely uncomfortable to live there, but I've learned something about mice since then. A) Mice can get through the smallest cracks, and those places were (unlike this place) full of cracks and crevices that invited mice in. B) We are a haven for mice in terms of food on the floor (I've just vacuumed, but it's still a haven if the little fucker wants to set up camp). C) Mice breed every six weeks so there is no time to fight about whose job it is to set the traps which is why I have set the traps and will reset the traps.
C--is the only thing that is relevant in this situation.
This was my Facebook status from a couple of years ago (just to illustrate how bad the mice actually were):
In theory, I love my children to the moon and back, but when that love is tested by my middle son shouting help me mommy as he hops around with a sticky trap stuck to his foot with two little squeaking mice also stuck to it, I love him just enough to turn and run in the other direction.
Now, I'm leaving.... hopefully this fucker know that we're armed now. If the traps don't get him, I'll have the man sit up with the gun.
Right, I know it's not a big deal. I deep cleaned eight or so days ago and didn't see any poop so I'm pretty sure he/she is a lone agent, and I've set 8 traps (which is a lot considering this place is less than 1000 sq feet). So, it will be okay.
But rodents symbolize failure to me. As my mother says, "Only dirty people have mice" Well, maybe she doesn't say that, but I'm pretty sure she thinks it. I think she actually said if you're clean, you'll find the poop before you see the rodent. Whatever.
We had mice over-running our last two places, and it was completely uncomfortable to live there, but I've learned something about mice since then. A) Mice can get through the smallest cracks, and those places were (unlike this place) full of cracks and crevices that invited mice in. B) We are a haven for mice in terms of food on the floor (I've just vacuumed, but it's still a haven if the little fucker wants to set up camp). C) Mice breed every six weeks so there is no time to fight about whose job it is to set the traps which is why I have set the traps and will reset the traps.
C--is the only thing that is relevant in this situation.
This was my Facebook status from a couple of years ago (just to illustrate how bad the mice actually were):
In theory, I love my children to the moon and back, but when that love is tested by my middle son shouting help me mommy as he hops around with a sticky trap stuck to his foot with two little squeaking mice also stuck to it, I love him just enough to turn and run in the other direction.
Now, I'm leaving.... hopefully this fucker know that we're armed now. If the traps don't get him, I'll have the man sit up with the gun.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Babysitters
So you would think that I would be excited about the fact that we're going out twice tomorrow without the kids (once in the morning to a wedding reception and once in the evening to the chop house), and eventually, I'm sure that I will be excited (like after I'm gone and the alcohol is swirling in my blood).
However, at the moment I'm still a little West of stressed over it. First of all, I have to clean everything before the babysitter gets here.... I mean what will she think if I don't scrub all of my kitchen cabinets, scrub the place between the fridge and the counter, and clean out the bathroom drawer and buy new toothbrushes and paste. I would be mortified if anyone found out that until an hour ago our bathroom drawer was caked with toothpaste and had five empty tubes and four toothbrushes floating in it (yes, just four, becuase we all just brush our teeth with whichever brush we hope wasn't in the toilet). That would be mortifying if anyone found that out so I've got it looking all status-quo now.
Then, there's the issue of the babysitter herself. Normally, we don't have a babysitter more than once a year so I always have to find a new one. This year, we have had a babysitter more than once, but I've lost my phone in the meantime and can't figure out how to get a hold of that virgin Wisconsinite that I've mentioned in previous posts. Then, of course, there's the issue of it being a double shift. What if she hates the kids and refuses to come back. Usually, they're pretty good for babysitters, but there was that one time when Boy One was almost four and I left him against my better instincts to go to my BFF's wedding rehearsal dinner.... When we got home, the babysitter said, "He took a while to adjust and then he was fine". The neighbors said that he stood in the backyard for forty-five minutes screaming, "You're not my mother! Get the fuck out of my house!". I don't think that will happen again becuase he's not three, and the other two aren't giant freaks, but heck, anything could happen here.
Lastly, there's the issue of my wardrobe (yes, I know; it's a first world complaint, and people are starving all over the world---skinny bitches). However, it is starting to show that I spend less than eighty bucks a year on clothes and that my weight is up and down. It also doesn't help that any time I lose two pounds, I jubilantly give away my size tens, and yet I am clinging to two boxes of size fives (that are probably out of style anyway) in the basement.
But don't worry, I'll overcome. If I have to I'll bribe the babysitter with extra cash, and I'll drink until I look good before I go out.
Otherwise, I am in a very good mood. I was mentally very productive and happy while scrubbing my cabinets yesterday, and in fact, I've been in a great mood for over a day now!!!! That is all.
However, at the moment I'm still a little West of stressed over it. First of all, I have to clean everything before the babysitter gets here.... I mean what will she think if I don't scrub all of my kitchen cabinets, scrub the place between the fridge and the counter, and clean out the bathroom drawer and buy new toothbrushes and paste. I would be mortified if anyone found out that until an hour ago our bathroom drawer was caked with toothpaste and had five empty tubes and four toothbrushes floating in it (yes, just four, becuase we all just brush our teeth with whichever brush we hope wasn't in the toilet). That would be mortifying if anyone found that out so I've got it looking all status-quo now.
Then, there's the issue of the babysitter herself. Normally, we don't have a babysitter more than once a year so I always have to find a new one. This year, we have had a babysitter more than once, but I've lost my phone in the meantime and can't figure out how to get a hold of that virgin Wisconsinite that I've mentioned in previous posts. Then, of course, there's the issue of it being a double shift. What if she hates the kids and refuses to come back. Usually, they're pretty good for babysitters, but there was that one time when Boy One was almost four and I left him against my better instincts to go to my BFF's wedding rehearsal dinner.... When we got home, the babysitter said, "He took a while to adjust and then he was fine". The neighbors said that he stood in the backyard for forty-five minutes screaming, "You're not my mother! Get the fuck out of my house!". I don't think that will happen again becuase he's not three, and the other two aren't giant freaks, but heck, anything could happen here.
Lastly, there's the issue of my wardrobe (yes, I know; it's a first world complaint, and people are starving all over the world---skinny bitches). However, it is starting to show that I spend less than eighty bucks a year on clothes and that my weight is up and down. It also doesn't help that any time I lose two pounds, I jubilantly give away my size tens, and yet I am clinging to two boxes of size fives (that are probably out of style anyway) in the basement.
But don't worry, I'll overcome. If I have to I'll bribe the babysitter with extra cash, and I'll drink until I look good before I go out.
Otherwise, I am in a very good mood. I was mentally very productive and happy while scrubbing my cabinets yesterday, and in fact, I've been in a great mood for over a day now!!!! That is all.
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