our goings-on

My sweet boy is a little sour right now

2011-04-21T14:46:00.002-05:00

Yowza! Let's talk about sassy kids over-sassing their mothers. By over-sassing I mean disrespecting. And by kids I mean Gil. The mother? Me.

The consequence I came up with for Gil's recent behavior is a 7 o'clock bedtime. Did I mention he does not like that? At all? At first I wasn't going to let him read in bed, but it's pretty hard to declare LIGHTS OUT! when, well, it's still light out.

My son does not like the idea of going to bed at 7:00, when it's still light out, before his younger brother, and when he knows the rest of us are snuggled on the couch watching American Idol or playing Sorry or some neverending card game.

Dude's gotta be punished, though. And I figure the consequence that angers him the most should probably be the one he receives, right?

I am not dismissing the fact that Gil may very likely be reacting to the unrest between his dad and me. What's tough is trying to decipher between that, a manipulative kid, and age-appropriate boundary testing. At this point my guess is it's a little bit of everything.

Sigh

When I hear the next I HATE YOU!, I will continue to reply as I always do: "That's fine. You can hate me all you want. I will always love you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere."

Where I profess my love for graphic designers. The good ones, anyway.

2011-04-20T14:46:00.000-05:00

As my creative juices continue to flow - or, gurgle, sputter, and spit until the augger of my inner me dislodges whatever the hell was blocking said juices - I continue to utilize a resource I've never even met in person. Or spoken to verbally. Isn't that crazy?

No. No it's not.

I was searching for your not-so-traditional Valentine's Day cards for my kids one year to share at school and found this etsy shop. From there I not only bought the Valentine's, but I checked out her blog, participated in a contest she had going, and won the Grand Prize! It was a banner for your blog. Needless to say, I stumbled upon a resource that has so far been valuable to me in this world I try to participate in when, say, my juices flow freely.

Her name is Brenda and this is her blog. She tells the tales of her daughter, adventures in their yard, dogs, family, parties, all while Brenda is all creative and stuff. Stuff she makes appear so effortless. She's also a graphic designer and I love graphic designers. I love how the good ones design websites that are so simple and clean and easy to navigate.
Like my friend Marian.

Not only do I love good and talented graphic designers, they impress me. Their efforts appear effortless. My sincerest hopes for said people is that their work is as easy as they make it look and they aren't suffering through anxiety attacks and sleepless nights.

I've started hiring Brenda as my own graphic designer for little projects I need help with. I pay her, you guys. She's affordable, talented, and I'm a firm believer in paying someone to complete a task I could try to accomplish on my own, but I WOULDN'T KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN.

Like hiring the guy to hang my mailbox that sat on the floor of my front porch for almost 5 years. Or the pocket doors in my over-100-year-old house that stayed stuck in their pockets for almost 5 years. Or painting my porch. I appreciate these people big time.

The banner you see above? That's not even the free one anymore. I was ready for a revamp and went to the one girl I knew I could a) trust, b) appreciate, and c) be the one to help me get it done. A few emails exchanged and there it is.

And now she's helping me come up with a watermark for my photography business, which I'm super excited about. Which, as you can see, is also clean, simple, and easy to navigate. I can't stand going to a website that is filled with endless text and images that I forget what I was even looking for.

Even though you can't hear, LISTEN TO THIS!

2011-02-15T10:55:00.004-06:00

Do you guys remember the episode of American Idol when Seacrest offered a congratulatory high five TO A BLIND GUY?

A similar experience occurred last week when one of my dearest (and most intelligent...) friends was discussing her two thumbs up! for the movie 127 Hours.

Julie: "Saw 127 Hours this weekend and give it two thumbs up!
A tip for moviegoers: skip the snacks and drinks - particularly anything yellow like Mt. Dew. Just sayin'."

Unabashed Me: "that's kinda like seacrest throwing up his HIGH FIVE! for the blind guy..."

Just sayin'.

I may or may not be losing my mind

2011-02-09T12:01:00.008-06:00

Meanwhile, some girlfriends of mine and I are going to see Tom Green tonight. My memories of him include his bout with testicular cancer, being married to Drew Barrymore, and his MTV show from the 90's that made my inner 15-year-old boy laugh so hard root beer simultaneously foamed and squirted out of my nose.

My horoscope.com horoscope for yesterday:

"An unexpected opportunity could temporarily throw your life into disorder, Aquarius, but you will see from the start that this is a definite stroke of good luck that you shouldn't let pass. It could involve money, a chance to move to your dream home, or relationships in some way. Whatever it is, you're definitely going to be happy about it."

Last night, my about-to-fall-asleep brain threw me into thoughts of What if Tom Green gives me his phone number! Maybe he'll ask me to go on the road with him! And write for his blog! And then we begin a relationship! AND I MOVE TO CANADA!

That would definitely throw my life into disorder.

Wouldn't it be just my luck to have some wackadoo "stroke of good luck" like this? No, actually. It wouldn't. Because I'm the perpetual raffle ticket holder who never wins a goddamned thing.

It is fun to think about, say, strolling the streets of any foreign land with Anthony Bourdain or being courted by a some silly nutjob like Tom Green, though.

I have no reservations

2011-02-08T13:53:00.003-06:00

Wil Wheaton, Brian Bloom, Chad Allen, Ashton Kutcher. What do these boys have in common? They have each held a piece of my heart at one point during my lifetime. Granted they are no longer boys, and one isn't even interested in women (although tell that to 11-year-old Emily as she dutifully tuned in each week to Our House). At 36, divorced, and a mother of 3, I've moved on to men.

One man in particular: Anthony Bourdain.

While I can do without the one-earring look, this brash mouthed silver fox captivates my unwavering attention with his gruff yet silky smooth narration on No Reservations. I've never even read a single one of his books. Nor am I familiar with his cooking abilities. His scruffy exterior, affinity for drinking whatever the locals do, while reaching for his pack of smokes in the Himalayas are all responsible for my devotion to the show each time I happen upon it.

Sure the mere sight of Tony makes me giggle; just looking at his picture has me blushing and turning my bashful head. But it's more than that. Join me in imagining the damage he and I could make wandering the bustling streets of Shanghai, bellying up to a historic bar in Montana, or listening to Pink Floyd while paragliding in Patagonia.

Oh who am I kidding. If his writing is anything like his narration, I'm jellied bean curd betwixt his chopsticks.

Bottomless cup of coffee for one

2011-02-06T11:10:00.001-06:00

There is nothing quite like the relaxing, quiet, coffee and alone time I get on Sunday mornings. Before the kids' dad picks them up for church, my responsibility is to timely wake and feed them, make sure they get dressed, and that they're clean. The latter is optional and really more about my tolerance of a dirty kid, but typically necessary. I can usually accomplish this by observing the sheen and status of their hair as they emerge from a night's sleep: Greasy? Bed head? Wait. Were they born with those cowlicks?

Not only #1 but also #2

2011-01-27T12:31:00.002-06:00

Day one of Daisy's crating seemed successful. Not a lot of options for the pup when she's resting in her very own den - because that's what I hear crate advocates say a dog considers its crate - for about 6-plus hours. However, even after her two walks after the kids and I returned from school and work respectively, there was a pile of shit in the office and a piss puddle in the boys' room.

Let's remember Daisy's shit obsession, shall we?

Lucky for us, we feed Daisy Hund-N-Flocken. There's a reason the company is called Solid Gold. Daisy's poops are solid. And gold.

They don't feed your precious pets THAT at the pound, now do they, Soggibottom!

It's not like pan-able gold or fool's gold, but it's solid. And that's what counts when you're utilizing a thumbless bag mitten outside OR inside, in our case.

After cursing The Maker, it dawns on me to add an early evening walk to her existing Three A Day routine. Maybe she's choosing to toilet in our house because of the cold. Maybe we're not timing the walks to her poops. I hate to blame the victim. While some of you may agree with me and think I'm the victim, I'll give this one to Daisy. Speaking of The Maker, a talking dog wouldn't be too off the wall, now would it?

How long am I supposed to put up with this?

2011-01-26T10:39:00.007-06:00

One of the perks of inviting once-wild-now-domesticated animals into your home is their innate need to mark where they live. And by mark I mean piss. I choose the word piss out of sheer disgust. It is an ugly word for a despicable behavior that these feral creatures would do, say, ON A TREE. OUTSIDE.

The last animal to do this was killed. Sure, Chloe was old. But I'm the sucker who pays for all the stupid tests and special foods that only lead to the all too predictable announcement from the vet, "I believe this is to be behavioral." Really? Because I don't like this behavior.

Now we have Daisy. She's such a sweet dog, about 6 years old. A pound pup we dutifully rescued from the local shelter. Unfortunate for all of us, Daisy has taken a liking to pissing on the one rug we have left in the house when we're not home. If you want to count the front door mat, she manages to make that her own as well. I cannot tell you how many times I've washed that mat. In vinegar even.

The thing about this one rug we have in the house is that it covers the floor of our family room. Children play there, babies crawl, AND I WALK. There's no longer rugs in any of our bedrooms, office, either hallway appropriate for a runner, play room, or even bath mats. Why? One word. And becaues of this One Word the rug smells more like a pickling factory than anything else. Thankfully I've trained my kids well enough to handle the clean up. Yesterday after I stepped into a wet patch on the rug, clearly my body language screaming THIS IS NOT GOOD, Gil volunteered, "I got it" and returned with papertowels, some wet with water, some dry, and the jug of vinegar.

Living in a home with hardwood floors really has the inhabitants longing for warm, wool or cotton blended fibers to ease the discomfort of bare floors.

Due to Daisy's need to mark up my house while she's unattended, whether it's because of her houndishness or her need to reclaim her territory, I decided to reinstate her crate. Instead of gazing out the window during the day, barking and protecting her home and pack, she is confined to a 3x2 cage.

Sure beats joining Chloe in a can of ashes on the bathroom shelf.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mind you, Daisy is loved and cuddled, walked and played with while we're home. She's allowed to lick the dirty dishes as I load the washer, handed scraps of food, and asked kindly to "GIT DAISY" when too close under foot. The problem is when we're not home and she has the run of the house that has led to crating during the day.

Life lessons

2010-12-22T10:31:00.004-06:00

Last night was an evening of Holiday Music a la my kids and their fellow Suzuki school of music students. Egan had been preparing for this event practicing Jingle Bells daily, several times a day. He was highly anticipating this opportunity to play with the orchestra. At the cue of "Jingle Bells is up next!" he strutted his confident cowboy boot wearing self, viola tucked under his arm, to the front row.

Sweet Baby Jesus, he was adorable. And Allie was amazing. Unfortunately Gil wasn't able to participate with his classical guitar playing because his teacher fell ill just before the show.

So after these events, there's always a buffet of finger foods and plentiful holiday cookies. Brownies. Chocolates. Santa walking around with candy canes. Cocktail weenies. Meatballs.

You see, I am very aware of all of these foodstuffs because of my sweet Gil saving his regurgitated buffet extravaganza for me to clean up in the hallway outside of his room later in the night.

I'm awoken to Allie standing at my bedside, dutifully alerting me to her brother's incident. Poor Gil had literally tossed his cookies all over the hallway floor outside of his room. A mere 5 paces from the toilet.

The Funny Part, which can also be read as FORESHADOWING, is flashing back to our car ride home, when Gil was complaining of a slight tummy ache and not feeling well. I told him that was probably diabetes setting in. I also reminded him that this is not the first time he has gorged on sweets and cookies that leads to the inevitable chocolate infused vomit fest. Although one of those other times, because I'm pretty sure this has happened at least 3 maybe 4 times, Coca Cola was the base. And that time the chocolate came from way too many S'mores. There had to have been a chemical reaction occuring.

The other day my friend gave me a bag of circus peanuts. It was a joke of course, because I'm pretty sure no adult voluntarily injests circus peanuts. Although she did after I opened the package because she swears she's never had one. She's from California, though. That's the only reasonable explanation.

This entire discussion of sugar induced vomiting immediately puts me back to when I had to have been about 5 years old and made myself sick on circus peanuts.

The sweet syrup the pharmacist puts into amoxicillin? To sucker your kid into taking it? Smells exactly like circus peanuts. This is me shuddering in disgust over here.

My midnight activity last night was figuring out how the hell to sop up this sea of chocolate and OH LOOK! A BARELY CHEWED COCKTAIL WEENIE! Rest assured, dear readers, I completed the task with what must be a disposable bath towel because I chucked it off the back porch where it still is today. With no intention of figuring out how to clean it. To the trash it goes.

This morning Egan says to Gil sternly, "You knew this was going to happen, Gil. Why do you do that to yourself?"

On keeping it real. Very very real.

2010-12-15T11:04:00.006-06:00

If you feel like reading a cheerful humorous tale of this and that, this post is not for you.

So far I've been pretty candid about my experience with divorce. Continuing to honor that, I will say that I have been a fool. Me being naive and underestimating this whole thing is nothing new. But I actually thought this new fangled divorce process was going to work for us. What I've realized is it takes two people to make forging a new, revolutionary, path successful.

My cheeks burn right now with frustration, anger, and hurt. If this bothers you to hear this? Think of how I feel.

Our goings on

2010-12-14T13:53:00.001-06:00

I do believe NaBloPoMo 2010 was the greatest successful flop I've ever achieved. What's with that, anyway? I mean, during my morning showers is when I come up with most of my content and by the time I actually sit down to put it all together... well... I just don't.

In other news, raising 'tweens has sucked the majority of my creativity clean dry. Yes, I will toss Gil into the Tween category because even though he's 9? He plays 12 really REALLY well.

Gil pointing and shouting tearfull at Allie: YOU, ALRIGHT?! I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!

Do you guys remember that awesome drug commercial from our youth? The boy air drumming or whatever in his poster laden room, interrupted by his dad who disapprovingly shoves his kid's stash in his face. The boy lowers his headphones, or whatever, and shouts, YOU, ALRIGHT?! I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!

My dad and I still say that to each other. You may recall his comment on my post about pet peeves.

Back to my kids. After a long, and I mean LONG, Thanksgiving break, I decided to declare authority once again and forbid tv watching. [insert evil witch cackle here] That's right. I FORBODE it. I think that's the first time I've ever used that word. My kids were certifiably awful. I lost all touch with my them. And yes, I blame those stupid Disney twins, Hannah Montana, and Allie sneaking E! and way too much TLC. And by TLC I mean Sarah Palin, Kate Goselin, and those little people. And the family with a million kids.

Day 15: Bedtime shenanigans

2010-11-15T22:04:00.007-06:00

Never am I disappointed with our bedtime routine. Sure some nights are better than others, like when your mom's visiting from out of town and you're all, I've got this great idea where GRANDMA gets to read you a STORY! while my feet are up, beer's in one hand as the other's fondling the remote to find out if Jersey Shore, Intervention, or Real Houswives (of ANYWHERE but Atlanta) is on. Instead only, The Little Couple with 19 Kids and Counting Kate Plus 8 is Enough...what? is on. Jesus TLC, what show won't you do?

Tonight's funny was delivered by Egan. Once snuggled into bed, I asked him if he remembered to pee. I could see him running through the whole night in his head, considering how full his bladder really is and could he make it til morning. After pensively looking up at the ceiling, he said, "Nope. But I will right now."

Just as he was scampering out, he stops dead center in the middle of the room and turns toward his bed, all admiring like.

Egan: Don't you just love my bed?
Me: Of course I do, don't you?
Egan: Mmm-hmmmm...

[He disapprovingly shifts his glance to Gil's bed where I'm lying, waiting for Gil to return from wherever so we can READ ALREADY - the bedtime routine? IT DRAGS ON AND ON AND ON AND ON...]

All bershon, Egan points at Gil's eternally disheveled bed: Why is Gil's bed always so crumbly?

Day 14: This is way too good not to share again

2010-11-14T13:44:00.003-06:00

You may have seen this post at Dooce, but I'm going to repost it anyway because this shit? EQUALS FUNNY. I'm still grossed out by Mariah Carey.

Jezebel's Comprehensive Glossary of Gifs.

Enjoy!

Day 13

2010-11-13T13:33:00.000-06:00

My first choice for this year's holiday greeting card.

Day 12: On Bidness

2010-11-12T11:24:00.000-06:00

I'm over here working toward getting a website rolling, purchase a domain name, and get business cards printed. I tried once already and it was such an incredibly lame attempt. To get business cards. This stuff takes a lot of creative energy to develop and I struggle with setting myself in motion.

Goals are blinding me with their persistence. I want to be a photographer but not like a professional one. More like a good one. That people pay to document their weddings, senior, and family portraits.

I am studying to be a birth doula. Not very fast, but I'm working on it. Remember my problem with reading? A stack of four books on childbirth and my training manual are keeping me company as we speak, placed just where they belong: on the shelf under my end table. With the latest Rolling Stone and Real Simple sitting like cherries on top. Their insides yet to be explored.

I'll get to them, all of them. I swear. I just don't know when.

Stretching myself too thin is a scary concept for me. I watch people around me put their hands in so many different pots. While I admire these characteristics, I can also admire my own ability to attend to what I need to on a daily basis: Raise three kids and go to work. That first part? The raising three kids part? Is fucking huge.

On top of the being a professional part and raising three kids stuff, I'm wanting to pursue my photography business and hoping expectant couples will invite me to help them have the best childbirth experience they can.

These two goals are solid, I know this. How can I feel like I'm walking on the moon instead of trudging through the muck of self-doubt?

Day 11: On Pet Peeves

2010-11-11T09:34:00.004-06:00

People often ask you, "What's your pet peeve?" as if you're only supposed to have one. In my adult years I've worked really hard at teaching myself how to accept people and their behaviors, regardless of how they affect me, without reacting to them.

Until the other day.

Mostly I'm A Listener, which is the way I like it. Those of you who know me know I'll let you ramble on while I smile and nod. "Mmm-hmmm..." I mean, unless it's the kind of conversation where I interject my flippant opinions and facetious sarcasm. For this example, Internet, you can refer to me as A Listener. Got it?

I found myself following a conversation of a person describing going home for the holidays. The physical direction this person was going was West. Not East, North, or South. I knew this based on the city he/she was referring to.

Person: I'll be heading toward [this city] next week for the holidays...
Me: Mmm-hmmm...
Person: ...and I'm not sure how long I'll be Down There.
Me: Mmm-hmmm...Down There?

This person also had plans to go Up There to Iowa City.

Being in Eastern Iowa, said city is to our west, and it's Over There. Iowa City is South and undoubtedly Down There while we are Up There from there. Anything South of here can now be referred to as Down There. Anything North, like Minnesota or Canada, hell, even Decorah, is Up There. The Mississippi River? East.

Hello, my name is Emily and I am a Directional Bigot. I will react negatively to your Directional Disability. Kind of like They're, Their, and There. Or You're and Your. But different.

Day 10: Thank a Vet Day

2010-11-10T18:21:00.000-06:00

Today is my Friday in the middle of the week. The kids don't have school tomorrow and I don't have work.

THANK YOU, VETERANS!

Day 9: Words have ears

2010-11-09T09:45:00.000-06:00

Words' ears must have been ringing with yesterday's post. While listening to NPR, I heard a bit on Save the Words; A recent effort by Oxford dictionary to find dedicated wordsmiths LIKE YOU! to first choose a word and then vow to keep it alive by using it in our every day lives. By adopting it. Cute, huh?

Day 8: Let's build our lexicon, shall we?

2010-11-08T12:04:00.004-06:00

Demotic is my Dictionary.com word of the day.

At first glance I read demonic which brought out an instantaneous giggle. Demonic is one of those words that first make me think of my kids. I'd be lying if I said I didn't also think of myself. And Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

Demotic means, according to dictionary.com: Of or pertaining to the common people; popular. And that suits me too.

Day 7: "She was an avid reader" will not be in my eulogy

2010-11-07T12:18:00.002-06:00

Rarely in my lifetime have I finished a book. While many of you can boast a library-full of read novels, I have a three shelved case full of half-read books.

I'm in one book club and have been invited to join another. My goal of completing the requirements for DONA International's birth doula certification involves reading 5 books on subjects from pregnancy, childbirth preparation, to breastfeeding. All topics I'm incredibly interested in. It's the reading part I struggle with.

Am I too short-attention-spanned? Lazy? I'd be lying if I told you I'd rather read than watch tv at night once the kids are in bed. Plus when I do try to read before bed? I last one page, maybe two, before I'm asleep with a book on my chest.

Authors and titles I've enjoyed are Augusten Burroughs "Running with Scissors," "Dry," as well as his collection of short stories "Magical Thinking." I thoroughly enjoyed "The Kite Runner" and Wally Lamb's "She's Come Undone" and "I Know This Much is True." In two days I read "The Lovely Bones." Each of these books finished. COVER TO COVER.

Riveting side note: It is not a coincidence that each of these stories involve oddball, insane, sad, tortured, obscure, inappropriate, foul-mouthed characters.

I can recall a silent reading period in elementary school, my desk shoved against a wall as some form of punishment for laughing, trying to simply get into "Ralph S. Mouse." Seriously. I think specifically about that single experience a lot. And now, although my big kids can read alone AND finish a book, I'm afraid I'm passing on this inability to Egan. He picks out a novel for us to read together and it's months before we finish it. At least we finish it?

Maybe the need for understanding is because I come from a family of avid readers. Then again, that's not the only thing setting me apart from my family. But it's like someone saying, "I just don't like mushrooms." How do they know they don't like mushrooms if they always avoid them? How can I know I'm "not a reader" if I don't try picking up a book from time to time?

EDITOR'S NOTE: The author would like to add Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" to the list of books she has actually finished reading. And has a feeling there will be other titles to include that are not accurately represented herein. Like David Sedaris, Julie. You're right.

Day 6

2010-11-06T10:55:00.004-05:00

Please don't be confused by my inherent ability to live in the present yet post from the past. It's something that runs in my family and we really don't like to talk about it. Someone, some distant cousin, once told me it had something to do with the CIA or a lamp or some mountain or a wardrobe, but I'm just here to tell you to go with it.

Jon really doesn't want me to talk about this, so I'm going to do my best to respect that. While still blogging about it.

First of all, each couple deciding to split needs to explore mediation. Why we didn't do that the first go-round is beyond me. The fact both of us wasted so much time and money on attorneys and the judicial system really aggravates me.

Second of all, and this is the good part, not all married couples deciding to divorce hate each other. It's amazing how many people doubted Jon's and my ability to maintain a relationship of friendship and support while putting our kids' needs miles ahead of our own. It was traveling to the over-explored, dysfunctional, expensive, developing country (I know, right?) of Traditional Divorce that really made me open my eyes to the possibilities of what Jon and I could actually accomplish if we put our minds to it and told my stupid attorney to fuck off. That and the native language these people speak makes no sense at all: legalese

Not to mention the invaluable lesson of payinging attention to my own needs alongside my kids'. Because in my book? A mom who isn't in tune with who she is, - or at least beginning to listen to herself - is going to travel through Traditional Divorce's neighboring province of Losing Your Identity. I hear they have a good underground system of public transportation, but that's the problem: Nothing ever surfaces there. You pretend to be something you're not without exploring what really exists. What really makes you feel secure and confident. Because this system keeps you going in circles without getting anywhere. Scary place, you guys. I've been there. My visa apparently expired and I was stuck there for TEN YEARS.

I am here to encourage you to explore mediation before ever talking to an attorney. Sure, attorneys may be required at some point. But not right away. The beautiful part about it is you can decide that for yourself. You dictate the speed at which this process travels. No one else. If you're amicable with your ex-whatever, go for it. Try to iron out what you guys need to address with someone qualified to facilitate conflict resolution. You won't be disappointed.

Editor's Note: How validating is THIS!

Day 5: Because I'm qualified

2010-11-05T08:49:00.007-05:00

I'm left feeling a wee uneasy over here. I expose myself to pop culture, which is pretty much every day because that's the way my brain works. It's what keeps my attention. Keeps me young. Talk to me about any historical time frame or genre of pretty much anything -or math- and you find yourself puzzled; assisting me to sit up straight while wiping the drool from my chin, furrowing your brow in confusion, wondering if I've always been a mouth breather. You gently close my bottom jaw.

When I'm flipping through my US Weekly I observe these young starlets and talentless "musicians" wearing platform high heels and feel empty inside.

I just don't understand that style: Short sheath dresses by fancy-schmancy designers with anorexic stick figures underneath them, their ends, commonly referred to as "legs," stuck into PLATFORM shoes. I'm picturing Barbie over here.

Didn't Herman Munster or KISS set this trend? What? Those were different? Psssst...no they weren't.

When I need to wear high heels... wait. When the hell will I ever be required to wear high heels? I'm more likely to be found soaking in a tub of epsom salts.

My assignment to you, Wearers of High Heels, is to observe those wearing said shoes. Then scour the blogs and OKs to learn who isn't wearing ~~hooker shoes~~ platform high heels.

Meanwhile you'll be seeing me at the SAS shoe outlet.

Day 4: On giving in

2010-11-04T22:12:00.006-05:00

I've been contemplating purchasing a Wii for the kids for Christmas this year. I guess it's actually a gift to the entire family because, have you guys played one? Those game-games they have on those things? We all take turns bowling or playing outfield while the other bats. And those adorable bobbing little Mii's. What drives me nuts is the tennis part. Why is it always doubles?

The tough question is What about other game systems? I buy Macs, iPods, iPhones, organic, free range...I'm definitely not a PC person or a Blackberry addict. Nor do I shop at Wal Mart. Wouldn't purchasing a PS-whatever-the-number be like buying an American car? Living in a subdivision? Voting Republican? Eating Wonder bread?

To me the logical choice along the vein of consumerism that pumps through my body is the Wii.

Should I do it?

Day 3:

2010-11-03T20:58:00.002-05:00

Damn. I had a great idea for post while I was running today, complete with title, opener, and a punchline. And just like that it's gone. Hate it when that happens.

Day 2: Of course I voted, you guys

2010-11-02T17:54:00.004-05:00

I thought somewhere amidst my hundreds of posts over the last 4 years there was one about how I long to receive a metal clippy I VOTED pin after, well, I vote. When did they stop this practice and who was the Scrooge that had the idea to blow out the flame of accomplishment to show the entire community that YES! I VOTED!?

I'd really like to give him -or her- the what for.

Day 1: I have no legs

2010-11-01T21:01:00.004-05:00

There's something to be said about revisiting things you adored, were fascinated by, or that captivated you as a teen or young adult, as an adult. A grown adult. With kids. And a career. And graduate degrees and stuff. Where staying up past 10:00 pm is considered asinine.

I recently revisited the movie Kids for the first time since I was a mere 20 years-old living in Virginia Beach. My life back then involved waiting tables to stay alive and rolling pennies to make rent. Meanwhile, purchasing a bag of grass took about as much forethought as blinking.

Several friends and I snuggled (whether we wanted to or not) on my sectional to take in my inaugural movie club pick. I'm certainly not someone who selects a film involving The Rock or Jackie Chan - I have no idea why I chose those two names to describe what I don't like in a movie. I'm sure both possess qualities in their acting career that really appeal to many movie buffs. Or not.

Side note: Inception was shit no matter which way you slice it.

Whether our own free will or not, the opening scene of Kids? Set the uncomfortable, seat-shifting, gag-reflexing, eye-rolling tone for the 91 minutes each one of us unpleasantly endured. Some of us peered through the fingers we veiled our eyes with while others turned their heads in utter disgust. No matter how we reacted, each one of us simultaneously rattled off how many reasons why THAT IS JUST SO WRONG!

And I still love it.

Accidental tourist

2010-10-30T22:16:00.002-05:00

You know you've landed on a blog you shouldn't have when the person's ABOUT involves "loving Jesus Christ." Exit stage left.

NaBloPoMo 2010

2010-10-30T19:17:00.004-05:00

NaBloPoMo 2010 is fast approaching and I'm over here with my feet up, High Life in hand, facebook constantly popping up chat sessions, preparing for November's daily postings.

Are you?

Duck and cover

2010-10-21T09:53:00.003-05:00

This morning I heard California is prepping their school age kids for an earthquake drill. They all have to DROP TO THE GROUND! at some certain time. Jesus, you guys, how scary would that be?

Immediately I was brought back to my school age days of tornado drills: Each class of obnoxious kids lined up along the walls and lockers down meandering hallways, crunched up like a ball. This was still an opportunity for prime socializing, assuming you got to sit next to a friend.

While the teachers were doing their very best to silence the mass of giggling, snorting, shouting kids, hoping to God the impending natural disaster (simulation) would pass, a fart rings out with that perfect gas-on-linoleum vibrato. And everyone bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

I swear it wasn't me.

Notice anything...different?

2010-10-20T15:16:00.004-05:00

Come on, you guys. Tell me how much you love my new look! I really blame that stale old masthead, representing the life I struggled to live, for my inability to write. No more false advertising for this lady.

And they don't even drink coffee

2010-10-20T07:49:00.005-05:00

As the boys are dining over chocolate Cheerios

Gil to me: What's your favorite home improvement show?
Me: I don't really have one. I'm not so into home improvement. What's yours? (as in, enlighten me, young fella)
Gil: Mine's The Martha Stewart Show
Me: How do you know her?
Gil: She's packing up her show and moving to another channel.
Egan: [oh so matter of factly] To Los Angeles.

Cooking and stuff

2010-10-19T15:07:00.009-05:00

Completing the task of Grocery Shopping is so incredibly rewarding. What? Yesterday's post? You're confused? It's like laundry, you guys. An unbearable, neverending task that feels mad-gratifying to complete.

Although I get shit from friends, and my kids' friends, for not having fun, chocolaty, high fructose corn syrup-filled, diabetes onsetting, tooth-rotting treats, I do bend from time to time. Yesterday Egan's "treat" was Transformers fruit snacks. And I'm all Really, kid? That's the best you can do? You poor lamb.

While I'm apprehensive about springing new dishes on my kids, for fear of the rejection of the meal I clearly spent time and energy creating AND them going hungry (yeah right), I went for it. I enjoy reading this woman's blog who has a section called Did They Eat It. She had a recipe that referenced this website. These types of websites were created for people like me: lazy freeloading cooks who like to piggy-back on other people's creations.

Back to the recipe I duped my kids into eating. It looked so yummy in the picture and smelled even better simmering. But it involved citrus, you guys. OJ and apple cider vinegar. Apple cider vinegar that I keep under my sink in one of those giant jugs used solely for dispensing into a small cup combined with dish soap and trapping fruit flies in the summer time. It was the combo of cumin, salt, and pepper coating the slices of pork as it simmered that was divine.

I continued to mourn my failed attempt this morning when I awoke to the same decadent culinary odor. And when I say "failed" I'm talking failing my own expectations. I just don't do that kind of citrus, I guess. The pork, carrots, noodles, and green onions were fantastic. It was the disappointing sauce that leaves me with a Thumbs Down on this one. On the upside, I'm thinking I could hold onto the nummy ingredients and create a whole new sauce. Some day. Maybe. Probably not. Oh, who am I kidding.

Tomorrow is going to be a slow cooker french dip recipe. Anything simmered in beer all day should be right up my alley.

It's that time of the week

2010-10-18T12:29:00.005-05:00

There's this ~~deplorable~~ inevitable part of my week that involves an extensive list and a menu. Yet each week I'm just as annoyed as the one before. Like it's the first time I'm responsible for it. But I take it seriously, ok? Being a working mom and a mom, I find it extremely helpful and advantageous to have the week planned out as opposed to winging it.

And what a snot I am. Because I'm super grateful for the ability to not only have the money to pay for healthy food options for my family, but the dexterity and brain power to attempt to be creative, for a vehicle to get me to and from the store, for a clean and safe home to bring everything home to, electricity to power the fridge... So I'll shut up now.

PSSSSSST...I hate grocery shopping.

On bras. And breast cancer.

2010-10-14T13:40:00.004-05:00

Lots of hubub about SAVE THE BOOBS! with October being breastcancer awareness month. So I bought myself a couple of nice new bras. I lied. My purchase has actually nothing whatsoever to do with breastcancer or any kind of awareness. I just wanted to feel better about my chest in certain tops.

I've always appreciated the simplicity of an unpadded, underwire demi bra. This time I went with padded. And it's taking some getting used to.

When I look down? I can't see past "my" boobs to the shirt falling below them. I can even catch them out of the corner of my eye sometimes. If I brush up against them with my arm, it sounds like styrofoam. Plus, you guys? I'm used to being able to tell that these, in fact, are my breasts.

A girlfriend of mine and I once discussed having boobs on the smaller end of the spectrum. When we put them in padded bras, there's this unnatural "shelf" that is created between where my chest ends and the padding begins.

But hey. In honor of breastcancer awareness month, and for all you gals who have struggled with or survived having breast cancer, I'll continue to give myself monthly self-exams and be grateful I have healthy boobs, regardless of how I dress them.

On shifting

2010-10-14T10:59:00.004-05:00

It's been bugging me lately that I have this yearning to create a blog entry, but when I go to write one, I CAN'T. I get this great idea for a topic and then POOF! just like that it's gone.

Today it dawned on me: The masthead. It's all wrong. Just like me struggling to go about my daily routine with Jon still in it, this blog still has him in the masthead. See? Up there?

Not only that, you guys, but we no longer have the Sprinter, bless it's heart. Probably went to some electrician, or general contractor, or painter, or courier, or moving company. SOMEWHERE IT BELONGS.

Just like the decision to ditch the Sprinter and finally get a normal family vehicle, I opted to ditch Jon as my husband. Wait. I'm still keeping him on as The Father of My Kids. He's really good at that part. Amazing, even. Not so much in the Emily's Husband role, though.

I'm shedding things over here, you guys. People warned me this happens with divorce. And I'm really thinking I'm starting to believe it. The contract is the first to go. You know, the one that declares this person as your HUSBAND or WIFE? Just a formality? Really? Enjoy it when you get sick of that person you spent however-many years with and want out. And that whole 50% thing? Might be worth paying attention to.

Friends shed like your dog's winter coat. Or that snake skin you find on the vine whilst vintnering (shout out to Molly!). It's amazing how people choose to align with one person or the other, rarely maintaining a balance with both exes. Everyone plays a hearty role in creating this shift in friendships. I've found trusting people I once thought I could to be difficult. If you're friends with Jon, supporting Jon, how can you also, equally, support and help me? And vice versa. You may think you can, say you can even. But I don't buy it. I successfully shoved a pretty good friend away by, well, I'll keep all those dainty details to myself. But see, I clearly needed to shift myself in a different direction than the one I was going. I have found a minute select few who are capable of being friends with both Jon and me. And that group can be shaved down into two more groups: Real and Not So Real. Surface bullshit is no longer a part of any friendship I desire. Being blunt and honest? That's a very strong part of my character. Those who can't handle it, POOF! gone.

There's this thing we call Self Medicating. Are you familiar? Thought so. Being able to shed the need to escape into a bottle of High Life or even Torpedo or Two Hearted and replace it with going to bed when my kids do is a fantastic change. Plus I like to enjoy my beers and not just not just regret having them when I get up in the morning. Ouch.

Part of being married to someone I didn't want to be married to created a lot of conflict within myself. Following the divorce, I continued to maintain a positive relationship "for the kids." Just like that guy Doug from the 80s would say, It's an illusion! I'm all, Wait. Didn't I divorce you? For those reasons? Why are you still here? What am I doing? It's like Sleeping Beauty who was awoken after 100 years of slumber by a simple kiss from her prince. Only I'm waking after 10 years of constantly comparing myself to other wives and mothers, knowing the whole time it didn't feel right. And nobody's kissing me. It's Egan shouting, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM, CAN YOU WIPE ME?!

It's extremely liberating to focus my energies on my kids, my career, my interests, and me; instead of trying to be someone I'm not with all that pretend stuff in the way.

Now about that masthead...

Give me a topic, you guys!

2010-07-24T11:39:00.004-05:00

My guess is you were concerned I was sent off to an erotica boarding school, what with my lack of entries after my last post. Perhaps you envisioned me studiously learning about different BDSM paraphernalia while enjoying break out sessions on What Exactly Nipple Clamps Can Do For You!

Where has my creativity gone. I often wish I was one of those freelance writers who are given topics to cover. At least then I'd know what I have to write without pulling something out of thin air. Or my ass.

Let's try something new here: Comment on this here post and tell me what you want me to write about. And I will!

Ready....GO!

I may as well be a virgin

2010-05-18T09:22:00.000-05:00

It's been an interesting journey through Rachel Kramer Bussel's Please, Sir. A journey helping me to challenge my definition of what sex can mean; a growing awareness of acceptance and understanding. And definitely broadening my own personal anthology of Sex.

Going into this book I was blind. I had no real preconceived expectations based on fact, rather, assumption. My naivete carried me through each story, eliciting a new sometimes physical, sometimes emotional reaction with every word. While otherwise enjoying something so organic, personally, I cannot fathom being pushed around physically by a partner. Crying? Same thing. Feelings of fear leading to tears does not a heated roll in the hay make. For me. Leading me about by a leash? Like I do my dog? No thanks. Urinating on your partner? I'd rather watch Two Girls One Cup. Or rather Stewie's reaction.

Wait. Have you guys met? Allow me to introduced you to 14-year-old, male, Emily.

On a personal level, my vast collection of honest reactions are just that. Reactions. The idea of engaging in BDSM is not really for me. In case you haven't yet noticed, I'm not exactly into the subject. Or am I? I'm human. I appreciate the intimate connection between two consensual participants. One of the many things I've learned by reading this compilation of stories on female submission is how intrinsic trust, understanding, mutual respect, and open communication are for both partners individually and collectively. Values in any healthy relationship; BDSM or otherwise.

Power Over Power by Emerald was an interesting recount of what I would consider a lopsided encounter. Or was it? Clearly this couple had not demarcated their sexual expectations. This was one of lust. Want. Desire. Yet both partners appeared to have different interpretations of what to anticipate. As an observer, this author's descriptive of what "power" is comes from within. This does not involve two people; only one. "That's what power is. It doesn't have anything to do with force or subjugation."

Professionally? It's difficult to separate my awareness of women survivors of domestic violence from the heat of passionate exchange. Elizabeth Coldwell's Because He Can successfully outlines this difference. A submissive woman next to a dominant male as he eats his meal at the dining room table, feeding her scraps as she kneels naked at his side. Although my professional brain jumps to: Is this woman aware of the power she too has in this relationship? How satisfying is this exchange for the woman so obviously submissive to a dominant and powerful male? How did this interchange begin? On what grounds have these two outlined their "rules?", my observant self witnesses this woman complying obediently while experiencing sexual satisfaction unlike anything I've ever known.

What is the line between violence and consensual sexual deviance? What if the definitions hadn't been outlined and the woman, or man for that matter, is left feeling disparaged and taken advantage of? Exploited? Maybe the partners aren't aware of the labels available for the feelings they're potentially having. This, then, is not true BDSM. This would be violence in a relationship.

Lucky for you, dear reader, I am objective. Having read other tour participants' reviews, I found myself surrounded by what appear to be experts on the subject of female submission. At first I thought all of the stories were submitted. By females.

The stories in Please, Sir range from hardcore to soft. Illustrating a scene for an observer is helpful. But some of these authors chose to really, I mean REALLY, describe the setting with far more adjectives than necessary, which I find irritating. In any story. In erotica I find it difficult to keep it in my pants, so to speak, while anticipating the "good" parts. Kind of like fast forwarding through a porno movie on your VCR with your girlfriends in junior high.

This exposure to erotica through Please, Sir has left me enlightened on the subject of BDSM. While I have little intention to experiencing BDSM personally, as one of my friends said, "Tying someone up is fun." Continuing to dust myself off after sluggishly climbing out from under the oppressive rock of a ten year marriage, perhaps I have a lot to look forward to. Or perhaps not. Accompanied by loads of unanswered questions, what I am personally taking from this literary experience is to be open. To trust first myself. Challenge myself. Feel the feelings I am having and not fight them. I suppose this is something I can potentially long for between shuttling my three kids to various activities, going to work, and tending to our home. Until then, as I've said before, Now kindly shut mommy's door so she can continue her stories.

I respect each and every one of these authors, the characters, and the stories they share depicting what might be their own personal experience or pure fantasy. While I outline my own personal reactions often overshadowed by my professional self, I fully respect the art of erotica. As editor Rachel Kramer Bussel states in the introduction to the book, "Submission is an artform. It requires dedication, focus, commitment, and desire - and there's no single way of doing it. It's about unlocking something within yourself so you can reach beyond your normal limits, exposing your body and soul in order to somewhere you cannot go alone."

Zoloft

2010-05-12T11:51:00.004-05:00

For about half a year I've been numbed by the fantastic combination of unscrewing a prescription bottle and sertraline hydrochloride. I denied the idea that I couldn't feel. Tears still flooded my eyes when prompted, my patience was certainly tested, and I continued to analyze the world around me no problem. I appreciated the lack of reaction elicited by my children, and the divorce process, that would otherwise send me into a tailspin of a tizzy. But now I'm feeling like my old self packaged in a newly divorced, single, mom sorta way. That's what's in me. It's me. And I like it, you guys. I really like it.

Intelligent weasels

2010-05-05T09:47:00.007-05:00

UPDATE! According to a local exterminator, there ain't a rodent to be found in our basement. Can you say Second Opinion?

Hey, so, what are you supposed to do when you have unidentified rodents squatting in your nowhere-near-ever-going-to-be-finished, 112-year-old basement?

Jon and the kids' idea was to set out mousetraps slathered with peanut butter. Jon continues to text and email from Chicago requesting updates on said varmints.

Today I was able to offer Gil's report: I've got bad news. Nothing dead and the peanut butter on one of the traps is almost gone.

When anyone, including the exterminator who finally returned my call last night, asks me what I've actually seen, I am quick to reply, "You're kidding, right? I'm not supposed to really know. Right?"

Exactly. My idea to eliminate the basement dwellers is to hire in the experts. If you ask me? I'm not expected to spelunk looking for these intruders, headlamp lighting my way. Just ask Molly what happens when a bee (?!) buzzes onto my head as I'm breaking down the collection of mailing boxes I've collected at the base of the basement stairs.

Lucky for these little pests I'm mindful of toxic chemicals that can effect my kids' reproductive systems. And at this point, I'm pretty sure I'll be setting up rodent-sized picnic tables covered with a punch bowl, assorted appetizers, a vast collection of chronological family photos on foamcore picture boards, a tri-fold senior picture portfolio, and CONGRATS GRADUATE! mylar balloons when we're ready to celebrate the youngest rodent's graduation from high school. He's on scholarship for his near death escape peanut butter licking. West Point sees great potential.

What's good for the goose

2010-05-04T09:49:00.007-05:00

Last night I began reading Please, Sir for the virtual book tour I am participating in for my friend Rachel. Meaning, I am going to be providing what I understand to be a literature review of the book. Or at least that's the angle I'm taking.

Speaking of angles, my head took about a 45 degree angle while my eyes widen and my nose crinkles, accompanied by my blushing face. Reading this book is not for the faint of heart. Rather, a reader open to observing another person's ~~hot, steamy, heart-pounding, toe-curling orgasm~~ recount of what it means to be submissive or dominated by someone else. Who ever thought I'd write that in this blog?

Preparing for my review leaves me with a lot of opinions and unanswered questions I'm guessing this audience may refute. Although my angle is from a person far less experienced in this topic, it is coming from a great place of nonjudgment and acceptance.

Now kindly shut Mommy's door so she can continue her stories...

Holy Wonderful Weekend, Batman!

2010-05-03T10:28:00.007-05:00

Here's how small the world is: On my way back to CF from outside of Winterset, I stopped in Des Moines to reunite with three amazing friends. I begin describing my weekend to said friends Leslie, Phil, Reimer, and Sam - who at 13 was far more concerned about the table of cackling 'tweens dressed in dance recital regalia than my stories of fire spinning, cowgirling, and lazy 35-year-old lounging.

Elaborating far further than necessary about The Duchess of Sheets's amazing garden, Leslie stops me. She explains she too knows The Duchess because he gave her a bunch of zucchini one night. Bombarded by my imaginary chorus of "that's what she said's," I remained on topic realizing that Leslie and I not only share our astrological sign and personality similarities, we know the same amazing people.

Sundrenched cheeks, nose, and chest - dubbed "Spring Break," as in, "Braaaaaah, thrashing the pipe at Breck left me with mad goggle face." - I am acclimating to civilization slowly but surely. Against my will.

I have an assignment!

2010-04-29T10:13:00.008-05:00

An acquaintance friend of mine out in Brooklyn is an editor of erotica. She compiles stories filled with various themes involving hot steamy sexy stories Penthouse Forum has a hard time topping. I think her resume includes editing Penthouse Forum. Pardon the use of "hard" and "topping." That'll make more sense in a sec.

One of the many things Rachel does is travel the states conducting workshops on just how one successfully writes a story of erotica. And one time? I went up to Minneapolis to kick it with my friend Courtney, also friends with Rachel, because Rachel was in town giving one of her workshops at a local Uptown dildo shop. Honestly, you guys, my initial thought was YEAH! The perfect reason to get to Minneapolis to see Courtney AND see what Rachel is all about!

I believe I missed the memo informing me "workshop" entails you, as in me, actually participating in the shop of work.

Me: Writing? No biggie.
Memo: EROTICA.
Me: Oh.

Although I'll spare the gory details, I will share the image of the Catholic girl in me burying her beet red face anywhere she could so as to not make eye contact. With anyone. Especially the 50-something balding man with Jeffrey Dahmer glasses, white unmarked van parked outside, detailing his erotic fantasies with the entire group. That's how I took every story each brave soul shared. No one else existed in the room but me. Like they were whispering each dirty detail to me in secret as I squirmed doing my best to slither away. Spotlight shining straight down on me as they described the intricacies of the wet dream they had had the other night.

Except for Courntey. Pretty sure her humor disguised the naughtiness, allowing me to laugh. Catholic, remember?

On to my recent assignment. Rachel is now conducting a virtual book tour for her latest compilation,Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission. Rachel requested friends with blogs help with her book tour. I have a blog. I am friends with Rachel. This is when I agreed via facebook to do my part to represent erotica writers everywhere. Wait. What?

Female submission. Not sure I even know what that is. BDSM? No idea. Rachel is trusting that I can deliver. So I'll be reviewing the book on May 18. Stay tuned, you guys. This? Should be good.

Wednesday April 28

2010-04-28T11:02:00.005-05:00

You know? I totally want to commit to typing something, posting anything, at least once a day. Previous to this Come To Jesus moment, I would unfortunately psych myself out of posting because of the self-imposed pressure to be funny, unique, yet profound.

But you get nothing yet, my one known reader who ~~passive-aggressively~~ successfully encourages me to get to writing.

According to my banner, it is still winter. And we still drive The Sprinter. Perhaps some subtle updating is in order. This I can promise you.

A memory from the Magic Kingdom

2010-03-24T10:24:00.009-05:00

Spring break was spent in Anaheim, California californicating with various Disney characters and riding the dozens of memorable rides between California Adventure and Disneyland, all while melting in 90 degree heat. My kids were beSIDE themselves. Especially Egan as he observed Mary Poppins and Burt, Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Buzz Lightyear, Woody...THEN, the creme de la creme was when PINNOCHIO! ASKED! ME! TO! DANCE!! You know, at the end-of-the-day CELEBRATE YOU! parade.

Earlier that day we had been treated to the front of the line at the Matterhorn, a coupon for a front of the line pass on ANY RIDE! in ALL OF THE MAGIC KINGDOM!, and a receipt for the sword Egan carelessly lost while on Mr Toad's Wild Ride. Wild indeed, all sword losing and stuff. Apparently the employees at Disneyland are there to not only make our day magical but also spoil us rotten. As Egan and I climbed out of our car from the ride, Egan began sobbing when realizing he had lost his sword.

Appearing swiftly at my side was Jen, the superfriendly, superconcerned employee. I explained that Egan had lost his sword while on the ride. Jen insisted on having the ride STOPPED! so she could go through and recover Egan's damned $5-shoulda-been-$.50 sword. She explained various scenarios for getting the sword, saying stuff about it only taking 7 minutes despite all those people still waiting in the 20 minute line. After Jen assured me they stop rides all the time, I thanked her for her efforts while declining the need to force all these people waiting in line FOR A FUCKING SWORD.

Just then, Allie walks toward Egan arm outstretched, "Egan, you can have my sword."

I think that's what sold Jen on how remarkably awesome we all were. Flash forward to our celebrity treatment AND Honorary Citizens of Disneyland buttons. The way my kids reacted, you would have thought we were handed a key to the city.

On self-awareness

2010-03-07T13:29:00.003-06:00

I just want to point out that I am working really hard over here on this "self evolving" thing. Do you realize how exhausting it can be, having an awareness of how you choose to live your life? How you choose to react to various stimuli? Did you know you actually have control over all of these things? I know, right?! ME TOO!

And now I'm attempting my next trick by going through life without drinking...a lot.

To feel like a woman

2010-02-08T12:27:00.004-06:00

It's a good thing ~~Jon forced me to~~ I opted out of the Valentine's Day traditions of obligatory gift giving. Jon believes Valentine's Day to be a holiday completely manufactured by Hallmark. Suckers who buy into the supposed responsibility of Showing Her You Care while perpetuating the cycle of bullshit consumption from China. And Blood Diamonds. Kind of like Wal Mart.

Isn't that romantic?

Instead of traveling through year after year of complete and utter disappointment, I successfully denied my inner hopeless romantic. Now that I'm "single," you guys, the thought of exchanging gifts goes from obligatory to fun. And exciting. And spontaneous. And loving. And caring. And...and...and...

While I can force myself to understand Jon's opposition to said holiday, I also appreciate sharing tokens of one's love. Sure I talked myself into bashing STUPID VALENTINE'S DAY! for ten years. That's called SURVIVAL. Having a relationship with someone who thinks surprising a loved one with flowers is a waste of money jaded my perception of romance.

Jon's idea of romance: Wining and dining? Let's just skip to the sixty-nining.

My idea of romance: GO ASK ANY WOMAN!

That's not appropriate

2010-02-04T10:51:00.003-06:00

While schlepping kids here and there yesterday, I overheard a conversation between Gil and Egan from the backseat.

Egan: [referring to his new Valentine's Barbie he pleaded for at the grocery store the other night] She's hot.

Gil: Egan you can't say Barbie is hot. That's not appropriate.

Gender bender

2010-02-03T11:02:00.009-06:00

A recent concern around our house...well, a recently addressed concern. Egan has been cross dressing and accessorizing since he could hold a spoon.

This recent piece of familial history comes from Egan's love of his purple sparkly hand-me-down dance recital tutu, affinity for accessorizing, admiration of his aunt's redder than red lipstick, his longing for dancin' shoes like mine, and currently his Valentine Barbie. Egan's biggest critic right now is his brother Gil.

Evidently Gil's masculinity is somehow challenged by his four-year-old brother. Gil is quite assertively educating his brother on Right and Wrong, Good and Bad, Male and Female: "Egan, boys don't wear dresses!" and saying things like, "He can't play with THAT! He's a BOY!!"

To that, Egan says, "Yes. I am a boy."

Lucky for Egan, his mother is one to encourage exploration of different nailpolish colors and textures of taffeta regardless of whether you have a penis or a vagina. What's the big deal if Egan races for his various princess attire, leaving his boy clothes in a heap on his bedroom floor? What if I told you I'd rather have a well-adjusted confident kid than a resentful and repressed mess of insecurties? What if he simultaneously carried a semi-automatic sawed-off shotgun?

Rest assured, he has been known to beg for his purple sparkly dress before plopping down for hours of Power Ranger entertainment while clutching as many Matchbox cars as possible. Does that make you feel better?

I said, DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. Because this is about you, you know. You and your various hang-ups about what is and what should be. About calling a four-year-old a deviant for feeling good, having fun, and being himself.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Egan's supposed "confusion" comes from his "gender identity disorder." There is a diagnosis, you guys, a diagnosis! for CHILDREN!! who choose to do the very activities Egan longs for on a daily basis. This is considered a disorder in our culture. HE'S FOUR!

Who made this shit up anyway? We are swayed, people, programmed by societal norms. Stuffy fucking WASPy norms created by narrow minded homophobes and heterosexists fearful of anything other than themselves. We oughtta be ashamed.

There are many innate gender expectations that just happen. Boys do more often than not go to cars and trucks and guns while girls have an interest in dolls and role playing a family. When a boy wants to dress up in sparkly dresses and paint his nails, or a young girl decides tubesocks with baggy basketball shorts and tennies is what makes her comfortable, who are we to have an opinion one way or the other?

I encourage my boys, and Allie, to express themselves. Label their emotions. Cry if you have to. And if wearing a crown, clip on earrings, a princess dress, and dancin' shoes helps? Go for it.

Learning to fly

2010-01-27T11:13:00.003-06:00

Amdist my wracked mothering nerves chased by Zoloft, I find myself slowly but surely grasping the importance of financial stability. I know, right?

As Jon and I were wading through the gunk of divorce, I was all, I'M GONNA GO HERE & I'M GONNA GO THERE...AND THERE...AND, AIRLINE TICKETS? $300? I'M THERE!! NEW SHIRT? SHOES? OUTTA MY WAY, JON!

The financial freedom from Jon's ~~stinginess~~ frugality I was experiencing was overwhelming. In my life I've had only ten years of financial education and that was from Jon. No offense, Mom & Dad, but I wasn't exactly prepared for living a financially responsible existence after leaping from your nest. The one piece of advice I still cling to, with one itty bitty pinky tip - but still, was my dad saying after graduating from high school, "DON'T. GET. A. CREDIT. CARD." 5 simple words I carried with me through my life before meeting Jon.

I find it a miracle I actually listened to my dad's advice. Looking back on my late teens and early twenties I cringe at the thought of carrying as much credit card debt as I did cases of beer, packs of cigarettes, and bags of weed. At least I didn't have a credit card.

Being a good parent is exhausting...Any other ideas?

2010-01-26T13:03:00.006-06:00

The greatest thought provoking 10-15 minutes of my life occurs in the shower. This morning I welcomed the steaming waterfall just after shouting at my two big kids to SHUT! UP! as they contiuously bickered about everything from Allie demanding bossily that ~~The Prince of Being Easily Distracted~~ Gil needs to HURRRRRRRYYYY UUUUUUUUP to Gil shouting at Allie WHAT THE HECK, AL?! That's Gil's generic response to anything Allie does to piss him off.

All of this while Egan flitters about with angel wings and a halo, sweetly saying, "I'm behaving, right Mom?"

Here's my deal: I don't know what to do with them anymore! The other night at book club I identified with a friend who described "walking on eggshells" in certain relationships. Only the person I find myself trying to keep from blowing up is my eight-year-old Gilmore.

Far be it from me to not teach my kids how life doesn't always go the way they want; people don't always do everything you want them to. It's my job to guide these ingrates, modeling coping skills and encouragement. I get that.

I give Gil a hard time but it's not just Gil. It's Allie too. Actually, it's the deadly combination of the two of them together. You know, like gasoline to a fire...TO A CAR!

Please, you guys. Help me figure out ways to combat this anarchy!

Appreciation

2010-01-20T10:15:00.000-06:00

The greatest part of my existence right now, and I can hardly believe I'm going to say this out loud, is helping Egan practice his viola. This morning he came bumping down the stairs toting his pint size viola in hand, rubbing his bleary eyes with the other. In his Spider Man boxers. At 7:30 am.

"I brought down my viola because it's time to practice."

I filled my coffee cup and follwed Egan and his dragging viola case into the family room. He narrated his every move while uncasing his prized instrument.

Something I am beginning to embrace is the very fortunate hassle of parenting. Not sure if it's observing other parents or finally growing into my role. As you may recall I often struggle with what I'm supposed to do. Being selfish and putting off my kids can be a lot easier than forcing myself to spend time with them. Because honestly? That's how I feel most of the time: that I have to FORCE myself to hang out with them. Perhaps falling into parenting created this monster. At this point it doesn't matter. I am doing the best that I can with what I've got. And that's a whole hellofa lot.

Hi Gene!

2010-01-14T12:56:00.004-06:00

I take my job very seriously. Case in point: Hygiene has been the Word of the YEAR in our house. Since, like, 2009. I have two pre-pubescent kids I'm working with here. As Mother and Parent, it is part of my job description to outline personal hygienic expectations. And their father gets more uncomfortable than they do about said topic.

What's HY-GIENE Gil asks at the breakfast table this morning. As if I haven't already explained the definition twenty times since last Wednesday.

Allie shouts, I SHOWERED THIS MORNING!

Egan's voice from the living room, "Who's Gene?"

Do they need a wheel?

2010-01-13T15:16:00.008-06:00

It's funny what I find myself daydreaming about throughout the day. The most common thought is What am I Going to Make for Dinner. What's even more amusing is the energy I have while contemplating my choices. Do I actually want to cook? Because by the time I finish my schlepping to this kid activity or that, all I want to do is sit on my Big Comfy Couch, read the paper, and drink a beer.

That's when the image of the kids being in a hamster cage lined with wood shavings, an affixed water bottle, and a bowl of feed pellets in the corner, takes over.

Redefining

2010-01-12T09:46:00.004-06:00

2010 has inspired me to redefine a very prominent relationship in my life. Due to divorce, Jon and I have been referring to our new relationship as Partners in Parenting. Considering the other our "partner." Funny how that one word really keeps the people guessing.

Before the wound began to scab I would call Jon my husband or when introducing myself to someone Jon knows: "Jon's wife, Emily." I would justify using these words for simplicity sake. I am learning in my adult life how to provide just enough information when describing something to convey the message while remaining authentic to myself. Does it really matter if the local dairy farmer knows my marital status? He couldn't care less, I'm sure. It's me who cares.

I love waking before the kids to get my work done and enjoy my coffee doing whatever I want.

I am grateful for the clothing I have to keep me warm.

Eight

2010-01-10T10:59:00.002-06:00

The new ages of my children has me wondering whatever happened to the sweet ages when I felt like I actually liked them. Of course I love them, you guys. Unconditionally I do. I'm talking about Gil here. Luckily I'm still standing in the sweet cuddly sunlit glow of Egan's Adorable Window: 4. I can describe Gil at 4 years old as equally if not more sweet. Hence his nickname Sweet Boy. But 8? Really? Why are you doing this to me?

I remember babysitting boys Gil's age and grumbling about how annoying they were the entire 5 hours I had to be "responsible" for them. Responsible for me in my babysitting teen years was watching tv, raiding the fridge for junk food (as I was forbidden soda, chips, and sweets most people had on hand after every trip to the grocery store), and talking to my friends on the phone. What an asshole I was. Wait. I still do that.

Now I have one of those.

Jon and I are still trying to figure out if it's his age or genes that has him whining about EVERYTHING, back-talking to EVERY SINGLE directive. Seriously?

And that's what I say to him: "SERIOUSLY Gilmore?!"

I'm running out of fingers and toes to count how many times I send that kid to his room. Only to hear each stomp on every stair; the huff and puff, sobbing cries, and mucous membranes exploding with snot, until his door slams and he continues to wail, intermittently holding the next bawl to hear if I'm coming to kick his ass.

When describing how loudly Gil's been know to snore and breathe, I have figured out he may need to have his tonsils and adenoids checked. I'm beginning to wonder if this duo of the ENT world and lack of proper solid sleep could be contributing to his dickhead behavior during the day.

Of course Jon and I are assured he does not display these antics at school. Quite the opposite, actually. Apparently each classmate worships the ground he walks on, the books he reads, the pictures he draws, the games he plays at recess.

SERIOUSLY, GILMORE?! Let's hope its your goddamned adenoids.

Gratitude Day 2

2010-01-06T14:19:00.003-06:00

1. I love my snow ready vehicle
2. I love water
3. I love winter storms
4. I love Pandora on my phone
5. I love my muffin top and am ready to let her go
6. I love Arby's
7. I love connecting with people
8. I love planning for summer fun
9. I love coffee
10. I love feeling at ease

1. I am grateful for a closet of clothes
2. I am grateful for music
3. I am grateful for water
4. I am grateful for internet access
5. I am grateful for my untapped professional creativity
6. I am grateful for being able to go to the grocery store to feed my family
7. I am grateful for my education
8. I am grateful for friendships
9. I am grateful for my health
10. I am grateful for me feet

Ahhhh inspriration!

2010-01-06T10:29:00.004-06:00

I've just joined the group Moms Who Drink and Swear on facebook. Finding this niche of women got me thinking...

Being who I am has come at some cost. Cost I am willing to let go. I've pissed off a lot of people. I've watched friendships whither and vanish. Somewhere along the line I vowed to myself that I would never be inauthentic. With myself or anyone else. You ask what I'm thinking? How I feel? I'm going to share my honest gut level truth with you. As well as myself.

Ongoing practice of kindness, respect, acceptance, openness, and tact is in process.

Growing into adulthood, I've learned a lot of people choose to be who they think they're supposed to be. Do what they think they're supposed to do. Allowing others' expectations to affect who we truly are is a slippery slope to a bottomless pit of self degradation and depression.

For me to be honest and true to who I am has relieved a lot of unnecessary hemming and hawing. Second guesses. Self doubt. Instead I have chosen a life of authenticity while focusing on self love. Tact is a tough one for me. NO SHIT! But, my dear friends, what you see is what you get. I have said that forever and ever and now feel I am truly living it.

Sure anti-depressants help, but after a lot of effort and conscious choices, I am who I am. I will not bend to pretend to be something or someone I am not. And I catch a lot of flack for that. Many struggle with honesty and authenticity. Guess what? That's about them. Not me.

Challenge yourself. Stand up for what you believe. While practicing respect, kindness, acceptance, openness, and of course, tact, do what you want to do. Even though those in your life may not agree with or accept you for it. That's about them. Not you.

Go drink and swear, you guys. You deserve it.

I'm gonna share some gratitude and shit

2010-01-05T14:05:00.005-06:00

I actually feel inspired right now to bring this writing interface back into my life. At least right now. Maybe it's because things are going pretty well for me and mine. Maybe it's because my New Found Freedom has me all into myself enough to think someone, anyone, will ever read this stuff. Maybe, just maybe, I really want to express how grateful I am for everything in my life.

Encouraged by my dearest Staub, I have been introduced to gratitude lists. I mean, I've heard about all this before. Gratitude and expressing it isn't anything new. It's really amazing when you stop and think, specifically, about what you're grateful for. Because I for one have a shitload to be thankful for. Another word, according to my Guru Staub, is Love. Love defined is gratitude merely simplified. Or rather, gratitude and thanks all bundled cozily in a plush, quilted, fleece lined bunting, tied with a soft cozy bow. In a four letter word.

Lucky you! You get to read what I've been thinking since January 1st, 2010.

1. I love my children.
2. I love the new found relationship Jon and I have discovered.
3. I love having a job.
4. I love feeling free.
5. I love spending time with my friends.
6. I love long road trips filled with music, laughter, and good scenery.
7. I love my new car.
8. I love having a warm home.
9. I love cupboards full of food.
10. I love evolving with my daughter.

1. I am grateful for my close relationship with my daughter.
2. I am grateful for having a healthy family.
3. I am grateful for health insurance.
4. I am grateful for drinking water from the tap.
5. I am grateful for my relationships with strong women.
6. I am grateful for my relationships with real men.
7. I am grateful for Jon's unconditional love and support.
8. I am grateful for my sister and her unconditional love and support.
9. I am grateful for my camera.
10. I am grateful that I can go home to love.

New Plan: Day 2

2009-11-16T10:09:00.006-06:00

The best part about creating my own writing goal? I made it up and can amend it as needed. That's the worst: committing to something and then letting yourself down by not following through. That's when you practice unconditional love for yourself and move on.

Our divorce is final. Jon and I completed our Children in the Middle class on Saturday, leaving us feeling validated and closer in our new roles as Partners in Parenting. The whole damn thing still seems surreal. Not only admitting defeat and filing for divorce, but then going through with the whole process.

Hey wait a second...I followed through!

p.s. This post is dedicated to my new dear friend Tara and her subtle nudges to conitnue writing.

New Plan: Day 1

2009-11-10T10:59:00.005-06:00

Super bummed I missed signing up for NaBloPoMo! National Blog Posting Month is an awesome way to continue to blog, regardless of content and creative inspiration. A picture, a quote, "blah blah blah," has been known to suffice.

I'm going to make up my own monthly, daily blogging plan this year. It always starts on the 10th of every month, you guys! No sweat then. We're just in time.

Thank you for coming. For my first trick, I will try to stop thinking in Status Updates and actually complete a sentence. Facebook and my recent barrage of texting has really dummed down my ability to craft the written word.

[applause]

Business as usual?

2009-09-02T09:52:00.006-05:00

I was checking in with Allie this morning to see how she's doing. Emotionally. While spreading her Nutella on one piece of bread and peanut butter on the other, without hesitation she describes a moment in the lunch line yesterday.

Our neighbor boy announced, "Wow. I can't believe your parents are getting divorced."

Asshole, I thought. I had just informed his mother the day before of the change occurring in our house.

Tears are filling Allie's eyes as I encourage her to continue the story.

We talked about the importance of Talking About Your Feelings and Not Keeping Them Inside. We discussed the members of Allie's support system; formal and informal. It was interesting to me how she labeled mostly formal - doctors, lawyers - as I was really pushing for recognition of informal - friends, family, teachers.

This also brought about the opportunity to talk about standing up for oneself.

"I know you believe in that, Mom. I know how important it is. Can you get the pretzels down, please?"

Liberation

2009-09-01T09:20:00.005-05:00

I told you I'd be back, right? Well here I am. Now I vow not to announce myself like this anymore as I find it far more irritating than you do.

Today I sit with a somewhat-sick 4 year old laid out on the couch with the tones of Big Bird, Elmo, and Maria and Bob filling the air. I still have a hard time accepting that everyone, EVERYONE, can see Snuffy. Poor Egan may have contracted his cousin's illness of last week. The first Stay Home Sick Day, replete with the obligatory call in to the teacher who also, obligatorily, sighs and hopes for the best. After describing Egan's whiney begging to go to bed, glassy eyed, last night, "Well, that's not like him AT ALL!" No shit. Thanks.

After getting the kids off to school, my routine is to fill the biggest coffee cup possible with my freshly brewed joe, and set up shop at my desk to tend to computer and administrative responsibilities. Even if it is just facebooking, I'm still entitled to that time, right? But today I'm going through my bank account and student loan websites. My own. Cutting a check from my checkbook, from my checking account, for Egan's September tuition was quite liberating this morning. Adding various events into my upcoming calendar months, deciding whether I want to do this or that. It's up to me, you guys. And I really like that feeling right now.

Relief

2009-08-26T09:34:00.006-05:00

Such the relief is sending one's kids off to school for the very first day of a new school year. Welcome Cliche Fest '09. Every parent-friend of mine on facebook documents the same milestone with photos and status updates, commemorating another summer over and a new year for students everywhere.

SAHMs or Ds, whatever the case may be, feel they can finally tackle the long awaited list of Shit To Get Done Once The Kids Go To School. Me? I call your bluff. Many of you are probably still sitting in your pjs with your Us Weekly on your lap only midway through your pot of coffee. Or maybe its whatever trashy cable program suits your fancy. One you dare never watch when the kids are in the house.

My mornings as of late involve combing over divorce petition and stipulation details. I too am embarking on a new year. Jon and I have finally decided to end the marriage we started ten years ago. Never fear, though. We are ridiculously amicable and looking forward to our continued partnership in parenting, albeit individually. But together. We are still a family. A nontraditional one at that. No need for apologies or heartache. Because, although it was a difficult to decision, we know it's right for our kids and us.

Gotta go. E! News is on.

The blogging continues

2009-08-16T11:40:00.002-05:00

Ohmygosh, you guys. It's been so long! Part of me wants to drone on and on, filling in the blanks of the past few months. Instead, though, I'm just going to say hi and hope you've not given up on me and my tales.

Stay tuned, dear friends. Stay tuned.

A big red bow on top

2009-05-12T13:37:00.009-05:00

There is nothing more satisfying than walking into my freshly cleaned house, inhaling the unmistakable fresh scent of lemons, pine, and Murphy's soap. What does that smell like? A church pew comes to mind.

You may recall my indecisive pride interfering with the common sense solution of hiring a cleaning lady while I was in school. This probably isn't the first time I'm reveling in the luxury, either. My great fortune of getting someone else to clean my house was like winning the lottery. For real. A friend of mine who also came to her senses said, "If I could win a million dollars or keep my cleaning crew? I'd keep my cleaning crew."

I couldn't agree more. I was even having my cleaning gal come once a week until Jon and I created our budget and, well, realized that was just plain ridiculous. After reevaluating, we opted for every other week. Which was going ok until The Day I Got the Call.

I left for work that day looking forward to returning home to a clean house. Have I ever told you how impatient I become around day 8 between cleanings? Remember, I was the spoiled brat who had someone coming every week for several weeks. An entire TWO WEEKS had gone by. Instead, I got home to a not cleaned house and a message on my answering machine from the woman I verbally praised, to her face, every time I saw her, while thanking her by throwing rose petals on the floor and bowing before her as she entered the house. Like that scene from Coming to America.

Her message did not sound like the woman I had gotten to know a little bit more each week. She very flatly explained into my voice mail that she would not be cleaning my house anymore because she was busy at her other job and her husband got a raise. Good bye.

This being the woman who I compassionately empathized with each time she called to cancel because one of her family members suddenly died. Again. Or her husband or daughter was hopitalized. Again. Or she herself had another debilitating illness keeping her home for days, making certain I can see the virus over the phone. As if Mononucleosis himself has rendered my cleaning pal hostage to his evil ways. Again.

Now I have another gal who came highly recommended by a totally separate pool of reliable cleaning women. I feel the need to gratefully praise her too because truly, anyone coming to clean my house? Even though I pay her? Is giving me the world's greatest gift.

Celebrating mothers everywhere

2009-05-10T14:48:00.002-05:00

Mother's Day is the one day that I am able to shove off all of my usual parenting duties onto Jon. Without any discussion. From anyone. At all.

There is nothing sweeter than the handmade crafts my kids make. Except maybe when they bring me breakfast in bed, each one asking me, "Can I have a bite?" "Can I have one?" "Are you going to eat that?"

After graciously receiving my personally predetermined, menu-specific Mother's Day Breakfast in Bed, I requested not to see my family for the rest of the day. Jon and brother Nick took the kids out to a friend's farm while I spent the remainder of the afternoon in my sister-in-law's sunny back yard with other mother friends laughing and talking for 6 straight hours. Drinking beer and eating pizza.

And wouldn't you know? We talked about our families almost the entire time. We also had to remind ourselves to stop offering to help wash each other's hands, cut up each other's food, or put our drinks into sippy cups.

Value judgment

2009-05-06T12:24:00.008-05:00

From my previous post about adults smoking in a kidfilled car with the windows up while talking on a cell phone, I received this reaction:

Judge not. Before you judge yourself. My guess is that the parents in question can look inside your vehicle and find something despicable too. Let's live in peace and harmony! The human species is very resiliant.
(Josh)

Wait. Are you referring to that empty fifth of Thunderbird? I've totally been meaning to throw that out the window and into the ditch on my way home.

Impatience

2009-04-27T13:44:00.004-05:00

My toes are screaming for exposure to sunlight; to feel the tender caress of freshly cut blades of grass. My impatience for summertime warm weather is getting a little more intense than I'd like.

When the weather is cool and uncomfortable - or wet as it has been for the last few days - Egan and I are prone to staying inside playing Memory or watching Jimmy Neutron or Happy Feet over and over again. Allie and Gil, in contrast, are their father's children. Cold, overcast, 42 degrees and persistent preciptation? LET'S GO FOR A BIKE RIDE or better yet CANOE!

I've painted my toes black. Come on summer, let's go. I'm ready.

Couch potato

2009-04-24T11:32:00.004-05:00

Jon's return home each week is more often than not about me and my needs than anyone else's. I punched out around 7:00 last night. A 10-year-old can totally watch Grey's Anatomy, right?

Laying on the couch together

Allie: Who is Grey?
Me: The main girl. That one.
Allie: Her name is Grey?
Me: That's what they tell me.
Allie: What's anatomy?
Me: It's, um, uhh...like, the make up of something? Your body parts are all your anatomy?
Allie: So why is the show about that girl's....EW! ANOTHER TURNING KISS!

Four days alone with the three of them and their myriad requests leaves this mother ready to make any inappropriate show suitable for her children. Except maybe not The Hills. That's my secret.

Spring is in the air

2009-04-14T12:37:00.005-05:00

Almost every song coming up on Pandora sounds to me like a track from Lucious Jackson's Fever In, Fever Out. Is it because around this time of year over 10 years ago I was listening to this album with my stay-in-IC-over-spring-break Airliner friends? Seriously. Spring does something to me. When the sun shines and the birds sing I feel the instinctual need to put on a long skirt, sandals, a tank top, hook up with friends, navigate rural gravels, and, well... Who's with me? Better yet, who WAS with me.

You know what I hate?

2009-04-13T15:47:00.003-05:00

Seeing an adult driving with kids in the car, windows up, and smoking a cigarette while on the phone. Jerks.

Technology

2009-04-02T19:31:00.003-05:00

What's the deal with laptops and moving your cursor back, like, 3 words or 9 characters, only to begin typing what you're intending to type where you were typing where you have no intention of typing because you already typed?

For Daisy, wherever I may find her...

2009-03-24T08:55:00.003-05:00

...having scattered cat litter on the runner in the hallway, on the rug in my bedroom, or sprinkled atop the hardwoods in any other given room in the house.

What's with dogs and eating litter-covered cat poop straight out of the litter box? Better yet, hastily searching for the any remaining moresels, having been dutifully scooped by a 10-year-old fulfilling her daily chore, in the garbage can. The latter, however, resembles more of a CAT SHIT EXTRAVAGANZA! As if Daisy discovered the scooped poop and, in her drunken excitement, ran to call her friends to share the good news, leaving several other unmentionables strewn about the bathroom floor.

A friend of mine referred to such delectable organic dog treats as Snow Caps. Like the movie theater white sprinkle covered chocolate candies? I prefer to think of Daisy and her cat shit eating habits as just plain disgusting. Especially when she actually has the nerve to approach me, mouth open, tongue wagging, ready to coat me with her slobbery affection.

Hands off

2009-03-22T14:38:00.017-05:00

A lot of my girlfriends are ~~finally~~ having their first kids, some are on to the second. I'm beginning to realize the difference between the stages in parenting and I'm finding relief from what I'm discovering.

So many of my friends are all, "THREE KIDS?! How do you DO it?" And I'm all, "Ummm...I just, do?"

These girlfriends devote all of their time and energy to Kid 1, and of course Kid 2 if it applies. Most of them are SAHMs because I'm thinking, really you guys, that if we do work as mothers we're sort of frowned upon. Let's face it. We are expected to throw aside our goals, dreams, and professional aspirations to raising our kids. Or we satisfy all of those dreams and aspirations before having the family, but I don't know about that. What I do know is staying at home to parent children is of course a tremendous feat in itself while adding FULL TIME WORK on top of it means you're Super Mom. Or a selfish bitch, depending on who you ask.

What I'm really witnessing here is the different stages of parenting. I did my Kid 1 and Kid 2 obsessing when these girls were still worrying about which bar to go to. Of course, I would rather die than miss the party so I'd try to meet up with them, puking into bathroom sinks at 10:00, then pumping and dumping my beer infused breastmilk. Priorities, people! I devoted much of my time entertaining Allie and Gil, worrying about their soda intake and exposure to sugary snacks. Rigid schedule keeping and bathing every other day. Doing arts and crafts all day. Television watching for a two-year-old? Nothing but minimal PBS and maybe Baby Einstein.

I was just telling a girlfriend about Egan's exposure to things I'd never even dream of letting him experience if he were Kid 1. Or Kid 2. Nope, welcome Kid 3. Kid 3 knows the difference between Bob the Builder and Handy Manny, drinks soda when given the opportunity, stays up late, AND WILL GO WITHOUT A NAP!

My point here, dear readers, isn't about you and your parenting. It's about me and mine. You guys are doing the little kid stuff while I have moved onto the pre-teen big kid stuff. Having discussions about girlfriend drama and crushes with the same little girl who used to toddle up to me in her plastic footed one piece PJs, whispy hair in ever-requested "nuggets," asking me, "How are doin, Mom?" Or when not quite finished with her snack would announce, "I save it to later." Now I have to beg her to let me even think about putting her hair in nuggets. Or braids. Or ponytails. Apparently I don't know as much about fashion as I thought I did.

As I'm surrounded by you newer moms I found myself questioning the amount of interaction I have with my kids. With a sigh of relief, the big kid phase is far more hands-off. With the exception of Kid 3, Kid 1 & Kid 2 are independently brushing their own teeth, bathing themselves, playing outside for hours on end, packing their lunches for first and fourth grade. They read to me often times at bedtime. They even read to Kid 3 from time to time, giving me the opportunity to snuggle while reading but with my eyes closed. Until I'm woken up by Egan clip-clopping around in dancin shoes, asking me to paint his nails.

All's I'm saying, Internet, is that things change when your kids get older. You kind of feel like you still need to give them the same amount of hands-ON attention, when really, after you adjust and pat yourself on the back for a job well done with the little kid phase, it's a lot more hands-OFF.

Scooby Doo, where are you?

2009-03-18T10:07:00.008-05:00

Our spare house key mysteriously appeared in the lock of our back door this morning. Kid-driven hyjinx? That's what I'm thinking, although both big kids denied it and Egan's up vacationing in Waverly. This mystery has my brow furrowed and my brain gears turning.

Did I go wandering about locking and unlocking doors with our spare key in a Zoloft-induced sleep walk? Did someone find it on the sidewalk and responsibly put it where it obviously belongs with our last name and address on it? What if they made a copy first? Or are now squatting in my basement! Before we left this morning I went down and surveyed the creepy, empty, squatterless basement. No evidence of unwanted visitors ... with the exception of spider web crowded corners and one of those Million Legged bugs dead at the foot of the stairs.

"What if we have a burglar?" Gil asked on the way to the Y. As if having a burglar is like having a bat in the attic. Or an overloaded lint trap in the dryer.

Stream on this

2009-03-16T13:06:00.002-05:00

If you guys haven't ever heard of the South by South West (SXSW, as they say) weeklong event in Austin, Texas, you need to tune in. At least to the music part. I've become aware of its popularity over the years, and as I am now a working woman, I enjoy streaming music from my laptop to keep me company. Today I found The Austin 100. I highly recommend checking it out. It is so choice.

In the name of Egan

2009-03-04T20:30:00.001-06:00

The other day I was tidying in the kitchen the way I do 137 times every day. This particular moment was just after school: the big kids were in their designated instrument-practicing locations while Egan freely roamed from room to room. This, however, is one of Allie's least favorite times in her little brother's afternoon. He'll loiter around her doorway until he slowly makes his way into her room only to pound on her keyboard or somehow cause a desk drawer's contents to tumble crashing to the floor. This is when I hear Allie shriek, "MAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHM! Can YOU tell EGAN to get OUT of my ROOM?!"

So predictable, isn't it?

Without a doubt, poor Egan's feelings have been crumpled like a spare sheet of office paper and thrown haphazardly out of Allie's room, door slamming behind him.

As Egan was making his sobbing way down the stairs to tell me all about it, with about 2 more stairs to go, Egan screams bloody murder. At the top of his lungs. Like was just BOO!ed at last year's haunted house.

Allie comes down the stairs, Gil comes running from the family room, and I walk over to find Egan slumped over, bawling into Allie's lap, refusing to go down those final two Steps of Doom. Allie responsibly reported "Egan says he saw a bug."

Gil and I searched around at the base of the stairs only to find a stale Cheerio, a knitting needle, and a stuffed lion puppet. "No bug!" we happily inform a terrified Egan. Only he's not buying it. I picked up Egan to show him the area is as free from bugs as a winter lawn.

About 10 minutes had past when I told the kids I'd offer to walk Daisy. Egan was assisting me, making sure I had everything I needed: leash, poop bag, a capeless right-legless Bizarro Superman. Just as I was shutting the door behind me, I hear Egan's shrill cries for help once more, only I don't buy it and continue to walk the dog. Upon returning, Allie, Gil, and Egan come to the door to inform me that yet again Egan was surprised by a bug. "The SAME bug!" Egan assertively stated, refusing to walk into the kitchen.

While rationalizing with Egan that no bug deserves that kind of attention, I turn to wash my hands and just about step on the very bug causing Egan's conniption. Quickly I squash the damn thing with my Croq (I don't think I look like a dumbass wearing them.). Being one of those Million-legged bugs, I had to stomp, drag, stop, drag, making sure all the little legs stopped twitching, proving the insect's demise.

To this day, Egan reminds me of the bug he once saw at the foot of the stairs and how I heroically killed it in the name of Egan.

Things are getting personal

2009-02-25T15:07:00.008-06:00

After admitting to my therapist and doctor that I imagine great relief from various levels of anxiety and maybe a little depression at the mere thought of allowing myself to be a little stoned all day, among other symptoms YOU GUYS, I am now the proud owner of a so far unfilled Zoloft prescription. Even though the reason for my appointment may not be earth shattering to you, Internet, it is to me.

I sort of take this as a journey I'm leaving in the hands of my kick ass doctor and the pharmeceutical industry. Playing with little pills that change your brain chemistry? Make your pupils dilate? Cause dizziness? Maybe I need to do a little more research but YIKES! Those unknowns are awfully scary to me, you know, after you read all the potential side effects like weight gain, dry mouth, teeth grinding and night sweats.

At this point, though, I figure I'll take those potential side effects while squashing the inner yick any day. That and Ween sings a song about it so it must be good.

Happiness is...

2009-02-16T10:46:00.009-06:00

...being three-years-old and enjoying the endless comedic affect of a Whoopee Cushion.

Egan will walk around the house, puffing his slobbery breath into said cushion, then squeeze out the air close to your unsuspecting bum saying, "Mom, you have gas."

His own greatest audience, he laughs hysterically as he continues the process only to sit on the cushion himself in the middle of the kitchen floor, stating through belly-laughing hilarity, "I have gas."

On being duped

2009-02-15T08:11:00.012-06:00

I'm thinking I'm beginning to believe our friend Joaquin Phoenix (see previous post) is a far better actor than drug addict. Although who ever said one can't succeed at both simulataneously.

There's been a lot of scrutiny surrounding the antics of Joaquin on Letterman last week. But apparently, have you heard this yet? He's supposedly working on a documentary with buddy Casey Affleck. On what, I'm not sure. My guess is Affleck, co-star from his latest film Gwyneth Paltrow, and a few other close friends and fellow actors are in on the plan. It appears Letterman himself was let in based on the clip of Joaquin taking off his sunglasses and whispering sweet nothings deep into Letterman's ear after what looked like a similar interaction with Farrah Fawcett on Letterman some few years ago.

Everyone says Andy Kauffman would be so proud. Except I don't know much more about Andy Kauffman than he was on Taxi and REM sings a song about him. I'm thinking he pissed off a bunch of people WHO BELIEVED HIS ANTICS. Didn't Jim Carrey do the same thing a few years back in the spirit of ACTING! (insert Jon Lovitz's Master Thespian on SNL circa 1991).

Americans do NOT like being deceived, you guys. Entertainers need to be predictable. Sanitized. Totally censored for us to feel safe. Where would be possibly be without the MPAA and their Disney-esque rating system? Sure, our government can fuck with us for 8 years but NOT our entertainment industry!

Are we expected to believe Phoenix is truly throwing in the silver screen towel and taking up hip hop? Or is it just another extremely talented thespian proving us all a bunch of suckers?

Walkin' the line

2009-02-12T13:39:00.006-06:00

This isn't so much about our goings-on, although I'm betting I could come up with a few goodies. This post is about idle times spent staring at the various newswires that suddenly appear on my computer screen. One particular said moment was consumed observing our old friend, little brother to the late River Phoenix, Joaquin Phoenix.

David Letterman attempted to penetrate the bearded mystery man on last night's program. Quite the interesting exchange, wouldn't you say? I'm left wondering which pharmaceutical grade tranquilizer our dear Joaquin is dabbling in these days.

In retrospect, perhaps referring to the fella as "River's little brother" is exactly the reason he's trying to reinvent himself. Apparently while not feeling himself. Literally.

What happens when a mother takes a nap

2009-01-25T20:15:00.003-06:00

Due to lack of sleep last night after a raucous night out with wonderfully fun friends, I found myself nestled cozily with Egan napping for two hours at Grandma's house this afternoon. Luckily Molly was available to field Allie and Gil's needs.

Allie & Gil ask, "Molly? Can you help us with something?" leading her toward the kitchen.

From the "adult fridge" in the basement they had pulled two bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade, asking Molly ever so sweetly to help open the bottle caps.

"Let's talk about this" Molly replied, saving their lives yet one more time.

After her discussion on confusing marketing and alcoholic beverages (one I likened to Joe Camel and his illustrated penis nose), Gil announced, "I don't want to be drunk at this age!"

I was left pondering the possibilities had they figured out the bottle opener.

Don't Ease Me In

2009-01-23T13:19:00.007-06:00

The Grateful Dead sang that and I have no idea what it's about. This is the line I've been saying to myself for the past few weeks as I myself have indeed eased in.

My decision to go back to work full time has been met by such comments as "I don't know how you working moms do it!" "Are you sad?" "Don't you miss your kids?" "Are the kids ok?" Followed by martyrous statements from women twice my age like, "I stayed home 15 years after having my kids. There's no way I could have gone back to work." And the rare, "Good for you!"

It's not about what these women think, are projecting onto me, or how I react to these statements. Exercising my right to utilize my degrees is the best choice for my entire family. Being able to say, out loud, I AM NOT A STAY AT HOME MOM has been my greatest admission over the last 7 years.

I often challenge the societal expectation that when women choose to have children they must then have no choice and stay home. Talk about going to work full time! As one of my dearest friends once said as her husband urged her to get up one morning, "as soon as my feet hit the floor my day doesn't stop."

Unless you've done it, you can keep your mouth shut. Not all of us are cut out for all that is required of us. Some of us choose to medicate, self medicate, or go through the motions, unhappy in the role society has chosen for us.

Moms like me are left feeling inadequate. I didn't have the desire to create crafts or take the kids to this story hour or that play gym or breastfeed them til they're 9. Instead, I was left feeling resentful and irritated by their mere breathing. MY KIDS! Have you met them? They're hardly the types to drive you to drink in the afternoon or lock yourself in your room and cry; one I started getting way too good at and one I truly started contemplating.

Please throw me in.

The other night

2008-12-10T09:36:00.005-06:00

As a commercial for teeth whitener interrupted our Charlie Brown Christmas, Egan turns to his brother and gently asks in almost a whisper: Gil? Are your teeth white?

TEN!

2008-12-06T09:32:00.002-06:00

Despite the thunder and rain, it is a glorious day

2008-11-05T13:52:00.007-06:00

This morning as my snooze was slapped for the umpteenth time, having stayed up way too late, watching The Speech, wiping tears from my eyes, and weathering several rounds of very bumpy goosebumps, Egan crawls up into bed with me as Don Ganye and Michelle Kellerman announce yet again the President Elect.

Egan: They said BARACK OBAMA!

Me: Yep, he's going to be our new president...

Egan: He IS?!

Gil enters the room

Egan: GIL! BARACK OBAMA IS OUR NEW PRESIDENT!!

Gil [turning out of the room and running down the hall to announce the news to Allie]: AL! AL! BARACK OBAMA WON!!

Egan proudly announces, eyes wide: I can be the president of the United States...

In light of previous discussions with Egan on Barack Obama, I can proudly say he now knows exactly who Barack Obama is.

Happy birthday, love

2008-11-04T14:22:00.001-06:00

2008-10-31T10:31:00.001-05:00

Come on, Internet! or Marlo Thomas instilled some values

2008-10-29T09:37:00.021-05:00

Time to update this stale medium where I either share family stories, complain about my responsibilities, or pontificate on whatever might have crept into the folds of my frontal lobe, lodging itself so deep I can't get it out EXCEPT FOR HERE.

When I go to the gym, I fall ~~victim~~ privy to the wall of televisions that motivate those who think watching an interview with Kathie Lee and Hooda and some washed up television actor really gets 'em going. I can't help but notice the various advertisements for teeth whitening, hair color, or Nutrisystem, all serenaded between my ear buds by the Ting Tings and Justin Timberlake.

Why do they keep telling me I shouldn't accept my body the way it is: prematurely grey; coffee stained teeth; the beginning laugh lines of almost 34 years of hilarity; my magnificent mama muffin top a sensational reminder of my thrice in a lifetime achievement of bringing three of the most amazing creatures into this world?

The programming begins again and there's now a woman on the morning show telling me How to Look Sexy at Any Age! Because she's actually going to convince me that wearing pantyhose with a built-in butt-pusher-upper fools anyone?

As women we are constantly told how imperfect we are. If we only had that creaseless forehead, the biggest boobs, a perfect shade of auburn that washed that grey right out of your hair, or teeth so white they're grey. On the one hand it's perfectly understood to buy a product that ~~you think~~ lifts your saggy ass. Yet the other hand is holding way too accessible plastic surgeons brought to you by E! and their exclusive zip code. Let me rephrase that. Those surgeons appear to be so accessible because they are on E! every time I sit down to fold yet another load of laundry. Sure, you and I get that these doctors are as exclusive as Oprah Winfrey. But to others their local alleyway knife wielding ICS certificate holding physician can achieve the same looks as Brazilian goon on E!.

Why are we a society dedicated to achieving a look resembling Barbie's plastic fantastic unchanging face? Mary Tyler Moore is an applaudable success story for that. We are actually supposed to believe we aren't awesome just the way we are. If you're unhealthy, get healthy. If you're looking for a fun new hair color, go for it. Cover your grey? Hell no! All those advertisements for products and purely cosmetic surgeries are a very painfully obvious symbol of corporate America making bank off our insecurities. Insecurities they've instilled within us.

You fellas can't escape it either. Balding men need not spray the tops of their gorgeous heads with black spray paint because that's no more persuasively plausible than butt lifting panty hose.

Excuse me while I high-five my stretchmarked muffin top and stuff it discretely back into my cords.

Happy birthday, Grandma Kelly!

2008-10-02T18:36:00.001-05:00

80 ain't got nuthin on this gal

Happy birthday, Z!

2008-09-30T21:18:00.004-05:00

The youngest, handsomest Grandpa-in-law this gal has ever known.

On settling in as a SAHM

2008-09-26T09:41:00.004-05:00

Last year at this time I was donning a life jacket as I prepared to plunge, head first, into full-time graduate school. Which is pretty hard to do with a life jacket on. Halfway through the first two weeks I took it off and said sink or swim. Many people sang my praises as they could only imagine undertaking graduate school as a single parent of three kids. Sure its difficult. But truth be told, you can do it too with the proper adjustment period.

This year at this time I am settling into my role as a SAHM. I seriously think it took until this week, maybe last week, for my daily responsibilities and little projects to be caught up before I've been able sit here saying to myself, out loud, because you do that when you're home by yourself all day, "I am a stay at home Mom."

I dusted off my handbook on How to Say No because as a SAHM you're automatically assumed to be available to volunteer for virtually everything. And I, for one, have absolutely no problem saying no. Except to online purchases. And iPods.

I have also begun putting my resume out there because these walls here? They're closing in and really hard to climb.

The Four Agreements

2008-09-23T12:16:00.005-05:00

1) Be impeccable with your word
2) Don't take anything personally
3) Don't make assumptions
4) Always do your best

My very dear friend Julie turned me on to The Four Agreements as a tool to help me work on how I perceive and interact with the world.

If you're searching for a little guidance, give it a shot.

What does your 9-year-old say to you first thing in the morning?

2008-09-21T09:16:00.005-05:00

"I had this dream last night...we lived in a trailer park and we had a grill inside and, um, Dad was grilling steaks and it was Halloween and there were these three cousins who were lightbulbs and one lightbulb fell and caught on fire and then caught our house on fire and we couldn't leave for 7 minutes because Dad had to finish his steaks.

There was something like a platform with stairs going down on two sides and one of the cousins was from my orchestra class. And we were talking and talking and then I woke up."

Speaking of parenting

2008-09-10T00:45:00.005-05:00

I look forward to a longitudinal study being done on these girls.

Seven

2008-09-05T10:59:00.017-05:00

Last night Jon and I were discussing how difficult it is to remember our kids as babies or little kids. Granted they're all still "little," some littler than others. When you first get them, there seems to be no continuum. The crazy notion of them actually growing to become individuals with whom you can carry lengthy conversations - send your kid to Catholic school and she comes home in kindergarten asking for the exact explanation for creationism - leaves you all, "Wha?" Try thinking of that as you bathe your baby for the umpteenth time, swabbing the last two meals worth of leftovers from under the folds in his neck. It's all so foreign when you start this whole parenting/family thing, focusing solely on diaper changing and cutting portions of food into minute, anti-choking morsels of nourishment. Like how extensively boiling vegetables takes the nutrients out of the carrots or broccoli.

It all happens pretty fast and I'm sure there's absolutely no way of truly preparing oneself for the ride. Gil is no exception.

I totally remember taking this picture of him, being SUCH A BIG BOY! sitting all by himself. I was just recalling his birth story this morning as he and Jon were making rice krispy treats - WITH M&Ms! - to share at school today. Somehow all those details flush from a mom's memory; they're there, yet seem light years ago but also just like yesterday. Apparently they become replaced by current experiences.

Experiences like gaining confidence in casting. This was Gil's favorite past time this summer.

A humbling reminder to continue loving each of my kids even more than I did the day before.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Boy.

It's got to be the hedgehog

2008-09-02T14:57:00.003-05:00

In memoriam

2008-08-25T13:17:00.004-05:00

If you're familiar with the children's series Good Dog Carl, then a face like Bogey's will easily place a smile on your face.

Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to Bogey today as his sails were aloft with gusty winds ready to take him to a more peaceful land. A land where he will reunite with his old girl Sam and prance in the fields of pain free happiness he's never known. A land where people food never runs out and never makes a dog poop all over the livingroom carpet.

First day

2008-08-20T15:43:00.004-05:00

Oh so quiet

2008-08-12T15:31:00.011-05:00

Gil is down the street at an aforementioned lovely friend's house, with the four children, more than likely helping himself to any crunchy, salty, sweet, aluminum bag packed snack, most definitely leaving crumbs behind. Gil's friend from that household came down with the most exciting invitation: A sleep over! Apparently it began at 1:00 pm as Gil shot out of the house and ran down the street so fast he forgot to favor his left big toe that he has been limping on since a piece of glass generously lodged itself at the base.

Allie finally invited a very favorite girlfriend over. They sat in her room chit chatting about this and that, walked the dog for a good 30 minutes, returned, and have been creating clay sculptures in her room, continuing the 9-year-old chitter chatter that makes me smile just listening to. Until one of them passed gas, sending the two of them chortling into hysterics. Ok, so maybe it runs in the family. That and Top 40 is now playing on the radio.

We are sashaying our way into the Pre Teens, my friends. So far so good. I'll let you know how I'm doing. Because remember folks, let's not get off task. Raising children IS ALL ABOUT THE MOTHER.

Developmental milestones? Pshhh. How's Mother handling it?

Speaking of which, I was petrified looking forward to my summer going unmedicated with my three kids being home all the time. Meaning, Grandpa's Old Cough Medicine could only last so long and my liver would begin to object. Plus yellowing eyes can be so unsightly. Not to mention hangovers with three kids being no fun at all. Not even a little bit. I had myself halfway convinced I'd need to rely on Mother's Little Helper during the past three months but instead somehow got swept up in the whirlwind we call Summer and have actually done quite well. Sure my aunt, who will remain nameless, introduced me to a chilled little concoction that goes down nicely once the kids are in bed. But we don't need to get into that.

Egan, my sweet little three-year-old, is soundly sleeping in his Thomas undies atop his sheet covered, rubber sleeved, mattress. After Egan heard his best buddy cousin is now going PEE! On the POTTY! He is hell bent on accomplishing the same. The only hiccup is his terror-stricken fear of releasing his bowels on the toilet. I've offered gum, lollypops, ice cream; even McDonald's for crissake. He's not budging. Or pooping.

As I've said before, I don't want to create an anal retentive poop hoarder. But I also want my kid to trust me that he can relax and let his body do what it needs to. I don't think the kid is cognitively capable of grasping an ounce of what a relief this will all be once he experiences one of the many instances when he figures out I WAS RIGHT.