I was thinking of getting a little part time job. If I could work from home that would be even better, so I'm thinking about seeing how much I could make off of Nigerian scammers. I don't know why, exactly, but all of a sudden I'm getting A TON of emails from the little twerps. So. I'm thinking that I reply to each one of them, and tell them that I need, oh, say, $10, to be wired TO ME, to prove to me that they really are Toyota, or the United Nations, or a Nigerian Banker and not some skeevey scum bucket. I'm sure most of them wouldn't bite, but if one percent bit I would have enough extra money to buy some toys for the girls, or pizza a couple of times a month.
Speaking of what I'd buy with a $100 a month, I told Simon what I wanted for my birthday, namely chocolate, a new fuzzy bathrobe, chocolate and chocolate. And then I thought for a minute, and I pointed out to him how lucky he is that I'm into expensive chocolate and not shoes or clothes or hair or makeup. I mean, when I splurge I buy a $4 bar of chocolate, not a $400 pair of Jimmy Choo's. He scored when he married me.
Just needing your name, birthdate, job title and sex*,
ephelba
*I always laugh when the Nigerians ask me that. Sex? No thanks, I'm good, man.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
That good.
Simon spent some time yesterday diddling his beloved stereo system, and when he was done he visited some of his music. Wellll, I say music. At one point he put on "Winter was hard" by the Kronos Quartet. After listening to a few tracks, I said "Winter was hard. It was soooo fucking hard we had to sell our music and play this shit." When the baby started to cry, Simon gave in and turned it down a bit. To be fair, I'm sure that if I were in the mood, and the children were in bed, and I had a really, really large glass of wine, I could get into it.
Do you read Whoopee? I love reading her because my mental picture of her house resembles the actual view of my house. Usually when I read a blog I picture the author's living space as much spiffier than my own. Like, if the internet is a zoo, and each blog is an exhibit, than most of the blogs I read remind me of the Lion cage, maybe, with big beautiful cats lounging around a tasteful arrangement of grasses and rocks. My household would be the monkey cage, complete with random toys strewn around and primates scratching their nethers. All I can say in our defense is that we usually wear pants and never fling poo. Boogers, wet dishrags, and used diapers, yes. Poo, no.
I'm still trying to get caught up on the mess we made whilst we were ill, without getting behind on the mess we're making now. I've said it before and I'll say it again- staying on top of the housework is like staying on top of a big ball. Once you start to lose it, the whole thing goes sideways like THAT and it's completely gone. And when you're trying to get back up you have to pull it all together at once. At least, that's the way it feels to me.
Leaving you with the mental picture of herself as a monkey in a tutu balancing on a large ball whilst holding a dirty diaper and scratching her ass,
ephelba
Do you read Whoopee? I love reading her because my mental picture of her house resembles the actual view of my house. Usually when I read a blog I picture the author's living space as much spiffier than my own. Like, if the internet is a zoo, and each blog is an exhibit, than most of the blogs I read remind me of the Lion cage, maybe, with big beautiful cats lounging around a tasteful arrangement of grasses and rocks. My household would be the monkey cage, complete with random toys strewn around and primates scratching their nethers. All I can say in our defense is that we usually wear pants and never fling poo. Boogers, wet dishrags, and used diapers, yes. Poo, no.
I'm still trying to get caught up on the mess we made whilst we were ill, without getting behind on the mess we're making now. I've said it before and I'll say it again- staying on top of the housework is like staying on top of a big ball. Once you start to lose it, the whole thing goes sideways like THAT and it's completely gone. And when you're trying to get back up you have to pull it all together at once. At least, that's the way it feels to me.
Leaving you with the mental picture of herself as a monkey in a tutu balancing on a large ball whilst holding a dirty diaper and scratching her ass,
ephelba
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Much better now.
When Myfarmer gifted us with a loft bed for Boy, I wondered to myself what the mess would be like if he puked up there. I had also wondered, when I got pregnant for the Bug, what it would be like when a family of five got the stomach flu, especially if Simon and I got sick at the same time.
Poor Boy was feeling sort of icky, but I thought he had a cold, so I gave him a Benadryl and we all went to bed. Benadryl puts him out in a serious way though, and even when he started barfing he slept through it. Of course, this meant he was puking in his loft. The result was spectacular. I couldn't help but giggle a little when I got my first look at him.
The Bean got it first and gave it to us all, but she really wasn't very sick. The Bug was sick all night long, but never cried. In fact, she slept in her puke for half the night because I didn't figure out what was going on until 3:30 in the morning. Simon, Boy and I all came down with it on the same night, meaning the next day there was no one in shape to take care of the two perfectly happy girls. I opened their closet door (where I store the toys that are out of rotation) and lay down in the Bean's bed. The novelty of the situation kept them busy all morning. Then there was nap, and after that the grown ups were feeling better enough to move downstairs. We survived, and it was awful, but it wasn't as bad as I had imagined.
In other news, the Boy's birthday is coming up. We're giving him presents along two lines- one is the usual Gift of Entertainment, i.e. books, comics, movies, and the other is Gifts that You Give Grownups, because he's never gotten these before and he actually appreciates them. So Simon and I were looking at pens, and we couldn't decide if he'd like a cheery orange one, or a bad ass orange-gray-black one (can't tell which one I like, huh?), and finally I brought the Boy down for a hypothetical. We asked him if he'd rather have a cheery orange coat, or a orange/gray/black coat. O/G/B. But Simon says, no, that's not the same, so I say, what about shoes? And the Boy waffles. So I say what about a bike, and he says Orange, definitely, so then I'm like, what if we painted this wall ... and then Simon comes out and says, "That that's not like a pen at all" and I'm all like, "Shit!". At which point we just show him the pens, and he picked orange. Sadly, I have always held the policy that if you figure out what you're getting before the gift giving time it goes back to the store, which means that Simon blew it and now we have to figure out something else. Sigh. To top it off, Simon is all proud that he picked the right color.
The Boy was looking through a Oriental Trading Company catalog, and he started figuring out how much he could make at school selling the candy. At which point he decided he wanted to go into business. He's got all sorts of schemes worked up in his little brain. I'm really hoping he'll have a go at some sort of money making effort, although canday at school is right out. He's already learned a lot about basic business principles just by thinking things through- for example, it takes money to make money, so how could he go about getting the initial investment? This right here is how learning happens. It's exciting to watch.
Alright. Gotta go, feeding time for the monkeys.
Wondering why February isn't National Puke Month,
ephelba
Poor Boy was feeling sort of icky, but I thought he had a cold, so I gave him a Benadryl and we all went to bed. Benadryl puts him out in a serious way though, and even when he started barfing he slept through it. Of course, this meant he was puking in his loft. The result was spectacular. I couldn't help but giggle a little when I got my first look at him.
The Bean got it first and gave it to us all, but she really wasn't very sick. The Bug was sick all night long, but never cried. In fact, she slept in her puke for half the night because I didn't figure out what was going on until 3:30 in the morning. Simon, Boy and I all came down with it on the same night, meaning the next day there was no one in shape to take care of the two perfectly happy girls. I opened their closet door (where I store the toys that are out of rotation) and lay down in the Bean's bed. The novelty of the situation kept them busy all morning. Then there was nap, and after that the grown ups were feeling better enough to move downstairs. We survived, and it was awful, but it wasn't as bad as I had imagined.
In other news, the Boy's birthday is coming up. We're giving him presents along two lines- one is the usual Gift of Entertainment, i.e. books, comics, movies, and the other is Gifts that You Give Grownups, because he's never gotten these before and he actually appreciates them. So Simon and I were looking at pens, and we couldn't decide if he'd like a cheery orange one, or a bad ass orange-gray-black one (can't tell which one I like, huh?), and finally I brought the Boy down for a hypothetical. We asked him if he'd rather have a cheery orange coat, or a orange/gray/black coat. O/G/B. But Simon says, no, that's not the same, so I say, what about shoes? And the Boy waffles. So I say what about a bike, and he says Orange, definitely, so then I'm like, what if we painted this wall ... and then Simon comes out and says, "That that's not like a pen at all" and I'm all like, "Shit!". At which point we just show him the pens, and he picked orange. Sadly, I have always held the policy that if you figure out what you're getting before the gift giving time it goes back to the store, which means that Simon blew it and now we have to figure out something else. Sigh. To top it off, Simon is all proud that he picked the right color.
The Boy was looking through a Oriental Trading Company catalog, and he started figuring out how much he could make at school selling the candy. At which point he decided he wanted to go into business. He's got all sorts of schemes worked up in his little brain. I'm really hoping he'll have a go at some sort of money making effort, although canday at school is right out. He's already learned a lot about basic business principles just by thinking things through- for example, it takes money to make money, so how could he go about getting the initial investment? This right here is how learning happens. It's exciting to watch.
Alright. Gotta go, feeding time for the monkeys.
Wondering why February isn't National Puke Month,
ephelba
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Twice in one week
People with pen1ses have held up a diaper full of poop and asked "What do I do with this?", as if we are saving the turds up for a set of dishes, or storing them until they ripen, or reusing them as skin creme, perhaps.
For the record?
Poop goes in the potty,
ephelba
For the record?
Poop goes in the potty,
ephelba
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Sometimes.
Sometimes I don't know what to do with this blog. I started it because I read my Grandmother's journals and it gave me a whole new understanding of her. I wanted to leave something like that for my family. Also? My mother and I have issues with memory. We can forget the things that did happen and remember things that didn't. It's a gift. I try to leave written accounts of things so that I have a record of the life I actually lived, as opposed to the fun house mirror version I remember. Lastly, I have found that reading about other people's lives on the internet comforts me. I feel less singular. Most of my day is spent without the company of other adults, so this is not trivial. Writing in my blog is my way of paying it back. Maybe some other mother sees herself mirrored here and finds her way to having some compassion for herself. I hope so.
The problem I find myself having is that I don't blog as much of my daily living as I'd like, because I've wanted this to be a blog I wouldn't have to be ashamed of my family finding. I don't want them to stumble across this, recognize my life, then be hurt by the things I've said. I have a lot to say, however, and I don't see how I can serve the purpose of this blog by not saying them. This is the problem inherent in putting your diary on the internet, and I haven't solved it yet. Ideas and suggestions from the peanut gallery are most welcome:)
So.
Anyway.
In the interest of having this blog adhere to its purpose, I will fill you in on what's been up this winter. I've been sick. I get these spells where my legs don't work too good, I'm tingly in spots and unbelievably tired. It comes and goes, now and then. Right now my Doctor says that since my lab results are normal it must be in my head, and has written me up a script for SSRIs. I know they won't work, because I've done this several times around. However, I do think he is a good Doctor, and I will try anything, because if it worked I would be very very glad. Also? Whatever it is isn't going to kill me. It's just life alteringly annoying. And another also? I want to be the willing patient so that he will work with me to figure this out. And the last also? I have been depressed this winter. Not the teenage kind of depression, where being alive=anguish. More of a middle-aged depression, where everything fucking annoys the piss out of me, it's all a bit too much, and really, why even bother anyway. So. SSRIs it is.
My Mom is in the states for a while and is staying with my Aunt. My mom is attempting to finish my Aunt's basement. Mom has the time to do this, and no one else does. It is good for all concerned. Auntie M saved up some time off and they came out here for a visit, also good for all concerned. They got to stay for a week and play with babies. The first day they were here they played with the Bean so much she pooped out and went to bed two hours early. Her favorite game was to get somebody, usually Auntie M, to walk around the house on a loop from the kitchen through the foyer through the living room through the dining room and back to the kitchen. If the Bug could be convinced to join, all the better. And for an extra special touch, all the girls would put on their snow boots and march and yell on their way around the circuit. This came to be known as the "Pink Boot Parade". Other options including singing various songs, counting steps and jumping on ten, and occasionally playing chase. By the time the visit was over, the Bean was finally saying "Four" after "three", instead of "nine", or perhaps "two" again.
My Mothers also bought me a cabinet and some table legs so I could put up a counter in my kitchen. The kitchen here is good sized, but strangely lacking in cabinetry. MyFarmer had given me a butcher block when she moved, and with the stuff they bought me we had all the parts necessary to remedy the situation.
It was interesting putting it all together. My woodworking skill set is weak. Simon's job entails many of the skills needed, and when he came home to find me working on the legs and things he let me know how he would have done things differently. I had spent all day working on the damn things, and was feeling pretty proud that I had managed to get them attached, seeing as how my past wood working projects had ended up in pieces or flames before I finished them. Simon was looking at the legs and feeling pretty certain they wouldn't hold up, although I still think he was doing the mental calculations based on whether what I'd done would keep an airplane together at 20000 feet.* I let Simon know that he had hurt my feelings, and he said sorry, and I believe there were some physical apologies all around. The next day I took the legs off and had another go. This time things went much better.** Even he was impressed. Then we proceeded to throw a new set of hissy fits at each other over getting the counter on the cabinets. It's deuced awkward to land a two ton counter and its holes smack onto the screws sticking up from the cabinet. And no, we couldn't just screw the screws up into the counter because it's made of maple and maple is HARD. In the end, Simon came up with the genius idea of using the kid's building blocks as shims, which we put under the legs and on top of the cabinet, which let us see what we were doing, and then we smacked the shims out and tada! We did it! The end result may not be aesthetically pleasing, but it is much better than the three legged card table I had been using. Srsly.
Let's see. What else. The Bean's birthday means that her therapies are going to be provided by the school district instead of the county. There was a round of testing, followed by the recommendation that she see a speech therapist 3 times a week, a physical therapist 2 times a week, and a special education teacher two hours a week. Currently she sees a speech therapist twice a week, and physical therapist once a month. Since her test scores were the same for the school district as they had been for the county, Simon and I are left wondering whether she hasn't needed more services all along. The therapists themselves are of differing opinions.
I think it's a matter of who typically receives services. The county usually sees kids who were born with a syndrome or illness that is so severe they don't have to be tested in order to get put into the system, or the Doctor decides that something is wrong and asks for an evaluation. Given that the Doctor usually spends 10 minutes with a kid, said kid has to be pretty off for the typical Doctor to notice. I suspect that there is a large group of kids who would qualify for services if they were tested, but they don't get tested because their parents either don't know enough about child development or don't know that services are available. The upshot of all this is that the county spends most of its time with very, very messed up kids. The school district, on the other hand, sees all the kids in the district once they start school. This means they see all the kids that slipped through the cracks and didn't get seen as toddlers. They end up providing services to many kids who have issues but mostly function. It's a matter of degree. The county's speech therapist is teaching kids to swallow, the school district's speech therapist is teaching kids to pronounce their "l"s. So when the county looks at the Bean they say "She's getting along fine", and the school district says "This girl needs a lot of catching up.". Of course, this is just my theory. She's getting more services now, so it doesn't matter why, I guess.
She's still being served by the county, but based on the school district's recommendations they're sending out a special ed teacher, upping her physical therapy to once a week and sending her to a play group with other special needs kids. For my part, I've signed her up for story time at the library and am getting together with a couple of moms who have 3/4 yos. Last week she went to story time on Weds, playgroup on Thurs, our friend's on Fri, and came down with a bad cold on Sat. Since then we've missed two therapy sessions, one playgroup and story time. Oh, and lots of sleep. Now the Bug is coming down with it, so more fun will be had by all, I'm sure.
On a happier note, the house is clean right now. It was clean yesterday too. Yay us! We're celebrating Simon's birthday tonight with a good dinner and presents, which will be fun. Yay again!
Suppose I better go get working on that, because I sure loves me some Simon.
I'll be back soon,
ephelba
*His day job is airplane mechanic. Since you can't pull an airplane over to the side of the sky, the mechanics are making things very tight and strong. Can't fault them for that.
**Can I hear it for JB Weld?
The problem I find myself having is that I don't blog as much of my daily living as I'd like, because I've wanted this to be a blog I wouldn't have to be ashamed of my family finding. I don't want them to stumble across this, recognize my life, then be hurt by the things I've said. I have a lot to say, however, and I don't see how I can serve the purpose of this blog by not saying them. This is the problem inherent in putting your diary on the internet, and I haven't solved it yet. Ideas and suggestions from the peanut gallery are most welcome:)
So.
Anyway.
In the interest of having this blog adhere to its purpose, I will fill you in on what's been up this winter. I've been sick. I get these spells where my legs don't work too good, I'm tingly in spots and unbelievably tired. It comes and goes, now and then. Right now my Doctor says that since my lab results are normal it must be in my head, and has written me up a script for SSRIs. I know they won't work, because I've done this several times around. However, I do think he is a good Doctor, and I will try anything, because if it worked I would be very very glad. Also? Whatever it is isn't going to kill me. It's just life alteringly annoying. And another also? I want to be the willing patient so that he will work with me to figure this out. And the last also? I have been depressed this winter. Not the teenage kind of depression, where being alive=anguish. More of a middle-aged depression, where everything fucking annoys the piss out of me, it's all a bit too much, and really, why even bother anyway. So. SSRIs it is.
My Mom is in the states for a while and is staying with my Aunt. My mom is attempting to finish my Aunt's basement. Mom has the time to do this, and no one else does. It is good for all concerned. Auntie M saved up some time off and they came out here for a visit, also good for all concerned. They got to stay for a week and play with babies. The first day they were here they played with the Bean so much she pooped out and went to bed two hours early. Her favorite game was to get somebody, usually Auntie M, to walk around the house on a loop from the kitchen through the foyer through the living room through the dining room and back to the kitchen. If the Bug could be convinced to join, all the better. And for an extra special touch, all the girls would put on their snow boots and march and yell on their way around the circuit. This came to be known as the "Pink Boot Parade". Other options including singing various songs, counting steps and jumping on ten, and occasionally playing chase. By the time the visit was over, the Bean was finally saying "Four" after "three", instead of "nine", or perhaps "two" again.
My Mothers also bought me a cabinet and some table legs so I could put up a counter in my kitchen. The kitchen here is good sized, but strangely lacking in cabinetry. MyFarmer had given me a butcher block when she moved, and with the stuff they bought me we had all the parts necessary to remedy the situation.
It was interesting putting it all together. My woodworking skill set is weak. Simon's job entails many of the skills needed, and when he came home to find me working on the legs and things he let me know how he would have done things differently. I had spent all day working on the damn things, and was feeling pretty proud that I had managed to get them attached, seeing as how my past wood working projects had ended up in pieces or flames before I finished them. Simon was looking at the legs and feeling pretty certain they wouldn't hold up, although I still think he was doing the mental calculations based on whether what I'd done would keep an airplane together at 20000 feet.* I let Simon know that he had hurt my feelings, and he said sorry, and I believe there were some physical apologies all around. The next day I took the legs off and had another go. This time things went much better.** Even he was impressed. Then we proceeded to throw a new set of hissy fits at each other over getting the counter on the cabinets. It's deuced awkward to land a two ton counter and its holes smack onto the screws sticking up from the cabinet. And no, we couldn't just screw the screws up into the counter because it's made of maple and maple is HARD. In the end, Simon came up with the genius idea of using the kid's building blocks as shims, which we put under the legs and on top of the cabinet, which let us see what we were doing, and then we smacked the shims out and tada! We did it! The end result may not be aesthetically pleasing, but it is much better than the three legged card table I had been using. Srsly.
Let's see. What else. The Bean's birthday means that her therapies are going to be provided by the school district instead of the county. There was a round of testing, followed by the recommendation that she see a speech therapist 3 times a week, a physical therapist 2 times a week, and a special education teacher two hours a week. Currently she sees a speech therapist twice a week, and physical therapist once a month. Since her test scores were the same for the school district as they had been for the county, Simon and I are left wondering whether she hasn't needed more services all along. The therapists themselves are of differing opinions.
I think it's a matter of who typically receives services. The county usually sees kids who were born with a syndrome or illness that is so severe they don't have to be tested in order to get put into the system, or the Doctor decides that something is wrong and asks for an evaluation. Given that the Doctor usually spends 10 minutes with a kid, said kid has to be pretty off for the typical Doctor to notice. I suspect that there is a large group of kids who would qualify for services if they were tested, but they don't get tested because their parents either don't know enough about child development or don't know that services are available. The upshot of all this is that the county spends most of its time with very, very messed up kids. The school district, on the other hand, sees all the kids in the district once they start school. This means they see all the kids that slipped through the cracks and didn't get seen as toddlers. They end up providing services to many kids who have issues but mostly function. It's a matter of degree. The county's speech therapist is teaching kids to swallow, the school district's speech therapist is teaching kids to pronounce their "l"s. So when the county looks at the Bean they say "She's getting along fine", and the school district says "This girl needs a lot of catching up.". Of course, this is just my theory. She's getting more services now, so it doesn't matter why, I guess.
She's still being served by the county, but based on the school district's recommendations they're sending out a special ed teacher, upping her physical therapy to once a week and sending her to a play group with other special needs kids. For my part, I've signed her up for story time at the library and am getting together with a couple of moms who have 3/4 yos. Last week she went to story time on Weds, playgroup on Thurs, our friend's on Fri, and came down with a bad cold on Sat. Since then we've missed two therapy sessions, one playgroup and story time. Oh, and lots of sleep. Now the Bug is coming down with it, so more fun will be had by all, I'm sure.
On a happier note, the house is clean right now. It was clean yesterday too. Yay us! We're celebrating Simon's birthday tonight with a good dinner and presents, which will be fun. Yay again!
Suppose I better go get working on that, because I sure loves me some Simon.
I'll be back soon,
ephelba
*His day job is airplane mechanic. Since you can't pull an airplane over to the side of the sky, the mechanics are making things very tight and strong. Can't fault them for that.
**Can I hear it for JB Weld?
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Hoi polloi
I went to Walmart yesterday. In our house this store is known as "The Devil Store". We heap scorn upon it because of the consumer mecca it is. Because of the little local stores it squashes. Because of the waste it engenders. And yet, since it has so successfully obliterated the local competition, when I am left making a choice between box stores I often end up choosing it because it's the closest.
We started our adventure in the returns line, where I had ample time to contemplate the intellectual abilities of the cashier on duty. The unwashed hair. The coats that couldn't close over the beer guts. The very special choices of hair cuts. The mass produced cheap clothes that are saying lots of things, but none of it worth hearing.
After completing the tour of the store we got in the checkout line, and both Boy and I were astonished to see what appeared to be a very, very small turd on the floor. A turd. On the floor. We skirted around it and moved up in line to take the place of the people who were just leaving which is when I was washed in the odeur of raw, human sheee-yit. Seriously. I believe the man in front of us in line had pooped himself.
It was at this point that I began to feel a growing sense of panic. Usually I'm the great apologist in the family- the one to point out that no one poops themselves if they can help it, and people have it hard these days, etc.- but right at that moment I was hung up on two horrible thoughts. The first was that everyone here was so common. This store was grotesque, a freak show hawking a peek at the horror that is the working class.
The second horrible thought?
I belonged there.
The Bug's coat was all manky around the edges from some cream cheese on a bagel fed to her in the car. Fed to her in the car the day before yesterday. I lose points for feeding her in the car and for not washing her coat.
The Bean's coat was in better shape, but her hair was sticking up "ever hwhich uhway". I smoothed down the worst of it with my fingers, but no amount of smoothing is going to hide the unbelievably bad job I did of cutting her bangs. I know how to cut bangs, but I didn't do a single thing I know I should do, and the result is that most people think she cut her hair herself. I lose points for not brushing her hair and for mangling her do.
I myself wasn't in the best state. I'd hid my hair under my hat rather than do anything with it.
I understand that people are the way they are for a reason. We generally make the best choices we can with the knowledgeand resources we have at the time. Spending time at Walmart, however, does not bring out my compassionate side like I want it to. I get overwhelmed by the ugly and the stupid and I want to run from the store, tearing my clothes and screaming. I feel so classist. I desperately want to be able to say that these aren't my people. That this place is beneath me. That I don't belong.
Sometimes I think I will never again step foot in that store. Other times I think I need to shop there until I have conquered by inner classist and regained solidarity with my fellow man.
I haven't gained any real insight from this. All I'm left with is the feeling I need to shower.
Going to make her snobby self another cup of coffee,
ephelba
We started our adventure in the returns line, where I had ample time to contemplate the intellectual abilities of the cashier on duty. The unwashed hair. The coats that couldn't close over the beer guts. The very special choices of hair cuts. The mass produced cheap clothes that are saying lots of things, but none of it worth hearing.
After completing the tour of the store we got in the checkout line, and both Boy and I were astonished to see what appeared to be a very, very small turd on the floor. A turd. On the floor. We skirted around it and moved up in line to take the place of the people who were just leaving which is when I was washed in the odeur of raw, human sheee-yit. Seriously. I believe the man in front of us in line had pooped himself.
It was at this point that I began to feel a growing sense of panic. Usually I'm the great apologist in the family- the one to point out that no one poops themselves if they can help it, and people have it hard these days, etc.- but right at that moment I was hung up on two horrible thoughts. The first was that everyone here was so common. This store was grotesque, a freak show hawking a peek at the horror that is the working class.
The second horrible thought?
I belonged there.
The Bug's coat was all manky around the edges from some cream cheese on a bagel fed to her in the car. Fed to her in the car the day before yesterday. I lose points for feeding her in the car and for not washing her coat.
The Bean's coat was in better shape, but her hair was sticking up "ever hwhich uhway". I smoothed down the worst of it with my fingers, but no amount of smoothing is going to hide the unbelievably bad job I did of cutting her bangs. I know how to cut bangs, but I didn't do a single thing I know I should do, and the result is that most people think she cut her hair herself. I lose points for not brushing her hair and for mangling her do.
I myself wasn't in the best state. I'd hid my hair under my hat rather than do anything with it.
I understand that people are the way they are for a reason. We generally make the best choices we can with the knowledgeand resources we have at the time. Spending time at Walmart, however, does not bring out my compassionate side like I want it to. I get overwhelmed by the ugly and the stupid and I want to run from the store, tearing my clothes and screaming. I feel so classist. I desperately want to be able to say that these aren't my people. That this place is beneath me. That I don't belong.
Sometimes I think I will never again step foot in that store. Other times I think I need to shop there until I have conquered by inner classist and regained solidarity with my fellow man.
I haven't gained any real insight from this. All I'm left with is the feeling I need to shower.
Going to make her snobby self another cup of coffee,
ephelba
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Ooo! Ooo!
Here's a good Idea- Candle Night! It's non-religious, doesn't require buying shit, there's no big meal involved- the point is to hang with your loved ones. That's a holiday I can get behind.
Thanks, Z, for directing me there!
Going to go wash some socks that are three sizes too small,
ephelba
Thanks, Z, for directing me there!
Going to go wash some socks that are three sizes too small,
ephelba
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wish
I wish that every woman on the planet knew what her natural hair looked like, and that if she decided to mess with it after that, it was because she enjoyed doing so.
I wish that every woman could enjoy the sight of her own face without makeup on it.
I wish that every person could appreciate their body for the miracle that it is, whatever color, size or shape it comes it.
And while I'm putting my order in, I'd like a large peace-on-earth and some extra good-will-towards-men.
Love,
ephelba
I wish that every woman could enjoy the sight of her own face without makeup on it.
I wish that every person could appreciate their body for the miracle that it is, whatever color, size or shape it comes it.
And while I'm putting my order in, I'd like a large peace-on-earth and some extra good-will-towards-men.
Love,
ephelba
Monday, December 08, 2008
Notes for Posterity
You're a year and a month old now. You've finally gotten the hang of walking. We'll tell people you walked at a year, but it was probably the very last day of that last month before you started to take a few steps by yourself.
You love fuzzy things. Hand you a stuffy and you'll plop flat over so you can smoosh your face in it, then you'll waggle your head back and forth so you can really enjoy the soft. Oh, the soft.
You've got Four teeth on top, three and half on bottom, and one molar's worth of prickles in the back. Three more molars are about to come through.
You have quite the vocabulary- "Moooommm-my!" (ascending pitch) means food, me or Poppy. SooSee! (Descending pitch) Means Lucy doggie. "Hi" is self explanatory, and rare. "Gank Goo" means Thank you and is spoken after every bite of food. You also spend a lot of time saying "BaaaBoo!", but I couldn't say why.
Just this week you've been spending a lot of time learning how to walk whilst holding something. It's proven to be very tricky. You've also been devoting a lot of time to Sip, your sister's stuffed guiney pig. She is less than thrilled, so we've been trying to convince you that Cookie Monster is a suitable alternative. You usally agree, because he says things, like "Dumdeedumdumdum" and "Cooooookie" and he burps. Sip never burps.
Your brother noticed that you are very photogenic. He's right. Seems like all the pictures we have of you are good ones- big smiling baby face. Everyone should be so lucky.
Nothing much else to say, I just wanted to make a note of how wonderful and fun you are right now, because it all goes by so fast.
Love,
Mom
You love fuzzy things. Hand you a stuffy and you'll plop flat over so you can smoosh your face in it, then you'll waggle your head back and forth so you can really enjoy the soft. Oh, the soft.
You've got Four teeth on top, three and half on bottom, and one molar's worth of prickles in the back. Three more molars are about to come through.
You have quite the vocabulary- "Moooommm-my!" (ascending pitch) means food, me or Poppy. SooSee! (Descending pitch) Means Lucy doggie. "Hi" is self explanatory, and rare. "Gank Goo" means Thank you and is spoken after every bite of food. You also spend a lot of time saying "BaaaBoo!", but I couldn't say why.
Just this week you've been spending a lot of time learning how to walk whilst holding something. It's proven to be very tricky. You've also been devoting a lot of time to Sip, your sister's stuffed guiney pig. She is less than thrilled, so we've been trying to convince you that Cookie Monster is a suitable alternative. You usally agree, because he says things, like "Dumdeedumdumdum" and "Cooooookie" and he burps. Sip never burps.
Your brother noticed that you are very photogenic. He's right. Seems like all the pictures we have of you are good ones- big smiling baby face. Everyone should be so lucky.
Nothing much else to say, I just wanted to make a note of how wonderful and fun you are right now, because it all goes by so fast.
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Jiggety Jog
Home again. Sort of. I didn't mention it here, but I went on a trip to MI to go see Loon's new baby whist she was still new and squirmy and mewling. And of course, I couldn't go all that way and not show off my own babies to the family we've got out there. Most of them had never even met the Bug,and they hadn't seen the Bean since she weighed more than a sack of sugar.
I realized several things on my trip. Almost immediately I realized that I would not be able to visit every store/place/person I miss in Ann Arbor/Ypsi. I also came to realize that making plans with small children in tow is like making chairs out of spun glass; when the time comes to use them they seem to fall apart. Honestly though, I can't blame it all on children. You think you know where you're going, but there's construction; you tentatively agree on four hours, but arrive to find they've only got two; you're rushing from one place to another for a meet up, but you forget to email the people you're meeting directions. Throw nap times and snacks in on top of it and it's a wonder I saw anyone or did anything.
Things I did do:
*Held a Very cute, very small baby.
*Make lots of noise in Loon's house. The better to appreciate the quiet with when we're gone:)
*Made her baby smile. This is a new skill and suitably rare.
*Go to IKEA.
*Drive through Ann Arbor and visit the Salvation Army and my favorite Chinese grocery store there.
*Look up a few friends we were afraid we might have lost. Phew, that was close:)
*Met my brother-in-law's and cousins' girlfriends. I approve of their choices and hereby suggest they get on with things and marry them already. Nobody's getting any younger.
*Realized there is a whole class of toys that the Bean has no experience with, namely toys with pedals. Huh.
Things I did not do:
*Did not get to go to Jerusalem Garden, The Peacable Kingdom, Zingerman's, The Big Ten, The Recycle Reuse, Jewel Heart or Fizzywigs. It appears Fizzywig's may have gone out of business. The Discount Bookstore on Main that was there FOREVER, where many people I new worked, has gone out of business or moved. I didn't look, but now I'm wondering about a the other used book stores I hung at.
*Take pictures of my children with Loon's child. How did I miss that?!?
*Get in touch with my old boss. I tried hard enough that I won't feel guilty about it.
*Get drunk and tattooed. Shit. I should have thought of that while I was still there.
I am now back in NY. The whole trip really reminded me of how many people we have left there. It's where we belong. Our trip back to NY took 12 hours, but when we got here I felt like we had come back to Simon and left home behind us.
Of course, coming back to Simon was very good. We were apart for 10 days. That's the longest ever in our six years together. We agreed that being apart that long really sucked and said that we shouldn't ever do that again, but I'm starting to think the reunion is a lot of fun. Maybe we shouldn't do it often, but it might be healthy to do it every now and again.
Alright. Enough of this. There's unpacking to do and windows to caulk and children to chase.
Glad she skipped Nablowme this year,
ephelba
I realized several things on my trip. Almost immediately I realized that I would not be able to visit every store/place/person I miss in Ann Arbor/Ypsi. I also came to realize that making plans with small children in tow is like making chairs out of spun glass; when the time comes to use them they seem to fall apart. Honestly though, I can't blame it all on children. You think you know where you're going, but there's construction; you tentatively agree on four hours, but arrive to find they've only got two; you're rushing from one place to another for a meet up, but you forget to email the people you're meeting directions. Throw nap times and snacks in on top of it and it's a wonder I saw anyone or did anything.
Things I did do:
*Held a Very cute, very small baby.
*Make lots of noise in Loon's house. The better to appreciate the quiet with when we're gone:)
*Made her baby smile. This is a new skill and suitably rare.
*Go to IKEA.
*Drive through Ann Arbor and visit the Salvation Army and my favorite Chinese grocery store there.
*Look up a few friends we were afraid we might have lost. Phew, that was close:)
*Met my brother-in-law's and cousins' girlfriends. I approve of their choices and hereby suggest they get on with things and marry them already. Nobody's getting any younger.
*Realized there is a whole class of toys that the Bean has no experience with, namely toys with pedals. Huh.
Things I did not do:
*Did not get to go to Jerusalem Garden, The Peacable Kingdom, Zingerman's, The Big Ten, The Recycle Reuse, Jewel Heart or Fizzywigs. It appears Fizzywig's may have gone out of business. The Discount Bookstore on Main that was there FOREVER, where many people I new worked, has gone out of business or moved. I didn't look, but now I'm wondering about a the other used book stores I hung at.
*Take pictures of my children with Loon's child. How did I miss that?!?
*Get in touch with my old boss. I tried hard enough that I won't feel guilty about it.
*Get drunk and tattooed. Shit. I should have thought of that while I was still there.
I am now back in NY. The whole trip really reminded me of how many people we have left there. It's where we belong. Our trip back to NY took 12 hours, but when we got here I felt like we had come back to Simon and left home behind us.
Of course, coming back to Simon was very good. We were apart for 10 days. That's the longest ever in our six years together. We agreed that being apart that long really sucked and said that we shouldn't ever do that again, but I'm starting to think the reunion is a lot of fun. Maybe we shouldn't do it often, but it might be healthy to do it every now and again.
Alright. Enough of this. There's unpacking to do and windows to caulk and children to chase.
Glad she skipped Nablowme this year,
ephelba
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Life goes on.
Huh. Guess everything Scott Westerfeld writes isn't meant for young adults, huh? Who knew? Here I was expecting a nice story about angst ridden teens in space, and what I got was rough and rowdy butt sex. That is, I didn't actually have butt sex myself, I mean, the characters in the book did. It was a good story anyway. Not that I have anything against butt sex. Especially if I'm not having it. To each their own.
ANYWAY.
The baby is busy climbing up things she can't get down from. Actually, I lie, that part only takes a minute. The baby is busy crying because she can't get down from what she has crawled up on. I am busy getting her down so she can do it again in another spot. I have tried moving her little legs in some kind of attempt to teach her that crawling works up AND down, but she's too busy crying to pay attention.
Boy is busy talking on the phone. Everyday after dinner the phone rings. Neither Simon nor I so much as look at the phone. It will not be for us. We don't giggle nonstop. We don't wonder whether she likes us, has asked so and so out, is going to be asked out by so and so, can be connived into saying "Yes" when asked, etc. We don't have a prank to play on someone over the phone, such as pretending the connection isn't working. Above all, even if we did, we couldn't make conversations about all this last for several hours every single night. Which is why we're not teenagers, I guess. I'm not complaining. About being a teen, that is; I am complaining about this addiction to the phone.
The Bean is busy being terribly cute. She is especially fond of stories just now, and if we're not reading one to her, she is reading one to the baby, or the dog, or the world at large. I don't know how to impress upon you how cute this is, because I don't have words for it and fonts don't come with a cute button. Imagine a "Hello Kitty" font, then imagine me using it to type "She's soooo cute!". That cute.
I have an idea!... wait a sec... there!
See? Told you she was cute.
The Simon is busy working. Six days a week, every week. But when he's done, six days a week, he pulls onto our street and I tell the girls he's home**. The dog starts barking, and I let her out to start the parade. Then the Bean says "Oh! Poppy!" and goes to day hi. Once he's in the door and the baby realizes what's going on, she crawls over at her fastest speed- thumpthumpthump -and says "HAI!". It's an event. Maybe it makes up for the working, at least a little bit.
I am busy being housewiferly. I made jam. I had never canned anything before, and we had these grapes we didn't know what to do with, and now we have deep purple delight in many, many little jars. I like it. I just may do it again. Boy is awed by the notion that Simon is making our bread and I am making the jam that goes on it; in short, he's amazed that food can be made by hand.
I also made chili sauce with a box of Gorgeous chilies that my NSES* sent. Yummy. And I roasted some, and am drying some. And I cut up and froze a mess of peppers and some leeks. And dried the leek leaves to use like chives. And made soup for lunch with radishes, leeks and miso, which gave me the wind so bad I like to died, which is probly TMI. And then I went to library, the bank, the store where I pick up milk and veggies, the grocery store and the farm where I get meat, all whilst toting the girls.
This morning I am so tired I poured granola into my coffee instead of milk. Oh, how I wish I were joking about that.
Going to pour herself a less chewy cup***,
ephelba
*Not So Evil Stepmom.
**His truck needs some muffler work.
*** Of course I drank it! I couldn't waste a whole cup, now, could I.
ANYWAY.
The baby is busy climbing up things she can't get down from. Actually, I lie, that part only takes a minute. The baby is busy crying because she can't get down from what she has crawled up on. I am busy getting her down so she can do it again in another spot. I have tried moving her little legs in some kind of attempt to teach her that crawling works up AND down, but she's too busy crying to pay attention.
Boy is busy talking on the phone. Everyday after dinner the phone rings. Neither Simon nor I so much as look at the phone. It will not be for us. We don't giggle nonstop. We don't wonder whether she likes us, has asked so and so out, is going to be asked out by so and so, can be connived into saying "Yes" when asked, etc. We don't have a prank to play on someone over the phone, such as pretending the connection isn't working. Above all, even if we did, we couldn't make conversations about all this last for several hours every single night. Which is why we're not teenagers, I guess. I'm not complaining. About being a teen, that is; I am complaining about this addiction to the phone.
The Bean is busy being terribly cute. She is especially fond of stories just now, and if we're not reading one to her, she is reading one to the baby, or the dog, or the world at large. I don't know how to impress upon you how cute this is, because I don't have words for it and fonts don't come with a cute button. Imagine a "Hello Kitty" font, then imagine me using it to type "She's soooo cute!". That cute.
I have an idea!... wait a sec... there!
See? Told you she was cute.
The Simon is busy working. Six days a week, every week. But when he's done, six days a week, he pulls onto our street and I tell the girls he's home**. The dog starts barking, and I let her out to start the parade. Then the Bean says "Oh! Poppy!" and goes to day hi. Once he's in the door and the baby realizes what's going on, she crawls over at her fastest speed- thumpthumpthump -and says "HAI!". It's an event. Maybe it makes up for the working, at least a little bit.
I am busy being housewiferly. I made jam. I had never canned anything before, and we had these grapes we didn't know what to do with, and now we have deep purple delight in many, many little jars. I like it. I just may do it again. Boy is awed by the notion that Simon is making our bread and I am making the jam that goes on it; in short, he's amazed that food can be made by hand.
I also made chili sauce with a box of Gorgeous chilies that my NSES* sent. Yummy. And I roasted some, and am drying some. And I cut up and froze a mess of peppers and some leeks. And dried the leek leaves to use like chives. And made soup for lunch with radishes, leeks and miso, which gave me the wind so bad I like to died, which is probly TMI. And then I went to library, the bank, the store where I pick up milk and veggies, the grocery store and the farm where I get meat, all whilst toting the girls.
This morning I am so tired I poured granola into my coffee instead of milk. Oh, how I wish I were joking about that.
Going to pour herself a less chewy cup***,
ephelba
*Not So Evil Stepmom.
**His truck needs some muffler work.
*** Of course I drank it! I couldn't waste a whole cup, now, could I.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Reading
Lately I've been indulging myself in children's lit. Simon thought it was bad that I'd been reading YA, but I've regressed even further. I'm a sucker for STORY, man, give me some STORY, STORY is where it's at. Adult fiction writers generally go light on the story and heavy on the, ummm, introspection? Contemplation? Navel gazing? and when I finish the book I can't recognise whether I got the point or not. I do understand that one is meant to have a certain ambiguity there. It's meant to be art, something that you look at that fires the neurons and acts as fuel for thinking, and yet, sometimes I just want them to tell me what the hell it is they're trying to say.
I abandonded the family last night and went wandering in the stacks. It's a new library to me. Soon I'll be able to tell what row I'm in by the colors of the covers, but just now it's like a cross between a shopping spree and a reunion. Hi Orson Scott Card, see you're still using that tacky cover art. Howdy do, Mr Foer, the movie turned out well, didn't it. And who are you, my little pretty, with your Japanese name and a clockwork elephant on the cover... The truth is, when you're browsing the aisles all you have to go on is the title, name and cover art.
This time I found myself skipping entire shelves because I felt like I'd read one too many male names there. Nothing deep, I'm just in a mood. I want to read something by a woman that isn't, ummm, romantic? Soap Opery? Anything Renee Zelwiger would want to act in? I want an interesting story written by a woman, and it can't have dragons, corsets, political intrigue or hot breathy moments in it. It can't be about women falling for men who are cunning sleuths and fierce street fighters and grand master chess players and award winning chefs and geologists and lovers (I particularly loathe that kind of book...) I want a good story, lots of plot, heavy on the wit and clever, and a big dash of surprise. With a spoon. Gosh, if I could find some books like that I might need a bib.
So anyway, I started out in the adult fiction, grabbed some Pratchett in spite of myself, wandered through some nonfiction which brought me around the corner and back to YA, what the hell, so I grabbed some graphic novels. At least I didn't end up in the children's section.
Hey, I know several of you guys have youngsters of your own. If you're looking for a creepy Halloween read, might I suggest Coraline, Rosemary's Witch (Please ignore the atrocious cover art on the Amazon site, it's a good book in spite of that:) , and/or Well Witched . All of these are seriously spooky, so I think they should be read alouds for the 7-10 set, especially if they are of a sensitive nature. I'm especially fond of Rosemary's Witch. It's super creepy, yet there is a possibility of redemption in the story which you don't often see. Well Witched has that going for it too.
If you've got olders, say, 10/11 and up, I can recommend Baltimore. Very gruesome and scary. Boy loved it. The only complaint I have is that the three narrators are supposed to be very different people, but their voice is the same. The sailor who had no real education sounds the same as the dude who grew up posh. Ah well, no book is perfect.
I checked out The Graveyard Book, I'll fill you in on it the next time I write.
And with that, I'm off to wash dishes. If you've got some book recs for me, feel free to share. Not that I need to spend more time reading, but if I'm going to neglect the housework anyway, it's probably time I was doing it in the name of reading grownup books.
Heigh ho, heigh ho,
ephelba
I abandonded the family last night and went wandering in the stacks. It's a new library to me. Soon I'll be able to tell what row I'm in by the colors of the covers, but just now it's like a cross between a shopping spree and a reunion. Hi Orson Scott Card, see you're still using that tacky cover art. Howdy do, Mr Foer, the movie turned out well, didn't it. And who are you, my little pretty, with your Japanese name and a clockwork elephant on the cover... The truth is, when you're browsing the aisles all you have to go on is the title, name and cover art.
This time I found myself skipping entire shelves because I felt like I'd read one too many male names there. Nothing deep, I'm just in a mood. I want to read something by a woman that isn't, ummm, romantic? Soap Opery? Anything Renee Zelwiger would want to act in? I want an interesting story written by a woman, and it can't have dragons, corsets, political intrigue or hot breathy moments in it. It can't be about women falling for men who are cunning sleuths and fierce street fighters and grand master chess players and award winning chefs and geologists and lovers (I particularly loathe that kind of book...) I want a good story, lots of plot, heavy on the wit and clever, and a big dash of surprise. With a spoon. Gosh, if I could find some books like that I might need a bib.
So anyway, I started out in the adult fiction, grabbed some Pratchett in spite of myself, wandered through some nonfiction which brought me around the corner and back to YA, what the hell, so I grabbed some graphic novels. At least I didn't end up in the children's section.
Hey, I know several of you guys have youngsters of your own. If you're looking for a creepy Halloween read, might I suggest Coraline, Rosemary's Witch (Please ignore the atrocious cover art on the Amazon site, it's a good book in spite of that:) , and/or Well Witched . All of these are seriously spooky, so I think they should be read alouds for the 7-10 set, especially if they are of a sensitive nature. I'm especially fond of Rosemary's Witch. It's super creepy, yet there is a possibility of redemption in the story which you don't often see. Well Witched has that going for it too.
If you've got olders, say, 10/11 and up, I can recommend Baltimore. Very gruesome and scary. Boy loved it. The only complaint I have is that the three narrators are supposed to be very different people, but their voice is the same. The sailor who had no real education sounds the same as the dude who grew up posh. Ah well, no book is perfect.
I checked out The Graveyard Book, I'll fill you in on it the next time I write.
And with that, I'm off to wash dishes. If you've got some book recs for me, feel free to share. Not that I need to spend more time reading, but if I'm going to neglect the housework anyway, it's probably time I was doing it in the name of reading grownup books.
Heigh ho, heigh ho,
ephelba
Friday, October 03, 2008
HAHAHHAHAAHAHA!
SO he says, I'm out of dishes to wash, HA!, like that EVER happens, and I'm all what about the ones on the table, and he's saying there aren't any on the table, and I'm saying what about the salad spinner and the pan , I mean, if you wouldn't eat off it it needs to be washed! GAH!, and he's saying but they blend in, and I'm saying, you mean, with the other dishes that need washing? on the table? the table that you said you couldn't find anything to wash on? and he says, Isn't there anything to wash that isn't a pan?
And he starts to complain about how many dishes he's having to wash, and how low I've stooped to have him wash them all, and I ask him if he really has any idea how much he scared us last night. To which he says, no, but all of them? And I say, You know what? and he says no, nevermind, I take it back, forget I said anything.
Damn straight,
ephelba
And he starts to complain about how many dishes he's having to wash, and how low I've stooped to have him wash them all, and I ask him if he really has any idea how much he scared us last night. To which he says, no, but all of them? And I say, You know what? and he says no, nevermind, I take it back, forget I said anything.
Damn straight,
ephelba
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Baby steps.
Why do I persist on forgetting that the key to accomplishing any large task, especially when you have small children, is to work on them a little at a time? Hell, I'd go so far as to say it's the key to accomplishing small tasks too, because the little boogers always need rescuing from sisters who are attempting to inflate them with bicycle pumps, or someone to get them another glass of juice-not-milk-no-no-no-NOT-MILK-fine-if-it's-all-I'm-going-to-get-milk, or someone to go get their bike from the police station because they forgot the combination and the guy at the Y shooed off the little fuckers who were trying to steal it before snipping the lock and sending it away with the cops. And yet, every damn day I forget this and wake up in a tizzy wondering how in the heck I'm going to finish putting-stuff-away-caulk-the-windows-put-up-the-drapes-make-pants-for-the-Bean-that-don't-fall-off-get-the-"cooking once a week"-thing-going-etc-etc-etc-etc.
Maybe it's because I like to start a thing and finish a thing. I enjoy finishing a task. When I'm interrupted, by the very children I may have been performing the task for, I get Very Annoyed. It's silly and it's stoopid and I wonder how long it is going to take me to learn to take baby steps. I have to believe you can teach an old dog new tricks. Probly, the truth is I've got PMS and I just need to get over myself.
On another note, imagine that you fastidiously keep your real world name off the internet because you've gotten some gruesome hate mail before, and it's shaken your faith in your fellow man. Then imagine that on the one video you have on You Tube, a video of your littlest baby, you receive the comment "I know where you live, (Real Name Here)" You look at the user name and you don't recognize it. The choice of favorited videos makes you think it's a teen aged boy, but the age given is 33. You double check all the profiles you can think of, but your given name isn't on any of them. You send a polite email asking the person if you know them, but inside you're dying to think that some creep would post this on a video of your baby. Your baby!
Then your son gets home and, thinking it might be one of his friends, you ask him if he recognizes the user name.
"Oh yeah, that's mine."
So you explain in graphic detail how scared he made you feel, and explain why it was STOOPID, and why it isn't funny, and why you don't use someone's real name online, and why he can go wash all the dishes without a single tiny thought of a complaint whilst you rest on your laurels and contemplate why a boy as smart as he is does dumb shit like this.
Firmly believing he'll learn to use his powers for good, and wishing her daughter wouldn't try to drink milk with a spoon,
ephelba
Maybe it's because I like to start a thing and finish a thing. I enjoy finishing a task. When I'm interrupted, by the very children I may have been performing the task for, I get Very Annoyed. It's silly and it's stoopid and I wonder how long it is going to take me to learn to take baby steps. I have to believe you can teach an old dog new tricks. Probly, the truth is I've got PMS and I just need to get over myself.
On another note, imagine that you fastidiously keep your real world name off the internet because you've gotten some gruesome hate mail before, and it's shaken your faith in your fellow man. Then imagine that on the one video you have on You Tube, a video of your littlest baby, you receive the comment "I know where you live, (Real Name Here)" You look at the user name and you don't recognize it. The choice of favorited videos makes you think it's a teen aged boy, but the age given is 33. You double check all the profiles you can think of, but your given name isn't on any of them. You send a polite email asking the person if you know them, but inside you're dying to think that some creep would post this on a video of your baby. Your baby!
Then your son gets home and, thinking it might be one of his friends, you ask him if he recognizes the user name.
"Oh yeah, that's mine."
So you explain in graphic detail how scared he made you feel, and explain why it was STOOPID, and why it isn't funny, and why you don't use someone's real name online, and why he can go wash all the dishes without a single tiny thought of a complaint whilst you rest on your laurels and contemplate why a boy as smart as he is does dumb shit like this.
Firmly believing he'll learn to use his powers for good, and wishing her daughter wouldn't try to drink milk with a spoon,
ephelba
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Why do babies catch colds?
So that, once they're better, you'll be giddy with glee they woke up at four in the morning.*
Ha. Ha.
ephelba
*That is, as opposed to 10:00, 12:00, 12:30, 12:33, 12:36**, 1:30, 2:00, 3:30, 4:30, 6:30 and 7:00.
**Three minutes being the time it takes to soothe a baby, assume she's gone back to sleep and get back in bed yourself.
Ha. Ha.
ephelba
*That is, as opposed to 10:00, 12:00, 12:30, 12:33, 12:36**, 1:30, 2:00, 3:30, 4:30, 6:30 and 7:00.
**Three minutes being the time it takes to soothe a baby, assume she's gone back to sleep and get back in bed yourself.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Newspaper Bag Project
One of the blogs I like to read is written by Z, the very same Z who leaves comments here now and again. If you've got a moment, click through to see how to make shopping bags out of newspaper, like her son does in his greengrocer's shop.* Of course, I know all you guys already use reusable bags**, because you're cool like that, but it's good fun, especially if you've got kids. If you do make a bag and post a picture, tell 'em Z sent you, K?
TTFN,
ephelba
*I love reading the Z's blog because her world is so different from mine, and because she writes about it so well, and because I just do. Go on, go have a look at it.
**With the exception of the ones you keep in your pocket when you go for your evening walkies with the dog, because I also know you guys aren't the type to leave big steaming stinkers on the sidewalk either. I love you guys.
TTFN,
ephelba
*I love reading the Z's blog because her world is so different from mine, and because she writes about it so well, and because I just do. Go on, go have a look at it.
**With the exception of the ones you keep in your pocket when you go for your evening walkies with the dog, because I also know you guys aren't the type to leave big steaming stinkers on the sidewalk either. I love you guys.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Hadron Collider is On.
Did you notice the end of the world? Seems to be the same shit, different day over here. Apparently, now they're saying it will all go kerflooey in October. Can't say I'm worried. Seems like a good excuse to party though.
I'm slightly more worried about whether or not we'll be seeing house centipedes in these new digs. Every other house we've lived in has had them, and with all the spiders (their idea of a tasty lunch) here and the lovely wet basement (preferred digs) I can't imagine them skipping this shangri la. Don't know what a house centipede is? Aren't you lucky! Here is one for your screeching pleasure.
Now, imagine that two inches (just the body, not the legs and feelers and whatnot) long tearing across your floor and up your wall and under your bed. They are wicked fast. When they zoom along, they go with an amazing wave motion to their feathery legs, and when you smoosh one end the unsmooshed bits keep going. Bug websites say things like "Oh, they hunt bad bugs in your house! They nosh spiders! Isn't that great! You should love them! In Japan they keep them as pets!". All I have to say to that is that the people writing these articles have either never witnessed the terror, or they're bent.
The only thing that makes me hesitate when throwing shoes at them is the knowledge that they can live for years. If I swat a fly I don't feel bad because I couldn't have shortened its life span by more than a few weeks, but the thought that this might have lived for five years or more before I screamed at it does give me pause.
They always show up in the fall when their 30 tootsies get nippy outside. So I'll know soon. In the meantime I'll be happy watching the squirrels. There's a walnut tree right outside our window, and the dog and the babies just discovered the squirrel who likes to hang there.
Do you have a squirrel near your house? Does it quack? This one absolutely does. Sounds just like Donald Duck. It puts on quite the show for Lucy. Lucy stares with rigid determination. I am confident that she's trying to use telekinesis to bring the squirrel inside. This is much preferable to barking like a mad fool all day, which is what I'd thought she'd do when she noticed it.
We've also discovered a Big Bertha. A Big Bertha is the highly technical term for one of those barn spiders (Araneus cavaticus), the same kind of spider as the ever so famous Charlotte. Everywhere we've lived we've had one make her web (they're always a girl, doncha know) on or around our house. In every case, we've become sort of fond of her, and kept track of how she was doing. Every winter she goes away, but since we see one again the next late summer/fall, we tend to pretend it's the same one.
And on a note that has nothing whatsoever to do with creepy crawlies or atom smashers, Loon is still on track to take home a gorgeous baby girl tomorrow. It is, ummm, harrowing (?) to be in the no man's land between the birth of the baby and actual legal adoption of the baby. She's busy holding the baby today, and tomorrow she'll be busy bringing her home, but when she gets the time to post I'll to it.
Going to see if Betha's writing notes,
ephelba
I'm slightly more worried about whether or not we'll be seeing house centipedes in these new digs. Every other house we've lived in has had them, and with all the spiders (their idea of a tasty lunch) here and the lovely wet basement (preferred digs) I can't imagine them skipping this shangri la. Don't know what a house centipede is? Aren't you lucky! Here is one for your screeching pleasure.
Now, imagine that two inches (just the body, not the legs and feelers and whatnot) long tearing across your floor and up your wall and under your bed. They are wicked fast. When they zoom along, they go with an amazing wave motion to their feathery legs, and when you smoosh one end the unsmooshed bits keep going. Bug websites say things like "Oh, they hunt bad bugs in your house! They nosh spiders! Isn't that great! You should love them! In Japan they keep them as pets!". All I have to say to that is that the people writing these articles have either never witnessed the terror, or they're bent.The only thing that makes me hesitate when throwing shoes at them is the knowledge that they can live for years. If I swat a fly I don't feel bad because I couldn't have shortened its life span by more than a few weeks, but the thought that this might have lived for five years or more before I screamed at it does give me pause.
They always show up in the fall when their 30 tootsies get nippy outside. So I'll know soon. In the meantime I'll be happy watching the squirrels. There's a walnut tree right outside our window, and the dog and the babies just discovered the squirrel who likes to hang there.
Do you have a squirrel near your house? Does it quack? This one absolutely does. Sounds just like Donald Duck. It puts on quite the show for Lucy. Lucy stares with rigid determination. I am confident that she's trying to use telekinesis to bring the squirrel inside. This is much preferable to barking like a mad fool all day, which is what I'd thought she'd do when she noticed it.
We've also discovered a Big Bertha. A Big Bertha is the highly technical term for one of those barn spiders (Araneus cavaticus), the same kind of spider as the ever so famous Charlotte. Everywhere we've lived we've had one make her web (they're always a girl, doncha know) on or around our house. In every case, we've become sort of fond of her, and kept track of how she was doing. Every winter she goes away, but since we see one again the next late summer/fall, we tend to pretend it's the same one.
And on a note that has nothing whatsoever to do with creepy crawlies or atom smashers, Loon is still on track to take home a gorgeous baby girl tomorrow. It is, ummm, harrowing (?) to be in the no man's land between the birth of the baby and actual legal adoption of the baby. She's busy holding the baby today, and tomorrow she'll be busy bringing her home, but when she gets the time to post I'll to it.
Going to see if Betha's writing notes,
ephelba
Friday, September 12, 2008
For me, it's like this,
I'm going through stuff and bemoaning the fact that I've already given away the premie sizes, and where have the receiving blankets got to (?!??) and this isn't too grotty, is it, and can I afford to send this overnight and why don't we have a health food store in this town, honestly and shit if this doesn't go through and they're heart broken (again) and then this box turns up on the door step that will really, really, suck, like "Hello, painful reminder here." (sing to the tune of "Speedy Delivery) but then again, it's all stuff they'll need for the baby that they are going to mother when she does arrive, because it is going to happen and of course, there's no reason to think that this isn't the time it's going to happen. This is it. This baby is so going home with them and they're going to be up all night and if the Bean didn't have strep and I had gas money I would so be driving there because who is going to bake casseroles for them, dammit.
Imagine what it must be like for them.
Crossing my fingers till it hurts,
ephelba
Imagine what it must be like for them.
Crossing my fingers till it hurts,
ephelba
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Huh.
You're probably saying to yourself "She really isn't herself these days". I'm so not myself that I've turned into my son, and typed up a mess of silliness in the new post window. Then, I came to myself and hit publish, because I knew that I would embarrass myself a little if I did, and because I'm proud of how well I write.
If you can follow that, you're good.
What happened was, I was starting to write a post, then I had to get up, so Boy started typing in my absence, and I thought it was funny and hit PUBLISH POST, because I knew he'd be slightly mortified and slightly pleased.
I'll finish that other post later,
Have to wash some windows just now,
ephelba
If you can follow that, you're good.
What happened was, I was starting to write a post, then I had to get up, so Boy started typing in my absence, and I thought it was funny and hit PUBLISH POST, because I knew he'd be slightly mortified and slightly pleased.
I'll finish that other post later,
Have to wash some windows just now,
ephelba
Waiting.
Ahhh, the joys of a new house. New houses are a joy, in a joyful way. Many debate the exact extent to which a new house is joyful, but even these debates are joyful, in their own way. Alas, they are not new houses. To see a discussion board on the difference between new houses and debates, click here. In short, new houses are joyful, and I have big saggy boobs.
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