When you're gone.

Tonight I'm watching television shows you'd never stop on.  And I'm staying up late with the dogs just to avoid {shutting down} and being alone on the island-sized bed.  I sneezed and nobody said {bless you}.  I cut the cheese and nobody laughed. 
You're in California and I'm not the same without you.
The toilet seat is cold every time I sit down and my underpants are lonesome on the floor of the bathroom without yours to keep them company.  I keep glancing at the alarm lights to be sure both the green AND the red are lit up.  Because you aren't here to investigate peculiar bumps in the night that end up being the cat stalking crickets.
Since you aren't here, I almost forgot my vitamin and then I really did forget to feed the fish. {I just remembered, so stop panicking. I can handle this.}
You've taken two flights today and are now two thousand eight hundred eighty-five miles away from me.
The only thing further away than you is Friday. I love you.

how old IS too old for a weiner?

One of my mom's teacher friends taught me how to juggle after school one afternoon. His name was Mr. Cutiepie and he was a swim coach at the YMCA to make extra money on the side. He was younger than my mom. By a lot. And he was a math teacher. Hot in that nerdy sweater vest and sneakers sort of way. My taste hasn't changed, although every attempt to get my husband into a sweater vest has bombed miserably... he who wears a pink bow tie to work must draw a line SOMEWHERE.
So in the quiet classroom of Pine View Middle, Mr. Hottiepants and I stood tossing fuzzy neon tennis balls up into the air for an hour or so while my mother graded papers and smoked a cigarette at her desk. He was my first and only teacher crush. He wasn't even MY teacher. I got stuck with Ms. Hamsterarm for math. She has a mole that resembled a hamster both in shape and size on her forearm. It had realllly long hair. And possibly a tail. Nowhere near as attractive as Mr. Cutiepie. He had a swimmer's ass.

But I really wanted to talk about juggling. I can do it. Not cirq du soliel well. But well enough that when people ask me if I can juggle {happens allll the time}, I can say yes. Don't ask me for a demonstration. I only got up three balls and can do a rotation just a few times. After that, I start running all over like a beheaded chicken and then the balls start dropping.

See? I'm getting to the point. Drawing parallels, people. I am busy these days. I've traded balls for babies and today someone tossed in a sick husband home early from work. The deadline for my next article is sneaking up on me and after playing back to back games of rake/broom/mop ball with the neighbor kids I barely can keep myself together long enough to spread peanut butter on a whole wheat bagel for dinner. Which I eat standing up over the sink while Sam paws at it and drools. It's the end of the day, I'm exhausted. Yet I feel like I have accomplished very little. The house is a disaster and I look like a character from the finale of any Bruce Campbell movie. In cutoffs and a Miley Cyrus shirt from Wal-Mart. {I can't believe I just said that}

So instead of worrying about all the stuff I should've crammed into my day, I'm taking a different route. Making a list of all the stuff that wasn't on the agenda, but dun got did anyway. Starting with...

1. writing a blog post kind of about juggling
2. pumped four, count em, FOUR sets of bicycle tires. {rode zero bikes}
3. ate three meals plus a bag of chocolate pretzels standing up
4. took a bath with the baby at noon to prevent meltdown(s)
5. picked up extra child at the bus {his mom knows}
6. sent exactly fifteen text messages to people
7. drove in a circle around Sanford just once to put Sam to sleep and listen to Garrison Keelor on NPR
8. washed and dried six fuzzibunz diapers
9. accidentally ate an expired hot dog
10. ran next to Ladybug's bike while she "balanced" then hurled herself into the grass a dozen times {training wheels came off tuesday}
11. almost got a photo of JG sleeping with a tissue shoved up his nostril

Damn. Everything else can wait. I've had a pretty decent day. AND everyone in the house is fed and asleep and it's only eight thirty! Holy smokes, I amaze myself. Now if I could only stay awake to tell you a little more about the rules of a highly sophisticated game called broom/mop/rake ball. And there's always the dead chicken stories. I have several of those.

*Yawn.

the post about another blog that ends up being a bad idea. or how i {stopped short} at the end of another entry.

When I sit down at my computer and log onto blogger I sometimes have nothing at all to say. I know. Stunning revelation. It certainly seems as though I am a bottomless pit of exciting and hilarious things to talk about and I know everyone is entertained each and every single time they click on my link. Say it!


The truth is, sometimes I sit here and stare out the sliding glass doors into the field and get all to wrapped up in the birds and the broken flower pot and I start making kudzu animals with my mind instead of typing. Sometimes I stare. Sometimes I stalk other blogs. Sometimes I hit refresh on Apartment Therapy every thirty seconds until something new pops up...

I am not always inspired. And even when I am pumped full of love or disgust or any other feeling that sparks the blogger flame, I sometimes think to myself. I can't write about that. It's boring. oh the irony.

Anyway. JG and I talked the other night about me starting another blog. An anonymous one in which I can write about whatever I want, how I want to and not feel the pecking of a guilty conscience telling me to hit delete or change a word or just start all over. I think I need it. Somewhere I can be okay with writing crap. Or shit. Or sexyhunkylovemonkey stuff that seriously nobody wants to read.

The possibility of been able to just go for it....don't hold back {and all the other inspiring cliches you can think of}, tra-la-la that makes me giddy with anticipation. And I can hide out. And be nobody. A nobody talking to no one. Nobody saying *hugs when I write about a bad day. Not a soul telling me they identify with my feelings; making me feel normal in abnormal situations. Nobody correcting my spelling and grammar. (hmm)

Wow. It's starting to sound pretty lame, come to think about it. And lonesome.

Never. Mind.

for once, it's not poop

Do you remember the part in Peter Pan where Tinkerbell drinks the poison to save Peter's life and then she dies and everyone has to clap their hands furiously to bring her back to life? Did you clap? I clapped. I still clap. I'm not sure if I actually do believe in fairies or if I do it for the same reason I purposefully avoid stepping on cracks. I don't want to be responsible for a dead fairy somewhere. Or for breaking my mother's back.

My husband, is not a clapper. At least, not any more. Fairies he could live without. All because of their dust. Also known as glitter. If you really want to tick him off, give him a card with glitter on it. Or anything with glitter on it in a sneaky little package hiding the glitter. Men don't like glitter. Liberace and Eddie Izzard. Okay. I can think of two.

Women who love glitter, on the other hand, come in an array of sorts. The list begins with strippers. Closely followed by fairies. And then little girls. After that there is only Mariah Carey. In my home, there are no strippers on most nights. Nor washed-up pop stars. But there is always at least one little girl and a whole dang handful of fairy dust.

It's really our go-to decoration for things like school projects and artsy-fartsy creative time. If you're unsure what time that is, it's about the time of day I uncork the shiraz and start a batch of chick'n nuggets in the oven {my go-to dinner}. Last minute homework always looks fancier when you douse it in glitter. It's a good way to say, {we really worked hard on this homework this morning before the bus came} I also allow glitter on the fingernails and faces during slumber parties or weekends. Because my little girl is at her quietest while applying makeup. It's just so.

Like plain old dust, the fairy sort ends up on the floor. And on tables, rugs, hair and nose-holes. Sometimes it gets in dinner. And on the pets. Let's be honest, it's an improvement on ol' dog's baldy foot look. She really can't complain about the glitter.

It especially ends up where you don't intend for it to be. i.e- on the men. So this morning, I was only a little shocked when my husband yelled- clearly outraged- about glitter on Sam. Yesterday I saw a little red piece on his chin, but to be fair, all sorts of things get stuck there because it's always slathered in drool. But this time it was not stuck in drool on his neck, chin, or fingers. It was lower.

No, lower. Still lower. Oh....higher. Right there. Actually, I think JG's exact words were:

{dammit, steph, there's glitter under my baby's balls}

I really only see this as a problem after puberty sets in. Glitter, is better than dog hair. Or the other sorts of things that get stuck to balls. Like lice.

You all agree. Except you, JG. You, dear husband, will never see eye to eye with me where sparkles are concerned. They may very well be the bane of your nerdy, yet manly existence. Tiny little specks of fabulous. Marring your masculine facade and forever ruining your chances of ever cheating on your spouse. {not that you could ever find anyone as interesting or perfect as I am} I'm sorry, but the magic sprinkles are here to stay. And to help you embrace the pizzaz, I bedazzled your wireless mouse and the entire contents of your underpants drawer.

God, I love saying underpants. But now you can call them fancies.

here's your rubber thing.

While doing some research on the web about BPA-free bottles and cups, I came across this little giraffe named Sofie who is made of BPA-free "green" rubber and is meant to be a teething toy for babies. Cute, but what idiot* is going to spend $22.00 on what could be a squeaky toy for my brainless little terrier mix? I'm not joking. Twenty-two dollars.

So when I ran over a "Sofie" at Target, I immediately looked around for the idiot it belonged to. I stuck it in my cart and carried on with my shopping, all the while keeping my eyes peeled for its owner. I made it to the checkout counter with not even one stroller or baby-toting mom spotted, so I figured I would just leave it at the customer service desk because surely someone who spent big bucks on this thing would return for it.

Finders-keepers you say? Well I certainly thought for an instant about becoming the new owner of a slightly used, almost-decapitated rubber giraffe. And then I decided I didn't want anyone thinking I was an idiot** for wasting perfectly good money on what we've already established is a ridiculously cocky piece of rubber.

And then she pulled up behind me in her stroller. And I knew it was her. There was nobody else around with a baby. Her boy was slightly older than mine and was rolling in an Axiom. I have never heard of it. Maybe because I don't ever do searches for MOST EXPENSIVE STROLLER EVER. Which, when I Googled Axiom stroller....is what I just came up with! $1219.

So. I smiled at her, took it out of my cart and held it out to her.

Me: did you lose this?
Her: oh, yeah.
Me: ....
Her: ....
Me: you're welcome. i ran over it's head.

I just saved you from having to buy yourself another overly-priced "green" rubber giraffe, lady. Maybe you could smile or say thanks or something. Or maybe you should just stick it. You. Know. Where.




* If you have one of these overpriced chew toys, you're probably just cooler, smarter, and care more about the planet than I do. Or, you have too much money and you should promptly send me some of it. Thanks.

** FYI: I'm perfectly fine with people thinking I'm an idiot for doing other things.

this is your brain on children

I watched the cheddar on my bagel bubble and brown through the door of the toaster oven tonight and thought, {i feel ya, pal}.

It wasn't a bad day.   Nothing {happened}.  No particular thing made me do it, but I cried.  While sitting and thinking of the bajillions of things I wanted to do with this peaceful quiet part of the day.  But I couldn't move.  My body refused.  My brain laughed in the face of my creative spirit, a sort of {i dare you}.  If it necessitated a brain cell, it was out.

So this is what I have left.  Fingers. Keys. The simplest of connections possible. Letters in words in an order that may or may not make sense.

As my mom would say, {too pooped to pop}.



* aren't those pointy parentheses prettier than quotation marks? i'm onto something.

things you can live without knowing. but why?

Sam is teething. Or maybe I should say he's beginning the long and terribly painful process of cutting his first little baby chicklet teeth. This morning he was so incredibly pee-ohed about the whole thing that he finally just gave up and fell asleep while "biting" my collarbone.

I'm expecting a full set of baby teeth when he wakes up from his nap. I'll keep you posted. Because I know you care. You're just waiting, aren't you?

****

I left my favorite coffee mug in the dishwasher, which I usually never do because I use it so frequently.  I usually wash it and keep it at the ready next to the coffee pot for the next morning, but last night was super lazy sunday and I didn't do my usual cleaning up around the house stuff.  And it wouldn't be really bugging me right now except that I also left my second favorite mug in the dishwasher (which is running) to keep the first favorite company and now I'm drinking out of a lame secret santa Christmas mug.   Coffee never tasted so...meh.

****

Raven has been wearing the "cone of shame" now for about a week and a half.  Her feet have never been so....hairy.  The compulsive licking is limited to only a few times a day when we free her from the C.O.S for walks and when we are out of the house.  She's stopped running away from anyone wielding the cone, but continues to ram the back of my legs repetitively.  So I have bruises all over the back of my legs. Large, long ones.  Because I bruise easily and she is relentlessly following me around as usual, but now she's armed with a purple, plastic weapon. It's surprisingly sharp.

Woe, is me. And my poor calves.

****

I apologize for the boring post. Today I just don't feel funny. Or interesting. So. Check back again after the coffee mug issue is resolved. I should be back to my usual doofy self soon.

jumping on the trampoline to prevent encephalitis

This is the hardest blog post I have ever tried to write. It's not particularly moving or emotionally revealing. It doesn't delve into the balmy pit of my soul. It just hurt to write it.

I woke up at five o'clock because my baby is convinced that this is an acceptable time to have breakfast. and then talk about deep shit like the meaning of life and poopy diapers and stuff while I lay awake wondering if i should just get up or sleep another hour. All the while, JG is rolling over and over and over and sometimes saying the eff word- so I just got up and gave the dogs the finger when they stretched and followed me to the door.
not today, dogs. not. to. day.
So I put on a pot of coffee and the chatter from the nursery dies down and all that can be heard in the house is the trickle of the aquarium pump bubbling and the cat jumping at frogs on the sliding glass door.
ahh. an hour to myself. what. to. do?
clean leftover mess from last night's pizza party? too "worky"
take dogs for early walk? too much poop.
one hundred crunches? ha. as if.
watch the sunset over the moor from the patio. woo-hoo. i feel so close to mother earth already.

I douse my sugar in coffee and head to the patio to enjoy the solitude a morning alone. And because i'm generous and an overall thoughtful type gal, I invite the cat to sit with me. No harm in a little fresh air for my feline shut-in on a quiet morning? That lasted two minutes. He first tried to leave the patio for the moor and breakfast birds and then refused to sit on my lap like the cats in the movies do. I squished him back into the house quick-like so I could still enjoy my sunrise.

sat. waited. yawned. slapped a mosquito. got cold, got bored, fetched sweater and laptop, gave dogs the finger again, resumed my patio setup with the intention of writing an inspiring blog about the sunrise.

where the hell is the damn sun?
*slap
Why are there mosquitoes out here? It's fifty-six degrees?
*slap, smack, efffff

"The dew is on the moor and sillohuettes of whipporwills streak the early morning sky..."

*whack, thwack, swat

What the hell, bugs? Through my sweater? Really?

And then, like a beacon in the blackish-brownish morning-of-the-living-bloodsuckers, a child's plaything provides a solution. A tiny Richard-Simmons sized trampoline in the yard invites me to escape the *slap insatiable thirst of the bugs of the night.

Jump jump jump. Ahh. They can't bite what they can't land on.
Jump jump jump.
I will see my sunrise yet.
Jump jump jump.
Thighs. Jump. Burrnninngg.

Hurry. Jump. Up. Jump. Sunshine.
Jump. W. Jump. T. Jump. F?
sporst. jump. bra.

Jump jump jump.
Hurry the eff up, sunshine! I just want to be awed by you in all your spelndid shine-ness! Jump Jump Jump. *SLAP

A sound from the baby monitor distracts me from my jumping long enough for a fifty-gatrillion bugs to land and attack all at one time.

Abort, abort, aborrrrrttttttt.
Splendor in the sky, mission FAILED.

Do not pass go. Do not have peaceful morning.

Thank you mother nature. For being nothing like you are on the Discovery channel.

cute tootie

From Sam and Ladybug

From Sam and Ladybug