i get paid in trinkets

One of the many hats I wear as a parent is that of butler. Opening doors for our short-statured entourage, holding straws out for sipping when hands are occupied by nuggets or sticky with ketchup, carrying backpacks crammed with stuff like dolls and bedazzled cardboard paper towel rolls. . . even Benson wouldn't be caught dead crafting a force-field out of toilet paper at the food court bathroom.

Wiping noses and butts is far from being the highlight of my day as a mom, and the rewards aren't always the obvious "thanks" and pats on the back I sometimes find myself starved for at the end of a hard day. Learning to do without the outward appreciation is easier than it may seem. A tantrum caused by a catalyst pair of socks is squeezed out of mind by a hug for "no good reason".

And my reward for doing endless piles of dirty laundry is a cheerful and whimsical collection of tiny treasures.

pocket things

ps- Yesterday Sam hit his head on a bench, the floor, and a book. Thankfully, he lives to tell the tale.

squish

Happy Humpday.

dear husband.

miss you.

my wii fit mii is NORMAL. why can't I be???

I'm not pro-bulemia or anything. I just think that having a twelve-hour stomach virus is a great way to kick-off a new weight-loss plan. Especially if you're committed to losing twenty pounds in the next sixteen weeks. If you go here and see how stupid I am, you'll understand how important it is for me to get on the ball this time. I mean, I love my sister in law to pieces, but she is NOT going to get a dollar from me. Thanks to the barfing, pooping, "ugghhhhh"-ing nightmare that was my life on Friday.


Of course, these sorts of bugs leave more than a couple of pounds in their wake. Three in my case...I KNOW...can you believe it??? JG went through it last night and I tried to be as kind and attentive to him during the spewing and heaving as he was to me. Of course, I have that you-puke-i-puke thing going on and I really couldn't offer much more than a pat on the back and a cold washcloth. And that was with my tee-shirt over my nose and mouth and my eyes closed. Oh. And there was gagging. Because anyone else's barf but my own is just icky.


As of this morning JG's gone "on business" until Thursday, so if you don't want to see a bunch of photos of my kids doing incredibly cute things- just stay away until he returns. I promised I'd post photos and good stuff for him to check up on while he's in DC/VA trying to decide if it's good enough for us to move to this summer.


Oh yeah. I think we're moving, but I can't tell you more because then I'd have to kill you.


Time to Jazzercise.

this was just supposed to be a video

Today I am seriously busy. I'm simultaneously waiting for my husband to call with news about our possible move to another state this summer, I'm NOT text messaging since I went over my limit for this month because my sister in law has a blackberry and communicates non-stop with her fingertips to me about our upcoming NYC trip umpteen times a day (and maybe I text back), and I am also taking photos of Sam unrolling entire rolls of toilet paper and having parties in my food pantry.


So you see, I don't have time for a real blog post today. In fact, the only reason there are even words making sentences on this post today is because I'm waiting "in line" at Vimeo for a video to hurry the eff up and become available. Just another thing I'm doing that make me too busy to actually write a really real blog post about relevant topics or politics or pubic hairs and things.


Speaking of relevance, has anyone been watching the Olympics? I seriously thought curling was for uber-geeks and ugly dudes, but last night these guys kinda sorta gave me a lady boner.

Okay, the one in the middle is kinda homely, but I would so get bizzy go out with the one on the left and maybe the one on the right if I was drunk enough.

JG and I were watching this super weird game in bed and he was all "strategeries involved la la la" and "kinda like billiards" and I was like, "shh the cute one's doing that lunge thing again..."

And oooh, my video is done!

do yourself a favor and mute the video. i sound like a cat being fed to a kimodo dragon. i can't help it.



Mother of the Year from stephanie gresham on Vimeo.


Don't report me. I didn't open any beers for him. I'm saving that right of passage for his tenth birthday. It's imperative that you click on that link there. Especially if you're my mother in law or anyone who has the power to arrest me.


Watching that video gave me a craving for rice crispy treats. Must open marshmallows. Really? It's "mallow?" Do I have to say mallow? It's mellow. I won't say mallow.


Is it 3:30 yet?

pubes and pictures. but not pictures of pubes. because i'm not that desperate.

Staying at a hotel is the shit. Especially if it's one of those fancy shmancy kinds that my husband has grown accustomed to now that his work spoils him silly on business trips. I guess that's the treatment you get when you're the inventor of computers.
Yesterday we drove the kids to Tampa to visit my mom and incredibly old and sweet grandma. The only spare room in the house has a bedroom plucked right from the sixties. Three words: Seafoam satin sheets. Just pulling the bedspread down is enough to make you feel nastay and high all at the same time. Especially with the confetti flower blanket and plastic plants.
So we stayed at a hotel. A nice one. And I had plans to see a show with this awesome chick leaving my husband and heathens kiddos to fend for themselves on Harbor Island.
Before the show, I showered. Because it's not too often I get to hang out with friends and wear a dress and be a lady. And ladies don't smell like chicken noodle soup and diapers.
Hotel showers are hit or miss. Even in the fanciest places you can be surprised by the shower. I've stayed in all sorts of places in New York City (a place my heart pulls me to once a year at least). The Algonquin was a splurge. On my husband's company's dime, of course. And the shower was pristine and surprisingly modern for a 100 year old building.
In more contemporary places I've been grossed out by yellowy shower curtains that are constantly billowing in while I shower and getting stuck to my arms and butt. And there's a pretty good chance I'm going to be standing ankle deep in my chicken soup and diaper water by the time I get to sudsing up my hair with sub-par shampoo or washing my face with a sandpaper washcloth.
But the worst thing about hotel showers is the one stray pubic hair that is inevitably missed by the cleaning crew. If you're lucky enough to see it before you get in the shower, you can do one of three things:
blow it as hard as you can so it goes away
run gallons of water and try swishing it down the drain
pluck it from the tub and flick it into the trashcan
with your FINGERS


All options run their own risks. I've blown a stranger's pube straight into my own face before trying technique number one. And since you can't blow with your mouth closed...you run another risk if you try this method. Use caution.


Swishing it down the drain is somewhat safer. As long as your drain isn't super slow and you keep your hand far enough away from the hair as you swish, you should be okay. I've also swished willy-nilly and minutes later found the hair on my hand. This is disgusting and leads to at least three day wonky-hand.


Picking it up with your fingers and putting it in the trashcan is gross. Nobody would do that. Right?


So on the tile in the bathroom of our fancy shmancy room there WAS a stray pubic hair. It was the first thing I looked for when we got there because I seriously think about these things for days before a trip involving a hotel stay and I have to know what I'm dealing with as soon as possible. The pube on the tile was NOT in the tub, so I just let it stay there. In the corner of the bathroom. And kept tabs on it every time I went in to pee or brush my teeth or check on the pube because I was obsessed but not enough to try blowing it or touching it.


Something GOOD I've noticed about hotel rooms lately is that the nicer ones have gotten wise to the bedspread rumors about {DNA} on the comforters. We all have heard this urban legend icky truth. "Don't sleep with the bedspread on!" "Don't even SIT on it!" Yeah, yeah. They never wash it. I know what people do in hotel rooms. Spare me. I have raised my standards. I now only patronize places with plain white duvet covers and plain white sheets and pillow cases.

i do it for the children, really

and fancy chairs with ottomans

and firm mattresses

You understand.

oh.

and this is for ryan and cole,

So-far, so-good.

Today I am thirty-one. My hair still parts on the right and my favorite color is still green. Bridges over water make me nervous {troubled or no}, as does driving in the rain and making left-hand turns {in the car- not as a pedestrian}. Coffee is my drug of choice. Poop jokes get funnier over the years and my crush on River Phoenix has morphed into a somewhat healthier fascination with movies starring Johnny Depp. I've seen the leaning tower of Pisa, the Eiffel tower, Big Ben, Neuschwanstein Castle, a Costa Rican tree-frog, The Spanish Steps, The Avenue of the Dead, and snowy Mt. Pilatus. I fed a cow in Liechtenstein once and made a wish at Trevi Fountain. It hasn't come true yet. I've lived nowhere else but Florida all thirty-one years. I could give or take the beach and I could be moving to a city near you. My first tape was Huey Louis and the News. Or maybe it was Starship. The Bodyguard soundtrack was my first CD. Adam took me to homecoming and Phil took me to prom. Phil's mom's convertible top didn't go up. My hair fell down. I've been in two serious car accidents, but have never broken a bone. Is your nose a bone? Okay. I broke my nose bone. Flip-flops, sneakers, jeans, tee shirts. $275 is how much money I won playing poker this one night. I sew a little, eat a lot, and take photos "like-all-the-time-MOM".
I have a daughter.
A son.
A husband.
And a blog.

Thank you for reading it.

poor me wah wah wah.

I don't know how it happened, but I seriously hit the jackpot in 2004 when I met my husband.  Before you sigh and move on to another less-fulfilling blog about Valentines Day, hear me out.

I am not writing this to make anyone jealous.  I'm no "nyeah nyeah my husband makes me pancakes on saturdays and wakes up in the middle of the night to feed the baby" kind of gal.  I mean- all of that is true, but I certainly won't be rubbing it in your face again after just now.

Instead I thought I might make a list of all the reasons you are happy my husband is not your husband.  

Starting with: 

He knows everything about computers.   Like. He invented them or something.  Which you're thinking is a good thing.  But if you've heard the sigh I draw out of him when I ask him to help me convert a file to jpg format or expand some zipped crap, you may think I was asking him to show me how to blink.  Or breathe.  And the eye-roll that accompanies the sigh makes the bitches from The Hills jealous. {that's still a show, right?} 

Another thing that really makes him special annoying is the pancake making thing.  What's with it?  The pancakes are always delicious.  It's totally maddening. He even has the gall to put chocolate chips in them sometimes.  WTF? Like I couldn't make pancakes?  Like I wouldn't WANT to make pancakes? Well I do. Maybe. Not really, but if I did they would suck compared to his and this is another reason you really would hate having him as your husband. Sometimes people really just want toaster waffles or Target brand oat cluster cereal. 

If it was YOU that married him instead of ME, you'd never be able to cook dinner without having your ass grabbed/smacked/pinched/rubbed and you'd be pummeled with text messages about poop sent during his "important meetings" in the middle of the day.  

If he was your husband, you'd have a pink glow-in-the-dark basket ball hoop on the back of your bedroom door, a collection of star wars lego figurines that keep falling over every time you snoop through the stuff on his dresser for spare quarters,  and pancakes every Saturday morning. {i know i said the pancakes thing already, but it really pisses me off} 

And finally...