Flashback Friday: First Job & A Mixed Bag

I was barely ten years old when my I pedaled my way into the newspaper business, delivering door to door headlines. My older sister and I shared an afternoon route, which made it nice when it was time to collect from the crazy old man who thought we were solely responsible for the unconscionable price hikes on the Dayton Daily News. But not so nice when we had to split the chocolate bunny that the sweet old lady gave us for Christmas.

And no, I'm not mixed up on this. I think she must have stocked up on them in a price-slashing-after-Easter sale. And no, it didn't bother me that the chocolate was at least eight months old. I was 10. And it was free chocolate.

On Sundays, when the papers weighed more than we did, Dad would wake us up before dawn, drive us down the street to pick up our share of the comics and coupons, and we'd load up the Radio Flyer and make our way through the neighborhood. And almost every Sunday, my sister would barf. Usually right before we started the route. She wasn't much of a morning person.

My parents used to threaten to take away the paper route. Seriously. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Like, be more responsible with your things, kid, or I'll make you get a job to pay for that!

But no. Not me. I was already a bit of a workaholic in the fifth grade. By the time I reached junior high, I had saved and scrimped enough to buy those super cool Ocean Pacific shorts at Elder Beerman. And oh, I had a Field Day in those shorts. Literally. I had a Field Day, at school. You know, where you did all kinds of fun outdoor games and McDonalds supplied the Orange Drink in those bright yellow barrels with the little white taps? Yeah, that kind of Field Day.

So there you have it. My first job.

::

I feel like I ought to let you know that I wasn't feeling the Flashback Friday enthusiasm this week. (As if you couldn't tell.) In fact, I typed out my little spiel in about 15 minutes last night, and just as I typed "there you have it," we lost power. I thought I'd lost the whole thing, and I didn't care, which is a pretty clear indication that my heart wasn't in it.

Last night I laid in bed listening to God's storm crew power washing the house. I jumped up twice in the dark hours, ran to the window to see if the swing set was still right side up. I noticed the grill turned 180 degrees, hanging on for dear life by the gas line. I shivered, debated whether to bring both kids into our bed to keep them warm. I ran to their rooms, lowered my cheek to hear them breathing, repositioned kicked-off covers.

I sipped a strange cocktail of worry and thanks, of fear and reassurance. I tossed and turned.

This morning we woke to sunlight, to clean siding, to shimmering pavement.
We also woke to no power, no warmth, and no coffee.

I carry this mixed bag around, sometimes wishing I could just put it down for a few hours, sometimes clutching it for the dear life it is. Is it possible to be grumpy and grateful? To be anxious and calm? To be hot-headed and collected? I think it is. And I think I am.

::

If you survived my disconnected rambling, I'd still love for you to link up here for Flashback Friday. Grab the FF button on the sidebar, include it somewhere in your post, and include a permanent link to your post here. See? Easy peasey.

Read more...

Let's Just Wander Out Loud, Shall We?

I'm feeling a bout of melancholy coming on. Don't worry. It's the good kind. The kind that draws me to feel and think more deeply, to live more thoroughly. It's not so great for getting the housework done, and I wouldn't be much fun at a party right now. But nobody throws parties on Mondays anyway. And the house isn't going to fall apart in one day. (Although it's possible it will in one summer, and it's possible it already has. But let's not worry about that now.)

This pensive propensity usually prompts me with the urge to connect. I know, it's strange. You'd think the opposite--like as a melancholic introvert I'd just want to lose myself in my own head. I don't. It's lonely in there, and that leads to the bad kind of melancholy. I'd rather get lost in thought with a friend, wonder and wander out loud, take a seat on a bench together, find out how we're the same and how we're different.

Anyway, now that we've completed an excessively long lead in (a side effect of the melancholy no doubt), I want to ask you a favor.

Will you answer a few questions for me? Pretty please? In an effort to connect with the folks who frequent here, I'd love to hear your answers to these questions:

1) Do you have a blog? If yes, will you share your favorite post of all time? Just put the permalink in the comments so I can click right to it.

2) What is it you like to read here? Is it the serious stuff? The lighthearted, sappy mommy stuff? If you've been around for more than one post, I'm sure you know that my "voice" has not made up her mind about what she will be when she grows up. Maybe you could help her with that.

3) What do we have in common? Surely there is a thing or twenty--be it geography, hair color, a tendency toward the melancholy?

So please sit down a minute and tell me a thing or two. I just scooched over on the bench, and there's plenty of room.

Read more...

What I Learned This Week: Lobster Edition

I confess that prior to this week, I didn't even own a lobster pot.

And for more than two years, I have lived less than a mile from the "Live Lobster!" sign. So you might say it's pathetic that my friend (remember her?) had to visit from California before I got the notion or gumption to try steaming up a few live ones.

But I have plenty of good reasons why it took this long. For instance, did you know lobsters are essentially from the sea insect family? And have I ever shared how ridiculously afraid of spiders I am? And how the majority of bugs gross me out?

And seriously, doesn't this guy look like an overgrown sea spider? Except he isn't hiding behind my headboard in hopes of sneaking up to bite me in my sleep and then letting me blame the mosquitoes. No, he's staring right at me. He totally wants to hurt me, and he wants me to know who did it.
I'm sorry, but if I were an early North American settler, I would never have even made eye contact, let alone made an attempt to eat that bad boy. The Native Americans had the right idea when they used lobster only as fertilizer for their crops. Because my friends, it's all buttery and rich until someone gets their eyes clawed out. And I'm pretty sure they didn't have rubber bands back then.

But I do enjoy lobster meat from time to time, and I figured it was high time I had the full crate-to-plate experience. Luckily, Alexis and the fearless husband were around to do most of the pre-steam handling. Alexis made a point to apologize to each lobster individually, which I thought was a nice gesture, especially considering they would pinch and twist her nose off if given the opportunity.

Pictured Below: My four year old who is apparently much braver than I am...

So this week, I finally learned how to steam a lobster. I'd tell you how, but you'd be better off just googling it and learning from some other random person. And if you came here hoping to find lobster recipes and culinary tips, I just want to say how very sorry I am. And to again suggest googling.

Because my only contribution to the lobster conversation is to marvel at how they look like overgrown sea insects and yet taste so delicious.

So let's take a poll. Who likes lobster? Who hates it? Who has never had it (and never will!)? Who has never had it, but wants to try?

Read more...

In Search of It

Yesterday I burrowed through boxes in search of a book I'd read perhaps six years ago. It was a gift from my brother and his wife, and they knew I would love it, even before I did.

But six years ago, I read it, and gave up after chapter two. It seemed like a good book to have "under my belt", but it never made it into my head. Because back then, my breathing was binary code, zeroes and ones, black and white. My steps were projects, tasks, emails, meetings, memos. I did not reflect at all, let alone on faith and art. I was a highly productive, often overworked, always reliable machine. And not much of a person.

So yesterday, during the book hunt, a dusty jacket slivered the skin of my finger tip. Of course, moments later, bleeding, I discovered the book I sought on the shelf, prominently displayed. Figures, I thought, and then trudged upstairs.

I composed a blog post in my head (not this one) as I stretched fingers beyond the headboard toward a felted bunny, a blanket and a baby doll, a reluctant seeker in this daily hide and seek with toys. The sheets fit only after I tugged, and after a reminder from my finger of its wound.

I shooed the dog away from the spread, threw pillows back on and hunted for a band-aid. Only Elmo was available, so Elmo would have to do.

And then back I trudged downstairs to the computer to sneak a peak. I could barely type with the furry-creatured finger cast. So off came Elmo because I'd rather wince than type slowly.

I had a million things to do before the first wave of guests arrived. But as I'd finally found the book that hadn't been hiding, I decided to read in between loads of laundry.

After a ten minute word feast, I was contented so by the rich texture and melancholic flavor that I dozed, drunk on ideas. (I dreamed that all my toenails were painted except one, and woke, then smiled, knowing all was well with my unpolished nails.)

I picked up L'Engle's words again, even though the laundry was now ready to be folded, the dishwasher ready to be emptied, and the Twitter stream gushing on without me in it.

And there it was. Finally. I found it in the reading quietly as I never used to do, and in the dreaming in the naps I never (not usually) take. I was no longer programmed like a machine or harried like a mother expecting guests.

My finger tip still pulsed, though not so much with pain as with awareness. And in my skin and my soul, cut by a book cover and sliced open with words, I discovered again how it feels to be alive. Like a real person. The kind of person that would just love this book.

Read more...

Prodigal June

Dear June,
Do you see these boats?
Or how about these? Have you forgotten your beloved fleet? You took the wind from their sails when you left.
You just got up and rained out on all of them, on all of us. We loved you, June. We named drinks after you. We defended you to the tourists and newcomers. We said, "It'll clear soon--this is just so unusual for June--it's never like this...." And you made us look like fools.

If you wanted to leave us, you should have just told us. We would have given you space to find yourself, if only we had some warning. We would have planned sunny vacations far away instead of spending every day at the window, gazing through the raindrops, waiting for your return.

But know this. If you come home, even now, to resume your post in the final hours, we won't be angry. In fact, we'll throw you a party in celebration of your return. (We'll have to do it tastefully though, as there no sense ruffling July's feathers so close to her annual debut. She has been true to us all these years, after all.)

So please, return to your rightful place in summer, and behave again like the June we know and love. All will be forgiven if you just come home.


I'm linking this post up with the "You Capture: Summer" series at I Should Be Folding Laundry.
Since summer has been AWOL thus far in Maine, it's feeling like we'll have to literally hunt down, capture, and bring summer back here kicking and screaming. But alas, perhaps June finally heard my plea. I think I just discovered her trying to sneak in through my window!

Read more...

My Powers Know No Word Limits

If randomness could be turned into a superpower, I am quite certain I'd be issued a cape without even signing up.  The Underroos people would be beating down my door with a contract.  Wonder Woman would be so 1978.

The only problem would be coming up with an appropriately awe-inspiring super power name.  So far the only thing I can think of is "Random Joannedumb". Maybe they could call me RJ for short?  

So come with me, as we leap into a ground breaking episode of Random Joannedumb.

19) I guess I'm still a bit insecure that you might not think I'm good enough, smart enough and bizarre enough to warrant a super power name.  I feel like I need to prove my randomness to you by saying that I can't count the number of times I've stifled a laugh during a meeting because I pictured what would happen if I suddenly yelled "Timmaaay!"

4) I want to thank all of you for the encouragement to cheer up (or just for the permission to wallow).  Turns out I found the trusty fly swatter and those sand flies didn't stand a chance.  Tell me, why does it feel so therapeutic to swat the heck of out stuff? 

33) I so wanted to weave in this Jack Handey quote in my last post: "Whenever I need to get away, I just get away in my mind.  I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect.  The only bad thing there are the flies.  They're terrible!"  I know, that would have totally worked, right??

8) A professor in college told me, "Screen plays are life with the boring parts taken out." I've decided that blogs are exactly the opposite.  They are life with the boring parts left in, minus the special effects and completely unrealistic, incredibly coincidental plot lines.  This might be why, when asked by my dear friends who are extremely skeptical of the blogging phenomenon, "What is Twitter?" and I answer "It's kindof like micro-blogging", that they reply, "WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?"  And I wonder why they don't read blogs (not even MINE!), let alone have their own.

15) We went to the hospital cafeteria the other night to meet up with Daddy while he was on call. Caed finished his dinner before Daddy came down to say hi, so he was rewarded with an ice cream cone.  Upon biting into the cake cone, he remarked,  "This doesn't taste like food."  I have to agree with my four year old foodie on this one.

23) Remember that iPod Meme from a couple posts ago?  My favorite was "What do you think about most often as a Mom?: Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment".  Whiskey Girl (for the morning after a sleepless night) was a close second.  But unlike what my sister commented, it doesn't fit me to a tee.  Because I never start drinking until at least noon, and I'm more of a rum or vodka girl.

98) I have a suggestion for Starbucks.  Perhaps, just PERHAPS if you offered Pumpkin Spice Lattes all year round, you could muster up enough business to move ahead with that store opening you were planning in my town, but then pulled out of at the last minute?  I'm really, really disappointed in you, Starbucks people.  (You can't see me, but I'm giving them the "I've known you since you were a baby barista, and I know you are better than this, and you've really let me down" look).  

I had one more random thing to share, but it's a wee bit serious, and I don't want to mar it by putting in a post in which I've already lost 92% of my fourteen readers.  So you'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear about that.  (Wow, now I'm random AND suspenseful. More than you ever bargained for....)

Until next time, this is Random Joannedumb, reminding you to never to talk to strangers, (unless they're on Twitter)!

p.s. Did the random numbering totally make you crazy?  Yeah, it bugged me too.  I won't do it again, I promise.  And if you're interested, I hear there is an opening for an anal-retentive superhero, yet to be named.  So you might want to look into that.

Read more...

Shuffle It, Just a Little Bit

The lovely Kelly at Love Well tagged me for an ipod meme. Having only recently learned what a "meme" is, I figured it was high time I participated in one. Because nothing says sophisticated and significant like participating in a low stakes game of musical tag, am I right?

(That reminds me, does anyone remember playing "TV Tag" when you were little? Like, if you got tagged you could only be unfrozen if you yelled out, "Punky Brewster!" or "The Muppet Show!" or "Gilligan's Island!". That was fun, wasn't it? )

Before we get started, I have to tell you that there is one answer in here that stands out to me as particularly funny. I'm wondering if you can guess which one? Or if you are feeling rebellious, just tell me which one you liked the best. And if you don't like any of them, well then, aren't you hard to please? Sheesh, it's Friday for goodness sake. Give a poor girl a break (or a comment as the case may be)...

So here we go:
A Meme for your iPod
Instructions:
1. Put your iPod (or MP3 player) on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN AS YOUR ANSWER, NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag some Moms you admire who could use a laugh and a song.


HOW DID YOU BECOME A MOM?
The Lust, the Flesh, the Eyes & The Pride of Life (Smalltown Poets)

WHAT DID YOU THINK THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW YOUR BABY?
We Are Not as Strong as we Think We Are (Rich Mullins)

WHAT DID YOU DO THE FIRST MORNING AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT?
Whiskey Girl (Toby Keith)

WHAT DO YOU SAY WHEN SOMEONE COLORS ON THE WALL?
Goodbye Blue Sky (Pink Floyd)

HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH A TODDLER’S BODILY FLUID ISSUES?
Hope to Carry On (Caedmon's Call)

IF SOMEONE SAYS “Can I have a snack?” YOU SAY?
Upside Down (Jack Johnson)

IF SOMEONE LEAVES THEIR STUFF ON THE FLOOR, YOU SAY?
Mrs. Potter's Lullaby (Counting Crows)

IF SOMEONE ISN’T SICK TODAY, YOU SAY?
Dancing Nancies (Dave Matthews)

HOW DO YOUR KIDS ENJOY YOUR COOKING?
Let Go (Frou Frou)

HOW DID YOUR KIDS DO IN SCHOOL TODAY?
I'm Still Remembering (Cranberries)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF WHILE SITTING IN CARPOOL LINE?
Thankful (Caedmon's Call)

HOMESCHOOLERS, WHAT IS THE FIRST SUBJECT TAUGHT OF THE DAY?
Your Personal Penguin (Davy Jones/Blue Moo)

WHAT DO YOUR KIDS WANT TO BE WHEN THEY GROW UP?
College Hornpipe (Yo-Yo Ma, Appalachia Waltz)

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY AS A MOM?
Some Fantastic (BNL)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE AS A MOM?
Family Affair (Mary J Blige)

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO AS A MOM?
Once you've loved somebody (Dixie Chicks)

HOW DID YOU KNOW YOU WERE REALLY A MOM?
The Nearness of You (Norah Jones)

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT MOST OFTEN AS A MOM?
Gimme, Gimme Shock Treatment (the Ramones)

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY AS A MOM?
Lonestar (Norah Jones)

WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU REGRET AS A MOM?
Bye Bye Love (Simon & Garfunkel)

WHAT IS THE BEST THING YOU'VE EVER DONE AS A MOM?
Tears Like Flowers (Sarah Masen)

WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Staring at a Bird (The Waiting)

WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT MAKES YOU CRY?
Losing Hope (Jack Johnson)

WHAT DO YOUR KIDS DO THAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
Absolutely (the Story of a girl) (Nine Days)

HOW DO YOUR KIDS DESCRIBE YOU AS THEIR MOM?
Dinosaur, Dinosaur (Darcy Boynton, Philadelphia Chickens)

IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Moondance (Van Morrison)

WHAT WILL YOUR MOM OF THE YEAR CERTIFICATE SAY?
Chop Chop (Burlap to Cashmere)

Now, for the tagging part. I know there are some rebellious ones out there (cough Kate cough) who if tagged outright would refuse to participate. But come on, fellow moms, it'll be fun! So please, join in! Once you have your post ready to go, link up with Mister Linky, and don't leave me hanging, mmkay?


Or, if you just can't bring yourself to participate, then remember, you can guess my favorite answer and/or share your own favorite! So there really is something for everyone here. You're totally welcome.

Happy Friday!!

Read more...

A Summery Look

This afternoon I started obsessing about changing my Blogger format.  I then preceded to waste spend a whole stinkin' hour messing with it.  I wanted something a little less busy, with a more summery feel.  

(On a side note, I'm appalled that spell check recognizes the word "summery" and "springy" and "wintery" but not "autumny".  That's seasonal discrimination if I ever saw it.)

Mind you, this blog overhaul activity was not remotely on my To Do list, so apparently HTML is quite compatible with procrastination.  (Dear laundry, I promise to put you away before the next clean load comes in, but keep in mind, that might be awhile.)

I tried without success to change fonts and formatting in my header, because frankly, Times New Roman doesn't do it for me.  Not to mention it isn't the slightest bit summery.  Stuffy, yes.  Summery, no.  

So what do you all think?  Should I have just left well enough alone?  Or is the new way fine by you?  More importantly, is it beach weather yet?  Because yes, I've got SUMMER ON THE BRAIN.  And now, thanks to my coding genius and prefabricated templates, it's on the blog too. 

Read more...

I admit I'm not much of a photographer.

I'm especially not a portrait photographer.
And I'm really truly not a children's portrait photographer.

Because what was supposed to be sweet little Easter pictures of the cousins (L to R: Glory, Sheridan, Caed, Grace) turned out looking like a strange interpretation of the Macarena:

Or maybe this could be a "He is Risen!" proclamation? Yep, let's go with that one.

Hey Robin, you there? Hi!! I miss you already. And yes, all you need to know is two parts sweet and sour, two parts tequila, one part triple sec. You're totally welcome.

And because blogging is the sincerest form of randomness, I can unapologetically share some left field stuff my sis and I found laughable:

1) What we'd like to know is, when did a pregnancy test become an impulse item? Dollar Store Display People, you crack us up.

2) Robs and I ran out to do a few errands without the kids (Uncle Stym, you are a saint!), and we stopped first at the pharmacy. They had this foaming antibacterial sanitizer by the counter, and we both thought, hmm, this is nice. Robin put some on, and then came my turn. I pushed the pump down, and it projected foam in a line drive right onto my face. I'm not kidding. I was literally foaming at the mouth. Robin was too busy laughing at me to take a picture. And I was too busy trying to say, "Can someone find me a tissue" without actually opening my mouth. Considering the anti-ish nature of the stuff, it wasn't as disgusting to taste as it sounded. But it wasn't exactly Easter basket material either.

So if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm back home. It seems Monday disappeared somewhere along the stretches of I-90. So tomorrow will seem like Monday and actually be Tuesday. But the visit with my dear family was worth the drive, the missing Monday and then some.

Over and out.

Read more...

On Running & Running On

I ran away from home this morning.  

I don't remember the last time I had two hours of daylight all to myself.  I was borderline giddy as I exchanged hugs and high fives with the kids under the doorway dangling pinwheel flowers.  I emptied their cubbies of last week's crafts and smiled wide as I headed for the door clutching the cotton ball snowman and holding the hand printed in water colors.  There were no conference calls on my calendar, no errands to run, no appointments to keep.

The sun edged into the morning sky just high enough to spill silver glitter onto the waves and cast shadows on the sand.  The lowering tide cut a trail smooth, packed, wide and safe for even the weariest of ankles to trod.

This good and perfect gift was mine to unwrap.  Music blared, waves crashed, knees pounded, and arms pumped. In this constant motion I found stillness.  I gave words to my whispering thoughts.  I panted alive and unfettered.  I chased my shadow and felt a sweet kind of lonely.  

I made it to the pier and back again, yet never felt my direction change.  A fleeting hour passed before I cut back through the soft sand, turned the ignition and returned to my responsible agenda.

***************************

I realize I could have saved you a minute or two of your time by just writing: "I went for a long run on the beach.  It was awesome."  But while that would be efficient for you, it wouldn't be any fun for me.  I get a kick out of divulging information the long and twisty way.  

While you're here (big assumption, I know), this might also be a good time to come clean about the blog.  It appears I have taken over and decided that anything goes.  I had purposed from the beginning to write only about the kids.  I wanted to capture and remember the funny, amazing, heart warming things they say and do, and to articulate the incredible impact they have on me. 

But as I write more, I remember I love to write just because, even when there is no point, even when it is about, well, nothing.  Much like a Seinfeld episode, but without the humor.  

And lest you think I just love to write my little melancholy heart out and couldn't care less about whether anyone reads it, let's just clear that one up right now.  The fact that someone might read it--even if it's only my Mom and those genetically predisposed to love me--that is what fuels me.  The more I hear from those of you who read, the more I want to write.  

So, to recap:

1) I went for a run on the beach.  It was awesome.

2) I am tossing out the rules for this blog and writing about "whatever I want, gorrshh!" (Yes, that was a Napoleon Dynamite quote, in arguably poor context.)

3) I like comments. A lot. They keep me running.  They keep me writing.  They keep me writing about running, and yes, it is questionable whether that is a good thing.  What is NOT questionable is that I REALLY like hearing from you.  

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go for a quick run.  Feel free to talk amongst yourselves in the comments section.  Because, did I mention that I really like hearing from you?

 

Read more...

A Trying Season and A Season Trying

This winter waged a lengthy war against color, and even my spirit has surrendered the last of its bright hues to wave a solemn white flag.  

This is my fancy way of telling you that I've met up with my old friend Melancholy.  She's a treasure, that one, but she isn't the best influence on me.  

For instance, today she tried to convince me to stay in my pajamas, write poetry and polish off the rest of the TJ's crispy crunchy chocolate chip cookies.  She didn't have any ideas as to what I should do with the children while I wallowed, so I didn't follow through on her first two suggestions.  

I got dressed.  (Please hold your applause until the end.)  I fed and dressed the children.  We bought milk.  We returned the books and found some new ones.  We got one haircut and two lollipops.  (Now...CLAP!)  Thank you, thank you very much.  

Now that I have met my productivity quota and nap time has commenced, I can sneak in a visit with Melancholy.  She and I went outside in the rain just now, and you won't believe what we found.  It was almost enough to scare my old friend away entirely.  

We saw Spring.  New life.  Color.  Or, as it's lovingly referred to here in Maine, Mud Season. Whatever you call it, we saw a season trying.  And I just couldn't hold my applause until the end.  

A Season Trying

The crocuses send up scouts. 

Up go green periscopes, reporting splotches of lingering snow 

Interspersed with patches of gold tinted grass,

Where the sun stretched down to touch the toes of earth

And ripple warmth across the icy ground.

A sprout peers from under its white blanket,

Shivers and slivers back beneath the covers, 

Hits snooze to sleep a little longer.

It's just the false alarm of a warm afternoon.

The coast is not clear.

The tender petals remain a clinched fist.

They dare not unfold

Lest they be trampled by the bullying frost.

But it will not be long now.

White gives way to brown, and brown to green.

It is a season trying, trying,

And trying again.

Oh Melancholy, see what you made me do? You made me go all Jack Handey with the blog.  You are a mean girl.  Go away.  Spring is here, and I don't need you anymore.  My cabin fever has broken and my color has finally returned.

Read more...

I must remind myself to stop talking to myself

Sometimes when the kids say or do something funny, and I don't have a pen nearby to jot it down, I call home and leave a message. I do this because I will quite literally forget if I don't capture it quickly and permanently somewhere other than my overloaded and understaffed brain.

I left myself one such message the other day. As I was pumping gas, I recounted the funny exchange I'd just had with Caed. (I know, I know. I've heard the cell phone at the gas pump is a total fire hazard, but my urge to multi-task far outweighs my fear of spontaneous combustion).

Later, when I replayed the message, pen in hand, I heard myself say, "Okay, that's it. I'll talk to you later!"

Um, did I just tell myself that I'd talk to myself soon?

Why yes, yes I did. So I'm officially talking to myself. REGULARLY.

Given the frequent word exchanges between me, myself and I, coupled with my recent multi-state road trip to the grocery store, I believe I've earned my place as a card carrying member of the Crazy Club. Membership expiration date: Never.

I am SO blaming the children for this.

Please tell me I'm not the only one? (No, of course not, I do it too! Oh wait, we are one and the same. This isn't helping matters, is it?)

Read more...

For the Love of Mighty Bites & Cat Cookies

I don't know what I would do for a Klondike Bar, but I'll tell you what I'd do for some Trader Joe's dark chocolate covered almonds with sea salt.

I'd strap in the little people and drive 79 miles and two states away. Yes, you heard me. That's a smidge shy of three hours of round trip driving, with a four and two year old, to go to the grocery store.

And if that makes me crazy, then I don't wanna be sane. Okay, that's not entirely true. I do want to be sane, and I don't want to be caught one Mighty Bite shy of a full box. I just want my sanity and to eat my Chipotle Hummus too. Is that too much to ask?

So we won't even attempt to answer why I did it, but perhaps you're curious how I did it?

• First, I tricked the kids into thinking it was an adventure. An "adventure" wherein they sit strapped down for three hours while Lightning McQueen goes haywire in Radiator Springs. It never fails to amaze me what they'll endure for the chance to watch a "whole long, long movie."
  
• Next, I packed a lunch and called it "snacks". I'm no marketing expert, but even I know it's all about packaging and branding. I could call marshmallows and malt balls "lunch" and they'd turn up their noses. But call something "snacks" and I hear, "Mawwwm, can I have some more broccoli bites?"
• Finally, I talked it up. "We're getting your favorite cooook-keeeys! You'll get a bahloo-ooon!" I find the key to talking it up is to add syllables and exaggerated inflection to their favorite words. Although saying "coooookeey" makes you sound a little bit, well, cooky, it's worth it, really. Especially when you glimpse the glazed over look on the girl's face because all she can think about is cat cookies and not how miserable she is on the so-called "adventurous road trip."

I am pleased to report that we accomplished our mission with no permanent damage done, though the return trip was not without its hazards. Let's just say that talking on a cell phone while driving looks like a safety precaution in comparison to these dangers:

• Back seat balloon wars. (Who knew TJ's was a grocery store and a weapons supplier?) It's just a teeny bit distracting when bumper balloons are batting around in my peripheral vision. I kind of need that component of my eyesight for being mindful of other cars and stuff.
  
• Driving while on toddler sleep patrol. Yes, I resorted to some extreme defensive maneuvers against vehicular snoozing, but I just HAD to keep Dani awake so she would nap at home. Really, I did it for her. I realize the rear view mirror should not be used to check every other second whether she is still awake. And I realize that I should not strain to entertain in hopes of distracting her from dozing. And I did try to outsource sleep patrol duty to Caed, but unfortunately, he and Tow-mater were deep in a world of their own.
  
• Using the rear view mirror to peer at the children. I know as well as anyone that the rear view mirror is for seeing the cars behind you, not the children. But how else am I going to flash disapproving looks at the boy, or perform routine sleep checks on the girl, or see their ridiculously funny car seat dance moves when Beyonce's song All the Single Ladies comes on?
• Rolling on the floor laughing while driving. Okay, so I wasn't really rolling on the floor. There isn't that much room on the car floor anyway. But I was laughing so hard that my eyes could barely stay open, which I think we can agree is not compatible with highway safety. Why the uncontrollable laughter, you may ask? Because Caed's interpretation of Beyonce's All the Single Ladies went something like this:

With hands up in the air, waving wildly around, he shouted, "All the single LAKES! All the single LAKES! Put your hands up!! Cuz if you like it then you shoulda put a RAIN on it!"

Great Lakes and Finger lakes need not apply. We only want to see the SINGLE lakes out on the dance floor for this song. And seriously, do you not love how he carried the water theme throughout his erroneous lyrics? Oh, I love that boy.

So what's the craziest thing you've ever done in the name of canned goods? Even better, what's your favorite Trader Joe's treat?

Read more...

Even in February

The day donned an unimaginative gray suit and trudged through the turnstile. It swayed in the shakity shake of the subway, as the graffiti clad cement walls whirled to a blur in the gathering motion of minutes. The overcast hours commuted from dull to dreary and back again.

It is February, after all, and Dreariness Awareness Month. The day had no choice, really, but to be a gray mess in a dead end job.

But there is a place where even gray is breath taking. So I took the long way to the grocery store, and snapped a picture of the scene that never fails to take me worlds away from the drudgery.

This morning, we awoke to a snow day. Time to shed the gray suit and squeeze into a snow suit. The wonder-creating white covers over the dreariness like it was never there at all. The trees were up all night catching snowflakes on their tongues, and now droop in snow-laden sleep deprivation while the sun-speckled seconds flutter through their branches.

It is in the contrast that I conclude, Life is good. Even in February.

Read more...

Regarding the Rarity and the Red-Hair-ity

The next time someone tells you that you're "one in a million", don't take it as a compliment. It's a curse, really.

I'm usually one to take responsibility for my life, but there are some parts of the story where I simply have to blame my passive-recessive genes. Because rare things happen to red heads, and we freckled freaks are rare things in and of ourselves.

For example, did you know that red heads are harder to anesthetize? I didn't need to read the New England Journal of Medicine to draw that conclusion. I could have told you that two minutes into my root canal. And don't get me started on the epidural. Let's just say it's a good thing red heads have a very high pain tolerance.

Oh, and by the way, I hear we're going to be extinct soon, which means we'll have to go live under the coastal Marsh with the dinosaurs. (Yes, that's where Caed insists the dinosaurs live now that they are "egg-stinked". It's my fault really, as I made the mistake of trying to explain fossils to a four year old.)

So here's my latest story, in support of the hypothesis on the link between red hair and freakishness:

Enter the ophthalmologist, my LASIK surgeon, who performed a second corrective surgery (rarely needed) on my baby blues two weeks ago. She came in assuming everything was normal. First mistake. She must not have noticed the flaming red hair.

Here's what I heard as she read my chart and examined my eyes:

"Hmm....that's so strange. Wow, what is going on here? This doesn't make any sense. No sense at all. Let me take another look. Hmm, I've never seen anything like this. Your left eye is really far sighted--this just doesn't add up AT ALL. It was right on track last week. This is SO WEIRD. Hmmmm."

Luckily she left me with these reassuring words as we scheduled an appointment for the next morning, "In all my 35 years in practice, I've never seen anything like this."

Beautiful. Just beautiful! If only I could see the irony here. But I literally can't see anything right now, at least not with my swollen, far-sighted mess of a left eye. My right eye is doing ALL the work right now, and getting pretty durn tired of it.

So right now, when I say I can't see straight, it is not a cliche for confusion (although that may also be true). My left eye knows not what my right eye is doing, and my right eye is pretty convinced my left eye has had one too many margaritas. The right eye can be kind of judgy like that. But you know what they say about judging and stuff in your eye. And seriously, if there is a big ol' plank in my right eye, I'm sooo screwed.

So right now, I await the dawning of Friday when I will return to the doctor to see if they have a cure for follicle-induced freakishness. In the meantime, I'm crying a river of artificial tears.

(Oh, and I'm channeling my inner Anne of Green Gables. Because if there is anyone who knows how to turn a wayward left eye into a drama of the most demonstrative proportions, it's the lovely Anne Shirley. I'm thinking I'll wear my dress with puffed sleeves to my appointment tomorrow....)

Read more...

Top 10 Signs You've Been Working at Home Too Long

You know, I thought I'd sit the Friday Funnies out this week. Just not feeling funny. I blame the children. After all, this little corner of the blogosphere is dedicated to droning on and on in mind-bloggling detail about their wonderfulness and silliness and don't-you-just-adore-em-ness. But these two junior contributors haven't provided any stand-out funny material, which leaves us all in a very dangerous place. I have to make stuff up.

But we have to take that risk and hope for the best because:

"Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face." - Victor Hugo

And if there is one thing I need right now, it is to DRIVE OUT WINTER from my face!

So, I present to you, the Top 10 Signs You've Been Working at Home Too Long:

1) On your way out to daycare drop-off, your two year old implores you, "Get D'essed!", and you already are.

2) You can't keep a candy tray full to save your life (or your waistline). And yes, you did single-handedly polish off the dark chocolate peanut M&Ms, and no, you're not going to divulge the timeline in which you did it.

3) If it weren't for conference calls, the laundry would never get folded or put away.

4) What business attire remains in your closet hasn't seen the light of day since the tech bubble burst.

5) And that's probably a good thing. Because even the classic Ann Taylor look doesn't last a whole decade.

6) You try bouncing ideas off the dog. She slides her nose in between her paws and tries not to make eye contact. If she could talk, you can bet she wouldn't waste her words helping you with Powerpoint slides. No indeed, first order of business, "Must tell my master that his wife is a nutjob."

7) You wander out to the mailbox a half dozen times a day, mostly during conference calls (after all the laundry is folded), even though you know the mail doesn't come until 4:00. You most likely do this because you feel frequent and compelling urges to "get out of the house for once", plus five or so times.

8) You think walking to the mailbox constitutes "getting out of the house."

9) You have memorized the dog-walking patterns and timetables for the entire neighborhood.

10) If ever a neighbor is complaining about a mystery dog poo in his yard that some rude dog owner neglected to clean up, you could totally solve the case, based on the dog-walking patterns you've committed to memory, along with forensic analysis of the size and age of the specimen. But you would most certainly outsource the forensic analysis part. After all, you are a consultant first, and a nutjob second. And any consultant worth her weight in dark chocolate peanut M&Ms will suggest that something be "outsourced" at least once a week. This applies whether you work on Wall Street or Wysteria Lane, or some extraordinarily less glamorous location such as the chair by the window where you sit with your laptop with a clear view of the dogs walking by.

Rude dog owners, beware, I'm onto you. Neighbors, you should be afraid too, but for different reasons, such as, there is a nutjob in your neighborhood, and she's home ALL THE TIME. Except for when she wanders out to the mailbox....

Hmmm...winter still on your face? Yeah, mine too. So check out Amber's place for more. I'm gonna head there too, right after I go check to see whether the mail is here yet.

Read more...

There is Goodness and There is More.

A warning: To my friends in real life--who make up the vast majority of my 12 readers--I am veering way off course today--away from memorable moments and Mylestones. As is obvious from the last half dozen posts, I normally don't tackle the heavy stuff. But tonight, I feel compelled to do so. So to the self-proclaimed atheists and agnostics, to the devout Jews and the bad Catholics, each of whom I know and love, I won't be the slightest bit offended if you want to sit this one out. I trust most of you already know where I stand, and that we agree we don't have to stand in the same place for us to be friends.

*****************************************

At 3 a.m., Caed cried out to me, terrified. He had dreamed he was lost, and upon waking, felt convinced an alligator was loose and lurking in his room. The next morning, we talked about his fears. Like a typical four year old, he was afraid of the outlandish and harmless imaginary things. And he remained naive about the real dangers, as a four year old should be, content to let his parents protect him from the fears he hadn't yet found.

At 7:30 a.m. yesterday, a soldier's wife answered her door, her freshly fatherless child in her arms, her worst fear awakened as she glimpsed the uniform behind the glass.

Several hours later and a few streets over, another woman opened her door to the same nightmare. She would have fallen to the floor, in the very gravity that brought her husband's helicopter down, but for the two small children leaning on her legs, locking their heels with hers, not yet burdened or broken from the knowing.

Nearly five years ago, my best friend answered that same horrifying door. She turned the knob just after her 11-week-old firstborn son had drifted off to sleep. She called us to come, and we wept every inch of the way to the hospital. It took weeks before my head stopped hurting from the crinkling of my brow and the trying not to cry at the office or the grocery store. I thought of my friend without her husband, of the precious little boy without his father, of my husband without his best friend, and I welled up with tears of helplessness and doubt.

The doubt was never about whether God was powerful or in control. It was always about whether He was good. So today, when I heard from my sister about these two friends in her church who lost their husbands in the same day, these families suddenly without fathers, I cried helplessly again about His goodness; and I wondered where it could possibly be.

But this is what I am learning. I am learning that our Heavenly Father protects us from the dangers that are real. He worries over the destruction of our souls, the separation from Him, the eternal dangers that so many of us ignore like naive little children.

But He does not protect us from the living of the bad dreams and from feeling we are lost. He whispers to us through our pain that there is a life beyond the present suffering. He sits silently with us in our anguish--in the nightmares so real and heavy and terrifying, the ones that we cannot escape or blink away. He reminds us that the seemingly endless grief is but a moment that will fade in the vast expanse of the Life to come.

He promises, There is Goodness. There is More. But it is not often in this suffering world that we find it.

Please pray for these two Ft. Drum families, these mothers and their young children, who lost their husbands and fathers yesterday in Iraq. Pray that their Heavenly Father will comfort them and hold them close when they wake up lost and terrified in the night.

Romans 8:38-39: "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

More articles about these fallen soldiers:

Matthew Kelley

Philip Windorski

Read more...

Note to self: No more driving with Guinness

I just had a near-ditch experience.  

I was driving along in a snowstorm with Guinness on my lap, minding my own business.  Normally, I would use a cup holder for Guinness.  But despite the fact he's a miniature Dachshund, the squeeze was just too tight. 

The roads had not been plowed AT ALL because apparently my town's department of public works believes that Sunday should be a day of rest.  Or maybe the Patriots game was on.  

It would have been fine had Guinness stayed put.  But instead, he used my lap as a springboard for exploration from the window, to the steering wheel, to the cup holders, to the other window, and back.  You should've seen that poor dog's face when he accidentally rolled the driver's side window down.  So I'm sputtering down my friend's street, to the destination where Guinness was to be safely deposited, laughing so hard I can barely see. Oh, and it's snowing like mad.  And the road is covered halfway up to the mailboxes with the white stuff.  And there is a dog doing circus tricks in the front seat.    

It's a doggone miracle we didn't end up in the ditch!

Read more...

I'm a sore loser

And not even Little Debbie can comfort me now.  The official results are in from the Haiku contest at Rocks in my Dryer.  And I am not the winner, which technically makes me a loser. 

I made the mistake of telling Caed about the contest--specifically that I would win a box of "special treats" if I garnered the most votes.  Not one to forget anything, ever, he asked me today if I won enough "botes".  After surmising that he was referring to the contest and not randomly inquiring about sea-faring vessels, I answered his question.  

"Nope, Mommy didn't win this one."  

And within seconds, he was whining about how he really wanted a special treat, and not the kind that I get at the store, the kind he's NEVER HAD BEFORE.  

To which I quickly replied, "That's okay, maybe we'll treat ourselves to a box of Little Debbie's from the store!"  And I was genuinely enthusiastic about it too.  Because that was my plan all along if I didn't win.

But Caed kept whining,  "Oh, man, I am so bitter!  I wanted them to come to our house.  The store is sooo far away, and it's gonna take too long."  (It's fitting to note here that he has added "I'm so bitter" and "This is freaking me out" to his regular vocabulary.  Can't imagine where he picked that up.)

So that's the loser part.  Now for the sore part.

Last night I tried out some more poses on Wii Fit yoga.  (Are they called poses?  Maybe it's positions? Or perches?)  Anyway, being the former gymnast and current semi-exercise enthusiast that I am, the whole time I'm deep breathing, I'm thinking, "C'mon this is so lame.  I don't feel a burn.  This is doing nothing for me."  Then I did a bunch of cardio in hopes of unlocking some more exercises, but it only gave me more lame yoga stuff.   So I ran a few miles on the treadmill (thank you, Jack Bauer, for inspiring me to "do whatever it takes" in that last mile), and called it a night.

Then I woke up this morning.  And I was sore.  Not running muscles sore.  YOGA sore.  As Napoleon Dynamite would say, "ooohh BURRN."

To the Wii Fit users out there, I know of at least one sore loser that could use some encouragement.  What are your favorite exercises (the ones you enjoy, the ones that give you a good workout)?  Does it get to be easier (and more fun) as you unlock more stuff?  Will I ever make peace with the Yoga lady?

Read more...

My 17 Syllables of Fame

The last time I entered a poetry contest, I was 18, and in search of a scholarship prize of $500.  I didn't win anything, except the opportunity to spend $75 on a poetry anthology that had the literary ambience of an encyclopedia.  Suffice it to say, I didn't splurge on a copy of my "published work".  Because even at 18, I was wise enough to know that if I ever needed a makeshift booster seat, I could get a phone book for free.

Fast forward many years and subtract about ten inches of height from my bangs, and I find myself engaging again in competitive iambic pentameter.  Only this time, the contest prizes include mommy gear and Little Debbies.  And nothing motivates me like an Oatmeal Cream Pie.   

Anyway, much to my surprise, my haiku about New Year's Resolutions is one of 5 finalists, and voting is going on all weekend at Rocks in my Dryer to choose the winner.   You decide, America.   And if any of you guys want to share in the loot, Little Debbies included, I suggest you get on over there and Rock the Vote.  But only if you are going to vote for this one:

Treasure fleeting hours

While little feet run the halls.

Toss the to-do list.

Read more...