Melyssa Williams's Blog, page 7
May 24, 2012
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May 23, 2012
31
Happy birthday, Laryssa Kate.
Little sis.
Wearer of Sally Jessie Raphael glasses.
And chicken hats.
Lover of Bryan Adams and Christian Slater.
Feet that make ballerinas weak.
The cool sister.
The crazy sister.
Better at hip hop than I.
Of course, so is my cocker spaniel.
Was my doula.
I was kinda her's, but I kept falling asleep. Is it my fault if her kids like to be born in the wee hours after upteen hours of labor?
Pictured above with the mopcap.
We were homeschooled and into tea parties.
Don't judge.
Yes, that's me on top and two of our best friends. Evidently one thought she had a career in music. It's good to know, Aerie dear, that if your science career doesn't pan out, you can start singing again.
Kindly shares custody of Nathan Fillian with me.
In our heads.
Owned a VW bus and moved away too young.
Came back and ever so nicely gave me two nieces and a nephew. (She's giving like that).
Sharer of all my favorite memories.
Best friend.
May 20, 2012
Procrastination. I will think of a better title later.
Procrastination:
What you do instead of getting your homeschooled children ready for their state achievement testing.
Never mind that they've never taken a test in their bloomin' lives.
Never mind that they don't know how to color in those bubbles.
Never mind that we've skipped spelling this month.
That makes it eleven years in a row.
Never mind that they will more than likely spell their own names wrong at the top of the page.
And that they don't know to raise their hands if they have to go to the bathroom, and will, most likely, wander off without permission, causing State Achievement Police to scale the walls and attack them and take them down.
Never mind that I could be doing multiplication drills right now, this very second, in the hopes that something will stick, and instead I sit...
blogging.
Eating smoked chedder and Garlic Butter Ritz.
Sipping Malbec.
Recovering from sitting in the sun all weekend while Cora had a swim meet.
Does it matter if she doesn't know how to spell Constantinople if she can swim a wicked back stroke?
Will there be a page for Anna to list every character of Les Mis?
I thought not.
It would be odd for me to write for homeschool magazines if I am forced to put my own children in public school. I think it could be a prerequisite or something for me to homeschool my kids. I hear the state of Oregon does not want, and in fact, gets annoyed, if you try to force them to look at homeschooled children's test scores, even though they require you to take the tests. This does not cheer me. Because I will more than likely, be the first that they demand. And when my children are shown to have the IQs of eggplants, I will have to answer to them. And I don't like being put on the spot. I will be unable to spell my own name and I will rush off to the bathroom without permission, and then the whole police debacle will happen all over again.
Let us pray.
For a sudden Southern Oregon flood or earth quake, the state approved tester to be taken suddenly with gout, or for my children to suddenly grow their brains by one million percent. You choose.
Amen.
May 18, 2012
Cry
Things that made me cry before having children (i.e. before "the hormonies" took over my life):
extreme pain
death
chopping onions
Things that make me cry after having children:
songs on the radio. Especially anything that brings to mind a memory, or anything by Martina McBride
the thought of running out of coffee
not sleeping
sleeping
movies - any and all, but especially heartwarming scenes. Or the not heartwarming scenes but the ones instead that creep up on you, like when the dad in We Bought A Zoo kicks over the planter because he's mad and he's had it, but then he rights it again, and you're like, yes! he's still in with this zoo thing! because for a moment there, you were worried. Or the scene in Dan In Real Life where they're all doing the talent show, which isn't really a crying scene but I think I just want a family lake house to do a family talent show in. And I'd like Dianne Wiest and the dad from Frazier (I forget his name) to be there. They don't have to replace my parents, of course, they could just be an extra set or something. It'd be handy to have an extra set of parents, wouldn't it? Also, the entire hour and a half of Up, but that's a given.
books - mostly picture books. Mostly picture books that aren't remotely sad at all. Or Knuffle Bunny Free, which totally gets me so choked up I have to point out the words at the end for Gianni, and pretend I'm teaching him to read. Also, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs; the end where the fields of snow with Grandpa smell like mashed potatoes with a sun that looks like a pat of butter. Why does that make me tear up? Who knows. Maybe I have an underdeveloped desire to go sledding on mashed potatoes. Well, really, who doesn't?
Dumbo. Can't do it. Baby, Mine? Good grief, why don't you just slice open all my skin and give me a lemon juice bath? it'd be less painful.
Antiques Roadshow. Is it because I have nothing of value in my attic, or is because I love watching strangers get rich?
Series finales. Even series finales of shows I never watched. Heck, I watched the Dawson's Creek series finale and got teary and I never even saw another episode and didn't know who the heck those people were.
When Gianni says he'll marry me in ONE THOUSAND DAYS. Now to him, one thousand days is pretty much never, the same as a million years, in fact he probably meant to say one thousand years, but I'll take it. Also, when he says "You're the best mom ever!" even when it's followed promptly by, "Daddy made me say that!"
Sweet kids with good parents in grocery stores.
Naughty kids with worse parents in grocery stores.
The last line of a good book. Or the acknowledgments at the end. Or the back flap with the author bio. Or pretty much any part of a good book.
Alright, the list is getting ridiculous now. What silly things make you cry?
extreme pain
death
chopping onions
Things that make me cry after having children:
songs on the radio. Especially anything that brings to mind a memory, or anything by Martina McBride
the thought of running out of coffee
not sleeping
sleeping
movies - any and all, but especially heartwarming scenes. Or the not heartwarming scenes but the ones instead that creep up on you, like when the dad in We Bought A Zoo kicks over the planter because he's mad and he's had it, but then he rights it again, and you're like, yes! he's still in with this zoo thing! because for a moment there, you were worried. Or the scene in Dan In Real Life where they're all doing the talent show, which isn't really a crying scene but I think I just want a family lake house to do a family talent show in. And I'd like Dianne Wiest and the dad from Frazier (I forget his name) to be there. They don't have to replace my parents, of course, they could just be an extra set or something. It'd be handy to have an extra set of parents, wouldn't it? Also, the entire hour and a half of Up, but that's a given.
books - mostly picture books. Mostly picture books that aren't remotely sad at all. Or Knuffle Bunny Free, which totally gets me so choked up I have to point out the words at the end for Gianni, and pretend I'm teaching him to read. Also, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs; the end where the fields of snow with Grandpa smell like mashed potatoes with a sun that looks like a pat of butter. Why does that make me tear up? Who knows. Maybe I have an underdeveloped desire to go sledding on mashed potatoes. Well, really, who doesn't?
Dumbo. Can't do it. Baby, Mine? Good grief, why don't you just slice open all my skin and give me a lemon juice bath? it'd be less painful.
Antiques Roadshow. Is it because I have nothing of value in my attic, or is because I love watching strangers get rich?
Series finales. Even series finales of shows I never watched. Heck, I watched the Dawson's Creek series finale and got teary and I never even saw another episode and didn't know who the heck those people were.
When Gianni says he'll marry me in ONE THOUSAND DAYS. Now to him, one thousand days is pretty much never, the same as a million years, in fact he probably meant to say one thousand years, but I'll take it. Also, when he says "You're the best mom ever!" even when it's followed promptly by, "Daddy made me say that!"
Sweet kids with good parents in grocery stores.
Naughty kids with worse parents in grocery stores.
The last line of a good book. Or the acknowledgments at the end. Or the back flap with the author bio. Or pretty much any part of a good book.
Alright, the list is getting ridiculous now. What silly things make you cry?
May 15, 2012
The Difference Between the Sexes: Adult Version
The title reminds me of the time Mike and I were moving. We used professional movers for the first time, and since I can't just sit around and watch total strangers manhandle my stuff, I packed more boxes than they did. So one of our boxes we innocently labeled
Adult DVDs.
We just wanted to differentiate between the kid's Veggie Tales and Disney and Barbie movies, and our sad collection of '80s flicks, romantic comedies, and Die Hards 1-4. But of course, that's not what it looked like, and the movers kept snorting back their laughter every time they walked by me.
Anyhoo.
The difference between men and women, at least in my opinion, are as follows:
Men are hard wired to know technology. Probably some woman are too, but I haven't met them. Here is an example for the times the television needs to switch over from the Xbox: if Mike is home, lickety split! it's done. Ta da. Wham bam, thank you, ma'am. Er, sir. There is no muttering, no under the breath cursing, no slamming shut of the entertainment center cupboard. When I have to make the switch (so that I can watch Downton Abbey and eat bon-bons) here is what happens:
I start randomly changing channels. Then I hit the Source button three or four times. Then I change the channels on the VCR. Then I do all these simultaneously. Then I repeat, but I push the buttons harder. Then I call Mike at work. He says to unplug the hdmi cable from the whoesywhatsit and make sure the audio cord is in the yellow outlet and detach the Linksey from the router while on the Imput menu screen.
'You're really cute,' I say. 'But I don't know what you're saying. It's like you're trying to communicate with me, but all I hear is static, peppered with Man Speak.'
So then I repeat all my button pushing in a different order, all while making growling noises. Eventually, I blow a fuse and the internet stops working and the blender won't stop blending and my bon-bons melt and I give up.
Every once in a while though, I get lucky and then I do a happy dance. Sometimes the French subtitles come on and I can't get them off though.
Another example of the difference between men and women is decorating. I tend to put wayyyyyyy too many holes in the walls when hanging stuff and so Mike, the naive little man that he is, brought me home a level as a gift. Lest you think I wouldn't appreciate a gift like that instead of flowers, be not afraid for his life. I much prefer a practical gift anyway. But I kind of dashed his hopes when I listened politely to his spiel about how it works and how I would never hang a curtain rod or a coat rack or a picture in the wrong spot again, because I could find a stud on the first try. He's missing the point, isn't he, girls? If the stud isn't where I want it to be, I won't hang it there. I don't care if there's a stud two mere centimeters to the left, because two centimeters to the left is TOTALLY not where I want it! It won't be symmetrical or pleasing to the eye or evenly spaced or decoratively sublime! My art cannot be dictated by a level. Pshaw.
Which is why all my curtains rods pull out of their studless walls and there are nail holes everywhere, but that's entirely beside the point.
There are more differences, but we'll delve into those later. You got any for me?
Adult DVDs.
We just wanted to differentiate between the kid's Veggie Tales and Disney and Barbie movies, and our sad collection of '80s flicks, romantic comedies, and Die Hards 1-4. But of course, that's not what it looked like, and the movers kept snorting back their laughter every time they walked by me.
Anyhoo.
The difference between men and women, at least in my opinion, are as follows:
Men are hard wired to know technology. Probably some woman are too, but I haven't met them. Here is an example for the times the television needs to switch over from the Xbox: if Mike is home, lickety split! it's done. Ta da. Wham bam, thank you, ma'am. Er, sir. There is no muttering, no under the breath cursing, no slamming shut of the entertainment center cupboard. When I have to make the switch (so that I can watch Downton Abbey and eat bon-bons) here is what happens:
I start randomly changing channels. Then I hit the Source button three or four times. Then I change the channels on the VCR. Then I do all these simultaneously. Then I repeat, but I push the buttons harder. Then I call Mike at work. He says to unplug the hdmi cable from the whoesywhatsit and make sure the audio cord is in the yellow outlet and detach the Linksey from the router while on the Imput menu screen.
'You're really cute,' I say. 'But I don't know what you're saying. It's like you're trying to communicate with me, but all I hear is static, peppered with Man Speak.'
So then I repeat all my button pushing in a different order, all while making growling noises. Eventually, I blow a fuse and the internet stops working and the blender won't stop blending and my bon-bons melt and I give up.
Every once in a while though, I get lucky and then I do a happy dance. Sometimes the French subtitles come on and I can't get them off though.
Another example of the difference between men and women is decorating. I tend to put wayyyyyyy too many holes in the walls when hanging stuff and so Mike, the naive little man that he is, brought me home a level as a gift. Lest you think I wouldn't appreciate a gift like that instead of flowers, be not afraid for his life. I much prefer a practical gift anyway. But I kind of dashed his hopes when I listened politely to his spiel about how it works and how I would never hang a curtain rod or a coat rack or a picture in the wrong spot again, because I could find a stud on the first try. He's missing the point, isn't he, girls? If the stud isn't where I want it to be, I won't hang it there. I don't care if there's a stud two mere centimeters to the left, because two centimeters to the left is TOTALLY not where I want it! It won't be symmetrical or pleasing to the eye or evenly spaced or decoratively sublime! My art cannot be dictated by a level. Pshaw.
Which is why all my curtains rods pull out of their studless walls and there are nail holes everywhere, but that's entirely beside the point.
There are more differences, but we'll delve into those later. You got any for me?
May 9, 2012
The difference between the sexes
The difference between boys and girls is a lot of difference.
They're just different breeds.
They think differently.
Some may say boys don't think at all.
I think they do, but search me if I know what it is they think about. Not health food, hygiene, or manners, certainly.
I've collected a couple of examples for you, just from my house (and lest we forget, I have been Mom to seven teenage boys as well, so I know whereof I speak):
Cora's first drawing was of a stick horse. Anna's was of two stick people (me and her). Gianni's was a stick person too! I asked what the stick boy was doing. He's peeing on the ground. Ah. But of course. Logical.
Girls eat their food like human beings. Boys eat into the shape of a gun and then blow your head off.
Girls have a buddy system whenever they go to the little girl's room. Well, my boy doesn't give me any privacy either, but once he got bored waiting for me to empty my bladder. Finally, he exclaimed, this would go a lot faster if you had a hot dog!* Sorry to keep you, twerp; don't you have a piece of toast that would make a nice Glock?
When girls fall down and hurt themselves, they cry. Boys get up and punch whatever tripped them and yell, "stupid table!"
Girls play My Little Ponies and Littlest Pet Shops. Boys play kill shots and practice their own death scenes one million times a day. Gianni has his down to an art form. There's twitching, leg spasms, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth, protruding tongues (well, tongue), and final words of wisdom (such as "My cousin Herb drives a bus almost everyday!" If you don't know the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you. If you do own the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you).
Girls like to snuggle and hug and kiss and hold hands and pat your head and stroke your hair and scratch your back. This is my night time conversation with Moose a few days ago:
Me: goodnight! sleep tight! don't let the bed bugs bite! i love you to the moon and back! smoochy smoochy my sweet babykins!
Him: stop kissing me, it's gross.
Me: I'll kiss you whenever I want, mister! now give me some more! (attack him with my full body weight and plant a big wet one on him).
Him: STOP IT! I'm wiping this off!
Me: You can't wipe off Mother's kisses. It's impossible. They don't wipe off for 100 years.
Him: WHAT???? That's not funny!
Me: Sorry, dude. There's nothing I can do.
Him: I'm shooting it off with my laser beam!
Me: Nope.
Him: My sniper battleship is shooting torpedoes at it!
Me: Negative, ghost rider.
At this point, he is choking back tears.
Him, weakly: I put a force field around it.
Me: My kisses can get through your force field, chikadee.
Him: I really hate bedtime.
The end.
* I'm not a anatomically correct kind of parent. I use baby talk. Even in a room full of adults.
They're just different breeds.
They think differently.
Some may say boys don't think at all.
I think they do, but search me if I know what it is they think about. Not health food, hygiene, or manners, certainly.
I've collected a couple of examples for you, just from my house (and lest we forget, I have been Mom to seven teenage boys as well, so I know whereof I speak):
Cora's first drawing was of a stick horse. Anna's was of two stick people (me and her). Gianni's was a stick person too! I asked what the stick boy was doing. He's peeing on the ground. Ah. But of course. Logical.
Girls eat their food like human beings. Boys eat into the shape of a gun and then blow your head off.
Girls have a buddy system whenever they go to the little girl's room. Well, my boy doesn't give me any privacy either, but once he got bored waiting for me to empty my bladder. Finally, he exclaimed, this would go a lot faster if you had a hot dog!* Sorry to keep you, twerp; don't you have a piece of toast that would make a nice Glock?
When girls fall down and hurt themselves, they cry. Boys get up and punch whatever tripped them and yell, "stupid table!"
Girls play My Little Ponies and Littlest Pet Shops. Boys play kill shots and practice their own death scenes one million times a day. Gianni has his down to an art form. There's twitching, leg spasms, gasping for air, foaming at the mouth, protruding tongues (well, tongue), and final words of wisdom (such as "My cousin Herb drives a bus almost everyday!" If you don't know the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you. If you do own the pigeon books, this won't make any sense to you).
Girls like to snuggle and hug and kiss and hold hands and pat your head and stroke your hair and scratch your back. This is my night time conversation with Moose a few days ago:
Me: goodnight! sleep tight! don't let the bed bugs bite! i love you to the moon and back! smoochy smoochy my sweet babykins!
Him: stop kissing me, it's gross.
Me: I'll kiss you whenever I want, mister! now give me some more! (attack him with my full body weight and plant a big wet one on him).
Him: STOP IT! I'm wiping this off!
Me: You can't wipe off Mother's kisses. It's impossible. They don't wipe off for 100 years.
Him: WHAT???? That's not funny!
Me: Sorry, dude. There's nothing I can do.
Him: I'm shooting it off with my laser beam!
Me: Nope.
Him: My sniper battleship is shooting torpedoes at it!
Me: Negative, ghost rider.
At this point, he is choking back tears.
Him, weakly: I put a force field around it.
Me: My kisses can get through your force field, chikadee.
Him: I really hate bedtime.
The end.
* I'm not a anatomically correct kind of parent. I use baby talk. Even in a room full of adults.
May 5, 2012
Dad
Happy birthday, Papa.
We love you so much, we'd like to eat your face.
Or have tea parties with you.
Sorry about that time we went all Godfather on you.
And buried you alive in small children as you rested your weary bones on the hammock.
And the pink hat. It really made your eyes pop though.
We know you're going to enjoy being 29.
We mailed your Bloody Mary Asparagus and pickled jalapenos the other day and hope they arrive at your doorstep in one piece and not in a soggy box. They're tasty. Promise. There's a blank check in there, too - you just fill in the amount! I hope I remembered to put it in. Well, it's the thought that counts, I 'spect.
Thanks for being Papa to all these chitlins, Dad to every friend I've ever had, and Daddy to me.
Happy Cinco de Dave-o!
We love you so much, we'd like to eat your face.
Or have tea parties with you.
Sorry about that time we went all Godfather on you.
And buried you alive in small children as you rested your weary bones on the hammock.
And the pink hat. It really made your eyes pop though.
We know you're going to enjoy being 29.
We mailed your Bloody Mary Asparagus and pickled jalapenos the other day and hope they arrive at your doorstep in one piece and not in a soggy box. They're tasty. Promise. There's a blank check in there, too - you just fill in the amount! I hope I remembered to put it in. Well, it's the thought that counts, I 'spect.
Thanks for being Papa to all these chitlins, Dad to every friend I've ever had, and Daddy to me.
Happy Cinco de Dave-o!
May 3, 2012
'Fessions
I have vacuumed up Legos, hair bands, twist ties, stickers, jewelry, and coins instead of picking them up.
I will load up sixty-eleven grocery bags up and down my arms, shout at small children to get out of the way, knock my funny bone on the van, be unable to close the hatch back, press the garage door button with my nose, and give myself a hernia all to save another trip to the garage. Which I will have to make anyway to close the hatchback. I will do it again next week.
I don't like massages. They either hurt like heck or tickle. Both make me tense with anticipation and I will leave in more knots than I came in with. Also, I like ending sentences with a preposition. This is a good girl's form of rebellion.
I don't like shoe sales-people who kneel in front of me. It makes me feel preposterous and snotty. I tell them to get up and quit being silly; I'm quite capable of trying on my own shoes. Then they feel sad and lost. So I tell them to sit down by me and we admire our feet together. I bemoan my hobbit feet. Then I buy them a coffee.
If the cheese molds, I cut off the moldy part and don't tell anyone and serve it anyway. This also goes for jam. And pretty much anything else.
I make my kids make their beds but I don't always make mine.
I'd rather have a clean house than a good homeschooling day. Don't judge.
I've decided I will never, ever, ever learn the 7s and 8s in the times tables without having to count backwards or forwards from 7x7=49 so one more 7 must be 56 so therefore... etc. I have decided to be okay with this. I will also never, ever, ever learn which planet revolves the sun or vice versa. All I know is 7x7=49 and Pluto is no longer a planet.
I would rather go to a bookstore than a spa.
I would rather go to a library than a bar.
I would rather go to a yard sale than the mall.
I hate buying toilet paper. Seriously hate it. It's such a waste. HAHAHAHA! Get it? A waste? I slay myself.
My dream house is a converted barn.
I don't want to do the converting part though. I want to buy it fully furnished and ready for me to live in. I'll bring my coffee, my owl socks, and my Kindle, and I'll pretty much be set.
If my kid's clothes are cute and clean I don't worry about their hair being combed. If their hair is cute and clean I don't worry about what they're wearing. I adopted this motto early on with my kids and it's just a general rule of thumb now.
I don't brush my teeth before bed every night. This started when I was pregnant with G. I was way too tired to do anything extra (i.e. anything at all other than pee) before dropping into bed at night. Plus, I had horrible indigestion all night long for nine months so I was poppin' Tums like they were going out of style. All night. I just knew I'd have cavities once he was born (even though I have never, ever had one). But I didn't. So I sorta thought, why was I doing all that extra work for thirty years? Don't judge. I'm seriously afraid of running into you now because I worry you will be squinting at my chompers.
I don't make my kids wash their hands after every single potty trip. And I've never used the tissue paper dispenser that's meant for gift wrapping the toilets.
I know I'm supposed to enjoy letting small humans bake with me, but if I'm really honest, I prefer to do the measuring and beating and scraping myself and then deliver the beaters to them. Cooking though, is different. They can chop and stir.
I had to borrow nine crumply dollar bills from my middler in order to put some gas in the car. It was embarrassing. Luckily, she knows nothing about the concept of interest. If she complains, I plan to share the gory details of how she was born.
I only recycle if I run out of room in the trash. Shhh.
I don't think my kid's know our address. This is probably important info they should ideally know, eh? Yeah. I should get on that. What if they decide to take the city bus? Oh wait. We don't have a city bus. And if we did, they wouldn't take it. Cuz they could be kidnapped by bus drivers.
I had a magazine article go viral. I've always wanted to say that. Always, since, like, two days ago. It was shared over 3,400 times on Facebook alone. I find it funny because that article took less than an hour to write. This blog has taken me four years to write and my novel took six months, and they don't get nearly that kinda lovin'. The only logical explanation is for me to put a lot less effort into everything I love.
I'm not sure it's possible to put less effort into my hair, but I'll try. I've been going for the bohemian, braided, messy bun, twirly thing, but I think I might look homeless. One of my ballerinas asked me if I had a bad morning and didn't have time to comb my hair. I made her do extra echappes.
I will load up sixty-eleven grocery bags up and down my arms, shout at small children to get out of the way, knock my funny bone on the van, be unable to close the hatch back, press the garage door button with my nose, and give myself a hernia all to save another trip to the garage. Which I will have to make anyway to close the hatchback. I will do it again next week.
I don't like massages. They either hurt like heck or tickle. Both make me tense with anticipation and I will leave in more knots than I came in with. Also, I like ending sentences with a preposition. This is a good girl's form of rebellion.
I don't like shoe sales-people who kneel in front of me. It makes me feel preposterous and snotty. I tell them to get up and quit being silly; I'm quite capable of trying on my own shoes. Then they feel sad and lost. So I tell them to sit down by me and we admire our feet together. I bemoan my hobbit feet. Then I buy them a coffee.
If the cheese molds, I cut off the moldy part and don't tell anyone and serve it anyway. This also goes for jam. And pretty much anything else.
I make my kids make their beds but I don't always make mine.
I'd rather have a clean house than a good homeschooling day. Don't judge.
I've decided I will never, ever, ever learn the 7s and 8s in the times tables without having to count backwards or forwards from 7x7=49 so one more 7 must be 56 so therefore... etc. I have decided to be okay with this. I will also never, ever, ever learn which planet revolves the sun or vice versa. All I know is 7x7=49 and Pluto is no longer a planet.
I would rather go to a bookstore than a spa.
I would rather go to a library than a bar.
I would rather go to a yard sale than the mall.
I hate buying toilet paper. Seriously hate it. It's such a waste. HAHAHAHA! Get it? A waste? I slay myself.
My dream house is a converted barn.
I don't want to do the converting part though. I want to buy it fully furnished and ready for me to live in. I'll bring my coffee, my owl socks, and my Kindle, and I'll pretty much be set.
If my kid's clothes are cute and clean I don't worry about their hair being combed. If their hair is cute and clean I don't worry about what they're wearing. I adopted this motto early on with my kids and it's just a general rule of thumb now.
I don't brush my teeth before bed every night. This started when I was pregnant with G. I was way too tired to do anything extra (i.e. anything at all other than pee) before dropping into bed at night. Plus, I had horrible indigestion all night long for nine months so I was poppin' Tums like they were going out of style. All night. I just knew I'd have cavities once he was born (even though I have never, ever had one). But I didn't. So I sorta thought, why was I doing all that extra work for thirty years? Don't judge. I'm seriously afraid of running into you now because I worry you will be squinting at my chompers.
I don't make my kids wash their hands after every single potty trip. And I've never used the tissue paper dispenser that's meant for gift wrapping the toilets.
I know I'm supposed to enjoy letting small humans bake with me, but if I'm really honest, I prefer to do the measuring and beating and scraping myself and then deliver the beaters to them. Cooking though, is different. They can chop and stir.
I had to borrow nine crumply dollar bills from my middler in order to put some gas in the car. It was embarrassing. Luckily, she knows nothing about the concept of interest. If she complains, I plan to share the gory details of how she was born.
I only recycle if I run out of room in the trash. Shhh.
I don't think my kid's know our address. This is probably important info they should ideally know, eh? Yeah. I should get on that. What if they decide to take the city bus? Oh wait. We don't have a city bus. And if we did, they wouldn't take it. Cuz they could be kidnapped by bus drivers.
I had a magazine article go viral. I've always wanted to say that. Always, since, like, two days ago. It was shared over 3,400 times on Facebook alone. I find it funny because that article took less than an hour to write. This blog has taken me four years to write and my novel took six months, and they don't get nearly that kinda lovin'. The only logical explanation is for me to put a lot less effort into everything I love.
I'm not sure it's possible to put less effort into my hair, but I'll try. I've been going for the bohemian, braided, messy bun, twirly thing, but I think I might look homeless. One of my ballerinas asked me if I had a bad morning and didn't have time to comb my hair. I made her do extra echappes.
May 1, 2012
Grocery List
Sometimes, when it's the end of the month, I go to write a grocery list.
About six trillion items in, I realize it would be easier, less time consuming, and more "green" of me, to write one for what we don't need.
(Not) To Buy:
onions
pickles
The End.
About six trillion items in, I realize it would be easier, less time consuming, and more "green" of me, to write one for what we don't need.
(Not) To Buy:
onions
pickles
The End.
April 26, 2012
How Did We Get Here?
The title alone makes me think of that Talking Heads song, Letting the Days Go By...
One of many songs that I cheerfully sing incorrectly every single time.
Anyhoo, Self, how did I get here? Or more to the point, how did you get there? Well, I'll tell you. By the way, have you noticed that I'm only indenting one space between sentences now? One of my magazine editors smacked me upside the head and reminded me that this 2012, not 1912, and if I didn't stop indenting three spaces she was going to kill me. Not really on the death threat. But I tried explaining to her that I taught myself to type at the age of eleven (back in 1912) from an extremely old, antique, how-to manual for secretaries. Today, we'd call them Executive Assistants, but like I said, this was a very old manual. Anyway, old habits are hard to break. I don't indent to begin a new paragraph anymore; I think that's something.
See? Even though I want to do it like this:
See?
But letting go of Talking Heads and secretaries, I was going to tell you how a lot of people find this blog. My stats can be amusing. Here are a few of the words people googled and were directed here instead:
she has juvenile bunions.
Hmm. Are these worse than senior bunions? Less experienced bunions? Why bunions at all? Evidently, they plague America and America must google. Weirdly enough, this sentence is one of the TOP referring sentences of all time on this blog. We're talking, like, 40 people googled this and came here.
fondant preacher. I don't even know what to say. I have never seen a preacher made of fondant. It seems wrong to eat your minister somehow.
jami gertz. Ah, I love her too, but if you clicked here thinking you'd find her moonlighting as a blogger, you'll be disappointed. I did mention her once, during a starry eyed memory of one of my favorite movies, The Lost Boys...how much do I love that whole cast? Great. Now I'm going to cry over Corey Haim again. Just when I think I'm over it...
analeigh tipton hung. Also analeigh tipton feet. Both are disturbing. Please do not plot to hang her or feel the need to ogle her feet. This is a family blog.
There have been other odd and strange referring words, but I hope you all found what you were looking for when you came, and decided to stick around.
Also, one of my biggest referring sites is http://gothise.com/ which I had never heard of, but makes me feel very rocker chick, indie, bad#$% somehow. Alternative people love me! Aw, shucks. Maybe it's them who are looking for relief for their juvenile bunions? We may never know. They're a secretive bunch.
However you got here, thanks for coming and keep it up.
