Thursday, March 23, 2006
Philosophy and Hair Removal
The Pessimist: What's this? Dang! I forgot to shave my right leg.
The Optimist: Hey, but the left one is verrrrry smooth.
The Theorist: Hmmm, maybe I shaved the left one twice?
The Realist: Holy Crap! I was supposed to be at school five minutes ago!
Peace (if there is such to be had in this legs-are-half-shaved kind of world)
The Optimist: Hey, but the left one is verrrrry smooth.
The Theorist: Hmmm, maybe I shaved the left one twice?
The Realist: Holy Crap! I was supposed to be at school five minutes ago!
Peace (if there is such to be had in this legs-are-half-shaved kind of world)
10K
I forgot to brag on myself. This past Saturday I ran my first 10K EVER! VBGF was in town to work on her National Teacher Certification and train with me. And we did it. In fact we did a total of 6.5 miles. It was slow (as in your granny could walk faster than I can run) but I. don't. care. I did it! I ran a 10K. I have only five weeks to tack on the rest of the mileage for the half marathon. (eeeeek) I refuse to worry about that part though. I'm going to save all my worry energy and use it to run. (riiiiiight) That's my plan. More running news later.
Peace.
Peace.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Be Vewy, Vewy Quiet
Shhhhhh. He fell asleep. He fell asleep almost mid-bark. The barks had been starting to dribble off when I heard a weird, growly yawn. I tiptoed out of my studio and saw him splayed out on the tile. Asleep.
Who knew dogs could snore like that?? Not that I'm complaining. Snoring is sooooo much better than barkety, bark, bark, barking!
Peace (oh, and blissful quiet, at long, long last!)
Who knew dogs could snore like that?? Not that I'm complaining. Snoring is sooooo much better than barkety, bark, bark, barking!
Peace (oh, and blissful quiet, at long, long last!)
Barking Spree
My dog has been happily, joyfully barking for THREE SOLID HOURS.Do you hear me? Not three minutes.
Three hours! 3 hrs! 180 minutes!
I have hushed and shushed and scolded and fussed. I have put him in doggy time out in his crate.
Guess what? He can still bark from there!
I have put him out in the courtyard.
Guess what? He can still bark from there, too!
No matter where I put him, he can still bark and I can still hear him. In fact, it's WORSE when I lock him up because he barks and whines at the same time. I have given him a new bone but he barks at the bone. Nonstop. He barks at the bone without chewing on it. I tried playing with him, running around the house. He just runs around and barks at me. Nonstop.
I have thought about calling the vet. No, seriously. It sounds like my dog's barking button got stuck in the on position. It's not like he's staring furiously out the window barking at squirrels or intruders. If only. Then I could go chase the intruders and squirrels away! I am about to lose (what little there is left of) my mind!
There are so many things I didn't know about dogs!
Who knew dogs could get poopy, thow-uppy stomach viruses too??
Who knew dogs could bark for (now more than) three hours straight??
Who knew dogs could cause binge drinking in their humans??
VBGF - if you want your goddog to survive the day - you might need to come back and play with him the way you did this weekend. It is the only thing I can think of (that the ASPCA wouldn't object to) that might shut him up.
Peace (and quiet - oh please, please, please I'm begging for some peace and quiet.)
Paragon of Motherhood
This from St. Ann (since the Lilymania Locals are not yet back up to snuff) -
A license plate on a shiny, new SUV in the city traffic says "MODLMOM". Cindy Crawford? Brooke Shields? St. Ann pulls up alongside. No, clearly this mom has never been on the runway or in Glamour magazine. Perhaps her license plate indicates that this mother thinks that we should all drive oversized, gas-guzzling vehicles to run errands while talking on our cell phones and ignoring, I mean entertaining, our two children in the back with the pull-down dvd player? The only thing more grotesquely American that I can think of to add to this scenario would be if this car had been in a fast food drive-thru lane!
I never claimed that what I do to the best of my ability as a mom is what other mothers should do, so I'm not exactly casting stones here. I'm merely picking up the ones that were thrown my direction and hurling them back from whence they came. (Gosh I wish I could ding her paint job from here!)
Peace (well to everyone except that righeous bitch "MODLMOM" in Philly traffic - to her I'm not feeling so charitable.)
A license plate on a shiny, new SUV in the city traffic says "MODLMOM". Cindy Crawford? Brooke Shields? St. Ann pulls up alongside. No, clearly this mom has never been on the runway or in Glamour magazine. Perhaps her license plate indicates that this mother thinks that we should all drive oversized, gas-guzzling vehicles to run errands while talking on our cell phones and ignoring, I mean entertaining, our two children in the back with the pull-down dvd player? The only thing more grotesquely American that I can think of to add to this scenario would be if this car had been in a fast food drive-thru lane!
I never claimed that what I do to the best of my ability as a mom is what other mothers should do, so I'm not exactly casting stones here. I'm merely picking up the ones that were thrown my direction and hurling them back from whence they came. (Gosh I wish I could ding her paint job from here!)
Peace (well to everyone except that righeous bitch "MODLMOM" in Philly traffic - to her I'm not feeling so charitable.)
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Bubonic Mnemonic
Sounds like....SICK
Looks like...ICK
Guess how many of my middle schoolers were in school today?
(None)
Guess how many of my elementary schoolers had to be picked up in the middle of the day for throwing up at school?
(Two)
Guess how many healthy children that leaves me?
(One, I hope! That's the answer I'm going with until I get a THIRD call today.)
I'm thinking about stocking up on some (more) Lysol and also about buying some stock IN Lysol. 'Cause seriously? I think I'm keeping the ole Lysol Corp. in business single-handedly this week. I've done everything except hose the actual children off. (That's not allowed, right? Not even a light dusting, right?)
Peace.
Looks like...ICK
Guess how many of my middle schoolers were in school today?
(None)
Guess how many of my elementary schoolers had to be picked up in the middle of the day for throwing up at school?
(Two)
Guess how many healthy children that leaves me?
(One, I hope! That's the answer I'm going with until I get a THIRD call today.)
I'm thinking about stocking up on some (more) Lysol and also about buying some stock IN Lysol. 'Cause seriously? I think I'm keeping the ole Lysol Corp. in business single-handedly this week. I've done everything except hose the actual children off. (That's not allowed, right? Not even a light dusting, right?)
Peace.
Wonder Dog
My dog makes me wonder.
Q: Why does my dog spend an inordinate amount of time digging a hole, dropping a bone in, and covering it up only to dig it back up 30 seconds later?
A: Because he's a dog.
Q: Why does my dog bring me the ball to throw and then not let go of it so I can throw it?
A: Because he's a dog.
Q: Why does my dog chew on bricks?
A: Because he's a dog.
Q: Why does my dog growl at the bone he's chewing on?
A: Because he's a dog.
Q: Why does my dog's uber-dogness perplex me?
A: Because I'm a cat person.
Peace.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Dinner With a Thirteen-Year Old
Just when I want to pinch his head off
- *for talking back to me when I ask him to leave his mp3 player in the car
- *for glaring at me when I ask him to stop reading his book at the table during family time
- *for thinking I'm unreasonable that I make him stop stabbing his food with a mangled paper clip
He
- *says a genuine and unprompted thank you for dinner
- *gives me a hug
- *rushes ahead of all of us to open the door for a man with a cane
Roller coasters ain't got nuthin' on us!!!
Peace.
Chronicles of the Religiously Challenged
Thinking about Havoc's Career Day last year reminded me I had sent my father (=provider of all mythology books) a recap of that day. I wasn't blogging then so I searched through all that old-fashioned stuff (email and gasp, paper!) and found this to share with you (with names changed to protect the innocent or um, yeah, more to fit in with the way I write my blog today) :
5/12/2005
Today is career dress up day – and Havoc is dressed up as a Mythology Teacher. He’s wearing jeans, penny loafers, a white oxford, tie, blue blazer and he has a pen in his pocket and four books in his hands: Read Along Celtic Myths and Legends, Greek Myths, Norse Myths, and the King James Bible. (I have to figure out how gently and stealthily to keep the Bible at home. Nothing like begging to be called in for a parent-teacher conference!) Havoc has proclaimed about ten times that he looks REALLY handsome. The whole family has agreed. He is VERY excited to go to school. His career choice sparked an interesting breakfast discussion:
Havoc asked what other gods there were in Christian mythology besides God.
I said,”Well Jesus and the Holy Spirit – but they’re all part of God – so there’s just one.”
“Only one?” he asked incredulously. “But all the other mythologies have lots and lots.”
I said, “Yes and that’s the thing. Not only is there only one God in Christian mythology (around here we should call that Christianity by the way) – but Christians believe that their God is the only one anywhere.”
Havoc said, “But he’s not. There’s Loki, and Zeus, and Odin, and Ra. How can they believe there’s only one?”
I tried to explain that Christians don’t think those were/are gods. Havoc said that that was ridiculous (his word) because some people can’t just say that other people’s gods aren’t gods. Then he demanded to know if we were Christians. (Ummm - this from a boy who goes to a Church of Christ with his father and the Episcopal Church with his mother?) I said that not all Christians were that exclusive – and so that I thought of myself as sort of Christian even though I respected others' gods. Sweet Hubby said he wasn’t Christian.
And Havoc said, “You’re Martian, right?” SH loved it. He gave Havoc a big hug and kiss and said, “Yes, I am a Martian.” *Side note to my lovely internets - the Martian thing is a long running family joke and is NOT to be confused with any earlier-in-the-week references to aliens of the putrid, pulsing scum variety.*
I told Havoc that whether he was a Christian was up to him and that I thought it was really important for him to decide and not to let other people tell him what to believe. It was up to him to decide what he was. He said that today he was really handsome. And then he went upstairs to play video games.
And THAT reminded me of an article I wrote four years ago (when Mayhem was the age that Havoc is now and Havoc was just a baby). I contributed articles from a Christian perspective for a friend's pagan newsletter. This is what I wrote (again, edited slightly with updates and such):
2/6/2002
This article is being brought to you LIVE from the National Christian Educator’s Conference which is being held in New Orleans, Louisiana. You may be (laughing and) asking yourself why a very sincere group of women (whose average age is officially “older than dirt”) thought that New Orleans (a city known for booze, breast-baring, and ahem, “alternative spiritual practices”) would be a good place to meet and discuss better ways to raise children to the Christian faith. I have yet to find the answer to that question. In fact, I have a whole slew of questions that I don’t think are going to be answered by workshops on “Professional Development for Christian Educators” or “Working with Liturgical Committees”. Looks like I picked the wrong conference. Rats.
What I am looking for is some guidance on the spiritual formation of young people. Specifically, I need advice on how to raise my children to be Christians. And as much as I love the Pagan community – they are not much help on this topic. Most Pagan parents in America face the huge challenge of raising their children not to be Christian. Especially in the South, some Pagan parents quietly wonder if Christianity isn’t in the water (like fluoride) because someone along the way decided it was good for everyone. Osmosis and peer pressure often sink Christian tendrils into even the earthiest of Pagan children. As Murphy would have it, my children apparently are immune to both spiritual osmosis and religious peer pressure. And this is a problem.
You see, we are a blended family. Very blended. Our exes (one of whom is an ex-Pagan, now Catholic and the other of whom is an ex-Catholic, now atheist (*<--update: this one was a Catholic, an atheist, then a Church of Christer and NOW is a Catholic again) both feel very strongly about raising the children as Christians. And we all feel strongly about raising our children to be thoughtful and tolerant. The plan seemed simple. America provides all the Christianity a body could need, we simply add a dash of our world view, and voila – loving, spiritual children (somewhat Christian but not rabidly so) and happy exes. A year into this delightful experiment and the plan is unraveling!
At first, I think my six-year old stepdaughter (*aka Ninja Princessa) will be the easy one. She is sweet, smart, listens respectfully, and (bonus) already considers herself to be a Christian. No problem. Just keep up the good work, eh? She is the only child I trust to say an appropriate blessing at the table when company is over. “Let us pray,” she says in her most reverent voice. After an elbow in the ribs to her brother who forgot to put his hands together, she continues solemnly, “Buddha, Buddha. Thanks for the food-a.” Later she informs me that no one should have laughed. She explains that she is a Christian Buddhist Native American and that everyone was disrespectful.
My oldest child (*aka Chaos) may or may not be Christian. I do not know. He refuses to talk about it. He will sit in contemplative prayer silently with my mother for up to an hour (which, since he’s nine, qualifies as a miracle). But he says very little about what matters spiritually to him. When taken to church, he trembles before God. Literally. He shakes. I do not know why this is so. I have been next to him for every minute he has ever been in a church – and I will swear that nothing outwardly traumatic has happened to him. Well, there was that time at the communion rail where not only did he not want the priest to give him communion, but he didn’t even want the priest to see him. So he ran behind me, lifted up my skirt, and hid underneath my dress (exposing my backside to the entire congregation in the process.) However, I’m pretty sure that that was more traumatic for me than for him.
My middle son (*aka Havoc) loves church. He loves communion. “Mom, look! I have GOD in my mouth!” And later, “Can I have seconds?” This child is sad when Sunday school is over. He shows me the prayer card he has made; he sings the new hymn he learned; he tells me he wants to be a priest. Then on the way home he asks, “Hey mom. Is it okay if I believe in Zeus instead of God?” “What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if he has asked his Sunday school teacher this same question. “Well, you know how God is Jesus’ father?” “Yes,” I answer carefully. “You see, Zeus is Hercules’ father,” he explains “And Hercules is WAY cooler than Jesus – so I just thought I’d believe in Zeus instead.” “I thought you wanted to be a priest.” I remind him. “Can’t I be a priest of Zeus? They used to do that you know. Are we Greek? Maybe my great-great-great-great-GREAT grandfather was Greek and then it would be ok. Or maybe we could MOVE to Greek. How ‘bout that, Mom? Except I really want to live in China. Think Zeus would mind if I was a Greek priest in China?” You can see that theological discussions at our house are rather circuitous. Getting back on track a little I try telling him that Zeus was a god of the ancient Greeks and that it wasn’t quite the way the cartoon movies portray life back then. “Mom, I just want to believe in Zeus anyway. Not God.” “Why is that exactly?” I press him. “Hercules had a sword, Mom, and Jesus didn’t. And I like swords. I really like swords.” I talk to him about the miracles Jesus performed without a sword. He’s not impressed. In fact, he’s not listening. He wants to know what’s for lunch. At bedtime, he prays “Dear God… I mean, Zeus….”
My last little guy (*aka Mayhem) is only three. And he, too, likes Sunday school, but it doesn’t count because all they do is play with toys while “Christian Children’s Music” plays in the background. He also loves to take his turn saying the blessing (when we don’t have company.) He looks angelic. “Hold hands, please,” he instructs with a smile. He bows his little blond head. “Lettuce, grapes, amen” he chants rather mysteriously. My mother offers her theory. “He’s probably heard everyone say ‘Let us pray’ and ‘Grace’ and he’s mimicking that.” This explanation worked for me until he began to add “forks” to the list.
The more I think about it, the more I really don’t want my children to be “saved”. I think they are doing fine. They know that there is a good and loving force out there that is bigger than they can imagine – and yet they seem determined to make a personal connection with that divine force in their own unique ways. God is mysterious and religion is strange. I’ve found some peace about all this, here in New Orleans even without attending any of the optional focus groups. I think maybe I’ll send my ex to next year’s conference – it’s in Kansas.
And that, my dear internets, is a little (ok, more than a little - a lot, probably even whole gobs too much) back story on that crazy little thing called religion in our household. I think we've been holding pretty steady for a while. Of course that all may change soon. My ex called last night and said he's signed the older boys up for their first communion in the Catholic church next month. I'll let you know how THAT goes. If it happens. If my ex doesn't convert to Islam before then.
Peace.
5/12/2005
Today is career dress up day – and Havoc is dressed up as a Mythology Teacher. He’s wearing jeans, penny loafers, a white oxford, tie, blue blazer and he has a pen in his pocket and four books in his hands: Read Along Celtic Myths and Legends, Greek Myths, Norse Myths, and the King James Bible. (I have to figure out how gently and stealthily to keep the Bible at home. Nothing like begging to be called in for a parent-teacher conference!) Havoc has proclaimed about ten times that he looks REALLY handsome. The whole family has agreed. He is VERY excited to go to school. His career choice sparked an interesting breakfast discussion:
Havoc asked what other gods there were in Christian mythology besides God.
I said,”Well Jesus and the Holy Spirit – but they’re all part of God – so there’s just one.”
“Only one?” he asked incredulously. “But all the other mythologies have lots and lots.”
I said, “Yes and that’s the thing. Not only is there only one God in Christian mythology (around here we should call that Christianity by the way) – but Christians believe that their God is the only one anywhere.”
Havoc said, “But he’s not. There’s Loki, and Zeus, and Odin, and Ra. How can they believe there’s only one?”
I tried to explain that Christians don’t think those were/are gods. Havoc said that that was ridiculous (his word) because some people can’t just say that other people’s gods aren’t gods. Then he demanded to know if we were Christians. (Ummm - this from a boy who goes to a Church of Christ with his father and the Episcopal Church with his mother?) I said that not all Christians were that exclusive – and so that I thought of myself as sort of Christian even though I respected others' gods. Sweet Hubby said he wasn’t Christian.
And Havoc said, “You’re Martian, right?” SH loved it. He gave Havoc a big hug and kiss and said, “Yes, I am a Martian.” *Side note to my lovely internets - the Martian thing is a long running family joke and is NOT to be confused with any earlier-in-the-week references to aliens of the putrid, pulsing scum variety.*
I told Havoc that whether he was a Christian was up to him and that I thought it was really important for him to decide and not to let other people tell him what to believe. It was up to him to decide what he was. He said that today he was really handsome. And then he went upstairs to play video games.
And THAT reminded me of an article I wrote four years ago (when Mayhem was the age that Havoc is now and Havoc was just a baby). I contributed articles from a Christian perspective for a friend's pagan newsletter. This is what I wrote (again, edited slightly with updates and such):
2/6/2002
This article is being brought to you LIVE from the National Christian Educator’s Conference which is being held in New Orleans, Louisiana. You may be (laughing and) asking yourself why a very sincere group of women (whose average age is officially “older than dirt”) thought that New Orleans (a city known for booze, breast-baring, and ahem, “alternative spiritual practices”) would be a good place to meet and discuss better ways to raise children to the Christian faith. I have yet to find the answer to that question. In fact, I have a whole slew of questions that I don’t think are going to be answered by workshops on “Professional Development for Christian Educators” or “Working with Liturgical Committees”. Looks like I picked the wrong conference. Rats.
What I am looking for is some guidance on the spiritual formation of young people. Specifically, I need advice on how to raise my children to be Christians. And as much as I love the Pagan community – they are not much help on this topic. Most Pagan parents in America face the huge challenge of raising their children not to be Christian. Especially in the South, some Pagan parents quietly wonder if Christianity isn’t in the water (like fluoride) because someone along the way decided it was good for everyone. Osmosis and peer pressure often sink Christian tendrils into even the earthiest of Pagan children. As Murphy would have it, my children apparently are immune to both spiritual osmosis and religious peer pressure. And this is a problem.
You see, we are a blended family. Very blended. Our exes (one of whom is an ex-Pagan, now Catholic and the other of whom is an ex-Catholic, now atheist (*<--update: this one was a Catholic, an atheist, then a Church of Christer and NOW is a Catholic again) both feel very strongly about raising the children as Christians. And we all feel strongly about raising our children to be thoughtful and tolerant. The plan seemed simple. America provides all the Christianity a body could need, we simply add a dash of our world view, and voila – loving, spiritual children (somewhat Christian but not rabidly so) and happy exes. A year into this delightful experiment and the plan is unraveling!
At first, I think my six-year old stepdaughter (*aka Ninja Princessa) will be the easy one. She is sweet, smart, listens respectfully, and (bonus) already considers herself to be a Christian. No problem. Just keep up the good work, eh? She is the only child I trust to say an appropriate blessing at the table when company is over. “Let us pray,” she says in her most reverent voice. After an elbow in the ribs to her brother who forgot to put his hands together, she continues solemnly, “Buddha, Buddha. Thanks for the food-a.” Later she informs me that no one should have laughed. She explains that she is a Christian Buddhist Native American and that everyone was disrespectful.
My oldest child (*aka Chaos) may or may not be Christian. I do not know. He refuses to talk about it. He will sit in contemplative prayer silently with my mother for up to an hour (which, since he’s nine, qualifies as a miracle). But he says very little about what matters spiritually to him. When taken to church, he trembles before God. Literally. He shakes. I do not know why this is so. I have been next to him for every minute he has ever been in a church – and I will swear that nothing outwardly traumatic has happened to him. Well, there was that time at the communion rail where not only did he not want the priest to give him communion, but he didn’t even want the priest to see him. So he ran behind me, lifted up my skirt, and hid underneath my dress (exposing my backside to the entire congregation in the process.) However, I’m pretty sure that that was more traumatic for me than for him.
My middle son (*aka Havoc) loves church. He loves communion. “Mom, look! I have GOD in my mouth!” And later, “Can I have seconds?” This child is sad when Sunday school is over. He shows me the prayer card he has made; he sings the new hymn he learned; he tells me he wants to be a priest. Then on the way home he asks, “Hey mom. Is it okay if I believe in Zeus instead of God?” “What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if he has asked his Sunday school teacher this same question. “Well, you know how God is Jesus’ father?” “Yes,” I answer carefully. “You see, Zeus is Hercules’ father,” he explains “And Hercules is WAY cooler than Jesus – so I just thought I’d believe in Zeus instead.” “I thought you wanted to be a priest.” I remind him. “Can’t I be a priest of Zeus? They used to do that you know. Are we Greek? Maybe my great-great-great-great-GREAT grandfather was Greek and then it would be ok. Or maybe we could MOVE to Greek. How ‘bout that, Mom? Except I really want to live in China. Think Zeus would mind if I was a Greek priest in China?” You can see that theological discussions at our house are rather circuitous. Getting back on track a little I try telling him that Zeus was a god of the ancient Greeks and that it wasn’t quite the way the cartoon movies portray life back then. “Mom, I just want to believe in Zeus anyway. Not God.” “Why is that exactly?” I press him. “Hercules had a sword, Mom, and Jesus didn’t. And I like swords. I really like swords.” I talk to him about the miracles Jesus performed without a sword. He’s not impressed. In fact, he’s not listening. He wants to know what’s for lunch. At bedtime, he prays “Dear God… I mean, Zeus….”
My last little guy (*aka Mayhem) is only three. And he, too, likes Sunday school, but it doesn’t count because all they do is play with toys while “Christian Children’s Music” plays in the background. He also loves to take his turn saying the blessing (when we don’t have company.) He looks angelic. “Hold hands, please,” he instructs with a smile. He bows his little blond head. “Lettuce, grapes, amen” he chants rather mysteriously. My mother offers her theory. “He’s probably heard everyone say ‘Let us pray’ and ‘Grace’ and he’s mimicking that.” This explanation worked for me until he began to add “forks” to the list.
The more I think about it, the more I really don’t want my children to be “saved”. I think they are doing fine. They know that there is a good and loving force out there that is bigger than they can imagine – and yet they seem determined to make a personal connection with that divine force in their own unique ways. God is mysterious and religion is strange. I’ve found some peace about all this, here in New Orleans even without attending any of the optional focus groups. I think maybe I’ll send my ex to next year’s conference – it’s in Kansas.
And that, my dear internets, is a little (ok, more than a little - a lot, probably even whole gobs too much) back story on that crazy little thing called religion in our household. I think we've been holding pretty steady for a while. Of course that all may change soon. My ex called last night and said he's signed the older boys up for their first communion in the Catholic church next month. I'll let you know how THAT goes. If it happens. If my ex doesn't convert to Islam before then.
Peace.
My Favorite Question Ever
"Mom, if Polyphemus is the most famous cyclops then who is the second most famous?"
This is the question my (then) Kindergartener asked last spring as he was getting dressed for Career Day at his school. I was reminded of it this morning when I asked him what he was doing. "Drawing a map of Hades," he said. Not that I'm biased or anything, but I have to tell you his map was way better than this one. "Hey, Havoc, do you still want to be a Mythology Teacher when you grow up?" I asked him. "Well duh," he said to me.
Ask a silly question, get a silly answer...
Peace.
*Oh, and we decided that although there wasn't really a scientific way to determine the exact popularity of any given cyclops, the second most famous was probably Telemus. I know you were wondering.
This is the question my (then) Kindergartener asked last spring as he was getting dressed for Career Day at his school. I was reminded of it this morning when I asked him what he was doing. "Drawing a map of Hades," he said. Not that I'm biased or anything, but I have to tell you his map was way better than this one. "Hey, Havoc, do you still want to be a Mythology Teacher when you grow up?" I asked him. "Well duh," he said to me.
Ask a silly question, get a silly answer...
Peace.
*Oh, and we decided that although there wasn't really a scientific way to determine the exact popularity of any given cyclops, the second most famous was probably Telemus. I know you were wondering.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
As Seen on Fox News, Oprah, and ESPN2
You know that spot on NPR, "This I Believe"? I am starting my own bloggery version which shall be called "This Disturbs Me". I could have an entire blog dedicated solely to this theme, but I don't and I won't. I'm waaaay too easily distracted to stick to one theme. Instead, I'll just give you today's entry here, on this plain ole, hodge podge blog. (<--And by today's I actually mean last week's. Chronologically challenged=me.)
This Disturbs Me:
At the pediatrician's office, with my asthmatic and now anemic 11-year old, I was given a sample of this product. I was firstly and foremostly disturbed to be handed a cure for DIAPER RASH considering we have been a diaper free household for over five years**! I pointed this out to the nurse. "Oh it's not just for diaper rash anymore," she said. She pointed to the poster. Sure enough "It's not just for diaper rash anymore" the poster proclaimed. And in an even bigger font the poster said, "AS SEEN ON FOX NEWS, OPRAH, AND ESPN2!" I see. Well, if OPRAH is giving air time to butt paste then... Well, I'm not sure what then, really. But I tucked the sample into my purse. (And promptly forgot about it until today when I was spilling the contents of my purse onto the ledge in front of the bank teller in search of my checkbook. She saw it and gave me a funny look. She gave me a funnier look when (before I could stop myself) I said, "It's not just for diaper rash anymore." Oh well, there are other banks even in this dinky little town.)
**And for any of you 'do the math' folks out there this statement does NOT mean that my 11- year old wasn't potty trained until age 6. It means that our youngest child is 7. He just didn't happen to be at the pediatrician's with me.**
I was going to post a photo of my actual sample package but unless we want to get into yet another discussion of my sad, sad lack of mad, mad photo skillz (and we don't), I think we should proceed right on to the part where I mention what disturbs me EVEN MORE. And that is when I went to find a picture of this product online to show you, I found a butt paste gift set with a bobble-head doll! A butt paste bobble head? Perhaps that's marketing genius. Perhaps it's just that Boudreaux's target audience is the type of audience that does have to deal with diaper rash (never mind the poster slogan) and also severe sleep deprivation. Perhaps they will buy anything - even butt paste bobble head dolls. Especially butt paste bobble head dolls that have been on ESPN2. And in People magazine.
I don't know. I'm married to a Cajun, remember? These are the folks who get around the 'open container' law by taping a plastic lid onto (and inserting a straw into) a styrofoam cup filled with 32 oz of frozen Vodka Voodoo from the local Cajun Blender drive thru (an establishment, by the way, which posts a hand-lettered sign saying "For more than a gallon, CALL AHEAD". These folks are creative! And on the sauce! And love to fuck with outsiders! No, I don't suppose it bothers me so much that the Boudreaux folks came up with the idea of a butt paste bobble head. I just don't want to meet anyone sleep deprived enough to have purchased one. And I sure as heck don't want to meet a non-sleep-deprived person who bought one. And lordy, stop me before I find the right words to describe the butt paste bib. Booze or no booze, the person who came up with that should be fired.
I'm just saying.
Peace.
This Disturbs Me:
At the pediatrician's office, with my asthmatic and now anemic 11-year old, I was given a sample of this product. I was firstly and foremostly disturbed to be handed a cure for DIAPER RASH considering we have been a diaper free household for over five years**! I pointed this out to the nurse. "Oh it's not just for diaper rash anymore," she said. She pointed to the poster. Sure enough "It's not just for diaper rash anymore" the poster proclaimed. And in an even bigger font the poster said, "AS SEEN ON FOX NEWS, OPRAH, AND ESPN2!" I see. Well, if OPRAH is giving air time to butt paste then... Well, I'm not sure what then, really. But I tucked the sample into my purse. (And promptly forgot about it until today when I was spilling the contents of my purse onto the ledge in front of the bank teller in search of my checkbook. She saw it and gave me a funny look. She gave me a funnier look when (before I could stop myself) I said, "It's not just for diaper rash anymore." Oh well, there are other banks even in this dinky little town.)
**And for any of you 'do the math' folks out there this statement does NOT mean that my 11- year old wasn't potty trained until age 6. It means that our youngest child is 7. He just didn't happen to be at the pediatrician's with me.**
I was going to post a photo of my actual sample package but unless we want to get into yet another discussion of my sad, sad lack of mad, mad photo skillz (and we don't), I think we should proceed right on to the part where I mention what disturbs me EVEN MORE. And that is when I went to find a picture of this product online to show you, I found a butt paste gift set with a bobble-head doll! A butt paste bobble head? Perhaps that's marketing genius. Perhaps it's just that Boudreaux's target audience is the type of audience that does have to deal with diaper rash (never mind the poster slogan) and also severe sleep deprivation. Perhaps they will buy anything - even butt paste bobble head dolls. Especially butt paste bobble head dolls that have been on ESPN2. And in People magazine.
I don't know. I'm married to a Cajun, remember? These are the folks who get around the 'open container' law by taping a plastic lid onto (and inserting a straw into) a styrofoam cup filled with 32 oz of frozen Vodka Voodoo from the local Cajun Blender drive thru (an establishment, by the way, which posts a hand-lettered sign saying "For more than a gallon, CALL AHEAD". These folks are creative! And on the sauce! And love to fuck with outsiders! No, I don't suppose it bothers me so much that the Boudreaux folks came up with the idea of a butt paste bobble head. I just don't want to meet anyone sleep deprived enough to have purchased one. And I sure as heck don't want to meet a non-sleep-deprived person who bought one. And lordy, stop me before I find the right words to describe the butt paste bib. Booze or no booze, the person who came up with that should be fired.
I'm just saying.
Peace.
Monday, March 13, 2006
When The Kitchen Cabinets Need A Shave
Should we call it home improvement? I'm not sure.
'Member when our fridge 'just died'? (Digression: I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't have a whole page over there in my side bar to track the machines in my orbit that have 'just died'. It sometimes feels like there's an epidemic of machine death in my world!)
'Member how we had to wait a whole WEEK to get the new one? Saturday seemed like it would never get here! Then the delivery guy called and gave us an early delivery time. Yes! The Fridgerator Gods see that we have done our penance and smile upon us.
Or not. You see, back when we were looking online, reading consumer reports, and comparison shopping for such a ridiculously expensive purchase, we measured the niche where the new fridge would fit. The verdict was that our space was bigger than any of the refrigerators (except the sub zero, commercial deals). We found the perfect fridge online, double checked the measurements and then went to see it in person at Sears. To make sure it really was the one we wanted. It was. Until we saw one down the aisle a bit. One that was better. And on sale. And had more cubic storage. You know why it had more cubic storage? BECAUSE IT WAS BIGGER! But that little factoid didn't ring any alarm bells for us. Oh no. In fact, we congratulated ourselves. A bigger fridge, for less money, with more room for food, for our big family. Yay us! Woo Hoo! Until the fridge was delivered. And it didn't fit. The delivery guy chuckled a bit and assured us that this happens all the time.
"Well, what do other people do?" we asked.
"I don't know," said the delivery guy. "Whatever they do, they do it after we leave."
Helpful, eh? I think we did what any normal people would do. (No, no, no. We did NOT punch the delivery guy in the face.) After the delivery guy left, we pushed the fridge really, really hard into the niche.
That didn't work. But it was funny. (It was quite possibly the last funny thing of the day.)
Now what? Our options were limited: send it back or make it fit. We chose door number two. And by 'we', I mean Sweet Hubby all by his lonesome, because me? I was a pissy wad. My plan for the day had included snuggling on the couch, watching a movie and helping SH pack for his two-week, business trip to New Zealand. It did not include a spur-of-the-moment, home improvement project. I'm learning that I'm not so good at changing plans on the fly. Especially when the change is from fun to chore. You want to know what I did? I shut down. I was NO HELP WHATSOEVER. I did not go with him to buy an $80 planing tool. I offered no ideas about the best way to shave the kitchen cabinets. I did help vacuum up about one one-hundredth of the 400 pounds of sawdust generated. (Oh, and I wore my cute, denim, short overalls to do it! That should count for something, no?) I was kind enough to 'help' him look for a chisel by stating categorically that I had never had one and that I couldn't imagine where one would be if we, for some bizarre reason, had one. And I gritched (not a lot but definitely some) about having to deal with this whole mess the day before he left. Like he needed that. Aren't you wishing that you were lucky enough to be married to me?? Oh and I documented. See:
Here he is. Optimistic man. See the ice cream sitting out on the counter? Like the project would be done quick as quick can be and then we'd just pop the sherbert into the new freezer and all would be good?
Um yeah. Didn't happen like that.
But isn't he cute? He's like the Home Improvement Bandit.
He did a fantastic job too. (And I'll keep saying that right up to the moment the cabinets fall down.) Here's how it looks now:
'Member when our fridge 'just died'? (Digression: I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't have a whole page over there in my side bar to track the machines in my orbit that have 'just died'. It sometimes feels like there's an epidemic of machine death in my world!)
'Member how we had to wait a whole WEEK to get the new one? Saturday seemed like it would never get here! Then the delivery guy called and gave us an early delivery time. Yes! The Fridgerator Gods see that we have done our penance and smile upon us.
Or not. You see, back when we were looking online, reading consumer reports, and comparison shopping for such a ridiculously expensive purchase, we measured the niche where the new fridge would fit. The verdict was that our space was bigger than any of the refrigerators (except the sub zero, commercial deals). We found the perfect fridge online, double checked the measurements and then went to see it in person at Sears. To make sure it really was the one we wanted. It was. Until we saw one down the aisle a bit. One that was better. And on sale. And had more cubic storage. You know why it had more cubic storage? BECAUSE IT WAS BIGGER! But that little factoid didn't ring any alarm bells for us. Oh no. In fact, we congratulated ourselves. A bigger fridge, for less money, with more room for food, for our big family. Yay us! Woo Hoo! Until the fridge was delivered. And it didn't fit. The delivery guy chuckled a bit and assured us that this happens all the time.
"Well, what do other people do?" we asked.
"I don't know," said the delivery guy. "Whatever they do, they do it after we leave."
Helpful, eh? I think we did what any normal people would do. (No, no, no. We did NOT punch the delivery guy in the face.) After the delivery guy left, we pushed the fridge really, really hard into the niche.
That didn't work. But it was funny. (It was quite possibly the last funny thing of the day.)
Now what? Our options were limited: send it back or make it fit. We chose door number two. And by 'we', I mean Sweet Hubby all by his lonesome, because me? I was a pissy wad. My plan for the day had included snuggling on the couch, watching a movie and helping SH pack for his two-week, business trip to New Zealand. It did not include a spur-of-the-moment, home improvement project. I'm learning that I'm not so good at changing plans on the fly. Especially when the change is from fun to chore. You want to know what I did? I shut down. I was NO HELP WHATSOEVER. I did not go with him to buy an $80 planing tool. I offered no ideas about the best way to shave the kitchen cabinets. I did help vacuum up about one one-hundredth of the 400 pounds of sawdust generated. (Oh, and I wore my cute, denim, short overalls to do it! That should count for something, no?) I was kind enough to 'help' him look for a chisel by stating categorically that I had never had one and that I couldn't imagine where one would be if we, for some bizarre reason, had one. And I gritched (not a lot but definitely some) about having to deal with this whole mess the day before he left. Like he needed that. Aren't you wishing that you were lucky enough to be married to me?? Oh and I documented. See:
Here he is. Optimistic man. See the ice cream sitting out on the counter? Like the project would be done quick as quick can be and then we'd just pop the sherbert into the new freezer and all would be good?
Um yeah. Didn't happen like that.
But isn't he cute? He's like the Home Improvement Bandit.
He did a fantastic job too. (And I'll keep saying that right up to the moment the cabinets fall down.) Here's how it looks now:
The boys had been away and hadn't seen the fridge until this morning. At first, they were impressed and then,
Mayhem said, "Wow it's bigger than I thought it would be."
Chaos said, "Hey, let's go see if they got a bigger TV too!"
Havoc said, "Nope. They didn't. Look."
In unison they said, "Aw maaaaaan."
The fact that we have a really, really great ice maker didn't help. All in all they decided they would rather have video games than cold food. I'll try to keep that in mind next time.
Peace.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Warning - High Tapioca Content
About six years ago, one of my best friends (who was also on the eve of her own impending divorce) asked me,"What does that man use to think with? Tapioca?! Because it's clearly not a brain!" Yeah. It stuck. And I'll apologize to anyone who actually LIKES tapioca. (I, personally, am off the stuff for life.) I'm sure it's nice and all when properly used or consumed but for thinking with? Not so great.
From then on, my friend and I have kept each other up-to-date on our respective tapioca forecasts and reports. Sometimes the tapioca reports are funny and sometimes they are scary. (And often, they're both at the same time). A memorable one is when she wrote me to tell me her TH (=tapioca head) had decreed that the best thing to do for the children would be to each get their own apartment - but keep the house they'd had during the marriage. That way instead of the kids moving back and forth between mom's and dad's, it would be the parents who moved back and forth. He'd be in the house with the kids one week and she would be the next. In their 'off' time they'd live in their own apartments. He said all of that seriously. With a straight face. Like it was the most brilliant and workable solution. Ever. I think she almost peed her pants laughing at him. Laughing at him to his face. And then again while laughing at him as she typed it all to me. And then she cried, wondering how she'd ever been married to someone so imbecilic.
Yes, someday, when our children are all over 18 and out of the tapioca flood zone, we'll be able to laugh without crying in the next moment. Right now - with just under 11 years to go for both of us - we share these reports with each other (and now with you, lovely internets) so that we can laugh and have someone right there to help us climb back down out of the fear tree.
Back here I think I described my own TH's cycle. We've been in the phase where he plays stupid games (with the kids in the middle) in order to prove he's a good parent and I'm a bad one. I've been civil and used every de-escalation technique I know.
(You want an example? He sends me an email about the children looking like trash because they have holes in their jeans and what a bad parent I am. The problem with this assertion is that the jeans with holes in them came from his house. Not mine. My seven year old, when first asked about his jeans, said, "Oh Dad had me wear these to get you to replace them." I said, "Well we better replace them then. Where are the two pairs your grandmother got you last month?" Later my seven year old came back to me and said, "Mom, you know those jeans with holes? I just remembered. I must have ripped them at recess. It's my fault, not Dad's." Now, I was out of town, but I had already heard from people who saw him at school as well as from my Sweet Hubby that Havoc did NOT have on jeans with holes in them when he went to Dad's. Look at my poor kid who would rather take the blame for himself than have his parents angry with each other! I told Havoc not to worry about it anymore: it was time for everyone to have an update. We made an outing of it. I bought the boys each two pairs of pants (jeans and khakis), a polo shirt, socks, underwear, and a new pair of shoes to take to Dad's and leave there! We also bought Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and had a family movie night. Was I required to do this? No. I would have been 'justified' in writing a nasty letter back asking where all the nice clothes that I send end up. I could have dressed the kids in the rattiest things they have and sent them back to him the way he sent them to me. But why on earth would ANYONE do stupid things like that? No one benefits. Least of all my kids. Did I have the money for this shopping spree to purchase clothes the kids don't actually 'need' and which I'll never see again? Heck no! Especially when I'm racking up the legal fees answering his petition for custody and making counter-petitions! Maybe my 'caving in' and sending a whole bag of nice clothes plays out in his mind as him 'winning' a round - but it's so STUPID. I wish I had a better word. Pointless? Silly and mean? Small and petty? If he had asked me for some clothes for the boys I would have sent some! I've offered before. I've sent some before. Of course, he didn't do that because it wasn't about clothes. It was about the court case. He lies and plays games and thinks his children aren't going to notice? Or tell? Or be affected? I. Don't. Get. It.)
Last night? Maybe because Mercury went retrograde (<--I don't actually know what that means but all my astrology-inclined friends are talking about it) or maybe just to get a jump start on full moon craziness - my Tapioca Head's ex-wife called me. Out of the blue. To offer me support. To say that she will willingly 'testify' in court on my behalf.
Warning. Warning. Danger Will Robinson.
*Backstory: She's a nut case. Their whole, two-year marriage was bizarre and drama-filled. I mean, cops called to their house in the wee sma's because of fights. Him taking off with the children (my babies!) and swearing never to return and then returning and pretending like nothing ever happened. I spent the entire time trying to shield my children from their emotional roller coaster. My mother spent the entire time asking me if the surgery he had six weeks before he left me hadn't perhaps damaged his brain permanently. She was serious. And she has a point. He was a VERY different person after that surgery. More than one person remarked on the personality shift and asked me if I had searched long and hard for the pod.
Almost twelve years we were married. Maybe four fights the whole time. No drama. Lots of hard work, good times, and there at the end? Illness. And surgery. And just when everything seemed like it would be better than ever before - he decided he was done. He wasn't 'happy'. He began to date women who were drama factories. Twelve years and I had no idea that his idea of 'happy' involved booze and car wrecks and changing jobs six times in four years and trumping up court cases. What a boring wife I was. But lucky him, after only a few years of 'fun' on his own, he found a woman who made him all kinds of crazy, I mean, happy! And after two years too many of so much happiness, I was MUCH relieved when he left her last summer. He moved 40 miles away from her and lives closer physically to his children (and unfortunately also to me) than he's lived since our divorce. I had foolishly hoped that would end his ridiculous, perennial attempt to take my children away from me. After all, it had started when he met her. Maybe it would end when he left her. But no. Even without her, he has continued, apparently now addicted to drama in his own right. But wait, the ex-Mrs. Happiness is on the line! *
She says I must be very upset about what happened Friday night.
"What happened Friday night?" I ask, warily.
She said that he said... wait! Do you see how quickly this shit devolves to the level of middle school muddle? Let's start again.
The story he (supposedly) told her:
He came to pick up the boys from my house and they were hysterical and refused to go with him. Chaos called him a liar and he slapped Chaos in the face. I allowed Chaos to stay with me but let Mayhem and Havoc be forced into going with him. In fact, I stood with my arms crossed, smirking as they drove away.
What really happened:
My ex arrived at 6:15. I helped load the boys into the car with their bags from Target, their bag of school work/report cards, and their medicine. I gave the boys kisses - except Chaos who prefers a wave. I walked back inside. Sweet Hubby and the Ninja Princessa and I all left two minutes later to grab a quick bite for supper and made it to the 7 o'clock movie. No drama. Anywhere. That I saw.
I told this woman that somewhere someone was telling big whoppers. In addition, I told her I couldn't imagine what kind of mother she thought I was, but that it would have taken an Act of God and a SWAT team to get my children away from me if I'd seen my ex slap one of my children and/or they were hysterical not to leave me.
My ex's ex turns out not to be so ex. Yet. Even though he told me he was filing for divorce months and months ago. He didn't. In fact, they've been seeing each other again. Dating. According to her, they have been planning to move back in together. And she called me because as of that moment, she was done with him. She was done with him. He told her that the children hated her and also that when he told them he was moving back in with her - they became hysterical and didn't want to leave ME (hence the driveway scene). He told her that he was having to choose between her and them and he was choosing them. So she was done with him. And called me. To offer her 'testimony' for my case.
Riiiiight. Because that's just what I need. Testimony from a crazy woman. A mad, scorned, crazy woman. That will help my 'case'.
But I listened. And wrote down everything for my lawyer, including the part where her teenage daughter threatened to kill herself if he moved back in. Nice, eh? What are these people (tapioca heads both!) doing?? She told me about her cocaine use (OH MY GOD!!!!!!) and she told me about the court-mandated things he has not done or kept up with. She also told me that he was already going to drop the custody case - but each of the three times she told me this in the hour that she talked, she gave a different reason: he was dropping it because they were back together; he was dropping it because he was interviewing for a job out of state; he was dropping it because he couldn't pay his lawyer. Who knows what the truth is with crazy people??
I was shaking and ill, but I was civil and calm with her.
I thanked her for letting me know about things that affect my children. I let her know firmly, in no uncertain terms that I would NOT be needing her to appear in court. Thanks anyway. My lawyer and I have it under control. My mother, a therapist, who has said from the beginning this woman was boderline said, "Two will get you ten that she's at this minute calling him to tell him how badly she just screwed him."
Sure enough, an hour later my ex calls. Says he's 'dropping' the custody case 'for now'. Says he knows I talked to his wife and he feels betrayed. Admits he lied to her. Admits he made up the whole 'scene' in my driveway. Get this. He says he told her this story "to spare her feelings". He says he used the children as an excuse because he couldn't think of another way out of the relationship. There is so much wrong here that it's like someone dropped a wrongness bomb. He had already gotten out. He got himself back IN to a relationship with her and then couldn't find a way out that didn't involve ridiculous, crazy lies - and MY CHILDREN?? He's dropping the case FOR NOW? My lawyer has told me to keep writing it all down, but that she can't imagine we need any more ammunition in court. I keep waiting for that to make me feel better. On any level. But it doesn't.
It's not just tapioca. It's rancid tapioca. Perhaps my friends are right and instead of a brain there is pulsing, putrid scum from another world in my ex's head. Something so vile and ludicrous is happening in there that earth languages just aren't up to the task of describing it. I think my lawyer is doing a great job but I worry she's out of her league. After all, she's used to dealing with humans! What do you think it would take to get Will Smith to help her? He's great with aliens!
Peace. Peace. Peace.
From then on, my friend and I have kept each other up-to-date on our respective tapioca forecasts and reports. Sometimes the tapioca reports are funny and sometimes they are scary. (And often, they're both at the same time). A memorable one is when she wrote me to tell me her TH (=tapioca head) had decreed that the best thing to do for the children would be to each get their own apartment - but keep the house they'd had during the marriage. That way instead of the kids moving back and forth between mom's and dad's, it would be the parents who moved back and forth. He'd be in the house with the kids one week and she would be the next. In their 'off' time they'd live in their own apartments. He said all of that seriously. With a straight face. Like it was the most brilliant and workable solution. Ever. I think she almost peed her pants laughing at him. Laughing at him to his face. And then again while laughing at him as she typed it all to me. And then she cried, wondering how she'd ever been married to someone so imbecilic.
Yes, someday, when our children are all over 18 and out of the tapioca flood zone, we'll be able to laugh without crying in the next moment. Right now - with just under 11 years to go for both of us - we share these reports with each other (and now with you, lovely internets) so that we can laugh and have someone right there to help us climb back down out of the fear tree.
Back here I think I described my own TH's cycle. We've been in the phase where he plays stupid games (with the kids in the middle) in order to prove he's a good parent and I'm a bad one. I've been civil and used every de-escalation technique I know.
(You want an example? He sends me an email about the children looking like trash because they have holes in their jeans and what a bad parent I am. The problem with this assertion is that the jeans with holes in them came from his house. Not mine. My seven year old, when first asked about his jeans, said, "Oh Dad had me wear these to get you to replace them." I said, "Well we better replace them then. Where are the two pairs your grandmother got you last month?" Later my seven year old came back to me and said, "Mom, you know those jeans with holes? I just remembered. I must have ripped them at recess. It's my fault, not Dad's." Now, I was out of town, but I had already heard from people who saw him at school as well as from my Sweet Hubby that Havoc did NOT have on jeans with holes in them when he went to Dad's. Look at my poor kid who would rather take the blame for himself than have his parents angry with each other! I told Havoc not to worry about it anymore: it was time for everyone to have an update. We made an outing of it. I bought the boys each two pairs of pants (jeans and khakis), a polo shirt, socks, underwear, and a new pair of shoes to take to Dad's and leave there! We also bought Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and had a family movie night. Was I required to do this? No. I would have been 'justified' in writing a nasty letter back asking where all the nice clothes that I send end up. I could have dressed the kids in the rattiest things they have and sent them back to him the way he sent them to me. But why on earth would ANYONE do stupid things like that? No one benefits. Least of all my kids. Did I have the money for this shopping spree to purchase clothes the kids don't actually 'need' and which I'll never see again? Heck no! Especially when I'm racking up the legal fees answering his petition for custody and making counter-petitions! Maybe my 'caving in' and sending a whole bag of nice clothes plays out in his mind as him 'winning' a round - but it's so STUPID. I wish I had a better word. Pointless? Silly and mean? Small and petty? If he had asked me for some clothes for the boys I would have sent some! I've offered before. I've sent some before. Of course, he didn't do that because it wasn't about clothes. It was about the court case. He lies and plays games and thinks his children aren't going to notice? Or tell? Or be affected? I. Don't. Get. It.)
Last night? Maybe because Mercury went retrograde (<--I don't actually know what that means but all my astrology-inclined friends are talking about it) or maybe just to get a jump start on full moon craziness - my Tapioca Head's ex-wife called me. Out of the blue. To offer me support. To say that she will willingly 'testify' in court on my behalf.
Warning. Warning. Danger Will Robinson.
*Backstory: She's a nut case. Their whole, two-year marriage was bizarre and drama-filled. I mean, cops called to their house in the wee sma's because of fights. Him taking off with the children (my babies!) and swearing never to return and then returning and pretending like nothing ever happened. I spent the entire time trying to shield my children from their emotional roller coaster. My mother spent the entire time asking me if the surgery he had six weeks before he left me hadn't perhaps damaged his brain permanently. She was serious. And she has a point. He was a VERY different person after that surgery. More than one person remarked on the personality shift and asked me if I had searched long and hard for the pod.
Almost twelve years we were married. Maybe four fights the whole time. No drama. Lots of hard work, good times, and there at the end? Illness. And surgery. And just when everything seemed like it would be better than ever before - he decided he was done. He wasn't 'happy'. He began to date women who were drama factories. Twelve years and I had no idea that his idea of 'happy' involved booze and car wrecks and changing jobs six times in four years and trumping up court cases. What a boring wife I was. But lucky him, after only a few years of 'fun' on his own, he found a woman who made him all kinds of crazy, I mean, happy! And after two years too many of so much happiness, I was MUCH relieved when he left her last summer. He moved 40 miles away from her and lives closer physically to his children (and unfortunately also to me) than he's lived since our divorce. I had foolishly hoped that would end his ridiculous, perennial attempt to take my children away from me. After all, it had started when he met her. Maybe it would end when he left her. But no. Even without her, he has continued, apparently now addicted to drama in his own right. But wait, the ex-Mrs. Happiness is on the line! *
She says I must be very upset about what happened Friday night.
"What happened Friday night?" I ask, warily.
She said that he said... wait! Do you see how quickly this shit devolves to the level of middle school muddle? Let's start again.
The story he (supposedly) told her:
He came to pick up the boys from my house and they were hysterical and refused to go with him. Chaos called him a liar and he slapped Chaos in the face. I allowed Chaos to stay with me but let Mayhem and Havoc be forced into going with him. In fact, I stood with my arms crossed, smirking as they drove away.
What really happened:
My ex arrived at 6:15. I helped load the boys into the car with their bags from Target, their bag of school work/report cards, and their medicine. I gave the boys kisses - except Chaos who prefers a wave. I walked back inside. Sweet Hubby and the Ninja Princessa and I all left two minutes later to grab a quick bite for supper and made it to the 7 o'clock movie. No drama. Anywhere. That I saw.
I told this woman that somewhere someone was telling big whoppers. In addition, I told her I couldn't imagine what kind of mother she thought I was, but that it would have taken an Act of God and a SWAT team to get my children away from me if I'd seen my ex slap one of my children and/or they were hysterical not to leave me.
My ex's ex turns out not to be so ex. Yet. Even though he told me he was filing for divorce months and months ago. He didn't. In fact, they've been seeing each other again. Dating. According to her, they have been planning to move back in together. And she called me because as of that moment, she was done with him. She was done with him. He told her that the children hated her and also that when he told them he was moving back in with her - they became hysterical and didn't want to leave ME (hence the driveway scene). He told her that he was having to choose between her and them and he was choosing them. So she was done with him. And called me. To offer her 'testimony' for my case.
Riiiiight. Because that's just what I need. Testimony from a crazy woman. A mad, scorned, crazy woman. That will help my 'case'.
But I listened. And wrote down everything for my lawyer, including the part where her teenage daughter threatened to kill herself if he moved back in. Nice, eh? What are these people (tapioca heads both!) doing?? She told me about her cocaine use (OH MY GOD!!!!!!) and she told me about the court-mandated things he has not done or kept up with. She also told me that he was already going to drop the custody case - but each of the three times she told me this in the hour that she talked, she gave a different reason: he was dropping it because they were back together; he was dropping it because he was interviewing for a job out of state; he was dropping it because he couldn't pay his lawyer. Who knows what the truth is with crazy people??
I was shaking and ill, but I was civil and calm with her.
I thanked her for letting me know about things that affect my children. I let her know firmly, in no uncertain terms that I would NOT be needing her to appear in court. Thanks anyway. My lawyer and I have it under control. My mother, a therapist, who has said from the beginning this woman was boderline said, "Two will get you ten that she's at this minute calling him to tell him how badly she just screwed him."
Sure enough, an hour later my ex calls. Says he's 'dropping' the custody case 'for now'. Says he knows I talked to his wife and he feels betrayed. Admits he lied to her. Admits he made up the whole 'scene' in my driveway. Get this. He says he told her this story "to spare her feelings". He says he used the children as an excuse because he couldn't think of another way out of the relationship. There is so much wrong here that it's like someone dropped a wrongness bomb. He had already gotten out. He got himself back IN to a relationship with her and then couldn't find a way out that didn't involve ridiculous, crazy lies - and MY CHILDREN?? He's dropping the case FOR NOW? My lawyer has told me to keep writing it all down, but that she can't imagine we need any more ammunition in court. I keep waiting for that to make me feel better. On any level. But it doesn't.
It's not just tapioca. It's rancid tapioca. Perhaps my friends are right and instead of a brain there is pulsing, putrid scum from another world in my ex's head. Something so vile and ludicrous is happening in there that earth languages just aren't up to the task of describing it. I think my lawyer is doing a great job but I worry she's out of her league. After all, she's used to dealing with humans! What do you think it would take to get Will Smith to help her? He's great with aliens!
Peace. Peace. Peace.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
The Four Horsemen of the...Hypocalypse?
I think we're going to need an extra large Rehearsal Dinner Box for Chaos. I am trying (and I mean really, really trying) not to worry about the way he processes information. He does well in school (Honor Roll!) and he scores ridiculously high on standardized tests (99th percentile!). For the life of me, I cannot see how.
Yesterday on the way to school, Chaos and I had a little chat about how long his seventh grade math class has been studying 'triangles'. Every day for over three weeks that's all it says in his planner under Math: 'triangles'. This is the picture I get in my mind. So:
Me: What's up with the triangles? Can't you learn everything there is to know about triangles in just a couple of days?
Chaos: Mom, there's more to it. You know, there's A squared equals C squared and all that.
Me: You mean, A squared PLUS B SQUARED equals C squared?
Chaos: Yeah. That's it. We're studying Pilates and all that.
Me: Pilates?!
Chaos: The theory - you know, the A squared stuff.
Me: The Pythagorean Theorem?! Chaos, It's the PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM!! It's important to get it straight! You have to know the right words and you have to understand it. Do you even understand that what you're doing is squaring the sides of the triangle and adding them together and that equals..
Chaos (interrupting me because we were at school): the square of the hypocalypse. I know, I know! Mom, I gotta go! Bye.
Me: the hypocalypse? the HYPOCALYPSE??
I really don't know whether to laugh or cry sometimes. Aside from writing speeches for Dan Quayle or GW I can't think of many career options for this boy! Can you?
Peace.
Yesterday on the way to school, Chaos and I had a little chat about how long his seventh grade math class has been studying 'triangles'. Every day for over three weeks that's all it says in his planner under Math: 'triangles'. This is the picture I get in my mind. So:
Me: What's up with the triangles? Can't you learn everything there is to know about triangles in just a couple of days?
Chaos: Mom, there's more to it. You know, there's A squared equals C squared and all that.
Me: You mean, A squared PLUS B SQUARED equals C squared?
Chaos: Yeah. That's it. We're studying Pilates and all that.
Me: Pilates?!
Chaos: The theory - you know, the A squared stuff.
Me: The Pythagorean Theorem?! Chaos, It's the PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM!! It's important to get it straight! You have to know the right words and you have to understand it. Do you even understand that what you're doing is squaring the sides of the triangle and adding them together and that equals..
Chaos (interrupting me because we were at school): the square of the hypocalypse. I know, I know! Mom, I gotta go! Bye.
Me: the hypocalypse? the HYPOCALYPSE??
I really don't know whether to laugh or cry sometimes. Aside from writing speeches for Dan Quayle or GW I can't think of many career options for this boy! Can you?
Peace.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
We Are Family (Get Up Everybody, SING!)
I love one on one time with my children. Even if it is spent going to the pediatrician's. I learn soooooo many things.
Like (from the doctor who loves to write prescriptions) that Mayhem is anemic as well as asthmatic. Eckerd's. Cha-ching.
Like (from Mayhem who loves to sing) that Smashmouth is the best band in the whole world. "You're a rock star. Get the show on. All that glitters is go-o-old. Only shooting sta-ars break the mo-o-old."
Like (from Mayhem who loves to talk) that Mayhem is the kind of little brother that makes me glad I never had a little brother. Even though I didn't witness it, I have it from a reliable source (and May-hem is his name-o) that this is what happened yesterday:
Mayhem (singing at the top of his lungs): WE ARE FAMILY. I GOT ALL MY BRUDDAS WITH ME.
Chaos: Mayhem be quiet.
Mayhem: AS WE WALK OHN BY-HI!
Chaos: Shut up!
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE OLDER THAN ME.
Chaos: I mean it. I'm going to hurt you.
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE FATTER THAN ME.
Chaos (chasing his little brother): Arggghh!
Mayhem (outpacing his big brother): WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE SLOWER THAN ME!
Feel the love?
Peace.
Like (from the doctor who loves to write prescriptions) that Mayhem is anemic as well as asthmatic. Eckerd's. Cha-ching.
Like (from Mayhem who loves to sing) that Smashmouth is the best band in the whole world. "You're a rock star. Get the show on. All that glitters is go-o-old. Only shooting sta-ars break the mo-o-old."
Like (from Mayhem who loves to talk) that Mayhem is the kind of little brother that makes me glad I never had a little brother. Even though I didn't witness it, I have it from a reliable source (and May-hem is his name-o) that this is what happened yesterday:
Mayhem (singing at the top of his lungs): WE ARE FAMILY. I GOT ALL MY BRUDDAS WITH ME.
Chaos: Mayhem be quiet.
Mayhem: AS WE WALK OHN BY-HI!
Chaos: Shut up!
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE OLDER THAN ME.
Chaos: I mean it. I'm going to hurt you.
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE FATTER THAN ME.
Chaos (chasing his little brother): Arggghh!
Mayhem (outpacing his big brother): WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE SLOWER THAN ME!
Feel the love?
Peace.
What's in Your Rehearsal Dinner Box?
I'm sure there is a Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle cure for what's going on with my children this week, but unfortunately she's not online for me to solicit advice from, so we're winging it.
We're having language issues. Not potty mouth (although come to think of it, the middle schooler did get busted on Sunday for typing a funny yet oh-so-inappropriate four letter word into a video game.) Mainly it's a question, though, of language specificity.
Example 1:
Mayhem hasn't been feeling well all week. He's been toughing it out at school but we keep checking his temperature because he looks pasty, has a slight tummy ache and headache. Yesterday before school his temp was 99.3. That was a wee bit up - but maybe just a normal amount up because the kids are usually a bit warmer in the morning when they first start moving around. Ok. So he got oatmeal and advil for breakfast. I get a call from school at 2 pm.
"Mom, the teacher says you need to come get me right now. I have a fever of a hundred and four."
I was there in under five minutes and due to a not-so-safe bit of multitasking while driving a speeding car, had wangled an urgent appointment with the pediatrician who said he might need to go straight to the hospital.
I ran in to the office and there Mayhem was, sitting on the couch. Looking fine. (<--Fine meaning still pasty and not his usual self but CERTAINLY not lethargic and glassy eyed the way you'd expect in an 11-year old with a 104 degree fever.) This would be because he didn't have a 104 degree fever. He had a one hundred POINT four degree fever. How is that for an exciting teacher-kid-parent game of telephone? After rescheduling with the pediatrician for this morning and after leaving a message for the ex to belay that last (and after an internal pep talk to myself where I tried to convince myself I had not over reacted by calling him so quickly in the first place, that I had done what I would have wanted him to do if the situation had been reversed, yada, yada, yada), Mayhem and I had a little chat. He thought it was ridiculously funny. "How fast were you driving?! You've never gotten to school so fast." Ahem. I did not answer that question. I distracted him with talk about decimal points and boys who cry wolf.
Example 2:
This little language confusion vignette stars the middle schooler. At dinner we find out that apparently every day, Chaos rushes out of school to the bus waving his hands wailing "The world is ending!" His friends think this is HILARIOUS. (I mentioned this is middle school, right?) And then he flings himself onto the bus and with a dramatic sigh declares, "Sanction!"
Ummm. Sanction?
Sweet Hubby said, "I think he means 'sanctuary'." Ah.
We explained the difference between 'permission' and 'sacred place, haven.'
"Whatever." says Chaos.
Whatever? Sweet Hubby and I give each other the eye. Good parents that we are, we reserve the one-two punch of humor followed by the threat of future embarassment for special, lesson-teaching occasions. But words and their meanings are important, darn it. So out comes the parenting equivalent of the Play Station triangle-square-square-circle super move: the Rehearsal Dinner Box.
SH: I think this is another story we should write down for 'the box'.
Kids: The box?
Me: I agree. Definitely.
Kids: What box?
Me: You know, the box of stuff we're saving to bring out at the party on the night before your weddings. The Rehearsal Dinner Box.
Chaos: Gork. (<--That is as close as I can get to the sound he made.)
Chaos: What do you mean, stuff you're saving?
SH: You know, like The Rubberband.
Chaos: Gork!
Other Kids: What rubberband?
*The Rubberband says "I love Hannah" on it but Sweet Hubby didn't know that when he pried it off of Chaos' wrist last year. Once he saw the words, SH knew why Chaos had stealthily and steadfastly refused to take it off even though his hand was turning blue. It is definitely going in the box. What future wife wouldn't want to know that her groom was once so infatuated that he was willing to cut off his circulation for love? Anyway, The Rubberband, it is a secret for now. Sweet Hubby has promised not to let anyone else know what it says. Anyone, of course, in our household means 'any of the other kids or any of my friends'. Moms are not just anyone.
Me: I think 'Sanction!' should go right next to 'Seep!' (This distracted the Other Kids from The Rubberband. See how good I am?)
Kids: Seep?
SH: Remember Chaos' vocabulary paper? The one where he defined 'seep' as 'to leak' and then for his example sentence wrote, "I seeped my pants."? That's in the box.
Kids, including Chaos, crack up for a surprisingly long time over "I seeped my pants." They are, in fact, howling with laughter.
Me: We have a box for each of you.
Immediate silence.
Ninja Princessa: Even me?
Chuckle, chuckle. Snicker, snicker. (See how much fun parenting can be? This is why the experts say you should sit down and have dinner with your children every, single night!)
Me: Oh yeah. Personally, my favorite thing in your Rehearsal Dinner Box is a page covered with "Mrs. Ninja Princessa Potter. Mrs. Ninja Potter. Mrs. Ninja Princessa Radcliffe...." And hearts. And swirlies. And butterflies. And lightning bolts.
NP: rolls on the floor claiming she'll never, ever, in a million, quadrillion, bazillion years get married (not even to Daniel Radcliffe!)
All this time Mayhem, who is one of those fiddle-y kinds of kids, has been sticking the tines of his fork anywhere except in his asian salad. He has levered up his plate. He has tapped on his milk glass. He has threaded his napkin in and out of the slots between the tines. He is poking his leg. With the fork.
Me: Mayhem! Stop it! The fork is for eating your salad with. Not for poking yourself in the thigh with!
SH: Yeah, what she said. And besides, it looks like you're stabbing your privates. If you don't stop, we'll have to take away your fork privileges. We'll hang a sign around your neck when you go to school that says "Not allowed to use forks. Spoons only!"
Kids, including Mayhem, lose it. Absolutely lose it. I'm not sure if it's the word 'privates' or 'fork privileges' but they freakin' lose their minds. Forks get dropped on the floor. Milk gets snorted out of noses. Heels kick the legs of chairs. Our youngest, who is seven and probably thinks marriage is as far away as retirement, recovers first - but only manages to set everyone off again.
Havoc: Yeah, and we'll keep the sign and put it in your Reversal Dinner Box!
Chaos: "Spoons Only!"
SH: If y'all keep laughing so hard, you'll seep your pants.
NP: Daniel and I are going to elope.
Don't you want to come have dinner with us? Don't you want to tell us all about your day? So we can make fun of you and record it for all time in your very own Rehearsal Dinner Box?
Peace.
We're having language issues. Not potty mouth (although come to think of it, the middle schooler did get busted on Sunday for typing a funny yet oh-so-inappropriate four letter word into a video game.) Mainly it's a question, though, of language specificity.
Example 1:
Mayhem hasn't been feeling well all week. He's been toughing it out at school but we keep checking his temperature because he looks pasty, has a slight tummy ache and headache. Yesterday before school his temp was 99.3. That was a wee bit up - but maybe just a normal amount up because the kids are usually a bit warmer in the morning when they first start moving around. Ok. So he got oatmeal and advil for breakfast. I get a call from school at 2 pm.
"Mom, the teacher says you need to come get me right now. I have a fever of a hundred and four."
I was there in under five minutes and due to a not-so-safe bit of multitasking while driving a speeding car, had wangled an urgent appointment with the pediatrician who said he might need to go straight to the hospital.
I ran in to the office and there Mayhem was, sitting on the couch. Looking fine. (<--Fine meaning still pasty and not his usual self but CERTAINLY not lethargic and glassy eyed the way you'd expect in an 11-year old with a 104 degree fever.) This would be because he didn't have a 104 degree fever. He had a one hundred POINT four degree fever. How is that for an exciting teacher-kid-parent game of telephone? After rescheduling with the pediatrician for this morning and after leaving a message for the ex to belay that last (and after an internal pep talk to myself where I tried to convince myself I had not over reacted by calling him so quickly in the first place, that I had done what I would have wanted him to do if the situation had been reversed, yada, yada, yada), Mayhem and I had a little chat. He thought it was ridiculously funny. "How fast were you driving?! You've never gotten to school so fast." Ahem. I did not answer that question. I distracted him with talk about decimal points and boys who cry wolf.
Example 2:
This little language confusion vignette stars the middle schooler. At dinner we find out that apparently every day, Chaos rushes out of school to the bus waving his hands wailing "The world is ending!" His friends think this is HILARIOUS. (I mentioned this is middle school, right?) And then he flings himself onto the bus and with a dramatic sigh declares, "Sanction!"
Ummm. Sanction?
Sweet Hubby said, "I think he means 'sanctuary'." Ah.
We explained the difference between 'permission' and 'sacred place, haven.'
"Whatever." says Chaos.
Whatever? Sweet Hubby and I give each other the eye. Good parents that we are, we reserve the one-two punch of humor followed by the threat of future embarassment for special, lesson-teaching occasions. But words and their meanings are important, darn it. So out comes the parenting equivalent of the Play Station triangle-square-square-circle super move: the Rehearsal Dinner Box.
SH: I think this is another story we should write down for 'the box'.
Kids: The box?
Me: I agree. Definitely.
Kids: What box?
Me: You know, the box of stuff we're saving to bring out at the party on the night before your weddings. The Rehearsal Dinner Box.
Chaos: Gork. (<--That is as close as I can get to the sound he made.)
Chaos: What do you mean, stuff you're saving?
SH: You know, like The Rubberband.
Chaos: Gork!
Other Kids: What rubberband?
*The Rubberband says "I love Hannah" on it but Sweet Hubby didn't know that when he pried it off of Chaos' wrist last year. Once he saw the words, SH knew why Chaos had stealthily and steadfastly refused to take it off even though his hand was turning blue. It is definitely going in the box. What future wife wouldn't want to know that her groom was once so infatuated that he was willing to cut off his circulation for love? Anyway, The Rubberband, it is a secret for now. Sweet Hubby has promised not to let anyone else know what it says. Anyone, of course, in our household means 'any of the other kids or any of my friends'. Moms are not just anyone.
Me: I think 'Sanction!' should go right next to 'Seep!' (This distracted the Other Kids from The Rubberband. See how good I am?)
Kids: Seep?
SH: Remember Chaos' vocabulary paper? The one where he defined 'seep' as 'to leak' and then for his example sentence wrote, "I seeped my pants."? That's in the box.
Kids, including Chaos, crack up for a surprisingly long time over "I seeped my pants." They are, in fact, howling with laughter.
Me: We have a box for each of you.
Immediate silence.
Ninja Princessa: Even me?
Chuckle, chuckle. Snicker, snicker. (See how much fun parenting can be? This is why the experts say you should sit down and have dinner with your children every, single night!)
Me: Oh yeah. Personally, my favorite thing in your Rehearsal Dinner Box is a page covered with "Mrs. Ninja Princessa Potter. Mrs. Ninja Potter. Mrs. Ninja Princessa Radcliffe...." And hearts. And swirlies. And butterflies. And lightning bolts.
NP: rolls on the floor claiming she'll never, ever, in a million, quadrillion, bazillion years get married (not even to Daniel Radcliffe!)
All this time Mayhem, who is one of those fiddle-y kinds of kids, has been sticking the tines of his fork anywhere except in his asian salad. He has levered up his plate. He has tapped on his milk glass. He has threaded his napkin in and out of the slots between the tines. He is poking his leg. With the fork.
Me: Mayhem! Stop it! The fork is for eating your salad with. Not for poking yourself in the thigh with!
SH: Yeah, what she said. And besides, it looks like you're stabbing your privates. If you don't stop, we'll have to take away your fork privileges. We'll hang a sign around your neck when you go to school that says "Not allowed to use forks. Spoons only!"
Kids, including Mayhem, lose it. Absolutely lose it. I'm not sure if it's the word 'privates' or 'fork privileges' but they freakin' lose their minds. Forks get dropped on the floor. Milk gets snorted out of noses. Heels kick the legs of chairs. Our youngest, who is seven and probably thinks marriage is as far away as retirement, recovers first - but only manages to set everyone off again.
Havoc: Yeah, and we'll keep the sign and put it in your Reversal Dinner Box!
Chaos: "Spoons Only!"
SH: If y'all keep laughing so hard, you'll seep your pants.
NP: Daniel and I are going to elope.
Don't you want to come have dinner with us? Don't you want to tell us all about your day? So we can make fun of you and record it for all time in your very own Rehearsal Dinner Box?
Peace.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I Ran AND Can Pass 8th Grade Science
Woo Hoo!
| You Passed 8th Grade Science |
 Congratulations, you got 8/8 correct! |
Have Cute Socks, Will Run
Whatever it takes to get me out the door for my first run in THREE weeks, right?They are cute though, aren't they? I get to about mile three and I start thinking about how cute my feet are (darling socks, skinny shoes). It's like the only thing that keeps me going to mile five sometimes. And, today? I don't know if it's enough to get me to the stop sign (.4 mi). We'll see.
The half marathon is on April 29th. Seven weeks. But no, we shouldn't think about that. Let's get back to the cute socks so we can get our butts out the door, eh?
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