Thursday, May 31, 2007

Dirty and sweaty (yet appropriate for children)

I cut my nails off, not that I care. They will grow back faster than I can come up with a metaphor. But my inner Peggy Hill has surfaced and she can't be quiet. No silly, I'm not sportin' size 16 1/2 shoes or substitute teaching Spanish at Tom Landry Middle School - but I have discovered the electric yard trimmery-bob and I think I like this gardening business. It's not so bad.

Greg and I have been posing as renters for the past 3 years. It's what we have known. We would mow the lawn and do the minimal requirements, but I want a pretty lawn, a place to entertainment. A picnic table. I could close my eyes and picture lazy summer afternoons, hanging out with my friends while the bunchkins frolic, but I'm liable to fall asleep. My fantasy includes ice tea and Rainier cherries; laughter. Perhaps tequila, if the kids keep bickering, but I'll save that subject for another day.

I would admit that my brain is frazzled and I can't write any more, but Mrs. Hill would never do that, not without a plausible excuse.

Does taking a bath count? I sure hope so.

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Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Laundry, no-smut shorts and messages from the crazy ex-girlfriend

I rolled out of bed, emptied the hamper, headed to the laundromat. I lost my underwear along the way - I bend down to pick them up and all the clothes fall away. The laundry room is a closet, not my own. I forget my detergent. I start to turn back for the soap, but lose my way. I just know someone is stealing my clothes.

I wake up.

I have never been so glad to have this house, to have a washer and dryer. Life used to be harder.
Mall spoils for Lexi:

Knee-length gauchos: 'Mom, they swish...'

Bright, sequined gauchos; super comfy.

Mid-thigh denim shorts. Cute and she can wear them to school.

I love the Children's Place.


Greg brought his laptop up to laundryland last night; I was folding five loads while watching The Riches. As soon as he said, 'You will never guess who just sent me a message', I knew.

Greg's crazy ex found him on the internet. I wondered when she would resurface.

I have a policy: I stay friendly with ex-boyfriends because I love my husband, and I go out of way to inquire/befriend/include their wives and children. I respect their wives. I ogle over their babies.

Many years have passed. Surely we have all grown-up, and we will laugh about her stalking tendencies funny antics when Greg and I started dating.

But CrazyExGirlfriend is, well, crazy, she doesn't know these rules. She doesn't care about these rules. She is a 39 year-old divorcee with myspace looking to date. She doesn't ask about me. She hasn't changed.

She acts like she doesn't know he is married to me, that he picked me. Then I look at Greg's bare-bones myspace page, the one he uses for his car club.

The default says he is single and doesn't want kids.

That probably didn't help.

I pray she goes away.

I don't use the word 'crazy' lightly.

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Monday, May 28, 2007

Honoring the Merchant Marines

My Grandpa died before I had a digital camera; I don't have a picture of him scanned to honor him today. I think he would say the flag is enough.

He was a patriot.

Papa Bill served in the Merchant Marines in WWII. He was too young to enlist otherwise. He wanted to serve his country. Eager even. And it breaks my heart that he never received any benefits, the GI bill, anything except a sense of satisfaction.

Surprised? I was too. The mariners provided the supplies to our troops during the war and suffered the highest casuality rate - 1 in 26 - but were denied benefits. It's hard to believe but true. And last year, a bill that would provide $1000 a month to the remaining mariners or their surviving wives was defeated.

It's just a great shame.

If you would like to learn more about the Merchant Marines, click here.

And please, if you would like to lend your support to the 2007 bill to provide promised benefits, click here.

picture courtesy of geekphilosopher.com

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Summer kickoff

The boys headed out for the coast this morning for a barbeque and Subaru joy with Greg's car cronies. Zack was feeling all manly, going somewhere, just with Dad. He only screamed briefly (dropping his manliness altogether) when confronted with a bee while packing up, and came inside to read the Magic School Bus Inside a Beehive, to soothe his mind. Which is exactly what I do when something scares the bejeebus out of me or worries me - I research it until I know all there is to know about it. It gives me a (false) sense of control. Anything for some peace of mind.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Lexi and I are headed to the mall to buy her some shorts and sandals. I need to stop feeding this one; she grows too quickly. My sister is still in California, so I can't pick her brain for shopping suggestions. She is the designated fashionista in the family and so adores the mall. I haven't been back since Santa 2006. It's not my natural habitat.

I hope to find some appropriate, yet hip, girly stuff for my nine year-old. I also hope to bring about world peace.

A girl's gotta dream.

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Thursday, May 24, 2007

Some parents left behind

My daughter collapses under the pressure of her math homework, in tears and aggravated. I try not to help, as it is her homework and I want her to become independent. I also try not to help because I don't understand what the hell she is doing.

Before I gather a mob and light the torches, please know that I embrace progress and like innovation. Most of the time. I'm certain teaching her multiplication and division by sketching a trillion dots on paper stretches her brain. She will master what I call bar math, able to calculate cocktail tabs quickly to the sounds of grungy rock. Her ability to do long division in her head will help her someday. But when did it become bad form to learn what Lexi refers to 'old-fashion' math?

(Because as she put it: "Sometimes old-fashioned times were better. Like they didn't have drunk drivers." What?)

'Scuse me while I yank up my support hose.

Doing two and three digit math problems, without a firm grip on the times tables, strikes me odd. She doesn't know how to 'carry'; she doesn't know what dropping a number means. She speaks another math language.

This summer, I plan on opening the Milton Math Academy. I, Mrs. Milton, will teach my kids some fundamental math skills because I can't imagine being without a calculator and unable to solve a problem without making figures on my handy-dandy cave wall.

But it irks me; it really does. In the race to meet test requirements, we seem to have thrown that dirty ol' fashioned baby out with the bath water. Or maybe I blew my last braincells out my nose this afternoon and am overreacting.

It could go either way.

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Blah blah, sick; blah blah, anxiety

Turn away, dear reader. I am about to bore you with more stories of snot and crying.

Neither is pretty.

Lexi is back at school today, right in time for her music 'informance' (a performance that informs, I gather). My Mom is coming over and I am standing on two feet again. I took SusieJ's advice and slathered apple cider vinegar on my chest; I chased Lexi down and did the same to her. She whined about smelling like a stinky locker room. I told her to stop sniffing herself (I am such an understanding mother) and to be thankful that her husband was out of town. Oh, wait that's me.

Greg called and said his trip may bleed over until Friday. So I pleaded and threatened to revoke my brownie-baking ways if the bleeding over occurs, but he has little sway over worldwide corporations so I may just omit the butterscotch chips.

At least my throat feels better today - if Zack keeps screaming every time he sees a 'bee', he will have bloody tonsils by noon. He has a NEW AND IMPROVED fear of all insects with wings, so bountiful in the spring, prompting him to cleave to my bod.

[Little boys are the new black.]

This phobia is the last straw, prompting me to scout out books on anxiety in children. I read several back when Lexi was 6 and had similar panicky tendencies. I try to remember that she used to this way - am I more freaked out because boys are 'supposed' to be tougher? Maybe. But I didn't enjoy hearing other Moms refer to Lexi as a big baby either.

Anyhoo, I found a couple of new titles. I have high hopes for the one that applies cognitive-behavioral approaches, tips and pragmatic advice.

I mean, how much 'troubled past' could the boy have in kindergarten?

Please don't answer.

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Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Sick and tired

After a week of coddling, I was able to shoo both kids onto the school bus today, as God intended. There have been unexplained fevers, coughs and inhalers for asthma. I was ever so glad, considering I have a sore throat myself and had plans to dream of baby ogres this afternoon.

I woke up and caught the end of Dr. Phil. (Well, not the end. The show continues despite my neglect.) I could have sworn I saw MARCIA MARCIA MARCIA airing her family troubles on TV, but rejected this initial thought because why would Maureen McCormick do such a thing. But alas, it was her. It was pathetic. And it is why I don't watch daytime TV anymore.

Lexi looked pale when I picked her up from track practice soon after. It may not be over yet.

I put our Blockbuster pass to good use, letting each child pick something.

We are hunkering down.

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Monday, May 21, 2007

Death on Uncle Milton's Farm

Forget Terminix; if you have unwanted ants, just pour them into a farm and presto! Instant death. We have been feeding and watering the colony, and the suckers died.

Ants in the summer = inpervious. Ants we paid for = fragile.

The directions say we can sift the sand and start over.

(After our wounded hearts heal.)

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Friday, May 18, 2007

Boopie: A lesson in anatomy

Boo - pie [boo - pee]
Term of endearment, nickname, what Greg calls me; see also Boops

We are piling into the car one night when Zack pauses, and a strange look comes over his face. He is perplexed.

Greg and I stop and ask him what's wrong.

He pinches up his face and asks, "Why does Daddy always call you a booby? Or a boob?"

Poor guy has been thinking that his Dad calls his Mom a ta-ta twenty times a day. No wonder he is anxious. He has seen the future and it includes a lot of therapy.

(It's a wonder we have real names at all.)

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Thursday, May 17, 2007

The CEO of Milton Enterprises chimes in

Dear Daughter,

It has been brought to my attention that you took a long, hot shower this morning, right after your father did the same. (Although he would point out that he does not scald himself like the womenfolk in the household.) While this is good and pleasing - the rinsing away of an afternoon of bug-catching, soccer practice and football - leaving your mother with tepid, then cold water, is not.

(Which reminds me, I need to wash your sheets. You were a grubby girl.)

Please understand that hot showers and an IV drip of caffeine is what gets me through trying times. I have managed living with five suite mates, roommates and even their occasional 'friend' and still finagled a decent shower. I credit scorching water for pulling me out of the fugue of early motherhood; it makes all things right again. It restoreth my soul.

Imagine my surprise, and then despair, when I shivered in the shower. Oh the humanity. And this was before I stepped on the scale or registered your dear brother's temperature. The day is on a downward spiral. Don't bogart the hot water, my sprout. The consequences could be dire; my mood, foul.

I feel better, now that we've cleared up this misunderstanding. You just didn't know. You are a girl after my own heart, lover of hellwater. I get it.

Thank you for your prompt consideration to this matter.


Mama Milton
CEO 'cause I said so

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Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Mix Master

Greg got back to his roots last week - behind the bar at a work function. Yes, I can rightfully put 'bartender' on my resume. If I wanted to. But Greg is the master.
Picture courtesy of Nicole Johnston. Thanks.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Bringing up Yeti

Date May 2007
Clark County, WA
Nearest Town Camas
Conditions Unseasonable sunny, clear, perfect
Time Early, very early
Description of the event

Suburban Mom rises with the sun, seeking a few quiet moments to herself. She glances at her calendar and stifles a hearty hurrah - today's date is empty. She will soon fill it with everything that has fallen to the wayside; she still has laundry to fold and papers to sign/file/deal with. But for now, there is a hush and a smile and a cup of tea.

SM starts to unload the dishwasher when she realizes she is not alone. The guttural moaning is faint at first, but grows louder with every beat of her now blackening heart. There are Sasquatch afoot and though she is no expert, she grew up with the lore and fears bigfoot (bigfeet?) have been squatting upstairs. That would certainly explain the odor.

These Yetis aren't stealthy; the growling and grunting has grown. They seem to be fighting with each other for sport. Maybe this is a rite of passage. Who is Suburban Mom to question their ways? Yet all the racket has spoiled the morning. She goes to the kitchen and returns to the fracas, condiments in hand. She figures that if the wee hairy creatures are going to gnaw each other's ears off before 7 am, the least she can do is lob some ketchup at them.

SM closes the door and lets the Bigfeet be Bigfeet. Surely they will work it out. She will try to get some footage later; you may catch it on the news tonight. She will be the one in the bathrobe, pouring herself a cocktail cup of coffee, something to wash down her 'medicine'.

Perhaps they take Bigfeet at soccer camp. One can only hope.

Source Fictitious Tales of an Addled Mind

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Monday, May 14, 2007

The storm

I am walking through a storm, one that touched down in my living room. We have all gone our own way this week - four times the travel debris. There are piles of laundry, shoes (do we own this many shoes?), papers to be signed and bills to pay. Oh, and I guess the kids will need to eat today so I will be off to buy groceries too, but first, to the computer to post. I have my priorities.

Lexi spoke at both church services yesterday, extolling the ways I remind her of God. You heard me right. She had to ponder long and hard too. I found it hard to coach her through this - I at once felt inadequate and exasperated. (What do you mean you can't think of anything?)

I am proud of Lexi often; it's not tough. But I am astounded when my daughter exudes this newfound confidence. Not too long ago and she was frantic, nervous, shy. Now she doesn't hesitate to take the stage; she climbs large horses and rides off like she has been doing it on the sly.
Lexi at horse camp

It gives me hope when Zack's teacher and bus driver told me Thursday that Zack has been crying in the afternoon, when the buses come. He is worried Lexi will miss the bus and become lost. I've applied all the logic I can muster and walked him through all the 'what ifs', something I do when I start to flesh out catastrophe. It isn't helping. We've worked a plan to get through the next month at school, one that includes Lexi walking him to the bus. But the panic lives on. Now Zack spends his free time planning my day, reminding me when he goes to school, when he gets home. He's a living blackberry, a talking day planner. This is boy who loves structure; anxiety makes him crave some control. It makes me crazy. It's like living with Rainman.

Rainman gets old.
Rainman makes me holler.
Rainman brings out the stuff your kid doesn't say on stage, at church.
Rainman, frankly, makes me tired and scared because there isn't much I can do to fix it.

We have to ride it out.
Ammy at the mother's day party
My Mom would tell you she had to help me get to sleep at night with guided imagery; that I worried about hell, kids at school, ugly stuffed animals no one would buy. Lexi was a Rainwoman too. And hopefully, Zack will find a way to sooth himself, a way to cope with his sensitive soul.

I'll try not to worry. Too much.

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Friday, May 11, 2007


No real post today; there are dishes in the sink. I am out the door, dropping Zack off with my sister so Lexi and I can head out to horse camp with her Girl Scout troop.

I want to write today - there are gnats in my brain. But this weekend is a time for living, not chronicling, life. I sometimes get that confused.

And if I don't make it back here before Sunday, Happy mother's day. Be good to the ladies out there, ok?

Thursday, May 10, 2007


We finally gave in and ordered DVR - some TiVo derivative. It was like selling my soul to the Devil himself, I was so sure I would watch even more useless TV. My brain would fall out of my ears and then who would raise these kids?

I am watching less TV. Less morning talk shows that tick me off; less 'news' channels. I used to feel compelled to be tuned in, just in case something 'big' happened. But I am over it. I feel brain damaged when I hear the same Paris or Anna Nicole story regurgitated.

(I use a lot of 'brain damage/bleeding/falling out of the ears' when I explain to the kids why there are TV limits. They quote me to their friends. We don't get asked back.)

I still have some favorites. I watch old Buffy episodes while I fold laundry. Greg and I watch Heroes, Lost and 24 together. I was watching the Black Donnellys until NBC pulled it out from under me. Tragedy.

But I still get my Irish fix - The Riches. Oh, Miss Minnie Driver is delightful. I am smitten.

And that leaves Grey's Anatomy. I've been hooked from day one. Can I say that I hated the final 5 minutes last week? That slap - I almost cried for Meredith. Yeah, I know she isn't real. Shut up. (We don't say that at our house, but I can type it.)

I love sweeps. I love the finales.

Then I will be renting movies like mad, catching up.

Ooh, I will be watching this.

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Wednesday, May 09, 2007

We must, we must

Some hoopla was raised when a picture of Maggie Gyllenhaal surfaced earlier this week - her breast bare, nursing her daughter, Ramona.

The emotional reactions were all over the place. There is a movement afoot, and the lines are being drawn.

It all seems silly to me. I, for one, am quite familiar with Maggie's boobs. I saw them in all their free-range glory on the big screen. And as for breastfeeding in public, I've done it. It wasn't a statement or a political move. I had babies and I wasn't under house arrest. I 'practiced' this nonstop feeding with modesty, because that was how I was raised and how I felt comfortable. But I never hid in a bathroom stall, straddling the pot, in fear of offending someone.

Zack was a newborn when I started attending yet another church on my way to finding my religion again. Lexi settled into the preschool room with ease and I discovered they had a room for mothers with babies located on the side of the sanctuary. I thought this was brilliant. The room was empty and Zack was fussing and ready to eat. I settled in behind the two-way mirror, and preceded to set Zack up, without feeling the need to rustle behind a blanket. Once, he was comfortable, I looked up and noticed some congregants were not just looking my direction, but staring right at me. I quickly realized that the window was simply shaded; I had just whipped it out in front of the devout. The door opened moments later and I was served my directions to the nursing mothers' room, with a side of shame.

I imagine I got mentioned over lunch.

I tried to laugh it off, and I did. It was funny. I could laugh because in a world full of real problems and real suffering, all this drama over how we feed our kids seems like a distraction, keeping us from substantive conversations.

And I want to fill my plate with things that matter. I want my kids to move past the breast, the belly and long for something more.

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Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Promises, promises

Breakfast at Panera's

We are having record high temperatures here in the NW. Before you can say 'global warming', I will be gone in a flash, racing around. It is a busy week in Miltonland, and we are sans one parent.

Zack's picture of Lexi

We delivered scones early this morning for teacher appreciation week at the kids' school. Then we headed out for pastries and ate outside.

Lexi's picture of Zack

Now it's back to school to help out in Lexi's class. I have many promises to keep this week.

My new glasses

Oh, and I picked up my glasses yesterday. I have 20/20 vision which means I am painfully aware that my floor needs mopping. I've been viewing the world through vaseline lenses. I think this newfound clarity may take some getting used to.

Monday, May 07, 2007


We've been sleeping with the windows open over the weekend, lest we die by paint fumes. Our room is now a midnight blue, just what I wanted. And it stinks.

That's when the fighting begins, and the neighbors get an earful. It's the same argument, in syndication.

Me: Why, why, why won't you do what you are supposed to do? AARRGGHH.

Inanimate object: Null

Me: The buttons don't work right. I need to get up earlier tomorrow. And. It. Just. Won't. Let me. Here, you try.

Greg (sighing and disinterested): Yep, you're right. It doesn't work. You should find one that works.

He is smug, he with his one true alarm clock. His still works.

I begin to struggle with my clock, the one I paid $5 for - it was not a bargain.

I won my first alarm clock (great prize, eh?) selling something, or saving stamps. (Or maybe that was the Bradys.) I had it from the tender preteen years through college, newly married and with two babies. It never let me down. I never thought about it. I just packed it through countless moves and roommates. It was steady.

I hated seventh grade. I bet you did too. It's the great equalizer - so few people have fond memories of it. But I had my tonsils out in October that year and 2o days later, I had an emergency appendectomy. I missed six weeks of school; it didn't help. Better yet, my 12 year-old friends had discovered black beauties and were giving out pointers on, well, let's just say that Monica Lewinsky had nothing on these girls.

I was soon in the market for some new friends. And fast.

I used to cry every morning before school. I begged my mother to let me quit, but she was all you have to go and so I did.

That was when I discovered I needed a theme song, something to psyche myself up with before I headed to Satan's Land. (More on that another time.)


Lisa Wheeler's Wake-up Song, circa 1983 aka Theme Song

I don't know why, but it spoke to my angst-ridden, tween heart. I would wake up to it and play it over and over again on my trusty, free alarm clock radio. I completed my incompletes and blossomed into a fine young lady. (This is my version. I'm allowed to skip over the ugly, awkward stage when I tell it.)

By the time Zack was born, the thing was banged up and pathetic. The radio didn't work; I don't own cassettes anymore. One day she needed to be put down.

So, I bought the cheapest hunk of crap I could find. It is worth every penny. It dictates my schedule and raises my blood pressure.

(I bet I know what I'm getting for Mother's Day.)

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Sunday, May 06, 2007

We *heart* Peter Parker

We did our part as Americans, as uber-nerds, and went to see Spider-man 3 yesterday. I didn't know how we could avoid it; we were being driven by a comic-obsessed 6 year-old boy. The PG-13 rating had me nervous - it brings my mothering skills into question - but I played permissive parent and went for it.

No nightmares. They loved it.

And I'll be honest: I love this franchise. LOVE IT. I can't turn away from the themes. Doing the right thing. Making sacrifices. Forgiveness. I am a sucker for this stuff.

Sure there was some awkward moments in the film. I don't like my Peter Parker going goth on me. His Disco Stu phase pained me. But nothing I couldn't overlook; it was a great ride.


My good mood continues over MTMS: On being happy.

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Saturday, May 05, 2007

Ye have but one week left

Feeling nostalgic for the 80's? Boy, have I got a link for you. Check out this ode to the mamas in Mr. T's 'Treat Your Mother Right' video.

Good stuff.

(Should I get a perm?)


Thanks Shari!

Friday, May 04, 2007

What's in your wallet?

I think my inner slob weeped, just a little, when someone confused me with a Fly Lady disciple. They were tears of joy; I have to savor the moments I appear to be orderly. It's not my nature.

I cared for my sister's little boys until last spring. I used to pick up Zack's 'girlfriend' from preschool everyday. I drove a hulking big durango and carried a purse that would make a survivalist proud. I carried goldfish crackers, wipes, binkies, extra paper and pens, a spare diaper and a gallon of antibacterial gel. I WAS PREPARED.

Last summer it occurred to me: I don't have babies anymore. They're real kids now. So, I downsized. I bought a nifty little car. I bought myself a wee little purse - something carefree and light. It's a little slip of a purse, a wallet really. It's liberating.

I packed a basket in my car with sunscreen, wipes, Excedrin and a first aid kit. We are ready to roll.

My back sings my praises.

Wee baby purse

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Thursday, May 03, 2007

Rant and Rave

Rant and Rave
Today, boys and girls, I will introduce you to one of my favorite writers. Please be advised that Chuck Palahniuk writes some rather dark stuff (Fight Club, Lullaby, Choke) - I know it is not everyone's cup of tea. But I am hooked.

I first picked up Diary a couple of years ago - reading his books out of order. I couldn't put it down. It was a delicious, horrific ride. It reminded me of Stephen King in all the best ways: It was creepy, and somehow profound.

I started checking out his other books at Borders, under the watchful eye of my young bookseller friends. They would cringe and warn me, 'that book is really sick...and I loved it'. I came to understand what they meant. If I gave you a synopsis, you would turn away. But Palahniuk is a masterful minimalist writer. He gets human nature.

Palahniuk signing books
I missed the last tour.
Chuck Palahniuk, Bagdad theatre
I made sure I bought a ticket early this time.
And here's the thing: The guys writes disturbing postmodern tales, and yet he seems like the nicest, coolest guy around. I know, it sounds so 7th grade, but I don't know how else to put it.

I want to make him cobbler.

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I am IT

SusieJ tagged me for what could have been a terrifying experience: spilling the contents of my purse. But 2007 has been the year of getting my act together and eliminating clutter so the damage was limited. I used to carry vitamins in my purse (I don't know why). A rather pungent vitamin B capsule exploded and the smell never went away. Every time I left Borders and went through the customary purse search (isn't retail fun?), the foyer smelled like a co-op, or Wild Oats. Anyway, here's the goods. (There are notes, if you are so inclined.)

Open thy purse:MEME

Oh, I almost forgot to tag! Lori, are you game? What about you, Irene? Shai, are you in?

That leaves me some more tagging to do. I gotta figure out who hasn't had a turn yet. (I am FAIR.)
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Wednesday, May 02, 2007

On being neighborly

I picked a fight with my neighbor last summer. Believe me when I tell you I didn't want to embroil myself in this battle - I am happy to get along, live and let live. (See also: I AM TOLERANT.)

This is the problem.

Let me back up here and explain. The guys next door are young men, in their 20s I'd guess. We don't hang out, but they do the polite wave thing when they pass me. When a chunk of tree fell from their property and took out part of our fence, they apologized to me, and then Greg and promptly fixed it. That very day.

They also throw a wingding or two during the summer.

Greg and I have lived with roommates, suite mates and spent plenty of years in apartments. Parties really don't freak us out; no blood, no trouble, no problem. We are sheltered by trees and some distance, so they don't even wake us up.

I roll out of bed the next day, oblivious, until the my beleaguered neighbor, the one that can hear everything tells me her troubles. That's not exactly true either. She berates me for not calling the police.

I have explained, verbally and in emails that I will call the police if we hear anything. Or if they do something else that warrants calling the police. But I think that law enforcement has bigger fish to fry and I don't plan on complaining if their radio is on during dinnertime. (Once again, can't hear it unless I am standing in my driveway.) Or if they park more than 6" from the curb. I, in fact, have bigger fish to fry too - like raising kids and burning a hole in my thighs, caressing my laptop.

This lack of action infuriates my other neighbor. I know she is frustrated and in her frustration, she is angry. My guess is she thinks I am weak and worse, lying about not hearing the deafening party noise. I can't convince her; she thinks I just don't care or won't do my part. So, instead of being rattled by the noisy partiers, I dread six months of dealing with someone who is trying to make me do things I just won't do or can't do. (I AM ALSO STUBBORN.) It's six months of the message being relayed to my 3rd grader. It's six months of knocking on my door. It's six months I need to plan for.

I have tried that detached counselor mode.

'Oh, that must be so troubling for you. I hope it is a better summer.'

'Gee, we are lucky because the trees really filter out the noise. It's hard to believe we slept through all the commotion. It must have been that bottle of tequila. ha, ha....ha?'

'No other neighbors called either? Maybe they didn't... Maybe they were slee...'

When what I want to say is:

'Get over it. Move to the country. Take some meds. Talk to the fellas directly, the ones that are causing you grief. Leave me alone. Chill out. Find a hobby. GROW UP.'

I have stayed diplomatic and calm to avoid conflict. Now it seems trying to stay out of it has brought the conflict straight to my door.

I need a winning strategy.

{Can't we just get along?}

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Tuesday, May 01, 2007


Recently I came across a blog with the witty name I AM BOSSY. I mean, how perfect is that? It is sassy. It is edgy. A little urban.

And I here I am, abusing the moniker my babes overuse and the one on my tax forms. It's not very original.

I don't think I could pull off BOSSY. I'm a little too passive for that. So, I guess I would be stuck with mamby-pamby adjectives like INDECISIVE or NICE or how about I AM DIPLOMATIC?

I certainly wasn't CLEVER when I started this blog a year ago.

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Today I got all PARANOID over at Much to My Sjogren.