Saturday, September 29, 2007

tell me when it's over

I was just leaving my therapist's office when my Mom called. Are you surprised I am seeing someone? Well, don't be. I really should. But for now, I was leaning on the everlasting arms of a very wise soul in the form of a friend on my couch while drinking tea. We commiserated over our absent husbands, out earning the dough, while we shepherded seven kids. The rain provides a close bonding experience.

Anyhow, back to my Mom. She was worried about my Grandma; she just didn't sound right the night before and wasn't answering the phone. She decided to drive over to check on her before I came over with the kids and all their goods for the night. My Mom knew something was wrong when she saw Grandma Jean's face - it was misshapen, crooked. She seemed confused and disoriented, but insisted that she felt fine. But she didn't seem fine. She had ate breakfast at 1 am. She remembered to pick up a dog at the airport (she shows dogs) (that's another post altogether), but then went Christmas shopping. Please note my Grandma never Christmas shops until about December 20th, so this is odd. Odd, odd, odd equals a trip to the ER.

In short, she had a stroke. Again. She is in the hospital right now, and my poor mother is scrambling, trying to figure out what to do.

Whining about my plans being altered would certainly be in bad taste, so I will refrain. But I was bummed. It has been a tough week. (See also: I might start paying for someone to listen to me kvetch and moan.)

But I wasn't about to give up all hope. There wasn't anything I could do to help my family last night, but I still needed to feed my kids and I hadn't planned anything for dinner. So, I did what any crazed, desperate, needy mom would do - we met up with my ladies for dinner. Yes, my friends, I plopped my kids off at an adjacent table and bribed them with choco-tacos while I played grownup. They did not let me down. They were saints.

We came home and I lauded them with praise and smooched their little faces. Then my Solid Gold dancers shook their mighty booties to the High School Musical 2 soundtrack while I yelped and clapped from the couch.

I think my hypothetical therapist would approve.

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Thursday, September 27, 2007

need more books

I'm on a hunt, tracking down an inspirational tome - something pithy and positive to send the kids off to school with, to offset the standard beseech and screech I'm famous for.

I'm thinking along the lines of 1001 Ways to Clean Your Room So Your Mama Won't Lose Her Everloving Mind. Or perhaps: Better Bickering for Beginners. How about 365 Days of Because Mom Said So?

I think Borders opens at 10. I could be one of those annoying customers, asking for a book I'm sure should exist. Oh, the sweet memories...
Lexi and Zack are headed to my parents' house tonight. I am going to meet some ladies from my church for some gooey appetizers at one of my favorite bars (scandalous, I know) and then, if my poor hubby can muster the strength, I am up for a movie. A date, if you will.

I'm suddenly feeling much better.

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Wednesday, September 26, 2007

turn, turn, turn

I've written three posts now, three bleak posts in the virtual trashcan.

It's hard to write tidy words. I'm messy in all sorts of ways.

One minute I am dancing around my dining room, washing windows to Elton John, and the next I am crying again. I shuttle one kid out the door, and miss him; I keep the other home sick, and wish I could go for a walk. Sometimes I walk in wonder, an hour alone, and study the leaves, talk to myself.

See? It sounds like I'm crazy, crumbling. I think it might be labor pain.

I'm beginning a new chapter in my life; I've been writing a first draft, trying out plots. I get the feeling I may need to do a little editing.

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magical powers

magic powers

I wrote a post last night; it sounded whiny and trite. So, I copping out and being nearly wordless. (Catch more Wordless Wednesday here.)

Monday, September 24, 2007

better living through sticky notes

Tell my Dad a number, and he'll recite it back to you, many moons later. Pick a date, any date, and my Mom will have some trivia up for grabs. And my sister, well, she remembers what she wore on the first day of school, each year.

I have a few parlor tricks myself; my memory has served me well. But because I have been running on empty lately, and because I am touching papers 37 times, I decided it was time to take action, put some old management skills to work for me.

Over the weekend, I put a new file folder in my kitchen to catch papers from the school. Then, I stocked up on post-it notes, to save me from having to keep track of so many details.


sticky note, 1
A kid's gotta eat. (That's teriyaki chicken. It doesn't look so good here.)
sticky note, 2
A boy's gotta get an education.
sticky note, 3
Or perhaps, a washcloth. Geez, Zack. What a mess.
sticky note, 4
Like she'd give it a rest...

We're giving it a whirl. Next stop, Flylady...

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quickly, before I run, run, run

another morning
Originally uploaded by mama.milton

Greg was here,
and now he's gone.
He left his wife
to carry on.

With bickering kids,
and laundry too.
No wonder I'm becoming
such a shrew.

So, I'm taking a break,
trying to rhyme,
trying to make better use of my time.

The reason, you ask.
Why torture you so?
Why write bad poetry,
to fill you with woe?

I'm not feeling mean,
Or even depressed.
Just way too busy,
which you probably guessed.

{Come back tomorrow. Please. No lame poetry, pinkie swear.}

Sunday, September 23, 2007

my kin

No, I don't come from a pack of wooly beasts. Don't act so shocked.

We took a little road trip yesterday to the Canby Fairgrounds, to the Flock & Fiber Fest. (Don't say it too quickly; you're bound to swear.) And why you ask?

Greg's parents were there with their llamas so we rounded up the kids for a day of oogling fuzzy creatures and dinner.

{You can catch more oogling action here.}

Saturday, September 22, 2007

deep breathing

Fog greeted me in the morning; not exactly the cure for the blues.

I buckled down, finished a project that been nagging at me. I read blogs until my eyes were tired. I set up another doctor's appointment and got some work done down at the school.

And it wasn't even noon.

Maybe I should cry more often.

The fog gave way to a fine afternoon, not a cloud in the sky.

I gathered the kids off the bus and headed to the park.

We came unencumbered. I sat in the grass while the kids took to the swings, played cat and dog. (And for once, this isn't an euphemism for bickering.)

We let out a big sigh.

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Friday, September 21, 2007

boo hoo; or friday's post is such a drag

I was a fright yesterday, trudging through Trader Joe's with clumpy, just-cried-in mascara. The spider lashes, the crowning glory, the final touch to my Morticia look - a little early to be trick-or-treating. But I didn't care. I needed sweet corn for my soup, for dinner, and it was the only thing I was up to doing.

It started with a silly clerical error, no big deal. It isn't worth mentioning, and it certainly didn't warrant the sobfest. My brain knows this. But it was enough to scratch the veneer, the candy coating that holds me together. I am drowning in paperwork, and I'm not good at paperwork. I didn't get the super-organized gene, so I work at it. Still, I failed and I couldn't sweet self-talk myself out of it. Prayer couldn't dam the tears.

The mistake prompted the trickle and it all came out: I miss my husband. I am overwhelmed. My kids cry, because they miss him too. I am exhausted. My chronic illness is rearing its head. Every day, I feel like I missed the mark. And every worry, every complaint fills me with shame.

I used to cry, quite a lot, in college. It was the golden age of therapy and I knew if I just 'let it out', I would be better afterwards. I wasn't embarrassed.

What has changed? Why do I insist on being Mrs. Strong?

I don't really know. But I let it out yesterday, and I let it be. I went through the world, raw. Smudged make-up, red eyes, runny nose. Honest.

I am calmer today; tired, but calm. I think having it together may be overrated.

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Wednesday, September 19, 2007

spooky and ooky

About twice a year, I take a hair-assessment. I am coping with my well-earned silver, most of the time anyway. But my hair is very dark and once I've baked it in the sun, it gets brassy. So I color it myself.

{Enter the ominous music.}

I don't use permanent color - even professionals screw that up and I've learned my lesson. It doesn't fade away .

My new hue will calm down, and if not, Halloween is just around the corner.

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Zack sat at a computer at the library last night, playing a game with a headset. I told him I was going find a comfy spot to read, around the corner, and HE SPOKE IN ALL CAPS, REASSURING ME THAT HE DOESN'T MIND, HE JUST LIKES TO KNOW WHERE I AM. (Headset, remember?)

He spoke to the computer screen frequently, prompting me to come over and remind him to use a quiet voice when he is acting like a loon. I settled back in my chair and heard his unbridled laughter. I started to get up again and paused.

Zack didn't talk until he was 3. 'Mama' took months of speech therapy; his early childhood was riddled with special education and doctor's appointments. He had a rough start.

I looked at him last night and sighed. He is a sweet, funny, healthy kid now.

With no volume control.

I am so lucky.
Zack's first day of preschool
Zack's first day of preschool. He rode the bus at 3 like a big kid, and then crashed out until the next morning.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

In other words

I just reread my post from this morning. I'm afraid I came across as a 1) teacher hater and 2) PTA nutjob, pushing those around me to volunteer at the school when they really are pressed for time.

I don't think I am either. I was just mad after someone took a swipe at me.

Tick Tock

I strolled into the school yesterday, taking care of some PT and A business when a teacher said something to me that struck a chord. A bad chord. A 'why do women say things like this?' chord.

It went a little like this: we, the _______(fill in whatever demographic you like, in this case, teachers), have SSOOOOO much on our plate, we can't possibly be expected to help out.

What I heard was: I can't possibly help out because I am important, and busy. You, however, clearly have nothing to do what with the vast emptiness of your puny plate.

This is not a working mom vs. SAHM argument. This is not to defend the time I spend at school, or on the internet, or on the couch watching Angel reruns. I'm not interested in that.

It's just that everyone I know is busy - my working Mom friends, and my Mom. My Grandma. The women I know with bitty little kids and for that matter, my hubby. (We ladies don't have the market on too little time.) To imply that my time, or yours, is expendable reeks of disrespect.

And we all get just 24 hours a day - no more, no less.

I plan on making a difference, filling in the gaps, changing the world. Raising healthy, sane kids. Keeping my own sanity. I bet you are doing the same.

*Edited to note: the teacher in question *asked* for a position, then stopped me at the door to complain about it. I never asked for her help.

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Monday, September 17, 2007

multiple choice: fall edition

I've been entertaining three posts in my brain, serving them tea and crackers. No more.

I'm setting them free; you pick:

{Sorry if I broke your reader this morning; I am having an AWESOME TIME with blogger.}

Sunday, September 16, 2007

multiple choice: headbanger edition

Greg and I sprung for a babysitter last week (my sister charges Starbucks love) and assumed the rocker position: we saw Alice in Chains/Velvet Revolver. Now I had my doubts; I mean, the dude from Chains died for pete's sake, so just how good could it be?

Well, take it from this grungy girl: it was amazing. My inner rock-girl rejoiced.

My headbanger brethren were swaying around me, even moshing a bit. The couple across the way lit up a pipe, um, with non-tobacco, in broad daylight which prompted the mother in front of us to admonish her teenage sons to hold their breath. All night.

Scott Weiland of STP and now VR was a kick to watch; he was dramatic and a bit loopy. (I am choosing to believe that he had sucked down a slushy strawberry margarita before the show, like me. Say 'no' to drugs Scott. Just say 'no'!) VR played their songs, Guns 'N Roses tunes and some STP for good measure - a composite of their careers. We got a 3 for 1 deal.

(And yes Stephanie, Slash still wears that hat and plays the dickens out of the guitar.)
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multiple choice: church-going edition

Good deeds are best done in secret. I think Jesus said that, or something similar and I agree. But sometimes it's hard to be quiet when something just seems so right. So I am willing to risk sounding flashy to give you my take on Love Portland.

The kids and I signed up to help at one of the poorest schools in Oregon; to clean, paint, do whatever was needed. I came around the corner, and was halted by a woman with vacant eyes, dragging two very small kids across a busy street. I slammed on my brakes, startled. She didn't seem to notice, she just kept walking, dropping cigarette ash on the little boy's head. He seemed used to it.

Her apathy caught me by the throat. She had visited desperate a long time ago; now she didn't care anymore.

It's not just the lack of money, it's the lack of hope.

Lexi, Zack and I scrubbed little chairs that afternoon in the elementary school where I like to think those tiny kids will go someday. It was just one act but I plan to go back. I won't give up.
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multiple choice: fab four meme edition

Mrs. Chicken gave me the nod, and I failed. Really. I was excited, and then sick and then lazy. My apologies. Without further ado, the fab four meme:

{Hear the hush of the crowd.}

4 jobs I have held:
  1. Pulpit preacher. Just kidding. I was a ministry major at a conversative Christian college. I think all that Free to be Me went to my head and I thought somehow I would lead a church someday, or maybe a youth group, or children's ministry. It never happened.

  2. So I became a Bartender. Well, not immediately. It was certainly not a natural segue to be sure. I started working in mighty fine restaurants as a hostess at Red Lobster, where I met Mr. Manager Milton and got my MRS.

  3. Blockbuster manager Oh yes, I love my movies. Our store was busy, 40,000+ active accounts busy. I lived there and loved it.

  4. Bookseller. First got a job at Borders in November of 2001, after Greg lost his job. Those first shifts were hell; I was still breastfeeding Zack and had to adjust quickly.

4 films I could watch again and again:

  1. Legally Blonde

  2. Office Space

  3. Meet the Parents

  4. When Harry Met Sally

4 TV shows I watch (I'm calling out some favorites):

  1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (duh)

  2. Six Feet Under

  3. The Sopranos

  4. Once and Again

4 places I have lived:

  1. Sandy, Oregon

  2. Ashland, Oregon

  3. Boise, Idaho (for one long summer)

  4. Vancouver, Washington

4 favorite foods:

  1. Vegan carrot cake ice cream

  2. Kettle spicy thai chips

  3. Pink lady apples, honeycrisp too

  4. Shrimp fajita burritos

4 websites I visit everyday:

  1. Google reader (the better to read me some blogs)

  2. Wikipedia

  3. Bad Mom
  4. Oh, the Joys

4 of my favorite colors:

  1. red

  2. purple, love both plum and bright shades

  3. pumpkin orange
  4. mustard

4 places I'd like to be right now:

  1. sitting in a theatre, my mouth crammed with frozen Jr. Mints; mind escaping

  2. sleeping, next to my hubby

  3. giggling with my kids on the beach or hiking around Round lake
  4. right where I am, home

4 names I like but wouldn't or couldn't use myself:

  1. Cooper

  2. Savannah

  3. Zoe
  4. Charlotte (I'm obsessed with this one. Don't know why...)

So, now I chasing down my prey:
Katydidnot, The World According to Suz, Natalie's Naptime News, Bad Mom and All's Quiet on the Home Front, Lori...wanna play? There's no pressure. Take your time; I did.

*sorry about the formatting; blogger hates me*

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sinners all

We took a vote this morning - we are skipping church. I expected Lexi to pitch a fit and use some verse against me, but she seemed content to do nothing or paint. (I see the art vibe in her eyes.)

Zack seemed a tad bit too happy to ditch church. (Jesus wept.) Then I reminded myself, and well, the Lord, that the little guy has been missing his Daddy terribly and he is envisioning an uninterrupted day of glorious Daddy time. Then I think God reminded me that he knew that already.

(Just call me Joan.)

I believe in big downtime.


It took me many years of soul-searching to commit to church again. That first year, I was so afraid of missing services, worried I would slip away again.

It's different now.

It's been a tough week. I am aching from head to toe and the thought of sitting in stiff theatre chairs sounds miserable. So we are retreating, taking it easy.

I no longer believe worship only happens between 9 and 12 on Sunday morning. It's in hugging a child, listening to a friend, serving your community.

I believe in a big God.

I sent Susan Isaacs an email after I read Chris Hitchens Jumps the Shark and Jordan Green's Got His Eyes on "Jaws".

(Before I can go on, I have to state, for the record, that both articles still tick me off. Positing men are the funnier sex based on what is marketed in Hollywood is insanity. If you don't know funny women, I weep for you. My real life is teeming with them. I also have encountered plenty of humorless men over the years. Maybe, just maybe, humor is like other personality trait - some have it, and some don't. I'm stepping down off my handy soapbox, right about...now. Breathe.)

Anyhoo, I started reading her blog and discovered we have much in common - despite the fact that she is a glamorous actress with a book contract and I am knee deep in PTA. Our spiritual paths are long and windy; we don't have all the answers.

She has always been kind and asked about my health. (She is familiar with autoimmune diseases, lucky her.) She has tempted me with bikram; teased me with kombucha, a fermented tea touted for its healing properties. When she offered to send me a starter, especially after the long week I had, I whimpered, 'yes, please'.

I believe in big community.

kombucha pancakes anyone?

{I'm making my first brew. It's a crazy west coast thing. There's a little hippie in my heart.}

Thanks Susan.

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Thursday, September 13, 2007


I've been mulling over a post all day, taking a break and then sitting with my computer again. I've a lot on my mind, posts I want to write, but I can't seem to put it in words today.
I'm adjusting to Greg's travel schedule. It seems to grow.
I'm wrestling with this new chapter in my life, what I want to be when I grow up, which I imagine is now.
I'm waiting for the doctor to call.
{Four days + fever + underlying disease = referral to specialist}

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

a close encounter with the Obama guy

So when I am not winning parenting awards (just call me Mama Banshee), I have been pushing my tush out the door, willing myself to sweat. I skipped the gym Monday and took a walk; it was windy and sunny and glorious.

(I love fall. I'll say it often. I'm sorry.)

I made my way down the familiar road and came across a strange stranger. It was 93 degrees and he chose a scarf and leather jacket, an interesting choice. I should have known, right then, that I should turn around and nurse my aching tummy on the couch. Practice moaning. But no. I pressed on and met my fate: no crazy person can resist me. Crazies love me.

Maybe it's because I will listen. Maybe I am approachable. Maybe, just maybe, I should practice making mean, aloof faces.

I can't repeat everything the physicist/politician said. He spoke of global warming and traveling to Mars in 3 minutes and Obama and minerals in Africa and the fourth dimension. Apparently we are all motherf****** if we don't vote right and get off the planet in the next 13 years; he warned me he could leave us all behind and I kinda prayed he would. Vanish. Now. And just how quickly could I run to my Blockbuster.

He finished his diatribe, gave me some rap salute and walked away.

So much for clearing my mind.


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Tuesday, September 11, 2007

parenting tips from a jerk

I hate being wrong. I often question if I am indeed 'right', but when there is no question and I blow it, it stays with me. I rewrite what I said in my head. I apologize and then wonder if I am forgiven. I wear an obnoxious 'P' on my forehead - I can't seem to achieve better parenting through perfectionism. And it sucks.

The latest glory moment: I was rounding up the kids for our PTA board meeting yesterday, and they were bickering and messing around. I gave them directions and they ignored me. I gave them consequences and they ignored me. And as I went upstairs to get my stuff, I broke my own rules and shrieked 'SHUT UP'. The words left my lips and I cringed; Zack started to cry. 'We' don't scream shut up around here - just ask my kids.

I picked Zack up and called Lexi over to me. I said sorry: that I was feeling badly, and that I had had a rough day, that I miss Daddy. That yes, I was angry that they didn't follow my directions, but I was still sorry.

And we made up.

I often wonder if being a perfectionist is just a fancy way for me to pretend that I am above screwing up, that I have it all together. I simply don't.

But I love my kids and I hope they know it. I hope they know they don't have to be bright and shiny all the time to win my affection. We're all doing the best we can.

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Monday, September 10, 2007

calling emerson in for some back up

I woke up with a stomach ache; it is still with me. I called out sick and went back to bed.


Oh wait. I'm playing single mother this week. There are no sick days, there is no reprieve. So, I got up and made my way through the day - call it motherhood light. I didn't clean the house, or write my post. I made minimal effort. It will just have to be good enough.

So, I am headed to bed now, but before I go I thought I'd share a poem by Emerson I rediscovered last week:


by Ralph Waldo Emerson

To laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty,To find the best in others,To leave the world a bit better,
whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

{I put this with my PTA binder. This is my sort of success.}

Sunday, September 09, 2007

For those I frightened, a public service announcement

Now that I went all Chicken Little on you (you know, the sky is falling and it is chock-full of neurotoxin), I wanted to conclude the lightbulb chatter with just a few things:
  • Click here if you need to dispose of a broken bulb, or in our case, charred bulb. (It also states here that CFL are required to be self-extinguishing.)

  • Come here when you need to dispose of a bulb, be it now or when it finally burns out when you are footing the kids' college education.

  • And to learn more about mercury and bulbs, here's a study for your consideration.

Now we can resume our natural blogging lives. Carry on. In the dark.

Saturday, September 08, 2007

friday night

Zack and I pick up Lexi from Girl Scouts and stop for gas and fudgesicles, the essentials for the weekend ahead. We are all tired after a busy week; ready for bed, missing Greg. Lexi talks about the alligator she rode earlier in the day at a school assembly - it is a welcome break from hearing about her hair. Zack asks Lexi what she did at Scouts and the fabric that holds our world together begins to unravel.

Zack begins to cry, because he can't ride horses at horse camp with us.

Lexi begins to cry, because she can't ride alligators everyday.

And I hold it together, but wonder, briefly, what it would be like to ride off into the sunset.

The fantasy gets me through bedtime, when I can get some sleep and start over again.

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Friday, September 07, 2007

safety update

It has been brought to my attention, post-electrical fire, that I should have reached for my fire extinguisher. Oh wise people, of course I should have, but I was in primitive mode - fire ceiling wall must stop fire house burn down me nude in street crying sad sad sad - so I grabbed the water bottle. Cavegirl did the best she could.

(I know it against all that is holy and PC to question these energy saving bulbs, but I am ripping them out of my house. I think the fire was an anomaly; I don't really think it will happen again. But now I am stuck with a broken, mercury-filled bulb. I don't understand how we can embrace a poison as good for the environment. Just ask Lexi and even she knows she can't have tuna often because the ocean is polluted and I am crazy when it comes to stuff like that. This contradiction makes my head hurt, or maybe it was the fumes yesterday - all I know is I felt like I was doing something good for the earth and now, I am not so sure.)

Ok, I feel better, getting that out.

Greg is off to the beach, again, for the weekend with his BFF (somewhere a man is grimacing at his laptop, begging me not to say that anymore) and a bunch of fellas, ushering in football season and fishing. When he returns, and before he takes off on his next business trip, we are shooting to get the new tires. I would do it myself, but my husband has many opinions about the Subaru breed and so, I am a 1950s housewife, frail and unable, waiting on her husband. He is adamant that the tires are not that bad, that we were planning on getting new ones soon anyway, but now I am freaked out. As is my way. I'm sure I was a vision of peace and calm when he returned from his day trip to California and back yesterday. Yet he still loves me which just proves my luck is turning around.

sorry my social bookmarks are bulky - i'm new to adding them

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Thursday, September 06, 2007

panties, and tires, and fire - oh my

School is underway, and I have oodles of free time to preen and run amok. Minutes after the bus pulled away Tuesday, I lapped up tables of new book releases, drunk on my freedom after 10 years. Then I obviously ticked someone off and my life, Hex 2.0, began.

Let me explain.

It started with my doctor's appointment yesterday. Sure, the news could have been worse, but a quick glance around the waiting room and I felt like donning a party hat and feeling ever so sorry for myself. Me and my grannies were kicking it old skool, lounging around on the tall seats, the ones built for the ladies that can't get up anymore and the men that love them (insert your own Viagra joke here). I am usually pretty optimistic, but this time, I felt sad, pathetic.

Then I saw my flat tire. Well, it wasn't too bad so I decided to suck it up and drag my sorry butt down to Les Schwab, fixer of tires. I was feeling smug and right, taking care of my car all by myself until one of the employees fondled my tire and refused to fix it because it was bald, so bald it was too big of a liability. So. What brand of tires should I put you down for? So you don't cause a five car pile up on the freeway and die a painful, fiery death. I took his suggestion to get my husband on the phone, but because he's a busy man, I ended up leaving him a message; I left frustrated, caught between my fear of dying and my lack of tire expertise.

(But no worries, I cheered myself on, the day will surely improve.)

I drove away, temporarily filled the slow-leaking, death trap tire and went to buy some panties because panties do not automatically renew, like my Blockbuster movie pass, and have to be replaced from time to time. Mid-pantie purchase, Greg chimed in and told me he had some words with the manager about my 'experience' at the ol' tire shoppe and the manager apologized and invited me to ask for him personally because he'd love to help me, surely he would, while I dodge incoming stale popcorn, compliments of the staff.

Gee. Thanks.

But if you need further evidence that I am cursed, just you wait, because my luck runneth over.

After working out this morning, I stepped out of my grimy duds and was just about to hop in the shower when I noticed one of my energy saving bulbs was about to flicker out. I turned around, and griped aloud about how they are supposed to last a long time, and save the planet and expressed my personal disappointment. When turned back, I marveled at the power of my words, for the light, it was on again. Or so I thought until it burst into flames. Fire. Inches from the ceiling, and I am naked. OH. THE. JOYS. (Sorry purveyor of joy. I couldn't resist usurping your words.)

I hit the switch, ran down the hall and grabbed one of Zack's errant water bottles. I stood in the dark, dowsed the melted candle and laughed.

At least the next time someone asks what I do all the damn day, I will have a good answer; I don't think they can beat 'nude firefighter'.

good for the environment?

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Wednesday, September 05, 2007

first, a post worth reading

Are you familiar with The Wink or Tumble Dry? Both sites really should be required reading. Well, Ms. Amanda has taken her show on the road and posted Losing Our Souls - part rant, part pleading. Please check it out.

{It looks like IzzyMom is behind Moms Speak Up - aren't bloggers amazing?}

I'll be back later. See you then.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

look Mom, no tears

Greg and the school-bound kiddos
Greg was home for the big day.

The neighborhood is quiet now. School is now in session. Lexi was dragging her feet, but finally got out the door. Zack was wired, ready to eat lunch at school - and don't forget the three recesses. This is key.

I was prepared for an emotional outburst, but we were all just fine. Not a tear was shed.

They were ready. I was ready.

I took Greg to pick up his rental car (his is in the shop), and I traipsed around Barnes & Noble, making a list of books I'd like to read the fall.

I think I could get used to this.

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Monday, September 03, 2007

what I preach

We set out late Friday for the Oregon Coast with some of Greg's cyberfriends he met on a car forum. Greg got us settled into our hotel room before dumping us joining his peeps for car chat and drinks. The kids found the remote and were thrilled to find that they had cable there. Just like home! Which made me wonder why we bother crossing the threshold at all.

I stood in front of the unfamiliar mirror under the harsh fluorescent lights - frowning at my skin, noting the hostile takeover of my hair. Where did all this silver come from? And for a moment, I wanted to pitch a fit, screech about all the ways I don't look the way I think I should. Waaaaah. Then I peeked around the corner and saw my girl, the one who needs me to be a bigger person, a woman of substance. Lord knows if I can't make peace with my hair, my body, what hope does she have when everything around her shouts YOU SIMPLY AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH.

I turned off the bathroom lights and dived on top of them, smooching their earnest faces until they pleaded for me to stop. I tucked them in and wished them sweet dreams.

Then I crawled in bed, steps away from the vast Pacific.

Somehow, that eased my mind.

{You can see my pictures from the weekend here.}

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