August 2006 Archives

How to totally freak out your mother

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Suddenly appear at the side of the bed in the wee hours of the morning and quietly say "There's something in this house. Something spooky. There's something in my room. It was coming towards me and then went into my closet."

I think he was dreaming but still, OH MY GAWD.

List: because I can

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You get a list today! Thank me later.

Things I've done in the past 24 hours:

- Began typing this list one handed last night because I had a glass of wine in the other.
- Purchased sand paper (I know, ??) to begin a project this weekend, a project which has occupied Chris's parking space in the garage for three months. This will be interesting as I am not a woodworker craft person and will most likely sand my hand off.
- Was called a dirty word by my mother because I totally made fun of her for saying OCDC instead of OCD. She babysat the boys while I worked. She sounds exactly like Squidward when she laughs.
- Met my deadline for the paper.
- Tried reasoning with Liam, who is boycotting the act of pooping, to go potty. REASONING WITH KIDS IS STUPID. AND SUCKS.
- Wrote on my calendar "Yep. Still a witch" to track my PMS symptoms for my OB.
- Listened to Beastie Boys' "Pass the Mic" and the entire Elastica self-titled. Also listened to Penelope's "Miss Me with That Foolishness" today. I am cool because I know Penelope. And she knows Mya. Who knows Pink. I am two degrees from Pink. And one degree from Quentin. DUDE.
- Finally finished a book a reader sent to me called The Secret of Castle Cant. I've only had the book for fourteen million years. More on this later.
- Realized that having a St. Louis Bread Company/Panera so close to my house is dangerous.
- Totally freaked out in a good way over something unimaginably cool which I cannot go into yet because I promised and nothing is final, so vague! Cryptic! AM WITCH, SORRY. Will share when able.
- Regretted my decision to add THAT much flaxseed to yesterday morning's blueberry pancakes.



After picking on Liam all day, Ewan's fortunes turned.

My favorite thing in bottle form

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This is one of the seven bottles of Missouri wine we lugged around St. Genevieve during Jour de Fete like two very discerning alcoholics.
This is the best red dessert wine I've ever tasted. I loveitloveitlurrrrveit. Chris and I split the bottle after the boys went to sleep. We didn't mean to drink the whole thing but our wine corker saver thing broke and we were too lazy to open the drawer and get the other one out.

Dear asthma: you suck

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I want to wrap my hands around your figurative throat, asthma, just as you do my son's, and wring the life from your neck like water from a dishrag.

Last Thursday night Liam had an asthma attack. Unlike the ones in the past, this attack came on slowly because it knew that if I caught it I would drag it out by the hair into my driveway where I would beat it to death.
I took the boys to lunch and to the park that afternoon; Liam woke up with a cough and sat listlessly in the van on the way to Panera. He didn't eat much of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, nor his yogurt. He ran around the playground at the park only to return and nestle into my arm a few minutes later before saying "I need to take a little break."
I cut our trip short, loaded the boys into the van and headed for home.

That night Liam's voice grew raspy and he coughed about eighteen times a minute.
I broke out the nebulizer, which we haven't had to use in a year, hooked up Liam's fish mask and sat him down for a twenty minute round of inhaled Xoponex. It's a bit more potent than regular albuterol but with less side effects, such as only the moderate need to tether the child to something substantive (and bolted to concrete). Afterwards I gave Liam two quick puffs of Flovent, a canister inhaled steroid like Pulmicort, but instead of Liam sitting for another fifteen minutes to inhale nebulized Pulmicort, he now takes twelve breaths of Flovent. Then he rinsed his mouth (Flovent can cause mouth sores, YEAY), took a Zyrtec and went to bed. We have all the drugs. All!

(A sidenote: I spent $130 on two boxes, or thirty days' supply of, meds. Because owning your own small business and working as a blogger from home means that you don't qualify as a group therefore don't get the cliquey little discount that the group plans receive. GARGH!)

When the allergy count shows high pollen, mold, or ragweed, Liam mostly has to stay inside behind the fortified walls of our sterile, allergen-free house. Still, he's better than he was a year ago, when even a trip to the mailbox during a high-allergen day would provoke an asthma attack that reduced him to listlessness and oral steroids for a week after. As a result he has developed genius-level game skillz. He beat Stars Wars for PSP2 in one week. AND HE'S FIVE.

He's doing better now, but still coughing, still with the meds, and his appetite still isn't the greatest, an effect of an attack. Hopefully the allergy shots he's been getting every week for the past year-and-a-half will help him kick this by the time he's seven. If I could give him my airwaves, I would.

The human sprinkler

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This week's column is an elaboration of the short post I made on Liam's annual checkup. I still have the bruise, FYI.

I also want to make a point about my kids; after one of my last columns, several people obviously unfamiliar with my kids and my website wrote and stated that not only were my kids brats, but that my family shouldn't be allowed within a ten mile radius of a commercial entity. I know that these people don't have children, because people with children usually exhibit better manners out of practice as little eyes are always watching them; and because they missed the fact that Liam had just received an allergy shot and we waited over an hour in a cramped pediatric waiting room which would make anyone batcrap insane. Next time I will bring them to YOUR HOUSE.
I love my boys and they're some of the best behaved and most compassionate children I've ever had the privilege of knowing. Thanks to everyone who wrote or commented to share their own grocery stories. A few of them made the egg fiasco seem EASY. You're totally welcome to borrow Liam's helmet.

Also! The yard! Mowed:

It's now thicker than the yards of our neighbors and Chris says this because he lets it grow to seed which I think is a crock of BS.

*EDITED to add: We did not pay a neighbor kid, much to Chris's chagrin. He actually went out into the yard by himself and mowed it. He also loudly protested the whole putting up the photos of the yard on the internet thing and offers his sincerest thanks to all of the men who wrote to back him up on the idea of paying a neighbor kid to do it from now on because that is "totally the way to go, Dana."

When the yard attacks

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Christopher. Yesterday, for the third time the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK some good Samaritan stopped by and offered to cut our grass because they apparently think that you're dead or something. Of course they stop by in the morning, when I haven't yet showered and my head looks like a giant frizzy pouf ball, and ask this and I have to say from the crack in the door "Oh! No, no thanks. I LIKE MY YARD TO LOOK REDNECK."

I would do it myself but the boys would be drawn to the propeller like flies to a turd and it would end up a very gory mess and the yard still wouldn't be mowed. Plus I have never once mowed grass in my life. Ever. I'm sure that all of the Totally Empowered Grrrl Power women out there are rolling their eyes at this and if they are they can get over here and HELP ME MOW MY LAWN THEN.

The yard? It's gone to seed. To seed! Daryl Hannah has climbed one of the saplings in back in protest to our preeminent mowing. It's so bad that Ewan gets lost in it. Literally, he'll sit down and I've totally lost him. He thinks it's hysterical but IT IS NOT HYSTERICAL. He can barely walk in the backyard as it is anyway because of the giant sloping hill that the developer thought would make such an awesome backyard for kids to play in; now he literally rolls down the hill.

Our neighbors, including The Blonde next door, The Blonde who mows her nice level yard umpteen frillion times in one week just to make ours look especially scraggly, has now mowed her yard 1,247 times in the span of when you last mowed until now. And our neighbor across the street? The one who has approximately two square feet of lawn but insists on riding their super shiny riding lawnmower to mow it has mowed their lawn three times this week. You have reduced us to the role of That House on the street. Granted, we're not like the people on the street over who have over one thousand Virgin Marys in their yard (I am so not joking) or the lady at the other end of the neighborhood who uses her driveway for storage, or even the Handy Man Dude who stores all of his work stuff in front of his house and on his porch like a freaking redneck, no; we are the people whose own yard looks like it's reaching up to grab the roof of the house and drag it underground.

So please. Mow the grass. Don't make me chase greedy kids off my porch while wearing my pajama pants and a wife beater because they want $30 dollars to mow, the greedy little gold diggers. And don't say "Why didn't you pay them" and then act like I overreacted when I'm all "THAT IS THE STUPIDEST WASTE OF MONEY EVER."

I love you to death, you are the wind beneath my wings, I know you work hard (seriously internet, you have NO IDEA how hard this man works, so he deserves a little slack) which makes it difficult sometimes to cut the aforementioned grass, you're a wonderful father, blah, blah, but darling. CUT. THE. GRASS.

xoxo,
Dana

P.P.S. We really are not redneck. Seriously.

That's what the creaking was

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I did last night's interview (thanks Geoff!) while perched on top of my washer because that's as far as our corded land line would reach. We never ever use our home phone, in fact, not even our family has our phone number because that's how much we don't use it. We're all about e-mail and free long distance after 8 p.m. on the cell phones.

So I had the phone cord stretched across my kitchen behind the door to my laundry room where I sat on the washer, hunched over on the edge, frozen, as the cord was nearly about to rip out of the wall. All of this because if Ewan heard me talking he'd start screaming and beating his head on his crib. He was mad that Chris didn't put him to bed and when I told him goodnight he threw his teddy bear and blanket at me in a sassy protest. He then sat in the middle of his crib and yelled "DAAAY!" "DAAAY!" for daddy. When I peeked in at him to see if he wanted me he flung his arms down in the hopes that they would shoot out of their sockets and stab me in the head because there was nothing else was left in the crib to throw.

The checkup

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Yesterday I took Liam to the doctor for his yearly checkup. It was his first Big Boy Checkup and at Big Boy Checkups you have to pee into a cup. (Him. Not me). So I apparently missed this memo about the peeing into the cup because had I received a memo Chris would've taken him because the kid peed on my foot. Shoed in flip-flops. Bare foot. Peed on. I shrieked "OH MY GAWD, STOP! STOP PEEING! STOP! STOP IT! STOP! IT!" and he was all "I can't! I haven't learned that yet!"

I've taught him his ABC's, his numbers, the all-important love of money, but I forgot how to teach him how to stop peeing?

Hi! NOT MY JOB! I'm the mother! The one with boobs! And no penis!

After I had to scrub down the pediatrician's bathroom and wash my foot (a whole other story in and of itself) because of Liam, the human sprinkler, we skulked out into the hallway because I knew that all of those nurses heard me screaming and thought "What an awesome mother."

But we got a full cup.

I called Chris on the way home and informed him that if he ever wanted to get busy again he should start handling the very boy stuff as the kids get older. (He's also sick now and on antibiotics. We're really germy people. Peeing all over bathrooms and such. But urine is sterile, so one in our favor!)

Also, I'll be on the radio again tonight around 9:10 p.m. because my voodoo has worked its magic on Canadian radio's Geoff Courrier. The topic is the subject of this week's column, the difference between protecting and over-protection. You can listen online by clicking at the top of their mast.

St. Gen

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Last Sunday we schlepped the kids over to Chris's parents so we could go to the Jour de Fete. Our favorite Missouri wine (yeah, we have wineries here. We ain't all beer and brats, you know), Adam's Choice, is only sold at three locations and they sell in bulk at Jour de Fete. So we went and bought a bunch of bottles and dragged them around the streets of St. Genevieve all day like a couple of winos.

We also visited this shop, which I love, especially for how their walls look:

Chris hates crafts that look like "sticks and twigs" - coincidentally, the shop is called Ivy and Twigs or something - and says that any drunk hoosier can stumble out to their wooded backyard, grab a dried vine branch, nail it to their wall, and call it "crafts." He also said the shop "smelled like a whore house" because they had several candles burning. I asked him how he knew what a whore house smelled like anyway and he unintentionally said "It's a figure of speech. GOSH." just like Napoleon Dynamite.

On the way back I took pictures of a road,

a barn,

a roadside lookout,

and us, because I'm so vain like that hag said on that remedial femi-nazi board (I do TRY, love):

We had to hurry up with these because a couple of rednecks stopped off at the same time we did and they kept casting us exasperated glances because we think they wanted us to hurry up and leave so they could smoke pot:



Our house the sick ward

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If you are eating lunch right now, go away and do not come back until you are finished. Today I'm discussing something that doesn't jibe with eating.

For the past three days Ewan has had a fever of over 100 degrees. Its peak was 103.9 (fevers in little kids are only dangerous when they hit 105) yesterday and I dosed him with Motrin and held him for three hours while applying a cool wash rag to his face. He's also vomiting, yeay! - all over the kitchen, the boys' bathroom, our bed - and I've spent the better part of this week in an attempt to find food and drink that will stay on his stomach. I've gotten about six hours of sleep in the past two days; this morning Chris let me sleep in while he took care of Ewan after Ewan threw up all over the bed again at four this morning. I think Chris was afraid of how I shuffled around the house like a zombie and refused to wear a bra.

That shuffling noise wasn't coming from my feet.

The yeah funtime journey! began Sunday night when Ewan awoke with a shriek. We both bolted into the room like we were brandishing pitchforks and storming Frankenstein's castle; when Chris scooped him out of his crib he noticed that Ewan felt hot. Fever: 103 degrees. I called our pediatrician's emergency exchange; we're giving him Motrin; I took him to the pede Monday; we're just waiting until the virus is finished with his little body. Ewan is listless and feverish for the most of the day; Monday night after a dose of Motrin his stomach gurgled and I knew what was coming, yet had no time to do anything about it. I braced myself as he spewed all over me, the kitchen table, the floor, the stove, the refrigerator, and anything else with a surface. It was awesome. Liam gagged and ran out of the room; I sat for a moment in total vomit-covered disbelief.

Of course all of this coincides with deadlines and the monster is baaack! This is the last cycle before the OB visit, folks, and then embarrassing displays of hormonal instability over! I first noticed that my symptoms were a few days early while at the reunion. One of the drunk stoners threw a little tantrum because I took the seat he wanted and I rose from the table in a way befitting my dramatic southern roots and growled "By all means, don't let me get in the way of you getting totally sauced, since I see that in ten years' time your goals are still the same. WAY TO AIM HIGH!" Then I gave the Fonzee thumbs-up and flashed a razor grin.

For added good measure, because I was on a roll, I called up my cousin - whose dead car was left in our drive for seven weeks with no phone calls as to when or if it would be gone and we've been unable to finish dry-walling the garage or pull Chris's car inside - and said "You need to get this car because the monster is here this week AND I MAY SET IT ON FIRE." Honestly, sometimes controlling the hormones is like putting a leash on fog. And the cramps! During college I had mild endometriosis wherein I curled into the fetal position for several uninterrupted days until a prescription offered me walking-upright hope. The past several days have not been entirely unlike those.

Our mothers have swooped in, eager to help as we mostly keep them on the bench due to our naively independent parenting style. The boys' one-day-a-week sitter started back to school this week which means I'm considering hiring a college sitter OH THE FUN; so Chris's dad took the boys swimming while Chris's mom is here tending to Ewan while I fulfill my contractual goodness. Of course because she is here, his fever went down and he hasn't puked since this morning. OF COURSE.

Sometimes you just have to laugh at Murphy's Law.

The reunion

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Here is video of me and Chris at my high school reunion. Guess which one is Chris.
Chris: "I wish I had his moves! He's awesome!"
Dana: "I'm glad you don't! I never would've slept with you!"

Alternative titles: Watching this is what drunk feels like.

So I purchased new bling for the reunion, namely another gaudy necklace. How I love gaudy.

Here's a photo of me and my high school best friend Shelley:

We were both jocks; she played soccer and softball and I ran track and cross country. We lost touch sometime during our early years in college. She went to school in another state and I stayed behind to attend a prestigiously snooty fine arts university. I literally stumbled upon her at the reunion after we abandoned our first table when we discovered that it was already claimed by a small, feral group of drunk stoners who were the same drunk stoners from ten years ago, just now with less hair. Some things hadn't changed.

When we saw each other we engaged in the human female custom of Girl Screaming with All the Hugging and stuck to each other for the rest of the night. Shelley and I never really belonged to any proverbial "cliques;" we each bounced between groups of friends. It seemed more fun that way.

Really, I had a great time. I didn't think I would say that because I honestly wondered if ten years was sufficient enough of a buffer between now and then. I think the same groups existed, if only because everyone tended to drift towards the ties they maintained while in school as a safety net. When we first arrived, the surrealism of the event hung like mist in the air. We didn't talk to anyone for the first five minutes; we stood there and stared at everyone. When I finally did start working the room, I noticed that many had memorized minute-long speeches compromising their ten-year journey, current profession, romantic and family life. It was hysterical and I was totally sober. I did not have a speech memorized, thus was ill prepared to briefly explain just what on earth a "professional blogger" is so I stuck with recognizable keywords like "writer," "columnist," and "Post-Dispatch." A lot of them already read the column.

In many ways it felt like being transported back to high school times, except now we were married and had kids. What really shocked me was how the majority of my high school class had married each other. When we all grouped together for this painful shot below:

I noticed that the number of husband/wife stragglers left in the back were surprisingly small. Literally - the homecoming king and queen married each other, the class president and secretary married each other (no jokes, they're nice); plus a frillion other people in my 500+ person class married each other. Isn't that like, an affront to nature when that many in the same class marry one another? I've never heard of such a thing. It felt kind of like Pleasantville.

The people who I was most curious about were no-shows. I wondered about a friend of mine who told me when I last saw him several years ago that he wanted to become a chef; which Shelley told me he achieved. I wondered about the peroxide-psycho who lost her junk when she projected that I signed my name too close to that of her boyfriend's on our senior class t-shirt which spawned a semester-long JELUS-fest that I wasn't aware of until the end of the year. (Notch that as another reason to NOT have a daughter: my word THE DRAMA.) I wondered about the small group of friends that I hung out with during high school summers and partway through college. We met to play pool nearly every night, or swim at another's house. We took road trips together, spent holidays together, consoled each other, visited each other at out-of-town universities, and were there to steady those first feeble steps into total independence - moving out - for a few. They gave me some of the best memories of my youth. I wondered about another best friend that left to join the navy in special ops and disappeared. Our calls became infrequent and we met less and less until all contact dried up like a puddle on a sunny day. I think about her now and then and hope her life turned out like she wanted. I noticed in our new class directory that she had a new last name but they never found an address for her.

In the end, I'm glad I went. I think some of us feel that high school was a lot worse than it really was. Just like the fish in the fisherman's story gets bigger with every telling, so do our years in school get magnified by the years. I was glad to reconnect with people, one of whom I felt was always a kindred spirit-of-sorts, an intimacy yet unmatched with my adult friendships. I'm glad Chris was my booty-candy. He talks to people so easily, it's a wonder he wasn't kidnapped as a child. Plus, he KNOWS EVERYONE. He used to hang out with the homecoming king's older sister. It's further proof that I cannot take my husband anywhere without him knowing someone. For instance, I have to tack on an extra thirty minutes when we take him to the grocery store because he'll run into at least three people that he knows/went to school with/ blah blah. I balk, but it's a great ice breaker.

We would've taken more photos, but that meant that I would've actually had to set my drink down. So enjoy looking at me and Shelley (center, just look for the black-and-white Where's Waldo stripes) yapping while the class picture was organized:

You can also clicky here and check out proofs from the photog who snapped shots at the reunion (*UPDATE: enter 26162765 if prompted for a pass). Chris and I make an accosted-looking appearance on the third page, second row. Shelley and I show up at the end of the third row on the fourth page; on the seventh page I'm doing a sassy can-you-tell-I've-had-vodka pose with Chris and the homecoming queen; Shelley and her husband, also-named-Chris, join us and the high school royalty; and Shelley and I are there again on the ninth page. I am fully aware that my hair has a mental problem. I love this about it.

*ADDENDUM: I forgot to say thanks to everyone who commented, e-mailed and otherwise shared their stories/2c. IF ONLY I could ask the internet what I should do for every occasion. Thanks.

The reunion

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Here is video of me and Chris at my high school reunion. Guess which one is Chris.
Chris: "I wish I had his moves! He's awesome!"
Dana: "I'm glad you don't! I never would've slept with you!"

Alternative titles: Watching this is what drunk feels like.

So I purchased new bling for the reunion, namely another gaudy necklace. How I love gaudy.

Here's a photo of me and my high school best friend Shelley:

We were both jocks; she played soccer and softball and I ran track and cross country. We lost touch sometime during our early years in college. She went to school in another state and I stayed behind to attend a prestigiously snooty fine arts university. I literally stumbled upon her at the reunion after we abandoned our first table when we discovered that it was already claimed by a small, feral group of drunk stoners who were the same drunk stoners from ten years ago, just now with less hair. Some things hadn't changed.

When we saw each other we engaged in the human female custom of Girl Screaming with All the Hugging and stuck to each other for the rest of the night. Shelley and I never really belonged to any proverbial "cliques;" we each bounced between groups of friends. It seemed more fun that way.

Really, I had a great time. I didn't think I would say that because I honestly wondered if ten years was sufficient enough of a buffer between now and then. I think the same groups existed, if only because everyone tended to drift towards the ties they maintained while in school as a safety net. When we first arrived, the surrealism of the event hung like mist in the air. We didn't talk to anyone for the first five minutes; we stood there and stared at everyone. When I finally did start working the room, I noticed that many had memorized minute-long speeches compromising their ten-year journey, current profession, romantic and family life. It was hysterical and I was totally sober. I did not have a speech memorized, thus was ill prepared to briefly explain just what on earth a "professional blogger" is so I stuck with recognizable keywords like "writer," "columnist," and "Post-Dispatch." A lot of them already read the column.

In many ways it felt like being transported back to high school times, except now we were married and had kids. What really shocked me was how the majority of my high school class had married each other. When we all grouped together for this painful shot below:

I noticed that the number of husband/wife stragglers left in the back were surprisingly small. Literally - the homecoming king and queen married each other, the class president and secretary married each other; plus a frillion other people in my 500+ person class married each other. Isn't that like, an affront to nature when that many in the same class marry one another? I've never heard of such a thing. It felt kind of like Pleasantville.

The people who I was most curious about were no-shows. I wondered about a friend of mine who told me when I last saw him several years ago that he wanted to become a chef; which Shelley told me he achieved. I wondered about the peroxide-psycho who lost her junk when she projected that I signed my name too close to that of her boyfriend's on our senior class t-shirt which spawned a semester-long JELUS-fest that I wasn't aware of until the end of the year. (Notch that as another reason to NOT have a daughter: my word THE DRAMA.) I wondered about the small group of friends that I hung out with during high school summers and partway through college. We met to play pool nearly every night, or swim at another's house. We took road trips together, spent holidays together, consoled each other, visited each other at out-of-town universities, and were there to steady those first feeble steps into total independence - moving out - for a few. They gave me some of the best memories of my youth. I wondered about another best friend that left to join the navy in special ops and disappeared. Our calls became infrequent and we met less and less until all contact dried up like a puddle on a sunny day. I think about her now and then and hope her life turned out like she wanted. I noticed in our new class directory that she had a new last name but they never found an address for her.

In the end, I'm glad I went. I think some of us feel that high school was a lot worse than it really was. Just like the fish in the fisherman's story gets bigger with every telling, so do our years in school get magnified by the years. I was glad to reconnect with people, one of whom I felt was always a kindred spirit-of-sorts, an intimacy yet unmatched with my adult friendships. I'm glad Chris was my booty-candy. He talks to people so easily, it's a wonder he wasn't kidnapped as a child. Plus, he KNOWS EVERYONE. He used to hang out with the homecoming king's older sister. It's further proof that I cannot take my husband anywhere without him knowing someone. For instance, I have to tack on an extra thirty minutes when we take him to the grocery store because he'll run into at least three people that he knows/went to school with/ blah blah. I balk, but it's a great ice breaker.

We would've taken more photos, but that meant that I would've actually had to set my drink down. So enjoy looking at me and Shelley (center, just look for the black-and-white Where's Waldo stripes) yapping while the class picture was organized:

You can also clicky here and check out proofs from the photog who snapped shots at the reunion (*UPDATE: enter 26162765 if prompted for a pass). Chris and I make an accosted-looking appearance on the third page, second row. Shelley and I show up at the end of the third row on the fourth page; on the seventh page I'm doing a sassy can-you-tell-I've-had-vodka pose with Chris and the homecoming queen; Shelley and her husband, also-named-Chris, join us and the high school royalty; and Shelley and I are there again on the ninth page. I am fully aware that my hair has a mental problem. I love this about it.

*ADDENDUM: I forgot to say thanks to everyone who commented, e-mailed and otherwise shared their stories/2c. IF ONLY I could ask the internet what I should do for every occasion. Thanks.

The public breastfeeding debate

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This week's column concerns the hoopla surrounding Baby Talk Magazine's August cover. It features a topless woman! Here is the article I referenced in my piece. I am not a lactivist because I am not trying to change the already inherent right a woman has to breastfeed anywhere she darn well chooses; I think the bigger battle lies with trying to stop America from sexualizing how a child eats. Doesn't this country do that with enough already? My word, they made Barbie a ho!

I strongly encourage new visitors to read the comment/letters policy before commenting as I will eliminate any trolls for this topic (obviously not all of the new visitors are trolls, that sounded awful, just a high number seem to be drivebys), though judging from the morning mail it looks like that won't happen.

*ADDENDUM: I cross-referenced the topic over at ClubMom - "Breasts are only gross when they're NOT being used for sex. This exact thinking is the reason why the redneck is indigenous only to North America" - but in a different vein: breastfeeding during church. I wasn't kidding when I said that I nursed my kids EVERYWHERE.


**UPDATE: I will post a rewrite of this column within this post shortly.

The Vader voice

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People! Your well wishes are so nice. Thank you. Thanks also to LeAnn who looked up menthol camphor inhalants online and sent me a link to this, which Chris purchased immediately and OH MY WORD. It's lots of awesome! Thanks!

Brian asked that since my cold has reduced my voice to the same murky vocal depths of James Earl Jones's, if I am doing the Vader voice.
Oh yes.
Very liberally.

I first noticed that I could use my powers for my own purposes by commanding Liam to do things while speaking in the Vader voice. He balked at having to pick up the eleventy-million Leggos lying on his bedroom floor until Darth Vader called him on the home phone (I was on my cell hiding in my bathroom, but that's irrelevant) and told him to clean them up.

"ALSO." Vader commanded, "YOU WILL HELP YOUR MOTHER PUT AWAY LAUNDRY. THIS WILL BE A GREAT SERVICE RENDERED TO THE REPUBLIC."

After I hung up, I heard Liam squeal with excitement in the other room.

"MOM! You will never believe it! DARTH VADER CALLED ME FROM THE ROBOT MOON."

I was all "Really? Wow. What did he say?"

"He told me to clean up my room and put away laundry."

I love that Liam is young enough to overlook why on earth the second-most powerful Sith lord would care about a messy room and laundry. I've thought about recording myself and wonder how long I can use this trick.

Also, I can sing blues really, really good with my sick-voice, a la Phoebe from "Friends."

The Vader voice

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People! Your well wishes are so nice. Thank you. Thanks also to LeAnn who looked up menthol camphor inhalants online and sent me a link to this, which Chris purchased immediately and OH MY WORD. It's lots of awesome! Thanks!

Brian asked that since my cold has reduced my voice to the same murky vocal depths of James Earl Jones's, if I am doing the Vader voice.
Oh yes.
Very liberally.

I first noticed that I could use my powers for my own purposes by commanding Liam to do things while speaking in the Vader voice. He balked at having to pick up the eleventy-million Leggos lying on his bedroom floor until Darth Vader called him on the home phone (I was on my cell hiding in my bathroom, but that's irrelevant) and told him to clean them up.

"ALSO." Vader commanded, "YOU WILL HELP YOUR MOTHER PUT AWAY LAUNDRY. THIS WILL BE A GREAT SERVICE RENDERED TO THE REPUBLIC."

After I hung up, I heard Liam squeal with excitement in the other room.

"MOM! You will never believe it! DARTH VADER CALLED ME FROM THE ROBOT MOON."

I was all "Really? Wow. What did he say?"

"He told me to clean up my room and put away laundry."

I love that Liam is young enough to overlook why on earth the second-most powerful Sith lord would care about a messy room and laundry. I've thought about recording myself and wonder how long I can use this trick.

Also, I can sing blues really, really good with my sick-voice, a la Phoebe from "Friends."

Update

|

The cold that mostly stayed in my head to give me day-long migraines, a constant runny nose, and that overall fuzzy effect is now trying to move into my chest. My voice is as low as that of James Earl Jones and infused with the husky rasp of a gin-soaked barfly. Liam has recovered; Ewan is on the mend. I have no patience and whenever I glare you can hear an eagle screech.

J.J. moved away without incident. He called Liam the week before last and they talked for a while. J.J.'s dad called me from Florida last week to say that the column about the boys almost made him cry and I was all WELL THEN MOVE BACK. Liam has stopped asking for J.J. on Sunday mornings but he still mentions him a couple times a week. So far, we haven't had to actually sit down with Liam and say "J.J. moved away," and Liam hasn't pressed the issue. We may have gotten off soooo lucky. Wait, I just jinxed it, didn't I? Some douche named Tom Wroth wrote to tell me that I sounded "pathetic" and stated:
"Parents like you are why kids become 'dependent'. Or does a child's dependency provide you with some sort of superficial sense of self-worth? I can't help but wonder how you'll embrace your child's grief when something really serious does happen."

I thought it was well-known that the smaller hurdles in life are practice for the really big hurdles and that the delicate issue of a five-year-old's best friend moving away is serious to the five-year-olds involved, maybe not so much to insensitive men who are obviously sans children because WHAT A SWEET TALKER.

Next week's column is about public breastfeeding and the poo-storm caused by reactions to Baby Talk's magazine cover. I cannot wait to see my inbox Monday morning, though I hope many can contribute to the discussion.

Update

|

The cold that mostly stayed in my head to give me day-long migraines, a constant runny nose, and that overall fuzzy effect is now trying to move into my chest. My voice is as low as that of James Earl Jones and infused with the husky rasp of a gin-soaked barfly. Liam has recovered; Ewan is on the mend. I have no patience and whenever I glare you can hear an eagle screech.

J.J. moved away without incident. He called Liam the week before last and they talked for a while. J.J.'s dad called me from Florida last week to say that the column about the boys almost made him cry and I was all WELL THEN MOVE BACK. Liam has stopped asking for J.J. on Sunday mornings but he still mentions him a couple times a week. So far, we haven't had to actually sit down with Liam and say "J.J. moved away," and Liam hasn't pressed the issue. We may have gotten off soooo lucky. Wait, I just jinxed it, didn't I? Some douche named Tom Wroth wrote to tell me that I sounded "pathetic" and stated:
"Parents like you are why kids become 'dependent'. Or does a child's dependency provide you with some sort of superficial sense of self-worth? I can't help but wonder how you'll embrace your child's grief when something really serious does happen."

I thought it was well-known that the smaller hurdles in life are practice for the really big hurdles and that the delicate issue of a five-year-old's best friend moving away is serious to the five-year-olds involved, maybe not so much to insensitive men who are obviously sans children because WHAT A SWEET TALKER.

Next week's column is about public breastfeeding and the poo-storm caused by reactions to Baby Talk's magazine cover. I cannot wait to see my inbox Monday morning, though I hope many can contribute to the discussion.

Ten short years

|

So my 10-year high school reunion is this Saturday. I haven't yet made up my mind as to whether or not I want to go, although the invite did say that there would be a four-hour open bar. THAT SHOULD BE A REQUIREMENT, NOT A PERK.

I do not talk to anyone that I graduated high school with. I had a small group of friends with whom I kept in touch during college, but one by one they all faded away. Either I was busy with my academic workload and job, or I was dating some jerk who didn't like my friends because my friends had more common sense than I did.

When I think of high school I think of track. I also think of dance because I danced for a frillion years, with a discipline emphasis in ballet because I thought about going pro after school. Except that I got burned out because if I had to deal with one more overdramatic director with fried hair or one more catty, purging ballerina I was going to gouge my eyes out with my fingernails. I realized that I lacked the Joan Collins gene, a requirement for that field.

I also think of my friends and it would be nice to see how things are going for some. But still, I don't know. I hated high school. I hated the stagnant little fishbowl world it created. It's hard to remain stationary when you've already figured out what you want to do with your life.

What I'd like to know is do any of you have 10-years coming up? Did any of you go to your 10-year reunion? Why and what was it like?

Ten short years

|

So my 10-year high school reunion is this Saturday. I haven't yet made up my mind as to whether or not I want to go, although the invite did say that there would be a four-hour open bar. THAT SHOULD BE A REQUIREMENT, NOT A PERK.

I do not talk to anyone that I graduated high school with. I had a small group of friends with whom I kept in touch during college, but one by one they all faded away. Either I was busy with my academic workload and job, or I was dating some jerk who didn't like my friends because my friends had more common sense than I did.

When I think of high school I think of track. I also think of dance because I danced for a frillion years, with a discipline emphasis in ballet because I thought about going pro after school. Except that I got burned out because if I had to deal with one more over-dramatic director with fried hair or one more catty, purging ballerina I was going to gouge my eyes out with my fingernails. I realized that I lacked the Joan Collins gene, a requirement for that field.

I also think of my friends and it would be nice to see how things are going for some. But still, I don't know. I hated high school. I hated the stagnant little fishbowl world it created. It's hard to remain stationary when you've already figured out what you want to do with your life.

What I'd like to know is do any of you have 10-years coming up? Did any of you go to your 10-year reunion? Why and what was it like?

The Lil' Mimi look

|

I love my boys and still pine for a daughter, but every now and then something comes along that causes me to reevaluate my blessings and thank God for totally NOT giving me a daughter. Among these things are dating, dating, the whining, the borrowing of my clothes without asking, dating, those freaky little My Little Ponies, and play make-up.

When I was a little girl my mother bought me a large plastic bust of a Barbie head with corn silk hair and her very own makeup. No amount of effort or makeup could ever make my Barbie look like one of the models in the TV Guide; in fact, the Barbie head resembled a hooker-clown.

My friend's daughter recently received a gift of play makeup from her (the friend's) mother-n-law. I noticed it because she looked like she might have been beaten up at the circus.

My friend told her MIL: "Next time get her REAL makeup instead. This stuff's impossible to get off. Plus she looks like some sort of freaky streetwalker. You know I had to get this stuff off with tool grease?"

The lil' Mimi look

|

I love my boys and still pine for a daughter, but every now and then something comes along that causes me to reevaluate my blessings and thank God for totally NOT giving me a daughter. Among these things are dating, dating, the whining, the borrowing of my clothes without asking, dating, those freaky little My Little Ponies, and play make-up.

When I was a little girl my mother bought me a large plastic bust of a Barbie head with cornsilk hair and her very own makeup. No amount of effort or makeup could ever make my Barbie look like one of the models in my mother's Good Housekeeping magazine; in fact, the Barbie head resembled a hooker-clown.

My friend's daughter recently received a gift of play makeup from her (the friend's) mother-n-law. I noticed it because she looked like she might have been beaten up at the circus.

My friend told her MIL: "Next time get her REAL makeup instead. This stuff's impossible to get off. Plus she looks like some sort of freaky streetwalker. You know I had to get this stuff off with tool grease?"

It's been a long week

|

Yeay! Photo essays for all!
Tonight concludes our church's weeklong VBS and fundamentalist animal sacrifices.

But first, possibly the sweetest thing ever beheld:




If that's not the most preshus thing ever, then you CAN'T FEEL.



Look, a photo of Liam not sharing!

Still not pregnant

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VBS ran late last night and I am exhausted. Ewan ate some Play-doh, Liam sassed me and I gave him my "BRING IT" look, something odd happened which I'll discuss if and when it pans out; and something happened involving a friend which both angered me and hurt my feelings. I will elaborate when enough time has passed to act as a filter between my brain and my hands at the keyboard. I've been thinking about it all night and for most of today, which sucks, as my writing can be so acutely tied to my emotions sometimes, it was a little harder than usual to finish a humor column. I can't be all ha ha! with the funny if I'm scowling inside.

Plus, I had about twenty-hundred people e-mail to ask if I was knocked up, when was I due, did I think it was a girl, YEAY! Including my friend Sarah who read the comments and thought you all knew something before she did and she was wet-hen MAD. (Hilarious!) Especially since I was a total butthat and announced my last pregnancy on my old, old blog which was set on fire and destroyed, though I saved a few choice posts and imported them to MT. So if nature takes its hot, steamy course in the distant future and I have anything to announce, like the impending arrival of quintuplet boys because let's face it, we all know THAT'S WHAT I WILL HAVE, you'll know immediately because I totally suck at secrets.

Also, Jessica Alba was in town last night and our friend Chris filmed her and he totally got to shoot her in lingerie. I know what you're thinking: They're shooting a movie in St. Louis?!

Last night we kicked off our week-long VBS. My job as the song leader is to exhibit an enthusiasm not unlike that of a cheerleader, which is completely unnatural for me, typically. I was the girl who was briefly scolded by my cheerleading coach for not being "perky" enough and for looking forlorn on the floor. I became a basketball cheerleader simply to get a tri-sport patch on my letter jacket. I was punished for this action by way of long bus rides to games in other towns with a group of giddy girls who loved to karaoke to country songs - including one about some little boy and girl and how the girl dies or something and the guy is all "don't take the girl" or something my gawd I WANTED TO DIE TOO. I always wore headphones and cranked up the Guns-n-Roses. It was a dark time in my personal history.

It's a lot more fun to cheer on a group of kids than it is a bunch of sweaty basketball pimpletons. I'm able to get into it more and the kids had a blast last night. Instead of like regular vacation Bible schools where parents drop the kids off, the program we're using involves the entire family. \

The downside to VBS is that my schedule is sort of tight this week. I've got deadlines, new math curricula to decide on for Liam, and I've got to figure out a way to stop Ewan from plugging himself up with plastic outlet covers, which is what he does now that we're trying to take the binky away:


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