tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-93600032024-03-14T01:34:45.128-04:00MoVilleLiving. The. Dream.Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.comBlogger396125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-4819254103662414722014-08-26T23:58:00.000-04:002014-08-26T23:58:00.285-04:00SAHMo<div>
A rediscovered draft from three years ago. Funny how much has changed...and how much hasn't even budged.<br />
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<b>June 20, 2011</b><br />
For the time being, I have pretty much given up on myself as a free agent. We are a team. Wendy and I, plus my barnacle (baby). We move as a unit.</div>
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Downstairs for breakfast and tea (together). Upstairs to get dressed (together). Outside with no shoes on to plant things in the dirt (cilantro, tomatoes, basil, zesty! salad! mix! and parsley, together!) and get dirt everywhere, including baby mouths. Putting Liam's feet on the ground so he can pound the grass under his heels until he goes all wobbly, then meandering around the yard, following his sister's babble of stories and stream of honey-brown hair until he finally sleeps on my shoulder. Inside again for laundry.</div>
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And more laundry.</div>
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And more.</div>
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Together here too, though this looks like Wendy watching TV from the basket while Liam and I play peekaboo with Daddy's underwear, because my barnacle doesn't nap. My Fault. I'm bad with schedules. I wish he would overlook this flaw of mine and do it anyway.</div>
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I could never fake the gorgeous moments as Stay at Home Mo that fall on me like a ton of bricks every day, when I am not ready or expecting. The kids in the garden. Liam laughing at Wendy running. Wendy's face in a mask of concentration as she applies Manic Mango Hanna Montana glitter gloss to my lips, her eyes wide and focused, her own mouth tense and curling ever so slightly at one corner. This, I suddenly know with great clarity, will be the expression on her face when she is someday working on complicated math or painting her art class masterpiece or putting together an Ikea desk or performing brain surgery. </div>
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Thank you, SAHMo, for saying "yes" to the makeover. That face that I saw? That is a gift. (Plus glitter lips!) Try to say "yes" more. </div>
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Outside to check the sunflower sprouts, then to story hour at the library and listen to the other moms sing preschool songs that I've never heard in my life (HOW DO THEY ALL KNOW??), while Wendy gives me the side-eye. I know she is scanning my reaction and deciding if these people who sing nine rounds of Duckie songs are cracked, or if this is totally awesome and I have just been holding out on her. Yes, Wendy. A whole world of music-and-motion with Miss Sara, and I've been keeping you in the quiet-and-still in a grey house of decaying dreams. Dancing at the end credits of EVERY MOVIE WE WATCH just isn't quite as relevant as a few weak Ducky-related verses. If only I'd let you watch Barney, your life would be complete. </div>
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Library trips do not count, I don't think, as "out." I try to talk to the other moms, but there is always the sizing up that interferes from all sides: does your kid share? so you are just going to let her throw that block, huh? Who is your Husband and What does he Do? are you at home on purpose, or <i>just unemployed</i>? How about breastfeeding? church? preschool? dance class? Hey. Nice shoes.</div>
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We move as a unit-a three person society-but Wendy plays with the other kids whole-heartedly and un-selfconsciously. I am still vacuum-sealed away from the outside environment. Like the ground bison meat at the grocery store. It's <i>like</i> the hamburger and meat loaf mix...but obviously not from around here. Not something you are quite sure you want to try.</div>
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What do you think? Will I scare the Library Moms away if I just skip all of that and start every conversation with "hey, what's up with whole parts of your personality dying and falling off like gangrene-infected toes when you become a mom? is it bad that I don't even miss those toes? do you always walk all tilty, do you think? are you looking for new friends?"<br />
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Probably freak them out, right?<br />
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The time stretches out in front of me, and I have to truly talk myself through every second and breath of some of the longer hours and some days I actually don't want to...and <span style="font-family: sans-serif;">I am glad for my team, then. I know they are with me, and they know I'm with them. That makes</span> it worth it. It doesn't fix everything, but it balances.<br />
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Try to say "yes" more, and these gifts will fall at your feet. It's so worth it. </div>
Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-19000343351022691232014-08-20T11:17:00.001-04:002014-09-04T10:45:00.216-04:00My First Boyfriend has Died. Warm. Kind. Funny. Gentle. <b>8/7/14</b><br />
I saw it on Facebook. A mutual friend from high school posted it, and I followed the links, and there it was. Pictures that rattled me and a story that I didn't know, about this adult with a full-on (hipster? Duck Dynasty?) beard who was a widely liked, and even well-loved person. According to all of the comments on various sites: warm, caring, gentle, kind, innovative, funny. <br />
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I am reading these things, and I don't know what I feel. I can't find a word that is right. <br />
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Warm. Funny. Caring. Kind. Gentle.<br />
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I haven't spoken to him since the night I very dramatically broke up with him (how else can you when you are almost 19?), and only saw him briefly from a distance twice since then. I didn't know him after that. From time to time, I hoped he was miserable and alone. I hoped that he had learned to deal with his depression and anxiety, and was happier. I was sure that he lied to himself about the reasons we broke up. I wondered if he got really, really fat and still lived with his parents. I wondered if he was dead. I wondered if I would ever find out any of these things.<br />
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I joined the marching band color guard when I was a senior in high school. He joined as an "equipment manager" so he could come with me on band trips and to shows and whatnot. It took up a lot of our time in football season. It became a problem in our relationship. This one time, he held me down and suffocated me with his hands till I passed out, and made us late for the bus going to a band competition. He didn't want to go. He wanted to spend more time together, <em>just us</em>. This is a small sample of his <em>solutions</em> to the <i>problems </i>in our relationship. I also was on the hockey team, and we were in the Drama Club together, and choir. Those things took up time and diverted my attention from him, too. Occasionally, I would go without a bra and once in a while, I would wear shorts, obviously trying to get someone else's attention. <i>Problems </i>with similar <em>solutions</em>.<br />
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(It's true: awkward, geeky kids who are not even that good looking have these kind of problems, too.)<br />
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Why even comment? It's not my story, now.<br />
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Except that I am confused. And full of rage. And I have a voice now for the things that I could not find a way to talk about then...sort of. I don't want to talk about it.<br />
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I expected that I might always feel a bit pissed that I never got to really tell him off, with the benefit of adult perspective and all the glory of my success in life. And I am pissed, now that I am sure it will never, ever happen. Doesn't everyone want that chance? Petty.<br />
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But. <br />
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My 19 year-old self is RAGING that he just walked away from all of the damage he did in my life...and had a <em>nice</em> life, where he helped people and built things with people and people liked him. I didn't want to know all of that. It took a lot of years to school myself to only feel pity and mild disgust when I thought about us. To stop feeling rage and shame and mortification and self-loathing. I'm not 19 any more, and so many things have happened since then that matter <u>so much more</u>. A long time ago, I learned to feel <i>nothing </i>about years 16, 17, and 18.<br />
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I was at peace with the fact that sometimes, there is no accountability for people who are wrong.<br />
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But I am caught off-guard. Blind-sided, in fact, with a steaming sack of <i>NOT NOTHING</i>.<br />
I did not expect to be so sad. Have regret. Feel Rage. <br />
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<b>8/14/14</b><br />
Do people change? Does it matter?<br />
Here's the thing: I believe all of that stuff they are saying about him. I knew that side, too. <br />
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This one time, he carried a kitten in his inside denim-jacket pocket to keep it warm, all the way from his neighborhood where he found him, to my apartment. We found the kitten a good home. And <em>I believe that people are not just one thing</em>, forever and ever. I find, in the sack, alongside the Rage, a disturbing, traitorous grief for the person with a kitten in his pocket, who held my hand at my Grandma's funeral and worried about his mom and gave me his favorite Flyers t shirt to sleep in.<br />
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He died, apparently, from complications of a heart condition that he has had since birth. A comment on a memorial page says, "so ironic that it was his heart, because he had the biggest heart of anyone I know." Died of a heart condition that I didn't believe he had, because I finally realized that I couldn't tell when he was telling me lies. <br />
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I guess that one was true. And he was very funny. Plus the kitten thing. <br />
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Its been 14 years since I saw him. My life has made me different from the person I was at 19; I suppose his could have too. <br />
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<b>8/20/14</b><br />
This one time, this really damaged, paranoid, self-involved, awkward teenager really hurt someone who loved him, over and over, until she was damaged, too. Then he grew up and led a decent life and made good friends and was a productive, interesting, and worthwhile person. The second part doesn't make up for the first part, for her. Maybe it did for him, but it doesn't matter, because he died young anyway. <br />
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Its not a good story. Its not a story at all. We make things into stories so they make sense. <br />
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I can't put a word to how I feel. I don't want to even the score on the reckoning of his life. Or maybe I do-but it doesn't matter, because it's done. There is no reckoning. I fixed that damage myself, and will keep on fixing it. I am not just one thing either. <br />
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I don't want to talk about it. There is no one to talk to. <br />
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This, right here, is the best I can do to put it outside of myself and try to let it go. Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-50726828187690223732013-11-18T16:16:00.002-05:002013-11-24T12:26:53.031-05:00A Colorado Autumn<div>
Fall time in Colorado was magical for me when I was a kid, but it never looked like it was supposed to. This is because there are no proper trees in Colorado. <br />
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"What about aspens?" you say, and that is because you probably have never been to the part of Colorado that is not the mountains. Aspens are in Aspen, where rich people ski. We lived in the burbs in the flat part of Colorado. I have never been skiing in my life.<br />
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Fall time on the flat part is a time of transition, from the sun-crisped lawns of dry Summer to the cold-crisped lawns of dry Winter. This was magical to me when I was a kid, mostly because I was a big dork and really loved going back to school. <br />
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Autumn just didn't have much else to offer. The Colorado plains is not a natural habitat for trees that properly turn orange and red and then shed beautiful piles of Fall time wonderland. Mostly, in Colorado neighborhoods, there are small decorative landscape plants and pine trees. (All evergreens are still "pine trees" to me. They all look the same.) A lot of people there don't even own a rake. <br />
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Sometimes, when I was a kid, I did try to scrape pine needles into piles over the crispy brown grass, to emulate proper fall time fun. It wasn't the same as the leaf pile of my dreams...but it did have its charm. <br />
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I was pretty sure that I was missing out. We usually grabbed a few cozy weekends of woodsmoke-filled weekends at our favorite campgrounds just as it started to get cooler, and this was nice. But I knew that in other places, kids waded joyfully through piles of leaves wherever they went in the Fall. They shuffled through this golden month or two, pausing to sit on giant pumpkins and drink cider in leaf piles, knowing that the ax of winter would not drop any time soon. <br />
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Fall time in Colorado means it is colder and browner, but not really nicer in any way. And then it randomly snows in October and you go trick-or-treating anyway, which, I do have to admit, is pretty cool. <br />
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I live in PA now, with the correct kind of trees. I raked the maple leaves into a pile in our yard the other day. With a real rake.<br />
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Its a different part of the country, and a different kind of life. There are heritage parades in small towns here instead of piles of flaming illegal fireworks in the street. We have deer and old German farmers in the field behind our house instead of howling coyotes. There are moist gardens and soft grass instead of bristling carpets of pine needles. On the other hand, if it snows here on Halloween, everyone stays home. Sometimes I wonder if I am giving my kids a childhood that is too soft. <br />
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Then I watch them fling themselves into the pile of leafy joy, crack their heads together and gleefully poke each other with sharp sticks, and I know that I am a complete idiot to think idiot thoughts like that. <br />
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This time of year...is pretty much bliss.</div>
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-79203312304622035132013-08-23T22:18:00.003-04:002013-08-23T22:21:26.316-04:00Moose Do Not Kick Logs: a proven fact<div>
Part of parenting is knowing when to BS your kids. You just have to sometimes. There is a lot of crap going on in the world that they don't need to know about, and sometimes just a lot going on period...and kids never stop with the questions. <br />
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I am pretty up front with Wendy. I tell her most of the stuff she wants to know. Babies grow in the uterus. Why ice is bigger than water. You know. Stuff. <br />
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But she's also a bit of a worrier, so I have to know when to put on the brakes. For example, after watching The Wizard of OZ when she was four, she became concerned about tornadoes. Concerned in a way that prompted a few questions: <br />
1. Do we get twisters? <br />
2. Does grandma get twisters? <br />
3. How about Aunt Mimi and Eddie? <br />
4. Are you sure we don't get twisters? <br />
5. Is it windy enough right now? <br />
6. How about now? <br />
7. Does that cloud look a little twisty to you? <br />
8. Shouldn't we get inside and get in our bathtub with pillows over our heads?<br />
9. Why don't you care about twister safety?<br />
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So I have learned when not to tell her the explicit absolute truth. Mostly for my own sanity. <br />
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Tonight, through the open window, we heard the distant popping-booming sound that is either people shooting at an outdoor range a couple of miles away OR detonations at a quarry also a couple miles away-I have never figured out which. We hear this often enough, and, rather than suffer a barrage of kid angst re: local people with guns and bombs, I have always told Wendy that it is a moose kicking a log. <br />
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This is how you have to dish the BS. Simple. Elegant. Difficult to disprove using the research skills of a four year old.<br />
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Well. Now shes six. I hand this moose-and-log line to Liam tonight, and I get this<b>:</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<strong>Wendy:</strong> Its definitely not a moose<strong>.</strong> <br />
<b>Me</b>: how do you know?<br />
<strong>Wendy</strong>: Moose don't kick logs. <br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Sure they do. I know moose. They kick logs. <br />
<strong>Wendy</strong>: How many?<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: How many?<br />
<strong>Wendy</strong>: How many do you know?<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Oh. Uh, six. Or seven. Yeah, seven. <br />
<b>Wendy</b>: Well I know twenty. And none of them kick logs.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Twenty? I didn't know there were so many around here. <br />
<b>Wendy</b>: There are hundreds. I just know twenty. And if any of them kicked a log, it wouldn't sound like that anyway. <br />
<b>Me</b>: Maybe they kick logs when you're not around. <br />
<b>Wendy</b>: I asked my one moose friend to kick a log, and you could barely hear it. Plus, he really hurt himself doing it. I had to take him to the moose vet. So I know that moose wouldn't kick a log even if they wanted to.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Maybe your moose friend has really wimpy hooves.<br />
<b>Wendy</b>: No way. He runs moose races. He is like, a champion, first place moose runner. Except not now, probably, after the log thing. I feel really bad about asking him to do that, you know?<br />
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So, now that I've been officially OWNED in the category of moose-related BS...I see that I am going to have to up my game.</div>
Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-12840663368348289352013-08-07T10:59:00.004-04:002013-08-07T10:59:24.117-04:00It Was Inevitable: Why We Can't Have Nice Things (Again)<div>
Tucker is a puppy of discriminating tastes. When he is not enjoying the evening on the veranda in his favorite rocking chair, <br />
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he can usually be found annihilating various items around the house.<br />
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While Duke <a href="http://moville.blogspot.com/2006/09/dont-be-conned-i-was.html" target="_blank">chewed a vast array of inexplicable things</a> like The Drywall and Potatoes, Tucker's preferences run a bit more refined. For example, when he utterly destroys paper products, he enjoys a nice National Geographic between the teeth. <br />
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He does relish a good global human interest story. He was mesmerized by James Cameron's submarine dive to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Mesmerized to tiny, unreadable bits. <br />
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In the absence of thick glossy magazine paper, he goes for the lofty fluff of Cottonelle or the comforting touch of Kleenex. <br />
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He sometimes takes a break from paper to utterly demolish a nice hank of wool roving. I have to admit his good taste here, because out of all of the new hanks of wool roving to choose from, Tucker shredded and soaked with dog spit only my favorite colors, Dill and Amethyst.<br />
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Maybe I have it wrong here. Maybe it is not that he enjoys these things in themselves. Maybe our dog is a bit of a Puritan, and does not approve of the decadence of worldly comforts. Perhaps he feels that people who read world adventure stories and use bottom-pampering toilet tissue are surely on the road to perdition. Those who indulge in fiber art using bright colors are certainly going to hell. <br />
Maybe we can't have nice things because our dog is concerned for our souls. <br />
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This can only be the reason that this feather boa had to die. Because <em>we all know</em> what feather boas lead to. <br />
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The calculated precision with which he made <em>certain</em> that no one would ever use this cord to charge a phone in the car again? Kind of chilling. Perhaps this speaks to deep-seated malice for technology? Or resentment toward the attention payed to electronics and not to him?<br />
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I know that this phase shall pass. Someday, our dog will move beyond his obsession/vendetta against these things, and we will once again be able to read while wearing feather boas, possibly whilst blowing our noses and preparing to wipe with fluffy TP. We will be able to do these things without fearing THIS:</div>
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Yeah, OK. That is cute, the way he piles up all of his things on his favorite spot du jour. Notice my shoe under his butt. My shoe is obviously now considered his thing, and clearly, is living on borrowed time. <br />
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-65970606837915941122013-05-30T15:40:00.002-04:002013-05-30T15:48:35.683-04:00Flowers in the AtticRemember that book/movie? Yeah? Me too. Thanks a lot V. C. Andrews. Thanks for the memories. <br />
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Anyway. <br />
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When Carl moved in to this house in 2004, there was still a lot of stuff left in the house from the <strike>psycho</strike> previous owner. Furniture in every room. Clothes hanging in the closet. Cross-stitch and family pictures on the wall. Laundry in the laundry baskets. And an attic full of stuff. <br />
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It is now 2013, and the time has finally come. We have finally, FINALLY decided to clean the attic out. <br />
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We are talking classic old attic treasure trove of horrors here. This is the kind of attic where you open large trunks and suitcases gingerly, because there could be a petrified red-headed stepchild in there. YOU JUST DONT KNOW.<br />
Here is one side, mostly cleared out of the boxes of stuff. Just imagine it stuffed to the gills with moldering cardboard and randomness. Yes, that is a barrel in the background. I am pretty sure that it never held booze. <br />
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The creepiest stuff is the kids stuff. <br />
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If you aren't familiar with V.C. Andrews books, the covers always featured some angelic girl with perfect hair looking through a cut-out window. You would turn the front cover, to reveal on the inside page that the girl was surrounded by her OBVIOUSLY crazy family-a severe, stiff-looking great aunt clutching her shoulder with bony white claws, an older brother lurking in the shadow behind her with too much white showing in his mad, mad eyes...</div>
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This is what that girl is wearing: <br />
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Most of the boxes that we pulled down were full of books and china and old National Geographics. The ocasional box of dry-rotting linens. But occasionally, there was a box of pictures or other sentimental knick knacks. Actual bronzed baby shoes. Oh. And and the attire of an ENTIRE wedding party. </div>
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Apparantly, this guy-who tried to have us evicted for no apparant reason in 2010, when I was pregnant with Liam-he does not give even one shit (let alone two) about his <em>own</em> family either, and what they might want with this stuff. </div>
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We plan to have a big yard sale this weekend. We cleared our consciences by making a phone call to one of the adult children of said <strike>insensitive monster of a "human"</strike> previous owner, and she-the adult daughter-was in fact very happy to come and collect her mother's china and her own baby pictures. </div>
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The Piece-de-Resistance of this whole junk mine:</div>
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My feelings exactly.</div>
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What you can't really enjoy via photography is the fine dust covering everything here. You can see a little of it on the floor in this last one. You know the thing that people say about dust being mostly dead people-skin? Well, the dust in OUR attic is people-skin, powdered mouse poo, powdered dead bird, for all I know, actual powdered dead people. </div>
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We are attacking this like its all a bio-hazard. Masks, gloves, etc.</div>
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Regardless, the whole process has been very cathartic. We are exorcising some demons, and carving out more space for us, which is a huge relief. </div>
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Back to the purge. I'll let you know how it goes. <br />
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-36828617927070505382013-04-09T10:38:00.002-04:002013-04-09T10:38:38.405-04:00Emotional Blackmail (What Marriage is All About)I'm still not entirely sure how this happened. It may be easier to explain it in pictures. <br />
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So here. Just watch this. <br />
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*sigh*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbgGE7sVBgpOm3X13IXplJCaUjw5WpH52t-le8i-EnZO-EYeXJyQTHQ8QIMXWXPZiMELjn5CXK4klyba83G-I24vWlCQv27jMudXhyYO-uFo1ghJ5bcd9Vlm1xXjpNcBTsJQr/s1600/Puppy+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/P6HEpsBSkxQ" width="420"></iframe></a><br />
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-46013976485649076592013-03-08T13:25:00.000-05:002013-03-08T13:25:32.744-05:00More Tales From Legit MatrimonylandIt seems that when you get married, a Kitchen Aid magically appears. <br />
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It doesn't matter if you have been cohabiting in lustful sin for years and years, spawning shameful illegitimate degenerates (hi kids!) and inciting wanton behavior in all who observe...<br />
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When you become a legit wife, the Kitchen Aid fairies know that it's time to leave a motorized dough hook under your pillow. Perhaps the Kitchen Aid fairy is an old fashioned prudish twit and thinks that only legitimate families deserve wholesome homemade food. <br />
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Behold.<br />
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What? Why, yes! That <em>is</em> a bottle of Godiva vodka next to my Kitchen Aid! You don't bake with the assistance of liquid happiness? WELL YOU SHOULD. </div>
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Technically, the K.A. was under the Christmas tree. And technically, this is not the one the fairy brought. The fairy brought a black one. Also, the fairy's name is Carl. </div>
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I was actually pretty cheesed when I opened this on Christmas morning. Carl and I had agreed (<em>seriously for real I promise</em>) not to get each other any real gifts, as we were already experiencing this money drought in December, and barely had enough to scrape together a few things for the kids. I stuck to this promise. On Christmas morning, Carl had exactly one bar of hippie stink patchouli soap in his stocking and one set of thermal underwear from Target under the tree. Both of these items were picked up back in November, when there was still money. I headed into Christmas morning guilt-free, because I KNEW there was no money, and I KNEW that I wouldn't have anything good to open either. We would just be content to share the morning holding hands, full of the virtuous nobility of our decision, Charlie Brown thoughts about the true meaning of Christmas, and NO GIFTS.</div>
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But then. THEN.</div>
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Kitchen Aid. </div>
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This was not a gift. He had <em>done</em> this. DONE this...this...<em>Kitchen Aid</em>. I was pretty sure that this was entirely engineered to mess with me. </div>
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I am about as good at saying thank you for unexpected extravagance as I am at saying "sorry." As in, <em>not</em> good. Especially when someone has dropped a flaming KITCHEN AID bomb into my Christmas morning, when I was expecting a steaming slice of truemeaning pie. I didn't even open it. Instead, there was resentful sniffing in the direction of the unopened box, and careful avoidance of all related topics. For Days.</div>
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Until Carl broke down and told me that his mom had helped him out with it and that it was mostly her idea anyway, and recast the Kitchen Aid as less a Christmas present, and more in the way of a wedding present. For us. Then everything was fine, because Carl's mom is an angel of kindness who can do no wrong. And if it is for <em>us...</em></div>
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Then he showed me online that there were all of these other colors to pick from....and I was sold. We exchanged it for the "pear" colored one in the pic and it's been true love ever since. </div>
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The first thing that I made was homemade whipped cream, which contains two ingredients, and takes less than three minutes. </div>
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The first thing Carl made was bread. Which includes chemistry and two or three hours of waiting and uncertain results and, while very sensible, is kind of a pain in the ass. </div>
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Both of these things turned out delicious. I feel that our choices probably say a lot about us, respectively.</div>
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What's the moral here? Never break the lets-not-get-presents promise. Unless it is a Kitchen Aid or similar and you can blame it on someone else. Then it's totally okay. </div>
Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-71417223611649039162013-02-11T15:26:00.002-05:002013-02-11T15:26:50.443-05:00February of SomedaySomeday, it will be February, and instead of being poor, we will be having fun in the snow. Or sleet. Whatever. We will be having sleetball fights, because we are so carefree and NOT POOR. <br />
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We will be like "Tra la! It is sleeting, but who cares, because we were smart this year! Let us make sleet angels and then skip inside and make hot chocolate and be happy! This day is not miserable and treacherous like the foggy-gray queasy anxiety crawling up our throats. No, it is a perfect day for snuggling inside with each other, and we can! You don't have to venture out into terrible conditions to do terrible jobs far beneath your skills, because this year we looked ahead, and our bills are paid! Our bills are paid, our bills are paid, tra la tra lee, our bills are paid!"<br />
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Someday we will actually be working for ourselves, and not just working to survive the week. We will be looking for somewhere fun to go on a Saturday instead of looking for stuff to sell on ebay. We will have a plan, and not a desperate scramble to make sure the mortgage isn't late (it hasn't been yet-talk to me in a few days). <br />
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We will spend more time loving our house, instead of resenting it. We will spend these money dry spells having fun with our kids instead of bouncing off the walls and staring at the worry lines growing deeper on each others faces, wondering how we got here AGAIN. Like we do EVERY year. We are both intelligent adults, each with a good work ethic. We can do this. Go team!<br />
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The pressure will not suddenly lift, as if by magic or by winning the lottery that we don't play. Go team go team go TEAM! It can be a mantra. Someday can be today. We can stop living the definition of insanity. We can come up with new answers...we can take the time to find a new way... As soon as we get a little money. <em>Then</em> we can put turnips in our root cellar, so the <em>next</em> time we circle back to this place, we will actually be somewhere else, and not still wondering if Someday will ever come.</div>
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-80870053340410389702013-02-09T18:10:00.001-05:002013-02-09T18:10:51.914-05:00We Celebrate With Lard!<div><p>Steph and Ryans 8th anual Faschnaghtapallooza took place today, and it was indeed grand!</p>
<p>For those of you folks not from PA or of pasty pale central European ancestry, a faschnaght is a kind of donut type thing, made with potato flour and fried in lard, then rolled in sugar. Its the way the Pennsylvania Dutch celebrate before Lent. </p>
<p>Thats right. Some people show their boobies and throw beads around, some people confess allof thier sins and celebrate thier Shriven souls with mass sugared lard consumption. To each his own, that's what I say. </p>
<p>Especially because Ryan shoves oreos and peanut butter cups in his faschnaghts, and I get to eat them. I haven't gone for the past two years, so I was kind of determined to go this year.</p>
<p>I even pried Carl out of the house and to the -pallooza. At some point (before he ate too many, while he was still in his fried dough happy place), he turned to me with gleaming eyes, and asked, "why don't WE do this???"</p>
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The first bit includes this:<br />
<em>The current cultural mania for DIY domesticity—backyard chickens, urban knitting circles, the rise of homeschooling, the sudden ubiquity of homemade jam—shows no sign of abating. Across the country, progressives are embracing home and hearth with new vigor under the guise of environmental sustainability, anti-consumerism, and better health. </em><br />
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<em>The movement has made for some very odd attitudes, especially when it comes to gender. The terms "liberal" and "conservative" barely seem to apply. The new progressive morality about food sometimes feels as retro and conservative as anything dreamed up during the 1950s. In many well-educated, well-heeled quarters, what you cook determines your worth as a mother (Is it organic? Local? BPA-free?), laziness in the kitchen is understood to doom your children to lives of obesity and menial labor, and the very idea of convenience is slatternly and shameful. In this culture, we have Berkeley heroes like Michael Pollan writing scoldingly about how feminism killed home cooking. Michelle Obama, every Democrat's favorite organic gardener, has been criticized for saying she doesn't like to cook.</em> <br />
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This is a great article. It has me written all over it, and kind of articulates something that I have been puzzling over, in an abstract kind of way. I generally think its funny watch people try to categorize other people like this, scratching their heads in confusion when they can't, except that I totally do it too. I go to these events -OMG, I am AT the farmers markets of which they speak-and meet all these other women doing the same attatched parenting organic jam jarring quinoa eating home business things that I do. I will have these lovely conversations with these people that I <em>know</em> are <em>JUST LIKE ME</em>! Yay! Maybe we can be friends and start a co-op together! We can grow organic broccoli and raise organic chickens and then I am completely FLOORED when they drop stuff into conversation like "the lord will show me the way through this Obamacare nightmare" and "I wish the <em>gays</em> wouldn't drag their issues into <em>important </em>politics, gah," and "well, you know-the <em>lame</em>stream media..."<br />
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My head kind of does that record scratching scrriiiiiiiiiizzt thing. I am pretty sure that it shows on my face too. My face that is suddenly all open mouth, twitching lip, and one crossed eye.<br />
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Preconceived notions=domolished. <br />
Absolute certainty that I am an open-minded and keep my prejudices well examined/in check=over.<br />
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I am a SAHM with an education, a stalled professional career and an Etsy business. I was in the Vagina Monologues twice, AND I am in love with my Kitchen Aid. Its okay. I don't need to scramble my brain trying to justify this. I live in an era where I can be many things. <br />
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I feel a lot better about life when I stop worrying about what "kind" of woman I am "supposed" to be, and just worry about what is best for me as a person and for my kids. I think that most of these women that the article describes are just trying to make good choices for themselves and their families-regardless of the lables that they profess or are given.<br />
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When I manage to put my face back in order and reassemble my world view, I realize that I like how the lines are blurred. I <em>can</em> be friends with them, even if their political ideas are totally wrong. <br />
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Let us hold hands, eat some granola, and sing about it.Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-16685376713286365372013-01-29T20:08:00.000-05:002013-01-29T20:08:00.148-05:00While You Were Away1/27/2013<br />
Dear Carl,<br />
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You have been away for a week. Though I appreciate what it says about you that you would go stay in New Jersey to do a roof in 10 degree weather so that we can pay the mortgage...lets not do this again. </div>
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Some notable things about this week:</div>
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1. Wendy lost her first tooth! To be more precise, she and I agreed that enough was enough, this thing had been hanging on by a thread for <em>days</em>, just <em>taunting</em> us, lets yank it out with some floss! WHOO! GO TEAM! After much flinching and false starts and slipping of the floss, out it came. It made a sound like <em>slurk</em>. She wrote a nice note to the Tooth Fairy that asked her to please come back later, because she'd really like to show the tooth to her Daddy before it was taken away forever. This note had disappeared from under Wendy's pillow by morning, so we are pretty sure she got the message. <br />
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2. You would have enjoyed this pie that I ate. You would have enjoyed this pie that was a) Pumpkin cheese pie b) half price c) from the Landis bakery, but I ate it. After we realized that you were going to be a few more days than expected, I quit pretending that I was saving some for you. I just left the fork on top of the plastic container, and ate it right out of the tin every time it happened to catch my eye. I did think of you, though. </div>
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3. Everything is fine. Your fish are still alive. I only left the keys hanging out of the front door once. I've kept the fire going in the stove pretty well. However, we have GOT to stack the firewood on the porch. I can be a tough girl prairie farm wife all I want, but when it is 58 degrees inside and 7 degrees outside, this sucks:<br />
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4. Our kids are awesome. And helpful. And fun. And brilliant. And really great company. When they want to be. I guess. <br />
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No really, they are. That Liam has become really iffy on naps and how that has pretty much blown a hole in my sewing production and set it on fire does not diminish his awesomeness. He is very huggy this week, perhaps noticing the lack of a man in my life and trying to comfort me. We are going to have fun evicting them back to their own beds, because the three of us have been puppy piled in our bed since you left. <br />
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5. Being the only adult in the house creeps me out at night. I am not used to it. All of those sounds? We do have old floors and four cats and a dog to explain them away. But. Well....there are a lot of sounds, and I read a lot, so thus my brain is riddled with delightful ideas about what happens to people home alone directly after they ignore things that go <em>snick</em> or <em>rustle</em> or <em>creak</em>. I am slightly embarrassed about this, but I really miss having you here to stomp around in the dark all manly like when the dog starts barking, ready to totally kick that innocent deer in the yard's ass for freaking us all out. Oh. There were some deer in the yard. They were pretty.</div>
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6. This is last, because it is the reason that I am writing. All of these other things are important too (okay, maybe not the pie), but really, I'm just working my way to this. On Monday, I got word that a guy that I know had died in his sleep, very suddenly, aged 32. I went to his funeral services on Friday. This was a guy that was a best friend of my best friend-this funny, smart person that I've known since middle school. In fact, he and his best friend were prodded into going with me and my best friend to our ninth grade dance. There is an awkward picture and everything. Anyway. On Friday, I went to this difficult funeral, and watched his wife stand in front of everyone amidst what was surely one of the most terrible moments in her life and speak to us about gratitude. </div>
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She told us about how often they said "I love you," and how she knew with every fiber of her being that she was loved. She was grateful that they had been absolutely living the life that they wanted, together, and that he knew that he was loved too. Her cup, she said, was so full, because they loved each other. His death was not okay, but she was genuinely grateful that she had this beautiful thing in her life. I kept my shit together there (because that is what you do), and through the luncheon (which I found to be bizarre), but pretty much lost it the entire way home (because that is what I do). </div>
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We are not this love-at-first-sight inseparable fairy tale couple, and that is okay. But...sometimes the anxiety and stress are the ruling forces in our house, and I tell you that I love you, but I don't know if you <em>know </em>how much I love our life together. Right now, I need to tell you, and I need you to know, because...because shit. <em>SHIT</em>. You are in another state, and it turns out that 32 year olds are mortal. <br />
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I love that nothing is ever boring with us. I love that we have so much to do and to look forward to. I love knowing that you are here, regardless of frustrations and setbacks. I love that we love the same pie, and that our kids look like both of us, and that we are imperfect, but perfect for each other. I am exactly where I want to be, with you, and with our kids, and I am grateful. </div>
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Now come home, damnit. </div>
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-57283743386842954282013-01-07T12:05:00.001-05:002013-01-07T15:52:20.722-05:00This is the Way We Get it Done<div>
If I had resolutions they would be...<br />
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...all of the good stuff from last year, but bigger! Better! More!<br />
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I do have more specific goals, particularly re: taking my adorable little hobby business and making it into something that brings in a viable second income. All I have to do is what I did last year, but double. No big deal. I can totally do that. I totally have twice the time and energy that I had last year to pull out of my...hat. (You know, the hat that I keep in my butt.)<br />
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For feats of this magnitude, you need a plan, and as part of my plan, I turn to the wisdom of 1950s housewives, who did crazy things like cook a hundred meals at a time, and stick them in the freezer to save thier future selves lots and lots of time slaving over hot stoves.<br />
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Did I say crazy? I meant awesome.<br />
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My friend Steph and I are doing this together. Her maternity leave is about to end, so her future self is also on a dog-tired, hollow-eyed trudge toward dinner time, desperately hoping that someone-anyone-cut her a break. Enter us! Past Self Crazy Awesome Bitchez!<br />
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Now all we need are some heels and frilly aprons. And possibly super hero names.<br />
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-70592803118012749062012-12-24T20:56:00.001-05:002012-12-24T20:56:48.500-05:00Waiting...<div><p>...for the wrappingpapergeddon to begin.</p>
<p>Merry Christmas Eve!</p>
<br/><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmwo8qxRGYQLd8cFS0tpnon-BeZmbBvrbxgrAIjgyjv8CDZ4gVd_ieXRRtF2685p4Mz-7zZGrANyJUWnx4PIuKgH-wmF1xSIbrFqZXNNfK-FDVtvyiU8KoUdwAOMvmDm3DJ5o/' /></div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-53363044053806298752012-12-21T18:39:00.000-05:002012-12-23T18:52:28.399-05:00And Melt With You<div style="text-align: center;">
On this day, December 21, 2012, on the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/20/mayan-calendar-2012_n_2338008.html" target="_blank">last day of the world</a>, and the <a href="http://www.timeanddate.com/calendar/december-solstice.html" target="_blank">longest night of the year</a>...we were married. </div>
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We did this in our living room, with our kids in attendance and our moms as official witnesses. We did this in front of our Christmas tree, with no officiant, just ourselves, self-uniting.</div>
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"We have been together for a while, choosing to be together every single day. We don't need anyone else to tell us that we belong together, or to give us permission. We only need to know it ourselves-that we choose to love and be a family together."</div>
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"I can't imagine my life without her."</div>
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"I choose you."</div>
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"I choose you."</div>
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And then kissing, and signing, and eating cupcakes.</div>
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Oh my gosh! See my ring? I've been wearing it for six years. Carl gave it to me for my birthday right before Wendy was born. I love this ring. It is pretty, it is special, and it wards off sticky advances from creepy guys with bad breath and chest stubble. </div>
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(But now that I'm a <em>real</em> wife, it's not a dirty, whorey lie!)</div>
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Why now?</div>
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because we are anyway, just not on paper</div>
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because my daughter desperately wants us to</div>
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because of totally unromantic tax reasons</div>
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because he asked me, and I said yes</div>
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because life is too damn short.</div>
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Obviously, mostly because of the potential for cake. </div>
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(chocolate chip red velvet with cream cheese frosting)</div>
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I even wore white. Cheers!</div>
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Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-17636837022437810972012-12-15T16:04:00.000-05:002012-12-15T16:48:13.606-05:00My Heart. It Hurts.It hurts so much. <br />
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Human beings have such an amazing capacity to shut out the things that they'd rather not know. Horrible things going on far away, scary things that happen to people right next door, totally unexpected things that could happen <em>to them</em> at any moment, anywhere, at any time. You have to shut it out, because otherwise, you'd never be able to get on with your day. You have to get dressed and feed the dog and put gas in the car and get milk on your way home...you have to live your life, even though in the back of your mind you know that there are all these...things. <br />
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And then you become a parent. <br />
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Wendy started Kindergarten this year. She is totally in love with it. She has a great teacher, and new friends, and this week, she started a "Pony Club," for people who love playing ponies (still unclear if they are pretending to <em>be</em> ponies or pretending that they <em>have</em> ponies). We made certificates for the sustaining members of Pony Club, and everything, so it's totally official. <br />
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And today, the day after the elementary school shooting in Connecticut, I watch her pushing her static-y hair out of her face while she colors her official Pony Club certificates with sparkly crayons...and I want to lock the door, unplug the TV, and shut out the world for real. I want to tell the world to Go Eff Itself, it cannot have these kids, thank you very much, I prefer to keep them. I will join the Pony Club myself, and we will have lots and lots of fun by ourselves.<br />
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Once upon a time, I didn't have kids. I distinctly remember having feelings. At least a few. But once I did have kids, every foul and corrupted thing on the news suddenly became very... personal. <br />
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You can grow this cynical shell of self preservation all your life, and go around saying things like "yeah, life's a bitch, right? oh well, let's get a drink." You can paste together your favorite fortune cookie fortunes into philosophies that help you rationalize and believe and maintain basic <em>sanity</em>. Then, you have kids who are so beautiful and perfect, and you find that those carefully established blinders and defenses and fail safe platitudes against the griminess of human existence...those things may protect you from reality enough to get through <em>your</em> day, but they <em>will not protect your children</em> from reality itself.<br />
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Days like today, I question how I could have ever, even for a moment, tricked myself into believing in a rational world. I do not want to have this fear. <br />
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I am sorry that this is dark. I know that I was able to tuck my kids in last night, and eat breakfast with them this morning, and there are twenty families in Connecticut who cannot say the same. In light of what happened yesterday, I should focus on loving them and being present with them, and I am (see: making Pony Club certificates) But in the pit of my stomach, right where it feels like I was punched, I cannot rid myself of this hurt. I don't know any of the people involved, but it still feels personal. <br />
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I do not have a good way to end this post. I have a six year old. On Monday, I must take her to school and drop her off at the curb and drive away. There is no fortune cookie to help me do that. But maybe...maybe she will. <br />
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<br />Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-49147270839904900152012-09-20T16:13:00.001-04:002012-09-20T16:17:57.796-04:00Gross. But in a Nice Way.<div><p><b>NPR:</b> ...<i>which is why a conversation about being gay, say, when I was 12 or so, might have been a positive thing...</i></p>
<p><b>Wendy: </b>Whats gay?</p>
<p><b>Mo: </b>Gay is when women love other women or men love other men. Like how Mommy and Daddy love each other.  With grown up kisses and hugs.</p>
<p><b>Wendy: </b>Well thats gross. But in a nice way.</p>
<p>...so...wait. Could there be two Mommies, then?</p>
<p><b>Mo: </b>yes, sometimes.<b> </b>Sometimes two ladies or two guys will get married, even.</p>
<p><b>Wendy:</b> But what if they change thier minds?</p>
<p><b>Mo: </b>Well, people dont usually change thier minds about being gay.</p>
<p><b>Wendy: </b><i>*scoff* </i>No <i>Mom. </i>I mean about getting <i>married.</i></p>
<p><b>Mo: </b>Oh. Um. Well then they get divorced. Like unmarried.</p>
<p><b>Wendy: </b>Well, maybe I will marry a girl <i>and </i>a boy. So that way, there can be two mommies and I dont have to get divorced.  That would be nice.</p>
<p>...What if you and Daddy get divorced? </p>
<p><b>Mo: </b>we cant get divorced, because we're not married.</p>
<p><b>Wendy: </b>Oh. Well thats nice. Its nice when your mom and dad aren't divorced. </p>
<p><b>Mo: </b><i>*proud that I have thusfar avoided</i><i> a world that combines divorce and my children</i>* Yes. Yes it is.<i> </i></p>
</div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-14254314959554017612012-07-24T09:13:00.001-04:002012-07-26T22:15:16.150-04:00Updates-For Those Who Wait Like Starving Chicks for my Words to Drop Into Their Open Hungry Mouths Like Worms of Deliciousness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u>Liam and Wendy</u></div>
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Still Doing This To My Life:</div>
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(Also still cute.)</div>
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<u>Erin</u></div>
Graduated from High School!<br />
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She is also still cute. She is now doing THIS to her dad's life:</div>
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<u>Me</u>:</div>
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Now a famous model and hugely successful small business owner, blowing the doors off of the fantasy costuming niche market with my stunning vision and hottness. (Note: actual fame and glory may just be in writer's head. Which is crazy. Crazyhead.)</div>
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And yet, I can't stop making the duck lips in pictures. I even "smize" like a duck. Very sad.</div>
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More to come, soon. I hope I just downloaded the Blogger Ap to my phone, and I can't wait to see how it works! *Waves to Jaimie, who misses me and has demanded Blogging, from the land of TooBusyToThink*</div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-1571746006184008122012-03-16T18:31:00.006-04:002012-03-17T10:34:16.004-04:00Fairies-It's This Year's Harry Potter, YoThis one time, I was having a conversation with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Steph</span>, and said something offhand like, "I don't know...things are kind of crazy for me right now." She replied, just as offhand, "Yeah, but things are always crazy with you."<br /><br />And it really stopped me in my tracks.<br /><br />I didn't know it, but it's true. It's not the bad kind of crazy, where you are living out of a car with your two cats because you didn't renew your lease and you have to go ask your friend <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Steph</span> for $200 to pay to get the boot off of your car/home <em>again</em> so you can go to work and pay to get your phone turned back on....no. Not that kind. None of that stuff is me. My crazy is more like the kind that tenth graders have when they are so used to having straight A's, then they join field hockey, color guard, drama club and lit. mag, and are suddenly getting B's instead of A's, and wonder why they are totally crazy and their friend <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Steph</span> is standing there like, yeah, duh, you are the one who wanted to do all of this stuff. Does it have to totally take over your soul and eat your face, though? Crazy head.<br /><br />Except you know. Now with grown-up stuff. Mostly. Point being-<br /><br /><strong>Here is my current chaos tornado.</strong><br />I told you that last year I made moves toward making "real" money with my "business," which is how I ended up making 87 custom Harry Potter robes in 2011. I should probably actually start <em>calling</em> it a business and not "that thing I do for fun on the side-you know costumes and stuff-not really that big of a deal-is that a squirrel over there, or do the bunnies around here bury nuts?"<br /><br />A couple of months ago, I decided to really do this thing, which means to take it on the road. I hesitantly and nervously applied to the <a href="http://www.spoutwood.org/fairie-festival/family-fun"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sproutwood</span> May Day Fairy Festival</a>, fully expecting mean and jerkish rejection. The kind where Tinkerbell shoots you out of the sky with poisoned arrows, and Rufio totally humiliates you on the skateboardball court. Then the Fairies told me I could come, and I have paid the vendor fees and now...I am consumed with plans and ideas <em>and the Fairy Festival is kind of taking over my soul and eating my face.<br /><br /></em>I am going around sketching bad <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">cartoonish</span> pictures of these AMAZING visions that I have in my head, sketches that look to me like magic flying elf princesses, but to others look like elephants farting on doghouses. I am writing lists entitled "Oh My God. Get This Done or You Suck," and "Stuff I need to be a Real Business Girl." (Items include a sign for my booth/show space, a business checking account, and six or seven bags of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Milano</span> cookies to shove into my head because they make my head feel calm inside.)<br /><br />I am making stuff like this:<br /><br /><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 227px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720636648880135234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZPCFO9Q0pqBxqp6GSb-R0iKkiyVRx8AAqIr1_VKYlu-ybr9lsbO6Q-BbrgQ7T1LWtxrQlk0-Q_68AJG8ev6RIv7-TqzF2yP0673yLbvh6YLp1bZewOf31gUPwazSUCEv4Vk0/s400/Little+Green+002.jpg" /><br /></em><br /><br /><p>and like this:</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 385px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720638320135688002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAUYD1GyZGpQ6MjlSMfl1KwxreocgmxpaMPnLfFNaOUj8kNtlWrsdokzce08L8cDR5iby5X8zJWVBSul896OXyPfwOirJnNazKNbZqXijbKU8cGQxbgk4NDPDqG1tX-0gvniv/s400/Picture+864.jpg" /><em><br /></em><br /><p>And all kinds of other stuff that is leaking out of my brain. I am doing my best to not let the anxiety get the best of me. </p><br /><p>I am not succeeding. However, the 15 year-old Assistant Editor of Traces of the Mind/junior varsity mid-fielder/stage hand/flag girl/A+ student in me is making it happen. MAKING IT HAPPEN, PEOPLE.</p><br /><p>2012 is totally the year of the fairies <span style="font-size:85%;">(eating my face).</span></p>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-27765914890338976842012-01-16T05:43:00.006-05:002012-01-16T06:19:44.563-05:00Awake; QuietInexplicably, awake and up at 3:30AM.<br />Awake and right back to sleep is more my style, but right at this moment? I am enjoying the quiet. The complete lack of "CanIhave CanYouGetMe INEED CanI CanI CanI??"<br /><br />I miss writing. Starting last May, I decided to take a real crack at making some money via Etsy, and I did it. Not huge money, but enough to make some small difference, and it felt great. Other things suffered-sleep, the frequency of dog fur tumbleweed sweeping, this blog, sleep-but it did feel great.<br /><br />Being a mom is like this. I add one thing in, and another thing gets edged out. Maybe in another five years, I will not remember what it was like to be able to fit everything in. That time in my life when I could work two part time jobs, have friends, have time to drop everything to help someone move, have sleep, have hobbies, have sex, have EVERYTHING all at the same time...with some energy left over for...oh, I don't know. I really don't. What did I used to DO with all of that excess that I had? Maybe I <em>am</em> forgetting. God I hope so.<br /><br />With a child in the picture? Most of those things were swept away, but I could still keep a few balls in the air. Add another child? Forget it. Balls down.<br /><br />That before-time - being 21 with two shit jobs, running around from place to place with nowhere really to go - I am willing to let that fade into the foggy distance behind me. But I miss writing about the good stuff-the stuff I always want to have. I want to write about Liam's first birthday cupcakes, and how instead of going to a party on New year's Eve, we watched an insanely lame/awesome show about kittens called <em>Too</em> <em>Cute</em>! (for realz, cause we are bad ass like that), and how Carl did The. Most. Amazing. Thing. for Christmas, and on and on.<br /><br />...but right now, I am just enjoying this quiet moment (soon to be shattered when the baby realizes that the parent in the bed with him does not have the "boo"s)<br />...and my fingers are getting stiff with cold because I live in a drafty old Pennsylvania farmhouse, where it is 13 degrees outside and about three degrees warmer here in Carl's office<br />...and it is 6:03AM and I am finally tired enough to go grab another 30 minutes of sleep, or at least 30 minutes of warm snuggling.<br /><br />...so hopefully, I'll be able to add this thing back into my life soon. Because I do miss it.Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-21522541033176936622011-11-18T11:38:00.004-05:002011-11-18T12:23:53.378-05:00I Have ArrivedToday I am 30. Here are my ruminations. <br /><div></div><br /><div>I was actually WAY more heartbroken when I turned 20 than I am at this moment, which makes <em>no</em> sense at all, because when I was 20, so was my ass. Seriously. What can you possibly be so devastating when you have the ass of a 20-year old? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Most of my friends (including my guy and my mom) are older than me, so I already know by observation that 30 (or 40 or 50) does not come with revelations, an extra shot of knowing everything (like I need it), or even magically having your shit together. Neither-thank god that I have fun people in my life-does it seem to mean that things stop happening to you and your life is suddenly a suck-crap-borefest. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In the shower this morning (by myself-my birthday present from Wendy, who says that yes, grown up women should be allowed to take showers by themselves on their birthdays if they want to), I couldn't help speculate, and I do feel it- I have arrived. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It isn't what I thought it would be. I thought there would be more suits. I thought it would take more expensive cocktails and important looking shoes and <em>networking</em> to get me to 30. But this is what I mean-I have very recently let go of a lot of "supposed to"s about myself, and I am living more in my truth, just like Oprah tells me I should. I am learning to get out of my own way. I am acknowledging what I actually want, and as it turns out, these things do not involve uncomfortable name-brand shoe shopping. I should have known. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am letting myself be more creative. I am giving myself permission to evolve, and be happy. These are things that I did not know how to do when I was 20.</div><br /><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676386399820359106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyIpmZNScCw1qdsAmgRrlNcguaEGvSpDC3bbbD1DiPqUOGS72pDe12ib-vWQ7wZcdY2bYs8fn-HjswB9GzVWqqn51OjmYjLbWHLyUXNf4fViWg5yRZXqRLRt-OKigDKZYivYg/s400/me017.jpg" /><br /><br /><div>In addition, I have inspected my ass, and it is still decent. It is not quite as perky as that of a teenager, but the mirror didn't break, and I did not run screaming. I think I will be okay. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>These are my birthday wishes:</div><br /><div>1. That my life will always be as full as it is right now. The kids, the projects, the needs, the wants, the pets, the drive to create, the love. Bring it. </div><br /><div>2. That I will spend more time with my friends.</div><br /><div>3. That there will be cake. And possibly a tropical flavored drink with much booze and maybe a ridiculous garnish. (Where I have arrived, there are still cocktails.)</div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-59474058060462680062011-07-22T08:16:00.007-04:002011-07-22T09:26:48.715-04:00My Juice Glass is Getting a Workout this Week<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Life is what happens while you are trying to pay the bills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You get very focused on hunting for nickels and dimes in the couch cushions, your brain gets all muddled with complicated math (custom cedar doors +<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>eBay + Etsy = electric + car insurance + groceries, but is < mortgage), and before you know it, big things get by you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span><br /><br /></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">For example, my four year-old is out there learning things that I didn’t teach her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Singing songs from story hour that I don’t know, wanting to look up the michelinoceras on the internet, and explaining that jarred baby food does not have as many “helpful antioxidants” as baby food made at home using the Baby Bullet!</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">She hasn’t gone anywhere….<br /></span></p><span style="font-family:georgia;"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 388px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632151849625685602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkj1C9JGDwmB1QZFFzYYfR8kyNHreaECZmnCX-ad-eh3JkqfX7eRAk_M_L1qz-veWOaVcMxgcwxl2r2L7eELFt_w57ULOiRvgOMj4jvhjaA6XyoyV4T1Tvp123-0JgoDd4sozc/s400/spring+042.jpg" /></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">…but it seems as though suddenly, she is worldlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span><br /><br /></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632152887653309986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zG0jyjM_G9PEZA1tFH_ieJz-iBy4uL0JLq5pD2a92QmmfuFhIFhs0Vr1oY_W9yeDGquKmBJ-JHCmDpZmo0n91StP62YRzbqAOxiEqmaFEcvImpDGJOoau-yLMqqKLwvCVsmg/s400/summer+022.jpg" /></span></span></p><br /><p><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">She goes around making her own decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Decisions about making her own bed without being asked, and picking out books with chapters and books about Pluto. Decisions about <u>getting a haircut.</u> (A haircut?? REALLY? Let's think this over for a couple of days. Maybe a couple of days more. I don't know why. <em>Because</em>. Because...Yes I <em>know</em> hair grows back <em>Wendy</em>. I know. You are right. I do have butterflies about it. Thank you for holding <em>my</em> hand through <em>your</em> haircut.)<br /><br />It is like she turned a corner, and there is now...this kid living in my house. Not a baby. Good thing I have a spare one of those. Behold! MY KID! Who, despite her suspicions regarding the dubious and anti-oxidant devoid nature of jarred baby food, decided that helping to feed the baby would be a good way to help me out. On her own. Today, she is calling him her "Little Mini-Wheat." ("much better than those disgusting pink ones. What a disappointment.")<br /></span><br /><br /></p><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632160332552704210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiLhtGXbocSmGbgJpWIrKre9YwkveuWuTcWZCNPvzKSJuNTtSrLnmBX6ynOBhRAqwvd2D-uA6gDTbgri3hwcRYM_E6w_oqmMKZ7sV-QGP_QsAzL5e7ymgZqmDJb6V_w6b19lB/s400/summer2011+014.jpg" /> I don't want to get to maudlin about it. Time flies. Life changes. It's a good thing.<br /><br />(Read: I have already had a good cry into my juice glass of Paisano, and I'm fine now, thank you.) </p>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-58917216168997742592011-07-15T10:05:00.003-04:002011-07-15T10:06:41.528-04:00How Harry Potter Stole my June...but at Least He Brought Beef Jerky<span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">I blame this all on J.K. Rowling and my baby*. </span><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">I decided in May sometime to post a couple of Harry Potter robes in my Etsy shop. I figured I would sell them sometime near the premier of the final movie, make a few bucks, and that would be that. And I did sell those two. But apparently, everyone wants to dress up like wizard students at a fictional school of magic (as opposed to the real schools of magic) and go see a movie. So I sold a few more. Then a few more and a few more...until I somehow spent all of June and the first half of July staying up until 11 or 12 every night, making wizard robes in all of the house colors.</span><br /><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 305px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629573822356336722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXhK9k2nBKTlogCrxezNcJNdqyCScLEWUIwV70HP-JC9eLqfPVctgO2a5DdYqq1tLCJxGofm5oYBdrcFlGDNW5023_j7-6fwyvNqi0Fn0TQ4Gag0kVrhyKuISL_rS_puElSnK/s400/Harry+Potter+Large+5.jpg" /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">For those of you who have never been poor, this is what happens when someone is broke for a very long time, and then suddenly gets beaten with a small money stick:<br /><strong>1.</strong> Mo makes stuff.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';"><strong>2.</strong> Mo makes money.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';"><strong>3.</strong> Mo bids on a bunch of things on ebay. Like a better baby carrier. And pirate fabric. And food dehydrators. You know-stuff that I NEED.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';"><strong>4.</strong> Mo neglects many things like her blog, the cat boxes, and the growing laundry piles. Mo even feeds her kid a Kid Cuisine (Hippie Foul!) <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';"><strong>5.</strong> Mo ends up with two food dehydrators arriving in the mail in the same day because she got all excited about the thought of making her own dried fruit and beef jerkey, so she bid on two at the same time. Mo did not expect to win both. But then again, I think Mo was having a celebratory glass of wine while eBaying. Let this be a lesson.</span></p><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 12pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">It's all good, because our garden? It totally went ape-shit, and I hear that when you grow your own herbs and stuff, you can also preserve it. Plus, we planted four tomato plants, and all of them are doing well. (by doing well, I mean that they are busting down our door at night and demanding to be fed raw flesh so that they might soon take over our planet.) We already have a ton of basil and zucchinis. </span></p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629573826615942562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEk6_zLyaKCGv9aEqz3uiCZ4pIGx7uEu2WaI9PHG2aGt3Sasqjv07q0jziel1ygCFUZbi3r2XnP48WEgejvy2bmOaiT_Ho0zZ25bFDmSeEPpSyZyRoZBuql6CTBKZJqaC-pKa/s400/greencloak+040.jpg" />I'm thinking...herbed "sun" dried tomatoes? Does anyone know how to effectively preserve cilantro aside from drying it? Is that Wendy riding her bike in her PJs? Did she get a haircut? When will I stop yammering and post another picture of a cute baby?!? (now)<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629577592925357842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDmFnciepf-cC8j4LDSDRv4zZHCmmR64_jBOrF4M10wuiJRwHGhWjUH3O4Zf3hO_YtDloGbu7cOfFoLey0dyBbBL69hUTTqXX_n6yqQgn_6zOYTdxe7gw0W5AHFz-6HRPhNAn/s400/summer+025.jpg" /> <span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">So, um...hey Mollie! Do you want a food dehydrator?</span> I'm pretty sure that I only <em>need</em> one.<br /><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">*I would like to take a moment to give a shout-out to my homeboy, Liam. None of this could have happened without your willingness to sleep. Though you have finally sprouted a fang (yay!) and dislike sleep <em>this week</em>, I (and our now-paid Comcast bill) remain thankful. Also, to J.K.: thank you for writing books that made good movies that made geeks want to dress up. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:'Georgia', 'serif';">Liam and J.K., I love you both. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-18516191647751516412011-06-10T11:57:00.009-04:002011-06-10T14:01:45.426-04:00Bring in Da Noize, Bring in Da Cute.I have been trying to get back here for a while. You know how it is. You sit down to write, but instead end up <s>stalking Etsy for hours</s> doing important household clerical work.<br /><br />I even had this really great, six-directional, manic 12:30 AM post that would have blown your mind...but then Blogger pooped on it and threw it back at my face. Probably for the best. Half-cracked moments of midnight desperation between a mom and her computer? No one needs to see that train wreck.<br /><br />(Except for the part about asking total strangers in the library if they remember the exact moment when parenthood caused chunks of their former personalities began breaking off like gangrenous toes. That was gold.)<br /><br />Besides, THIS is what you really want anyway:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616652086476850898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKTzeYB1kFuDs2FrS2yoI3QPgtM8udwGFoUmORJj19i6X3HEyDmuiNxlMY6UWW2xpU9eVcHHi8zm2KZ3gFv-i1RxIqoII2tMD0kP_6IQlAK2VdLfof5oiBPTtnrLZknw_n-Ahr/s400/baby+036.jpg" /><br />Cuteness. Cubed. To the "n"th.<br /><br />You should hear the giggling. Mine, I mean. He laughs SO MUCH, people. He is a very serious baby who studies things at length...and then laughs at it. I find myself <em>giggling</em>. I am not a giggler. Except for now. And at 12:35 AM, when a long emotional blog post suddenly and mysteriously goes <em>poof</em>-but that is a different kind of giggling. That kind of giggling requires a long island iced tea.<br /><br /><br /><div><br /><p>This, though. This is the shiznitt. </p><br /><p>We went to Target to find a cool walker thing for him to cruise around in (because OMG, he wants to move and he can't because he's only 5 months), found one we liked, and put him in it so triumphantly because we knew that despite his hatred for binkies, bottles, tummy time, and now his Bumbo seat, that <em>this</em>-THIS!-would be the thing that gave him ultimate joy. So proud of ourselves, we plunked him in. And he is still too small. His little fat legs were swinging around, clearing the floor by a good three inches, and belted out his hoot-laugh because he thought it was great anyway. *<em>hOOU HooU HOOT* </em>So there I am in Target, giggling like an idiot at my very short son, pleading with Wendy to forpetesake stop making a fort out of the flippin' diaper boxes, and loving my life so much. </p><br /><p>His laugh gets into my brain, ping-pongs down into my heart and makes it explode. Then there is giggling. I don't care. I'm not ashamed. I mean LOOK! You would too.</p></div><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616643196848048098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVkWIEtekDxDU0els62Wg7g4cYa0y5C6jvCgeH5PT_8B-l5Opev1PpnXLmb6iCyNOJ6wnGKPjj2IJB6bwpOdaQ7nWuubEqwFhQr-Vc_8iyb3VaDGrRbubbCznPTxs1gYgGhbz/s400/baby+003.jpg" /><br /><br /><p></p></div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9360003.post-62627928419718473912011-04-29T13:29:00.004-04:002011-04-29T14:08:28.781-04:00After the RainInteresting tidbit about Wendy: it takes her about 45 minutes to eat a single pink bunny Peep. First she nibbles the ears off, bit by bit, then bites chunks out where the limbs would be, and finally beheads the Peep. Then she will lick the sugar from the remaining blob, and finally shove the rest in her mouth.<br /><br />This is convenient when the News is plastered with images of twister-related devastation, and spewing a constant stream of phrases like "ripped the roof right off," or "house completely smashed." When a tornado warning flashed across the bottom of Curious George, all I had to do to get rid of her was throw a few Peeps in the other room and tell her not to come back til they were finished so I could find out what was up.<br /><br />I spent a few nervous hours yesterday clutching Fuzzwolf, pacing the house from window to window, peering at greenish clouds and wondering about which cat I would be able to save.<br /><br />I lived in Colorado when I was a kid, which is in the part of the country where you do tornado drills in school just like you do fire drills. Yesterday, remembering the funnel clouds spinning out of the sky a few miles from my childhood house, it occurred to me that it would just <em>figure</em> for a tornado would get me HERE, in PA.<br /><br />It's fine though. It didn't. All the cats are okay.<br /><br />And, after the rain passed by, the sun came out, and there was this...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkE9Q8P9_FHh8pwVtZp17PzcQLS0ihHo_mHRU4NjO-vYNkGH4j7KttqbAgzXc05EsV42uI72N9S1Lskf2ZZIwxyopwyAPf1QnQmes33Me0t4VnwBsQbtGBUqo9IjBszYN_qv7/s1600/RainyDay+043.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601060385305557730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkE9Q8P9_FHh8pwVtZp17PzcQLS0ihHo_mHRU4NjO-vYNkGH4j7KttqbAgzXc05EsV42uI72N9S1Lskf2ZZIwxyopwyAPf1QnQmes33Me0t4VnwBsQbtGBUqo9IjBszYN_qv7/s400/RainyDay+043.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601060142405424466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvWVH2HI-D5Wby_v1YbTbVL16pPoEe0zwbDmE1wVVWsop_47FCTmz0OW52BuHDyGTP_j5ZaVI7J6GwgVNpiloF66sO3o63vuS4V8UivSGl3IUjhvnaiRvEvn_LPlfh-8mtgdo/s400/RainyDay+045.jpg" /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601060154791521186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQSSzc8WRa7vQz_M8jHKFvczpaFdCp7FZs5VJw2ViNkedJ9NER5hWgqA6ZyezeMwc3E-VOxsvsMF0d12vHzQABGCcLeMh7K4SXlRHRTjOCfmOqo-wls2sEUiyEdDWO_kJxTl-h/s400/RainyDay+053.jpg" /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEiZJKhUldYQcuTnuZD0wrhsGvfp0Dr6U4vzlCdKYtIcURLiHnfrZzU64MfbSxd7GazYQF1t3hodZo9SlajfUKpeHBkJ9it5rZvAnCffrtBpJszMLYCYjDDq6Vi6g7DSx5n9t/s1600/RainyDay+059.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601060143212205938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEiZJKhUldYQcuTnuZD0wrhsGvfp0Dr6U4vzlCdKYtIcURLiHnfrZzU64MfbSxd7GazYQF1t3hodZo9SlajfUKpeHBkJ9it5rZvAnCffrtBpJszMLYCYjDDq6Vi6g7DSx5n9t/s400/RainyDay+059.jpg" /></a> </div></div>Mohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14382023524725092619noreply@blogger.com6