Hippies West!

West to all the way accross the state!

Off to Pennsic 37 (I think), Wendy's second War, my 9th, and Carls...um...fifteenth? sixteenth? I'm not sure. We are bringing Marc and his stuff out with us and our stuff, so it should be a fun ride.

Wish us all good weather. Good pics sure to follow.
Peece.

I am so. blogging. this.

Steph left today. She was camped out at my house for a week or so, and it was awesome. I am so glad to have Steph back in PA, that I didn't even mind accompanying her to the Colonial Chicken Barbecue at her parent's church this past Sunday. Church. That's how starved I am for adult human interaction. Also, I love her mom and dad, even if they have run away and joined a religious group. And I kind of like checking in with the Christly types now and then. You know, to compare notes. See where we're all at.

I checked Wendy into the provided childcare so that I could enjoy the service uninterrupted by demands for me to take out my boobs. (I know, why did I pass up that opportunity???) The registration process for some reason involved divulging my address and home phone number to a very sincere and endearingly wholesome looking guy with gorgeous hair and stunning eyes. I was attempting to subdue the tide of unwholesome thoughts rising up from unwholesome places, in effort to preserve this good man's virtue (proximal sullying was sure to take place), and I suddenly realized that I was giving these people my real address. The address where I live. The address where they could send literature and psalms on postcards and thinking-of-you notes.

I jerked out of the hypnotizing blue voodoo of his gaze just in time to give him the name of a town three towns over from mine. HA! I've foiled you! Now to just ramble off a few random numbers for a zip code, and I will escape your attempts to recruit me by mail-

"Wow! I used to live up there!" says Blue.

"Oh yeah? Small world, huh?....I, uh....forget the zip code. We just moved there, actually."

Luckily, he knew it. What a helpful dude.

And that is the story of how I lied in the house of God. Not when Steph's mom glanced sidelong over at me when she heard me singing to ask "Are you mocking?" and I said "No." That was not a lie. I like singing in church. It feels good. But that fraudulent address tucked away in Pastor Kenny's filing cabinet? That is probably already on my permanent record with Jesus.

Ways to make Mommy Scream #345

Stand in a puddle of water that you just splashed from the dog dish while yanking on the vacuum cord and prying the entire socket fixture from the wall with your fingers while her back is turned for the six seconds it takes to pick up the magnet letters from under the lip of the counter.

Return of Dr. Jack Hole

Dr. Jack Hole: So what is bothering you today?

Erin: This ear has been bothering me. It's fuzzy like I can't hear really good out of it.

Me: Yeah, she says her hearing is kind of out in that ear, but it doesn't hurt.

Dr. Hole: *not looking up from his chart* And what's your relation?

Me: Stepmom. *(commonlaw. If we lived in Canada.)*

Dr. Hole: And how long has this been going on?


Me: *(since I moved in?)*

Erin: Since September.

Me: *(oh.)*

Dr. Hole: ....And. Why. If this has been bothering you for nine months. Have you just come in. Now.

Me: *smiling the pleasant smile of go-ahead-kid-now's-your-chance-explain-how-we-are bad-people-who-only-buy-you-three-pairs-of-size-one-jeans-and-not-four-and-never-buy-you-toaster-strudels-and-also-hide-the-good-cereal-from-you. This guy really wants to hear it. I can tell. I'm not explaining it. I'm just the stepmom. (commonlaw. If we lived in Canada, eh?)*

Erin: Well...it bothered me in September and then I just forgot about it or got used to it or something and now it bothers me again.

Dr. Hole: Any fever or diarhea?
Erin: No.
Dr. Hole: Headaches or sore throat?
Erin: No.
Dr. Hole: Let's take a look. *looks* Okay, it looks fine. No water or blockage or inflammation or anything. Lets get you a hearing test. *leaves abruptly, Erin trailing behind*

Dr. Hole: (upon return, still no eye contact) So it seems as though you have perfect hearing. And since there is nothing like an infection going on, the only thing I could suggest is that you're inner ear muscles may have been strained by loud music or other trauma. Do you listen to an IPod?

Me: *smiling the smile of quiet vindication*

Erin: um...yes.

Dr. Hole: Okay, here's the deal. Your inner ear is comprised of three tiny bones and the muscles that hold them in place. When you put inordinate strain on your ears by listening to an IPod, you cause the muscles to get tired and pull away from the bones....blah, blah, blah, lecture lecture lecture.

Erin: um...okay.

Dr. Hole: That's it. Lay off the IPod and it'll be fine. You can go now. *already halfway down the hall, texting someone or playing tetris on his Blackberry*

Erin: Well, that's one way to kill time on a Summer day.
Me: Your Dad is gonna laugh. And possibly say "I told you so."
Erin: I know. I was kind of hoping for a giant shot or something.
Me: Yeah, that would have been more dramatic.

The Difficulty with Discipline...

Carl: NO AIR CONDITIONER BUTTONS!!!!

Wendy: *pushes buttons harder and faster*

Carl: NO! Go sit in time out! No buttons! NO!

Wendy: *runs to her time-out spot; sits as if it was her idea*

Carl: That's right.

Wendy:....*sticks hand out toward us* hi-five??

....

Carl: Stop laughing. You gotta be stern. It's not funny.

Me: I CAN'T HELP IT. *smushing my face into pillow*

Wendy: Funny! NO BUTTONS!! HI-FIVE!

Advice from a Y Chromosome

What I really don't get is why he shoots at the starlings. I mean, I understand the groundhogs, as they eat our garden. I don't know that they deserve to die for it, but the starlings definitely don't deserve to die just because they are not an indigenous species and he doesn't like them. It's not their fault they were relocated here.

Marc: There is a certain amount of impotent rage circulating in the male psyche that requires purging through such acts.

...

I'm the stay-at-home mother of a smart and devious eighteen-month old. I am living in a state of impotent rage for about ninety percent of my day, and I don't shoot things for fun.

Marc: Maybe you should try it.

Hot Time; Summer in the Burbs

Me: I'm gonna try really hard not to be a total asshole this Summer.
Carl: ...What are you anticipating for the Summer that makes you say that?
Me: My complete and utter frustration and bordom now that school is over and I've got nowhere to be but home. I'm not saying I'll succeed at not being a royal bee-otch, but-
Carl: no, no. I understand. And I really, really appreciate your efforts. I'm going to try to be the best me that I can be too. The very, very best.
Me: You're mocking me.
Carl: No. I'm not. The very best me.

BTW, it's hot here in the East. I don't envy the people who work outside for a living. Or, you know, the ones who are walking through Georgia.

I hope they all have cold beverages on hand.

Quest!

Okay. First time camping with a baby that walks. A baby who also runs, plays in dirt, schemes wild escape plots, makes friends with other babies and finds funny hats to wear:

Yeah. I'd say it was a successful Memorial Day weekend. Aside from my going way overboard Friday night, having way too much fun (read: bad tequilla) and then laying there in our tent insisting that it is my tent too and I would puke in it if I wanted to, (and gosh, am I so proud of winning that argument), it was a great time.

How could I not have a great time with all of this going on? There was rum-fueled Maypole spectating (complete with complicated cross-ribbon rum-passing moves), and ferrets ("mouse," according to Wendy), and time to hang with my favorite people, and Meetza (giant hamburger patty + pita+cheese+ketchup=Meetza) and steak-y breakfast burritos, and tampanade and strawberries and cuddling together wrapped in warm sleeping bags and breathing the cool night air, and laying around in the grass, just talking and being under some trees by a stream.

What else could one ever, ever ask for?

May Flowers

Spring is great with a one-and-a-half year old. I am so lucky to live where I live and have the opportunity to show her such wonderful things.

There are flowers to be decimated, birdies to watch endlessly, rocks to turn over and bugs to poke at, grass to rip up by the handful and shove into the mouth of the waiting pony... every little thing is a great new discovery. (Or in the case of the pony, a great new manic obsession.)

Like, today, we all went out to the damp garden to plant some seeds. Wendy's version of this involves throwing handfuls of seeds onto the mud while desperately trying to climb out of my arms and into the puddle. We were out there for about ten minutes when the wind kicked up, the clouds began racing in our direction, and we could hear the rain spattering across the field and heading directly for us.

Drenched in seconds. Running for the house, baby clenched to hip, soaking wet. Wendy thought this was the greatest thing to happen to us, like, ever. I showed her our reflection in the foyer mirror as we darted inside. Delighted by the sight of her hair plastered to her face and the rainwater coursing down into her mouth, she looked up, eyes shining, and spluttered one of her favorite words,

"Again??"

Wendy Skye, Adventure Baby.

A New Career is Born

5/9
Texting out of the basement of High School drivers ed class on a rainy afternoon:

Me: My voice leaves my mouth and takes a left turn into the vacuum of space. Their flat eyes tell me that it's Friday; That I don't really exist.

Carl: I can hear you crying into the void.
Me: Thanks, babe.

Mike: You teachers are all the same.

Bethany: Obviously you are subbing at Orwell High today.
Me: It could be Soylent Green High and they would still show up religiously to do nothing but lodge their complaints about the service. I think I'm over this subbing thing.
Bethany: I always thought you'd be a good lion tamer.
Me: Or an alpaca stylist. Or maybe I could bead-dazzle things for a living.
Bethany: I think you could change the world by bringing the Flowbee into the world of alpaca styling. And I'm not just saying that.

I'll totally turn the whole farm show scene on it's ear. You'll see.