Thursday, June 28, 2012
Is it wrong to say that I think my little girl is smarter than my boys? It is? Good, we got that out of the way. It’s still what I think. I like your opinion and all, but it’s not like you’re going to comment at the bottom of the post or anything. That’s not me talking; that’s precedent. :D Lily was eating mashed potatoes out of a little orange bowl a few nights ago with her spoon. My middle child eschews all silverware, which we are working on. Mashed potatoes, for him, are a finger food. After eating about half, she takes her spoon and tosses it and begins to eat Momo-style, manually. I gave her the “and just what are you doing?” look. She turns her head slightly, eyes still on me, slowly takes a handful of potatoes, pauses, and quickly jams it into her mouth. I raised an eyebrow at her. She then opened her mouth as wide as it would go, as if to say “yeah, what are you going to do about it?” My expression did not change and she repeated the whole process. I couldn’t help but laugh by then. Then she proceeded to mean mug me and then applaud. Last night she brought one of Connor’s rain boots into the kitchen just so she could put it on in front of me. She did. Then she walked around with it on. Just the one. Connor still puts his shoes on the wrong feet. I asked him if it was uncomfortable and he conceded that it was. Well, then….? You’d think the next logical thing would be for him to fix it. He won’t. I’m not sure that he realizes swapping shoes would make it feel better. I hope he does and he’s just stubborn. Connor was walking around the house stomping last night. Lily started behind him doing her rendition of stomping, which is kind of a Sumo wrestler type move wherein she lifts each leg really high, kind of out to the side, as she walks. Connor will bring me a pencil and the little manual sharpener and ask me to ‘sharp’ it. Lily will do it herself, almost successfully. Did I mention their age difference is about three years? OK, so maybe there’s no real concrete evidence that she’s smarter than the boys, but it just seems like it. She can also attach herself to your leg like a koala bear. She has all the talent of a strip of Velcro. I forget why that makes her smart.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Today on Babble.com I read an article that touted 13 Things You Should Never Do At A Wedding. Among those were not RSVPing and coming anyway, RSVPing and NOT coming, don’t dress like a hooker, and don’t draw attention to yourself. There were more; I’m pretty sure that wasn’t 13. So I started thinking. Thinking about how very few weddings I have been to in my life. As I am not even 30 yet, you would think that I should’ve been to dozens of weddings, as so many twenty-somethings get married for the first time around now. Some even do it twice (hello, me!) I can remember just a couple and they were family. The most recent being the wedding of my husband’s childhood best friend. I wasn’t dressed like a hooker, per se, but I did stand out. Wanna know why? Because, as most people would assume, if the ceremony is at 5:00 then the reception is later than that and that makes it what? An evening wedding. As convention dictates, an evening wedding is generally more formal than a day wedding. Apparently, I was the only one who got that memo. I was also the only one who got the memo about not wearing cargo shorts to the ceremony. Wow. I was wearing a bright red V-neck dress. It was actually very traditional and tasteful, which is surprising to those of you who have known me for a while. The hem was past the knees and I had on pearls. I was perfectly fine. Unfortunately, next to the flip flops, shorts, and pastels that the rest of the guests were wearing I looked like a paid escort. Awesome. It’s not my fault these people didn’t have a clue in hell what was going on. So I garnered my fair share of looks that evening. One of my earlier recollections of a wedding was one that I was actually in. About ten years prior. It was my sister’s wedding and I was, oddly, the maid of honor. I was thirteen and could do virtually nothing towards planning or helping. I was too busy trying to figure out and cope with the weird underwear they told me I had to wear. Then I proved my ignorance just a little more and proceeded to use a curling iron in something of a backward manor. So I gave my already salon-styled coiffure creases. I was so not meant to be a girl. The dress was lovely, though. So much so that years later as I read countless magazines, I decided to try to repurpose this dress. I was going to turn it into a top to wear with jeans. How hard could it be? You just cut it off a little past the waist and, bam! Green satin top. Well, it was a little harder than I had initially expected. Mainly because of the zipper in the back that I could not cut through. So if I had gone through with the idea I would’ve had to cut around the zipper, thus giving me the illusion of having a vestigial tail. A little green one. Maybe not the clubbing ensemble I had planned. The article also mentioned that you shouldn’t give a toast whilst inebriated. I can’t say that I’ve ever done this. I always get drunk afterwards. It’s actually funny, if you were to see me and my Hetero Life Mate Rosa together, you’d swear we were already drunk. And yet we almost never drink. So I guess we couldn’t ever give a toast regardless of whether or not we were drinking. Hmm. Oh, like I’m going to any weddings anyway. I never had a wedding personally. Planned several, but never had one for myself. I couldn’t have what I wanted. It always inconvenienced somebody. I wanted a nice somewhat big, yet no more than 100 people, affair. It was to have a plated dinner. But no. Too expensive. We can’t do that. Sigh. OK, then. If I couldn’t have my prime rib and twice baked potatoes, then I wanted something very minimalist. No, you can’t do that. It has to be bigger than that. Oh, for God’s sake! So what did I do? I went to the courthouse. Twice. Maybe one of my future marriages will have a wedding like I want. For some reason, my husband doesn’t find that funny.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
As I post as DeathMetalMommy, I think it’s about time to remind you all that I am, in fact, still a mother. Sometimes I need to be reminded myself as well. Hey, I don’t forget about my kids. I just forget that they’re mine. It’s not like I left my baby on the top of the car and drove off or anything. No, all of mine go in the car, thank you very much. Last week started the two weeks of camp that Mo was scheduled to attend. Almost as long as a school day and with the same teachers, whom I adore. He went the first day and had a good time and we all went to the Y that night. When I went to pick up the kids from the Y nursery, Mo came running at me and it looked like someone had put pistachio mascara on that child’s right eye. Um, whoa. I leave him for an hour and somebody infects my child with…any guesses? That’s right, kids. Pink eye! Conjunctivitis. Fantastic. Pretty quick moving pink eye, too, from the looks of it. So we got home and I pack muled all the kids into the house. Then I sent Mo’s teacher a text, telling her that he had what I was pretty sure was pink eye and that, unless it was gone the next morning, he wasn’t coming to camp. It’s what I would hope that any other parent would do for their child and their child’s CLASSMATES. Let’s done infect everybody. No biological pre-K warfare, mmkay? The next morning I surveyed the eyes and, sure enough, matted shut. I let him sleep and went to work. There was no way I was about to try to de-crud my child just to send him to camp so he could infect some other kid. Not how I roll, yo. So he was out Tuesday and Wednesday and he seemed to get better so I sent him to camp on Thursday, partially because that’s their day to go to the pool and I didn’t want him to miss it. By this time I think it’s important to mention that somehow during this half a week, Lily managed to get pink eye as well. Mo and Lily never touch. Ever. Mo doesn’t even acknowledge her. How she caught the crud from him, I do not know. So that on top of teething, she was a real peach. The next morning I put a warm washcloth on Mo’s eyes, yes plural. By then it was both. He was none too thrilled by the fact that his eyes wouldn’t open and also because I was attacking him with hot water so early in the morning. Finally, I was able to pry his eyelashes apart and got him dressed and took him to the bus. Not an hour after I got to work, I got a call from his teacher. She said he was sick and he was coughing and could we bring him some medicine. Well, no, I couldn’t. So instead I arranged for PeePaw to go pick him up. Friday was a long day. Somewhere along the way Lily decided to randomly throw up here and there. Don’t know why. Just one of those mysterious kid illnesses. Maybe it had something to do with the teething? I don’t know. She never managed to have full blown pink eye. She had a little crud for a day or so, but that was all. Connor, throughout all this, remained strangely impervious, despite asking 85 times “Can I touch his eye?” You’ve never felt the need before, why now? I don’t know that there was ever a better time for Dave to go out of town than while two thirds of our children are ill. He was off enjoying Bonnaroo. We paid for the ticket; he was going and he better have damn well enjoyed it. Parenting sick kids is not easy and twice as not fun. You’re trying to find all the washcloths in the house and assign one to each sick kid. Then you have to try to make sure they don’t cross-contaminate. Then you have to keep prying them all out of Lily’s hands because she loves to chew on wet washcloths. Hmm, that may be how she got sick. Each day I reminded myself not to touch my eyes. And if you think that’s difficult for me, I refer you here. Try to remember to wash your hands. I did pretty well. It doesn’t matter how sick you are, Mama doesn’t get sick. If you don’t find a way, no one will. It’s all very Lord of the Rings. I guess having two about to be in school I should just go ahead and get ready for all the sicknesses that go around and stock up on medicines. Let’s face it; it’s coming.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
This was a post that was originally posted on DeathMetalMommy Yodels The Blues. It was so good that I had to resurrect it. A few weeks ago I felt that the time had come for me to get contacts. Yes, I’m a good bit behind the times in my choice of vision correction in that I have had glasses for years. I usually only wear them when I drive so that I can make the squinty mole face whenever I can’t see the television. Some of you know this face. So having lost my glasses yet again, I decided now would be the time to get contacts. I made an appointment and waited, gradually filling with anxiety. Finally the day arrived. I drove to the optometrist, sans glasses of course. I told you, they’re lost. As I sat in the waiting room I got even more anxious. When I casually think of the eye doctor I don’t have a problem. When I actually think about it in detail I get kinda antsy. I mean, you go to sit in the chair and then they give you the optical pop quiz. “Can you read the second line for me?” What if you can’t? What if that G is actually an O? Then I start to freak out. How could you get something so simple as a letter wrong? You know what a G looks like right? How could you think that was a G? What are you, stupid? Or even worse, you said that O was an L. An L?! Really?! And then you just know they’re going to want to put stuff in your eyes. That’s what they do, isn’t it? I don’t even use eye drops I hate putting stuff in my eyes so much. It’s about this time that I start to think, maybe contacts aren’t for me. So I get put in this little exam room, dim of course. They always are. The nurse lady hands me the big flat spoon to put over my eye and starts asking me about the letters. I consider squinting just so that I won’t be wrong. It’s like cheating on a test. But I didn’t. As a direct result I believe I called an E a 7. So now I’m blind and dyslexic. AND they’re going to put stuff in my eyes. Why did I make this appointment? It seemed like such a good idea a week ago. Then my doctor rolls in after I pretty much fail the eye test, revoking my license to see. My eye doctor is pretty cool. I don’t get to see him for most of the check-up because I’m stuck behind the big machine wearing its little face mask that makes you look like an owl. So in his Barry White voice he says things like “one or two?”; “two or three”; “Is three better? Better still? How about four?” This is a very good place for indecisive people. It requires you to decide on the spot. That also worries me. I’m afraid I’m going to get it wrong. I’m afraid that after I confirm that lens five was the best I’ll yell “No, wait! Seven! Seven was the best.” But I won’t be sure. So once the lens game and my nervous breakdown were over he asks if we’re dilating my eyes today. No. It’s always a no. That man has been pestering me for ten years to dilate my eyes. I don’t quite know how it works except that there are drops involved and he says it’s so he can look in my eyes. What could be in there, but...eye? I just have this image of him holding my ears and staring into my eyes like one of those old movie boxes, like he’s trying to watch Steamboat Willie in my head or something. So, no. I’m driving, no dilating. Instead I get the consolation prize of some other kind of stupid drops, only this time it’s a dye that can stain your clothes and makes your eyes numb. Maybe it’s just me, but does that sound safe to you? It will stain fabric and makes mucous membranes numb. Is this bleach? But he is the ‘doctor’ and I’m not so I really feel like I can’t refuse. What a great date he must be. So he pulls back my eyelids and puts this stuff in them. He shines a light in them and makes some notes, telling me that the pressure is good. He’s checking pressure? What am I, a tire? Then he asks if there’s any particular type of contacts I want to try. What do I know about contacts? He should know better than me. So he scribbles on my chart, leads me outside where another guy takes my chart and takes me to a table in the back, overlooked by the diploma of my doctor from eye school and a poster of what look like Andy Warhol renderings of eyes. It’s very cozy. The guy goes and gets two individual little packets, which I can only assume contain contacts. Turns out I was right. Dude has glasses. He takes them off and, in a manner which is not supposed to be scary, shows me how to put in a contact. This guy’s eyelids stretch so much farther than human skin ever should. I think I saw his skull. Wait, though—he doesn’t even wear contacts. Should he really be certified to show people how to wear them? That’s like an Amish guy telling you he’s your electrician. He tells me to go wash my hands and then I get to try. An overwhelming sickness rushes over me and suddenly I wish I was looking at a chart identifying letters as numbers again. So I scrub up and return to the table. Before me sits a magnifying mirror which I go to great lengths to avoid in normal circumstances. So I pull my eye far too open and start trying to put this tiny piece of plastic on my eye. Meanwhile, Dude is leaning across the table directing me like an air traffic controller, “Closer to your nose! Straight in! Go!” It was at this point that I realized I am a blinker. A flutterer if you will. That fact makes it pretty hard to put in a contact, especially when your eyelids have chosen the latter of the ‘fight or flight’ instinct. It took several tries but finally I got them both in. That was when I looked up and realized the Andy Warhol pictures were actually a poster of degenerative eye diseases. My, what bright colors! One didn’t even have an iris! Seeing clearly is overrated. So I was victorious and was ready to leave. Then he started to talking again, “OK, to take them out...” Oh, God. I hadn’t even considered taking them out. It was hard enough to get them in! So I watched him pull apart his eye again (ew). Then he told me to take one out. Seriously? Right now? I just got them in! You saw the issues I had with that! Why do you hate me? I heaved a great sigh and raised my hands to my already watering eyes. The basic directions are pull down and pinch. Sounds healthy for an eye, right? It was about the time that I was ready for ‘pinch’ that I realized what very long thumb nails I have. This is not random, I promise. How am I going to pinch when my actual thumb is an inch away? I’m going to stab myself in the eye. That’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to try and take out a contact and end up stabbing myself in the eye. Luckily, and this is rarely considered lucky to me, I had broken the thumb nail on my other hand so I decided to try it left handed. Somehow or another I managed to do it. Dude said “Great! Now go ahead and put it back in.” Dammit! What more do you people want from me?! Make up your mind! So as I fumbled with my eye again, he filled out a form. He asked me to sign it, as it confirmed that I was able to put in and remove my contacts. So what happens if you weren’t able to remove them? Do they take them back? And if so, how? Do you have to stay there until you figure it out? Is it a hostage situation? Fortunately, I didn’t have to find out. Dude gave me a case and some solution and sent me into another exam room. He said the doctor would join me shortly. Barry White doctor came in and turned on an eye chart. I just took this test! Come on!! Let me out! So I rambled off some G’s and E’s and I was out of there. There wasn’t as much anxiety about this test. It was more like a test I had studied for this time. The guy had told me only to wear them for four to six hours the first day. So I knew to take them out around 3. The anxiety began to mount again. I was beginning to think maybe contacts aren’t for me. I’m going to need Xanax to wear contacts. It’s terrible. Inevitably, 3:00 rolled around and I started trying to remove the contacts. Once I’d pulled them down my vision was blurry and I couldn’t see it to grab it. I also couldn’t feel it with my fingers. What a terrible joke on the myopic of this world. After twenty minutes of trying both eyes with both hands I had used every expletive I knew and even made up a few more. At this point I called the Chicken, a longtime contact wearer. She didn’t answer. I called Mom, who happened to have the Chicken with her. I asked if she had any tips and/or tricks on getting contacts out. She said pull down and pinch. Oh, what help! Dude with the stretchy eye said that! It doesn’t help! I can’t feel anything! Get these things out of my head! I’m not playing! Then I commenced a long-winded freak-out, mentioning never getting them out and them crusting over onto my eyes and going blind, and then having to get a seeing eye dog which I will never know if it’s cute or not, and how I don’t want a dog that can do things that I can’t, namely see. I believe I also waxed on about how I was afraid of puncturing my eye with a fingernail and having eye juice seep out. I don’t think she was listening to me anymore because it would have been hard to over all the laughing. This is serious! I have foreign objects on my pupils that I can’t get off! I hung up the phone with much chagrin and went back to the bathroom. (Note: I properly said goodbye, not like in the movies where they just hang up the phone without warning.) So I just started pinching at my eye and got so mad that I got them out. I stuck them in the case and that is where they remain two days later. Maybe I’ll try again another day. Do they make seeing eye Pomeranians?
Appearance. It matters to all of us whether we care to admit it or not. Our own appearance and the appearances of those around us. Should it matter? I don’t know, should it? Ideally, probably not. Who are we kidding? It does and anyone who says otherwise may be wearing trousers that are aflame. Upon seeing a member of the opposite sex, what is the first thing you notice? Surely it isn’t sense of humor, that’s later. It probably isn’t intelligence, also later. And I would be shocked if it were ability to make a perfect three egg omelet. So what is it? Looks! Hair! Face! Eyes! Biceps, triceps, delts, and what have you. That’s what you notice first. Or if you’re a guy, you see all those things except the muscles unless you’re looking at one of those manly dude-chick bodybuilders. That’s different, too. It’s the Beauty and the Beast contingency. You can love everything about someone as a person, but if you are not physically attracted to them, they are just a friend. Friend-zoned, it’s not a place any of us want to be. If it were, it would have a more pleasant title, and it would not invoke images of girls sitting on guys’ backs on LOL Pics. We all want to pick the best specimen we can because, as biology whispers in our ears, presumably you are picking the person with whom you intend to procreate, even if you’re ultra-modern and don’t feel that’s for you. You still instinctually pick the best genetic match. Are looks the only thing that matter? Of course not. But you may never find out how funny that guy is if you can’t get past the Jimmy Durante honker and Tiny Tim hairdo. The main reason people sometimes fall for their friends is because they already know them as a person. Oft times loving a person’s personality can breed physical attraction. It’s not unheard of at any rate. Unfortunately, there are those of us who just can’t get past that hairy back or lazy eye. Superficiality is a curse really. Perhaps you want to be able to look past the buckteeth but something in your head or your subconscious just won’t let it happen. Do you feel a little bad about it? Of course! You prove to yourself daily that you have all the depth of a dinner plate. There are a number of quizzes dedicated to calculating whether or not you’re shallow, or rather just how shallow you are. I took one. It wanted my email address at the end so it could send me the results. I have yet to get them. But from what it sounded like, I am not very shallow at all. I can’t tell you how this surprised me. UrbanDictionary.com confirmed this. It states that someone who judges strictly on looks without ever factoring in personality is shallow. So, like all of us, they pick the prime member of the herd but then they stay with them regardless of personality, intelligence, and opinion on vegetarianism. Yeah, I couldn’t do that. Just say no to vegetarian hippies. You’ll thank me later when no one is lecturing you and sobbing as you try to eat your prime rib in peace, pretty as that someone may be. In these days of superficiality it’s almost a guarantee that someone out there is dating for looks alone. I learned an important fact today that I am not one of them, no matter how much I thought I might have been. But I’m right about vegetarian hippies.