Um, I now feel a little bit like that weird girl at the party who you make accidental eye contact with and suddenly she's oversharing about her boyfriend's thyroid problem when all you wanted was to reach past her for the chips.
So! (claps hands briskly) Let's move along, yes? I only have a minute, as I am nearly a month overdue on completing my BFF's birthday present, which I really want to mail tomorrow, but in the interest of shaking off whatever Morrissey shadow still lingers over this blog, I present another installment of...
Things That Make Me Happy
1) Kinda cheating, but seriously? Drunk fucking Hulk, man.
2) Running. I know, ew. But it does. Not the running per se, but the fact that I am actually following through on my goal to exercise (which, by the way, I started in mid-December, so it totally counts as having fulfilled last year's resolution) is comforting to me in a way I can't describe. Plus, you know, fitness blah blah.
3) Listening to NPR podcasts (often while running--I can't do the music thing, I end up trying to run in rhythm, which only works on very specific songs...it turns out I run at exactly the pace for The Magnetic Fields' "I'm the Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side," and nothing else). I love Pop Culture Happy Hour, even though all my TV viewing is on Hulu.com, and I've seen exactly one movie since 2008, because they are all so smart and funny and in my mind, they'd be friends with me. I also adore Radiolab, and it distracts me suitably for plodding along.
4) I listed some friend-related sadness last time, but there are also some friend with wonderful, wonderful things that make me happy. My not-at-all-miscarrying friend from the summer, who got married in December and will have the most loved baby girl in March. Another friend who, at 40, fell in love with a guy she'd known for 15+ years. They're getting married (also in March), and she's moving to Florida to be with him. A relatively new friend invited me to her voice studio performance and it was stunning and inspiring and she was so open and vulnerable and courageous in her performance...I got chills.
5) I could make this list all about Tankbaby, because he's just so full of awesome lately. He is talking more and more (which has not been the case lo these many months) and his chirpy little voice slays me, in a very "he thinks he's a person" way. He also has taken to requesting that his head be covered by the blanket when he goes to sleep, and this seems to really help him go to sleep faster most nights (maybe he's part parakeet?), and he is Holy Mother of All That Is Good And Holy, pretty consistently sleeping through the night. Like, until 6:30 AM. Those animal sacrifices must have really paid off. And finally, he recently learned to recognize the letter "R," so it's now like we have a tiny pirate walking around our house. Win.
6) I just figured out how to make the filter motor on MOTH's aquarium stop making that annoying noise. I know that probably doesn't mean much to you, but trust me. It was really annoying.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Navel-Gazing-est, now with Drunk Hulk
I've been avoiding writing.
Because I don't want to write about Arizona. I don't want to write about feeling scared and defeated and hopeless. I don't want to write about feeling worried all the time for me, for my son, for all of us. I don't want to write about the colleague at work whose bloodwork came back high for the marker for ovarian cancer. I don't want to write about the friend whose separation is becoming a divorce full of anger and sadness. I don't want to write about the other friend whose deepening depression I missed and can't be there to help him with now. I don't want to write about another holiday season without my mom and how it still colors everything. I don't want to write about how worried I am about money all the time and how I think I'm deciding I do want another kid but that it's not a good idea. I don't want to write about the tenuousness of work lately and the way everyone walks around tentative and defensive and resigned. I don't want to write about the constant undercurrent of panic, that I've done it all wrong, that it's too late, that it will never be right again.
Yeesh. It does feel a little better to rip all those band-aids off. You know, except for the resultant oozing.
But, as much as my brain is full of all of that lately, I don't want to write about it. Because I haven't yet found a way or a point at which I can write about it and have it be productive in some way, whether that means it's cathartic to me or helpful to someone who reads it or even just a good exercise in writing. I mostly want to get a big black crayon and scrawl "LIFE SAD" a couple dozen times, like some sort of Goth Drunk Hulk. (OK, I just read the last dozen tweets there and am actually giggling out loud, despite all I just wrote. "EVERY GENERATION NEED IT OWN RICHARD GRIECO! DRUNK HULK THANK ZAC EFRON FOR STEP UP TO PLATE!" Maybe the solution is to just have this piped into my head at all times.)
So, unlike other times when I've neglected this blog, I've been sort of purposefully neglectful as of late. Not because I don't think it's OK to write about sad stuff, obviously, but because I am in a weird chicken-or-egg place where I'm not able to tease out a sad thing about which I have thoughts versus just ME SAD ALL TIME. (Hee. I have some notes about what I'm doing to try to change this, but as I write, I'm just thinking that I need a whole lot more Drunk Hulk.)
Where was I? Right. I clicked a few posts back and saw a comment from cd over at The Frangipani Journals (which, by the way, hi! You're in India! The internet is magic!) and went and saw this perfectly timed post on her blog, where she writes about answering another writer's question, "What is your word for 2011?" That writer describes the word as your "North star," and an "organizing principle" for, in her case, writing, but cd framed it as more overarching goal for the year. She chose "risk," a word I could certainly get behind, as I am about as risk-averse as they come.
But as I sat with it for several minutes, the word that I kept coming back to is...happy. I would like to be happy.
Because--and I'm going to get a little down here, but just keep that Drunk Hulk tab open in another window and you'll be OK--I haven't been happy in a long time. Like, since I was pregnant. Now, I don't mean that I've been depressed for the last two years. But I've been so (take your pick) tired, worried, overwhelmed, lost, straining, focused, and/or stressed that I can't look back and see any decent stretch of time when I was content. When I felt like, "yep, I've got this, this is enough, I'm good." I've had that in moments, but only moments.
And don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't also been excited, giddy, and madly in love with my son. I am so grateful for a healthy family, really exceptional friends, and a job that--despite changes and uncertainties--is still there, still providing some sense of fulfillment, in addition to health insurance. And, because I'm feeling guilty because of the timeline I've laid out, let's go back again: madly in love with my son. Like, cannot get enough of him. I don't regret having a baby for a second. But it was a very hard first year, for me individually and for us as a couple and a family, and I think the second year has been about coming back from that. And having a kid changes everything (what a completely original idea! I wonder if anyone's ever noticed that before!) and puts extra pressure on any pre-existing cracks. And then there are the things that aren't at all baby-related, like the tanking economy and all of its myriad effects (at least, I don't think that's related to Tankbaby. I can't vouch for what he does while I'm at work all day).
So, I had a hard year. And a year to try to come back from it. And now I'm ready, antsy even, to make some fucking forward motion. You know, as soon as I'm done being sad and angry and fearful and stuff.
Last time I linked to the terribly wise DoctorMama, but in case you got sidetracked by her running wisdom and overlooked her life wisdom, I send you to parts one and two of how she changed her life. You really oughta go read them, but for our purposes, I'll sum up: she writes about taking control of your own outlook and of letting go of anger (and its root, fear) and being...happy. Content. Peaceful with herself. (She also continues to be whip-smart and rapier-witted, which reassures me.)
I apologize. I stopped to re-read (again) those posts to organize my thoughts some more, but it's late and I'm afraid I'm going to crash to a rather inelegant end. What I want to make sure I put down, what I commit to in this vaguely public forum, is my current game plan. I have a therapist I see on an as-needed basis, and have been seeing her again. I have taken meds in the past, and am not averse to taking them again. But I also feel like, at some point, I gotta find something a little more internal that I can change. And I need to do it in a way where someone can gently kick my butt if needed or even just ask a curious question that makes me kick my own butt. Consider that an invitation, y'all.
So. I have started running, using the Couch to 5K program, with a healthy dose of DoctorMama wisdom. I have never been a runner before, and I hesitate to call myself one now, only 5 weeks in (although yesterday I ran 20 minutes in a row, which I'm not going to pretend isn't a triumph), but I've been trying to get regular exercise back in my life. In terms of flexibility and efficiency, this is working for me right now. I don't see any racing in my future, mainly because crippled tortoises are still faster than I am, but I know that it's good for me, both in terms of aerobic fitness and in terms of doing something just for myself.
I have bookmarked all of these bits of wisdom I've been talking about, and I'm going to pull key passages and print 'em all out and read them. Every day. I keep thinking about adding some sort of regular prayer/meditation in my life, and until I figure out how to do it properly, I figure it can't hurt just to take 5 minutes to read something that makes me say YES.
Thich Nhat Hanh's name has crossed my path twice today, which I took as a sign. I've requested his book on anger from the library. I also requested a Henry Rollins CD (to listen to while running), and am hoping that the two don't create some sort of matter/anti-matter explosion on the hold shelf.
And I'm going to keep sitting with that idea of happy. For me, that isn't gleefulness or cheerfulness, because I've had those. I'm looking more for contentment. For peace. Hell, mostly for just the absence of the whole fear/angerball thing. I want to be a better person, for me, for my family.
Well, and for you all, because then I won't write big old depressing blog posts anymore. Wish me luck.
Because I don't want to write about Arizona. I don't want to write about feeling scared and defeated and hopeless. I don't want to write about feeling worried all the time for me, for my son, for all of us. I don't want to write about the colleague at work whose bloodwork came back high for the marker for ovarian cancer. I don't want to write about the friend whose separation is becoming a divorce full of anger and sadness. I don't want to write about the other friend whose deepening depression I missed and can't be there to help him with now. I don't want to write about another holiday season without my mom and how it still colors everything. I don't want to write about how worried I am about money all the time and how I think I'm deciding I do want another kid but that it's not a good idea. I don't want to write about the tenuousness of work lately and the way everyone walks around tentative and defensive and resigned. I don't want to write about the constant undercurrent of panic, that I've done it all wrong, that it's too late, that it will never be right again.
Yeesh. It does feel a little better to rip all those band-aids off. You know, except for the resultant oozing.
But, as much as my brain is full of all of that lately, I don't want to write about it. Because I haven't yet found a way or a point at which I can write about it and have it be productive in some way, whether that means it's cathartic to me or helpful to someone who reads it or even just a good exercise in writing. I mostly want to get a big black crayon and scrawl "LIFE SAD" a couple dozen times, like some sort of Goth Drunk Hulk. (OK, I just read the last dozen tweets there and am actually giggling out loud, despite all I just wrote. "EVERY GENERATION NEED IT OWN RICHARD GRIECO! DRUNK HULK THANK ZAC EFRON FOR STEP UP TO PLATE!" Maybe the solution is to just have this piped into my head at all times.)
So, unlike other times when I've neglected this blog, I've been sort of purposefully neglectful as of late. Not because I don't think it's OK to write about sad stuff, obviously, but because I am in a weird chicken-or-egg place where I'm not able to tease out a sad thing about which I have thoughts versus just ME SAD ALL TIME. (Hee. I have some notes about what I'm doing to try to change this, but as I write, I'm just thinking that I need a whole lot more Drunk Hulk.)
Where was I? Right. I clicked a few posts back and saw a comment from cd over at The Frangipani Journals (which, by the way, hi! You're in India! The internet is magic!) and went and saw this perfectly timed post on her blog, where she writes about answering another writer's question, "What is your word for 2011?" That writer describes the word as your "North star," and an "organizing principle" for, in her case, writing, but cd framed it as more overarching goal for the year. She chose "risk," a word I could certainly get behind, as I am about as risk-averse as they come.
But as I sat with it for several minutes, the word that I kept coming back to is...happy. I would like to be happy.
Because--and I'm going to get a little down here, but just keep that Drunk Hulk tab open in another window and you'll be OK--I haven't been happy in a long time. Like, since I was pregnant. Now, I don't mean that I've been depressed for the last two years. But I've been so (take your pick) tired, worried, overwhelmed, lost, straining, focused, and/or stressed that I can't look back and see any decent stretch of time when I was content. When I felt like, "yep, I've got this, this is enough, I'm good." I've had that in moments, but only moments.
And don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't also been excited, giddy, and madly in love with my son. I am so grateful for a healthy family, really exceptional friends, and a job that--despite changes and uncertainties--is still there, still providing some sense of fulfillment, in addition to health insurance. And, because I'm feeling guilty because of the timeline I've laid out, let's go back again: madly in love with my son. Like, cannot get enough of him. I don't regret having a baby for a second. But it was a very hard first year, for me individually and for us as a couple and a family, and I think the second year has been about coming back from that. And having a kid changes everything (what a completely original idea! I wonder if anyone's ever noticed that before!) and puts extra pressure on any pre-existing cracks. And then there are the things that aren't at all baby-related, like the tanking economy and all of its myriad effects (at least, I don't think that's related to Tankbaby. I can't vouch for what he does while I'm at work all day).
So, I had a hard year. And a year to try to come back from it. And now I'm ready, antsy even, to make some fucking forward motion. You know, as soon as I'm done being sad and angry and fearful and stuff.
Last time I linked to the terribly wise DoctorMama, but in case you got sidetracked by her running wisdom and overlooked her life wisdom, I send you to parts one and two of how she changed her life. You really oughta go read them, but for our purposes, I'll sum up: she writes about taking control of your own outlook and of letting go of anger (and its root, fear) and being...happy. Content. Peaceful with herself. (She also continues to be whip-smart and rapier-witted, which reassures me.)
I apologize. I stopped to re-read (again) those posts to organize my thoughts some more, but it's late and I'm afraid I'm going to crash to a rather inelegant end. What I want to make sure I put down, what I commit to in this vaguely public forum, is my current game plan. I have a therapist I see on an as-needed basis, and have been seeing her again. I have taken meds in the past, and am not averse to taking them again. But I also feel like, at some point, I gotta find something a little more internal that I can change. And I need to do it in a way where someone can gently kick my butt if needed or even just ask a curious question that makes me kick my own butt. Consider that an invitation, y'all.
So. I have started running, using the Couch to 5K program, with a healthy dose of DoctorMama wisdom. I have never been a runner before, and I hesitate to call myself one now, only 5 weeks in (although yesterday I ran 20 minutes in a row, which I'm not going to pretend isn't a triumph), but I've been trying to get regular exercise back in my life. In terms of flexibility and efficiency, this is working for me right now. I don't see any racing in my future, mainly because crippled tortoises are still faster than I am, but I know that it's good for me, both in terms of aerobic fitness and in terms of doing something just for myself.
I have bookmarked all of these bits of wisdom I've been talking about, and I'm going to pull key passages and print 'em all out and read them. Every day. I keep thinking about adding some sort of regular prayer/meditation in my life, and until I figure out how to do it properly, I figure it can't hurt just to take 5 minutes to read something that makes me say YES.
Thich Nhat Hanh's name has crossed my path twice today, which I took as a sign. I've requested his book on anger from the library. I also requested a Henry Rollins CD (to listen to while running), and am hoping that the two don't create some sort of matter/anti-matter explosion on the hold shelf.
And I'm going to keep sitting with that idea of happy. For me, that isn't gleefulness or cheerfulness, because I've had those. I'm looking more for contentment. For peace. Hell, mostly for just the absence of the whole fear/angerball thing. I want to be a better person, for me, for my family.
Well, and for you all, because then I won't write big old depressing blog posts anymore. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Lot of Wise Words That are FREAKING ME RIGHT OUT
I'm odd.
People who know me are all nodding and snorting, "Tell me something I don't know."
No, I mean, I'm feeling odd lately. Anxious. Twitchy. Teary. I mean, I'm having trouble sleeping. Think about what my night-times have been like for the past two years, and then know that my son is finally, finally sleeping through the night (in some form, 80% of the time, but let's not be greedy, here), and then think about that: I'm having trouble sleeping. That's both ridiculous and depressing.
I'm not totally sure what's going on. A drop in hormones going along with a drop in breastfeeding? General world ookiness (economy, Arizona...)? Previously wacky brain chemistry becoming wacky once again? I dunno. And I haven't wanted to write much, because I don't know what to say or how to make it entertaining or at least helpful to me.
But. I have recently come across some other, smarter people who are writing good stuff. Stuff that hits me, sometimes in inspiring ways ("Yay! I could do that!"), sometimes in depressing ways ("Boo-hoo! Why can't I do that?!"). But it's hitting me and I'm trying to see that impact as a...sign? Ech. Not really. But as...important. If I'm feeling oochy and detached and slouchy lately, something that makes me feel energized and reactive and engaged is worth paying attention to.
The first is from (and this is weird to even type) the Dalai Lama's Facebook page. He wrote an essay called "Countering Stress and Depression." It's here in its entirety, and I particularly like this:
"One of the approaches that I personally find useful is to cultivate the thought: If the situation or problem is such that it can be remedied, then there is no need to worry about it. In other words, if there is a solution or a way out of the difficulty, you do not need to be overwhelmed by it. The appropriate action is to seek its solution. Then it is clearly more sensible to spend your energy focussing on the solution rather than worrying about the problem. Alternatively, if there is no solution, no possibility of resolution, then there is also no point in being worried about it, because you cannot do anything about it anyway. In that case, the sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be for you. This formula, of course, implies directly confronting the problem and taking a realistic view. Otherwise you will be unable to find out whether or not there is a resolution to the problem.
People who know me are all nodding and snorting, "Tell me something I don't know."
No, I mean, I'm feeling odd lately. Anxious. Twitchy. Teary. I mean, I'm having trouble sleeping. Think about what my night-times have been like for the past two years, and then know that my son is finally, finally sleeping through the night (in some form, 80% of the time, but let's not be greedy, here), and then think about that: I'm having trouble sleeping. That's both ridiculous and depressing.
I'm not totally sure what's going on. A drop in hormones going along with a drop in breastfeeding? General world ookiness (economy, Arizona...)? Previously wacky brain chemistry becoming wacky once again? I dunno. And I haven't wanted to write much, because I don't know what to say or how to make it entertaining or at least helpful to me.
But. I have recently come across some other, smarter people who are writing good stuff. Stuff that hits me, sometimes in inspiring ways ("Yay! I could do that!"), sometimes in depressing ways ("Boo-hoo! Why can't I do that?!"). But it's hitting me and I'm trying to see that impact as a...sign? Ech. Not really. But as...important. If I'm feeling oochy and detached and slouchy lately, something that makes me feel energized and reactive and engaged is worth paying attention to.
The first is from (and this is weird to even type) the Dalai Lama's Facebook page. He wrote an essay called "Countering Stress and Depression." It's here in its entirety, and I particularly like this:
"One of the approaches that I personally find useful is to cultivate the thought: If the situation or problem is such that it can be remedied, then there is no need to worry about it. In other words, if there is a solution or a way out of the difficulty, you do not need to be overwhelmed by it. The appropriate action is to seek its solution. Then it is clearly more sensible to spend your energy focussing on the solution rather than worrying about the problem. Alternatively, if there is no solution, no possibility of resolution, then there is also no point in being worried about it, because you cannot do anything about it anyway. In that case, the sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be for you. This formula, of course, implies directly confronting the problem and taking a realistic view. Otherwise you will be unable to find out whether or not there is a resolution to the problem.
Taking a realistic view and cultivating a proper motivation can also shield you against feelings of fear and anxiety. If you develop a pure and sincere motivation, if you are motivated by a wish to help on the basis of kindness, compassion, and respect, then you can carry on any kind of work, in any field, and function more effectively with less fear or worry, not being afraid of what others think or whether you ultimately will be successful in reaching your goal. Even if you fail to achieve your goal, you can feel good about having made the effort. But with a bad motivation, people can praise you or you can achieve goals, but you still will not be happy."
I don't know what to do with that at the moment; I kinda find it more daunting ("whyyyy can't I do that?! Help me, Dalai Lamaaaaa!") than helpful right now, but I think I want to keep coming back to it.
Also? Elly. Elly is smart, yo. And I'm not just saying that because she liked my mollusk joke. "YOU are a possibility." Again, at this moment, I find that a little intimidating, because yikes! What if I can't live up to being a possibiliteeeeee??!!!"
And? Doctor Mama. She not only inspires you to run, she also helps your whole life become better. (Even if you don't run.) (But she'd really like you to run.) "I have a sticker on the back of my laptop that reads 'HAS ANGER SOLVED YOUR OTHER PROBLEMS?' that is quite entertaining to make people gaze upon in meetings." I love this. It totally applies to me, but I love it.
So, that's where I am. Trying to find some smartiness elsewhere, because I'm feeling dull. Got any wisdom that you find helpful when you're feeling fragile and anxious and twitchy and needing some quiet and some kind and some humble? Share, share...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Freakosystem
We're all sick over here. Nothing ebolaish, just your garden variety head cold thing, with symptoms and severity fluctuating by the hour and body. So Tankbaby coughs and sneezes (IN MY EYE) all morning, but then when I try to put him to bed early, is suddenly all, "I feel fit! And hale! Bring me my badminton set and my mountain climbing harness! Go!!!" while MOTH, at 8:15 pm, is snoring next to us. And I stayed up to finish prepping the chicken broth for tonight's soup, feeling grumbly and sniffly and sorry for myself, even though I was also kinda enjoying the quiet warm kitchen and my Dick Van Dyke Show reruns.
I hate making chicken broth. Why don't you remind me? I love homemade soup, and I love the simmering smell that permeated my kitchen all day, but the whole straining/picking out meat from the dessicated carcasses thing at 10:30 at night? HATE. Oh, and what? You take the meat off the bones before you simmer the chicken? Well, la-di-da for fancypants. Over here, our method is as follows:
1) Buy a purse chicken (I recently heard this phrase to describe the pre-cooked rotisserie chicken-in-a-bag, and love it) for dinner
2) Without ever removing chicken from bag, peel off large yummy chunks of breast meat
3) Put bag in fridge so that we can use the leftover chicken the next day
4) Two days later, realize we're never going to use that chicken
5) Throw whole bag in freezer
6) Repeat, according to recent freezer contents, seven times in four months.
7) The night we plan on having homemade chicken soup, pull a bunch of carcasses out of the freezer
8) Realize that we forgot (again) that homemade broth takes two days to make (one day to simmer, then let fat congeal overnight-yum!)
9) Curse
10) Thaw carcasses just enough to be crammed into stockpots
11) When broth is ready to be strained, go through hot, falling apart chicken carcasses to pick off perfectly good meat that we are too frugal to waste, but not smart enough to take off before freezing the damn things, often including the stupid string that ties the whole thing together, necessitating a whole lot of chicken carcass fondling
Wait. Did I just make this post about how to make chicken broth very poorly? I told you I'm unwell.
Not that I had anything else of import to share. The title up there doesn't mean much, except it's a word that popped into my mind as I watched Tankbaby play with his new Lego set. It's a zoo kit, and MOTH keeps making these lovely exhibit areas with trees and waterfalls which makes me giggle because I think a certain adult in this house is looking forward to the upcoming toy sets (Legos, trains, etc.) more than our child. Anyway, Tankbaby clearly doesn't watch enough National Geographic specials about the natural order within the animal kingdom, as indicated by his pretend play with the animals. This morning he had the giraffe stomping all over everything, including an entire family of lions. "WAH, WAH, WAH!" he growled ("walk, walk, walk!" for those of you with out a Tank-to-English dictionary available) as the giraffe jumped on the lion's head. The lions in this set are apparently pacifist vegetarians, whereas the giraffe is...well, ballsy. The elephant likes to jump on things (while we haven't shown Tank any Animal Planet shows, he has seen this clip more times that I can count, mainly because watching him sign "elephant jump" is so dang cute), and the alligator exists solely for the purpose of Tank ripping his hinged jaw off so that we may reattach it, repeat to fade.
Oh, and speaking of inappropriate use of child's toys, y'all were so pleased by the Playdoh naughtiness, I thought I should also share the following:
Ignoring the dog-top in the background, you see here a few pieces of plastic food that can be peeled, shucked, whatever (I actually requested this for Tankbaby for Christmas, as otherwise he keeps requesting actual food that he peels, then discards with great velocity). Looks OK, right?
Yeah. Could they have put the velcro anywhere else on the banana? Must it be so...circumcisey?
OK. I have to go. Tank is sleeping and I have to learn Quicken before he awakes. We bought the software ages ago, after yet another of my complaints that I don't have any sense of our money around here. When we lived together in sin, we each handled our own bills. Then we got married and we generally just kept everything in one place and one or the other of us would pay whatever needed to be paid. I kept a handy-dandy Excel sheet so that I could track stuff, but mostly it was a checkbook and a credit card. Then we moved here, I went to grad school and MOTH took over a large chunk of household stuff so that I could focus on my studies (and watch a lot of Law & Order reruns in a depressed stupor, although that might not have been as clear at the start). I took out student loans, we switched to mainly a debit card system, and he put most of our bills into on-line payment. I graduated and took back my fair share of cooking, cleaning, etc., but somehow never got back into the financial management duties. As a result, although I am the major breadwinner (as much as a teacher in this economy can be, that is), I have no idea where our money goes. I'm like a 1950s household in one person.
As a result, I have to ask MOTH about stuff like, can I put this on the debit card or are we waiting for a payment to go through? Because although I get paid regularly, his income is scattered in amount and timing, so he always knows how much money we have and where it's coming and going, and I do not. Which makes me crazy, not just because I feel like I have to ask permission to use my money and then find a check for $200 worth of magician's insurance and then I have to call my friend and freak right the fuck out because, really? magician's insurance? it's not like he's sawing a lady in half--he does card tricks? are we worried about papercut liability? Wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, I don't like not knowing anything about our money other than that we perpetually don't have enough. Also, what if MOTH gets hit by a bus ('cause you know that shit's not covered by no magician's insurance)? I'm gonna be that stereotypical widder woman who's all quivery, "Oh, my husband always took care of the money..." Not on your life.
So, we bought some basic software and I'm gonna learn it. Then we can both be looking at the same data and if MOTH has been siphoning off some money for his chippie on the side, I'll know about it.
(Not that he would ever do such a thing, of course. Whenever the subject of infidelity or open marriage has come up, MOTH's standard response is: "Are you kidding? I can barely handle you." Aw. Ain't he sweet?)
I hate making chicken broth. Why don't you remind me? I love homemade soup, and I love the simmering smell that permeated my kitchen all day, but the whole straining/picking out meat from the dessicated carcasses thing at 10:30 at night? HATE. Oh, and what? You take the meat off the bones before you simmer the chicken? Well, la-di-da for fancypants. Over here, our method is as follows:
1) Buy a purse chicken (I recently heard this phrase to describe the pre-cooked rotisserie chicken-in-a-bag, and love it) for dinner
2) Without ever removing chicken from bag, peel off large yummy chunks of breast meat
3) Put bag in fridge so that we can use the leftover chicken the next day
4) Two days later, realize we're never going to use that chicken
5) Throw whole bag in freezer
6) Repeat, according to recent freezer contents, seven times in four months.
7) The night we plan on having homemade chicken soup, pull a bunch of carcasses out of the freezer
8) Realize that we forgot (again) that homemade broth takes two days to make (one day to simmer, then let fat congeal overnight-yum!)
9) Curse
10) Thaw carcasses just enough to be crammed into stockpots
11) When broth is ready to be strained, go through hot, falling apart chicken carcasses to pick off perfectly good meat that we are too frugal to waste, but not smart enough to take off before freezing the damn things, often including the stupid string that ties the whole thing together, necessitating a whole lot of chicken carcass fondling
Wait. Did I just make this post about how to make chicken broth very poorly? I told you I'm unwell.
Not that I had anything else of import to share. The title up there doesn't mean much, except it's a word that popped into my mind as I watched Tankbaby play with his new Lego set. It's a zoo kit, and MOTH keeps making these lovely exhibit areas with trees and waterfalls which makes me giggle because I think a certain adult in this house is looking forward to the upcoming toy sets (Legos, trains, etc.) more than our child. Anyway, Tankbaby clearly doesn't watch enough National Geographic specials about the natural order within the animal kingdom, as indicated by his pretend play with the animals. This morning he had the giraffe stomping all over everything, including an entire family of lions. "WAH, WAH, WAH!" he growled ("walk, walk, walk!" for those of you with out a Tank-to-English dictionary available) as the giraffe jumped on the lion's head. The lions in this set are apparently pacifist vegetarians, whereas the giraffe is...well, ballsy. The elephant likes to jump on things (while we haven't shown Tank any Animal Planet shows, he has seen this clip more times that I can count, mainly because watching him sign "elephant jump" is so dang cute), and the alligator exists solely for the purpose of Tank ripping his hinged jaw off so that we may reattach it, repeat to fade.
Oh, and speaking of inappropriate use of child's toys, y'all were so pleased by the Playdoh naughtiness, I thought I should also share the following:
Ignoring the dog-top in the background, you see here a few pieces of plastic food that can be peeled, shucked, whatever (I actually requested this for Tankbaby for Christmas, as otherwise he keeps requesting actual food that he peels, then discards with great velocity). Looks OK, right?
Yeah. Could they have put the velcro anywhere else on the banana? Must it be so...circumcisey?
OK. I have to go. Tank is sleeping and I have to learn Quicken before he awakes. We bought the software ages ago, after yet another of my complaints that I don't have any sense of our money around here. When we lived together in sin, we each handled our own bills. Then we got married and we generally just kept everything in one place and one or the other of us would pay whatever needed to be paid. I kept a handy-dandy Excel sheet so that I could track stuff, but mostly it was a checkbook and a credit card. Then we moved here, I went to grad school and MOTH took over a large chunk of household stuff so that I could focus on my studies (and watch a lot of Law & Order reruns in a depressed stupor, although that might not have been as clear at the start). I took out student loans, we switched to mainly a debit card system, and he put most of our bills into on-line payment. I graduated and took back my fair share of cooking, cleaning, etc., but somehow never got back into the financial management duties. As a result, although I am the major breadwinner (as much as a teacher in this economy can be, that is), I have no idea where our money goes. I'm like a 1950s household in one person.
As a result, I have to ask MOTH about stuff like, can I put this on the debit card or are we waiting for a payment to go through? Because although I get paid regularly, his income is scattered in amount and timing, so he always knows how much money we have and where it's coming and going, and I do not. Which makes me crazy, not just because I feel like I have to ask permission to use my money and then find a check for $200 worth of magician's insurance and then I have to call my friend and freak right the fuck out because, really? magician's insurance? it's not like he's sawing a lady in half--he does card tricks? are we worried about papercut liability? Wait, where was I? Oh, yeah, I don't like not knowing anything about our money other than that we perpetually don't have enough. Also, what if MOTH gets hit by a bus ('cause you know that shit's not covered by no magician's insurance)? I'm gonna be that stereotypical widder woman who's all quivery, "Oh, my husband always took care of the money..." Not on your life.
So, we bought some basic software and I'm gonna learn it. Then we can both be looking at the same data and if MOTH has been siphoning off some money for his chippie on the side, I'll know about it.
(Not that he would ever do such a thing, of course. Whenever the subject of infidelity or open marriage has come up, MOTH's standard response is: "Are you kidding? I can barely handle you." Aw. Ain't he sweet?)
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Aw, Wha, and WHAAAA?
First, the "Aw": MOTH had a show last night. A mentalist show. What's mentalism, you might ask? Or you might not, but I'm-a gonna tell you anyway. Mentalism is a branch of magic that is sorta towards the psychic-telepathy side of things. So, you basically study people, group psychology, patterns, etc., and learn to make educated guesses that make people gape and go "Duuuuude...." So he and his friend the hypnotist (like how I made that sound totally normal?) put together a double-bill show and last night was the free preview for friends and family.
I got all decked out, met up with a surprisingly large number of wonderfully supportive friends, left Tankbaby in the car (what? I cracked a window) and went to the local Eagles Club hall (which they call an aerie, which I think is adorable, in addition to being an excellent crossword answer). MOTH did things like somehow figured out which of five envelopes had the black card and somehow predicting which card a person would pick. I literally don't know how he does these things, which makes me insane. Then his friend (you remember, The Hypnotist) hypnotized people and made them forget they had butts and do ballet and stuff.
[Side Note: What was interesting was that the audience was mainly actors (friends of MOTH and TH), so there was definitely some speculation about who was actually "under" and who was just realllly good at improv. If you know anything about hypnosis, you know that it's not about being a zombie or being under someone else's control, it's about being in a very relaxed state and therefore extremely suggestible. So you basically focus and get into this hyper-relaxed state. The Hypnotist would watch the volunteers and, if someone wasn't going under, would gently send them back to the audience. A friend who'd been onstage said that he was aware of everything going on, but that when The Hypnotist said "OK, now you're going to be boxing! Practice! You're the Champ!" he just thought, "Well, why not?" He said he was totally unselfconscious and it never crossed his mind to care about what anyone thought. However, another friend, Paul, was up there at one point, and I could tell that he wasn't actually hypnotized. But, he's an actor, and a friend, so he just kept going and acting on The Hypnotist's suggestions, although definitely with a self-consciousness. He eventually got sent back to his seat. Later, a friend noticed that, after The Hypnotist had all the volunteers catching fish and then snapped them back to sleep, everyone just dropped what they were doing and went limp. Except for Paul, who, with his eyes closed and his face neutral, carefully set down his fish before going limp. Good improver, bad hypnotized guy.]
Anyway, the show was lots of fun, especially after MOTH's show got going and I could relax. I was really nervous for him, mostly because he was nervous, which is unusual for him. So I was in my seat, clutching my wrap (OK, well, that was because it was really cold in there--apparently Eagles are hot-blooded birds) and holding my breath during each trick until it was over. I'm gonna be fun at Tankbaby's first play, dontcha think?
Where is the "aw," you all ask? It's this: I want to publicly recognize MOTH (for the second post in a row, even) for not just his show, but for the fact that he came back last night and spent an hour on the couch with me last night dissecting the show, asking for feedback. And not just asking, but really wanting feedback, even when it wasn't positive (not that I had lots of negative stuff to say, but this was the first time he'd ever put together this show, and I had some definite ideas about "the next time..."). I was really impressed at how well he took this feedback, because I really, really struggle with this myself. Even when it's presented gracefully and gently and truthfully, even when I need to hear it, I really struggle with hearing anything even remotely negative about something I'm emotionally invested in.
But MOTH freaking took notes.
I find humility very attractive. (Which is a shame, because I have a hard time being peaceful with humility in myself, as I mention above. Now, humiliATION, that's different. Lots of experience there.) Yes, confidence is attractive, but only when it's unspoken. Otherwise, it becomes braggy (remember seventh grade, when that was, like, a horrible cutting insult?). And as much as I loved MOTH for being brave enough to get up on that stage in the first place, I was even more in love with him for being able to, in an effort to improve, be willing to sit down and hear constructive criticism.
OK, now for the "Wha?": I looked under my "Stats" page on good ol' Blogger, and, although I admit my interpretation of these charts and graphs is rudimentary at best, I am puzzled. For example, the majority of my page views have been from the US (not surprising), and a few in Canada, and then some scattered European and South American readers (Ola, Brazil!) (also, I realize that it's probably crazy to call them "readers," when in reality, it's more like "brief clicks before diverting to lolcats.com"). But! More than any of those? Russia. Da! Apparently they love me behind the Iron Curtain. But in what universe does this site send some to read about my giant baby?
Also, this? Is my blog, my entry, but a picture of the lovely and amazing Kitchen Witch. (Kitchie, I know you're on break right now, but girl...wha? How did my silly prattling get linked to your gorgeous pic?) I don't feel like translating it from the Cyrillic, but feel free, anyone so inclined, to let me know WTF?
And, finally, the WHAAAA?: We went to buy the boy some Playdoh tools and found a package that claimed to include "rollers, cutters, and more." And it's the "more" that I question. Look at the picture below. What do you see? A rolling pin, some cookie-cutters, scissors, and...what? What is that yellow phallic thing in the back? Is what my Russian friends would call a Фаллоимитатор?
I got all decked out, met up with a surprisingly large number of wonderfully supportive friends, left Tankbaby in the car (what? I cracked a window) and went to the local Eagles Club hall (which they call an aerie, which I think is adorable, in addition to being an excellent crossword answer). MOTH did things like somehow figured out which of five envelopes had the black card and somehow predicting which card a person would pick. I literally don't know how he does these things, which makes me insane. Then his friend (you remember, The Hypnotist) hypnotized people and made them forget they had butts and do ballet and stuff.
[Side Note: What was interesting was that the audience was mainly actors (friends of MOTH and TH), so there was definitely some speculation about who was actually "under" and who was just realllly good at improv. If you know anything about hypnosis, you know that it's not about being a zombie or being under someone else's control, it's about being in a very relaxed state and therefore extremely suggestible. So you basically focus and get into this hyper-relaxed state. The Hypnotist would watch the volunteers and, if someone wasn't going under, would gently send them back to the audience. A friend who'd been onstage said that he was aware of everything going on, but that when The Hypnotist said "OK, now you're going to be boxing! Practice! You're the Champ!" he just thought, "Well, why not?" He said he was totally unselfconscious and it never crossed his mind to care about what anyone thought. However, another friend, Paul, was up there at one point, and I could tell that he wasn't actually hypnotized. But, he's an actor, and a friend, so he just kept going and acting on The Hypnotist's suggestions, although definitely with a self-consciousness. He eventually got sent back to his seat. Later, a friend noticed that, after The Hypnotist had all the volunteers catching fish and then snapped them back to sleep, everyone just dropped what they were doing and went limp. Except for Paul, who, with his eyes closed and his face neutral, carefully set down his fish before going limp. Good improver, bad hypnotized guy.]
Anyway, the show was lots of fun, especially after MOTH's show got going and I could relax. I was really nervous for him, mostly because he was nervous, which is unusual for him. So I was in my seat, clutching my wrap (OK, well, that was because it was really cold in there--apparently Eagles are hot-blooded birds) and holding my breath during each trick until it was over. I'm gonna be fun at Tankbaby's first play, dontcha think?
Where is the "aw," you all ask? It's this: I want to publicly recognize MOTH (for the second post in a row, even) for not just his show, but for the fact that he came back last night and spent an hour on the couch with me last night dissecting the show, asking for feedback. And not just asking, but really wanting feedback, even when it wasn't positive (not that I had lots of negative stuff to say, but this was the first time he'd ever put together this show, and I had some definite ideas about "the next time..."). I was really impressed at how well he took this feedback, because I really, really struggle with this myself. Even when it's presented gracefully and gently and truthfully, even when I need to hear it, I really struggle with hearing anything even remotely negative about something I'm emotionally invested in.
But MOTH freaking took notes.
I find humility very attractive. (Which is a shame, because I have a hard time being peaceful with humility in myself, as I mention above. Now, humiliATION, that's different. Lots of experience there.) Yes, confidence is attractive, but only when it's unspoken. Otherwise, it becomes braggy (remember seventh grade, when that was, like, a horrible cutting insult?). And as much as I loved MOTH for being brave enough to get up on that stage in the first place, I was even more in love with him for being able to, in an effort to improve, be willing to sit down and hear constructive criticism.
OK, now for the "Wha?": I looked under my "Stats" page on good ol' Blogger, and, although I admit my interpretation of these charts and graphs is rudimentary at best, I am puzzled. For example, the majority of my page views have been from the US (not surprising), and a few in Canada, and then some scattered European and South American readers (Ola, Brazil!) (also, I realize that it's probably crazy to call them "readers," when in reality, it's more like "brief clicks before diverting to lolcats.com"). But! More than any of those? Russia. Da! Apparently they love me behind the Iron Curtain. But in what universe does this site send some to read about my giant baby?
Also, this? Is my blog, my entry, but a picture of the lovely and amazing Kitchen Witch. (Kitchie, I know you're on break right now, but girl...wha? How did my silly prattling get linked to your gorgeous pic?) I don't feel like translating it from the Cyrillic, but feel free, anyone so inclined, to let me know WTF?
And, finally, the WHAAAA?: We went to buy the boy some Playdoh tools and found a package that claimed to include "rollers, cutters, and more." And it's the "more" that I question. Look at the picture below. What do you see? A rolling pin, some cookie-cutters, scissors, and...what? What is that yellow phallic thing in the back? Is what my Russian friends would call a Фаллоимитатор?
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Merry Merry Merry
So, I had a couple pre-Christmas posts forming, but they weren't happy. They weren't merry. They weren't seasons greetings fodder. It was a lot of not-going-home-this-year-rain-isn't-Christmas-weather-by-the-way-my-mom's-dead-at-Christmas-AGAIN sort of stuff. I was trying to get into the mood, I really was. We bought and decorated the tree, we sent and received many, many Amazon boxes, and I even made stockings for the three of us.
And I tried and sometimes, for some moments, I was OK. And then, I'd hear or read or see something and be all...meh again. Which didn't seem fair to MOTH or to Tankbaby, or to my fives of loyal readers. So I just kept skimming YouTube for claymation Christmas specials, and humming "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in the grocery store, and making my mom's favorite candy cane cookies (recipe from the Betty Crocker Cooky Book, the family copy of which is spattered with eggs, batter, and seven-year-old scrawl of "DELISHUS" next to the peanut butter cookie recipe).
And, after yesterday morning, I'm glad I kept going. Because I would have hated to have been grumpy and Grinchy on Christmas morning, when I opened this:
(WAIT! Go away. Go find your spouse/partner/significant other/mom/dog and tell them to keep reading for the Best. Present. Idea. Ever. Then be surprised and thank me in a year.)
How effing cool is that? MOTH found this website and did all the proofing and layout work and published one year's worth of this little blog of mine.
Can you believe it? It's 205 pages long, which made me feel slightly better about my pathetic posting rate. I opened it, thinking that the back pages must be blank or something, but it's full. Full of my words, which looked like actual words when printed on real paper. With page numbers and everything. I don't know if I can adequately express how cool this was. We had agreed not to do presents this year, for financial reasons--only stocking presents. My big gift to him was a DVD of an old silly movie from MOTH's childhood. It seemed nice at the time. It seems a little inadequate now.
At least I also got him a chocolate orange.
Hope you and yours had a safe, lovely, and calm holiday.
And I tried and sometimes, for some moments, I was OK. And then, I'd hear or read or see something and be all...meh again. Which didn't seem fair to MOTH or to Tankbaby, or to my fives of loyal readers. So I just kept skimming YouTube for claymation Christmas specials, and humming "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in the grocery store, and making my mom's favorite candy cane cookies (recipe from the Betty Crocker Cooky Book, the family copy of which is spattered with eggs, batter, and seven-year-old scrawl of "DELISHUS" next to the peanut butter cookie recipe).
And, after yesterday morning, I'm glad I kept going. Because I would have hated to have been grumpy and Grinchy on Christmas morning, when I opened this:
(WAIT! Go away. Go find your spouse/partner/significant other/mom/dog and tell them to keep reading for the Best. Present. Idea. Ever. Then be surprised and thank me in a year.)
How effing cool is that? MOTH found this website and did all the proofing and layout work and published one year's worth of this little blog of mine.
Can you believe it? It's 205 pages long, which made me feel slightly better about my pathetic posting rate. I opened it, thinking that the back pages must be blank or something, but it's full. Full of my words, which looked like actual words when printed on real paper. With page numbers and everything. I don't know if I can adequately express how cool this was. We had agreed not to do presents this year, for financial reasons--only stocking presents. My big gift to him was a DVD of an old silly movie from MOTH's childhood. It seemed nice at the time. It seems a little inadequate now.
At least I also got him a chocolate orange.
Hope you and yours had a safe, lovely, and calm holiday.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
In No Particular Order
A few snippets, just to empty my brain, then I need to go catch up on y'all's blawgs.
On Monday night, we went to get a Christmas tree (this is our first since moving out here, as we--or at least I--always traveled back to Chicago for the holidays, it never made sense to get a tree). I'd intended for us to buy one from the stand a friend recommended, run by and profiting at-risk youth. But when we got to the lot, we saw neither flora nor potential felons, so we moved on. Two more lots, and we began to realize that we'd clearly missed the memo that said that all trees must be purchased by Sunday, December 12th, unless you wanted a Charlie Brown-esque twig. (Does this seem really early to anyone else? Maybe I'm spoiled, as we grew up with mainly--gasp!--fake trees and MOTH and I used to live across the street from a parking lot that became a Christmas tree lot during December, so we would just watch out our window for a good time to pop over. The entire selection, purchasing, and transportation process would take about twelve minutes.)
Sidebar: I just had the memory of the next-to-last Christmas with my mom. MOTH was working, so he stayed out here, and I was home with my folks. Dad had hauled up the tree box and we were in the process of assembling the tree when we noticed...an odor. A musty, mildewy sort of odor. We deduced that the tree had gotten wet during a recent basement flood. We kept trying to put a good face on it, but the reality was that our family Tannenbaum smelled vaguely but persistently of old wet socks. So we abandoned construction and Dad and I hauled the fake branches out to the cold snowy yard, in hopes of airing them out. Meanwhile, Mom spread the tree skirt expectantly around the 1 1/2"-wide green wooden dowel rod that formed the "trunk" of the "tree." The next evening, we tried again. Still that smell. We gave it another day, and the smell was fainter, but not gone. I'm not going to name names, because this isn't that kind of blog, but someone had the bright idea of spraying the branches with pine-scented Lysol. Which killed whatever mildewy microscopic creatures were nestling in the PVC needles (which were likely rife with lead! Yippee!) but left a smell that, while different from mildew, was not exactly...tree-like in nature. Back outside they went. We finally gave up a few days before Christmas and just assembled the damn thing, holding our breath during the decorating. It was fine in the house, but if you leaned close to place a present under the tree, you were likely to wonder who was giving someone the Parfum du Hospital Floor. End sidebar.
Anyway, it got late, so MOTH dropped me and the Tank off at home so we could start dinner, then went off and bought a tree. By the time he came back, it was time for dinner and then putting the baby to bed, so he ended up setting it up while I was laying down with El Boyo. We were planning on putting the lights and ornaments on with Tankbaby the next night, so we just left the tree alone and went about our evening. The next morning, when Tankbaby went into the living room, he was delighted. "Tee? Tee? Biiiiiiih! Dah! Dah! Tee!" ("Tree? See? Biiiiig! Soft! Soft! Tree!") He couldn't get enough of this marvel. I told MOTH, "If just a tree provokes this kind of reaction, Christmas morning is going to BLOW HIS TINY EVERLOVING MIND."
*****
Speaking of the Man Of The House (it's been a while since I explained the MOTH acronym; also, I'm still struggling with a new nickname for Tankbaby. He continues to be quite tall, with substantial cheekage, but he is not the chunky monkeybabe he once was. Tanktot was Benevola's suggestion, but it makes me think of tatertots. Mmmm....tatertots.), where was I? Oh, yes, your thoughts on this, please: a few nights ago, I was working on Christmas shopping while MOTH played a video game on his phone. At one point he said, "Huh. This is weird. I'm playing this World War II game, but it's a Japanese game, so I'm on the other side." I asked, "You're playing a World War II game, as the Japanese?" He answered blithely, "Yep. Just bombed Pearl Harbor."
Now, I'm a hippie liberal anti-gun pro-public service yay-gays anti-war no-nukes kinda gal who has occasionally wistfully flirted with Canadianism. But I still found myself muttering to him, "Traitor."
Right? I mean, even in a video game, you don't bomb Pearl Harbor. It's in bad taste. I don't care what you thought of that Ben Affleck movie.
******
And finally, because he knows when you're sleeping and when you're awake...LoveGreg is back. Just a friend request, no poorly-comma'd letter. I...I don't know. I think we may have wrung all the humor out of him and now it's just tiresome. Feel free to correct me on this. But, dude. You're going to make me block you? On Christmas?!
******
Huh. Snippettier than I thought. I gotta go to bed. Don't write anything too funny tonight; I'll check on you guys tomorrow.
On Monday night, we went to get a Christmas tree (this is our first since moving out here, as we--or at least I--always traveled back to Chicago for the holidays, it never made sense to get a tree). I'd intended for us to buy one from the stand a friend recommended, run by and profiting at-risk youth. But when we got to the lot, we saw neither flora nor potential felons, so we moved on. Two more lots, and we began to realize that we'd clearly missed the memo that said that all trees must be purchased by Sunday, December 12th, unless you wanted a Charlie Brown-esque twig. (Does this seem really early to anyone else? Maybe I'm spoiled, as we grew up with mainly--gasp!--fake trees and MOTH and I used to live across the street from a parking lot that became a Christmas tree lot during December, so we would just watch out our window for a good time to pop over. The entire selection, purchasing, and transportation process would take about twelve minutes.)
Sidebar: I just had the memory of the next-to-last Christmas with my mom. MOTH was working, so he stayed out here, and I was home with my folks. Dad had hauled up the tree box and we were in the process of assembling the tree when we noticed...an odor. A musty, mildewy sort of odor. We deduced that the tree had gotten wet during a recent basement flood. We kept trying to put a good face on it, but the reality was that our family Tannenbaum smelled vaguely but persistently of old wet socks. So we abandoned construction and Dad and I hauled the fake branches out to the cold snowy yard, in hopes of airing them out. Meanwhile, Mom spread the tree skirt expectantly around the 1 1/2"-wide green wooden dowel rod that formed the "trunk" of the "tree." The next evening, we tried again. Still that smell. We gave it another day, and the smell was fainter, but not gone. I'm not going to name names, because this isn't that kind of blog, but someone had the bright idea of spraying the branches with pine-scented Lysol. Which killed whatever mildewy microscopic creatures were nestling in the PVC needles (which were likely rife with lead! Yippee!) but left a smell that, while different from mildew, was not exactly...tree-like in nature. Back outside they went. We finally gave up a few days before Christmas and just assembled the damn thing, holding our breath during the decorating. It was fine in the house, but if you leaned close to place a present under the tree, you were likely to wonder who was giving someone the Parfum du Hospital Floor. End sidebar.
Anyway, it got late, so MOTH dropped me and the Tank off at home so we could start dinner, then went off and bought a tree. By the time he came back, it was time for dinner and then putting the baby to bed, so he ended up setting it up while I was laying down with El Boyo. We were planning on putting the lights and ornaments on with Tankbaby the next night, so we just left the tree alone and went about our evening. The next morning, when Tankbaby went into the living room, he was delighted. "Tee? Tee? Biiiiiiih! Dah! Dah! Tee!" ("Tree? See? Biiiiig! Soft! Soft! Tree!") He couldn't get enough of this marvel. I told MOTH, "If just a tree provokes this kind of reaction, Christmas morning is going to BLOW HIS TINY EVERLOVING MIND."
*****
Speaking of the Man Of The House (it's been a while since I explained the MOTH acronym; also, I'm still struggling with a new nickname for Tankbaby. He continues to be quite tall, with substantial cheekage, but he is not the chunky monkeybabe he once was. Tanktot was Benevola's suggestion, but it makes me think of tatertots. Mmmm....tatertots.), where was I? Oh, yes, your thoughts on this, please: a few nights ago, I was working on Christmas shopping while MOTH played a video game on his phone. At one point he said, "Huh. This is weird. I'm playing this World War II game, but it's a Japanese game, so I'm on the other side." I asked, "You're playing a World War II game, as the Japanese?" He answered blithely, "Yep. Just bombed Pearl Harbor."
Now, I'm a hippie liberal anti-gun pro-public service yay-gays anti-war no-nukes kinda gal who has occasionally wistfully flirted with Canadianism. But I still found myself muttering to him, "Traitor."
Right? I mean, even in a video game, you don't bomb Pearl Harbor. It's in bad taste. I don't care what you thought of that Ben Affleck movie.
******
And finally, because he knows when you're sleeping and when you're awake...LoveGreg is back. Just a friend request, no poorly-comma'd letter. I...I don't know. I think we may have wrung all the humor out of him and now it's just tiresome. Feel free to correct me on this. But, dude. You're going to make me block you? On Christmas?!
******
Huh. Snippettier than I thought. I gotta go to bed. Don't write anything too funny tonight; I'll check on you guys tomorrow.
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