meter made??

It seems that my children are becoming more adept at hiding their money - cash money. I am not insinuating that I would ever steal my kids' hard earned moola, but since I don't actually remember my ATM pin number and I am frequently running 7 minutes late to every appointment, sometimes, I need a temporary loan. Kids always have cash. Except, here is where the issue comes in, I don't know where they are stashing it. I checked sidetables, drawers, under the mattresses, and in their velcro wallets. I looked in the sofa cushions and under their seats in the car. I was able to locate $0.70 in change. And then I remembered that I saw a dime between the washer and dryer - success! Still not enough for a one way ride on the turnpike (did I mention that I also don't have speedy ez pass?). Also, not enough for the meter for a full hour, so here are my choices - a) take the long free road and cross my fingers to find an unexpired meter and pray that I don't get a ticket or 2) bribe the toll person with pennies and stuff fruit snacks in the meter? (I wonder what the exchange rate would be...maybe 30 = $1?)

When did they start being so darn secretive? It is not as though I don't pay them back. Shoot, I feed them and clothe them and buy them shoes. I even let them sleep indoors. I think it is fair that they share what is essentially mine anyway. I remember the days when they didn't know the power of the green, when I could easily trade them a cookie for a twenty. Those were the good old days. Now I am reduced to invading their privacy and pilfering their piggybanks. I admit that I am just a tad embarassed at this new low. Afterall, it is Christmastime - a time of hope and generosity and spare change.

this one flew over the cuckoos nest

Everyone has that one crazy friend. The one that can never find her car in the Hannaford parking lot. The one who always wears her yoga pants and then wears them to bed and then the next day and the next night until they do the downward dog to the laundry basket. Today this is me.

I have always likened myself to the chicken in the coop that has all but 3 of her feathers pecked out and tries to escape every time the gate opens. The one that all the other chickens look at and cluck. She looks kind of different and no one wants the eggs that she lays. And all the little chicks peck at her tired chicken feet and boss her into giving them her last morsels of chicken feed. This was me at the PTSA meeting tonight. Truthfully, I only go to these meetings to get out of the house. I don't have anything value to add except perhaps my vote for the allocation of the funds for sweatshirts or rockclimbing wall days - I wasn't really paying attention. What I was doing was looking at all these other women - these lovely feathered chickens with nice eggs and complete thoughts and matching shoes. They cared about stuff like movie nights and healthful living and soccer. Why am I not that chicken?

Which leads me straight into losing my car for the second time today and then sitting in found car and crying for an hour. Crying for everything and nothing and who I am and who I thought I should be. Why am I so disappointed? Disappointed with myself for being disappointed? For having stretch marks? And white hairs? And inappropiate thoughts? For having a messy house and fresh kids? For being a horrible sister? And a worse wife? For all of those things and oodles more. The absolute truth of the matter is that I am all of these things today. But I don't have to be tomorrow. Tomorrow I will not text and drive (horror of horrors) and I will wear pants with a working zipper and drink fewer cups of coffee. Or I might not. I might have a repeat day. Who knows? But isn't that the beauty of each new day? Perspective after a sleep and a shower (god willing)? Why am I the shit chicken? Probably shouldn't say shit. Shit.

this woman's liberation

With the husband gone away on business (again), I am left with the usual household chores and responsibilities and all the other crappy ones that he does. Now, before anyone gets his/her knickers in a bunch, let me preface this by saying that, yes, I do believe in equality amongst the sexes and in relationships. I think that there should be a division of duties with the home, the finances and the children that works best for each individual family. Anything men can do, women can do and vice versa. Bla bla bla. That being said, there are things that are designated the "hubby" chores - not because I can't do these things, but simply because I don't want to do these things. I carried three children in my body and pushed them out of my body and it hurt - a whole lot. Because of this fact alone, I insist that I be excused from certain things that I detest. However, when one is away from the home for an extended period of time, the other must pick up the slack in these certain areas of ickiness or else the neighbors might complain. I have composed a list (remember how much I love those suckers?) of things that should be left to the menfolk.

1) unclogging the toilet. I hate this daily, yes daily, stink job. How is it possible that a 57 pound child could possibly poo bricks each and every day? I don't know but I think he is a medical marvel.

2) folding laundry. I don't mind washing, drying, schlepping the baskets, but I really don't like the folding. Especially the matching of the socks. Torture.

3) bedtime. This is way more effective when there is a tag team - good cop bad cop style. I get weary trying to be both and I think it confuses the kids when I pretend to be both. Just go the *bleep* to bed!

d) middle of the night peeing of the dogs. Obviously.

5) trash. It smells and more often than not, the racoons feast during the dark hours and leave messes that need to be addressed in the light hours.

6) checking to make sure that all of the windows, doors, bulkheads are locked and secure before sleeptime. I can never remember and so I panic and OCD takes over.

7) making the coffee. I don't know why, I just prefer that someone else does this.

So, needless to say, here I am with the plunger and threatening the kids and scooping shovels of filthy rubbish and suffering from the inability to work the wII remotes and praying that I unlocked the front door before peeing the dogs in my pjs at 2A. If you happen to bump into me this week, or if I literally bump into you with my grocery cart or van, please be kind and forgive me. I have lost my marbles.

not amused with the amusement

Funtown Splashtown USA is totally outside walmart - otherwise know as the foul underbelly of present southern Maine society. But the kids love it, so each summer we go, knowing full well that the soundtrack from 1992 will blare over the loud speakers and the bracelet on our right wrist will be a skosh too tight and we will all depart crying and sweaty and swearing (ok, maybe just me). Begrudgingly, I offered my money and my arm to be banded and took a map of my personal hell and a coupon for 50 cents off an arcade game I would never play. First stop - waterpark. After a thorough slathering of sunscreen on my palest blondies we marked our territory with beach towels and backpacks, kicked off our flip flops and climbed the watery stairs (OSHA hazard?) to the tallest slide atop the pirate structure only to be met with a tie-dyed t-shirted boy who was strategically perched over us with buckets of frigid water. Before I could move an inch, I was drenched by 2 buckets of polar ice cap runoff. Strike 1 boy. If only I could find his mother... And just then, I think I did.

I tried to calm and warm my freezing girls when I noticed a skinny, tattooed, nipple pierced man with 2 lady-ish companions light up cigarettes next to my lounge chair - right under the NO SMOKING sign. Directly under the sign. They could have reached up and touched the sign. I gave them the head shake. Nothing. Cleared my throat loudly and pointed above their heads. Nothing. "Um, excuse me, no smoking area." Nothing. Little more aggressive, after all, I paid as much to be here as these yahoos. "Hey, you - NO SMOKING area. Right here. No smoking." They laugh. With a firm and shaking finger now, "NO SMOKING!!" So I get up and grab the closest team member and tattled. Why is there even smoking at a childrens theme park? If people must smoke, they should have the most uncomfortable spot in the place - not in the shade near me. The smoking area should be located at the end of a long trek through the park and only reached upon completeing a miriade of torturous tasks: 1) Pirate Ship, 2) ingest 7 hot dogs, 3) Tilt-A-Whirl, 4) walk over hot coals, 5) arctic water bath,
6) climb the side emergency ladder on Dragon's Descent, 7) climb back down, and then, 8) go home to smoke. Sidenote - if you are ever feeling in the downy dumps about your life as a swimsuit non-model, look around. You are guaranteed to get a bit of a morale booster.

So next, we decided it might be fun to schlep 3 kids and 3 tubes up to the steepest point in the park. There is a blue carpet runner that funnels people up the ascension to the clouds that is supposed to prevent slipping, but I swear that I could hear bacteria breeding under my feet. (Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus... Please God, don't let us get a foot fungus...) As soon as the carpet ends, we are on scolding hot cement and let me tell you, there is not one drop of shade on this cemented beast of a fake mountain. But there is gum - lots of gum. I shouldn't have to say it, but as I am thinking it, I see Thing 2 reach for a pink piece stuck to the great wall. "Seriously? What is wrong with you child??" A shrug was the only answer. Now we are hot and the tubes are heavy because we have been in line for a good solid 47 minutes and as we are nearing the summit, I have a toddler clinging to my neck, a 6 year old in tears because she has changed her mind and 2 tubes in my hands. It was at my weakest moment that I noticed a sign - "No hats, --asses, or goggles on waterslide" Hehe.

Me: Hey, boy, look at the sign!
Thing 1: What sign? (he is 9 and always asks first before he looks)
Me: Right there. Read that sign, but not outloud.
Thing 1: Oh my gosh! I can't believe someone actually ripped off the "G" and the "L"! That should be glasses! Hey mom, you are wearing glasses.
Me: (blank stare) Yah, but it read it! It says (whisper) a bad word! It is funny. You get it? We all have those! Those are prohibitted! See why it is funny?
Thing 1: eye roll.

I really wanted to take a picture of the funny sign so I could send it to the Signspotting website I love, but we didn't have the camera (apparently those aren't allowed on the waterslide either) so I proposed to husband that when we are done with the slide, that he take a jog over to the backpack, retrieve the camera, climb the ramp, snap a shot, come back down and then I could have my funny picture. "No. I am not going to do that. I don't think you should either. That is stupid." I thought it was a brilliant plan. Bugger.

A quick change later and the kids are now starving, but not for cucumber slices from our garden or PB&Js or goldfish crackers or water. Not even close. They want crap. I glance around to see 96% of the amusement park population in a high fructose coma. Deep fried crap smothered in ketchup. Drinks named after colors instead of flavors. Ew. Sorry shorties, I just can't do it. So now, crying. "Bah! You never let us have anything good!" "Nectarines are yummy." Fortunately, I was able to distract them with a ride on the Wild Mouse - the worst for one who is a) afraid of heights and b) sharp drops and, 3) mice. On the inside, I yell, "I hate it here! Agh!!! Kill me now!!" And then I see death, or zombie-like strangers filing out of the Astrosphere ride, blinded by sunlight and choking on fresh air. They look worse than I feel. And so now I am done.

I head to the car with the girls while the boys go on one last ride. The air conditioner feels great and we wait patiently for the rest of our family so we can finally go home when the little one screams of a belly ache. I spring to the rescue with the portable potty because "my belly hurts!" usually is code for "I need to pee". Not pee. Diarrhea. In the potty. In the car. I contemplate leaving it under the car beside mine, but settle on just adjacent to my own vehicle. When husband returns from the final adventure, I fill him in on the poo problem and tell him about the plan to leave it all behind. Vetoed again. We gather the kids, buckle around the complaints of the smell, roll down the windows and drive to the nearest McD's to dispose of the parcel. Good thing the guy searching for returnables has already hit this can because, wow, that would not be a good surprise.

I am glad that we only have to go once a year, kind of like the fair, because I really hate it. Why do we subject ourselves to misery for our kids? Think I need 2 anti-crazy pills after a day like this...

The FDA has just approved a new form of birth control called "waytoomanyinabed". A longitudinal and horizontal study reports that this Rx, taken properly over the course of several years, will absolutely and effectively prevent prenancy. Research dating from ancient heiroglyphics, early Chinese cave paintings and recent texts confirm this data. The recommended dose varies by individual, but a benchmark of 3 children, 1 old dog, 1 smallish biting puppy and 1 screeching guinea pig is a suitable start.

Side Effects: sleeplessness, drowsiness, abnormal hair growth, alopecia, pregnancy, irritability, restlessness, lethargy, confusion, headache, backache, toothache, belly ache, indigestion, nausea, anger, hostilty, hallucinations, drug abuse, midnight snacking, late night infomercial watching, impulse buying, blogging, FB stalking, paranoia, bad hair, mismatched shoes, strained eyes, strained peas, messy pedicures, sloppy speech, incomplete thoughts and sentences, loose synapses, yelling, crying, giggles, the crazy eyes and swearing.

Warning: Do not operate heavy farm equipment or firearms while under the influence of waytoomanyinabed.

Best if taken before midnight with a whoopie pie or a pint of ice cream.

3 AM eternal

Seems like I am not the only one who is awake in the house at 3A today.

This is Lola. My creative juices are flowing and so is her bladder. Let me rewind 40 hours...

On the stiletto heels of a successful freelance writing interview, I decided to find a dwarf lionhead bunny (gray or tan) for my daughter's birthday. I have been looking for quite some time, but until this very morning as I was eagerly awaiting my the job opportunity that would change my life, I searched for the fluffy critter in the pages of Uncle Henry's (a publication I haven't seen the likes of since college). Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies $10. Perfect - cheaper than the petstore. Oh, lucky day! After *starring* the ads for future follow-through. I kept flipping. Goats. Guard llama (interesting). Chickens (more interesting *****). Yorkie pups. Hold the phone! I do like Yorkie pups - heck, I have a really old one already. Maybe I will just call, you know, research. After 3 minutes on the phone, I am sold. But will my husband be so easily swayed??

We (me) tentatively agree to meet to take a peek at the 4 lovely girls the next day. I don't really have much else on the calendar and I certainly don't have the moola to ponder a puppy. Besides, it is only an hour away and we are just looking. I tell the 4 children repeatedly - "we are only looking. You people hear me? We are NOT buying a puppy today. FYI, they are not even available until mid-August. We are NOT bringing home a puppy. Period. Seriously."

Our 1 hour drive to Augusta slowly turned into a 2 1/2 hour drive to Bangor ("banga? I hardly know 'er!" Sorry. I can't help myself. No disrespect to Bangor...). Shoot. I only packed enough snacks for a medium sized outing. Solution munchkins - nay, timbits (I was scolded by the drive-thru girl). We inhale the box, take a pee break and head back out on the road. We finally reach our destination - a truck stop on the outskirts of town. Not my first choice for a first date, but ok. As far as truck stops go, this one was classy. The children unbuckle and stick their loud blonde heads out the window and try to guess which is the puppy chariot. We settle on the giant RV towing a PT Cruiser (or PT Loser like Auntie Patty says). Upon the approval of the driver, the side door swings open and a skittish dog bolts out into the middle of the bus rest area until she is smack dab in the middle of underneath the Winnebago. "Grab her!", yells the man with the bum leg (a term of endearment really, as I don't recall his actual name). Easier said than done buddy. She is the mother. She is no dummy. Stay on the bus with all those sharp puppy teeth or take her chances with the truckers. I don't blame her for a second. It would have been a no brainer for me, too. Reluctently and after some gently poking from M.W.B.L.'s cane, I am able to crawl under some patrons vehicle and drag the poor old broad out by the leg.

The children knock each other down on their way up the stairs of the giant RV and scoop the wee babies into their arms. Trouble. But do not worry as I have put on my "not gonna happen" glasses. Besides, they are not ready and I don't have money in my wallet or definitive permission. Immediately, all of these thoughts disappear and are replaced by, "I wonder if they will accept Lewis (the 12 year old spinning Yorkie with separation anxiety) as a trade? Or maybe a child? Or maybe the van??" I was saved though. They only accept cash. I don't have any. "You could go to the bank," says the M.W.B.L.'s big momma. She is already ratttling off the address to the nearest TD Banknorth before I can object. That sounds reasonable. And we can take one of the puppies with us home today. Imagine my good fortune! I pry all but one of the wriggling pups from my childrens' arms and set off with the man's wife (Tammy, I think?) to get cash. Apparently, I am not as trustworthy as I thought.

Getting to the branch was easy peesey Gary Sinese. I marched in and demanded a withdrawal. Shady. "It's for a puppy!", I barked, "she is in the car with my children and my old dog and the lady and she only takes cash. She is so sweet and it is almost my little girl's birthday and I don't know how long the other dog is going to live because he had almost all of his teeth pulled last year but they left 2 teeth and I don't know why but I am certainly not going to bring him back for another cleaning ever. It's for a puppy." Hello Slim Shady. Take money. Exit. Back to truck stop, but only after getting lost for 40 minutes with new friend. I joked, "hehe. If we can't find our way back, you can just come home with me. Hehehe." She gripped the door handle tighter. Does everyone think I am nuts? I bet it was the kids. They are totally scary.

So, here I am at 4:59A. With the puppy I was NOT going to get. My friend asked if I got her so I would have something to blog about. No way. Maybe. Lola is peed and pooped and asleep again. I really must me insane. But insane with a super cute puppy!

la vida es asi

Zumba - one part aerobics, one part dancing with the stars, one part rosetta stone, and one part stripper shaking equals one sticky, sweaty, beet red mum. If you know me at all, you know that I am not actually physically fit. I run for clothing sales - not for sport. I conceded to go last night because, well, any excuse to get out of the house around bedtime is a great one and also because I really needed blog inspiration. Inspired I was. By the first note of the first Spanish dance party rave song, I was oozing inspiration (and some perspiration).

I quickly picked my place at the rear of the gym so I could sneak Zumba out the door if I needed. The instructor, an obvious "WOO!" girl, cranked her iPhone to stun and set off on a mission to kick my untoned bottom. She moved in a girating, brandish style that left me a few steps behind and left my behind a few steps further behind me. I have heard that one's keister can become estranged from the rest of one's body and assume it's own, totally separate entity and folks, tonight, the urban myth that I balked at as a naive teenager, morphed into my rural truth. My backside was finishing the macarena while my arms were swinging to the salsa. I make it a steadfast rule to avoid any and all activities that may inadvertently showcase my jiggly bits. How do the French dance? Those people might be more my speed.

Ten minutes into the hour, the garlic green beans that I inhaled on the way to the car reappeared in objection. I choked them back down (not as tasty on the second go) and shuffled my tree trunks around near the foul shot line. Surely, we must be nearing the cool-down song, right? Wrong. A solid 40 more minutes of grapevineing and crazy arms and lady cha-cha chicky bon-bon hadn't even broken a sweat. Heck, she was singing along with Ricky Martin. I tried to ignore my imaginary audience's snickers, but those guys are so loud I tell you! As I was commanding them to take an imaginary hike, I noticed that we had real life onlookers. Were those cameras? I shuddered at the thoughts racing through my sorta warped brain and skulked to the farthest corner of the room praying for a bolt of lightening to strike Newbegin Hall that would result in my certain death. (Headline: Local Mum Struck Down in Freak Electric Storm! Witnesses claim she was so painfully uncoordinated, that they began a ritual rain dance to end the misery. "We didn't know the dance would really work...", said one anonymous participant.)

Thankfully, the gathering spectators were not equipped with recording devices, but musical instruments instead. I contemplated offering to stick around and inspire them with the interpretive dance moves I had just learned, but thought they might be offended. Apparently, not everyone is as amused by me as I seem to be. I might save my new moves for a family wedding this weekend or perhaps join the Zumba girl at Bubba's Sulky Lounge later. It's 80's night.

oh, no you di'int!

Yuppers. I must be a looney bird, but oh, yes, I did. This time though, it was by a professional. Close your eyes children and let Mum tell you a story... On second thought, you probably need them open to read this tale.

Once upon a time (yesterday), there was a fairy mum who spent the livelong day at the beach with a lot of children. She ate sandy-wiches and drank mouthfuls of salt water. She got to spend more time in the public loo stall with her 3 year old than she did relaxing in her chair. Her favorite sounds of the ocean were drowned out by the tattling and complaining of the smallish people that surrounded her. And a horsefly bit her on the leg. She thought, "you know what what make this day even more lovely? A bikini wax!"

(I think body hair, by nature, wants to remain attached to one's body. It is especially stubborn in the most unsightly places - the chin of a lady, armpits and, of course, down under. It grows wild and in different directions and when disturbed, it overreacts angrily with rashes and stubble. Meanwhile, the hairs atop my head fall out freely and clog the shower drain daily.)

Anywho, back to the story...

Fairy Lady Rainbow Mum, gathered her overtired, sweaty, salty and sandy yowlings, strapped them into the belly of the royal minivan carriage and headed to a town far, far away. As best as she could while driving, she tidied her hair and straightened her dress and brushed as much of the ocean as she could from her tired old self. She met, at the salon, a woman who promised to be make this a most pleasant experience and as they ascended the 98 degree stairwell to the attic spa, she knew it would be anything but. But she was a wise Mum and she came equipped with goldfish crackers and water. The three wee ones should be capable of behaving for a mere 20 minutes, right? She waved a magic wand over their blonde heads and asked them quietly and calmly to, "sit nice, share, look at a magazine if you like" and then proceeded to enter the designated beautification room. The room, as you can well imagine, is air conditioned, thickly scented by aromatherapy, soothing colors, the softest blankets, and the sounds of the rainforest tie the entire motif together. I sit on the table - nervous about the pain, but more so about the children in the adjoining room. My charming aesthetician tries to ease my fear with words of encouragement and understanding, as I lay on the table in the most precarious, vulnerable position ever...

Marsha: 1, 2, ...
Me: You three better be good out there - OUCHIE!
Marsha: you live close by honey? Ready?
Me: I am serious you little hooligans! If I have to get up - HOOCHIE MAMA!
Marsha: How was the ocean water?
Me: (glass nailpolish bottles crashing down noise) What is going - HANNA MONTANA!!!!

By the time the 23 minutes in the room of horrors was over, my sweeties had rearranged all of the Opi nail colors by size and favorite. Thing 1 figured out how to turn on and operate the pedi-spa soak machine. The crackers were gone. The plant was wet - presumably with the water they were supposed to drink and I had 3 slightly traumatized sorts to escort home because they all took turns peeking in at their yelling fairy rainbow sparkle mama. Also, she missed a few spots and so now I have to do tweezer duty. Good news though - I can now threaten them with a visit to the waxing museum should they dare misbehave and I am pretty confident that I have entirely horrified the girls from ever attempting hair removal (good to keep the teenaged boys away) and my boy will be forever scarred and afraid of womenkind (he thinks I am quite tough though with my pain threshold and all) so he can live with me forever and rub my old lady feet...

this is my dance space!

Here's the dealio - when I am sleeping, I like space. I think a good wing span is reasonable and when my eyes are closed (faking counts here) I AM SLEEPING!!! Children, husbands, dogs and guinea pigs take notice: I am never, ever, ever, ever, never happy or even slightly agreeable if I am roused before I am good and ready. I am considerably less pissy with demanding kids and grownups alike if I wake up on my own terms. Remember my favorite movie Dirty Dancing? Johnnie told Baby, "This is my dance space. This is your dance space."

Not sure how this all came to fruition, but for the past 10 years that I have been either pregnant or nursing a wee one, I have not gotten a solid night's sleep even once. I know there are some strong people out there (Christina dear) that can function on lack of sleep, but I am not this person. I need a good REM cycle or 3 per night or I become Darth Sarah. She is not pretty and she is not nice and she breathes funny. My first 2 offspring are great sleepers, but the 3rd, she is difficult to go down, hasn't napped in 2 years and wakes at the buttcrack of dawn. I am startled awake by a soft, squishy little paw shoving me over and stealing my blankets and pillow. She tosses and turns and snores like a hibernating bear. I get sandwiched between her and the husband and then the dog lays across my legs. As if this isn't enough, the nearly 7 year old bag of bones stumbles in and sleeps at the bottom of the bed. This is a queen bed. This is not big enough for my commune family.

The repercussions of my utter sleep deprivation varies in severity day to day - at best, I am cranky. At worst, I have conversations at a red light near Walmart with a stranger that I think is the kids' bus driver (she was not, and although she was quite friendly, she was anxious to peel away as soon as the light changed). I require more caffeine and I crave junk food and I have a wicked hard time forming complete sentences (bad for writing, or is it...). I am hopeful (or maybe delusional) that everyone will snooze soundly tonight after a long day at the beach. Or maybe I should slip them a Mickey in their warm milk?

sausage linked in

Since the summer preview (December I think) of my favorite fabulous British mail order catalouge, I have been drooling over the notch shift dress in sailor blue. I checked stock in my size and bestie color almost daily and was poised at the ready for the moment the semi-annual sale started. I eagerly added my beauty to the cart and waited very impatiently for my lovely to arrive (yes, I know, I have a problem with retail and honestly, I need another dress like I need another cup of joe). Despite the spotty bag being intercepted at the front door and the myriad of questions regarding it's contents and straying from the budget, I was overjoyed by the prospects of how my life would be complete with the new addition hanging in my closet. I quickly dismissed myself from mum chores (watching my favorite episode of the Backyardigans with the kids) and locked myself into the bathroom to try on my treasure. I carefully unwrapped the bags and examined the work of art - gorgeous indeed. Deep breathe, over my head - stuck. It's ok, I thought, it's new. Not yet broken in. Maybe I was too hasty and the zipper isn't all the way down - snap - it was. I warped my body and wiggled my way in, sucked in my belly, zip and I can't breathe - not at all. Maybe I should try again - maybe somehow the lining is twisted or bunched or something (reasonable, right?). Don't know why I didn't think of this before - off with the
dress! Or not...

Stuck in the dress. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. Last time, I was in the dressing room at JCrew 10 minutes before closing looking for something to wear for an upcoming wedding (so far, deja vue). I found a pretty gray pin-dot swishy dress and noticed that it was a smidge difficult to get over my head and to force my arms through the holes, but it was late and I was tired and surely it didn't help that I was pressured by the model skinny high school girls anxious to lock up and go on their hot dates. So, anyway, here I am in the dress. Meh - just ok. Nothing fantastically flattering about the color or fit. It's closing time anyway, time to go. Only, I can't get out of the garment. I try to get out the same way I got in - over my head. No. Hem is by my head, but the waist won't budge. I suppose I can try to pull it down. I got an arm out and then nothing. This is way worse. I dislocate my arm to get it back in the hole and back to square one. Don't worry. As I am starting to sweat, I survey the situation - smooshed into a $98 not wonderful dress at closing time in a store's 3'x3' closet with Dansko clogs, mismatched socks and a fleece. I could tell them that I want to wear this ridiculous outfit home. Choice #2, beg for help. Did I neglect to mention that I had been using self tanner on my extremities and so I was only semi-tanned. I would need to be cut out of the dress with hedge clippers by these perfectly toned and bronzed teenagers. And, my belly looks like a sharpei puppy when I bend at all and the stretch marks - mother of pearl - the stretch marks! Grr. Option #1 is seeming like the less humiliating selection. Panic. As I prepare to scream, I spin around as fast as I can one last time, in an attempt to reverse the sands of time, and glance in the mirror only to see the zipper. I never unzipped the zipper. Gather composure, peel off the caftan, throw on my jeans and run out of the establishment toute suite and deny this memory forever.

So, not as bad as the last time but I am feeling really awful. I peek at myself. I look like a couple of sausage links in a terrific casing. As I choke back the tears of disappointment, I try to remind myself that it could be a hundred times worse. I count my blessing and shed light on my self-inflicted predicament. Perspective is usually great, but today, at this moment, I don't care. I AM STUCK IN A DRESS!!! Could this be punishment for not sharing the pound of fudge with my children? Or something far greater? No time for reflection. Somehow, I find the strength and contort my body out of the shift. I throw on my best ripped, faded, pity pjs and curse at the stupid dress that I never really liked anyway. I am way better off without that dress. I do love that dress though. I decide to write a scathing online review only to discover that the recommendation is to order a size larger as the cut of the dress is exceptionally narrow and if you have curves of any sort (I do! I have a lot of curves!) that you should go bigger. I feel marginally better, but only marginally. I hereby vow to only snack wisely. Unless, of course, another special delivery of treats arrives on my stoop.

holy shnikies!

I did it. I just succumbed to an unbelievable, inhumane, torturous act that can only be described as coo-coo-ca-choo. Waxing. By myself. On myself. Not my face or my arm or even my leg, but I went straight for the jackpot - the bikini line. I know, as you are sitting there cringing at my utter stupidity, let me just tell you that I have heard the horror stories, read the recounts of the brutal, painful atrocities. I know all too well the story of the lady that waxed her hoo-hoo and got stuck to the bottom of her bathtub. Obviously, I thought, these poor women didn't do it right. I read the box, heck I even got the low-down from the lady I purchased them from at the store. Surely if I could push 3 giant children from my body, I should be able to tolerate the discomfort of a little hair removal. Not so much the case.

First things first, kids are a-snooze in their beds. Read all instructions before even removing my pants. Make sure there is adequate and recommended amount of hair growth. Warm up strips between hands to soften wax. Apply to desired area and swiftly pull in opposite direction of hair growth. Voila! Instant smoothness with minimal redness (all normal). Are you friggin' kidding me? Minimal redness is me on the Equator for 8 hours with no sunscreen. I have a giant rectangular patch on my inner thigh where I chiseled off the strip. The extra kicker? I removed 1 (ONE) hair. And I was still very waxy. Thankfully, there were after-waxing wipes that I think were bits of sand paper doused in nail polish remover. I am hopeful that I can grow my skin back before Christmas. It looks like I will need to order a bathing skirt or perhaps stand proud as a beacon for what not to do to yourself when you are bored, overtired and just a little loopy. Shnikies.

livin' on a prayer (Bon Jovi style)

The past few days, my thoughts have strayed from "hooray for summer vacation!" to "how can I get out of this looney house?!" After a week of being held captive by a feverish child and dark dreary un-June-like weather, I have only one goal - ESCAPE! I love my children, I do, but I need a breather. Where is the challenge? THREE kiddos. Three wonderfully, angellic, noisy, cranky, ornery children. One kid is easy peasey grilled cheesey. Shoot, 1 kid for an hour could easily be 1 kid for 2 days. One kid fits in your car, eats just a little extra food, fits into anyone's bed, but 3 whole separate kids for 30 minutes, Holy Mary in a bathtub! It might as well be 45 vampire werewolves for a month!

I totally get it. Except, "getting it" doesn't get me freedom for any amount of time. I don't really have a stash of babysitters and the neighbors appear to speed up when they drive past #49. I can't leave them with the dog or even Little Jerry Seinfeld (or can I???). Strangely, when I can go anywhere solo, I don't really want to. Truth be told, I am a hopeless homebody. I enjoy being here with the family, but when I can not leave, I get a skosh squirrely. I fantasize about going to the grocery store all by myself - no fighting over breakfast cereal or stuffing unwanted bits of deli cheese into my pants pocket. No getting clipped in the heel by the cart or trying to funnel the wild hooligans into the check-out line. To leisurely try on unsensible un-mum shoes at Aldo without a gaggle of goslings sporting nude ped socks on their heads and pretending that they are bank robbers. No wonder I dressed so much nicer before - I could try stuff on before I bought it instead of guessing and trying it on at home later and then never wearing it because it's not-quite right but it's too much of a hassle to go back to the store for an exchange or finally getting back to the store only to realize that 1) I have forgotten the receipt, 2) I am a season too late or, c) I am at the wrong store.

So here I am - stuck. I could beg, plead, bribe, but I will most likely do nothing. Just vent. Venting always helps a bit. Thank you for listening - that helps, too.

grab my butt(on)

I have launched a campaign to make my blog go viral. Not really sure what this entails, but I started a Twitter account and posted a tweet - sadly, the tweet was the "how to start tweeting" information link, but it was a beginning. And a very memorable start for my solitary follower (who are you anyway to follow someone that hasn't mastered the Twitter?). Then I think I linked a tweet to my facebook page and my blogspot. I might have created a badge, too. I am completely unsure of my actual accomplishments and I am positive that I could never re-create my accidental triumphs because my computer time was thwarted by a virus. Little O has got her 1st fever (not too shabby considering that she is 3+ years old) and she is not a good sicky.

She is like me - combative and needy and refuses to ingest and and all medicines. I brought her to the doctor yesterday and he ruled out the strep and an ear infection. This is how the visit went: me pinning the arms of my upside down spitting girl while the doctor scoped her ears and swabbed her throat. She screamed at me to simultaneously "get outta here" and "hold you mama". Thank goodness it was a slow day in the office because we might have scared away any new perspective patients. On my way out, the doctor handed me a bag of Lexapro in a Lunesta bag - because my insanity is a secret apparently. One look at me and the gig is up people. So, now, we are on a strict regimen of popsicles and juice and venomous spite. I cleared out the entire aisle of fever reducers at Rite Aid in search of a palatable selection (and also a bottle of Bio Oil. Totally an impulse buy, but while I am treating a sicky germ, why the heck not erase those unsightly, old stretch marks, right? Sounds easy, I will let you know. Maybe I will do a before and after analysis...)

Anyway, despite my attempts to get the girl to take liquid or chewables, the end game is the same - me with boiling, sticky, acetaminophen/ibuprofen in my hair and dripping down the inside of my t-shirt and pooling in my bellybutton, in the dark, tripping over piles of laundry and a grumpy, displaced dog (he prefers the end of the bed, but not with a thrashing toddler). This morning, I was successful in duping her with crushed pills in a bowl full of yogurt, but she might be on to me. She gave the "I am on to you and your reindeer games, woman" look. I tend to get that look a lot these days. So, for the next 3-4 hours she will be spicy and will dump every bucket of toys she owns. My really-should-have-been-steam-cleaned-3-months-ago-berber carpet is totally covered with wooden blocks and Mickey the Mouse figurines. She might be trying to recreate our favorite scene from Home Alone (the first one. Surprisingly, #'s 2 and 3 didn't live up to the typical sequel successes.) I really hope she is back to her typical convivial self by tomorrow. It is exponentialy more challenging to Facebook stalk with a cranky kid on one's lap.

If there is a Twitter tech among you, could you spare a speedy quick lesson? I will gladly grab your butt(on) if you grab mine!

Day 2 of summer vacation...

Cleaning and purging tear continues. Took door off hinges. Washed and dryed and re-hung shower curtains. Thought I broke Kenmore washer. Cursed at stupid clothes shredder for a bit. Fixed it all by myself. Happy with my ingenuity and disappointed because I really wanted to call Sears and buy snazzy new front loader. I figure with the money that I saved by not purchasing a brandy new appliance that I should reward myself with a lovely swishy skirt from Boden. I haven't fed the kids yet, but it's only 11:35A and no one has complained yet. I did see some cheese crunchies on the kitchen floor though - evidence. Maybe I should apply for a CSI job? I do need a new job. (Note to self: research employment options for mum with awesome skills.) The front wildflowers, side lilacs, porch hangers, rock garden and fruit and veggie gardens are watered but I noticed that they are all in desperate need of weeding. (Side note #2: send all 6 kids out to pull stray, unwanted greenies.) Seems terribly, wonderfully quiet...

Head count done and each accounted for. (Good thing I keep a few spare blondies around.) I have just ironed the 97th melty glow-in-the-dark bead creation and am preparing for the Tuesday Lip Sync contest (I have chosen a plucky rendition of Lisa Loeb's "Stay" and I will be competing with favorites from Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars and the Black Eyed Peas. Lewis, the nearly toothless, slightly OCD Yorkie will judge.) After today, I think that I will have accomplished a whole week's worth of chores, arts and crafts and I will allow Operation Brain Rot to commence. As you might have guessed, I have consumed 4 cups of iced coffee and to combat the imminent caffeine crash, I will probably have 3 more.

These are my lazy days of summer, my absolutely ultimate favorite time of year. The time to reconnect with my little lovies and find the best self-tanning lotion on the shelves of Rite Aid. How could I possibly be more fortunate? I am so grateful that I am coming out of the funk that has plagued me for, what feels like, ever. Happy Summer Solstice!

can I see you naked?

Now that I have stripped down to my emotional birthday suit, I am faced with a new hurdle - I don't know what to wear. Of course, this age old mental reservation plagues me and my six year old clone each morning, but I am referring to the new me - the inside me. I have been un-well for so long that I honestly don't think that I know what "normal" looks like. Right here, you are thinking, "normal? That's a loaded piece of crap question!" But, I am always an all or nothing kind of gal. Where is the middle? The grey?

I have this recurring dream where I am a kind, patient mum with a tidy house, a clean van and my children are well behaved and have little British accents. Then I wake up and scream at my yowlings to "just put ANY darn shoes on! I don't care!!!" and the dishes from last night are still in the sink and the only time that the van floor gets a smidge less crunchy is when the dog sneaks in and gobbles up the crumbles. I see other people and try to imagine what how they are so (seemingly) put together. Shoot - some even smell good and speak in complete sentences! What are they like at home? Do they hate the way their husbands chew and load the dishwasher? Do they roll their eyes at the endless questions posed by 3 year olds? Do they think 9 year old boys are annoying and pesty and bicker with their daughters about dresses and music and jumping on the beds? Do they lock themselves in the bathroom for 5 minutes of solitude under the guise of, well, going to the loo? This is me. Is this how other people live? Do I need to be concerned that I am hitching a ride back on the crazy train?

I am afraid of falling off the sane wagon and I worry that if I feel sad or glad or bad or mad or like making pathetic Suess-like rhymes, that I might need to increase my meds or my sessions. Last night, I struggled very muchly. I had some not so good thoughts and just crashed into bed. I wonder if this is because it's the end of the school year and I am overwhelmed or is it something more? How do I know? I wish someone would just write a book on mental wellness and how to get rich quick (a two-fer). Oprah must be bored by now. Maybe I can entice her?

baked

Last night I baked a banana bread. Big deal, right? Actually, it kinda is. I haven't baked in a while. Truth be told, I have hardly touched the oven or the stove top for quite some time. We have been surviving on easy peasy grilled cheesey, pasta and drive-thru. I have not been myself lately and as I am starting to come around, I am appreciating the little milestones that make me, well, me. I adore baking - the smells, the way the mascara melts to my eyelashes when I open the oven door, the complaints from the children when they realize that the baked goods are not filled with chocolate chips, but instead with healthful mashed bananas. But, sadly, the thoughts of putting together a birthday cake sent me into a tailspin. I was annoyed, confused, sleeping and weeping. I was horribly, clinically, painfully depressed - again. This time, though, was different. I was not in college where no one noticed if I slept for 3 days and didn't eat for 4. No one begged me for chocolate milk and waffles at 6A or needed help on the potty. No one seemed to notice. Not really even me. But this time, I felt paralyzed and pissed. How could this happen AGAIN? How could I be in this dismal pit? This insidious sickness kicked me down, stole my sense of humor (I knew it was bad when watching Tommy Boy didn't make me pee a little), robbed me of my patience for my beloved children, forced my eyelids closed before 8P and let me leave the house in wrinkled, mismatched clothes (ok, pjs). I noticed my kids were unhappy and my husband was unhappy, my dog was spinning in circles. I couldn't get out of my own way and I was miserable. People commented on how tired I looked, neighbors (and some strangers) offered me Zanax, but I still couldn't see that I was in trouble. I despised going to school pick-up because I was anxious that people could see that I had been crying for the past 5 hours and then I cried at pick-up and didn't care if anyone noticed. If it were not for the kids, I thought, I would totally run away. Far away. And then, one day, I got furious. I refuse to let this be my life. My children deserve so much more than a mum that is a shut-in recluse. They deserve their mum - flawed in many ways, but full of life and love and creative punishments. We needed "me" back. And so, as impossible as it felt, I called someone to talk with and then I took some little pills and guess what? I started to feel better. A lot better. And each day is getting better. (personal disclaimer: I do not advocate for or against little pills, but it seems to work for me.) And, hey, looky here, another small step - a new blog post!

gadzooks!

At the risk of sounding like an old grumpy Grandpa, gas is $3.39999 per gallon! I remember when I could fill my car for $15 and a gallon of milk was $2 and a loaf of bread was, well, considerably less than it was the other day! Of course I had to walk 36 miles in the snow, all uphill and with no shoes to get to the gas and grocery store, but seriously, what the heck?! I detest spending insane amounts of cash on things that I don't actually want. I do understand retail and the middle man foolishness, but honestly, this is crazy.

Here are things I don't like paying for:

1) gas and heating oil (put on a doggone sweater!)
2) all things related to cars (including the car, parts, labor, tolls, etc.)
3) checking bags at the airport (I have to buy 5 tickets, isn't that enough?)
4) crappy food (what a bummer)

Here are things that I don't mind paying for:

1) clothes and shoes (we need to look good, right?)
2) good food (I really like Japanese)
3) flowers (mental health booster - invaluable)
4) vacations and souvenirs (memories are forever afterall)

I am thinking that I might like to move to a deserted island, eat coconuts and mangos and make a nice tree house. I could totally save money doing this.

To make this a reality, I only need to:

a) book plane tickets (and find uninhabitated tropical island),
b) pack 67 suitcases (need to go shopping for island wear),
c) drive to airport (probably should to get gas for the van)
d) pack a lot of snacks (kids don't like coconuts and mangos apparently),
e) make sure oil tank is full so pipes don't freeze and burst (still winter),
f) arrange for furniture delivery (no one sleeps well on roots and dirt)

Ok, so perhaps this fantasy is precisely what it is - a fantasy. Unless I go alone. I could totally rough it by myself. Anyone want to join me??

oscar, oscar, buzz, buzz

I would like to announce a late entry nomination for the only slightly less well known achievement - the Oscar Mayer Bologna Award (henchforth referred to as the OMBA). You might have seen her in the way, way off Broadway musical, "Mama Annie Get Your Gun", in which she loosly portrayed Annie Oakley as a stay-at-home mom in modern days. Critics raved, "When I saw her (Mama) throw that Jolly Rancher candy out of the van while driving, I knew she was a real sharp shooter. She chucked that sucker out of the window like an ace. I actually shuddered." She recently appeared in a plucky community theater tribute to the Carol Burnett Show and was recognized for being "that girl" from the bank commercial. But her greatest accomplishment, thus far, is being nominated for the 2011 OMBA in the category of World's Most Unfair Mum. Hollywood is abuzz with this lady's shenanigans including the time last week when she took her children to get haircuts and the newly accredited girl with a very inappropriately plunging top chopped the golden locks off her boy when he only wanted a trim. The audience cried when she forgot to remind her darling daughter to pack her snowpants and she had to stay on the pavement during outdoor recess and tempers flared when she made dinner one night and it "wasn't very good". Her children report that they are the only house in Maine that doesn't have cable and their consumption of artificial food dyes is restricted. This low budget film noir never made it to the big screen, but you can catch it every day if you open your car windows and drive past her house. She is being considered for a role in the upcoming daytime drama, "People Who Sometimes Forget To Feed The Dog and The Toddlers That Tattle On Them". Cast your votes today!

hindsight

C'mon, do we love her? Hindsight is the smarter, funnier, cooler version of me and sometimes I don't actually love her. She tends to, well, show up too late - like the other day when I was at the mall and little O wanted to go on the obscene new attraction near the Foodcourt dubbed the "Carousel of Tormented and Recently Nauseated Parents". It costs a mere $2, but for someone like me who pays with plastic vs. cash and only has enough for the turnpike ride home at the bottom of my fantastic sumptious leather handbag and doesn't know her ATM pin number, I encountered a teensy bit of of a problem. Hindsight says, "You should have been more prepared. Who doesn't know their pin? Now you have a screaming 2 year old who will not be comforted by even the biggest M&M studded Mrs. Fields cookie. Next time you should offer the ride lady more than $1.30 in change and some lipgloss (only partially used) and the oversized pink button. Let this be a lesson for you." It wasn't. Picture the same scenario 3 times. She now busies herself with the rotating ad space featuring the law offices of some guy with a funny moustache and a teenagery girl with a glittery cell phone. She also reared her fresh mouth when I consumed an entire bag of dried apricots and mango slices. Like the Sunsweet Ones Individually Wrapped Prunes Episode Take 2 - more a suggested serving size instead of a creative name. Or the stressful day last week when it seemed like a fantastic idea to cut my own bangs (again). These are not good choices. These are times when I would prefer foresight. I really like her - she is on the ball, I tell you! But, her arguments are not always as convincing or charming or fun than my own and that's when hindsight really hurts even more. Remember when you thought about getting the septic tank pumped in the fall but kept putting it off and now we have 17 feet of snow on the front lawn and you thought you caught a whiff of some suspicious smell and so you called the pumper guy and he giggled a little bit about your timing? Double ouch. I am always an advocate for natural consequences, but I have decided those are only for children. I am at a way higher stage of development - denial and oblivion.

Holy crap - I broke my baby!

And it can totally happen to you, too. Sure, I threaten those crazy hooligans all of the time, but I never actually thought that it would happen, especially by accident and extra especially on my FAVORITE littlest one (btw, they are all my faves). I called my almost 3 year old in from the snowy outdoors for a snack and some cocoa and proceeded to peel the layers of warm duds, starting (and consequently ending) with the old "gonna pull and tug your mittens off" game when I heard the scream that immediately stopped my breathe and broke my heart. It was a different kind of hurt cry - the one that a mum instinctively thinks, "holy crap - I broke my baby!". After a few frantic phone calls to the doctor and my bff and husband, I loaded my limp arm lovey into the van and headed to the orthopedist. Three x-rays, some manipulation (on the arm, of course) and lots of tears (from both of us) later, her tiny wee arm was relocated (opposite of dislocated?). It was so strange, too. She was wincing from the agony and then she was just great - full range of motion restored and no more pain. She told the doctor (who was awesome and if you ever need an orthopedic guy, Dr. Glacier is the bestest), "Mama pulled my mitten and I got an ouchie and the doctor fixed me and we went tubin'". I couldn't help but recall all of the times we playfully swing the kids by the arms when we are walking through the mall or holding a hand and a toddler trips. Millions of opportunities for injuries and my sweetest gets broken from a simple disrobing. So - beware! Apparently, kids really are breakable. I thought all of those expert people were just kidding...

you don't smell like Santa...

Sadly, these days I smell more like tea tree oil, a little puke and, dare I say, dead people. This new year has got me in the throws of chaos already. From the panic of a possible head bug exposure (tea tree oil) to paranoia of bed bugs at a hotel in New Hampshire (more oils) to the puke bug (puke) and a couple of funerals (need I say more?), I can say that I am far from the normal smells that usually surround me - brownie batter, antibacterial hand sanitizer and coffee. Not any big offers to bottle this concoction, but it works for me, or in the least, cats aren't following me home like they did when I worked for the old Cap'n Newick. Since I have been so entwined in post holiday/family drama lately, I have had little time for myself and writing - heck, I still can't find my kitchen island and the toddler reminded me that "Santa Hohoho is all gone now", despite the wooden version of him that has taken up permanent residence on our window sill. I woke last night with fears that I have forgotten my voice and my one-handed typing skills and that I might have inadvertantly traded texting for my keyboard. But here you are, dear computer friend and the words are flowing like beer at a keg party. I don't usually succumb to the doldrums this time of year, and I can truly say that I am grateful for the snow and the enormous snow fort that is under construction on my front lawn, but I think that I might need a smidge of green grass. I long to open the windows and air out the house and my soul and walk to the bus stop without wool and down from my eyeballs to my knickers. So today, I might turn on all the lights and stare out the window and imagine my gardens and flowers and kids in t-shirts and barefeet and then turn them off so I don't waste electricity and then, of course, bundle back up to get the short people at the end of their school day adventure. It could be worse right? I could smell like stinky feet!