T Minus Two and Counting

Continued from here, here and here, but it's actually back up to, like, SEVEN and counting.  Wordpress thought some of my Blogger posts were so nice, it imported them twice.  Grrr.  Anyway, on with the show.

Quite possibly my favorite two posts I've ever written. Also, quite possibly, the one day in all my time spent being a mom that will still give me nightmares until the day I die.
Point. The other day, 3of3 and I went to the mall. To buy bras. See, I only own 2 bras. I just never think to buy them and when I have to, inevitably someone needs a new backpack or track shoes or another brand new set of golf clubs. Again. Bras are expensive. They have to be budgeted in. And I hate spending money on myself. Anyway, I finally decide that it had to be done, no matter what, so the baby and I head off to the mall. We stop for lunch first and then pop into another store to pick up a pair of pants for me because I am now wearing a size of pants that I ain’t never gonna tell you, and then she starts screaming. Ugh....(really, you need to go read this)

Counterpoint. (Shhhh….I’m supposed to be sleeping right now, but what that old hag don’t know won’t kill her…)

Hey guys. My mom’s been talking some smack about me and I think it’s my turn to get my 2 cents in. First, the stroller. She’s raging on and on about how I snuck some lipstick and she couldn’t see me because I was in the stroller. Well, I didn’t even want to be in the stroller. She put some stupid belt around my waist and buckled it, and I had to attempt a jail-style prison break. I really did! I even managed to get one whole arm free, but a leg got stuck in the loop instead. Hey, I’m short; it happens. It’s not my fault she made me sit in that thing....(and the shit talk continues from there.)

Inner Monoblog. (Trademark) Read the rest.
As I continued ironing Our Bedskirt of Perpetual Wrinkles...iron iron, think think. I thought of Red and how I hoped heaven was treating him well, and I hoped he was enjoying his 40 virgins. And then I thought of Jesus, and how though I think he’s a swell guy, I sure do hope that when I die that I get the 40 virgins and not the eternity with Christ bit. Eternity? With JESUS? What would we talk about? I can program a VCR; he’s omnipotent. I got caught with a fishing hook once, he got nailed to a freaking tree. He is all, and sees all. I’ve never ever been to Detroit. I’d totally have to bring my iPod with me to heaven. 40 virgins, though; THAT I could handle. I’d only have to bring one of these.

And then I was done ironing. Yes, this is how it goes in my head. All the time. You should try talking to me when I’m drunk .

Mr Lady and the Amazing, Technocolor Dream Dream
Last night, Forrest Whitaker and I were in an old house that had been converted into an usually tall apartment building being pursued by a group of small, yet surprisingly aggressive, spiders. They chased us through the bowels of the building and up several flights of stairs before we realized that A) Forrest Whitaker is a slow stair runner and B) that they were only after my mug of green tea.

I sacrificed the steamy contents of my mug, but we had run so far UP the building that we knew we would never get to the kitchen in time again to make them more tea and save ourselves. As they began their pursuit again, I tossed them some of my sweet and sour cucumber salad that I was also carrying and after the blue scorpion gave it a little nibble, they took enough pause to eat it that we had time to get all the way to the attic. In the end, it was the closet full of old journals and Tostino’s Party Pizzas that saved us all.

No one can resist a Tostino’s Party Pizza.

I write a lot of letters to my kids. Here's one.
Dear 3of3,

You suck.

Is there a particular reason you refuse to take a nap for me? Now, I know you'll nap for your daddy; no problems there at all. But your daddy isn't ever here and I am here all the damn time and you clearly hate me and will not take a nap and to that I say, "Dude, you suck."

Of course you'll nap for your daddy. Daddy doesn't run errands. Daddy plays Wii with you and is going to buy you a pony. Momma, however, has two birthday parties in the next 48 hours to shop for and, as you can tell from the last post, momma thought today was Wednesday when it is, in fact, quite solidly Thursday and will remain so for the whole rest of the day today. Momma missed a whole day and that means that we are running a little late for your nap, since your amazing, wonderful, superhero father left his wallet 30 miles from home last night and switched bank accounts and forgot to add me to the new one and that leaves us as a family unit with little choice but to drive daddy into work to get his wallet so we can buy presents for the entire band of neighborhood children, who all seem to have been born in the same 24 hour time span (God damn it I hope we don't live in the middle of some whacked-out cult), eating up a good hour-and-fifteen-minute chunk of our day, putting us home from the mall exactly 2 hours behind your preferred nap time, at least as your daddy sees it.

The thing here kid is that you napping for him and not me makes daddy a very smug man indeed, and gives him something to gloat about over the phone whilst I pull my hair out sobbing because a one-year-old has driven to the brink. See, honey, Momma is the domestic goddess, the sultan of suburbia, the baron of boo-boo-kissing and the to-bed-putter. Daddy looks hot in a tux. Those are our roles, darling, and you are screwing it all up.

So honey, it's time to take a nap for momma. Yesterday we tried nap after nap after nap and you ended up staying awake the whole day and screaming at me for a little more than 5 1/2 hours straight. My head hurts. Today you are going to scream at yourself until you go to sleep. Period*. Yes, you look very pretty in your new dress and oh my, those shoes are fabulous, but the lady at the Gap gave me a look I've never seen on an adult face before and I think that means your behavior could use some tweaking. Nap tweaking.

*Between you and me, kid, give it 30 minutes and I'll cave. I always do.

Um, really? You've got to be kidding me. Seriously. I strongly encourage you to read the rest.



Why you should really just stop at one kid.

I like to tell stories. It’s sort of my thing. Almost anything is funny if you look at it from the right angle.

As a mother, though, there are just some stories you really don’t want to tell. Because they’re unexplainable.

For example, I’d really like to tell you how, after dinner, the kids were playing in the basement and after I heard the thud *Thud!* and the scream *Bwahhh!*, I went running down to the basement to find my little baby girl in her cute little pink outfit and her sweet little ponytail standing in the middle of the floor with her hands over her face and so much blood oozing from in between her tiny little fingers that I figured her eenice little nose had to be broken. I’d like to tell you how, as I pried her fingers away from her face, that I saw more blood than I thought her whole body contained smeared up her nostrils and in her mouth. I’d like to tell you about wiping away the blood and watching her baby lip swell up to the size of, well, honestly, a big grape, but it seemed more like a baseball at the time. I’d love to explain that I finally, after a fudgesicle and a bottle, got her to let me look in her mouth and realized that her perfect little razor sharp baby teeth had made a grand entrance into her little upper lip at a shockingly bold sort of angle, and how she fell asleep right after all this, at about 7 o’clock, and has been asleep ever since, leading me to believe that she may very well have sustained the first of what I’m sure will be many concussions.

But, see, if I tell you all that, then you’ll ask me how it happened and I will be left with no choice to tell you the answer, that answer that I will, myself, never fully understand.

Her brother, very unintentionally, dropped a mattress on her.

And lastly, I leave you with poetry. And ode. To the Greatest love of my life.
Oh, carbohydrates, how I love thee.
Your versatility,
baked, toasted, smothered in cheese
You, oh carb, bring me to my knees.

I am of Irish decent, as you can plainly tell from my
freckled skin and absolute refusal
to tan.
Carbs,
you and I share a deep-rooted bond, a chemistry
created in history
handed down
through the ages
from man
to man.

You and I, we go
together
like Mr. Prosser and Genghis Khan,
a bond genetic and subtle.
Undeniable.
Michael to the Don.

If there has ever been found a better vessel
for transporting butter to
my waiting mouth,
I have not met it.
My motivation to see this through is
quickly
heading south.

The way you caress every condiment and topping
thrown your way
ketchup
butter
cheese
olive oil
Is a mystery
a riddle
whose answer I cannot say.

Alas, dearest carbs, there is a problem deep at the heart of us
Against the laws of nature
fighting everything good and true
Something in me
doesn't
like
you.

The word allergic
too severe
but something is amiss;
I cannot deny
that my tuna sandwich is a TKO but my
tuna salad, delish.

I believe the word is sensitive
to carbs
battling nature and heredity
head-on
throwing caution to the wind
a love/hate affair;
My tongue loves
the rest of me hates.
Explain it? Accept it? I almost
don't dare.

My morning oats, sweet, creamy, good
Knock me out flat,
My energy straight down the drain
much like a tranquilizer
shot
from the lips of an aborigine
straight into my neck, dead into a
vein.

How will I survive
the coming fall
my favorite season; the changing leaves
crisp, cool air
children in overpriced
costumes
begging for candies
without my annual pumpkin
cheesecake
cookies
soup
bread
all full of sugary goodness...
please, tell me the reason!

Some would say, "Use Splenda!"
That I cannot do.
Splenda tastes like old rich
New York women with big
noses
at the mall shopping
for a cat named Mr. Pookie-Doo.

Dear Dr. Atkins, who told us it was
safe
to live la vida low carb
would like me to abandon you
fast
bacon
cheese
eggs
steak
Straight protein? Too hard.

I can only imagine the smell
under my arms, in the pit of my knees,
that would come
with that
And the challenge pooing would bring.
Jeez.

Dearest carbs, I do not
abandon you with the intent of
weight loss
as it is so trendy to do.
There is nothing about my
cottage cheese
butt
or my thighs that caution me against
corduroy
that cannot be fixed in a
week
walking my kid through the zoo.

I take my leave of you with a heart
heavy
wondering how many
bowls
of whipped cream I can knock back
before I realize that
bowls of whipped cream do not
will never
constitute a sweet, tasty snack.