Things I Do That I'm Not Particularly Proud of But Not Ashamed Enough to Quit

It has recently come to my attention (through a very realistic dream) that a huge portion of the general population thinks I am a vey put together woman who has all her ducks in a row.  In fact, the consensus (in my subconscious) seems to be that I am a woman who has this whole life thing figured out and is living it completely soundly and intelligently.  The truth is, I have a *few* quirks that I use as coping mechanisms to get me from sun up to sundown.  If only to clear things up with myself and attempt to live life more realistically in my dreams, I feel it's necessary to let a few things about myself out.   

I Talk to Myself:  

I do it all day long.  I find myself both a witty conversationalist and a very attentive listener. To spice it up and keep myself interested, I use accents. Oftentimes, I'm British, but I will stray to the Emerald Isle or even Down Under.  The whole thing is really quite innocent until I start arguing with myself.  I never know whose side to take since I'm always right but clearly I'm not because I'm arguing with myself and getting dangerously close to a full blown personality split.  Then it's just a hop, skip, and a random streaking spree through the neighborhood to the Looney Bin.

I Hate Pants

I don't hate pants in a "replace them with skirts" kind of way.  I hate them in a "I don't like to wear anything below my waist" kind of way.  Yes, I do wear something to keep a barrier between my birthday suit and the furniture, so don't go picturing me in totally inappropriate ways.  I find them to be constricting and hot and uncomfortable and just plain awful.  Plus, they add to my never ending pile of laundry, which shouldn't be a deterrent since the laundry never ends, but it is.  The absolute worst kind of pants is jeans.  I consider them a dressing up kind of pant since my normal choice is sweat.  I absolutely loathe dressing up and since jeans are fancy in my world, I hate them most of all.  My darling friend shared this picture with me, and it couldn't describe me better if it tried:

I Rearrange Stores
I like to put things in my cart during fleeting fits of fancy only to get to the other side of the store and come to my senses.  The problem is, with at least one child always in tow and an overwhelming case of exhaustion--possibly laziness--I will remove the once desired object from my cart and place it on any obliging shelf near me.  I know that I should feel totally guilty and terrible, but the fact is, I don't.  The wonderful people who work at these stores can do it for me.  I live a life of basically constant servitude, and it's truly relieving to have someone servitude for me once in a while.  I will say this as a bit of a rationalization:  I do NOT leave refrigerated/frozen items outside of a refrigerated/frozen area.  I may put the ice cream back in with the broccoli, but it will stay frozen.  The broccoli will also stay where it is.  I don't like frozen broccoli.  

I Hide Food
I find it very hypocritical of me to constantly spout the virtues and necessity of sharing to my offspring when I, myself, hate sharing.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I enjoy sharing with people outside of my family.  My family, especially my children, get first dibs at just about everything.  I may go into a store with the intention of buying a package of socks for myself, but I come out with new things for the kids instead.  When it comes down to it, their needs are much more important than mine, and it is with that mindset that I justify hiding food from them.  Yes, I am a selfish, selfish woman, but my selfishness only extends to Oreos, sour cream and onion Pringles, and Snickers. When they grow up, they will be free to squirrel away treats for themselves.  In the meantime, I'll keep pushing the frozen broccoli.  

I Idolize my Cat
It should come as no surprise how I feel about my cat.  I simply cannot get enough of her.  I talk to her like she's a human.  I cuddle her like she's a baby.  I compliment her incessantly, fully believing that her purrs are an indication of her mutual adoration of me.  Alice the Wondercat has seen me through the toughest of times, and without her, my whole world will crumble just a little bit.  This is, perhaps, not healthy, but when I look at her fuzzy little face so full of cuteness, I really don't see the benefit of trying to overcome my unhealthy obsession.  So help the person who tries to tell me she's "just a cat" and regale me with stories about how much they hate felines.  I assure them, the hatred is mutual, which only proves the superiority of the species.  Meow.  

There you have it.  I'm a complete nut case, trapped in a world of covert pants-less snacking where my company is my snarky British alter-ego and my kitty.  This is how I get from sunrise to sunset each and every day.  That and love, family, friends, blah, blah, blah.  Where did I hide my Oreos? 

How to Golf

I recently mastered the game of golf.  I have now played twice, and I have it all figured out.  For those of you who are still struggling, I will offer you some pointers to make your time on the course perfection.  I feel as though 35 holes is enough to give me some credibility.  That's right, I'm so good, I didn't even need to do the last hole.  

First of all, you need to golf in the winter.  Summer golfing is for people who are determined to be unhappy as well as overheated.  With the exception of everyone I am related to, they tend to be intense and insufferable, so it's best to spend your summer sunning by the pool rather than on the golf course.  

Second, you need a good golfing buddy.  The two times I have golfed, I have had my brother with me.  One time in a foursome and more recently, just the two of us.  Since I had fun both times, it's only logical to conclude that my brother is a good golfing buddy.  He might golf with you, but I can't make any promises.  For my purposes, however, he is essential.

Third, spring for the cart.  Golfing without a cart is like getting your teeth drilled without novocaine.  You have nothing to prove, you're the only one feeling the pain, and most people are unimpressed with your choice to be miserable.  The cart is going to be your saving grace.  Walking makes people grumpy.  Also, you have to carry all your stuff, which makes the whole experience basically pointless.  

Fourth, inject some fear into the whole experience.  This is highly underrated in the game of golf, but it's very helpful for both pace of play and attempts at accuracy.  On my most recent outing, I was in North Carolina, following all the tips I have given so far.  I got introduced to the Eastern Fox Squirrel, which is a terrifying, unsettling beast.  My brother repeatedly referred to it as a "zombie squirrel," which I'm pretty sure is much more accurate than its given name, considering it looked exactly like this...more or less:

With the threat of that looming over you, you're much more likely to hit the ball away from the trees.  Also, if you DO hit it in the trees, it's perfectly acceptable to just count the ball as a loss.

Fifth, have lots of balls.  Both to face your fears and to replace the ones you lose when your fears get the best of you.   

Sixth, and this might be the most important tip, don't.keep.score.  Just don't.  Keeping score is for the unhappy and overheated.  I have found that if I don't keep score, it doesn't matter if I hit the ball four or five yards at a time, which I do.  Constantly.  Not keeping score also allows you to do the following with absolutely no qualms:

• Pick up your ball and throw it (sometimes in the water but not on purpose)
• Decide a hole is just too hard and stay in the cart while your golfing buddy goes for it and you have a drink while watching from the comfort of the cart
• Putt with a driver and drive with a putter--apparently, there's a difference
• Refuse to accept your limitations and believe you're truly ready for the professional circuit, if only as a spectator

Finally, have power foods and beverages at your fingertips at all times.  I have found my magic combination to be a nice stout Stout paired with a Snickers and Cheetos.  This keeps you refreshed, calm, and happy which is the point of golf in the first place.  

Really, the sport is simple.  If you shift your paradigm ever so slightly, you'll find that you, too, can be an expert by your 35th hole.  

Up next:  I explain string theory.  

Bulletin Board of Shame

If my girls' school had a Bulletin Board of Shame, my picture would officially be at the top.  In fact, it would probably have a big red circle with a line through it, symbolically declaring that under no circumstances should I be entrusted with a child.  Well, maybe not quite that bad since schools are mandatory reporters, and CPS hasn't come knock-knock-knocking...yet.  

Okay, I'm probably exaggerating a bit, but boy do I feel like the worst mom on the face of the planet right now.  Let me back up a bit.  Once upon a time, I was the absolute greatest.  I just was.  If you e-mailed me (I told you, backing up a bit), I would reply right away.  If you left me a message, I would call.  If you gave me a task, I would complete it ahead of time and better than you anticipated.  I was the pillar of organization and responsibility, proven by my grade point averages and my Circle of Responsibility that reached around the globe...twice.  

Then, I had kids and quit my paying job.  At first, the changes in my personality were subtle enough that I didn't even notice them.  It wasn't until my kids started school that it started to hit me that I was no longer on the ball.  In fact, the ball was locked away in some gym teacher's office, and I had absolutely no access to it.  The eldest was easy enough, but when the middle one started kindergarten last year, that's when I completely fell apart.  The amount of paperwork that comes home from school is mind-boggling, and I couldn't keep it straight to save my life.  Schedules and e-mails and websites and circus performing...it was just too much.  

That's when I really started to actually lose my mind and earned my initial place on the Bulletin Board of Shame.  Right around Christmas program time last year, my anxiety had risen to such a feverish level that I had myself a full-blown panic attack at the school the evening of the oldest's program.  I was lying on the sidewalk, in the dark and rain, and it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't the greatest anymore.  I got through it by the hair on my chinny chin chin, which I had forgotten to pluck, and managed to get my wet butt inside, but not before doing some deep breathing exercises in the hallway where the principal got to witness my undoing.  I'm pretty sure I won't be first on the sub list when I go back to work.  

So, with the help of some meds, I got the anxiety to a more reasonable level, but unfortunately, there's no pill to keep my crap organized and keep me from becoming That Mom.  I really am her.  I miss deadlines, picture days, school barbeques, field trips, pick up, drop off, most Thursdays all together, and Waste Free Wednesday (another blog for another day).  

Today, I was feeling pretty good.  I made most of dinner this morning, and it was a good one, too.  In between rain storms, I decided to get to work getting my yard pretty.  I hate yard work, but I love my husband and knew he'd be so proud of me that he might even buy me some vodka so I could have a cocktail (failure in reasoning:  he needs to know about the yard work ahead of time in order to bring the vodka home, and if I don't tell him, he doesn't know about it).  I weeded, poop scooped, cut back the hostas, and then did something I haven't done since we moved here:  I mowed the lawn.  Back AND front.  Oh, boy, was I feeling pleased with myself.  

Little did I know that while I was outside being Super Wife, the school was calling me on my phone that I neglected to bring out with me.  The Bean was in the office with a fever and a sore throat.  I got the message an hour after they called me, which also happened to be 10 minutes before school was dismissing.  When I finally called, they informed me that she had napped the afternoon away and they had pulled Wendy from her classroom so she could be with Nina.  Oh, man, did I deflate quickly.  The school secretary's voice was dripping with disdain, and I can hardly say I blame her, even though Nina really is the cutest thing when she's sleeping and it should have been delightful for them to look in on her while they waited for her neglectful mother to come rescue her.  

Now, mind you, this is a very cautious school.  Like, super duper cautious.  I kid you not, last year, they sent Nina home with a very bad tummy ache, advising me to take her to the doctor because some parasite from Panama or something was going around school.  It took exactly one good fart for Nina to feel better, but by then, we were halfway home.  So, when they asked if I would like to come get her or if she and her sister should ride their bikes home, I said to let 'em ride.  I mean, I don't exactly trust the school's story on how bad my kids' condition actually is.  

Turns out, it was 102.8 degrees bad.  I not only let her rot away in the office all afternoon--or, you know, an hour--but I also made her ride her bike home.  This is why my picture has been moved to the top of the board.  I would just like to tell whomever is on the Mother of the Year nominating committee that I completely understand my omission from your list of candidates.  If you need me, I'll be glued to my phone, waiting for the next illness to strike.  

The Trials of 4-Year-Old Freedom

Let me be frank for a minute:  whoever said that 5 o'clock was the appropriate time to start drinking never had a 4-year-old boy.  They just didn't.  Whoever said it was either a masochist or childless.  It is either/or, by the way.  You can't have children and not be a masochist.  So, to the childless, I say 5 o'clock is too late.  To the masochists, I say mind your own business.  

My boy is driving me nuts.  Like, really, really nuts, and there is really no getting around the fact that the only way to counter the nuts is with wine, be it 9 a.m. or 6 p.m.

Last week, I didn't feel well.  As is the case with a stay at home mom, the kids just don't care. I don't get a sick day.  I just have to muddle through as best I can.  The best I could do that day was watch TV with my little guy after his sisters departed for school.  In an unprecedented act of sleepiness, I completely passed out on the couch.  For two hours.  Two very solid hours.  When I awakened, I discovered my little man had seized the opportunity to unleash his creativity on my house.  

I found crayon wall art.  I found a yellow lab with a new blue marker tattoo.  Upstairs, he had attempted culinary uniqueness by making mouthwash soup with large dallops of toothpaste all over the bathroom counter.  Entering the playroom, I saw that what was formerly a half a ream of printer paper and a new roll of Scotch tape was now a giant paper fort intended to house his stuffed animals.  It was like Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street with a new horrible surprise waiting around every corner.  I give him credit for doing all of this relatively silently, but, man, that will teach me to get sick and accidentally fall asleep ever again.  

Then, a few days ago, I decided to take a shower.  I do this on a daily basis.  I have for several years.  I find it's the only way I can feel human.  I used to let my babies scream in their bouncer seats just so I could wash away the filth they had pooped, peed, and barfed on me the day before.  It seemed like a fair trade off.  Now that they keep most of their bodily functions to themselves, I guess I don't need to shower daily, but I do.  I think it's a side effect of living in America where frivolity reigns.  

I took 10 minutes.  Just 10.  Titus has not even noticed my absence in the past.  He sits with his morning snack and PBS, and he prefers to be left alone.  Well, not this day.  This day, the boy had a mission:  Destroy the House and Drive Mommy Bat Poo Crazy, Part 2.  This time, I met with an even worse mess in a fraction of the time.  He managed to get the sugar bowl off the top shelf of a cabinet.  It was completely empty by the time he was done with it.  I imagine a good portion went to his tummy, but there was plenty left to coat the counter, the kitchen floor, and part of the living room floor.  Of course, you can't have sugar scattered all over the place without raisin bran.  I found this all over the living room floor and in between each and every couch cushion.  The dogs had a lot of fun with this, so many of the areas where the cereal landed were now covered in sugar and dog drool.  He wasn't finished.  He got out our iced tea maker (remember:  America=frivolity).  He filled it with a box of rice crispies (lower case because I buy the store brand; clearly my children do not deserve name brand), some peanuts in the shell, a generous helping of milk, and half a box of cheese crackers (again, off brand).  Oh--and don't forget, sugar on top!  Then he plugged it in and let that little concoction stew.   

I was speechless.  Mouth-open-wide-eyed-smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears speechless.  Titus looked at me sheepishly and said slyly, "Mommy, I made you a snack."  Immediately, the phrase, "Good intentions pave the road to hell" came to mind.  I merely pointed to the couch, and he took his cue and sat down.  Had he been a dog, his tail would have been between his little, scheming legs.  

Someday I may look back and laugh at all this.  For now, all I know is 5 o'clock isn't early enough to reach for the wine, especially now that I can't have iced tea.  

A Blog About Dogs...and Cats, Too, I Guess

The fact is, I am a cat person right down to my inner guts and core.  I love their independence, their cleanliness, their blatant disregard for everyone around them, their sweet little faces, their fastidiousness, and pretty much everything else about them.  Basically, the cat is everything I wish I could be all at once while still getting people to cater to my every whim and quirk.  My cat can walk across my face at 3 in the morning, insisting on food, and I happily get up to serve.  If any of my children walked across my face at 3 in the morning, for any reason, I would break out the Mommy Monster and let them have it.  It's just the natural order and reasonings of a True Cat Person.  

Dogs are a whole different story for me.  I barely tolerate most of them.  If I encounter a cat in the suburban wild, I will stop in my tracks and attempt to interact with it.  If I encounter a dog, I barely give it a second look.  They're just so damn happy all the time, and I prefer my animals to have a little more moodiness.  A dog will dole out affection for people like a clown handing out candy at a parade.  While this may appeal to the masses, I find it patronizing and trivial.  Anything worth having takes work, and the love of a cat is definitely worth working for.  

When we first got married, I went into a bit of a funk.  I was substitute teaching while Peter finished his last year of law school.  While I hit the jackpot when it came to men, there was still a hole in my life.  That hole turned out to be cat-shaped.  We cajoled our landlord, with the help of his cat-loving wife, into disregarding his "no pets" clause and letting us get a kitty.  We found her at the shelter.  She was 7 months of awesome, and she was ready to come home with us.  We promptly changed her name from Kharn to Alice the Wondercat.  You can do that with cats.  You can't do that with dogs.  Alice has been my constant companion for 10 years, and I can't get enough of her, especially since the only person she loves in our house is me.  

Then we moved to our current home.  My husband, a staunch Dog Person, began his campaign for canine companionship.  It so happened that a friend of ours had a lovely yellow lab she needed to re-home.  She was 2, pre-trained, kind of cute, super friendly, and I was willing to give it a shot.  3 years later, Pearl is a fixture in our family, shedding all over, eating poop like it's candy, smelling terrible, and making everybody smile.  Even me once in a while.  Then Peter got into his head that Pearl needed a friend...

Along came Mahone.  Another re-homed dog, he is a German Short Haired Pointer with a nervous disposition and an inability to sit still.  He has his moments of cuteness, but for the most part, he drives me insane.  The kids adore him.  He naps with Titus.  He chases my cat.  He slips on the laminate floors.  He eats food faster than a cheetah runs.  

And so it came to pass, this True Cat Person became a dog rescuer.  Crazy, smelly dogs.  I am willing to admit, but only to you, that sometimes I love them.  Their incessant cheerfulness can be kind of endearing.  Now that I have a Dyson, cleaning up after them is much easier and kind of enjoyable.  However, my favorite part of the day is putting them in their crates for the night.  When Alice the Wondercat hears the click of the locks, she knows that the house is once again hers, and seeing her pop out from under the bed, hungry for food and affection, brings a calm and peace to my life like nothing else can.  

Scaling the Wall

The day before yesterday, I flew to the Midwest with the three offspring in tow.  We come back for a month in the summer to swim, eat, drink, visit friends, and get in some quality time with my parents.  The thing about my job is that it's portable.  I can just relocate to Illinois for a month.  Unfortunately, Peter cannot, so he gets stuck behind for at least half of our time here.  This means I get to fly alone with the kids.  

As you can imagine, I'm not the calmest flyer.  Well, I'm not the calmest anything, to be completely honest.  So, I like to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare.  I catalogue all the things that could go wrong:  heavy traffic, extra long security lines, broken down computers, alien insect invasions, and I prefer to give myself as big a buffer as possible.  The result this last trip was having almost 2 hours to spare.  We ate an overpriced breakfast.  We went to the bathroom.  Twice.  Then we went to the kids' play area.  

The curious thing about the kids' play area at SeaTac airport is the 8 foot wall that doesn't go all the way to the ceiling.  There are two diagonal ducts or something, but really, there's no practical reason for the absence of wall.  Perhaps budget cuts.  Budget cuts seem to be a logical reason.  Who knows?  The wall is the perfect temptation for a little person like Titus who loves to throw things at random, and throw he did.  He threw his absolutely most favorite and necessary toy in the world:  his Night Night.  His whole world crumbled when I peeked over the wall from the top of the children's climbing structure and told him there was nothing I could do.  

We had to go to our gate.  It was almost time to board.  You have never seen such a disappointed little person in your life, and even though it wasn't my fault, I felt so very, very guilty.  I tried to find someone who worked at the airport.  Apparently, no one works at the airport.  They work for the airlines, sure, but ask them to help you find a person who works for the airport, and they look at you like you are a recent asylum escapee.  I guess the airport just runs on robots and fairy dust.  

I managed to find a ticketing agent who had small children who had favorite toys in the whole wide world, and she managed to find someone who worked for maintenance, I assume for the airport, but they could have worked for Denny's for all I know.  We were told to go back to the play area and wait.  So we did.  And we waited.  And they didn't come.  The boarding time was now dangerously close.  I had paid extra to get priority seating, and that didn't come cheap.  It was now a matter of weighing my son's emotional and mental well-being against the extra $100 I spent to get on the plane first so we could get the seats we needed (we flew Southwest who doesn't assign seats).  I could have bought him 10 new Night Nights for that $100, but somehow, it wouldn't be the same.  He'd always associate the airport with this traumatic event, and, let's face it, I'd always feel guilty there.  Since we utilize the airport frequently, I didn't want to shoulder all those negative feelings for the rest of my life.  It was time for Mama to go over the wall. 

I assessed the situation.  There was a room full of children and their parents.  There was a bench I could climb up in order to get to the top of the wall.  There was a large man sitting on this bench.  I thought, worse case scenario, he could help me back up.  Or I could maybe shimmy up those diagonal ducts that were covered in enough dust to fill 275 vacuum cleaners.  I took the kids in.  I told them to stay.  I went over the wall.  The room behind me fell silent.  When I got to the top, I saw two things:  a long drop down and a metal cross bar that could help me get back over if I could manage to get a foot hold because it was at my eye level.  

I landed with a very soft thud in dust thick enough to cover my flip-flopped feet.  I retrieved Night Night, who was slightly dirty but no worse for the wear.  He survived his flight.  I threw him over and heard a very happy Titus.  I knew I had made the right decision.  Did I mention I was wearing black pants?  Now to get to that cross bar.  I had to take a running start, which kicked up a cloud of dust all the way to the ceiling that most likely settled on most of the people in the room.  I hit the wall with a bang, got my foot up, pulled myself up with the strength of Hercules if Hercules was an out-of-shape woman with little to no upper body strength that was determined to reunite with her children and still make it to priority seating boarding.  

When I came over, every jaw in the room had hit the floor.  My pants, once black, were now a light grey.  I used my white sweatshirt to wipe up the dusty footprints I left on the bench, and we were off in a little cloud of triumph mixed with humiliation with a generous sprinkling of smug on top.  We made it to the gate right as our group was boarding, and all was right with the world, even if I was leaving a trail of dust behind me that would put Pig Pen to shame.  

My Problem With Peter Pan

Actually, the title's a bit misleading.  I have no problem with Peter Pan.  I loved the book.  It's delightfully dark and imaginative and fun.  Peter Pan is much less lovable, and Captain Hook is far more formidable.  Tinkerbell was just a blip on Peter Pan's pixie spectrum.  He forgot her.  He forgot the kids.  He was quite sad, really.   

Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with.  Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day.  Maybe it's because they could still get polio.  I don't know.  

Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids.  Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy.  I apologize for that rhyme.  Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy.  That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.

My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now.  Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise?  Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie?  She tried to have Wendy killed.  She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.  Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place.  She brought that bomb on herself.  

So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today:  behave badly, get rewarded.  It's so true that the nice guy finishes last.  I mean, where are John and Michael?  Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off? 

As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates."  Wait.  What? Neverland pirates are bad.  They're the enemy.  Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates?  The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version.  Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures.  This is most troubling.  Kids need to respect the villain for what it is:  evil and scary.  

Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys.  It seriously messes with my head.  Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword.  You know who could give me this scenario?  Tim Burton.