Peanut-Butter-and-Bacon Sandwiches

Random Pictures

2012-01-30T13:39:00.004-05:00

In no particular order, because I hate shuffling pictures around in Blogger. The majority of photos were taken in December during the Santa special train ride

Doing the Fig Newton ("Here's the tricky part!" Remember that commercial?)

Summertime, Knoebel's Amusement Park.

B's First Communion in May. Not sure whether I posted about this or not. Handsome kid, isn't he? He insisted on wearing a tuxedo, and he was clearly the best-dressed kid there. I hated giving it all back, but I ordered the tie and pocket square from Beau Ties, Ltd. in Vermont so he'd have something to keep. You can't see it, but the pattern is vintage fighter planes on a gold background. V is in the background, The Oracle is in the shirtsleeves, and the kids' godfather is in the suit.

Back to the Santa train. C with Frosty.

C wants attention, and she knows how to get it. At this moment, she's standing behind the computer and yanking at the wires. She'll be three in February. B and V turned 8 and 10 in August.

Where does the time go?

Five Months?

2011-09-23T17:05:00.002-04:00

Ummm... yeah.

I can't believe it's been five months since I've made an entry here. I never meant to send my blog to the scrap heap, but the need for sleep outweighed the need to write things here. I wanted to post, but it seemed like I didn't have the time.

Anyway, most notable in the last five months is the addition of a new Shedder to our household. I found her through the same rescue that gave us Duchess, and I picked her up at the end of April.

Dakota is the biggest Shedder we've ever owned. She can eat off the table without stretching and hovers around 100 pounds. She's one BIG dog. She's seven years old and very affectionate, but she isn't the perpetual puppy that Duchess was. All Duchess ever wanted to do was play.

V and B passed their grades and moved up. V's dance recital in June was excellent, and B's spring baseball was a lot of fun.

My in-laws are doing well. MIL is gradually slowing down more and more and her memory switches off as much as it's on. Well, it's probably more off than on, but we're lucky that her physical health is good, she's mostly compliant with my FIL's care, and she's shown no desire to wander (one of the things I fear most). In fact, her lack of ambition is stunning. My FIL is most persistent in getting her to perform basic exercise, but she'd prefer sitting on the couch (the polar opposite of her pre-stroke self).

The Oracle's contract hassles finally culminated in a new company being awarded the contract once and for all, but we were fortunate that they hired him on. In several respects they've proven to be a fair employer, and I'm most thankful for that.

Me? I'm still working midnights. Most of the time I cashier, but they still put me on the deli once or twice a week. I dislike the deli more with every shift I work.

We had some huge electrical storms pass through the area, and one that took place directly over our house blew out our oven. Last year, I guess it was, we had to replace the oven's electrical panel to the tune of over $400. I'm torn when it comes to replacing the panel again or buying a new oven. Part of me doesn't want the hassle of oven shopping, but the oven is 15+ years old. Ugh.

We also had to replace our washer. I was mightily pissed at the appliance dealer who told me my purchase was not made in China only to discover "Made in China" stamped all over the box when it was delivered. I admit I was tempted to send it back, but I was afraid of losing the baby in the mountain of laundry.

So, in short, I'm busy with everyday stuff. Now that school is back in session, I might have an opportunity here and there to post something interesting, provided something interesting happens. I mean, who wants to read about the kind of junk you endure every day yourself?

Oh! Another dance season has started, and V is in three classes this year. Tap, Jazz, and she also returned to Hip Hop. C is also supposed to start a mommy & me class this year, but they're short on registrations. Hopefully they'll sign up a few more kids in the next couple weeks.

The Big Plan

2011-04-21T11:54:00.003-04:00

This is PD's and B's first day off for Easter Break. The are already nitpicking at each other like it's the middle of summer.

V has a guitar she doesn't know how to play. Nibs found the guitar pick and was playing with it. B had the audacity to take the pick away from Nibs. Well, PD caught B with the pick and threw a conniption, charging at him like a bull with her hands like claws. I'm not sure what happened to whom after that, but she got a time out.

So, a couple hours later -- just to add a little spice to his life -- B sneaks up on PD and shouts, "Boo!" to scare her.

This, of course, takes place immediately after I put Nibs down for a nap.

PD immediately freaks at B, shoving him around and screaming in his face at the top of her lungs. During her tirade she says, "You make me want to run away!"

Being no help to her at all, I had to ask a bunch of practical questions like where she'd run to, what she'd eat or drink, and how long she thought she could survive on her own. Based on the answers she gave, her plan is surprisingly simple: She'd live in the back yard, eat nothing, and last about a week.

Oh, my. She's only nine. What will life with her be when she's 13?

Together Again

2011-04-18T11:03:00.002-04:00

We said goodbye to our Chessie on Saturday morning.

Catching up

2011-04-13T09:20:00.005-04:00

Hi. Remember me? Neither do I. Author's note: Blogger isn't putting in my paragraphs despite repeated attempts at editing them back in. Sorry for they eyeball pain! ---- I'm still working midnight shift at the convenience store. Work has gotten much easier since one of the cashiers on my shift left and they hired a new person in the deli. I get to spend a fair amount of time on register now. I am just as busy, but the tasks themselves are easier. I also like switching between deli and register. ----- Her Nibs walks and talks and is so stinkin' cute I can't stand it. I've forgotten how much fun toddlers can be, and we're all drinking up every bit of it. She loves her puppy and her blanket and doesn't go anywhere without them. She loves to color and loves books. She says "please," "thank you," and "you're welcome" on a consistent basis (way more than her siblings do), and she uses them appropriately. She loves to dance. The minute she hears music, she's bouncing to the rhythm. She still tries to use the potty. She lost interest for a little bit, but she seems to be turning back to it. She loves frozen peas, chicken thighs, pizza, meatballs, apple slices, grapes, Peppermint Patties, and Dots. Orange juice is her #1 beverage choice, with chocolate milk holding the #2 spot by only a few points. If I let her, she'd drink those two things all day long and skip food completely. ----- Mighty B's Cub Scout troop organized a weekend trip to Washington D.C. I was really excited to go, since my few visits there were short and I didn't get to see much. The Oracle and I have learned that we still can't travel long distances with our kids and stay in hotels because they are still uncivilized banshees. Nibs was the only one who behaved herself, but sleeping in a strange place stressed her out, and, despite utter exhaustion, she had trouble sleeping. ----- Mighty B. started drum lessons in January. In spite of the fact that we have to stand over him with a whip to get him to practice, he seems to be really good at it. His latest obsession is Mario Kart on the Wii. If I let him, he'd play video games all day long. ----- Precious Daughter's latest obsession -- although she won't admit it -- is a boy in her class. She's already feeling the pressure of the jealous girls trying to interfere with that, too. From the evidence brought home, the boy likes her as well. Fortunately, he's a nice kid. While I'm not excited over the fact that my nine-year-old daughter wants to have a "boyfriend," I am comforted by knowing that having a boyfriend in fourth grade simply means you chase each other at recess, and once in a while Mom needs to pack an extra sweet to share with him at lunch. ----- Another dance recital is coming in June as well, and after homework is done I get to hear PD's tap shoes pounding away in the kitchen. I found a pair of tap shoes in Nibs' size at the consignment shop for five bucks so she can properly interfere with PD's practice. Heh-heh-heh... ----- I am passively looking for a dog. It's not an all-out search, just some poking around on Petfinder to see who's available. The Oracle is warming up to the idea. He doesn't want another German Shedder (yet), so I may have to stop being so narrow minded on the subject. He wants an English Bulldog. Well, he'd also like a dachshund or a corgi, but my size requirement is not negotiable. If it's below my shins, I'm going to trip over it. At least if I trip over a bulldog, I won't kill it. ----- Really, though, the Shedder is the perfect dog. They're smart, playful idiots with big teeth and enough of a bad reputation to make strangers think twice about approaching our house. ----- My MIL turns 88 today. Her physical health is amazing. Her mind is slipping some more. She remembers me and the kids with little problem, unless my FIL is giving her a refresher before we arrive. Last night, she was confusing The Oracle with her brother. In her defense, she has always claimed that they looked alike. Anyway, she told The Oracle that he had a nephew that looked just like him, but she couldn't think of the nephew's name. That made me really sad. ----- And now, I must sign off. Her Nibs must be in the midst of a growth spurt. She's been sleeping for 11 hours now, and if I don't wake her up she'll soak out the diaper and wreck her bed.

Time Flies...

2011-01-25T15:03:00.004-05:00

Wow. I haven't posted since December 9? I'm sorry! Here's a quick recap of notable events over the last month and a half. They're in no particular order because I have a craptastic memory and little concept of time. Asking me to put it all in order would be cruel, and my post would never make it up to the blog if I tried.

Most recent and most sad is the passing of my great uncle, the last and youngest of my grandmother's 12 siblings. (Most tragic to note is that of 12 children, only seven made it to adulthood, and one of those seven was killed during WWII. Seeing how awful it was for my mother to lose one child, I can't imagine what toll those statistics took on my great grandmother.) Uncle John hit the lifelong lottery. At the amazing age of 94, he maintained a sound mind and good health up until this latest illness.

Mighty B. has been a mighty challenge. This year, Santa gave him his presents but also gave him a stocking filled with coal instead of goodies. B. wasn't the least bit upset by it, at least on the outside. Santa has been waiting for a day of outstanding behavior to give B. his stocking stuffers, but there hasn't been any. *sigh*

Precious Daughter confessed that she has a crush on a boy in her classroom. I haven't mentioned this tidbit to The Oracle, mostly because I forgot to tell him. He was working late when she told me, and I tend to nap when he's around because I can. Midnight shift can really suck sometimes.
Her Nibs is going to be two in just a few weeks. I can't believe it! She is trying potty training on for size. For the last couple months, she has intermittently peed in the potty. It's not consistent by any means, but she knows what it's for and isn't afraid of it, so I anticipate it will be easier than it was with the first two. Mighty B. was (surprise!) just stubborn about it, and Precious Daughter was afraid of the flush. (Wanna send an almost potty-trained three-year-old into an absolute panic? Take her to an echoey department-store bathroom with auto-flush toilets at lunch time. To this day, she hates auto-flush.)

It's snowing today. We've had snow just about every week since Christmas, and I'm loving every inch of it. Yeah, shoveling sucks, but snow just makes the winter world look so much brighter. I guess it's easy for me to love it when I'm sitting in my living room and looking out the window. I can honestly say that even when I had to fishtail my way (in my '72 Duster) along the seventeen-mile trek to work, I still loved it.

Hey, does anyone have a '72 Duster for sale, one that hasn't been modified for racing?

I just learned that my kids are getting out early today, so maybe I won't have to shovel! Haha!!!!

If People, Like Cats, Had Nine Lives...

2010-12-09T08:15:00.004-05:00

..I just saw someone torch four of them in less than twenty seconds.

The glare of the morning sun is quite vicious today.

I drop The Oracle off at the train station and make my left turn to head homeward. Just as I start accelerating, a puny Honda Prius makes a left turn directly into my path. I wasn't even coming out of the glare; I was heading into it. She should have seen me. I had to mash the brake into the floorboard to avoid slamming into her (Life #1). It's a miracle that I wasn't rear-ended.

Then the Prius runs its passenger-side wheels over the fog line and into the grass, narrowly missing a telephone pole (Life #2). She swerves to avoid the pole and misses a car parked at the nursing home by inches (Life #3).

Prius oversteers again when she swerves back onto the two-lane roadway directly into opposing traffic, forcing two cars off the road into the gravel and someone's driveway (Life #4).

So, in addition to four of her own lives, she also took one from at least three other drivers, myself included. I was just about to call her license plate in to the police when she hit the shade and miraculously straightened herself out. Until then I sincerely thought she was drunk.

Add in the road-rage factor, and she may have burned five.

Yup. I'm Here

2010-12-05T14:41:00.002-05:00

My badly-neglected blog is probably going to run away from home and join the circus. All is well in PB and Bacon land. I've just been really busy and haven't had the time. Well, I did have the time a couple weeks ago, spending the better part of an hour on a Halloween post, but Blogger misbehaved and I lost half of the post. I signed off in a snit and haven't been back.

I'll try to get something together by Christmas, okay?

Memory from Court Reporting School

2010-10-01T09:13:00.006-04:00

I spent seven l-o-n-g years in court-reporting school. I had classes three nights a week. To graduate, you have to reach speeds between 180 and 225 words per minute depending on the type of writing you're doing.

Now, I didn't want this to become a lesson in court-reporting how-tos, but to briefly break it down, a court reporter is tested for five minutes in three different aspects of writing. Testimony, or Q&A, has to reach 225 words per minute in order to graduate. Jury Charge (instructions to a jury by the judge) must reach 200 words per minute, and Literary, which is simply text from any source (speeches, essays, magazine articles) must reach 180. The killer is that you have to pass your tests with 95% accuracy. It's the only school in the world where a 94% is a failing grade. (If you know a court reporting student, don't DARE to ask when they're going to graduate, not unless you want a black eye.)

Once we were writing at roughly 100 words per minute, every speed class had an "opportunity" at the end. We weren't allowed to call them tests. They were called "opportunities" because it was an opportunity to move on to the next speed level if you passed. I guess some wanna-be psychologist at the school decided it would be less stressful on the students if you didn't call a test a test.

"A rose by any other name" can still make you sneeze.

One of the most unrealistic aspects of court-reporting school was the pin-drop quietness of it all. If there was any greater lie perpetuated by court reporting school (other than, "you'll graduate in a little over three years"), it was the insistence on absolute quiet during perfectly-metered, annunciated, and grammatically-correct dictation by our instructors. Noise of any kind during a test was frowned upon and cause for much whining and complaint by a student who felt they didn't pass a test because so-and-so's steno paper didn't fold properly and riffled out of the tray and onto the floor or somebody sneezed or there was laughter in the hallway.

Once a court reporter hits the real world, they learn a very different thing. Not only do some people speak so dreadfully it sounds like a foreign language, attorneys chew ice or crunch on biscotti during depositions. If words aren't misprounounce or misused, they're sometimes made up on the spot. Add to that the shuffling of papers, coughing, nose-blowing, clattering briefcase hasps, scribbling pencils, cell phones, squeaky chairs, and the birthday party in the room next door, and you'll discover that there's a world of distraction and noise to affect a court reporter's ability to focus on the task at hand.

Well, anyway, during one particular "opportunity," the instructors are reading the test, and the room is silent except for the dictation and the hum of flourescent lighting. As soon as the instructor stops speaking, I am jolted into the "real world" by the entire classroom of 15 women erupting into screams, including the instructors.

LJ and I look at one another. For a split second, she is as bewildered as I am until one of the shriekers yelps the phrase I manage to understand: "IT'S CRAWLING TOWARD HER STENO BAG!"

Well, now, I didn't know for sure what "IT" was, but on the seventh floor of a city building, that crawling thing was either a rat or a roach, and neither was going to hitchhike a ride home with me.

Chairs and steno machine tripods are scraping across the floor as some students scurry out of the room and some of the students take refuge by standing on chairs. LJ and I hop out of our chairs too, but we're the only two that don't lose our heads. I see a hefty-sized cockroach scuttling under a chair, and she and I go after it. One of us eventually crushed it, but I don't remember which one of us did it.

This is NOT normal behavior for me. If there's someone around that I know will kill it for me, I'm more than happy to be the one standing on the chair. The fact is, I didn't trust anyone in that room to do the killing, and if that bug wasn't positively DEAD before I went home, I wasn't going to sleep that night for fear of having it stow away in my bag or my purse. *gurk!*

(And I'm suddenly reminded of the time I dropped a fat rubber cockroach in my sister's purse a few years ago. Heh-heh-heh. I don't even know why I did it.)

I later learned that LJ and I were the only ones in the room who finished taking the test. One by one, all the other students saw that bug and lost their concentration, and not one of them made a peep during five minutes of testing. If I'd been the one that spotted the bug, I couldn't have remained so still or silent. Nope. No way. I suspect that even if I were in a deposition, I'd have to go off the record and kill it before I could resume writing.

Suddenly, I'm all itchy...

Twenty Gallons of Belly Up

2010-09-24T12:55:00.005-04:00

This post on Daddy Scratches brought back vivid memories of our first fish tank.

After spending a few petless months in our newlywed apartment, I complained to The Oracle that I wanted a pet. He worked days and I worked 3-11, and I wanted some sort of company during the day while he wasn't home. I'd grown up with all sorts of pets, and being without was lonely. The problem was our lease wouldn't permit anything with fur or feathers.

With the intention of coming home with a Dorothy-in-a-bowl setup, we exited the aquarium store an hour or so later with a couple hundred bucks' worth of stuff including a twenty-gallon tank, filters, stone, plastic plants, aerators and I forget what else.

So we set all the stuff up and waited a couple days as instructed before returning to the store for the thing I really wanted - the fish.

The same clerk who sold us the stuff led us to the freshwater fish. After lots of looking and indecision, I decided on a pair of blue dwarf gouramis, two little orange fish with spiky black tails, and a pair of something that looked like goldfish but weren't. I don't remember what they were except one was a red and black and the other was pink.

Anyway, we brought our little fishies home and put them in the tank. In less than two days, the gouramis went belly up. I called the fish store and complained. That same clerk THEN informed me that gouramis are somewhat sensitive and need a well-established tank in which to surive. Ours was only two days old and didn't have enough of the bacteria and whatnot in the water. I was furious! That jerk of a clerk had no problem selling us everything under the sun two days before; the least he could have done was tell us what wouldn't survive in a new tank.

Shortly after the gouramis died, the red and white fish started fighting. I'm not kidding. They were chasing each other around the tank and attacking one another. Mostly the red one was attacking the pink. It was frenzied and hyper, and not at all what you'd want in a fish tank. (And no, I don't believe it was some sort of romantic ritual, because it NEVER stopped.) I felt sorry for the pink fish, and finally swapped them at Petco for a few fancy-tailed guppies.

The guppies did something I didn't expect. They multiplied. I came home from work one day to a bunch of teeny-tiny fish swimming about the tank, trying desperately to avoid being devoured by the bigger fish. Off to Petco I go, and I buy a cutesy little netted box to isolate the baby fish.

BIG mistake.

Because those little baby fish grew up and made more baby fish.

(Several months later...)

With a cycling population of guppies, The Oracle and I were moving into our house. We rented a U-Haul and stuffed our belongings inside. Due to a last-minute flurry of paperwork from the bank, our moving date wasn't set until shortly before settlement. I didn't have a whole lot of time to consider the logistics of moving a tankful of fish.

On moving day, the last item out of the apartment was the fish tank. I ended up catching as many fish as I could and stowing them in a mayonnaise jar. I siphoned as much water as possible out of the tank and into two clean buckets, leaving four inches of water or so in the tank so we could move the tank onto the truck.

I'd originally considered dumping the water, but I didn't have clean water waiting for me at the new place, and four inches of water isn't enough to run the filters until clean water was ready. Instead, I put the two buckets of water on the passenger-side floor of the truck at my feet.

The ride to our new house, thankfully, is a very short one. The Oracle gently pulls out of the apartment complex and pulls up to a traffic light. When he makes a left turn, a hefty amount of 84-degree water sloshes out of the buckets and slops all over my shoes. Ewwww. At every stop the same thing happens, and by the time we arrive at the house the U-Haul smells and my feet are squishing inside my shoes.

We set the tank up in the corner of the living room, gently replaced the water still in the buckets, and returned the guppies and two orange fish to the tank. The guppies maintained a steady population of a dozen or so fish in the tank. The orange fish eventually died.

And, eventually, I got sick of the tank. Cleaning it was a pain, filter-changing was a pain, and it always smelled no matter how clean it was. When the detectives I worked with decided to set up a tank in their shared office, I offered my guppies to the new tank, and they accepted. When the tank was ready and their new fish were moving in, I bagged up the guppies and brought them in too.

Within a half hour, my guppies vanished. I didn't see that coming. At least it was quick.

I cleaned the fish tank and its paraphernalia and relegated the whole mess to the basement. A few years later we sold our couple-hundred-dollar investment for twenty bucks at a yard sale.

When Mighty B. recently voiced his desires for a fish as a pet, it was all I could do not to bellow the word, "NO!" in response.

"D" is for "Drat!" "Darn!" and "Dagnabbit!"

2010-09-23T11:50:00.002-04:00

A few weeks back, Her Nibs got her mitts on my computer and irreparably popped the letter X off my keyboard. Fortunately, X isn't all that commonly used (fourth from the bottom behind Z, J, and Q). It's annoying, but I can adapt.

Yesterday, the little cherub picked off the letter D. Depending on which list you use, the letter D is either the 10th or 12th most-commonly-used letter in English vocabulary. I am not a happy woman. First, it's annoying to have my finger striking the springy plastic normally hiding beneath the key. Second, my keystroke isn't always noticed by the computer, so I have to keep going back to fix errors.

I guess I should be happy that she only popped the keys off; she didn't eat them.

Inconvenienced

2010-09-14T21:32:00.002-04:00

Our 15-year-old oven has been malfunctioning for quite a few months now. When you start it up, the element doesn't always switch on. For a while, we could get it to reset and work for a while. Eventually, though, it turned into a situation where you have to bake fast because it might not cycle on again to maintain temperature.

Well, during the height of summer, not having an oven wasn't so bad. It was too hot for hours-long oven usage.

I finally broke down and called a repairman.

After arriving two hours later than his promised time slot, he gave me the bad news: $440.00 plus tax. Ouch. It's going to take several days for the part to arrive. Yep, I said "part." ONE PART for $440.

The first thing I'm baking when it's up and running is a batch of chocolate chip cookies. That might take the sting away.

Hair - Left High and Dry

2010-08-27T09:30:00.005-04:00

I called to set up a hair cut this morning and was greeted with the last bit of news I wanted to hear. My favorite hairdresser has retired.

I can't find the post, but I know I've written before about how Mae is the only person in this world who cuts my hair in a way that looks good despite my wash-and-wear hair attitude. My hair is thick and wavy. Someone who knows how to work hair would love to have hair like mine. I don't know how to work hair. I never have, so I've tussled with it all my life.

She owned her own shop for years, and when her hairdresser daughter entered another line of work, she sold the shop and went into retirement. I spent months wandering from shop to shop, limiting each haidresser to only trimming my bangs as a trial run before allowing their shears to touch the rest of my hair. In all those months, I couldn't find one person worthy of cutting beyond my bangs.

When Mae came out of retirement to work three days a week for a well-established shop, my follicles rejoiced, and I've been content with my hair for the last decade or so.

We know that all good things eventually come to an end. Mae has once again retired. My selfish heart hopes that it's a brief hiatus, but the information they gave me on the phone leads me to believe otherwise.

I'm very thankful that Mae was available for Her Nibs' first haircut last month. I've been meaning to post these pictures for quite a while.

No, she didn't have much to trim, but Mae says a baby's hair grows in better when it's evenly trimmed. None of my kids had much hair to start with, but the older two have really nice hair now.

Her Nibs was so good. She wasn't scared or the least bit fussy. She's such a good baby!

And this is the post-haircut lollipop. She is the first of my three kids to not chew through the stick before finishing the candy.

Hatin' on Verizon

2010-08-25T11:41:00.002-04:00

I am forgetful. I think I may have mentioned that before..

Last month, I forgot to pay the Verizon bill. Yeah, I got letters and a phone call, and I put it off and forgot about it. They got nasty and restricted my services for the past-due payment.

With two kids living the tail end of summer vacation, I admit that I use the electronic baby-sitter a little too often when I hear whiny complaints of boredom. "Mom, I'm bored," was once effectively answered with, "Go clean your room," but they tired of that trick and so did I.

Aaaaaaaaanyway, I forgot to pay the bill, and on August 10, Verizon slapped me around for it by making sure I was trapped at home with whiny kids on a rainy day. In desperation, I paid the ransom.

Oh, hey... if you ever run into this situation, you need to pay the bill to the penny. There's no rounding of digits. If the bill is $179.48, rounding it up to $179.50 will make them put the money somewhere else and not restore your services. I still don't understand this flawed logic, but sometimes Verizon really sucks.

I rounded the pennies and got rewarded with an extra four hours of waiting for my services to come back.

And, now, the reason for this post.

I turn on the TV and nothing happens. The clock on the cable box isn't working, either. It turns out that I had another bill come due and they restricted me again. COME ON!! I just paid you boneheads a fat chunk of money two weeks ago! The woman on the phone gave me some highly-inaccurate song and dance about the bill spanning three months (bunch of snot, I tell you) and that I had to pay the full amount due.

Yeah, I paid them. But I'm really pissed about it. They're not my only utility!

A Wake-Up Call

2010-08-10T17:59:00.002-04:00

The last few days have been a little bit challenging. My FIL is going through some medical stuff that slammed home the issue of "what do we do with mom?" Fortunately, FIL's issues aren't life threatening, just very painful and require a fair amount of wait and see. It also meant spending a decent amount of time at my in-laws' house keeping grandma company.

Clearly, we need to have a backup plan when this kind of stuff comes about.

Yeah, I'm here.

2010-08-03T16:12:00.002-04:00

I just haven't had much of a desire to blog. I haven't had much time, either.

I miss my dog.

The convenience-store job is good. It's hard work, though, and timing is everything. I've never been much good with time management and that makes things difficult for me. Certain things need to be done at certain times. I think I'm going along just fine, but when something goes awry I'm scrambling.

As the third-shift food-service person, I not only make sandwiches, slice cold cuts, and fill hot-food orders on request, I have to check every scrap of food in my section to make sure it's within its codes for timely consumption. If something hot is going to expire or run out, I need to anticipate the need and get more going so I don't run out. The hot food comes premade and frozen, so it needs an hour in the rethermalizer to come to temperature before I can put it out. I suck at anticipating what I'm going to need. Customers use touch screens to place their orders, and I have to keep those menus current as well.

I rotate out all the stale rolls and put up fresh ones, not only in the loose-roll cases for customers, but in all the sandwich stations. Ditto for the doughnut case. I also have the absurd task of prepacking cookies and pretzels for impulse sale at the register. (I never get this done quickly. I start as soon as it's delivered, but I keep getting pulled away from it to fill customer orders or do other things on schedule. I hate those things!)

Coffee has to be made and kept fresh 'round the clock. We don't have every pot running; we keep roughly half of them going through the night. It doesn't take long, but it's a time suck all the same.

From the minute I walk in the door, I'm making food. I never knew how many people ate late at night. The after-hours cleaning service closes shop at midnight, and all those guys come in hungry. The bars close at 2:00, and there's a stampede of hungry drunks for the next thirty to forty minutes. Spattered throughout is a steady flow of emergency-services folks grabbing what they can when time allows.

By 3:15 a.m., all of the hot food for the start of the morning rush has to be in the rethermalizers and put up on the steam table an hour later.

By 4:30 a.m., every coffee pot has to be filled and ready to go.

By 5:00 a.m., breakfast sandwiches have to be cooked and boxed and in the cases. I have to keep that stuff replenished until the person who mans that station comes in at 6:00 a.m.

From 6:00 to the time I leave, I must not only keep doing all the stuff I listed above, I still need to sweep the floor, wash all my dishes, and clean the deli slicer.

Oh, and then there's spoilage. Everything I discard during my shift has to be logged and entered into their computer system. You can't just chuck a panful of chili. You have to count each measure you discard. Every roll, bagel, and croissant is counted and tallied.

I haven't clocked out on time yet. The Oracle hasn't been on time for work since I started.

And I thought staying awake all night would be difficult. Ha! The difficult thing is finding a minute to use the restroom.

Farewell, Duchess.

2010-07-11T17:09:00.005-04:00

My poor Shedder. My poor, poor Shedder.

You're getting the Reader's Digest version simply because I can't dwell on the subject for too long. It just hurts too much.

Despite the anti-inflammatory the vet gave her last week for the arthritis in her knees, the denervation to her legs was rapidly progressing. We figured we'd be lucky if she made it to autumn.

Well, anyway, on Friday night she seemed to be in a fair amount of distress. She hadn't eaten breakfast and her symptoms were similar to what she suffered when she ate stupid stuff like pine cones and Barbie clothes, so I wrongly assumed that she'd eaten something inedible and simply needed time for her stomach to work itself out by sunrise.

The thing is, her stomach distress was so bad she couldn't walk at all. She normally had difficulty moving during these episodes, but it was never this bad. I had to support her hind end to help her negotiate the yard to pee, an unsuccessful folly, but I tried. I called the vet's office before leaving for work and left a message requesting a first-thing appointment for Saturday morning.

The mind is a strange thing. I left work at 7:15 a.m., and as I turned onto our street and into the drive, I thought, "I'm coming home to a dead dog." When there was no "woof" as I put the key in the lock, I knew I wouldn't find her on the sofa where she shouldn't be. The house was too quiet. I found her in the kitchen instead.

When I talked with E. yesterday afternoon, she said it sounded like Bloat, and the symptoms she'd had a number of times over the last four or five years were probably the same thing, just not at a fatal level, perhaps a partial fold or turn of the stomach instead of a full twist. Aaagh. If it's possible to feel worse, I do. My brain is swirling with could've-should'ves.

God, this really hurts. I miss her big brown eyes and her soft fuzzy ears.

Hooray for Independence Day!

2010-07-05T11:31:00.004-04:00

We went to E's house yesterday for a maaaahhhvelous picnic. I worked midnight shift at the convenience store, stopped for Sunday mass, and arrived home at 8:30 a.m.

Before crawling into bed (leaving strict instructions for The Oracle to wake me no later than 11:00), I assembled the cole slaw I was taking along.

I vaguely remember The Oracle coming into the bedroom to wake me. I was sooooooo tired, because my planned nap before work was destroyed by my neighbor's premature fireworks display. Normally I don't mind fireworks. I'm not the poopy-headed neighbor who's going to call the cops when someone has a backyard display. What made last night's display annoying was that it was not only a day early, but the kids flat-out refused to go to bed. The Oracle and I spent the better part of an hour trying to get their butts to bed, and I lost an hour of precious sleep.

I lost the remainder of it because I was simply too aggravated to drift off. I hate that. I simply waited there with my eyes shut and my back to the clock until The Oracle told me it was time to get up. Drat.

So, anyway, I was sleepy. And, once again, with all of our running around to get ready for E's, we were -- once again -- over an hour late. And since we were an hour late, the food we were supposed to supply was also an hour late.

And as I voiced my regrets over going to mass and falling asleep, E simply said, "you took care of your spirit and took care of your body."

And that's why I'd never swap her friendship for anything in this world.

New Tricks for an Older Dog

2010-06-22T23:12:00.003-04:00

Today was my first hands-on day at my new convenience-store job. I had a two-hour orientation last Thursday which amounted to a detailed tour of the facility.

Of the five hours I worked today, three were spent in front of the computer viewing several training videos. I was relieved to see that the videos were actually well made and not the torturous swill that I'd viewed in many training sessions with 9-1-1 or EMT class on a variety of subjects.

The room in which the computer was located was rather frigid. As one who is first to overheat and perspire, I'm okay with that. Today, however, after three hours and no feeling left in my butt, I was reduced to shivers and chattering teeth. I was grateful for hot soup on a 95-degree day.

Immediately after, I took my quiz on store safety. The only question I missed was the location of the designated employee smoking areas, something -- as a nonsmoker -- I admit I ignored during orientation.

Today's hands-on training surrounded the store's knife-handling and deli-slicer certifications. It's weird having to re-learn something after doing it your way for twenty years.

When it came to the slicer, I gained a whole new respect for those folks behind the counter at the supermarket. I had a horrid time trying to make my left hand keep pace with the stuff coming off the blade. My product didn't come out in neat little stacks as I thought it should. It was haphazard and crooked, and the manager quickly "prettied up" the customer's purchases before weighing, bagging, and tagging them.

All in all, it was a fun day despite feeling like I'll never remember it all.

When I go in Thursday, I'll be making coffee!

"Clique-ish Little Girls...

2010-06-15T17:14:00.002-04:00

...Meet Mama Bear" will be coming to theatres soon if I don't get my ire under control.

Poor Precious Daughter. There are two girls roughly her age all within a half block of our house. Well, actually, there's a bunch, but most of them are a bit older and, therefore, better than Precious Daughter and these two other girls.

Girl H. lives on our street. She's a really nice kid, and I get along well with her mom. H. is the youngest of the three. As a result, she's easily influenced by Girl B. (aka the Blonde-haired girl, Precious Daughter's one-time best friend.)

I say "one time" because Girl B. and Precious Daughter had a bit of a falling out over an incident which stemmed from a lovely afternoon where the two girls went for a walk. The deal was that they were to go around the block only, and they were to stick together. A short while after they leave, Precious Daughter comes home crying without Girl B. Long story short, Girl B. met up with one of the above-referenced older girls who coerced her into poking about for lost balls in the golf course bordering our neighborhood. Precious Daughter, knowing she wasn't permitted to go there, came home instead. When I grilled her as to the whereabouts of Girl B., she told me. I, Evil Mom, called Girl B.'s father and let him know where his daugher was and why Precious Daughter came home without her.

Ever since, Girl B. has been in a snit because she knew she wasn't permitted in the golf course but went there anyway. She blames Precious Daughter for the grounding she got for her misbehavior.

Today, Girls H. and B. get off the bus and head to H.'s house. Precious Daughter wants to catch up to them, and they ran away from her. Once again, Precious Daughter comes home crying.

Now, what I really want to do is loon on this snot-nosed Girl B., because I know she's the one that instigated the running away that hurt my baby's feelings. Precious Daughter and Girl H. get along just fine.

Instead, I'm trying to channel my mother. I know she'd have an excellent way to remedy the situation without alienating Girl H.

Mom? You there?

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2010-06-15T11:35:00.002-04:00

What the heck? How did it get to be so long since I last posted?

It's been goofy around here. My deposition dry spell finally brought us to the now-or-never breaking point, so I applied for and was hired by a local convenience-store chain to work their 11-7 shift. It's not what I want to do for a living, but putting Her Nibs in day care makes me nauseous. I'm sure a day-care center would take care of her and keep her safe, but the thought of someone else savoring all of those delicious baby moments -- instead of me -- makes me sad.

The store manager is at least ten years my junior, but she seems to be sensible. She only lost a few points when she brought that difference to the forefront by commenting, "You worked for Clover? My mom used to take me there!" I guess I should be thankful that she at least heard of them.

I seriously considered a return to my old job with 9-1-1, but I really don't know whether I'm emotionally prepared for that. First, their twelve-hour shifts would seriously hinder The Oracle's seasonal basketball schedule; second, I'll probably end up being fired for refusing to work their forced overtime.

The Oracle has also a couple of career-related speed bumps ahead. He is contracted through his employer to his current company, and after ten years of a happy relationship in his position, the company selected a different firm for its staffing. Whether the new firm will hire The Oracle and his peers remains to be seen. This has me extremely nervous, and it's another reason why I applied for the convenience-store job. I figure that, if nothing else, we'll obtain health insurance in 60 days.

How did it get to be almost Father's Day? In my infinite, impulsive, lack of wisdom, I decided to invite the family for dinner on Sunday. So, instead of crisis cleaning to prepare for guests, I'm sitting her posting on Blogger. I am clearly a woman of skewed priorities.

Knucklehead is still going along. She's very wobbly in her hindquarters, but she's showing no signs of pain or discomfort. It's like she doesn't even realize it's happening. As long as she's continent, I think she'll get along fine.

My kids' school year is almost at an end. Their last day is Thursday. We'll have a ten-day lag between the end of school and the beginning of summer camp and the new set of complaints that will surely come with it.

And now it's time to pick the kids up from school. I hope to write more soon.

Baloney!!!

2010-05-26T14:08:00.003-04:00

I'm sorry. I haven't visited much in recent weeks. I'm not particularly busy, but I haven't had a lot of computer time, either. Get in, check email, check CrackBook, edit a little, get out.

Thankfully, I have had a few jobs over the last couple of weeks. Small jobs, but I'll take any work I can get.

Something in our house smells really bad. It smells like old balogna. I have a bad feeling that it actually is bologna, because I threw some stale stuff out a few days ago. Knucklehead may have filched it from the trash and buried it somewhere in the living room. It's not uncommon to find chunks of stale Italian bread stuffed down the sofa cushions or buried in the laundry. Goofy dog.

My poor goofy dog. There's definitely something in the works (or not working) with her hindquarters. She's showing definite signs of weakness in her stance and her gait. Thankfully, she's not showing signs of pain. Unfortunately, getting her to the vet isn't an option because, quite frankly, the money isn't there. It sucks. The vet's office used to work with customers a bit, allowing customers to pay bits at a time - especially for surgeries and other costly things - but they no longer do that. I guess he's been burned quite a bit and can't do that any more.

The school year's coming to a close. The kids' last full day is 6/10, and they have half days through 6/17. They'll have ten days off before starting a summer day camp on 6/28. (I wish I'd fully understood the depth of the dog's issues before signing them up for camp last March.)

Precious Daughter is mightily protesting the camp. "Camp sounds booooor-ing," she says. Boring? I think not. Tennis, basketball, swimming, and crafts are just the tip of the iceberg. She still balked. I told her I wasn't going to let her spend another summer parked in front of the TV whining about how bored she is.

Mighty B. has another baseball game tonight. I'm not looking forward to providing snacks, mainly because I never got anyone signed up for it. (For all the good it does, since last week's parent dropped the ball.) If I do this snack-organizing thing next year, I think I'm going to take up a collection from all the parents and just buy a season's worth of juice pouches and cookies and bring them myself each week.

B. also has a make-up game tomorrow night. He's going to be one tired and ornery bear on Friday morning.

I'm sorry for being such a pessimist today. Hopefully my next post, whenever it comes, will have a happier tone. I hope all of you are well!

Yeah, I know. I'm a slug. I have pictures on the camera and haven't uploaded anything to here or FB. I will. Eventually.

Happy Mothers' Day!

2010-05-09T23:44:00.004-04:00

Yes, I know, there are only 16 minutes remaining, but it's been a busy day. This is my first opportunity to put my feet up and surf a little bit.

Saturday was a first for me. The Home & School Association held a Mothers' Day plant sale on Friday. My kids came home with a lovely selection of flowers that needed to be planted, and I decided that I wasn't going to put them in large pots as I had in years past. Thanks to the help of a local garden shop (the same, in fact, that supplied the flowers for the H&S sale), I actually dug out a spot at the base of our lamppost, and Mighty B. helped me plant everything Saturday morning. It looks really nice.

Yes, I could have used the biiiiig flower beds on the side of the house or in the front yard, the ones I've been working on, but it seemed silly to plant eleven little plants in such a huge space. And I've been wanting something by the lamppost for a while.

I just hope that they don't freeze tonight. And I hope Knucklehead doesn't trample them. She's already run through the bed twice, kicking up mulch. Oh. She buried one of my gardening gloves too. I can't find it anywhere. I just hope it's not under the flowers.

The second grade at the kids' school celebrated First Holy Communion yesterday. Today, all the kids were asked to return in their Communion clothes for the 9:00 a.m. mass, and we served goodies to the kids and their parents in the church hall afterward. Tradition has it that the first-grade parents help with the reception, since our kids will be making this sacrament next year.

My job was to pick up sticky buns, two big boxes each containing a 24 x 36 sheet of sticky buns. Lordy, they smelled divine. They were decorated with white, pink, and blue frosting (gurk!). Why, oh why, do you feed a bunch of eight-year-old children dressed in expensive all white clothing pink and blue frosting?

The frosting was a good thing for me, though, because it kept me from eating the sticky buns. (It did not, however, stop me from buying a butter cake while I was in the bakery. It's probably the best butter cake we've ever eaten.)

In the afternoon, we made dinner for my in-laws. Yeah, I know. People say I shouldn't have to cook on Mothers' Day. It wasn't actually planned as a Mothers' Day dinner. The Oracle and my FIL wanted to talk some stuff over, and I offered dinner as a way to make that happen. During the week it's too crazy and he doesn't get a chance to stop by their house. Anyway, I love to cook. I like it much better than housework. Much to my relief, The Oracle handled the bulk of the crisis cleaning while I was at the church. AND he peeled the potatoes. I hate peeling potatoes. If I could get away with mashing 'em with the skins on, I would. My in-laws brought lemon meringue and apple crumb pies for dessert. YUM!!!

In addition to the flowers from the plant sale, my kids treated me to the neatest stuff.

Mighty B. painted a heart-shaped wooden pin and decorated it with foam stickers. He also made a card and a little booklet outlining my (his?) favorite recipe and a booklet of coupons for things like setting the table and picking up without being asked. (Of course, if I present the coupon, doesn't that mean I'm asking him to do it?) He made all this cool stuff in school.

Precious Daughter also made a card ("Mom, U rock!"), and in her class she made a "snow globe." It's a 16 oz. plastic bottle of water heavily dosed with multicolored glitter. Inside is a laminated picture of Precious Daughter. It's really cool, but there's something weird about shaking my daughter upside-down to swirl the glitter around.

All in all, it was a fun day.

Punctuation Vent

2010-05-04T08:45:00.011-04:00

I've noticed that when I start going stir crazy, it's due in part to an astonishing lack of leisure reading. You'd think I'd get my share with all the books my kids read, because I make sure to read everything they do. Now that they're getting older, the selection is getting better. I just finished Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

Anyway, I've started reading Dark of the Moon by John Sandford. Several years ago, E introduced me to John Sandford and the Prey novels and I really enjoyed them. I have, however, lost complete track of which ones I've read, and he's written a number of them since I fell out of the Sandford habit. I need to do some homework before signing out another, because nothing irks me more than tucking into what I think is a new (to me) book and discovering that I already know the ending.

So, anyway, Dark of the Moon isn't part of the Prey series, but it branched off Prey and became another series all its own. I didn't know that, either, but I'll get over it. I like to read a series in order because the later stories tend to reference the former, and I hate having a surprise spoiled.

I'm anal retentive with commas and punctuation. I have to be in my line of work. If you sent me a letter with misplaced commas and such, I really don't care. You're taking the time to write me, and I'm happy for it. I know I'm miles away from perfect on this blog, too. It's hard to catch mistakes when you're nose is in it from beginning to end, but I'm not paying for someone to proofread my blog, and I'm not making anyone pay to read it. I think it matters when people are paying for what you've written, whether it's a lawyer paying for my transcripts or an author charging for his novels.

Sandford, in my opinion, needs to slap his editor or his proofreader or whoever it is that allowed this book to reach the store shelves. If he insisted on publishing exactly what I'm reading, then HE needs to be slapped. I'm barely sixty pages into it, and my eyes hurt from all the comma oddities.

Let's have a grammar lesson, shall we?

Sentences involve two types of clauses, the dependent clause and the independent clause.

The independent clause is exactly that. It's independent. It is complete with a subject and a verb. "I went to the store." It can stand on its own as a sentence or be joined to another with a comma followed by a coordinating conjuction (, and) or by use of a semicolon (;).

A dependent clause is one that is not complete. It needs something to finish it off. It has to depend on something else to make it whole. "Before I went swimming." Please read that aloud. It feels unfinished, doesn't it? Before you went swimming...what? What did you do? The thought is incomplete.

(Bear with me. We're getting close to why I'm so annoyed and why I can't read another page of this novel until I get this out of my system.)

Using my sample phrases, you may or may not use a comma to join them together and make a complete sentence.

"I went to the store before I went swimming." No comma required.
"Before I went swimming, I went to the store." Comma required.

DO NOT write, "I went to the store, before I went swimming" unless you plan to add more information. "I went to the store, before I went swimming, and bought a bottle of waterproof sunscreen."

In this case, "before I went swimming" is bracketed by commas because it's information that's not essential to the sentence "I went to the store and bought a bottle of sunscreen." You can pluck out that clause between the commas and still have a grammatically-correct sentence.

So, why is John Sandford's book driving me crazy?

I busted him for robbery, when I was a deputy. This one is simple. Dump the comma and it's fine.
Her name is Margaret Laymon and she called me up, about five minutes ago. This one is really irksome. When two independent clauses are separated by a coordinating conjunction (and, but, or, for, no, so, yet), a comma is placed before the conjunction. The rule isn't hard and fast. If the clauses are short, you can drop the comma. Her name is Margaret Laymon and she called me up. That's fine until you reach "about five minutes ago." Now it's a long clause and needs a comma, and that comma belongs before "and." Her name is Margarget Laymon, and she called me up about five minutes ago.
Yes, and he's got several parcels of good land down south of here, that'll be a nice chunk of cash. "That'll be a nice chunk of cash" has no business being tied to that sentence with only a comma and no conjunction. It either needs to stand on its own as a separate sentence or be joined with a semicolon. Yes, and he's got several parcels of good land down south of here; that'll be a nice chunk of cash.
The creeks and ditches sometimes collected into larger streams, usually a snaky line of oxbows cut a few dozen feet deep in the soil; and sometimes into marshes or shallow lakes. This one is like skewers to my eyeballs. I understand that the effort is to describe the larger streams as "oxbows," and the clause running from "usually" to "soil" isn't critical to the sentence. The creeks and ditches sometimes collected into larger streams and sometimes into marshes or shallow lakes. I simply don't "get" what that semicolon is for. My senses tell me it should be a comma. If you're really worried about confusing your reader with all those commas, you can use dashes. The creeks and ditches sometimes collected into larger streams -- usually a snaky line of oxbows cut a few dozen feet deep in the soil -- and sometimes into marshes or shallow lakes.

Ahhhhhh, that's better. Thank you. Maybe I'll be able to enjoy the next sixty pages this book instead of getting constantly poked in the eye with crappy punctuation.

Eggs

2010-05-02T08:13:00.002-04:00

This post by E triggered a few thoughts, and since I've neglected my blog so badly I thought they'd be worth sharing. (Shoot, anything that gets me here and writing is probably worth sharing.)

In the mid '90s, I worked at a business that sold freshly-made pasta. Their pasta was wonderfully light, and that lightness was due to the dozens of eggs that went into each batch of pasta. E mentions that double-yolked eggs are an unusual occurrence. I guess they are, but we got plenty of them at the pasta place. I guess they weigh in differently or something, and that's how they get boxed up for foodservice use.

Whenever I can, I prefer to buy organic eggs. One afternoon, I approach the dairy section and am dismayed to see a slightly disheveled-looking man poking about in several opened boxes of organic eggs. This really annoyed me, because I didn't want some stranger's hands in what could be my box of eggs. Yeah, I know, several people had already handled them before they wound up in their little cardboard box.

I asked him what he was doing. It seems he was perplexed by the many different shades of brown in the organic egg boxes, and he was trying to find a box with eggs that were all the same color.

Ummm...

Just Me, Myself, and I

2010-04-27T08:18:00.003-04:00

Every morning, The Oracle is the first to rise. He has his breakfast and nudges me awake just before he gets into the shower. On a good day, I stumble out to the kitchen and prepare lunches, periodically wearing a path from the kitchen to the kids' rooms to rouse them for school and check on their progress. It's a frustrating thing to spend ten minutes in the kitchen only to find them in exactly the same position ten minutes later. Once The Oracle finishes showering, he enters the nag fest. Every morning he winds up taking a train later than the one he's supposed to catch at 7:20.

On a not-so-good day, I fall back to sleep and end up with a justifiably-snappish Oracle when he gets out of the shower, because everybody's going to be late, not just him.

I gleefully stuff the kids onto the bus at 7:45 and thank Heaven all that nonsense is over; by 1:30 I miss them and want them to come home, and I spend the next ninety minutes watch the clock and listening for the bus. I fight the temptation to sign them out early.
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I'm turning into my mother. We all knew that would happen, right? Last night was just another symptom in a long string of habits I've developed. I got the notion to bake a loaf of bread. I tried it the other day and it didn't rise (The yeast might've been too old despite the expiration date) and I was annoyed about that, so I had to try again. I took it out of the oven at 1:00 this morning. The house smelled wonderful.

Anyway, my mother used to do this stuff all the time. She was a chronic insomniac; she also smoked. (And a long string of stuff leads me to believe she probably had Fibromyalgia, but that'll take too long here.) When she couldn't sleep, she'd sit at her countertop "throne" and watch a late-late-late movie. If she woke up for a cigarette, she never gave in to the temptation to have a smoke in bed and wandered out to the kitchen for her dose of nicotine. Either way, when she found herself in the kitchen, her fingers itched for something to do, and that something logically surrounded cooking. She loved to cook, and I often woke to wonderful smells in the house. Once she woke me up with a plate of warm cookies under my nose.
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Her Nibs was up rather late last night. She didn't go to bed until 11:00, and she only went because I put her in her crib and shut the door. Even she knew she was pooped, I think, because she only chatted with her stuffed monkey for a minute before collapsing in exhaustion. She barely moved from where I found when I went to bed last night. She hadn't even kicked the covers off her legs. She's all peaceful and mushy-looking, and I want to hug her, but I don't want to disturb her, either.
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Last week, I started taking daily morning walks with two other mommies in my neighborhood. One does most of the talking and I really don't mind since I don't know her that well. She b---hes about her husband sometimes and that makes me appreciate mine. Today, however, I'm missing my morning walk because her Nibs is still asleep. The mommies take four laps by my house, so I'm hoping she'll wake up and I can jump in for at least a partial walk. Is that selfish?
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Really, mornings like this are rare. It's just me and the Knucklehead (who is very wet from rolling in God knows what - ick) and my coffee. I actually get to enjoy my coffee semi hot for once.
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A friend of mine is having some tests done over the next couple weeks; please please please say a few prayers or send some good karma or positive thoughts for clean, benign results. Thank you.
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I miss my friends. I haven't seen E in ages. It's been even longer since I've seen M or S, and I'm starting to feel a little stir crazy. I think this is one reason why I spend so much time on CrackBook. It gives me a sense of connection with my friends when I don't have a physical one. Still, nothing beats face-to-face conversation, and for that I'm downright starved. If it weren't for The Oracle and my morning walks with my neighbors, I'd be locked up somewhere for talking to myself too much.
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I haven't had a deposition in nearly three weeks. The last deposition prior to that was in February. This ain't no way to supplement the household income. As a result, I've been looking for some third-shift work close to home. It's surprising to see how little of that there is.

Why third shift? Because I won't need baby-sitters, and if I actually DO have a deposition I can still take the work. Court reporting is where I want to be, and my family has sacrificed a lot for me to have it.

I have my eye on a prolific convenience-store chain (way to aim high!), and I'm hoping they come through. I've applied for some other stuff, too. Wish me luck.
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Oooooh! Her Nibs is awake!! I love it best when my kids are fresh out of bed.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

2010-04-14T14:34:00.006-04:00

I have so much to do and so little ambition.

The houses in my neighborhood were built with two traditional areas for flower beds. One is along the side of the garage, and the other occupies a large amount of square footage in front of the house. Our property is on a hill, so there's even a stone retaining wall that wraps around the flower bed to the side of the house.

My flower beds are weed beds. When it comes to the great outdoors, I have no gardening knowledge or skill. It shows, too. My flower beds don't contain flowers. They contain weeds. Lots and lots of weeds in varying sizes, colors, and unpleasantness.

Two weeks ago, I ordered 3.5 cubic yards of mulch. I tackled the "easy" weed bed which had been professionally cleared five or six years ago and covered with weed barrier and mulch. In our typical fashion, we never bought more mulch and the weeds took hold and took over. I cleared it out, laid more barrier, and shucked several loads of mulch to the bed with the wheelbarrow.

The weed-bed by the garage all but cries out for attention. A number of years back -- prior to the professionals doing the other -- we put down a layer of weed barrier and I-can't-remember-how-many pounds of stone. It wasn't quite enough to do the job, but one thing led to another and we never looked back. The weeds -- shockingly enough -- returned.

Our grand idea is to take out the stone and use it around the air conditioner instead. It's a smaller area and can be generously covered with the stone we have, and covered deeply enough to keep the stupid weeds at bay.

So I started trying to remove the stone. What a joke. They're a bit too small to scrape out with a rake, and the rake snags on the weed barrier. We don't have a hoe. My only other tool is a shovel with a short handle. I can't dig down or the shovel snags on the weed barrier which is still in surprsingly good condition. It's years of dirt that blew into the stones that hosted all the weeds. Oh, and they grew up between where the sheets of barrier overlapped but I ran out of the spikes intended to hold it down.

Aaaaanyway, I can't stand up straight to shovel, so I have to hunch over and scrape the stones off with the shovel nearly parallell to the ground. The blade of the shovel is narrow and doesn't hold much. The work takes forever. My back and shoulders and hamstrings hurt from hunching over. Waaaah.

When I mulched the easy weed bed, I got the brilliant idea to use some of the stones to edge an area of mulch that has no wall. The problem is that the stones are full of dirt and weeds, and I don't want to go polluting my freshly-mulched bed with weeds from the garage.

I know! I'll just rinse the dirt off the stones!

Easier said than done, but through lots of trial and error and lots more water, I managed to get the worst of the garbage out of the stones. I quit for the day and go inside.

I haven't been back out to work on it since, and it's been nearly two weeks. Weeds are growing out of the rocks piled on the pathway that leads to the backyard, and water is puddling in the tarp beneath the mulch. I need to get it out of there before it starts breeding mosquitoes.

But, ugh, I have no motivation.

Happy Belated Easter!

2010-04-07T14:40:00.002-04:00

There really isn't much to report in PB and Bacon Land. My kids were shorted a day and a half from their Easter break because the school district used too many unnecessary snow days. Normally the kids enjoy a half day Wednesday, they're off Holy Thursday and Good Friday, and then they're off Easter Monday as well.

This year, the Wednesday was a full day and school resumed Monday. Judging by the population on the school bus we missed Monday morning, a lot of parents didn't know this or a lot of kids -- not just mine -- overslept.

One notable tidbit is that I escaped the tedium of dyeing eggs this year. I mean, I like to dye eggs and so do the kids, but I hate what happens after.

You see, my kids not only must color at least six eggs each (gotta have one of every color), they stake a claim on their artistic labors. Nobody in this house eats hard-cooked eggs except me, but I am not allowed to eat their dyed eggs. If I do, they scream like I'm devouring a beloved family pet.

Last Easter, I smuggled a few of the eggs out the door to my FIL, who also likes a little egg salad once in a while, and I was given the Third Degree when the eggs' absence was discovered the next day. I had the nerve to eat one for lunch and was harrassed so badly that I let the others rot in the fridge until they were forgotten (Independence Day) and discarded them.

This year, my kids wanted to dye eggs, but guess what!!?? The Oracle had the car, and I had no dye!! (cue: evil laughter) We'll skip over the part where I probably could have adapted my paste colors for frosting to dyeing eggs, but they didn't ask, and I didn't offer.

What's even more remarkable is that nobody noticed. On Sunday night, Precious Daughter casually mentioned, "Hey, we didn't dye any eggs this year." Mighty B. didn't even flinch.

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

2010-04-02T13:20:00.003-04:00

An old friend of mine blogged this article. I simply had to share even though I'm pretty sure that on this blog I'm "preaching to the choir."

An Alarming Commercial

2010-03-24T13:42:00.004-04:00

I think most of us have seen the recent flurry of home-security commercials from a nationwide alarm company.

The scenario is the same: The opening scene shows a woman either entering an empty house or is already home alone. She actaully remembers to set the alarm system upon entering the house as soon as she gets inside. It's a good thing, too, because all along she's been stalked by a hoodie-wearing marauder who kicks in the front door (sometimes in broad daylight) before she has a chance to put down her stuff.

The countless sterotypes are hilariously outlined in this Youtube link by Current TV, but my question surrounds something else. In nearly every one of these commercials, the home-alone victim beats feet upstairs to the second floor.

Why? Isn't the math obvious? Running upstairs = cornered.

Maybe she's hoping she can get enough info to the Security Company Guy before the brazen, door-kicking sociopath strangles her with the telephone cord, or she's running for that double-barrelled shotgun stashed in the hall closet.

(If the sociopath is brazen enough to kick in your door in broad daylight, is a noisemaker going to stop him? Statistics might be on his side when you consider the number of times your neighbor's alarm sounded off and you dismissed it as an annoyance. )

In most horror stories -- unlike these happy-ending commercials -- the victim trips on the stairs, finds the closet door locked, the phone doesn't work, and she's forced to scurry to the bathroom and lock herself inside.

We all know how effective that is!

Maybe if you actually live in an area where an alarm is not a nuisance and your police arrives within moments, staying home is wise. If you're at the mercy of the sheriff's deputy who has a fifteen-minute drive to your house, I don't think sticking around is such a good idea.

Rise and Shine!

2010-03-22T10:03:00.002-04:00

When they were babies, each of my kids had their own way of letting me know they were awake in the morning and ready to escape the confines of their cribs.

Precious Daughter used to slam her heels into the mattress.

Mighty B. would stand up, hold the side rail, and bounce on the mattress for all he was worth. I sincerely feared he'd flip himself over the rail onto the floor.

Her Nibs stands up, holds the side rail, and shimmies her butt back and forth to thump the side of the crib against the wall.

It's a wonder that crib hasn't collapsed from the abuse.

These Boots Were Made for Walkin'

2010-03-19T16:31:00.003-04:00

It's one of those baby milestones. I took Her Nibs to the local shoe store and had her fitted for a pair of the classic leather baby shoes. Like her big sister, she waited 13 months before giving two-legged travel a try.

Yeah, they're kind of old-fashioned, but I've always loved the look of them. I still have Precious Daughter's and Mighty B.'s, but I doubt I'll have them bronzed. I'm just not that "together."

Nibs isn't quite walking yet. She's braved a step and a half between the Oracle and Me, but she hasn't tried going anywhere else without holding on. She let go of Precious Daughter's hands for minute, and big sister backed out of the picture.

Wait! You'll scuff the leather!

Please note: Her Nibs still has rubber-band wrists.

Well, I'm Glad THAT'S Over (Part III)

2010-03-18T11:53:00.001-04:00

What was in the car besides five people? Enough bedding, blankets, and comforters for the five of us; one load of laundry; one suitcase with changes of clothes; a DVD player and four movies; Her Nibs' pack-n-play, diapers, wipes, and changing pad; The Oracle's backpack; the kids' backpacks and lunch boxes; Leapsters, Polly Pockets, monster trucks, and other assorted toys they HAD to have for a one-night stay; our favorite coffee; the Nutella; and one two-pound package of meatball mix that was still mostly frozen. It was the only perishable food item that didn't perish. The Turtle was absolutely stuffed.

It takes us forever to unload the car. The kids are beside themselves with excitement. We're staying in my in-laws' basement rec-room with a pull-out sofa, a studio couch, and a Franklin stove. My FIL builds a small inferno and The Oracle fusses with the stovepipe which is slightly dented and leaking a fine, thin ribbon of smoke into the room. Within minutes, the room is sweltering and I'm sweating.

I make the pull-out for the kids, and through lots of nonsense we stuff them into the shower and pajamas. By now it's nearly 9:30, and it's going to be hard getting them up at 6:30 for school. While we needed the fireplace to warm up the basement, it's probably a huge mistake. The kids are too excited to sleep with the crackling fire and the big ticking clock. Mighty B. won't leave his sister alone and keeps bumping and poking at her. They're fighting over blankets and Precious daughter is drawing an imaginary do-not-cross-this line between the pillows with little effect. The Oracle and I are providing plenty of entertainment with getting the studio couch in order and keeping Her Nibs away from the stove. We ended up abandoning our preparations to hang out upstairs and hope their exhaustion takes over.

It's 11:30 before they're asleep, and now The Oracle and I are sneaking about in the dim firelight to make our bed, brush our teeth, and coax Her Nibs to sleep.

The Oracle crawls into bed while Her Nibs is wide awake. She wants no part of her pack-n-play. She wants the stove, and I'm sitting on a loveseat and letting her watch the blaze. Somewhere along the line, we both fell asleep, and I awaken at 1:30 a.m. with a stiff neck and my arm numb to the shoulder.

I deposit Her Nibs into her temporary bed, and I consider crawling in myself. Instead, I start thinking about the Shedder. We last saw the Shedder at 8:00 p.m., and I know full well that I won't return home until after 8:00 a.m. I wonder whether she can hold herself twelve hours even though I already know the answer. I know she'd try, but I don't think she can. From the way she's been dragging her hind legs these last few weeks, I suspect she's got some denervation going on.

I don my shoes, sneak out of the house, and drive home. The power is still out. Duchess is so excited to see me, and I feel like a heel for not staying. I admit I was tempted, but I knew Her Nibs wouldn't tolerate the hard play pen for long, and I didn't want her waking her siblings. I give Duchess clean water, a little belly-rub time, and I remember to grab The Oracle's uniform shirt for that evening's game before I drive back and crawl into bed at 2:30.

I can't sleep. My FIL has this large, antique time clock (like this one but a lot less brass) hanging on the rec-room wall. It really is an awesome piece, and I confess that I secretly lust for it as my own possession. (Guess that's not a secret any more.) When the house is quiet, you can hear it ticking upstairs. Now the house is quiet, but I'm less than five feet away from it, and the ticking resounds in my ears like the cadence from a snare drum. Thank God the thing doesn't chime, or I would have been able to mark my insomnia in quarter-hour increments.

Eventually, I do fall asleep, and I am predictably brought to wakefulness at 5:00 or so by the complaints of Her Nibs who is in an unfamiliar place on top of being chilly since the fire went out. We resume our arm-numbing position on the love seat and doze until the alarm goes off at 6:30.

Now the fun begins! Her Nibs is wide awake, and we start trying to rattle the older kids out of bed, doing everything but propping their eyeballs open with toothpicks. To their credit, they rise, eat breakfast, and get dressed for school without disturbing their grandparents. Her Nibs and I leave to take them to school.

The kids are ten minutes late, but they're there and that's all I care about. I stop at the house to make their lunches (PB&J) and take care of Duchess. The power is still out. On my way to the school, I'm thinking of Precious Daughter and how much she hates PB&J, and I feel guilty. Nibs and I stop at a nearby convenience store and add a Reese's egg to each lunch bag.

I get in and start the car and - WHAM! - somebody rear ended me. (so glad I was already in and not merely halfway!) The impact felt like a lot, but it didn't disturb a sleeping Nibs in her car seat, and there's no visible damage. The ditzy driver and I exchange information with my promise to contact her if any backup sensors or my exhaust system were damaged.

I drop off the lunches and realize I forgot my purse. I had promised The Oracle that I'd pick up a weekly train pass on the way and I couldn't. I'm three-quarters of the way back when he tells me he needs his work pass to get in the building as well as his ID for the game that evening. Once he's ready for work, we drive back to our house (the power is still out), get his passes, and I drop him off at the train station.

I was so sick of the car I could cry, but I wasn't finished yet. I still had a job interview twenty miles away at 2:00 p.m. By the time I drop The Oracle at the station, it's roughly 11:00 a.m. I return to my in-laws' to shower, feed Her Nibs, and get out the door by 12:45.

I never had time for lunch, so I grab a burger on the way, being careful not to dribble on my interview clothes. Why didn't I just get chicken pieces instead?

I arrive, and I'm happy to find a parking meter right by my destination. I'd worked for this employer before, so I knew how horrible the parking situation was. I ditch my sneakers to change into my pumps and get out of the car to feed the meter.

What's this?

My gait is all wonky because I'm wearing two different shoes. See, when I was poking around in the dark for a pair of black pumps, I grabbed one of each pair. Fortunately, they're nearly identical, spiky-heeled and pointy-toed and even the same brand, but one was two inches shorter than the other.

Having only fifteen minutes to spare and no time to go shoe shopping, I called The Oracle and had a good laugh instead. I did my best to walk evenly on my toes and keep one mismatched shoe out of sight at all times. I also suppressed the urge to brag about my stupidity - something I'm prone to do when embarrassed - but when converation turned to our bout of lousy weather, I casually mentioned our power being out and left it at that.

My FIL met the kids' school bus at 3:00 and spotted a power truck from a city over 300 miles away working on a transformer. He spoke with the driver who estimated the return of our power by 7:30 p.m.

We ate dinner with my in-laws. When I called home at 7:05 p.m., I was overjoyed to hear our answering machine. After dinner my FIL and I started loading the car. We had to pick The Oracle up from the basketball game first, though, so we didn't get home until after 10:00 p.m.

I had to pitch the entire contents of my fridge and freezers except a few condiments. It's a bit of a blessing, I guess, since I really need to scour one and defrost the other. I later learned that the electric company will reimburse for my lost groceries, but they pass the bill on to the neighbor who owned the downed tree. I think that's kind of crappy. The tree is one in a long line of trees running the length of the city line, and they're all in pretty sorry shape. Where the treeline passes along our yard, the property on the city side is watershed land owned by the water department. (In an interesting note, the water department is in charge of the creek, but the parks department handles the trees.) I called them today to have them inspect the trees because they're ancient and very unstable. One is clearly infested with carpenter ants, so the others probably are too.

It's three days later, and the kids are still "hung over" from not getting enough sleep. The Shedder is still clingy and insecure from being "abandoned" by her pack. I can't wait for the weekend!

Now, aren't you glad it's over?

I'm Glad THAT'S Over - Part II

2010-03-17T09:32:00.003-04:00

We park in the garage beneath the arena, and The Oracle goes inside to see if he can get tickets for us. We see other statisticians and their families waltzing about with passes around their necks, so we're thinking it won't be a problem. The kids and I are playing Red Light/Green Light as we wait. The Oracle returns with four tickets and we're good to go.

We have about forty minutes to kill before the game starts at 1:00, and the kids want to look around a bit before we eventually go inside. Precious Daughter and Mighty B. are starting to ask for lunch, so our plan is to get something to eat before taking our seats.

They scan our tickets -- No Re-entry! -- and we go upstairs. Our timing is good, with about five minutes to go before the National Anthem. After browbeating two overexcited kids to use the bathroom, we head for the concessions. Our choices are limited to pizza, hot dogs, and fried seafood. My weird kids don't eat pizza and are afraid of tasting fried seafood, so they settle on hot dogs. There's a big sign on the cash register announcing "cash only" for sales. The vendor tells me all of the vendors are cash only. He also said it wasn't their decision; the higher-ups decided it would go this way. He directs me to an ATM near where we entered the second floor.

I should point out that this arena is old, and it's purpose when constructed several decades ago had nothing to do with basketball. The basics have been retrofitted and remodeled for modern-day use and all-purpose function, but not in the realm of customer conveniences. The ATM in question was a temporary model, and it was sucked dry of cash probably as early as Friday's four-game marathon. A note taped to the screen directed users to the hotel next door.

The first thought to flash in my head was, "No Re-entry!" Now what are we supposed to do? The security guards are courteous and helpful despite helping countless others in the same plight, and through the rigmarole of stamping my hand and signing my tickets, I'm permitted to leave the arena without fear of "No Re-entry!"

Our little parade makes its way next door to discover that the only ATM I'm permitted to access in the hotel is out of order. It'll gleefully take my card and let me hit buttons, but the screen remains dark and I can only guess at what I'm doing.

Back out the door into the cold and damp, and we're walking to a mall that's another block or so away. Their ATM is offline.

Well, now, by this time, the kids are really hungry. My stomach is rather rumbly too. Hunger is the average suburban kid's greatest discomfort, so my kids believe that their misery is so acute they can't possibly walk another step. I remind them that they both had nice breakfasts -- nicer than usual thanks to our power outtage -- and can't resist telling them that there are plenty of kids in the world who didn't have breakfast at all. They responded by whining. I suggest that they'd have a lot more energy if they didn't waste it on complaining and Mommy wouldn't be such a grouch either.

Across the way I see another possibility, but it's not a kid-friendly establishment, and I'm told I am not permitted to bring my children inside.

I didn't mean to do it, but I whined. The man led us to the ATM.

Sixty dollars in hand (and a five dollar ATM fee!), we return to the arena. Precious and Mighty are practically staggering like refugees from the Sahara. Her Nibs' babblings have taken on a whiny tone, but I think her misery was due to being strapped down (first the car seat then the stroller) for nearly four hours. Past security, up the elevator, and we're facing the glory of food.

Our first stop is the candy counter. I normally wouldn't do things this way, but despite being whiny, they were well-behaved in the face of my snappish nagging to stay together, keep up, and keep moving. The candy is a mix-and-match plethora of sugary goodness at an astonishing $4 per quarter pound. Precious Daughter gets Reese's Pieces and red Swedish fish. Mighty B. chooses gummy worms and the larger Swedish fish in assorted colors. At the last minute I went with black licorice bites. Yeah, it spikes your blood pressure, and I'm sure the day's aggravation already gave it a boost, but I felt entitled.

Precious Daughter wants a bag of roasted peanuts, too.

Finally, we're in line for lunch. Hot dogs and chips for the kids, fried shrimp for me. With beverages it comes to a whopping $27. I'd already blown $15 on peanuts and candy. Sheesh! I was under the delusion that my $60 might include a little souvenir for the kids.

By the time we get to our seats, it's halftime, which means we spent an hour wandering about in search of money, and I'm amazed that I didn't bite off anyone's head the whole time. Security is once again very helpful, staying with Her Nibs in the stroller while I shuttle kids, food, beverages, and eventually Her Nibs back and forth. By the time I take my seat, halftime is half over.

The chips that came with the hot dog are "crab flavored." The kids are horrified and won't touch them. Precious daughter does not like her hot dog, but being a meanie-grouch mom, I refuse to buy anything else. I offer her some of my fried shrimp, and she refuses. She feasts on peanuts, candy, and root beer. Mighty B. downs his hot dog and his sister's. My stomach is roiling at their culinary indulgences, but they were good through the ATM ordeal and I say nothing. Her Nibs wants to try shrimp, but she hasn't tasted any shellfish yet, and I'm not willing to experiment in a crowded arena with the luck we're having this weekend. She eats the goodies I had stashed in my purse and she's happy.

My fried shrimp were excellent, by the way. The vendor is a well-known seafood restaurant in the region or I never would have ordered them in the first place. Even then, I half expected rubbery, overcooked, greasy shrimp simply because it's a temporary fast-food setup. But, I was hungry, didn't want a hot dog, and didn't want to wait (or make the kids wait) in another line to get pizza. For once, my impatience paid off. They were plentiful perfectly-fried shrimp. Precious Daughter missed out on a good thing.

The second half of the game was really good. The kids even got into it. Nobody whined about being bored and wanting to take a walk, and the team we were rooting for won the conference title. After the Oracle finished adding up the scorebook, we headed for home.

Our power was still out. Drat. I'd called my FIL that morning to arrange lodging for the night in the face of that possibility, but I was still disappointed. The Shedder eagerly greeted us and became increasingly antsy as we fumbled about our darkening house and stuffed the car with bedding, toiletries, stuff to do, a load of laundry (school uniforms), and changes of clothes. Chessie huddled in Mighty B's blankets and didn't come out. We ate dinner at a local diner and returned to the house to let the Shedder pee one more time and check the water bowls before heading to the in-laws' house fifteen minutes away.

We knew it was going to be a long night, but we had no idea how crazy it would be.

(To be continued.)

Well, I'm glad THAT'S Over! (Part I)

2010-03-15T23:38:00.007-04:00

I was originally going to title this, Hell Weekend, but it not only sounded like a cheesy slasher movie, it wasn't completely awful.

What a weekend!

I think I mentioned before that The Oracle is a statistician for college and professional basketball. After he helped me get the kids on the bus, he took our car Friday morning to work a conference tournament on the other side of the river. The first day of the tournament was a four-game stretch with the semi-finals scheduled for Saturday and the final on Sunday.

The four-game day is a brutal one with games scheduled in rapid succession, something like noon, 2:00, 6:00, and 8:00 p.m. Each men's game lasts a bit over two and a quarter hours. Four basketball games in one day is a lot and requires an overnight stay. Fortunately, his friend/boss has a home in the area and invited The Oracle to stay the night. Rather than be away from the kids for two nights, he decided to return after the two games on Saturday and drive back Sunday morning for the final.

This area of the country endured a horrid nor'easter weekend of nonstop rain and high winds that brought a fair amount of flooding and shredded several trees. It's been damp, cold, and miserable for three days.

Anticipating the Oracle's return Saturday night, I was making a vat of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. I'm dropping the meatballs into the gravy at 4:30 when -pop!- our electricity went out. I waited a minute or two hoping the transformer would reset itself and power would return. No dice. I turn off the stove and order from a restaurant that delivers.

The skies are overcast and darkening. Most power outtages in my area last a few seconds to an hour or so, but when the lights don't come back on, I start enlisting the older kids' help to pick up the toys from the floor so we're not tripping on them in the dark later. I'm busily gathering candles and lamps to light the way when night really falls.

Dinner arrives and we eat by candlelight, and we have a good time. We feast on fat helpings of ice cream for dessert since I suspect the ice cream isn't long for this world.

I'm impressed with my kids' sudden ability to find things to do that don't require a television or computer, something of which they seemed incapable until Saturday night. Any "normal" weekday, Mighty B. is hounding me incessantly for permission to play with the Wii or his Webkins, and when his time ration is burned, he mopes about with "nothing to do" and getting into trouble. Precious Daughter has a roomful of toys, but once she tires of reading she'll stare at the never-ending repeats of Phineas and Ferb until her eyes fall out if I let her.

At our Christmas-in-February gathering (long story), my parents gave each of the older kids these awesome night-vision goggles. While I wasn't crazy about another hunk of Chinese-made plastic, I have to admit that the sheer coolness of the goggles trumped their country of origin, and I highly recommend them. They work surprisingly well, and I found myself borrowing them for numerous trips to the basement to find our propane lantern and my grandmother's oil lamp. When it got really dark, the kids were playing hide-and-seek with them in the back of the house where I lit no candles. Chessie hangs out back there, and she thinks candle flames are interesting toys.

(My stepmom found them on QVC which is where the link above leads, and QVC is selling them for ten bucks cheaper than Toys R Us. If you read the QVC reviews, you'll see that some customers reported goggles with defects. QVC's return/exchange policy is awesome, which is another reason to buy them there if you do.)

We're on the end of our electricity grid. We later discovered that we are one of fourteen houses on our street without power. The neighbor to my right has lights and heat, and the houses across the street do too. The cause of our outage is a downed tree behind one of the fourteen.

The Oracle returns home despite my recommendation not to and feasts on cereal for dinner. The kids are up rattling around until 10:3o or so. We eventually extinguish our candles for the night save one in the bathroom, and tuck the kids in with their flashlights nearby.

By morning, we're still without power and the house is getting chilly. The Oracle has to drive to Sunday's game which means we'd be stuck in a cold house all day with no food and no car, and at this point we know we're without power for the long haul, so we quickly shower (turning off the water between soap and rinse), feed the critters, and tag along with the Oracle to the basketball game.

We're not even sure if we can get tickets, but there's enough around the arena to keep us occupied for two-and-a-half hours.

A solid hour of that time was spent just trying to get lunch.

(To be continued...)

Comments on Facebook

2010-03-11T11:07:00.002-05:00

Note to Vee: I'm not trying to change your opinion that FB is a huge, time-sucking frivolity. I understand not wanting to get entangled with it.

That being said, I just had to share a recent discovery that has steered my Facebook time toward what I wanted it to do -- connect with friends -- instead of getting sucked into Facebook's cyber clutter.

Facebook has this feature called a "news feed." It's supposed to let you read updates of what your friends are doing or thinking, and it's a nifty little feature. The bad part about the news feed is that everything you do gets posted there if you're not careful.

For a time I got sucked into Fish World, a cutesy little time killer that starts you out with a fish tank and a few fish. Sell the fish for cyber money to buy more fish, tank decorations, and eventually more fish tanks. Feed your fish, clean the tank, give your fish cyber love (by clicking the "love my fish" button), and eventually you become a tycoon of sorts.

Really, though, you're trapped a s a Fish World slave. If you don't feed the fish, they go belly up, and you wind up flushing all that cyber money down the cyber drain. Your friends can revive your dead fish for you, but when you're housing hundreds of fish in a tank, it's a pretty hefty undertaking. Go a weekend without feeding the dumb cyber fish, and they're dead by Monday. It annoyed me so much that I actually created a fake FB user that I befriended and put onto Fish World for the sole purpose of reviving my dead fish. (In a tacky bit of humor, her password is "Lazarus.")

Back to the news feed. Fish World is a prime example of news feed clutter. Everything you do -- buy new fish, feed a friend's fish, clean your tanks, sell fish -- gets a pop-up request to publish to your friends' FB pages. Now, you can click one button one time to clutter your friends' feeds ad infinitum, but you have to refuse publication every single time. There is no one-button fix to reject this nonsense. I got so annoyed with it that I sold the last of my fish and abandoned my empty tanks to the cyber algae.

Facebook has a lot of clutter, and it took me a while to learn to ignore the cyber guilt that comes with not reciprocating with the game tokens, cyber flowers/smiles/hugs/hearts, pillow-fight and water-gun attacks. I do not care if "a lonely cow" has wandered from its farm and needs a home. I'm not interested in someone's latest high score in Bejeweled Blitz or Farkle or Word Twist.

What some FB users may not know is this: On every bit of cyber clutter in your news feed, hover to the right of the unwanted entry, and FB will reveal the word, "Hide." Click and it gives you the choice of hiding the game or hiding that person's news.

I've hidden countless applications (fish, farming, horoscopes, daily luck (whatever that is), restaurants, knights and dragons, you name it) and my news feed is becoming what I want it to be. I can check FB, respond to my friends' posts, and get out of Dodge in under a half an hour unless I start a chat session with somebody who happens to be online.

And now that I've figured it out, Facebook will probably undergo another major overhaul and I'll have to start from scratch.

Another Food Addiction

2010-03-09T16:42:00.006-05:00

I've always loved the combination of hazelnuts and chocolate. In fact, I'll never forget the first time I tasted them together. My friend, S., spent our graduation summer in Germany and gifted me with a boxful finely-chopped hazelnuts moulded in milk chocolate upon her return. They were divine, and I did my best to savor that box of candy for as long as I could stretch it.

In recent years, my hazelnut-chocolate craving has been fed with these:

And these (the dark chocolate is equally divine).

How is it that I spent my entire grocery-shopping existence walking by and never really noticing this?

I've seen it on the shelf, sure. I remember passively thinking, "I wonder what that's like," and quickly dismissing a purchase because of the hideous price attached to it. I didn't want to make that kind of investment on something that might be too gross to finish.

This week, my stupormarket had the small-sized jar of it on sale, so I impulsively dropped one into the cart.

Overnight, I've become a full-blown Nutella junkie. I enter the kitchen and immeditely fight the urge to snitch a baby-spoonful-sized nip from the jar. My mind is whirling with culinary possibilities. The top of my wanna-try list is a schmear on a slice of toasted home-made pound cake.

I went back yesterday and bought two more jars.

And, no, I never noticed the "Ferrero" logo on the jar, or I would have been hooked much sooner.

Do you enjoy Nutella? How?

Poor Knucklehead

2010-03-08T15:37:00.006-05:00

Duh-chess, our German Shedder, has had a rough time lately. She's been with us for six years, and for much of that time, she's had a chronic snot issue. Multiple trips to the vet clear it for a day or two, but it rapidly returns. On occasions where we've boarded her at the kennel, the snot clears until she returns home. Because of that, I've chalked it up to an allergy of some sort. (I admit that I have no medical basis for this assumption other than when it comes and goes and how she behaves.)

Duh-chess also tends to eat things that don't agree with her, as discussed in this post. Over the last few months, we figured she was getting into something but couldn't find the source. She'd spend half the night with her tail dropped, her belly tense, and panting in our faces. Whatever it was, it always cleared by morning. Yes, I could have taken her to the vet anyway, but somehow spending seventy bucks to explain a no-longer-existing symptom for the doc to not clearly diagnose didn't seem fiscally sound.

Last week she spend two days in turmoil, so I took her to the vet on Friday. She hadn't touched her breakfast until late into the evening on Wednesday, and Thursday's breakfast was still in the bowl on Friday morning. Added to her symptoms was a phlegmy cough that I didn't like. She's had the cough before, too, but it always cleared by morning. I figured it was related to the chronic snot. (Her shots are current, so things like distemper or kennel cough didn't seem likely.)

What really prompted the vet visit was a general weakness in her hind legs. In 2007, she'd tested positive for Lyme disease, and I feared a flare-up. Shepherds are prone to hip and lower-back nerve problems anyway, and I didn't want Lyme bringing on an early demise to our goofy companion.

Long story short, we spent $234 for a chest x-ray, a rather thorough physical exam, a Lyme test (negative!), a shot of antibiotics, and a ten-day supply of same. It seems Duh-chess has a rather deep respiratory infection. The doc showed where some fluid had gathered deep in her lungs.

Now I feel like a shitheel for blaming the poor dog's miseries on kitty-litter snacks.

The good news is that she ate some wet food on Sunday. It took me that long to conclude she might be ignoring the dry food because her throat was sore and irritated from coughing. I know I wouldn't reach for the hard sourdough pretzels if I had a sore throat. Poor pup.

She's still a little shaky on her legs, but she was barking at the school buses this morning. I'm hoping she'll be back to her goofy self soon.

More Snow!

2010-02-27T11:44:00.006-05:00

We had a little more snow Thursday. On Wednesday evening, the weather forecasters were predicting the winter equivalent of the apocalypse, so the kids' school district, in its infinite paranoia, wimped out and decreed a snow day for Thursday.

Funny that the first snowflake didn't fall until 4:00 or 5:00 a.m., and funnier still that the roads weren't even snow covered by 3:00 p.m. They could have had a full day of school, and I could have enjoyed a full day of working on my transcripts.

The snow was still swirling about on Thursday night, Precious Daughter's dance classes were canceled, and another snow day granted for Friday. Again, a waste of time. The sun was shining by noon. I cleared the driveway of its light coating of snow while Her Nibs took a nap.

Afterward, the kids and I had a little fun.

Her Nibs is cold. Her brother put the snow on her head. Her Nibs is not happy. Immediately afterward she was whisked inside, stripped of her damp clothing, and given a snack.

I woke up this morning feeling like an old fart with aches in my calves and behind my knees. I'm whining to myself that I didn't hurt this much after shoveling two feet of snow from the last snowstorm until I realzied it wasn't my snow-shoveling muscles that hurt. It was my snowman-making muscles.

Well, shoot, that's okay. At least I had fun earning those muscle aches.

By the way. The spammers have annoyed me to the point of adding word verification to my blog. I'm sorry if this is a pain for you. Even if the comments are not published, they're still allowed to contact me and waste my time. It makes me feel like they're still "winning."

Another Nail in the Coffin...

2010-02-22T11:38:00.006-05:00

...of our old friend, Common Sense.

Doctors Urging for a Safer, Choke-Free Hot Dog

It almost leaves me speechless. I, for one, didn't give my kids a hot dog that wasn't cut up until they were nearly five. Maybe making them wait so long is a little paranoid, but I knew (as I suspected most parents did before I read the above article) that hot dogs were a choking risk, ranking right up there with bananas, apples, and anything else kids love enough to try swallowing whole simply because in their minds a bigger mouthful of something yummy tastes better than a smaller one. Even Her Nibs, when faced with a trayful of itty-bitty pieces of something she loves, will try cramming as much as she can into her mouth.

Many choking incidents happen under the watchful eyes of parents, which is why parents should make it a priority to learn -- and obtain certification in -- CPR, the Heimlich maneuver, and first aid well beyond Bactine and a Band-Aid. This article doesn't state whether the family who tragically lost their child possessed any of these skills, but the child's chances of survival may have improved dramatically if they had. Even if I hadn't spent several years in emergency services, learning these skills would have been a pre-parenthood priority. It would be more effective than strongarming companies to spend countless resources (passed on to the consumers) to reinvent the food equivalent of the wheel. I guess we'll have to redesign the hot-dog bun as well.

The other side of this argument might be "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." Okay. If that's the case, I think it's safe to assume that what's inside the average chemical-laden hot dog is probably more harmful than the silly thing's shape. Still, if doctors insist that the hot dog get a facelift, why not make your expert recommendations to the end user instead of the manufacturer? Why assume that the average American is incapable of handling the matter? I guess we're too stupid to effectively wield a knife and fork despite claims that we are an obese nation.

Blink!

2010-02-18T12:26:00.000-05:00

My goodness! Where has the last year gone?

I must've blinked. In that short little span of time, Her Nibs has gained 19 pounds, 1 ounce, grown ten inches, and sprouted nine teeth. She babbles and crawls and is just starting to walk.

Wow, that was quick!

Happy Birthday, baby!

"Cat!"

2010-02-17T01:52:00.001-05:00

Two days shy of her first birthday, this is Her Nibs' first word.

She, the Oracle, and I were sitting together when Chessie hopped up for a visit. Her Nibs loves to touch Chessie's bunny-soft fur, squashing her hands into it with as much muscle as she can muster, thinking that the softness will never end. Chessie, to her credit (or stupidity?) does nothing more than let her eyes bug out of her skull from the pressure.

I hold Her Nibs' wrist, stroking it along Chessie's back while telling her to be gentle with the cat because she's old, and she replies, "Gah!" with such emphasis that we know it's "cat" she means. For the fun of it I use "kitty" instead, and her response sounds something like, "Giheee!"

I'm very excited!

Spammed!

2010-02-09T09:16:00.002-05:00

I've received three spam comments to my latest post. Blech.

So, to spare my handful of readers this assault of junk mail, I've enabled comment moderation. Being an impatient sort, I prefer to see my comments pop up as soon as I hit "Submit." If you're like me in that regard, I apologize.

If it gets really obnoxious, though, I may have to enable that word-verification thingie.

Snow!!!

2010-02-06T00:54:00.002-05:00

Curse me if you will, but -- Whee!! -- I love snow. It's snowing at this very moment, and it's forecasted to continue through the night. Pile it on, baby!

My world needs a little brightening up. I'm sick to death of the gray winter skies. Shoveling this stuff off the driveway is a small price to pay for a glistening white blanket of snow to cover up the brown, dormant lawn (and the unscooped poop).

My greatest hope is that the snow is something my kids will find they can use, the kind of snow that can be picked up and packed into snowballs and forts and snowmen but just dry enough for some non-hypothermic sledding.

What is it about dogs and snow? Knucklehead goes bananas for it, romping around in it like a big puppy. Well, she's a big puppy anyway, but her playfulness kicks up a few more notches when it snows. She'd stay out there all day if I let her.

It was well worth today's trip to the stupormarket battling the French Toast Panic Shoppers (you know, those people who wipe the shelves clean of bread, eggs, and milk when it snows) and the Superbowl party hosts. I made it all the way through to the dairy aisle when I decided I couldn't take it any more and just checked out. If I need milk or cheese it can wait until the snow stops.

It's going to be the perfect Saturday. The Oracle's games have been canceled/postponed, and we have nowhere to be.

Baby-Sitter Update

2010-02-03T14:24:00.004-05:00

I emailed the sitter because -- annoyed or not -- I was still concerned about her. It turns out she's 32 weeks pregnant, due at the end of March. She sure didn't look "that" pregnant the last time I saw her. Anyway, she's fine. They got the contractions to stop and ordered her to rest, which even she admitted was next to impossible. In addition to the two or three kids she baby-sits, she has five in her own house ranging in ages from four to young teen. Rest when?

I mentioned before that my FIL is always willing to watch the older kids, but he isn't comfortable with infants. He agreed to watch Her Nibs as long as she was fed and changed when he arrived, and she was. My FIL arrived at 3:00 just moments after my kids got off the school bus, and I headed out the door. When I initially asked him to watch the kids, I told him I'd planned to have dinner in a crockpot before I left.

Things being what the are in my house, I got wrapped up with chasing dog hair instead. See, Her Nibs is crawling all over the house, and, being a typical baby, puts everything in her mouth. I started the dog-hair chase so she could crawl about freely without choking to death. Next thing I know it's 2:45 and I have to get dressed and get my stuff together to go.

I wasn't all that concerned about dinner anyway. I had a pack of chicken in the fridge, tomato sauce in the freezer, and pasta. Ta-da! I could whip dinner together in twenty minutes when I got home.

The problem was my deposition didn't finish until 7:20 p.m. My in-laws and kids feasted on Arby's for dinner. He got the kids' homework done, fed Her Nibs, and even got stuck with a diaper change.

I really feel bad about that. After she finishes her homework, Precious Daugther is getting a hands-on lesson in diaper changing.

And my FIL is getting a big pan of Florentine for his labors.

Baby-Sitter Blues

2010-02-01T23:28:00.004-05:00

I need a new sitter.

You may remember this post where I ended up dragging Her Nibs along to a deposition because the sitter wasn't there when I arrived. She aparrently never got my phone messages.

Well, she stuck me again a couple weeks ago by being unavailable for the time I needed. I let it slide, though, because I hadn't taken a job in over a month and we hadn't contacted each other at all in that time.

Last Wednesday, however, she shafted me again. I was scheduled for a double header with a deposition at 10:00 a.m. and another one at 2:00 p.m. I called the sitter on both numbers she gave me and left three messages between them, leaving the time I'd be dropping off and asking her to call me back.

She never called me back, and I was nervous. The Oracle and I discussed a backup plan just in case.

I'm glad we did, because I called the sitter when I headed out the door to her house, and she said she wasn't available. When I asked why she never called me, she said she didn't get my messages. Maybe it's because I'm angry, but I don't believe her.

Whatever.

Our "Plan B" was for The Oracle to watch Her Nibs while I was at the 10:00 a.m. job which was, thankfully, ten blocks away from his office. I dropped Her Nibs off at 9:30 and drove to the job. I was very lucky to find an open parking meter. I don't normally use metered parking, but there was a sudden lack of garage parking where I needed to go. I knew it was around there somewhere, but I didn't feel like I had enough time to hunt for it. Even though chances were good that my job would end in an hour, I paid for the full two hours of meter time.

"To make a long story longer," as a friend of mine says, my job ran over two hours. It's nothing but a miracle that I didn't get a parking ticket. The Oracle was at his wits' end with a baby sabotaging his day. What's worse is that by the time I picked up Her Nibs, I had less than an hour and a half before my second job was due to start at 2:00.

Taking her with me to the job was not an option. Not only is she a wiggly eleven months old, my 2:00 deposition happens to be with the same doctor and the same attorney as the fiasco back in July. What are the odds? If I show up with a baby on my hip, they'd never believe I'd been jammed up again by this same sitter, and I don't think they'd be as nice about it as they were before.

God bless my father-in-law. The Oracle had already contacted him during my prior appointment and he'd agreed to baby-sit, but when I called him again and whined about my time constraints he took it in stride and agreed to meet me at the doc's office to pick up Her Nibs. I really don't know what I'd do without him. He just keeps on saving my bacon.

Now today I'm scheduled for another double-header. This time they're at 9:30 and 4:00, and they're for the same case at a nearby law office. I call the sitter and ask her about it, telling her I'd probably pick up Her Nibs after the morning assignment and bring her back for the afternoon. I'm thankful that she's available to baby-sit, even though I know I need to find someone a bit more reliable.

Last night I get a text message at 10:23 p.m. telling me she can't baby-sit because she's in the hospital with contractions.

Contractions? She'd never told me she was pregnant. I suspected the possibility because I noticed a bit of a belly bump the last time I'd seen her, but it wasn't all that pronounced so I wasn't going to risk asking her about it. Sometimes I hate being right.

I fret to The Oracle for a minute. No, I wasn't asking him to take off or to take Her Nibs to work again, not after the last three-hour fiasco. I was upset, however, at the late-ish hour and my inability to find someone else to watch the baby. I had no choice. I call the firm and lay my bad news on the table. Thankfully, she's able to get the morning job covered rather quickly. I'm still on for the afternoon, but that job isn't until 4:00. I have all day to find an alternative or to once again burden my father-in-law.

Unpredictability aside, I sincerely hope and pray that the sitter and her baby are okay. I don't think she's all that far along. As I think about it, the chances are good that if this truly is a high-risk, too-early labor, she's probably going to be ordered to bed rest. Either way, I need a new sitter. Blech.

When Did This Happen?

2010-01-28T17:09:00.003-05:00

Her Nibs suffered another lousy, snotty cold. In her usual spirit, she fought sleep until 1:00 or 2:00 a.m., but at least she let me put her in the crib where she'd remain until 10:30 or so, and she even took a rare two-hour afternoon nap. I didn't like her sleeping so late because I think it perpetuates the late hours. Still, sleep is sleep, and sleep in her crib where she belongs is sheer heaven.

Sometime during the last week of sleep and snot, something happened. Yes, it would have happened sooner or later, but I was still surprised by it.

Do you see it?

Her Nibs has a neck!!!

What's Your Excuse?

2010-01-21T01:57:00.004-05:00

Punctuality has been a problem for me for as long as I can remember.

When The Oracle and I dated, I was equally impressed and annoyed with his nearly-perfect punctuality. We'd arrange a date and he'd call and say something like, "I'll be there in twelve minutes." Why not round that to ten or fifteen?

As sure as sunrise, he'd arrive in the time he allotted for himself, whatever it was.

Being self-employed has improved my punctuality considerably. If the proceedings I'm hired to write are scheduled for 2:00 p.m., the court reporter needs to arrive -- and by "arrive," I mean be on location greeting the attorney, not just pulling into the parking lot -- at least fifteen minutes prior.

When I worked for 9-1-1, dispatchers on the prior shift hated having me as their relief, because I was rarely on time. Most of the time I'd punch in at 7:29 and scramble to my zone, headset in hand, all out of breath and spouting apologies and excuses. One thing or another always delayed my arrival. Accidents, construction, vehicle malfunctions, school buses, and turtles or turkeys crossing the street all had a hand in my tardiness.

I sometimes have nightmares about being late. Most of the time, I'm valiantly struggling to get somewhere and I'm perpetually delayed. I keep calling my destination on my cell phone to tell them that X happened and I'll be there soon, and "soon" never comes. It's awful and stressful and I usually wake up tired. At some point in my nightmarish journey, I also discover that I'm not wearing clothing, so I'm further delayed in trying to find something to cover my nakedness without anyone seeing me naked. (Freud would have a picnic with that, eh?)

On Monday, Precious Daughter had a play date with a classmate. I told the girl's mother that I'd return to pick her up at 3:30. Their house is less than five minutes away, and I was lat because I backed over a basketball on my way out of the driveway and it got jammed in the wheel well of the car. After several attempts at dislodging it, we decided the best approach was to drive forward and hope it pops out. It did, and I immediately thought, Who's going to believe this?

What was your weirdest delay ever?

Letting go of Perfectionism

2010-01-18T02:05:00.001-05:00

It's comical and ironic that I can claim to be a perfectionist in anything. My house is in chronic disarray, and I am forgetful. The trouble is that I'm picky about stupid stuff. I drive The Oracle batshit because I am forever leaving the cabinet doors hanging open, yet I am annoyed when unoccupied chairs aren't pushed in.

One of my worst traits is hovering over anything being cooked. It sort of makes sense to hover when the kids are helping, but I hover over The Oracle too. Understandably, he finds this irritating and I can't blame him.

It is very difficult for me to butt out while the kids are doing their homework. I see them mispelling a word or forgetting to carry a number while adding, and I need to chomp on the insides of my lips to keep them shut. Yes, they need to correct their work, but they need a chance to find that error and figure out why they made it for themselves.

I think I mentioned before that I love Scrabble. My mother perpetually kicked my butt. I'd pore over my letters to come up with something worthy only to see mom sort of wrinkle her lips and briskly rearrange my tiles into a higher-scoring word for my turn. I admit I've done this too, but mostly with people who seldom played the game. She taught me these few cutthroat Scrabble rules:

Premium letters (five points and above) need to land on premium tiles.

Don't "waste" an S on a single word. Having an S means you can tie it to another word by making a plural, and you'll get credit for making two words instead of one.

The same rule applies for blank tiles.

The only exception to the above rules is if you clear your rack in one shot with a seven-letter word somewhere on the board.

When The Oracle and I play Scrabble on FaceBook (yep. we'll sit here with our separate computers and take turns), I try to forget about Mom's rules. Sometimes it's easy; other times the ten-dollar words seem to jump out of the rack at me and I'm compelled to use them and get accused of being just like my mom.

When it came time to decorate the Christmas tree, my mom had certain rules for us kids to follow: Do not hang two ornaments of the same color next to each other. All ornaments must dangle freely from their hooks. They are not to sit cockeyed with one side resting on a branch.

We'd help decorate the tree, and she'd rearrange the ornaments after we went to bed.

My favorite, however, was tinsel. I'm talking about the individual silver strands, not the strung-together stuff also called "garland." Mom was SO picky about tinsel. In her eyes, tinsel must be placed on the tree one strand at a time. Throwing it at the hard-to-reach upper branches was forbidden. (In my teens I learned that I could take a wad of tangled tinsel and sort of "comb" it onto the branches when Mom wasn't looking.)

Adding insult to injury, most people discarded the tinsel with the tree. My mother, however, saved her tinsel from year to year, carefully picking it off the tree and packing it up for the following year. Because of this, our house was probably one of the last in the country to decorate a tree using lead tinsel which was banned (and replaced by plastic) in 1960- or 1970-whatever as a health hazard.

These last few years I haven't bothered with tinsel at all. I just haven't had the time. This is probably the first year I didn't feel guilty about it.

With our Christmas tree, I've successfully chucked most of the rules. It may have something to do with the fact that all of my favorite, sentimental ornaments are semipermanently packed away -- temporarily replaced by indestructible plastic ones -- so my heathen children don't destroy them. They treat the Christmas tree like their own little toy store. It drives me nuts. And short of putting the fallen ornaments back on the tree, I do not rearrange their hard work.

Mighty B. got an Easy Bake oven for Christmas. He is so proud of his oven. He loves using the mixes to bake cakes and cookies. I think we have enough mix left for two more cakes and one batch of cookies, and then I'm off to the online recipes so he can make more.

He does really well, too, without much interference from me. He carefully follows the rules and hasn't done anything stupid with his oven or other equipment yet. Tonight, The Oracle made some awesome brownies, and he let Mighty B. bake some of the batter in the Easy Bake oven. Good thing, too, because the buggers are supposed to cool two hours before cutting into them. At least the kids got to sample them before tomorrow.

Precious Daughter just finished a really cool project for school, creating a sock puppet. She did a terrific job. The only help I provided was sewing the mouth into the sock and getting the hair on its head. She had to design it and give it personality. I'm sorry I didn't take a picture before she turned it in Thursday morning. It's very hard for me to not take over. I love this kind of stuff, so it's extra hard to sit down and shut up and see what she creates.

Getting the pipe-cleaner hair into the prefab hat she covered in blue glitter was a nightmare. We spent the better part of ninety minutes farting around with standard glue and all manner of propping up until I remembered that we owned a stupid glue gun, same having been purchased for making angel wings two years ago.

She got an "O" (outstanding) on her project, and not just for the construction. "Juliet" is described as kind. She not only looks awesome in her glittery hat and wild pipe-cleaner hair, she has sparkly blue button eyes. She sings scat in lieu of speaking, growls when she's angry, and bites bullies. She does not like cheese or lacrosse. She likes making friends and cheerleading, but since she doesn't talk, she only yells at the end of the cheers. Really, now. If I'd interjected my will into this project, would she have been half that cool?

It Really Makes No Sense

2010-01-07T08:44:00.004-05:00

I do not get enough sleep. Her Nibs takes puny naps that are rarely longer than an hour. Most of the time it's one nap per day instead of the two that are common for her age group. She usually doesn't go down for the night until 10:30 or later.

Where does all that energy come from? I'd like to know. She certainly isn't MY kid in that regard.

Her Nibs gets crabby and irritable, but will she sleep? Nope. She only surrenders when sheer exhaustion prevents further resistance. By then I'm usually at my wits' end and begging God for mercy from the onslaught of restlessness.

I was working on a transcript last night when Her Nibs awoke at 2:00 a.m. Knowing it was over, I closed out and shut down and stumbled to her crib in the dark. I changed her soggy butt, held her while I brushed my teeth, and spent the better part of an hour trying to get her back to sleep. (I should've skipped my teeth, but I hate the way it feels when I wake up in the morning if I don't.)

With all that aggravation, why is it that...

...I can't wait for her to wake up in the morning so I can squeeze and smooch the daylights out of her?

Andrews Sisters - Six Jerks In A Jeep

2010-01-01T21:53:00.001-05:00

I love Sirius Radio. The Oracle flipped to the '40s station and we heard this fun lilttle song.

It's now stuck in my head.

Turkey Tribulations and Other Obstacles, Part I

2009-12-24T21:22:00.002-05:00

I just don't get it. Turkeys and I haven't been getting along lately.

Originally, I was going to roast my turkey yesterday, thereby freeing up today and tomorrow with a leftover love-fest. Things naturally got in the way, including a desperate attempt to get Kryptonite's (now known as "Her Nibs") picture with Santa for her first Christmas.

Let's visit that problem for a minute (or several). My older kids are/were pretty much afraid of Santa, so the only pictures I have with him are their very first Christmases. Oh, wait. Not true. When Mighty B. and Precious Daughter were one and three respectively, we did get a Santa picture. They wouldn't sit on his lap, choosing instead to sit on the bench in front of his chair.

Anyway, being the youngest of three kids, I acutely feel the lack of pictures documenting my babyhood. My eldest sister was photographed every thirty seconds or so. When my sister, V, arrived, our parents came to their senses and took photos every few days. By the time I came along, my parents had their hands full with three children under four, and I was lucky if they remembered to bring the camera for special occasions.

Well, Her Nibs is the youngest, and she's already suffering the pains of youngest-sibling syndrome. Her baby book has little more than her footprints (B also shares this particular neglect), and if it weren't for the extended family present at Her Nibs' baptism, I'd have no photographs at all.

Getting that first-Christmas photo with Santa is a downright need, damnit.

I went to the dreaded mall, where they have what may be the best-looking Santa on the east coast. Her Nibs and I arrived at roughly 10:30. Santa isn't scheduled to arrive until 11:00, and, dagnabbit, I have to pick up the kids from school at noon. Oh well. Precious Daughter needs something dressy for Christmas Eve mass anyway (she's singing with the choir), so I take care of that instead.

(Oh. I'm picking them up because the school district, in its infinite greed and stupidity, decided that they weren't going to give the parochial schools buses for more than four early dismissals. What kind of crap is that? This *[censored]* school collects thousands of tax dollars from us every year, and they can't give my kids a bus ride? I suspect my kids' ride to school doesn't cost them that much every year. What are they doing with the change?)

Five years ago, when I last endured this nonsense, they used to take your name and dish out those clunky pager things like they use at popular restaurants. It was terrific. You could wander the mall and shop, get a snack, whatever, until it was close to your turn. When your pager went off, you returned to Santa and joined the line for only a fifteen- to twenty-minute wait. Not bad, really. It was just enough time to clean the spots off the kids' clothes and faces, change diapers, and comb their hair.

I returned to the mall at 3:30, got in line, and learned that THIS year, there are no pagers. The mall decided that they weren't going to waste money on a new set of pagers for their patrons, so if you wanted to see Santa, you got in line and waited. And waited. And waited. Waiting instead of mall-crawling and spending money in their stores. (I wonder how much money they lost in sales revenue over a $2,500 batch of pagers? I hope it's ten times that.) Her Nibs was as good as gold. She'd been wearing her itchy Christmas clothes since 9:30 that morning, and she didn't complain a bit. She sat in that stroller for the better part of an hour before getting squirmy and cranky, and once I picked her up she was as happy as a clam. Being held and having her butt kissed is Her Nibs' favorite thing to do.
At 5:00, I surrender. I've moved maybe thirty feet in line, and according to the order-taking lady, I'm still an hour from Santa's lap. The Oracle's train, running ten minutes late, is scheduled to arrive at 5:30, and it's going to take at least that long to get to the car and out of the mall parking lot. I reluctantly leave the line. Her Nibs, once again strapped into the stroller, starts squawking.

The Oracle texts that he's now on a later train. Drat. I could've stayed in line and perhaps gotten the picture after all, but it's too late. I'm too far away to go back and reclaim my spot in line (my line neighbors may have allowed that). Instead, I remembered that my FIL asked me to pick up a pair of gloves for my MIL, and I handled that instead. I also took a quick peek around at the kids' clothes, because Precious Daughter decided she did not like what I picked for her to wear, and the only stuff I'm finding is gorgeous but horribly overpriced. At this stage of the Christmas season, I'm suffering a serious case of The Cheaps. The dress is gorgeous and even has a matching dress for her American Girl, but the bugger is on sale for $60, and I'm not spending that on a one- or two-time wear.

I pick up the Oracle and relieve my in-laws. While I was gone, my FIL did my dishes and straightened up my front and back porches. He saved me a buttload of work, and I'm thankful. It makes me feel guilty, too. Isn't it enough that he's here keeping my kids from killing one another, and he does housework too?

I whine about my day to The Oracle, and I half beg him to go to the local overpriced nursery to see their Santa. This Santa is free, too. You take your own picture. All of my pictures, despite the red-eye setting, come up with red-eye anyway, but it's better than nothing. I must get a Santa picture for Her Nibs' first Christmas.

We stuff our guts at Bob Evans (love that pot roast sandwich!) for dinner and head over to the nursery. The place is gorgeous. Every year their decorations are mind-blowingly (is that a word?) beautiful, and they also have a small nativity set up in their outdoor section with live animals. (This year, Mary and Joseph were conspicuously absent from theHer Nibs was enthralled. She loved all the twinkling lights and the fountains and shiny ornaments. (Ah, yes. Part of this trip's purpose was to find a Baby's First Christmas ornament as well as a stocking for Her Nibs.) The Oracle gets in line with Her Nibs and waits while the older two and I go poking about the store.

Our shopping efforts didn't yield much, but the Oracle called a short while later to let us know it was almost our turn for Santa. Over all it was quick and painless, and PD and B joined the picture.

Straight No Chaser - The Christmas Can-Can

2009-12-22T08:39:00.001-05:00

Vee at Juggling Scarves posted this first, and I finally listened to it this morning. I loved it so much I had to be a copycat.

Thank you, Vee!

Annoying Myself

2009-12-14T11:19:00.004-05:00

I have a lot to do today, and I have accomplished nearly nothing. A congested, boogery Kryptonite drifted into a nap over an hour ago, and I spent the bulk of my time wearing a fruitless path throughout our house.

With Kryptonite asleep and the kids at school, I have an opportunity to handle some Christmas paperwork in the basement. The problem is I can't find the Scotch tape. Precious Daughter had it Friday night when she sequestered herself in her bedroom to wrap and tag her Christmas Bazaar loot. I remember seeing the dispenser in the bag with the wrapping paper and bows, but it is no longer there.

So I wander about the house, looking for the tape. On my way, I check the tree (purchased last night in the pouring rain) to make sure it still has water, and I begin sifting through the clutter (hastily thrown on the dining room table) from the bookcase I moved to make room for the tree.

My eye flickers to my coffee cup on the kitchen table. Just what I need! I pick it up for a sip and it's empty. Ugh. I turn to the coffee pot for a refill, take a sip, and -- Blech -- my coffee is cold. (We brew it and turn off the burner because scorched coffee is nasty. I'd rather reheat it as I go.)

On my way to the microwave, my eyes make a guilty pass across the sink full of dishes. Oh, all right, I'd better get this out of the way. I put my coffee on the kitchen table and turn back toward the sink.

Hey. The basement door is open. The light is on, too. Why did I -- Oh, that's right. I need the Scotch tape...

I Should Be Sleeping

2009-12-11T00:38:00.004-05:00

But a certain German Shedder isn't feeling well. Knucklehead has a chronic sinus issue which, quite frankly, we currently don't have the resources to pursue. Whatever it is, it doesn't respond to typical antihistamines or antibiotics. Her nose is an ever-flowing stream of thick, nasty snot. (Regretting your visit today?)

She's having a rough night with it tonight, pacing about the room and nudging me to be let outside. I guess the night air feels good, but it's well below freezing out there. Even with a fur coat, she can't be out there too long.

Kryptonite is also congested. She just woke up a few minutes ago because she can't breathe, so we're on the couch with her upper body elevated to ease her miseries. She's complaining about things with little whimpers and moans every time she exhales.

-------------------------------------

Tomorrow is the kids' Christmas bazaar at school. They're very excited. I can hardly wait to see what they'll pick this year. Las year, B. gave me a squishy clear plastic T-Rex with multicolored lights that flash wheb you squeeze its belly. Precious daughter blessed me with hot pink chenille gloves. It took a bit, but I got used to the near-blinding pink shade, and now when I wave to someone from the crowd, I'm easily spotted.

---------------------------------------

Look at what Kryptonite can do!

-----------------------------------------

I've often said that my favorite fruit on earth is strawberries, with peaches holding second place by just a few points. My third favorite, then, must be these.

To say that The Oracle is a happy boy is an understatement. We ordered these lovely Texas Ruby grapefruit and oranges from Crockett Farms. The grapefruit season is short. Get 'em while you can!

------------------------------------

Finally, many thanks to my sister and BIL for their visit on Sunday. I confess I wasn't all that enamored with the notion of a Sunday morning visit, but I'm oh-so glad that they came.

Kryptonite loves her monkey! (My very-photogenic sister dodged the camera because -- get this -- she wasn't wearing makeup. I strongly suspect that she'd STILL look terrific on camera. She probably hasn't taken a so-so photo since her teens. Brat.)

Turkey Trials

2009-12-01T11:45:00.002-05:00

Wowie-wow-wow. December already?

I'm sorry for not posting a blip in over two weeks. Wanna hear a story?

Way too long ago I took a deposition, probably one of my longest ever, involving liability issues surrounding a piece of decades-old industrial equipment that had the audacity to mangle somebody's limb. The actual subject matter was kind of dry, but the lawsuit surrounding the incident intrigues me. Who's to blame? The buyer, the seller, the used-equipment broker, or the employee for sticking an extremity where it doesn't belong?

I digress. This case came with the lovely sound of "cha-CHING!" because it was a nice job for this freelance court-reporter, an hours-long deposition with several bickering attorneys present and ordering. (Wheeeee!!!)

(Why, yes, I DO hate bickering attorneys, but bickering attorneys are generally not inclined to help each other by engaging in the unethical practice of sharing transcripts among themselves. This puts the copy sale where it belongs - in my kids' bellies.)

Of course, bickering means the job was awful to scope, and it took me much longer than it should have. Have you ever noticed that when a deadline looms, it seems like everything suddenly needs your attention? The kids brought home some horrible germ which infected me and Kryptonite. And Thanksgiving was coming, of course.

I had to get the job turned in, however, if I wanted to get paid. I was determined to get the thing done before Thanksgiving so I could stuff myself silly without unfinished business hanging over my head. After three sleepless nights, I finished that job and two other small transcripts by the wee hours of Wednesday morning. Phew!

Now I could handle Thanksgiving preparations without guilt. Our plans this year shifted from cooking for my in-laws to dinner with E. and her family, a shift that left me feeling rather guilty. I'd asked my FIL if he'd like to have dinner with us, and he accepted. It was the first time in ten years that we'd have Thanksgiving dinner with my in-laws. My in-laws have made it an annual tradition of dining at their favorite restaurant with a group of friends, so I was pretty excited when they decided to join us instead.

Last year, we had dinner with E., and we had a terrific time. She invited us again this year. I told her that I'd already offered to cook for my in-laws, and she generously offered to serve them as well at her house. I told her my FIL probably wouldn't go for it, but I promised I'd ask.
I asked and got a bit of a shock in return. Not only did my FIL decline E's offer, he bowed out of my initial offer as well. I was stunned. I fully expected and anticipated cooking a turkey dinner for my in-laws. I was actually pretty excited about it despite the work involved, so I was floored. I feel rather guilty too. I finally got my in-laws to come to Thanksgiving dinner, and I sent them running the other way because I extended an invitation that I didn't expect them to accept. Aaagh.

Hmmm... That previous bit makes it sound like my in-laws and I don't get along or something. That's not the case at all. As in-laws go, I got a set that I not only love but genuinely like and get along with, and if they don't feel the same way they've done a wonderful job of keeping it to themselves for 20 years.

Getting back to my Turkey-Day "tail," we may have been traveling to E's for dinner, but that doesn't mean I get to rest on my laurels. Every person afflicted with Thanksgiving nostalgia has certain things that, if done without, will invalidate the most lovely dinner laid on a table. For The Oracle, these dishes include my mother's turkey stuffing and the sweet-potato casserole we discovered in Cooks Illustrated magazine in 2005.

(If you haven't heard of it, I highly recommend the Cooks Illustrated website. CI offers a two-week online-membership trial. They take a credit card number up front, though, so make sure you cancel if you don't want it or you're automatically charged the annual fee when the trial period is up. The message board is always free. I'm a huge CI junkie for their recipes as well as product reviews that are truly unbiased. CI magazine contains NO advertising except for their own publications.)

In addition to The Oracle's favorites, he wanted what we call "corn thing," which is a baked casserole made from dried corn. We were also bringing rice pudding and a cake for dessert.

I assembled the basic ingredients for stuffing and started preparing the bird. The Oracle suggested, because of sleep deprivation, that I wait until morning to roast the turkey (the only way to get good stuffing is to cook it in the bird), but I felt we were going to need the oven in the morning, so getting the turkey out of the way would be a better idea. I also knew that letting the turkey cool completely would help it retain more moisture than carving it warm.

The turkey went into the oven at 10:30 p.m., and I cursed myself for not remembering to buy a cheese cloth or boy's tee shirt to cover the bird the way my mom did. Drat. Instead, I loosely draped a sheet of foil over the breast to keep it from getting too brown. The turkey is roasting, an I'm puttering about with one thing or another, occasionally basting the turkey between tasks.

By 2:30, my feet and calves are sore from all the standing, so I park in The Oracle's chair to channel surf a bit. With my cell phone alarm as backup, I'm up and down every half hour or so to baste the turkey. At 4:30, the house smells divine, and I figure the turkey will be done in a half hour or so. I remove the foil to let the pallid turkey skin brown up a bit, and I return to channel surfing.

At 6:30 I'm jolted from dreams of turkey to wakefulness. I'm not even sure what woke me up. It certainly wasn't my cell phone. I rush to check the turkey, but the light coming in the windows tells me I'm already too late. My once-pallid turkey skin is two shades away from black, the exposed stuffing is burnt to a crisp, and my pan juices are a solid mass of blackened gunk cemented to the bottom of the pan. Damn.

Once again, I should've listened to The Oracle. I don't openly admit this to him, of course, because as soon as he woke up and smelled the now-Cajun turkey, he was compelled to remind me that he told me to wait. Grrrr. Does he not think I know that?

As the turkey cools, the meat pulls away from the breastbone. I can see that the browned breast meat beneath the skin, and I'm reminded of the Griswold turkey in Christmas Vacation. This turkey is inedible. I don't mourn the loss of the turkey meat, really, because I could take or leave turkey. I'm crushed that I'll have no gravy. I love home-made turkey gravy, which is what makes the turkey worthwhile and elevates the stuffing to a whole new level.

The stuffing, once I picked off the burned surface, is heavenly, thank God. I don't think my sleep-deprived, gravy-deprived psyche could have handled the resulting hailstorm of "I told you so" if The Oracle had no stuffing with his turkey dinner. It would've ended badly for one of us. I was suddenly glad that I wasn't feeding my in-laws, because this was my worst turkey ever.

By the time we finish getting our stuff together (including an overpriced convenience-store run for butter), we're an hour late for E's, and once we arrive it takes me almost another hour to shake off the morning's disappointment and aggravation. Here is where E's easygoing nature is a blessing.

E is having her own hassles. Her turkey is running an hour behind schedule. If I look at it sideways, this means we're sort of on time after all.

(Yes, it's flawed logic, but it's the only logic I have.)

E's cooking away: green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, crescent rolls, asparagus, turkey stuffing, pineapple stuffing (yep), gravy, cranberry-fruit mold, and extra turkey legs. I think I'm missing something. All I know is that every square inch of her dining room table was occupied.

E's husband usually handles mashed-potato duty, and he and The Oracle were in a bit of a dither because E decided to try the dreaded something new. On Thanksgiving of all days. Said something was Pioneer Woman's "creamy mashed potatoes" which involve much of the same ingredients as regular mashies with the addition of cream cheese. They were quite good. You would have thought, however, that we were asking our men to eat sauteed grasshoppers when introduced to the idea. Change can be so difficult.

Our kids had a blast playing with one another. Kryptonite was cuddled and coddled as usual, and when dinner was served I THEN reazlied that I forgot the portable high chair, so she had to sit in my lap during dinner. She didn't mind one bit.

By the time we finished dinner, coffee, and desserts (lots of dessert. E made pumpkin and pecan pies on top of all the dishes complementing her turkey), I basked in some much-needed conversation with E. We weren't on our way home until midnight. The kids were all asleep in the car within minutes, and traffic was light. We sailed home in under 50 minutes.

Best of all, when we got home I could sleep. I hadn't really slept in days, and it felt marvelous. I woke a smidge before 9:00 on Friday morning and remembered that we were supposed to meet Aunt J. at the bowling alley at 10:00. Ha. We were an hour late for that too, but the kids had a great time. I'm sorry that The Oracle had to work. It would've been fun to have him along.

And, wow, this post has gone on long enough. I should've broken it up over a few days.

Turkey 101

2009-11-13T22:03:00.001-05:00

Pay close attention, Vee!

Quickly Vanishing Cash

2009-11-13T12:00:00.003-05:00

My mother would have loved QVC. A self-made hermit, she rarely left the house unless it was absolutely necessary. If it weren't for mail-order catalogs, her holiday shopping lists would have fallen to my sisters and me. Several trees' worth of catalogs cascaded upon Laurel Lane every autumn, and my mother browsed her favorites and selected all sorts of goodies for the people on her list.

My stepmother, Hon, introduced me to the addiction that is QVC (aptly dubbed Quickly Vanishing Cash by my dad). I watched her order a ring for Precious Daugther and was astounded at how quickly her transaction was handled. She didn't even speak to anyone! Call the 800 number, hit a button or two, and her credit card number on file was billed. She was off the phone in under twenty seconds . Good gravy. I could easily see how this could become a problem.

QVC sells just about everything (no men's or children's clothing). Their prices are usually pretty good, and they pride themselves on good customer service. If you don't like an item, send it back with no questions asked. My only gripe is that they don't carry enough American-made items.

QVC offers one service that I greatly appreciate: Easy Pay. I don't have to shuck out a bazillion dollars all at once, I can spread the pain across a given number of payments, and that is the reason for this post.

This year, Santa is bringing our children a Wii system for Christmas. (Sshhhhh!! Don't tell!) It's something we've been dangling in front of Mighty B.'s nose for a while in hopes of eliciting some more mature behavior on his part, and he's been doing very well. Cutting to the chase, I bumped the remote to QVC and happened upon a sales pitch for a Wii system with a bunch of extra doodads. Whaddaya know! I look at the price and notice the Easy Pay option, and I can't hold back. I was going to be a good girl and call The Oracle first, but this was Easy Pay, of all things, and I took the plunge.

Today I check into the online banking and I notice that our account was hit this morning for the full purchase price of the Wii. WTF?!?! I can't let that happen!! I have checks outstanding!! I know we jokingly call it Quickly Vanishing Cash, but this is a little too quick!

Once again I call QVC, and I am blessed with "Martina," a very friendly representative. She explains and apologizes for what happened and agrees to conference call with my bank to remove the charge. Really?

I call Bank of America, and Martina and I sit on hold for the better part of ten minutes before a BOA representative picks up the line. Sheesh. This is one thing I hate about BOA. Once the rep is on the line, my account is corrected in moments and I can breathe again.

I don't buy much from them, but when I do, I love QVC.

Bill Cosby - Natural Child Birth Pt. 2

2009-11-05T15:37:00.001-05:00

This is for Cort and Brian! Pop on over to Cort's blog (in my following list) and wish them a huge CONGRATULATIONS on the birth of their beautiful baby girl!

I Survived Another Halloween!

2009-11-02T02:16:00.004-05:00

Why do I get myself into this stuff? Why can't I leave well enough alone?

Halloween Rule 1: Kids are not allowed to discuss Halloween costumes until school starts in September. Why? Because they'll change their minds a dozen times and drive me insane with it. (If you care, I have a similar rule regarding the enjoyment of Christmas music, books, and movies.)

Halloween Rule 2: Once I buy a prefab costume and/or supplies to make one, there's no turning back.

Halloween Rule 3: Do not poopooh The Oracle's predictions that Precious Daughter's costume will not be completed until moments before heading out to mooch candy, and it will require a monumental amount of swearing and aggravation on my part.

Mighty B. wanted to be a soldier. He originally wanted to be a skeleton until I casually mentioned seeing a soldier costume in the store. He wanted it. I went back and took a closer look, and it was cheesy. I wasn't going to spend all that money on a cheapy costume. I thought I'd try making one instead, but I couldn't find military-styled camouflage fabric, just the kind crosshatched with printed trees and twigs for the outdoor sportsmen. I procrastinated and didn't buy the cosume until 10/30 (the day of his school party, source of the below picture) and was rewarded with 50% off.

Forgive me for gushing about how handsome my son is. He says he wants to be a soldier when he grows up. We'll see. I think what interests him right now is the weaponry.

Precious Daughter first decided that she'd like to be Eglentine Price (name that movie!), but I told her very few would remember the character without a lengthy explanation even if they remembered the name of the movie. She then said she'd be either Sharpay Evans (High School Musical) or simply "a Diva." My head resounded with cries of "BOR-ING!" especially when she dressed as Hannah Montana last year, and she'd pretty much look the same this time around.

(Give up on that movie name? It'll be at the end.)

Poking around online, I spotted a simple-looking pattern for a magician's cape and hat. Hmmm... I suggested it to Precious Daughter, and she liked the idea. We picked black satin for the exterior and a pretty black fabric with irridescent stars on it for the lining.

Star fabric was hideous to work with. My sewing machine hated it. The needle made an awful thock-thock-thock sound with every puncture. It even got jammed in the feed dogs (those metal treads that move the fabric along) and down inside the machine where the needle dips to pick up the bobbin. Horrid stuff. The costume was supposed to include a cummerbund, but working with the star fabric sans the satin was even worse, so I ended up (Heaven forgive me) using red duct tape to hold the cummerbund together and tying at the waist.

The felt hat came out really soggy looking despite my efforts to stiffen it up. At least it fit. Oh. See that wand? That stupid wand cost eight bucks. The packaging promised a dozen magic tricks. I thought the thing would open into a cutesy little bouquet or conceal a scarf. Nope. it includes instructions for a dozen tricks, the creeps. The wrapper doesn't say "instructions" anywhere.

But the stars on it glow in the dark.

I didn't have a costume for Kryptonite. I simply ran out of time. I feel a little guilty, but it's tempered by the fact that she spent our entire trip in the stroller beneath a gigantic black umbrella. Nobody would have seen it anyway.

Trick-or-treat time was solid rain. It drizzled as we left, and it drizzled for 90% of our walk around the block. As we turned the corner onto our street, it started raining buckets, so we decided to skip the side street we would have otherwise visited. Even so, we still had over six pounds of candy.

I am glad we didn't canvas the side street. There's enough here to last us until next Easter.

Movie title: skcitsmoorB dna sbonkdeB (read it backward).

74th Birthday - Random Memories of Mom

2009-10-25T20:56:00.006-04:00

Weird, how your mind still counts the birthdays of someone who isn't here any more.

My mom would have been 74 today. I'll need to see if I have a nice picture handy to scan.

She was extremely intelligent, possessing a genius intellect and a fabulous imagination. She, like my grandmother (her mother), could make anything fun, from filling dozens of balloons for an impromptu water-balloon fight to decorating our neighbor's front yard for their 50th wedding anniversary. She could sew Halloween costumes and prom gowns, arrange flowers, and make baskets and wreaths out of pine cones. She loved to sing

When my eldest sister was in her teens, our next-door neighbor installed a basketball hoop on his yard facing the street. It seemed like half of the neighborhood turned out to play, and sometimes Mom would spring for a bunch of pizza and soda from a local shop to feed the crowd.

One year, a good chunk of this same group came to our house for a candlelit "seance," complete with Ouija board. I was too young to participate, so I was banished to the living room with another friend's little brother to watch TV. I don't know who they were trying to conjure, but I remember screams coming from the other side of the closed door. I'm sure my mother had something to do with it.

She was a mama bear when it came to her kids, but was also tender hearted to the plight of others. One of Jennifer's classmates was somehow orphaned or in foster care. She spent several weeks living with us, and my mom and dad worked hard to adopt her, but it didn't pan out. She often supported the underdog when she believed in his cause.

During my parents' separation and eventual divorce, times were very difficult for her. I no longer care to know his reasons, but my father wasn't dilligent with visiting or with child support. My mom was left scrabbling to keep things together for herself and three young girls. I was completely oblivious to this at the time, which is either testament to my cluelessness or to Mom's ability to cover her anxiety. She was very private in all matters, but when it came to the breakup from my dad, she insisted we not tell a soul. I was ordered, if asked where he was, to tell people that my dad was "on a business trip."

A multi-year business trip. I'm sure they were convinced. Yeah...

Mom was an exceptional cook. I guess most people say that about their moms. Mom, unlike me, wasn't afraid to try cooking something different. A should-have-been caterer, she joyfully cooked for any occasion, including all the food for my stepbrother's wedding, and V. and I dutifully marched from kitchen to guests while my date remained in the kitchen helping mom assemble trays. Even simple bring-a-dish occasions resulted in much more than was asked of her. Cooking was my mother's way of showing affection. If she fed you, she liked you, and all she wanted to hear in return was a moan of delight with the first bite.

Her second love was candymaking. When we were young, she made things like peanut brittle, molasses taffy, fudge, and sponge candy. Her talents evolved to creations that rivaled the professionals. Buttercreams, truffles, toffee... the list was endless and always evolving. She'd make lovely fillings and hand-dip them in chocolate. Her chocolates were a labor of love much like the rest of her cooking. Nothing made her angrier (yet my stepfather did this often) than someone who took one of her lovely chocolates and gobbled it whole. She labored to make the center as pretty as the chocolate exterior, and she expected the taster to bite through the chocolate and admire the inside before devouring the other half. Once you went through this little ritual, you were free to eat its brothers and sisters two and three at a time.

For a long time, my mom drove "hither, thither, and yon," as she'd say, but by the time she met my stepfather, she was more than happy to relinquish the keys to him. By the time I reached high school, she rarely drove anywhere but to work or the Acme. By the time I graduated, she left the food shopping to my stepfather, my sister, and eventually me. (I did all the food shopping for my "surprise" wedding shower.) She hated driving, and I suspect if her employer was located more than a quarter mile away, she would have ditched the car and mooched rides from her coworkers. Over time, this aversion to driving morphed into refusing to get into a car, much less drive one. She told me that she didn't like my stepfather's driving. I'm sure the emphysema played a role too.

Whatever it was, Mom made herself almost a recluse. Her house was her domain, and she ruled from her favorite seat at the kitchen counter.

(I hope I can describe this well. Her seat at the counter faced what used to be the garage. Back in the late '60s or early '70s, my dad and his friends converted the garage into a sort-of family room/dining room, with an all-brick floor as well as an all-brick wall with a fireplace on the far wall and paneled walls on the other three sides with a large bow window in the front where the garage door used to be and another large window in the back. The wall between the kitchen and this room was open, with three flagstone steps leading down to the new room. As such, Mom was sort of Queen of All She Surveyed from her seat at the counter, looking down upon the brick room.)

Every Thanksgiving -- pretty much every meal, really -- Mom would cook her heart out, and once the meal was on the table, she'd retreat to her chair at the counter and watch everyone devour her labors of love. She rarely ate what she cooked until much later, preferring a nap before sitting down to eat. My stepfather would get all bent out of shape over this. Frankly, the woman was exhausted and sick of smelling all that cooking. Been there myself.

Red cups: My mother, for odd reasons, didn't drink out of a glass. She preferred those red plastic 20 oz disposable cups. With a straw. She always had a red cup at her elbow.

One thing Mom ruled from her "throne" at the counter was the television. If mom didn't approve of it, it wasn't viewed. If she didn't like what was on TV, she put in a video. The rest of us had little or no say in matters, and that TV was on all day, every day. If you visited, the TV was on. In fact, the TV rarely went off simply because she had guests. She'd sit at the counter, chopping away or chocolate dipping or whatever, ordering my stepfather to turn on Channel X so she could watch Y. (She rarely did her own flipping. She didn't want to get the remote full of food, and she had a hard time with the little buttons. I also think she liked telling my stepfather what to do.)

Mom loved games. Cribbage, Canasta, Parcheesi, Backgammon, and Scrabble were probably the top five. Mom was killer at all of them. I'd occasionally go over and play with her for a while and drink Snapple over ice in a red cup. I knew things were going downhill when I actually won against her in a game of Scrabble.

I play Scrabble online over Facebook with The Oracle (lazy, yes, but so much easier than keeping tiles aligned on a board), and I can't bring myself to put a great letter on a gray space. I can't permit myself to use an S without making the crossing word plural with it. It's pathetic.

I wish I had her around for another game. I wish my kids could meet her.

"NGNGNGNGAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

2009-10-24T11:45:00.004-04:00

Kryptonite doesn't sleep willingly.

Part of the problem is she's teething, so getting to sleep is a challenge. She's been as clingy as English ivy.

Kryptonite eventually falls asleep in my lap. I carefully lay her in her crib and slowly begin to extricate my arms from beneath her body. "NGNGNGNGNGNGNGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

(Edited to add: The "ngngng!" of her scream sounds something like a revving ninja bike.)

How does she do that? How does she know? Her bedsheet is fleecy, so it isn't cold bedding against her skin shocking her to wakefulness. It's like she can smell my pending departure.

I pick her up and the crying immediately stops. (Phew! The Oracle has to get up at 5:30.) Within seconds, she's asleep in my arms. I rock her until her breathing slows and try laying her in the crib again. This time, however, I try to be sneaky and lay her on her side instead.

(I used to lay her on her side all the time, but I moved away from the practice because Kryptonite can roll onto her belly, but she can't yet roll from belly to back. She doesn't quite crawl yet, either, so she winds up scooching backward on hands and knees and getting her legs trapped in the crib bars or entangled in the afghan Aunt F. made for her. Laying on her side exponentially increases her odds of rolling to her belly in her sleep and getting stuck.)

I quietly drop the side rail, count slowly to ten, and begin lowering her into the crib.

"NGNGNGNGNGNGNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Aw, come on!!!! What is it??!! We are still six inches away from touching the mattress. Is the air that much thicker when we decrease altitude by one foot? How. Does. She. Know?

Up we go again, and I sway from side to side to help her along, because this time it takes her a couple minutes to go back to sleep. She drifts off, however, and I stop rocking. I stand still, waiting for her deep breathing to come. My back is getting sore and my arms are going numb, but I'm not putting her down until I'm sure I can walk away.

Finally, my back and shoulders are screaming for relief. I make another attempt to lay her down. I put her on her side and she stirs, so I stay there with my arm sort of under her knees and my "free" hand stroking her hair. My cheek is against hers, and I sort of croon/talk her back to sleep. My lower back has joined the protest, and now I have to pee. I slowly slide away, praying that she stays asleep. I tiptoe out of the room.

I make my way to the bathroom with a sigh of relief. About midstream I hear "NGNGNGNGNGNGAAAAAAAAAAAAH," but there's nothing I can immediately do. By the time I wash my hands, The Oracle is awake. Kryptonite is wide awake. There's no cheating her back to sleep now. I take her out to the living room. (Why her crib is still in our bedroom should be explained, but this is long enough already.)

I park on the couch in the dark with Kryptonite on my lap. She stretches and flails and complains, "NGNGNGNGAAAAAAA!" She's mightily pissed, so she started coughing too. The coughing is an odd trait, I agree. Now it sounds something like, "NGNGNGNAAAAA! KA! KA!" She's stretching like she wants to lay down, but she won't lay down in her crib. She won't lay in my lap, on the floor, in the playpen. She doesn't want to be on my shoulder. She won't sit and play, either. What she wants, to put it delicately, is to nurse, but she's drained me just about dry already. At this point, all she'll do is swallow air and get belly gas. It's a giant wrestling match until we both drop off to sleep on the sofa.

I wake up an hour and a half later. My butt is numb from sitting on the sofa for so long, and my arms are asleep from holding her in my lap. All I want is my bed. Kryptonite is in a nice, deep sleep, so I sneak into the bedroom to put her in the crib.

"NGNGNGAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Kryptonite is having none of it. The cycle starts anew.

I'm utterly exhausted and ready to cry. All I want to do is stuff her in her crib and let her scream herself to sleep, but I can't do that with a houseful of people who have early starts in the morning. I plead and cajole and remind her that this sort of nonsense is why babies get shaken, but she won't listen to reason.

Finally, my body and my brain can't take any more. I surrender. I lay Kryptonite between The Oracle and me. He senses our arrival and moves over, but our queen-sized bed isn't enough space for three, even if the third person is an 8-month-old punk. She falls asleep within minutes. It takes me a little longer because my butt is hanging off the edge of the bed and my back is protesting the position, but my tail hurts worse from sitting on the couch. I really only doze, but it's better than nothing.

Yes, I've created a monster.

If you do nothing else today...

2009-10-14T21:44:00.003-04:00

...you must must must pay a visit to this site. It's the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Oh, it's not always politically correct or kid friendly. Viewer discretion advised.

(It also scares me a little. These people are out there breeding. And voting.)

Still Breathin'

2009-10-12T10:32:00.001-04:00

I'm just crazy-busy. I'll post something soon.

Thanks for waiting.

Should I Be This Annoyed?

2009-09-24T08:42:00.003-04:00

Precious Daughter adores her American Girl doll. She received it as a gift from Uncle R. and Aunt V., and she plays with her nearly every day. If it weren't for her aunt and uncle, Precious Daughter probably wouldn't have one at all, because they're prohibitively expensive. when Precious Daughter first voiced her desire for one, I started poking around on eBay in hopes of finding one in good condition at a reasonable price.

American Girl has come up with an interesting hypocrisy, namely, "Gwen Thompson." Gwen Thompson is the friend of Chrissa, whose story surrounds negotiating the tricky waters of being the new kid in school and dealing with bullies. She is teased for finding a good friend in Gwen Thompson. Gwen and her mother have fallen on hard times. Abandoned by her father, Gwen and her mother are living in their car.

Part of what makes American Girl so popular today is the newer dolls' relevance to the lives of the girls possessing them. "Oh, hey, this doll is ______ like me!" At $95 a pop (for just the doll and the book, never mind accessories!), it was unlikely Precious Daughter would have had her own AG doll if my sister and brother-in-law hadn't stepped in.

What are the chances of homeless girls out there owning Gwen or any other in the AG collection? It strikes me as kind of mean. "Here's a doll whose story might parallell your own, but YOU CAN'T AFFORD HER!! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"

Am I wrong? Am I missing something here? Chrissa and Gwen certainly teach a nice lesson about friendship, but I wonder how much of it will be learned by the child given the pair ($175 for the pair, a ten-dollar savings!!!) other than "two is better than one."

I hope Mattel has other more noble plans in mind, like donating an AG doll to Toys for Tots for every Gwen purchased or perhaps donating a percentage of sales proceeds to help homeless families.

Let the Whining Begin!

2009-09-22T08:26:00.006-04:00

It's official. The school year is in full swing. My kids started their second full week of school yesterday, and the whining and stalling picked up right where it left off last June.

My morning begins tamely enough. The Oracle gets up and has breakfast, and he usually nudges me awake as he's about to get into the shower. It's roughly 6:30. Today I woke up a little early thanks to the odd scrabblings of Chessie who, it seems, had "something"stuck to her butt and was trying to bury it where it finally fell off. This is one thing I hate about cats. They sleep anywhere and everywhere. There is no limit. This morning, she was sleeping on a tote bag on a shelf, and the offending offal landed on the tote bag. I probably could have saved the tote bag, but I was skeeved and angry and sleepy. Throwing it out seemed easier.

So, all right, I'm up. I make The Oracle's lunch and I start nudging kids. I love/hate this part of the morning. I love to kiss and cuddle my warm, sleepy children. I hate when they're just awake enough to start arguing with me.

My first stop is Mighty B. Mighty B. was out of bed by 7:00 a.m. almost every morning throughout the summer. Yesterday and today I needed a crowbar to get him out of bed, and I eventually tempted him into the living room by turning on and cranking up the volume of Monster Jam. Then I turned the TV off until he got dressed.

How about Precious Daughter? At least she's consistent. She loves her bed and hates leaving it until either her empty belly or her full bladder forces the issue. She sits up in bed and chats with me, and when I think we're "good to go," I tell her to get dressed and leave her to check B.'s progress.

B is staring at Monster Jam. He is dressed, so I give him his shoes and ask him to put them on. I go back to Precious Daughter's room, and she is nowhere to be seen -- Oh, wait!! That lump on the bed means she went back under the covers. Aaaagh.

I sharply order Precious Daughter to get up and get dressed. She apologizes and picks up her shirt.

Amid this circus, Kryptonite is dragging her purple elephant back and forth across the bars of the crib, the plastic ring linked to its back plinking along much like a prisoner's tin cup against his cell. The Oracle is trying to get ready to go to work, so I need to get his lunch together. Oh, and he needs socks.

Tell me, does anyone else live in a state of perpetual laundry turmoil? I haven't been "caught up" laundry-wise since B's arrival in 2003. There is always stuff to wash, and there's always stuff to put away. Quite often we're burrowing through baskets of clean laundry in search of whatever it is we need. Sometimes an entire basket of clean stuff gets picked apart and worn without ever seeing the inside of a drawer. This is one of those times. I dig about in a basket, come up with socks, and stuff the clean (and wrinkly) clothes back in the basket.

I check on Precious Daughter's progress, and I nearly scream at her to get her tailfeathers out of bed before I drag her out by the feet. I give B. his cereal, and I have to keep reminding him to eat if he wants Monster Jam to stay on.

Precious Daughter stumbles out of bed toward the bathroom.

I finish packing The Oracle's lunch (sandwich, yogurt, Diet Crack with Splenda, crackers, carrots, and a lovely-looking apple) and dump his coffee into the Thermos.

The Oracle is running late, so I drive him to the train station which is a mile away at the most, screeching at Precious Daughter to get her clothes on and nagging Mighty B into another bite of cereal on my way out the door.

Less than five minutes later, I'm back. Mighty B. still isn't eating, but at least Daughter is dressed. I slap a bowl of cereal in front of her and start nagging the spoon to her mouth. The bus comes in less than ten minutes, and their lunches aren't ready. Hooray for Spaghetti O's!

Nag, nag, nag. They have to brush teeth and Precious Daughter still has to comb her hair. I stack their backpacks and lunch bags on the porch and usher them outside. To Precious Daugther's dismay, I brush her hair in under fifteen seconds because I hear the bus rolling up the street.

Once I shove them on the bus, I go back inside to feed Knucklehead and Kryptonite.

What I really want is a nap.

Such Bravery!

2009-09-09T09:36:00.004-04:00

Roughly two years ago, Mighty B.'s chronic ear infections led to the insertion of tubes in his ears. Those tubes were supposed to fall out on their own, but they were as stubborn as Mighty B. himself. At this horrible, overbooked office visit, the doc decided they should be surgically removed.

Well, I dragged my feet, hoping to find they'd fall out on their own, but I couldn't risk the kid's hearing, could I? It's bad enough that he refuses to listen to me; I don't want to let him shore up his selective perception with medical limitations.

Last week was preadmission testing. Thankfully they drew no blood samples. I really wasn't sure how I'd get past that one if they had. B. is afraid of needles (who isn't?) and I wanted this whole experience to be a good one. If I had to sit on him for a needle, he'd be scarred for life.

(His trip to the dentist last week for his first filling was as smooth as buttercream. The dentist asked that I not tell him about needing a filling, and I didn't. The dentist filled the tooth -- Novocaine and all -- and B. was as cool as a cucumber. He wasn't happy about the numb cheek, but he handled that visit to the destist better than I ever could.)

Back to the subject. During preadmission testing, I'd mentioned to the nurse practitioner that I didn't want them using Versed. They used it when the tubes went in, and the poor kid was crying and combative for two hours in recovery. She made a note but no promises.

Anyway, yesterday we arrived at the hospital -- the whole parade of us -- at 7:00 a.m. In typical hurry-up-and-wait fashion, B. and I went back and got him dressed in hospital garb, answered a few questions, sat through some vital signs, and waited. The Oracle, Precious Daughter, and Kryptonite joined us and together we waited over an hour, with little visits here and there from the anesthesiologist and a couple of surgical assistants. We were -- surprise!! -- waiting for the doctor to arrive. She not only keeps her patients waiting at her office, she keeps the hospital staff waiting as well.

At 8:20, they led Mighty B. down the hall to surgery. My taller-than-average son suddenly looked very small as he walked away, his green hospital johnny flashing glimpses of his Scooby Doo underwear. I wanted to cry.

Twenty minutes later, I joined him in the recovery room as he was devouring a green freeze pop which gave us the pleasure of an encore visit ten minutes later. His ear hurt despite an injection of Toradol, so they gave him a dose of Tylenol on top of it. He cuddled with The Oracle for a bit, and we were on our way home at roughly 10:00 with instructions for B. to take it easy for the rest of the day (no climbing, bike riding, or anything where balance is critical) and to keep his ear dry for two days.

He wasn't out of bed twenty minutes this morning before hopping on his pogo stick for a bounce around the driveway.

I wish I had some of that ambition.

McPickpocket!

2009-09-04T15:49:00.002-04:00

Thanks to the observant eyes of a caring stranger, I was spared the agony of replacing my wallet and its contents.

My kids have been on a recent McDonalds kick, thanks to the Lego and American Girl prizes in their happy meals. (Today one child was rather disappointed over receiving an unexpected Batmobile. I think the McBinge is over.)

Thanks to the sudden rationing of condiments, I got to stand in two lines for lunch instead of one. I splurged today and enjoyed a grilled chicken club, and as I devoured the last bite I flipped over the tray liner and observed that my yummy sandwich contained a whopping 470 calories. OUCH! (Maybe I should say, "oink!")

Mighty B. is picking at his fries, and I'm proclaiming a low-fat, low-cal dinner. I hear a man behind me say, "You're gonna put that back, right?" A chair scuffs, and I see a woman in a white shirt walking away. The man then tells me she tried to steal the wallet from my purse. My purse was beneath Kryptonite in the stroller basket

I thought he was joking. People often come up to Kryptonite and fuss over her, and I seriously thought that the woman was with this man and he was pulling a joke until I realized that this white-shirted woman was no longer in restaurant. I quickly went to the door she exited and looked around, hoping I'd see her getting into a car or on the sidewalk, but she was nowhere in sight. The observant patrion tells me that she was definitely caught on camera. My belly started to quiver a little bit.

I sought out the manager, and the manager called the police. A very nice officer responded, and Mr. Patron tells his story. Simply put, the lady sat down next to Kryptonite, reached right into my purse and grabbed my wallet. Mr. Patron then says, "You're gonna put that back, right?" The woman surprisingly put it back and walked out.

I'm a very lucky person today. I'm lucky that I didn't lose my wallet, and I'm lucky for the eye-opener that McPickpocket could just as easily been after something much more important, like Kryptonite herself.

1961 Flintstones Winston Cigarettes

2009-09-01T20:55:00.001-04:00

We forget that shows like The Flintstones weren't geared toward a kiddie audience.

Happy Birthday, Precious Daughter!

2009-08-24T08:39:00.005-04:00

Precious Daughter turns 8 today!

Yesterday, she had her birthday party at a local swim club. I don't plan parties like this. I'm not good at it. What I thought would be an easy-peasy four-hour kid party turned out to be a lot of work, and I'm amazed that thousands of parents find the stamina to do this every year.

When I was a kid, my mother didn't host birthday parties. Well, she did once in a while. Each of my sisters had a big party. By the time I came along, she decided she'd had enough. She baked cakes for us and we sang around the table, but the invite-the-neighborhood kind of a party sank into the tar pits. In fact, my first-ever party of that nature didn't happen until I turned 40.

Precious Daughter's pool party consisted of roughly 15 kids and 13 adults. I think everyone had a wonderful time. At least I hope they did. I just wish that I were more organized. I was a frizzy-headed sweatball, and I never made it into the water even though I desperately wanted to get there.

What made it more stressful is grandparents and godparents were coming to the house after the kid party. The Oracle skipped the pool and stayed home to baby-sit the food and straighten up. I naively assumed that if the pool party ended at 3:00, I'd be home by 3:30.

All together now! "HAR-DE-HAR-HAR!"

The Oracle called me several times from 3:00 onward. His initial calls politely asked when I was leaving, but eventually they escalated to, "Where the #&*% are you!? Your parents just got here!"

Well, shoot. This was my first semi-successful kid party. In 2007, the kids' party was scheduled for a fun place, but only a handful of guests showed up. Only one classmate showed up, so we had an entire arcade to ourselves for our block of time. "We" consisted of nine family members (including ourselves), E's family, and the classmate with his mom and brother.

Anyway, the arcade party took excellent care of itself, because didn't have to worry about other people's kids. This one was quite a wake-up call. i didn't have time to bake a cake, so I had to succumb to a supermarket cake, which was quite good. I was late for the party and didn't have time to pick it up, so I asked another mom to hold down the fort while I ran this errand, adn then I forgot to tell her when I was leaving. . DUH. One guest arrived late and her mom had no idea where to put her.

The kids had a great time, and I nearly forgot to cut the stupid cake. Pool Lady reminded me. next thing I know, it's 3:00. Parents are arriving, and I have to find their dripping-wet kids and send them home. Then we had to load the car before going home. Things probably would have gone much more smoothly if The Oracle had been there, but he was busy at home.

If it weren't for Uncle R., I wouldnt' have a single picture to mark the event. And, wow, he's great with a camera!

Precious Daughter taking the plunge!

Mighty B. and the Blonde-haired girl. I broke my rule on posting other people's kids because you can't see her face.

Aunt V. and Kryptonite.

I came home to a sparkly house and guests waiting for our arrival. I felt like a big loser. Thank you, everyone, for coming to my aid and helping me get the food on the table before hunger got the better of you!

I'm hoping my sister has pictures from the family party on her camera, because I never got the chance to snap one picture.

No Treats From Obama

2009-08-17T11:49:00.001-04:00

This sent me into gigglefits.

For some reason, I can't view YouTube posts on Blogger. I think it's a setting in my computer. If you can't see what I posted, please let me know, and I'll send the link if you'd like. If you're one of those tech-savvy folks that know what setting I need to change on my machine, I'd love to hear from you!

(I'm still alive, folks, just rather busy getting some work done and planning Precious Daughter's birthday party. I'll post soon!)

Birthday Party!

2009-08-05T23:20:00.004-04:00

Last Saturday, despite his horrid behavior, we celebrated Mighty B's 6th Birthday. For many months he begged and pestered to have his party take place at the tourist railroad where The Oracle volunteers, so The Oracle set it up.

Our guest list was simple. Uncle B. and Aunt J., two of The Oracle's friends and their kids, and E. with her family. My sister ended up having to cancel at the last minute. I know Mighty B. would have liked some of his friends there, but who, other than close friends/family, is going to drive an hour and a half for a kid's party?

But B. has been a bit difficult lately (understatement). It got so rough that we told him we were canceling his party. It escalated to the point that The Oracle and I seriously discussed canning it for real. In the end, knowing that the root of some of his problems surround his feeling left out and envy over the attention given to Kryptonite, we decided that he really needed to be "king for a day," but we didn't tell B. that.

Friday night, I stayed up all night baking this:

I'm quite proud of the way it turned out, considering that I have little skill with cake decorating, and it's nothing I'd ever attempt if my mother's cake-decorating stuff hadn't landed in my lap.

Bragging: The top layer is yellow, the bottom layer is chocolate. Each layer contains what would be one-and-a-half regular layer cakes, if that makes sense. By the time the cakes were cooled, I discovered that I didn't have enough butter to frost cake. Uh-oh. It was nearly 4:00 a.m., and my only supermarket option involved an overpriced convenience store. I was too tired to drive a greater distance to the 24-hour supermarket. Then I remembered "cream cheese!"

The frosting between the layers is chocolate cream cheese. The frosting on the outside is back-of-the-box Royal icing, and I had to stretch it mighty thin to cover the cake. I barely had enough.

After we arrived at the railroad, I realized that I'd left the candles at home. The nearest shop to get some was at least fifteen minutes away. We didn't have time.

When the kids sang "Happy Birthday," Mighty B. "fainted" because he was so happy. Goofball.

Then our outspoken son left his parents mortified when he opened a present from Uncle B. and Aunt J. and announced, "I don't want Operation!"

The Oracle was too flabbergasted to speak. Aunt J. calmly took the gift back and that was that. She had other stuff in the bag that B. never saw. That's what B. gets for being so outspoken.

Precious Daughter spent that evening and the next two days getting on our last nerve with her jealousy over B's presents. HER party is in three weeks, but you'd think she wasn't having one at all. I guess this is why my mother didn't bother with birthday parties.

Fat baby picture. I love dresses with dots. She was very good at the party.

Many, many thanks to Aunt J. and E. for rounding out our menu with veggies, fruit, and salad. The Oracle and I worried over how we were going to transport enough food over the distance, so we ended up running a tab at the railroad's snack bar instead. It isn't ideal, really, but with three kids taking up the cargo space, we didn't have room in the Pacifica, and we tried our best to keep the party a surprise for Mighty B. Uncle B. and Aunt J. also transported B's presents so he wouldn't see them in the back of the car. The only thing I had to hide was the cake, and I managed that.

A Day in the Twilight Zone

2009-07-30T08:21:00.006-04:00

The last three days have been chaotic. The Oracle is a contractor, and he's currently working in a government office. He spent the last three days working in an office quite a distance away, which meant being out the door at 5:50 a.m. to catch a train at a different station than his usual. Blech.

We're running one car which means I had to drive The Oracle to a train station twenty minutes away for his commute instead of the one four blocks away.

I confesss I'm a bad mama. When I drive The Oracle to the local station, I leave our children asleep in their beds because I am out and back in under seven minutes. (After this episode, I suspect The Oracle will need to walk to the station or take an earlier train once school starts in September.) The station he needed earlier this week is twenty minutes away, and that meant stuffing sleepy kids into the car for the ride. They were wide awake by the time we got home and were demanding breakfast.

Tuesday we dropped our car off for service and thankfully provided a rental for the day. The rental was a Grand Marquis and too small for a family of five. After lots of squabbling and elbow wrestling, we joyfully returned the rental and picked up our car yesterday after breakfast.

Swimming lessons were immediately afterward. Then it was time for lunch, and my in-laws picked up Precious Daughter and Mighty B. just before 1:00 because I had a to write a doctor's deposition at 2:00. I scurried off with Kryptonite to the sitter's house.

At the sitter's house, I knock on the door. No answer. I knock on the door again, and no response. I call her number, thinking she might be upstairs and not hearing me, and no answer.

Now what?

My brain is spinning. Normally, the sitter picks up her son at 12:30, but she's home by now. Something must've held her up, but I can't wait any more. Hoping she was okay, I load Kryptonite back into the car, and I start heading to the job which is only a ten-minute drive away. I called my firm but got no answer, instead leaving her a message with my dilemma.

I tried calling the attorney's office and got a non-answer from their staff. I really had no choice anyway, because the job was due to start in twenty minutes.

I arrive at the doc's office with Kryptonite and meet opposing counsel in the parking lot. I explained my problem and asked her opinion on having a five-month-old baby present during the deposition. She was very open to it (thank Heaven) and began sharing some of her experiences with last-minute Take Your Kid to Work days.

When plaintiff's counsel arrived, he marveled over Kryptonite and compared her to his older baby. When he learned she was mine and present for the day's work, he took it in stride.

The third Seven to pop up on the slot machine was the doc himself. His is a family practice, he loves pediatrics, and offered to hold Kryptonite while I worked. Jackpot!

Opposing Counsel realizes she doesn't have half of her documents for the day's dep, and steps out to arrange a fax from her secretary to the doctor's office.

Kryptonite awakens, and the doc reaches out to take her. As I lift her out of the carrier I notice a familiar unpleasant odor. You have GOT to be kidding! Ah well. At least someone else is tied up with a fax machine, and I'm not the sole reason for delay. I take her out to the car for a quick change. Naturally, her diaper was a thoroughly nasty blowout. The kid had poop under her arms, for crying out loud! At least I had a change of clothes for her.

As I'm locking the car, I spy the baby sling I'd just purchased through eBay on the seat. I had it at the pool with me that morning. I stuffed the sling in my purse and returned to the doc's offfice.

Returning to my seat, I stuffed Kryptonite into the sling. She seemed pretty content and we began the deposition. About fifteen minutes into it, she started to crab. Ter-ri-fic. I start twisting back and forth on the seat of my office chair, but she isn't buying it. When the attorneys went off the record for another matter, I passed Kryptonite off to an office worker who eagerly offered her services earlier. I initially worried that the doc would be annoyed with his staffer taking the next hour off to fart around with the court reporter's kid, but it was better than having her squawking every thirty seconds and interrupting things.

An hour later, I can hear Kryptonite screaming. She is pissed. She wants her mama, but what can I do? I'm in the middle of a job. A short while later, the staffer comes in and asks if I have a bottle.

Yeah, I have a bottle and I have formula in the car, but I know full well that Kryptonite won't take it. She doesn't like the formula. She likes her milk, um, directly from the source. She'll take a bottle containing stuff from mom's dairy bar, but she doesn't like formula. I didn't have anything freshl bottled with me. I wasn't anticipating this job to take that long, and Kryptonite ate at 12:30.

Whatever. Kryptonite wasn't going to need to eat until 4:30 or so, but I made the bottle anyway. I figured it would give the staffer something to try. Kryptonite wanted her mama. The End.

We resume the deposition, and it takes for-ev-er. I can hear Kryptonite crabbing off and on, and we're perpetually interrupted with off-the-record discussions having nothing to do with my baby. At one point, a thunderstorm cracked open right over our heads, nearly shaking us all out of our chairs. The 41-year-old doc jokes that he thought he might have a second heart attack. NOT FUNNY!!!!

We didn't finish until 4:45.

The race was on! I had to get The Oracle from the train station, the kids from my in-laws, Precious Daughter to her summer stock practice by 6:00, and NONE of that was going to happen on time. It was pouring buckets and I could barely see. I made a batch of phone calls, the results of which were that nothing was going to be completed on time, but we eventually got everyone home safe and sound, and things were back to semi-normal.

I'm glad that's over!

Oh. The sitter? She just never got the message I left. I'm annoyed, but I'm glad she's okay.

Up and Down

2009-07-26T22:55:00.003-04:00

I am being driven to distraction as I write this. It's nearly 11:00 p.m., and Precious Daughter is still awake.

The kid just will not go to sleep. She says she's not tired. She says she can't sleep. She says she's hot, and her hair is sticking to her neck. She's thirsty. She can't get comfortable. Excuses, excuses.

If she'd stay in bed for longer than fifteen minutes, her body might have a chance to fall asleep already!

The Downside

2009-07-16T15:22:00.005-04:00

After living two houses away from each other all their lives, Precious Daughter and the Blonde-Haired Girl have become pretty good friends. Whether this is simply a product of being separated from school-year friends or the beginnings of a really good thing remains to be seen. She seems like a nice kid, and I certainly hope they remain good friends for a long time.

The downside: Mighty B. We don't have a boy his age two houses away any more. For a while, our neighbors had their daughter and grandson living with them while their son-in-law was in basic training, and it was wonderful. They played constantly.

Mighty B. is feeling left out, and I'm feeling like an ogre. On one hand, I can't stand his being excluded by his sister and her new friend. On the other, I understand the girls' need to be by themselves without a pesky little brother tagging along.

Ugh.

It also reminds me of my own childhood. I didn't have many friends either. When my older sisters would go out, they were often saddled with, "Take your little sister!" I can't imagine what my mother thought the result would be. Would forcing me into their company make them want me along? Ummm... no. I was probably sent along as more of a deterrent to bad behavior, because (as much as I hate to admit it now), I didn't really learn that I could keep secrets from my mother until I was fifteen or so.

(Edited to add: I suddenly recall my very first screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My sister, V, was going with her friends, and my mom whacked her from behind with "Take your sister!" I spent the movie in a state of perplexity. I didn't "get" the audience participation end of it, and I was thoroughly annoyed at my inability to follow the plot of the movie from all the shouting. Oh, and I was utterly agog with V's and everyone else's ability to fluently drop obscenities on cue. A year and a half later, my friends were going and I was probably more enthusiastic than V was.)

Whatever Mom's goal, the end result was my sisters' resentment at their lack of freedom in my presence and my feeling awkward at being forced into a situation where I wasn't always welcomed.

Fortunately, Mighty B. is still too young for that swirl of emotion. At the ripe age of almost six, he still believes that the world adores him and that it is his oyster for the taking, even if that oyster is full of Barbie dolls, Polly Pocket, and cheerleading pompoms.

Four Years Ago

2009-07-10T08:20:00.004-04:00

I wanted to post these yesterday, but I forgot. They were taken on 7/9/05, and I thought it would have been fun. But, I forgot a lot of things yesterday, like sunscreen when we went to the pool and Precious Daughter's summer stock practice.

Kryptonite is teething. Her two bottom incisors cut through a couple days ago, but they're still giving her a lot of grief. Either that or she's following in Mighty B.'s footsteps. Mighty B. was like a shark with all of his teeth coming in at once, and it was a hellish time for him with all those teeth coming in without a break in between.

Anyway, Kryptonite didn't sleep well for two nights. She was uncomfortable and crabby and only slept while I held her. It was rough.

Back to the pictures. My chicks were approaching their fourth and second birthdays.

I found this workbench on eBay. It was one of my earlier and most favorite purchases, and well worth the drive to go pick it up. We still have the bench, but the kids have lost and/or destroyed most of the tools. It'll need new tools and a good powerwashing when Kryptonite is old enough for it. They played with it more than the kitchen set which, sadly, was curbed for trash collection a couple years ago.

In this next one, Precious Daughter chose the train table for a catnap. (Wow... look at my blinds! They were still smooth and unchewed from the Knucklehead's anxiety attack or something when we were out.)

I'm glad we still have the train table. It's probably my all-time favorite of their toys. That white blanket on her head has quite a history. I'll have to write about it sometime.

Ah, well. I guess it's time to return to the reality of glazed eyes staring at the TV and complaints of nothing to do on a gorgeous, sunny day.

The Sixth Photo in My Sixth Folder

2009-07-02T23:59:00.005-04:00

So I got the idea from Coffee Bean. Hers is way funnier than mine.

My folders are arranged by date created rather than by name. This photo was taken in June of 2005 during a neighborhood child's birthday party. The birthday had a bug theme, which should explain the very funny headgear my children are wearing.

At the ripe age of Almost four, that Dora the Explorer dress was one of Precious Daughter's favorites. It was the first thing out of the drawer or the basket whenever I did laundry.

Mighty B. was at least three months away from his first haircut. His shirt was one of my favorites, too. He's wearing it in a lot of pictures during that summer.

This puny post took over an hour and a half to complete.

Why? Because the moment I peeked into this folder from 2005, I had to peek in all the others. I didn't realize how much my kids changed in such a short time. I mean, I knew they changed, of course, but so many little things pop out of the memory banks when you look at pictures. I forgot how much fun their baby-ish selves were. They're still a lot of fun, of course. I wouldn't trade their current selves for their baby days.

Seeing these old pics reminds me of how quickly time is zooming by. My mom always said that my sisters' and my young years (baby to school age) were the best of her life. I have to agree. I love watching their bodies, minds, and personalities grow and change.

When they hit puberty, I'll probably change my mind on that.

Tap 'n Hip Hop

2009-06-27T12:54:00.006-04:00

Last weekend was Precious Daugther's dance recital. I suspect that recital time is almost the highlight of her year with Christmas as the only rival. Or maybe Hallowe'en. The girl loves dressing up and looking fancy.

In this photo, taken at the dress rehearsal, Precious Daughter is third from the left. Flash photography wasn't permitted, so I was trying to work without a flash. Her music for this routine was "Please Mr. Postman."

In this picture, she is second from left. This costume was a hip-hop routine to "Come on and Ride It." When Precious daughter took her first hip-hop class last September, she was all gangly arms and legs. I'm sorry to confess that I wasn't sure how well she'd do.

I am tickled to report...

...that she kicked butt in both dances.

Her no-talent mama had little to do with the curls, by the way. We bought 'em at a wig store at the direction of the dance studio. It's just a big pouf of synthetic curls stretched over her own hair (in a bun) and pinned at every possible angle.

After Sunday's performance (when the two prior photos were taken) she didn't want to take off the hip-hop costume. She wore it the rest of the day. I think she would have worn it to bed if the elastic hadn't started pinching by then. She's been wearing the wrist bands every other day.

For some reason, this made its way into the recital folder. I can't resist a fat baby eating her fingers, can you?

Here. Have seconds!

No More "Pagan Baby"!

2009-06-22T00:24:00.000-04:00

Kryptonite, along with four other babies, was Baptized on Sunday, June 7. I would have posted this sooner, but I was knocked for a bit of a loop over finding poor old Peake that Monday. (Edited to add: Then I got distracted, and this post was left in limbo until now.)

Two days prior to this first sacrament, The Oracle and I were in the throes of last-minute preparations for Kryptonite's big day. Those close to me know how frantic that can be. You know I'm disorganized and flaky, but the depths of those traits can't easily be explained without actually being witnessed. If you haven't seen it for yourself, be thankful.

It's bad. Really bad.

I spent most of Saturday doing my favorite work in the kitchen. Our menu was simple: Florentine layers (pasta dish), hot roast beef, and chicken salad. Sides included cole slaw, cucumber salad (a first for me), fresh fruit, chips, pretzels, and onion dip. Pineapple upside-down cake and a chocolate cake for dessert.

The downside to all of this is the non-stop use of the oven. The "secret" to the chicken salad is roasting the skin-on chicken breasts rather than boiling them, plus I had to roast the two eye roasts and bake two cakes. The kitchen was as hot as hell and I was quite crabby because of it. I hate perspiring. I am a priss. My dislike for it is a post all its own. BUT I was cooking, and that's something I love to do. You can't cook without heat.

On the brighter side, the roasting meats, bubbling gravy, and the sweet smells of dessert made the house smell divine.

The Oracle got stuck with the icky work, like clearing the dining room table of its mountain of clutter and dusting all the stuff that hadn't been dusted since the last time company came to visit. Have I ever mentioned that he scrubs the bathroom and the floors? I clearly got lucky in the man department.

Saturday night was an all-nighter. It was tough. The kids' corner in the living room was an unmitigated disaster, and I was inches away from tossing it all instead of sorting it out. For instance, they have a bookcase for their books, but the books are rarely on it. On any given day, at least 50% of them are scattered about the house. I don't understand it. When I tipped up the loveseat (yes, you read that. Tipping it forward is easier than dragging it about) to clean beneath it, I found no fewer than two dozen books crammed beneath it. Now, I don't believe they were shoved there intentionally, but the careless way my children treat the books they claim to love is downright criminal. Oh, they don't write on the pages or intentionally tear them up, but they rarely put the things in a safe place, never mind returning them to the shelf. It is so frustrating.

I won't describe how much dog hair was under that couch, but I will say it rivaled the volume of the books. That's why I call her a German Shedder.

On the Big Day, after a brief two-hour nap, the only remaining work was assembling the Florentine, slicing roast beef, bathing, and ironing Kryptonite's gown.

I've made Florentine enough that I pretty much have it down to a science, and the beef was quickly sliced thanks to this little gem. Mine is a much older model my mother purchased around 1995 or so, and it's still one of my favorite specialty appliances.

It's a good thing I had that slicer, because ironing the christening gown was a horrid affair. Had I known how awful it would be, I would have done it much sooner. It's 100% cotton. Washing it was super easy, just a gentle-cycle wash, shake it out, and hang dry. "Iron while slightly damp." Huh? Okay. I set to work with a spray bottle of water and my iron, and I swear it seemed like the iron was sticking to the fabric. That dress contains what seems like eyards and yards of fabric. Just when I thought I figured out a technique, I pressed in yet another unwanted crease. Ironing it took almost forty minutes.

I hate ironing. My sister, Jennifer, loved to iron. She found it relaxing. In my opinion, the notion of ironing clothes came from the devil himself.

The only bummer was my cousin not showing up. Granted, it was kind of a last-minute invitation, but they sounded positive on coming. I hadn't seen them in ages, and having them there would have been really nice. Aside from that, if they'd told me they weren't coming, I would have had room to invite E and her family. I really need to see E. It's been weeks and weeks. I haven't seen M or S lately either. I suspect this may be why I feel like I'm losing my mind.

My brother-in-law, AKA Kryptonite's godfather, supplied me with these pics, since we ran late and forgot the camera when we left for the church.

From left to right: Godparents Uncle R. and Aunt J., Fr. Rob, Kryptonite, me, and The Oracle.

I'm so happy my older two love their baby sister. They really are very good with her.

And, man, look at the size of this baby, will you? I was worried that the gown wouldn't fit (it did). At her checkup this Friday she tipped the scales at 17.5 pounds and stretched to nearly 25 inches in length.

Name That Character

2009-06-16T12:33:00.003-04:00

Anyone remember this?

100 points if you can name the show, 500 if you can name the critter itself!

I wish I had a real prize to offer, but I just happen to know of an excellent place for real prizes!!!

Consider Taking a Chance on Life!! Hallie, from Wonderful World of Wieners, is organizing an awesome fundraising raffle to support the non-profit United Network for Organ Sharing, an organization whose vital function found a new heart for her father six years ago.

Even if you're not the gambling type, consider becoming an organ donor yourself to better the odds for someone else.

Good-Bye, "Baby Boy"

2009-06-08T13:49:00.007-04:00

I found him dead on the floor Monday afternoon.

I didn't say a word to the kids. I called my father-in-law who, bless his heart, came over to get my kids out of the house so I could get him out of the tight corner he was in and into a more presentable position (box) to say their farewells. I feared moving him while they looked over my shoulder, since I wasn't sure what would happen when I picked him up.

I don't know when this happened. The Oracle says he last saw him Saturday. I don't know. I do know that, other than filled food and water dishes, I hadn't thought about critters at all on Saturday or Sunday because we were swamped with getting ready for Kryptonite's baptism and the handful of people visiting house afterward.

Peake arrived with his sister, Chessie, in early autumn of 1995. The Oracle's friend and coworker were plagued by a stray floozy feline that considered their porch her private maternity ward. Rather than being overrun with feral cats, Bob and his wife kit-napped the babies to hand tame, bottle feed, and adopt out. Bob brought the box of tiny kittens with him to work. The Oracle took a liking to the little calico Bob had dubbed "Sausalito."

The Oracle, being much more considerate than I, talked with me about adopting a kitten (I simply would have brought her home). We were still feeling the loss of Missy, an elderly long-legged coal-black stray that showed up on our doorstep Thanksgiving week of 1993, and who died a bit over a year later. We were ready for another cat.

When the kittens were old enough to adopt, I visited Bob's house to pick up the calico. I vividly recall (for once!) standing in their kitchen waiting to meet our new kitten. They had only two kittens left from their latest litter. As his wife brought them out, she introduced the orange tabby as "Reginald" and tucked him into my arms with Sausalito, knowing I wouldn't be able to resist. I don't remember whether I called The Oracle first, but I went there for one kitten and brought two home. I'd read somewhere (possibly Life's Little Instruction Book or similar) that if you were going to adopt a kitten, you might as well go for two, since you're getting double the fun for little extra effort.

I remember bringing them home and introducing them to Strudel, our first shedder. The kittens took one look at this large, sniffing dog and instantly transformed into hissing demons with every hair standing on end. They ran up my bare arms and buried themselves under my hair and against my neck. "Ouch" was an understatement.

The names Sausalito and Reginald sound aristocratic, but they're a mouthful. We realized that they would have quickly been reduced to Saucy and Reggie, and we weren't crazy about those nicknames.

The Oracle, as those close to him know, is an enthusiast for railroading history. He enjoys industrial history in general, but railroading is something he's loved since he was small.

Back in the '30s, the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad ran an advertising campaign for their long-distance service, "Sleep like a Kitten," surrounding a stray cat they named "Chessie." Chessie's husband was "Peake." A little of the story can be found here. The names were fun, the story was interesting, and Sausalito and Reginald were renamed Chessie and Peake.

In nearly 14 years, they've been separated only three times, and those occasions were for surgery to Peake's left foot. He had an extremely-rare cancer of the nerve sheath, and the surgeries were intended to debulk the tumor and keep him comfortable. In recent months I'd been torn over having to take him back for more surgery, because it had become so involved in the foot I figured I'd be bringing home a three-legged cat.

Peake was The Oracle's cat. Peake claimed him from the get-go, choosing to lay on the footrest of the recliner alongside The Oracle's legs. We called him "Baby Boy" in addition to "Peake," and although I'd taken to calling him "Old Man" in the last few years, he was always Baby Boy to The Oracle.

In recent years, Peake wouldn't go to bed unless The Oracle came too. Around 9:30 or 10:00 p.m., he'd start yowling in the hallway, and he wouldn't stop until The Oracle started brushing his teeth.

He was also a major-league moocher. He could be sound asleep on the foot of the bed, but when I cracked open a can of tuna to make The Oracle's lunch, Peake would be winding around my feet meowing pitifully for morsels of tuna. He mooched at the dinner table, too, and The Oracle shared little tidbits of whatever was on the menu. I've even caught him raiding Knucklehead's dish if she left anything behind.

One thing he enjoyed was American cheese. It's something he'd loved since he was a kitten at Bob's house. Knowing it was unhealthy, I rarely gave it to him. Sometimes I couldn't resist.

The picture above doesn't show it, but Peake had marvelous whiskers. I loved his whiskers. They were long and full and perfectly fanned, especially when he smelled something interesting.

And, God, I'm going to miss his pretty orange eyes.

It Struck My Funnny Bone

2009-06-08T10:12:00.003-04:00

A blonde calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get started." Her boyfriend asks, "What is it supposed to be when it's finished?" The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a rooster."

Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle. She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table.

He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to her and says, 'First of all, no matter what we do, we're not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a rooster.' He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a nice cup of tea."

"Then," he said with a deep sigh, "we'll put all the Corn Flakes back in the box."

I'm Still Here

2009-05-31T11:07:00.002-04:00

It's been a while, I know. I've been trying (and failing miserably) to get a number of things done, so blogging has fallen by the wayside.

I've had a couple jobs so far, the hurry-up-and-wait ordeal as well as what turned out to be a semi-interesting expulsion hearing. I admit that for a moment I didn't know what that was even though the word was right in front of my eyes. It's a hearing held at a school before expelling a student.

I can't get into details, obviously, but I will say I was quite concerned because the family of the child involved chose to proceed without hiring an attorney. Clients who represent themselves are generally nightmares to report, and I was suspecting my transcript to look like alphabet soup as a result. I was pleasantly surprised. Once the three adults accompanying the child decided on who'd be spokesperson, they did a fantastic job. They asked solid, coherent questions and pleaded the child's case well.

This week then took a turn for the worse. My uncle passed away on Thursday morning. His viewing is tonight and funeral is tomorrow.

Uncle B's health has been declining for some time, but his loss is still shocking. He was an extremely smart and funny man and one of those people you blindly assumed would live forever despite increasing frailty. My cousins and their children are heartbroken, and I wish there were more I could do for them.

I doubt I'll have much to add over the next week, so bear with me. Kryptonite's baptism is next Sunday, and I have a mountain of work to do. Take care of yourselves until then.

Just for Hallie

2009-05-23T11:06:00.004-04:00

Sorry, Hallie, but immediately after thinking, "Holy #&@%!!!" I thought of you. Your feelings on arachnids are well known in these here Blogger parts.

I spotted this little gem on the wall of my front porch. By the time I went inside for the camera and a ruler, it scuttled into the corner by the step.

I wondered whether I should squash it out of existence. I seriously considered doing so, even though my cardinal rule for such "wildlife" is that it's allowed to exist as long as it isn't where I eat or sleep.

But, see, look at it. It's not just any spider, it's one of those streamlined, super-speedy models, the kind that, if it's in your house, you mustn't lose sight of or you'll never sleep again.

And, yep, it's huge.

There was only one other thing that kept me from slapping it with my shoe, and I'm not sure a simple shoe slap would have been enough.

The crunch.

Hon's method for avoiding crunch during bug mashing is to let out a long, loud yell during which the shoe comes down. That's fine for a quick kill on the wall or the floor, but Mr. Spider tucked himself into a corner. There's no easy way to kill a bug in a corner, especially one this big. If I were actually lucky enough to hit it without getting crawled on, it's clear that by the time I would have finished him off with screaming and slapping, a posse of police cars would have converged on my driveway.

I let it go.

Maybe he's on his way to Maine.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

2009-05-19T09:46:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was CRA-ZY. My first post-Kryptonite job turned out to be a day of Workers’ Compensation hearings.

Comp hearings can be a blessing or a curse depending upon your view of things. Sometimes the day is a full docket of hearings with statements on the record and testimony, and that means transcript pages out the wazoo. Sometimes it’s a short docket and you’re done by noon. It really varies from day to day.

Normally I prefer the “full docket” days, because there’s some decent money to be made for my labors.

This day, however, is not normal. All I want is to get back to the sitter and pick up Kryptonite. I missed her terribly (and pride myself on making only ONE phone call to check up on her with the sitter).

As an added not-the-norm bonus, the in-laws are enjoying a years-overdue, two-week-long visit with House Fairy’s sister. Not only does this mean that we’re caring for their kitties, but they’re clearly unavailable to meet the school bus this afternoon. A short-docket day is definitely the way to go. The last time I worked for this particular judge, it was a short-docket day. I count my blessings because this judge is also a very nice, easygoing man to work with.

In order to be on time, though, my morning has to run damned-near perfectly. My window is small. I only have an hour and fifteen minutes between the kids boarding the bus and the first hearing.

I awoke at 6:00-ish and follow The Oracle into the shower as he exits. Afterward, I make everyone’s lunches. So far, so good. Kryptonite slumbers as I crash around in the bedroom.

Precious Daughter and Mighty B. are positively wonderful for me in the morning. They get up without too much prodding, dress for school, eat, and brush their teeth in plenty of time. I make sure their lunches contain nice desserts. Kryptonite awakens a few minutes before they go outside to meet the bus. I normally go outside to wait with them, but Kryptonite wants breakfast. I have a major-league aversion to breastfeeding in public, something for which my neighbors are probably quite thankful. Knucklehead gets to go out and bark at the squirrels while the kids wait for the bus. Finally, they're on their way.

Tick-tock.

This weekend, I rented a hospital-grade pump in hopes of avoiding Kryptonite’s eventual switch to formula at a mere three months of age. (Three months yesterday, in fact!) I think only two or three males read this blog, but that’s enough to keep me from getting graphic. I’ll only go as far as saying I was too stressed for the blasted pump to bring forth much of anything worthwhile, and I ended up packing the “in case of emergency” can of Enfamil powder into the diaper bag. Damn.

I wasted too much time fighting my losing emotional battle with the pump and didn’t leave the house until 8:10. I’m due at the hearings in a half hour. Thankfully, I don’t have to go far to reach the sitter. The hearing location is fairly close, too, but the route is heavy with traffic. I realize mid-route that I forgot to feed the dog.

Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have time to linger at the sitter’s, because it meant not having the time to get last-minute clingy with Kryptonite. Pissing off a judge is never a good thing. He may be a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I want to be the one wrecking his schedule. I kiss Kryptonite’s smooshy, fat cheeks and hit the road.

I walk into the judicial center with only ten minutes to spare. I am fervently praying for a short docket.

It is not a short docket. It is a full docket running from 9:00 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Drat. The Oracle and I discussed this possibility the night before, so I call to let him know he needs to leave work early to meet the kids’ bus. I console myself with the knowledge that I’ll have lots of work to turn in.

Our first hearing begins fifteen minutes late. I’m bracing myself for a long, six- or seven-hour day.

Lo! By 10:15, the judge has cleared up five cases. I have an hour’s wait for the next hearing, so I piddle around with a scoping job from another reporter until the 11:15 hearing starts.

Five minutes later the 11:15 hearing is finished, and the next two on the docket begin at 1:00. I’ve got over an hour to kill, but I’m sad that it isn’t quite enough to visit Kryptonite. I drive around for a place I like and eat lunch in the car. It’s a smidge too chilly to take a nice walk because I forgot to grab a jacket when I left the house. (I knew I forgot something! I always do!) I’m not wearing walk-friendly shoes anyway.

I return, restart my equipment and I wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.

The judge steps out into the hall to talk with one of the claimants. It turns out her hearing was canceled, but somehow she didn’t get the message.

Two of the five parties scheduled for the next hearing enter the room. It turns out that their hearing has been canceled and rescheduled for July. They and the judge enjoyed a lengthy discussion, none of which was on the record.

My next two hearings are due to start at 2:30. They're both cleared within ten minutes. I haven’t written twenty pages’ worth of work all day. If we'd finished five minutes earlier, The Oracle could have returned to work, but he has already boarded his train.

This is the worst kind of job, an all-day docket with little on record; in other words, it’s a big (insert expletive)-ing waste of my time.

The Oracle tells me his train is running late. I call the school so they don't let the kids board the bus and ride to an empty house. The Oracle gets the older kids from the school and I run to the sitter. We pull into the driveway within two minutes of each other. It's 3:25.

At 3:35, Precious Daughter must be at the dance studio with her recital costumes for picture day. The Oracle knows nothing of what to do with her hair. I take her and her paraphernalia to the studio. I forgot her makeup. Kryptonite comes with me because she's hungry. She doesn't like Enfamil and didn't eat much. Bless her sweet self, she napped at the studio the whole time.

We finish at the studio by 4:45, but the kids have their "gym show" at school that evening and must arrive by 6:15. It's take-out from Arby's for dinner. I feed Kryptonite and we rush off to school.

The show ran from 7:00 to 9:00. We arrive home only to discover that one of the cats yarked all over our bed.

!!!!Cats!!!!

Off I go to the in-laws to feed their cats. I hadn't had a chance to go all day. The Oracle showers the kids and gets them ready for bed. Mighty B. is asleep in The Oracle's lap when I get home, and Precious Daughter is in bed but still awake.

Getting them to school this morning sucked.

Precious and Holy

2009-05-11T17:35:00.010-04:00

Last Saturday, Precious Daughter celebrated her First Holy Communion. She's been gearing up for the day for quite a while with studies at her school as well as practicing songs and such. She's been singing them so much I was just about sick of them, so much so that I was asking her not to sing. Mean, I know, but she was singing everywhere, including my in-laws', the supermarket, Mighty B.'s tee-ball games, and the like. She practiced taking Communion with every small bit of finger food on hand: pretzels, potato chips, Froot Loops.

Can you guess? Religion is her favorite subject.

Getting the dress just about sent me into seizures. Are we dressing little girls or grown-up lady brides? My initial surfing yielded sites with horrid prices and equally overblown, over-ruffled dresses, dresses with long trains dragging behind them, I kid you not! How is a kid supposed to file into church without getting her train stomped by the kid behind?

I found a terrific shop online, The Catholic Children's Company. Their large selection of dresses were reasonably priced, and many of them were American made. I was a meanie mom, picking three or four dresses from which Precious Daughter could choose. More than that and we'd never have a decision. She's her mother's daughter when it comes to decision making.

She selected a lovely veil, but it was backordered. She picked another and it was discontinued. After going a few rounds with this, I asked what they had left, and none of it suited Precious Daughter. She didn't want a tiara or anything crown-like. No bows in the back, either. She wanted a wreath of flowers, because it's May and she wanted to wear flowers for Mary because "Mary likes flowers." I ended up making the veil.

A few days after placing my order, including a phone call to make sure the dress we wanted was available in Precious Daughter's size, customer service phoned and told me the dress we selected was backordered. Ack!!! Customer service was extremely helpful in assisting me with another selection and getting it into the mail quickly so we'd have it in time.

Added 5/14/09 - I reread this, and I feel that I should mention that my woes with backorderd items were self-inflicted. This is what I get for ordering these things a mere three weeks prior to the sacrament. I should have ordered them much earlier, because I knew full well that most Catholic churches celebrate First Holy Communion in May. Catholic Children's Company took it all in stride and kissed my procrastinating hiney way more than they should have. They weren't at all concerned that Precious Daughter's replacement dress cost ten dollars more than what we'd originally ordered. They sent the replacement and didn't bill the ten bucks.

Saturday morning, I dragged Precious Daughter out of bed, got her fed and dressed and off to the hairdresser for an 8:15 appointment. Our hairdresser gave Precious Daughter all the curls her poker-straight hair could want, and Precious Daugther was pleased as punch. Caked with as much hair spray as environmental regulations would allow, we left the shop praying that her curls would survive the humidity. (Please feel free to tell me how nice the veil is. Pinning lace to tulle is like trying to pin shadows together.)

"Pleased as punch." What an odd phrase. How can punch be pleased? Or does this phrase refer to Judy's fellow puppet?

I was disorganized as usual, but we all managed to get to the church on time. Mighty B. had the nerve to spike a fever, so instead of sitting in the seats reserved for The Oracle and me, I sat in the back with him and gave my seat to Hon. I could see enough from the back of the church, and I suspect that I'll see it many times over when the DVD arrives.

After the mass, Precious Daughter had enough of picture taking. Look! Her curls are already sagging. She was itchy and uncomfortable, so we let her change clothes before heading off to one of her favorite Italian restaurants for lunch. Along with the five of us, we celebrated with Hon & Pop, Aunt V. & Uncle R, and Aunt J. and Uncle B.

On Sunday morning, she had to dress up again for the 9:00 a.m. mass. The Monsignor sort of dedicates this mass to First Communicants, and the first-grade mothers organize a party for them in the hall in the church basement. The first-grade parents also spent Saturday morning roaming the hall beneath the church taking random pictures of the kids which they printed and put on display Sunday. The First Communicants could take the pictures of themselves home. Next year, Mighty B. will be in first grade, so I'll get to do this for next year's second-grade class.

Later in the day I took the kids to a local playground in the afternoon to fly kites. I wish I'd brought the camera!

Today was the school's May Procession. Thankfully, she didn't have to arrive at the school, dressed in her First Communion attire, until 1:00. She awoke complaining of a headache and congestion, but she still wanted to go. I fixed her hair, got her dressed, and off we went.

By the time the kids filed into the church, Precious Daughter looked thoroughly miserable, but thankfully you can't quite see it in this photo.

And, wouldn't you know, at 4;00 this afternoon I was given my first returning-to-work assignment. The baby-sitter says she doesn't mind taking a sick kid, but Precious Daughter's symptoms are getting more pronounced. I want to stay home, but I feel like a heel canceling my first assignment.

I called the doc and dragged her over. The kid had a fever, sore throat, headache. She's staying home anyway, and my assignment has been given to someone else. Ah, well. This is what happens when you have children.

(For those that read this post prior to 7:22 a.m. on 5/12, please accept my apology for the weird spacing and odd writing. I erroneously hit "publish" instead of "save as draft.")

Fledglings! And an Update

2009-05-08T16:15:00.001-04:00

Last week, our baby bunnies moved out and are now on their own. I'd read online that they're weaned after only two short weeks, so I guess we stumbled upon their nest only a few days before they were ready to leave home. Precious Daughter was disappointed. The Oracle had taken Mighty B. out, so I figured I'd take her outside and let her see the rabbits up close. Instead, we got a good look at an unoccupied little grass-lined hole. Ah well.

Yesterday, Precious Daughter is singing and dancing in the front yard. I'm changing Kryptonite when Precious Daughter lets out a mighty strange yipyawp and I hear her come in.

She tells me she stepped on a bird. Oh, crap.

My first thought is that some territorial blue jay smacked into the front window and was laying on the front porch, stunned. She's all freaked out, and I ask her where the bird is. It turns out that the bird is somewhere in the grass.

We carefully walk around the lawn and find a baby robin. The robin doesn't look smooshed or injured, thank God. Maybe she just brushed it with her sneaker. I don't know. I do know that if the bird is injured internally, Precious Daughter won't know about it if I can help it, because her worrisome nature is such that she'll carry that guilt to the grave.

I also see that there are two very agitated robins chirping their heads off in the evergreen tree. As I'm peering up into the branches, Precious Daughter yells excitedly that she's found a second baby bird. Uh-oh. It looks like someone's nest got blown apart in the recent winds.

I look up in the tree for a nest, and I don't see one. Either it got destroyed or it's too high. It doesn't matter how they ended up on the ground. It's clear that putting the birdies back in the nest isn't an option, so I place another call to the wildlife rescue that had proven so helpful with the bunnies.

The end result is a very silly-looking arrangement. I've tied a basket in the tree as high as I could reach without tipping over the ladder and placed the babies inside. Wildlife Lady said that robins are good mothers, and she'll feed the babies if she feels safe reaching them.

In my head I've dubbed the babies "Flatman" (the one PD thought she hurt) and "Bobbin" (because he was bobbing in the grass, trying to move). The parents have been back and forth to the basket fairly frequently, and I'm relieved.

This morning, I spotted the baby I named Bobbin perched on the edge of the basket, looking scared and a little peevish. I'm wondering if he's hungry, and I call Wildlife Lady again. She said the bird is getting ready to fly. I don't know how he could since he's covered with pinfeathers, but what do I know?

I am concerned that I haven't seen Flatman. I can see he's still in the basket, but I don't hear any peeping or see anything moving.

I want to get pictures of them anyway, but rather than freak out the parents with another ladder escapade, I'll blindly aim the camera into the basket and let it see what's there. I hope Flatman is just dawdling behind Robin, and I'll get to see him perched on the basket edge too. I'm basing that hope on the notion that the parent birds would probably push the dead baby out of the "nest" and I'd find it at the base of the tree. What do you think?

Edited to add: I finally took some pictures. I didn't get too close to the basket for an "inside" shot of Flatman because Mama Bird was having a hissyfit. I'm also afraid of scaring Bobbin off his perch, because I'd have to practically put the camera into the basket for the shot. I have to think about this. I stood beneath the basket for the following shot. The others were taken from the patio.

I wonder if he could really fly with these mangy-looking feathers. "Mo-om!? What's taking so long? I'm hunnnngryyyyy!"

The following is with very little "zoom" on the camera. Mama Robin is in the lower right field of the picture on the patch of grass between the edge of the street and the forever-dead dirt track worn by Knucklehead's attempts to chase cars without getting zapped. Trace your eye up the trunk to find the basket. If you're interested in knowing, this tree is dying. It's loaded with bare spots and dead branches. I'm bummed. Where are the bats going to live?

"Hi, Mom!!! What tookya so long?"

"Sorry, kiddo, I would have been here sooner but that freaky human is watching us."

*** Update *** Flatman seems to be dead. I stood on a stepstool and took blind aim with the camera. Flatman is just laying there in the bottom. Damnit. I hope being back off the ground and with his sibling at least made him feel a little bit safe.

Facing the Inevitable

2009-05-05T18:08:00.002-04:00

I don't want to do it.

I don't. No. No. No.

You can't make me. No!!!

Unfortunately, with things as they are, I have to return to work.

Tomorrow, Kryptonite and I are set to meet a possible baby-sitter. She seems fairly nice so far, but the thought of leaving my precious, pudgy baby with a stranger while I go off and work is a horrid concept for me.

When Precious Daughter and Mighty B. were infants, I was blessed with the assistance of DEB. DEB took excellent care of Precious Daughter while I worked part-time, and she took care of both kids while I had classes on the same nights The Oracle had to work. When the House Fairy retired and I started working, they watched both kids for us as needed.

When DEB had her stroke, the firm I worked for scheduled my hours to match the school day, which was a huge blessing. Once DEB was settled in rehab and later at home, House Fairy met the school bus and took them back to his house if I couldn't get home in time.

Really, I wouldn't know what to do without them.

Kryptonite is different. I'm not sure whether DEB has the wherewithal to handle an infant. House Fairy is of that generation that is thoroughly uncomfortable handling someone so small. Really, he's happier once they're talking and toilet trained. I understand that completely. Even with Kryptonite I get a bit stressed when she's fussy and I can't figure out why. I'm very, very grateful that House Fairy will still watch Precious Daughter and Mighty B. during summer vacation.

But, oh, I don't want to entrust Kryptonite to a stranger!!!

Good or Bad Mama - You Decide

2009-04-29T16:31:00.004-04:00

Our suburban backyard backs up to a protected wooded area that's part of a creek's watershed. Because of this, we get all sorts of wildlife. Along with the usual bunnies, squirrels, skunks, raccoons, and groundhogs, we're blessed with deer, wild turkeys, snakes, toads, and the occasional red fox.

The Oracle was mowing the lawn last week, our first cut of the year. Our grass was pretty high.

A couple days ago, I noticed this:

Great, I think, Knucklehead killed something. I don't like dealing with dead things of any sort, and neither does The Oracle. Really, who does?

I know of no one except the guys who ran the crematory at a cemetery where I worked as a file clerk. The older of the two worked the job until he died. "Alfie" was an eccentric, extremely jovial man with a twisted sense of humor. One memorable Easter week he greeted the office staff singing, to a jolly little tune, "We can't cook the ham 'cause there's people in the oven//We can't cook the ham 'cause it's much too hot!" Odd as he was, he treated his customers with dignity.

Unfortunately, Alfie's many health issues got the better of him, and his replacement upon his death was an extremely creepy dude of unknown origins. All I know is that his parents adopted him as a young boy from a far-off country. I can't remember the guy's name, so I'll just call him "Weirdo."

I don't remember much of weirdo during my tenure at the cemetery. I do know they found ladies' underwear in Weirdo's locker, and some speculated that it came from the clientele since Weirdo had no girlfriend. There were times he was found on his knees in a secluded area in the cemetery, holding his head and screaming at the top of his lungs. Maybe it's just a migraine, but why hide in the woods?

I digress. Back to dead things in my back yard.

I nudge the ball of fur with my foot to see what I'm dealing with, and I'm greeted with this image.

Can't tell what it is? Look again.

Yep! Baby bunnies!! They're only slightly larger than my thumb. And before you have a hissyfit at the sight of my bare hands touching the babies, that bit about animals sensing your scent and rejecting their offspring is a myth.

Now I'm all freaked out, thinking Knucklehead scared off the mama. Why on earth did mama bunny put her babies here in my backyard with a big-assed dog?

In a tizzy, I called E. I got her voicemail, thank Heaven, because she was at work and I'd be bothering her. Still, that phone call stirred enough brain cells to remind me of the place I should call, the wildlife rescue in my area. I called, half expecting to get an answering machine promising a return call the next day, but I was pleasantly surprised to reach someone.

The young lady there told me that the mama bunny returns to the nest to feed her babies at dawn and dusk. I asked her why mama would pick our yard with our big dumb dog, and she said it may be the fact that Knucklehead unwittingly keeps other predators away.

So now my goal is to keep Knucklehead out of the back yard during feeding times. I'll check the nest periodically to make sure the babies are doing all right. I tried to pick one up to look for a "milk line," but he/she wiggled away and I wasn't going to freak the babies out by poking around too much. The nice lady told me that too much stress can kill them. I figured that if the baby has enough ambition to run away from me, it's being fed.

I can't wait to show Precious Daughter! (I can't show Mighty B. because he won't have the sense to leave them alone.)

Edited to add: Not an hour after I published this post, the kids were playing outside and Precious Daughter starts screeching about baby bunnies. I hadn't told her about the nest, and I just KNEW Mighty B. had found it. Sure enough, he's next to the bunny hole, jabbing at it with his sneaker, and the little bunnies' heads are popping up and down like a mini game of Whack-A-Mole.

I screech at B. to get away. I hurry over and desperately try to cover the hole, but the grease on my hands from the roasted turkey pieces I was dissecting is grabbing the bunny fur instead of putting it back on the hole. I'm spewing expletives and yelling for The Oracle. For unknown reasons, Precious Daughter reappears with a roll of paper towels. At first I think, "why that?" until I realize that I can use the paper towels to shove the fur back over the hole.

The babies were quite agitated (I would be too!) and I was afraid they were going to abandon ship. When I checked about an hour or so later I noticed that the nest had settled down and I didn't see any fugitives wiggling in the grass.

I just hope they're not literally scared to death in there. You can do that to rabbits.

Kryptonite Likes Basketball

2009-04-26T16:31:00.002-04:00

The Oracle is an avid fan, and the NBA playoffs are in full swing. Put Kryptonite on the floor, and she gives the game her undivided attention.

She complains when they go to commercial.

Phew!

2009-04-20T15:00:00.011-04:00

It's been a busy weekend.

Friday night, Mighty B. had his first-ever tee-ball game. I have a great picture of all the kids sitting on the bench in uniform, but since I don't want to go posting pictures of others' kids, you'll just have to use your imagination. This is Mighty B. in his uniform:

I find blacking out a kid's face creepy, but it's not my kid and, well, you know.

The game was fun to watch. The kids were so excited and they had a wonderful time. The coaches worked really hard to keep them focused on the game, which was no mean feat with five-year-olds abandoning their positions to swarm the ball wherever it went. The funniest play of the day was Mighty B's teammate chasing down the ball he hit instead of running to first base.

While watching practice last week, The Oracle saw the coaches work their magic and noted that coaching tee ball is a lot like herding cats. I give these coaches a lot of credit. I'd never have the patience.
--------------

On Saturday, we went to my father's. Due to a number of circumstances, this was their first meeting with Kryptonite. Ironically, I don't have blognames for my dad and stepmom. The kids call them Hon and Pop, so that will have to do for now.

My father absolutely cannot smile for a camera. He smiles when he laughs, but he can't force one when he has his picture taken. It drives Hon crazy. My friend, M, also has this strange trait. I like to think that it means they can't insincerely display what they don't feel.

A prayer or two for my dad is appreciated. He's having a heart catheterization done today (right now, in fact) because his latest stress test showed changes from the one prior, and he hasn't been feeling well. He has a bit of history in this area, so I'm concerned. (**Updated to add: the procedure found a blockage for which they inserted a stent as well as a couple other things. Hon says he's doing better already! Thank you!)

In the above picture, Kryptonite is resting on Hon's shoulder. Hon prefers not having her picture taken if she isn't wearing cosmetics. I think she's silly, but with the way I usually dodge the camera I respect her wishes. My kids don't care if she's made up or not. Aunt V., my sister, is in the background.

-------------------------

On Sunday, we finally got to introduce Kryptonite to The Oracle's sister, who drove up from Texas. She also doesn't have a blogname. The House Fairy invited us to dinner and even took the time to make the kids' favorite veggies, and Mighty B. still ate little more than a handful of peas.

This picture isn't the best (should've closed the blinkin' drapes to avoid that flash), but it will let you put faces to names. Seated on the left side of the sofa is DEB (Depression-Era Baby). Aunt F. is holding Kryptonite, and The Oracle is to her left. Standing behind DEB is the House Fairy.

I like this picture of DEB. She has a l ittle animation to her expression that reminds me of her old, pre-stroke self. Gosh, I miss that part of her. She has made an amazing recovery in a lot of ways over the last 18 months, but a good chunk of her spark is gone.

If anyone can point me toward some sort of freeware that wipes out red-eye, I'd appreciate it. My camera has a red-eye reduction setting, and it's turned on, but I still get the stupid red-eye in my pictures. I avoid the flash whenever I can, but I had to use it here. Red-eye infuriates me!

WHY Do They Do This?

2009-04-13T15:33:00.003-04:00

Why do doctors overbook themselves? Mighty B. had an appontment with the ENT because the tubes we had put in his ears when he was four are still there. It's been a year and a half. Our pediatrician says there's a risk of damage if they're left in too long.

Our appointment was scheduled for noon. The kids are off today for Easter break, so Precious Daughter as well as Kryptonite went along for the ride. We were running a little late, which curbed my temptation to stop at the drive-thru for some lunch on the way. When you're late for a doc appointment, I swear they punish you by making you wait.

We arrive, and the waiting room is jammed. No kidding. One chair out of two dozen remains, and I take it, putting Kryptonite's car seat at my feet. The kids parked themselves in the kiddie corner and began playing with the loathesome germ-laden toys.

We weren't taken back to an examining room for nearly two hours. By the time the doc entered the room, Precious Daughter was nearly crying from hunger and Mighty B. was afflicting all present with his typical hunger-induced obnoxious behavior. Kryptonite, also famished, just buried her face in my shirt and went to sleep. She refused to drink her milk cold, and I couldn't warm it up until I was in the examining room.

The doc isn't in the room with us ten minutes when she announces that one of Mighty B.'s tubes is in the ear canal and jammed in wax (ew). She could pull it out, but it would be painful. Since the othe tube is still intact in the ear drum, it must be removed surgically, so she'll clear out the first ear at the same time.

Greeeaaat.

B Truly is Mighty

2009-04-09T13:08:00.006-04:00

I'm sorry it's been so long. On 3/28, B contracted strep. It hit me the next day. B missed four days of school the following week, and neither of us felt any better until the antibiotics were coursing through our systems. When I finally felt good enough to post, the USB cable for the camera went missing. I finally unearthed it today, and now I can share some fun news.

At the end of my last post, I predicted that B would be free of training wheels in two weeks. I shot the following video a mere four days later, 3/27, and B was already incubating the strep bacteria.

He has yet to try this on his bike (instead of Precious Daughter's old one), but I imagine he'll give it a go very soon. His bike has a large frame, and it's a long way for his foot to reach the ground so he doesn't fall when he hits the brakes.

Mighty B never ceases to amaze me.

Two Wheels!!

2009-03-23T10:18:00.005-04:00

After nearly four years...

...and a wobbly start...

...Precious Daughter has finally ditched the training wheels.

"Four years," you ask? Why so long? Well, Precious Daughter is a bit of a worrier. She worried about falling and getting hurt. (See the elbow & knee pads?) She also didn't practice very much, and The Oracle and I didn't exactly hound her on the subject. BUT, Precious Daughter wants a scooter. She's wanted one for more than a year now, and I told her we weren't going to spend the money on a scooter so it could collect dust alongside her bike. Greed is a powerful motivator.

Lately, though, she's been hitting that bike almost every day after school. The training wheels were still on, but she understood that if she could ride without the training wheels touching the ground, she was doing it on her own.

Hooray, Precious Daughter!!!

Mighty B. generously provided hazard training, whizzing his bike back and forth on the driveway in Precious Daughter's path. It got so bad that I had to pull my "old lady" bike out of the garage (AKA my little-used 40th birthday present to myself) and ride up and down the street with him just to keep him out of the driveway.

About twenty minutes or so later, I was reminded that I had a cesarean section four weeks ago. Oops.

Not to be outdone, Mighty B. demanded that The Oracle remove his training wheels. (Unfortunately, I'd already put the camera away.) We had a smaller-sized bike sans trainers, but he wasn't happy with that. The trouble is that his current bike is a smidge too big for him. When we bought it, the guy at the shop recommended going a bit larger so he wouldn't outgrow it so quickly. With the trainers on, it works well. With the wheels off, he has a long way to stretch his foot to keep from tipping over when he stops.

By the end of the day, he wanted the training wheels put back on. We haven't complied, and I'm not sure if we will. Knowing Mighty B., he'll nail this within two weeks.

Tick Tock

2009-03-18T09:14:00.006-04:00

Wow, time flies so quickly! It's hard to believe that C is already one month old even if it was a shorty month thanks to February. (Note: the pictures are dark because C doesn't like the flash.)

She has changed so much in such little time. She's plumping up nicely, with the beginnings of little rolls of baby fat on her thighs and knees. Call me weird, but I can't wait for the warmer weather so her knees are uncovered and perpetually available for squeezes and kisses.

C is more alert with her surroundings. I love this time when they're furrowing their fuzzy eyebrows and trying to focus on things. She flails her arms and kicks her feet to see what she can do with them. She still hasn't turned her clock around, but she's getting better. I actually got some decent sleep during the last week. She's still peeping and grunting up a storm, too.

I get little done because I can't put C down. When I do, I do so reluctantly. Poor C. She's cuddled within an inch of her life, not only because she's a malleable, maulable infant but also because I'm reliving the babyhood of Precious Daughter and Mighty B. I remember how short these days are, and I'm relishing every minute. It's a wonder that I haven't sniffed the hair right off her fuzzy head. That delicious fuzzy-head smell doesn't last long.

Yes, I maul my children. I maul them so much that the kisses showered upon their heads are as much a part of life as getting dressed in the morning. They barely flinch. When I was visiting the kids' school several weeks ago, Precious Daughter's class happened to be filing by in the hallway. She didn't see me pacing her in line, and when I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head she was only mildly surprised.

My kids drew/colored these for their baby sister. I have them hanging on the wall by the changing table.

Kissing and hugging my kids is better than dessert.

Sorry I Took so Long

2009-03-08T21:34:00.002-04:00

But I've had my hands full, as I'm sure you can guess.

C is a really good baby. Mighty B. and Precious Daughter spend a fair amount of time fighting over her. They kiss and touch her almost constantly and squabble over whose turn it is to hold her.

Yesterday's battle surrounded who steered the stroller through the undersized and overcrowded Trader Joe's while we did our food shopping. Precious Daughter's nose was seriously out of joint because we let Mighty B. Drive, but allowing him that privilege was pure genius on The Oracle's part. It's probably the first shopping trip in two years that didn't leave me hoarse and exhausted from screeching at B. to get back here, get off the floor, or put that back on the shelf.

That's okay, though. Due to unforseen circumstances, Precious Daughter got to do this (just ignore the crayon permanently ground into my living room wall):

Without getting into the gory details, cracked nipples are pure hell on earth. But, hey, my pain is Precious Daughter's gain.

C is very chatty. She grunts and peeps all the time. I don't remember the first two making so much noise this early in the game. Then again, my lousy memory is well documented by now, so who knows?

C also shits constantly. Yup. C and B have/had the nasty habit of eating something for the mere purpose of forcing something out the other end. C grunts and yells and turns crimson as she's muscling her bowels into noisy compliance. Who knew one little behind could produce such output? What makes this extra funny/annoying is that she hates diaper changes. It makes her angry as hell. I've come to the conclusion that she likes lounging around in poopy pants, something I will not permit, so she and I are already enjoying a conflicted relationship.

C does not like sleeping on her back. Unfortunately for her, all this "back to sleep" SIDS prevention stuff has me nearly converted, so C is sleeping on her back until she's able to roll over. She is not happy about it. A short five (and seven) years ago. the hospital wheeled my little bundles in and out of the room all swaddled and propped on their sides with receiving blankets, and my babies were quite content. I even had a side sleeper cushion that I used at home for them. I wish I had it now because it worked well and I'd still trust it enough for C. Unfortunately, I can only find part of it. Grrrr!

She likes sleeping on her belly, especially when The Oracle's holding her. This photo is fuzzy because I snapped it with my cell phone.

One of C's many new nicknames is "Kryptonite." Within moments of cuddling C, the adult cuddler is sapped of any and all ambition and is rapidly drifting off to sleep. What you don't see in the above photo is The Oracle's countenance in its slumbering glory.

But, really, how could you not cuddle this?

More Pictures of Baby C

2009-02-20T15:45:00.003-05:00

Despite the crazed expression, Mighty B. has been surprisingly gentle with his baby sister. He's very, very excited about her. Both kids are.

See? B is being a very gentle big brother.

Precious Daugther was afraid of holding her at first, but she took to her baby sister in no time.

She's watching her Daddy here. She opens her eyes for him of course. I've been trying to get that shot for two days now.

Baby C Arrives!

2009-02-19T19:50:00.003-05:00

More pics to come.

The Oracle was kind enough to bring the computer to visit me in the hospital. The kids are restless, and they have school tomorrow.

Going Offline a Few Days

2009-02-17T10:15:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is D-Day (Delivery Day). I'm scheduled for a cesarean at 2:30, and they're supposed to call me today with instructions for tomorrow.

As soon as I'm able, I'll update with photos and such.

Say a little prayer for me and Baby CMS (the initials of the three final name choices) as well as The Oracle and his upcoming stretch of Mr. Mom duties. I know he can handle the job, but the kids haven't been away from me for more than a day before this. I think things might get a little bumpy here and there.

While you have Him on the line, say a prayer for Cort, too. As The Oracle and I get ready to pull our "finished product" off the assembly line, Cort and her husband have a big day today with getting two embryos off to a good start.

Their struggles to reach this point make me appreciate how fortunate the Oracle and I are to have the family we do, and my desire for their success and happiness parallells my own, if that could possibly make any sense at all. Making sense isn't an easy thing for me on an average day, but I think you understand what I mean.

Flinging Flarp

2009-02-13T10:00:00.005-05:00

It was quite a bit breezy in our neck of the woods yesterday, and I'd forgotten our trash cans until I spotted them in the far reaches of our yard this morning. The kids are up and just starting breakfast, so I take a few minutes to go outside and gather the cans. Actually, it took me several since I'm slow and waddling and generally cumbersome.

My task finished, I step on the porch and hear wailing. I look through the window and see Precious Daughter wearing a pie-eyed, fretful expression and pacing in panicked circles. Uh-oh.

I step inside and ask, "What happened?"

"I threw the Flarp at Mighty B. and his mouth is bleeding."
(There's a sentence you'll never diagram in English class!)

Huhwha? Sure enough, Mighty B. is seated at the kitchen table, his Cocoa Krispies (and hers) virtually untouched since I set it there before going outside. His eyes are streaming tears; he has stringers of snot cascading from his nose and a bloody mouth. I-yi-yi.

I grab a wad of paper towels and start blotting to assess the damage. His lip is a bit swollen and there are two tiny splits -- one upper lip, one lower -- where the hit occurred. The offending pink Flarp is on the floor by the chair. Thankfully, the bleeding is minor despite my first impression. I grab the green beans from the freezer, wrap them in a paper towel, and B. holds them to his lip.

It's time to interrogate Precious Daughter.

What happened? He was bugging me and he wouldn't stop. (Judging by the untouched cereal, this commenced the moment I stepped outside.)
What was he doing? He kept saying things and wouldn't leave me alone even though I told him again and again to stop.
Why didn't you just leave the table? (No response.)

Questioning Mighty B. is no more successful.

What happened, I ask? Precious Daughter threw the Flarp at me.
Why did she do that? I don't know.
Well, did you do something? I didn't do anything.
Well, you clearly did something to tick her off. (No response.)

Precious Daughter and Mighty B. have an interesting relationship. B. loves -- no, thrives -- on torturing his sister. Nothing brings him more glee than getting her angry and flustered and spazzy. What Mighty B. refuses to acknowledge or connect is that his hobby usually results in some form of bodily injury to himself. Precious Daughter's frustration often culminates with whacking or shoving him in some awful, injurious way that I unfortunately can't "let go" as you-got-what-you-deserved sibling rivalry. One of these days (could've been today if she'd heaved the sugar bowl instead of a plastic tub of Flarp), I'll be hauling Mighty B. to the ER for stitches.

He pesters her, but the evil child knows not to touch her. He invades her space and sings in her face and makes faces and noises and such until she starts screaming back at him to stop and leave her alone. He keeps at her like a terrier. She gets fed up and assaults him.

A week or so ago he hounded her until she clocked him with a heavy-gauge aluminum baking pan. Fortunately, her two-handed swing brought the flat bottom of the pan against his belly and ribs (like a pillow fight) instead of the rolled edge connecting with his skull (like a frisbee).

Thank God our kitchen knives aren't within easy reach.

I've told her time and again to just get away from him when he starts his nonsense, because getting her mad is what he wants and it fans the flames. Don't give him what he wants I tell her.

One of his favorite torture tools is cheese. Precious Daughter abhorrs cheese in any form unless it tops a pizza, and even then its presence is questionable. If spaghetti is on the menu, the Kraft "stinky cheese" is there along with it because B. and I both like it. Precious Daughter screeches at the mere sight of it, protesting its existence with all manner of gyrations, disgusted expressions, nose-holding, and prolonged exclamations: "Eeeeeeeeeewwwww!"

Mighty B., always up for an opportunity, makes a game of it, taking two crumbs of cheese and placing them on her plate or waving the shaker can under her nose and singing, "Stinky Cheese! Yummy-yum!" at the top of his voice. She fusses and hollers and Mighty B.'s countenance is positively alight with joy.

The Oracle and I do not sit idly by. We've taken the cheese away and/or disciplined the kid, but the boy will not quit, no matter what the cost, and at times it has cost him plenty. As The Oracle once observed, "No game is over until Mighty B. wins."

Today's episode reminded me of a story The House Fairy once shared. He is the youngest of four children, and I believe he was in at least his mid teens at the time. One afternoon, his sister, Aunt C., was getting ready to go out. The House Fairy decided it was a delicious opportunity to be a nuisance, and he started putting her through the wringer. Aunt C. effectively put a stop to his antics by frying his forearm with the iron she was running over her blouse.

The ease with which I can overlay this story to my children's future is frightening.

Oh. Flarp, by the way, is what we call "Fart in a Can." The stuff is a hoot.