It Was Fun While It Lasted

But man, Halloween is exhausting! Especially since Matilda has figured out how to maximize her candy intake by moving as quickly and efficiently as possible from house to house.

While I loved all of your ideas for my costume, my foot was feeling much better today, so I decided to risk another week of not being able to do laundry (heh, sorry Steve) and go without the crutches. I kinda wanted to be Nancy Kerrigan, but it's just too cold for a really good ice skating costume. Anyway, I think my final choice went well.

Here's a picture from the end of our long night, Freya still hasn't had enough sugar apparently, but that glaze over Matilda's eyes? Oh yeah, you know what that is.


The guy in the middle? Me. A sleazy, overweight, hairy-chested, white-boy-afro-ed, non-denominational, Bible salesman. And yes, I had to explain the non-visual part a few times. But it was worth it. And I totally freaked out one guy when I asked if he wanted to buy a Bible, he thought I was serious.

Pippi Longstocking and Sacajawea

Halloween Retrospective

Since Matilda was born I have made her Halloween costumes each year, with varying degrees of success. The same cannot be said of Freya, since, poor child, she is the second born and therefore relegated to a life of hand-me-downs and last minute "costumes." But I try.

For your viewing pleasure, may I present our Halloween's past:

Matilda Year One, Age 7 months: King Arthur as depicted in Monty Python's Holy Grail.

I made the tunic and the crown, and Steve made the chain mail. Yes, that's right, he made the chain mail, 'cause he's a geek like that.

Matilda Year Two, Age 19 months: The Wicked Witch of the West.

Her face was kind of green, but I was all into the into the black and white photography, so...

Matilda Year Three, Age 2.5 years: Princess Fairy.

This was the year I stopped being able to tell her what to be, instead she told me what to make, everything from this point on has been her idea.

Matilda Year Four, Age 3.5 years: Spider Princess.

There were SO MANY little black plastic spiders in our house that year. In fact, I still find them in random corners from time to time.

Freya Year One, Age 11 months: Asian Batman.

Like I said, last minute, so-called costumes. We had this really great batman cape, and some little Asian pants, and voila!

Matilda Year Five, Age 4.5 years: Half-and-half Cinderella.

Half rags, half magic, you get it. Her idea.

Freya Year Two, Age almost 2 years: Mulan.

That would be Mulan my way, not Disney's way, 'cause we all know how I feel about him and his "princesses." Also I was trying to make up for the previous year, I mean, seriously? Asian Batman? WTF?

And thank you all for your great crippled costumes ideas! You guys are the best. I'll let you know what I decide to do, and also post tomorrow's Halloween pictures, um, tomorrow.

Broken - again.

I'm thinking about getting a foot and ankle transplant, because my feet are stupid. Last night I managed to sprain both my ankle AND my foot while walking to the bathroom.

Yes, I really am that cool.

I'm not supposed to walk on it at all for two days, which clearly is not going to happen, and then I get to use crutches! Won't that be fun? Yes, yes it will. Especially when Freya wants me to carry her.

Of course, it's not all bad, so I made a Pollyanna list:

1. Excuse to watch TV and be waited on my my 2 year old
   
2. Can't do laundry because it's in the basement
3. Won't have to carry Freya
4. At least the foot and the ankle are attached to the same leg
   

That's all I have so far, but I'm working on it. I was going to be Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman for Halloween, but now I'm trying to think of something better for which crutches are a natural prop, any ideas?

Soap Opera Sunday: One Rainy Night in Galway

Previously, on Soap Opera Sunday

Part One: I'd just arrived in Galway, Ireland after 24 hours of travel and met a group of cute Irish boys in a pub.
Part Two: They take me on a whirlwind tour of all the hottest pubs in Galway, complete with a beer at every stop...

Part Three

When we reached Donaugh's I crouched near the wall. The lighting was terrible, but a rummaged through my bag anyway, pulling out shirts and pants and stuffing the underwear way down into the bottom; no need to show more than I had to. With every article I removed, my stomach sunk farther. I knew it was gone, but wasn't ready to admit it.

Why hadn't I written it in a notebook or on a full size piece of paper? Why was I such an idiot?

I repeated these questions to Liam, who was deeply sympathetic. "Don't worry, we'll take good care of ya."

I felt a little better. But this time when he offered me another beer, I turned him down. I looked through my bag a few more times while Liam and his friends chatted and drank. I knew I wouldn't find anything, but I still had to look. I considered what my parents would do if I didn't check in, but was too tipsy to give the matter much rational thought.

After a little while Liam and his friends were ready to go.

"Come on, then," he said, "you can stay with us tonight. Don't worry, there's plenty of space."

So I did. None of the bad things that could have happened even occurred to me. Liam and his friends had been so nice, so friendly at a time when that was what I was the most open to, the most ready to find.

Their house was a total boy pad, socks seemed to be everywhere, but I was past caring. Liam offered to sleep on the floor and let me have his bed, but that didn't seem fair, and besides, after flirting with him all night, I kind of wanted something to happen.

We spent the night cuddling and smooching and eventually fell asleep with our arms around each other, too tired and drunk to go any farther, which I wouldn't have done anyway... probably.

The next morning I tore through my bag again, this time taking out every. single. item. But there was nothing. I thought about calling my mother, back in the States, but it was still to early to call.

Liam offered to show me around the city by the light of day, which was just as amazing as seeing the city at night. The rain had cleared, but the sky was still heavy and gray. The ocean was choppy and the win bit through my sweater. We walked along the coast, past the harbor and onto the beach, holding hands, not talking much, tasting the salt from the sea.

When we went back into town Liam took me to a coffee and tea shop where we bought tea and scones. We never exchanged phone numbers, or addresses. I think we knew that the time we had spent together was meant to remain in a bubble, a story that was complete in and of itself, that needed no epilogue.

After the tea, when it was time for him to leave, Liam kissed me and was gone, as if he had returned to the city, and once again I was alone. In a strange city, with no place to go, and no phone number to call.

Next Week: The final chapter of my Irish adventure. Will I ever find my father? Will he ever find me?

...to be continued.

- - - - -

Soap Opera Sunday is brought to you/us by Twas Brillig and Walking Kateastrophe.
Click here to read other exciting soapy episodes in the lives of bloggers across the sphere!

How to organize your life in 3 easy steps.

I have gathered my organizational techniques into an easy three-step program for you, my readers. There's nothing to it really, it's like color-by-numbers, but much, much easier. Don't worry, you're going to do just fine. Relax, and follow the steps below for a direct path to a life of stress-free, worry-free, anxiety-free, frustration-free living.

Guaranteed to work - or your money back!*

Step 1:

Make lists.

As many as possible.

Preferably on small, individual pieces of paper.

Like this:


Feeling overwhelmed? Don't know what kind of lists you should write? Don't worry, I'm here to help.

There are of course the traditional kinds of lists, to-do lists, shopping lists, etc. But there are also many more, lesser known types of lists, such as those listed below...

Other Types of Lists

Type A: The important list broken down onto more then one small piece of paper.

Yes, it's true, sometimes important lists must be spread out onto more than one tiny little scrap of paper. This is okay, encouraged even.

Type B: Cryptic "lists."

While it might not look like a list per say, it is of the utmost importance that you write down important dates, times, and places, with no other explanatory information. This is one of the important pieces that will transform your list making from pure function, into an art form.

Type C: The helpful assistant list.


Now, in the beginning, you may be tempted to try to do all of these lists yourself, but this is not necessary. Go ahead and allow you assistant to make one of two lists. It's actually best if they can add their input to an existing list, but often they prefer to make their own.

Type D: The Combo List.


This one is very simple to put together, just take an important reminder (school event or half day reminders work great) and write a list on it! Yes, it's really that easy! Just make sure to use a reminder that is still valid, and then take the list with you when you leave the house.

Type E: The Ancient History List.


The list shown here is a little blurry, but it is a grocery list from the spring of 2006! Always keep your lists. you never know when you might need them. (This one is actually a combination of several types of list, making it very rare and valuable in the list collector market.)

Step 2:

Create a diagram.

You've done the hard part, now all you have to do is gather all of your lists and sort them into categories using the following super easy chart. (Click to enlarge- you know you want to.)


Simply enter all of your lists into the chart and then proceed to step three - you're almost done!

A few helpful hints:

• When it comes to lists, the truth is, you simply can't be too organized! The more time and energy you put into the painstaking details now, the better off you'll be down the road!


• Use different colored pens to mark the importance of your lists. Here are a few standard colors and common meanings to get you started:



Red = Very Important

Blue = No One Will Die If You Don't Get To It

Yellow = Not Important

Chartreuse = Do This One ASAP

Violet = Leave Under Your Pillow

Lilac Sateen Enamel = Designate to Husband and/or Children

Matte Midnight Blue = Set Alarm To Do In the A.M.

Mustard = Life or Death (Many people choose to draw a little skull and crossbones on this one as well, as an extra reminder.)



• Add a number code as a back-up system of keeping track of lists. (To ensure that no one else understands your system, use random numbers that only you will be able to put into any kind of logical order.)


• Keep special boxes with labels co-ordinated to your chart around the house for stashing lists so you won't worry about misplacing them. Remember, the goal is stress-free living!

Side note: First designed by Joy Assmunch in 1982, as a part of her doctoral dissertation, this chart has been used by such celebrities as Arsenio Hall, Ally Sheedy and The Jackson Five!**

Step 3:

Implement.

Yes, it really is that easy! I bet you didn't think you could do it, but just look at you now! Even from the other side of the blogosphere I can tell that the transformation is amazing! No, no, don't thank me, it was my pleasure.

* You didn't give my any money. Ha!
** This statement is in no way based in any kind of factual reality and is, in fact, patently untrue.

Grad School Applications? What Grad School Applications?

Remember this post? Sure you do. It's from yesterday. It was all about how I have too many things going on in my life? Yeah. That one. Well, I thought it would be totally appropriate to follow that up with this:


I know it's crazy, but I've been freaking out about not doing enough writing lately (and no, the blog doesn't count), so why not cure my writer's procrastination with a whopping deadline and 50,000 words in 30 days? You got a better idea?

No? Okay then. Jump on board. You don't have do it, but you do all have to bug me when it turn out I only have 600 words after two week, okay? Beg me for updates, no wait, demand updates. Please.

Garage Sale of the Mind

There's all the usual stuff: household appliances that don't really work, chipped dishes, mismatched silverware, and then there are the out-of-date textbooks, the framed "art" that was pulled out of Aunt Betsy's attic, old floor cushions, cheap romance novels, work-out videos from the eighties, and tools without a purpose.

Each thing is taking up space, making clutter, and making it difficult to see what else is there. The junk all seems to come from different places; none of it matches and not one thing compliments another, not even in an eclectic kind of way.

Caring for my family is the biggest item, and includes managing finances, making sure we have food, driving the children to and from school, keeping the house from falling into chaos, and lately, eradicating fleas. Next comes work, which can kind of be contained, but still gets mixed up with the other junk. As if this wasn't enough, I'm taking the GRE literature test in less than two weeks, and am still working on finalizing my list of graduate programs. (Do they allow for a creative dissertation? Do I meet admissions requirements? Can we afford to live near the school?)

Like any garage sale worth its salt, there are also the little treasures to be found, mixed in with all the junk - lunch with a friend, an afternoon to myself, an unplanned trip to the playground on a 75 degree fall day, a few stolen hours working on a story in a coffee shop where no one knows me, a bottle of wine shared with my partner in all of this. Almost all of them are hidden under the broken pieces of the other junk.

The junk that is taking up all of my mental space in tiny fragments, bits that beg me to glue them together into a semblance of a life. To make something cohesive out of a multitude.

On a typical day I get Matilda ready for school, drive her, start some laundry, do work, pay bills, put the laundry in the dryer, make lunch for Freya, do some more work, study a little bit (maybe), wash some dishes, do some more work, pick Matilda up, do a little more work, make dinner, wash dishes, bathe children, flea comb the cats, vacuum (because of the fleas), get the girls to bed, study or research grad schools online, then watch TV while I fold laundry.

It's not so much the actually doing of things that exhausts me. It's the constant shifting and the mental strain of trying to keep myself focused and on task, and remember what has to happen next and next and next. Partly this is due to the fact that before and after work, Steve is here to help with the actual doing part. But the mental circus is entirely mine, and I have yet to find a way to avoid it.

All of these things add up, they build on top of one another until they resemble my desk, which is so full of stacks of papers as to render it completely unusable. And the more things pile up in my mind, the more I try to reassure myself that it's all going to be okay. Things will settle down once the girls are in school, once the GRE is over, once my applications are in, once... you get the idea. They never do, my life is full and rich and my cup is freaking spilling all over the floor and not only do I get to drink it, but I am also the one who has to clean it up.

Not that there was any doubt, but...

now we know for sure. She's really his.

exhibit A: Steve's Chicken:





















exhibit B: Matilda's Duck:

Is it ever okay?

Freya and I were waiting in line at the video store today when a little girl came up to Freya and gave her a really mean look. Freya had done nothing, but I smiled at the girl, thinking if we were nice, she'd be nice back or at least go away. She continued to glower, so we ignored her.

But then her mother, who hadn't been paying attention, noticed the look she was giving Freya and grabbed her arm.

"You don't do that! That is so mean, you don't ever do that!" she hissed through her teeth.

The girl whined and pulled away, "You're hurting meeeee."

"No one will be friends with you if you're mean like that." Her mother went on for longer than I would have thought necessary.

I almost turned around, but didn't. I felt bad. The girl was little, she couldn't have been more than three, and the glare wasn't really that big a deal, I mean, she didn't push Freya or anything. No harm done, right?

We paid for our movies and left the store, but I found myself wondering if I should have said something, I don't know what I would have said, something calming maybe, an assurance that I was not judging the little girl, or her mother. Maybe the two of them were at the end of a Very Bad Day. I've had enough of them to know how that feels. Would it have just sounded patronizing? Would she have responded at all?

I just wonder, you know? When is it okay to say something to another parent, and when is it not welcome?

- - - - -

On a lighter note, I joined Matilda's kindergarten class for a trip to an apple orchard today, it was a lot of fun, even if I did get lost on my way and turn up fifteen minutes late.

Matilda in the orchard.


Learning how cider is made.
(I like how all the adults are paying attention and at least half of the kids
are looking at something off to the side that is totally unrelated.)


Matilda's field trip buddy.
(Her mom couldn't make it, so I took lots of
pictures of her. Besides, she's adorable.)

Apples picked and ready to go.
(The foliage is coming in nicely, don't you think?
In spite of the creepy 70+ degree weather we've been having.
For those of you down south for whom 70+ is normal this time
of year, it should be barely topping out at 60 up here.)

Naked Desperation

INT. OUR HOUSE - EVENING, AROUND 5*

me: Oh there you are, I thought you guys were done at 3:30.

him: We went out for a beer. It's what you do after conference thingies.

me: Oh is it? Hmm, I had a conference with Freya today, we didn't go have a beer after.

him: You didn't?

me: No, I didn't realize that was what you people did, you people who don't work at the same place where you live. Is that what you do?

him: You know, it would be nice to come home to hi, I missed you, how was your day, sometimes.

me: Oh, would it? Dinner on the table, whiskey on the rocks, me in some heels?

him: You know what I mean.

me: Oh, I'm sorry, is being greeted by my naked desperation on a daily basis getting to you darling? Because if it is... well... you might just have to deal.

him: I'm being kind of serious.

me: Me too. It ain't easy you know.

him: I know. I'd stay home if I could.

me: I know. I'll try to tone down the desperation once in a while. Like maybe I can just bare my desperation every other day or something...

him. Or alternate Thursdays.

me: Don't push your luck.

*disclosure: these things were spoken in the loving spirit of jest - the kind that comes with an edge - and also they are paraphrased. I'm working on the photographic memory, but it's not going very well.

Bad-Ass Nice!

nice:
1. pleasing; agreeable; delightful
2. amiably pleasant; kind

I used to be a nice girl. I was no push-over, but I was willing to see the other point of view, willing to compromise. I'd do nice things for people just because. But not only that, I'd do nice things for people because I wanted them to like me. Yeah, it's pathetic, I know, but I was young, I didn't know who I was or what I wanted and that's okay. For a while.

But the whole "nice girl" thing got old. Really old. And so I have been left with a lifetime aversion to the word "nice." It just feels inadequate, you know? Who wants to be nice when you could be awesome? or dynamic? or inspirational? or bad-ass?

As I watched the "Nice Matters" award make its way around the blogosphere, as these things are wont to do, I realized that I was not the only one with an aversion to the word "nice." And when I was awarded the "Nice Matters" award by Cathy, I was... okay fine, I was thrilled, because I do love me some bloggy bling, but also, I wasn't sure what to say.

So I passed it on. But Megan complained, 'cause she's cool like that. Here's what she said:

Hey! Thank you! I am rarely called "nice." Too much attitude creates a force field around me that sort of makes that adjective just bump right off. I'm glad someone thinks I can be nice!

And I realized she was right. No, not that she wasn't nice, but that it was kinda lame to be called nice. "Nice" just doesn't have much oomph to it, you know? Not so cool. But, I do think Megan is nice, so I told her so, but I also think she's bad-ass, so I told her that too. And then I promised to make a button to that effect. So I did:

bad-ass nice:
1. uncompromisingly nice; sticking up for what's right
2. kind to others: without losing sight of one's self
3. hard-core niceness advocate

And actually, since I made it just for Megan, I had no right to be slinging it around. But then, since she's just so freakin' bad-ass nice, Megan gave it back to me! How sweet is that, yo?

So here's who I think is Bad-Ass Nice (besides Megan): (also, this is harder than it looks - I know a lot of bad-ass nice bloggers)

Well, there's Casey of Moosh in Indy who is trying to be patient while her husband looks for a law internship, but who also encourages (oh come on, don't pretend to be innocent, I know you love it) this kind of thing.

And of course we have Kevin, who I absolutely love, and can I tell you how many times my dad made me show him O-Mazing Grace? No, no I can not. Kevin deserves this award, because while he is willing to and capable of making fun of people any time, any place, he also has a big heart and is generous with his friends and loved ones and the whales.

Shauna at Pass the Chocolate is bad-ass nice, because, well, because chocolate! Hello! It's only like the best metaphor ever for bad-ass nice, in fact, if bad-ass nice had an official metaphor/mascot, it would be chocolate. For real. Hey, wait! I'm in charge of this bad-ass nice thing, so yeah, chocolate is now the official metaphor/mascot of the bad-ass nice button. Also, this proves it. And this was really funny.

And also Jessica of A Bushel and a Peck (and a Hug Around the Neck) deserves this award. She began her blog just 42 days ago and jumped in with both feet - way braver than me, who did not comment on any one else's blog for months after the creation of my own. Also, there's this. And this. And this.

I know that pretty much anyone who reads my blog is also Bad-Ass Nice (I mean, really, how could you not be?) but I have to stop somewhere, so for that's it for today. Although I reserve the right to award this again, should the need arise, and of course I expect you, oh worthy recipients, to distribute this award as you see fit. Go on, I trust you.

On Top of Spaghetti

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT


It has been a long Sunday and we are tired. The family is eating dinner - spaghetti and meatballs.

STEVE: On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese...

The children look at him funny. They've heard this song, but it's been a while.

FREYA: What?

STEVE: I lost my poor meatball...

I join in.

ME: ...when somebody sneezed.

We sing the rest, then return to our food.

STEVE: Freya, eat your meatballs.

FREYA: I'm full.

I look at her with eyebrows raised. Can this be the very same child who claimed she was starving to death not fifteen minutes ago?

ME: Come on Freya, just two bites.

MATILDA: Can I be done?

She's eaten everything on her plate.

STEVE: Yes, clear your place.

FREYA: Can I?

ME: No, eat your meatballs.

STEVE: If you eat your meatballs, I'll sing the song again.

ME: We'll both sing, eat your meatballs.

FREYA: (raising her hands palms out - one for each of us) NO! You can't sing that song!

ME: Why not?

FREYA: If you sing it, I won't love you anymore.

ME: What?

STEVE: Will you still love me if I sing it?

FREYA: Yes.

She's still has her hold-it-right-there-buster hands out in front of her.

ME: (with fake sad face) But I want to sing it.

FREYA: NO!

ME: Please.

FREYA: (in a quiet, even tone) If you sing it, I will kill you.

ME: So if I sing it, you won't love me anymore and then you'll kill me?

FREYA: Yes.

I'm not sure if she's serious. So I test her. 'Cause I'm so mean. And also, 'cause I just don't know when enough is enough. Obviously.

ME: On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese...

FREYA: STOP!

I stopped.

FREYA: You have to sing London Bridge is Falling Down.

ME: Oh. Okay.

Problem solved.

THE END.

She still loves me. I'm not dead yet. But the threat was real, I know it was, I mean, look at her - would you mess with that?

Soap Opera Sunday: One Rainy Night in Galway

Previously, on Soap Opera Sunday

Part One: I'd just arrived in Galway, Ireland after 24 hours of travel and met a group of cute Irish boys in a pub. They offered to show me the city, so of course, I went along with them...

Part Two

It had stopped raining, but the streets were still slick. The band of Irish boys and I made our way down the sidewalk until we came to a large wooden door with a small sign hung out beside it. One of them opened the door and Liam, the boy who was holding my hand, pulled me through behind them.

Inside it was warm and homey. The room was long and narrow, with a bar on one side and clusters of tables along the other. People were laughing and drinking and toward the back of the room a fire crackled in an old brick fireplace. Seated around the fire were several musicians who were playing classic Irish music. I felt as if I had stepped onto the set of movie, but it was all real. And that sense of magic that filmmakers just love to cultivate in Irish films? That was real too.

Before I had even had a chance to adjust to my new surroundings, one of the boys slipped a fresh pint of Guinness into my hand and found me a chair.

The cold beer warmed me up and soon my feet were tapping and my cheeks were flushed. It didn't seem to matter to anyone that I was a stranger, an American girl who had no idea where she was or what she was doing, I felt like I belonged to these people and they belonged to me.

The night started to move more quickly after that. When I had finished my drink, Liam pulled me up and whisked me away to yet another cozy pub - where another round of pints appeared.

I'm not sure how they managed it, but Liam and his friends had enough energy to keep me going, despite the fact that none of us had slept in well over 24 hours. They had a kind of buoyancy that was contagious, and I was having such a good time, letting them drag me all over the city, showing me all of the little hideaway places I never would have seen on my own, that I almost forgot about my hostess.

In between pubs, I suddenly remembered what I was supposed to be doing.

"Hold on," I said, and Liam - who was still holding my hand - stopped when I stopped.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." The air was cool after the rain and if felt good on my hot cheeks. "I just need to call this friend of my dads. What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," he told me. His friends had stopped now too, they were waiting for us to catch up with them.

"Help me find a phone," I said, and started digging in my backpack for the scrap of paper with the phone number.

"Sure," he said, "They'll have one over at Donaugh's. It's just round the corner."

"Okay," I said, but I was still looking for the paper. It didn't seem to be in the front zipper pocket any more. I must have stuck it in the main section. I unzipped my bag and started looking through the clothes on top. It wasn't there either. I stopped. It didn't make sense to take all of my clothes out on the wet street. I'd have to wait until we got to Donaugh's.

"Okay," I said again, "I'm ready."

Liam took my hand again, so gently that it made me turn and smile up at him. "You find it?" he asked.

I was surprised that he had noticed. "No, but I'll take all my stuff out when we get there."

"Sure thing," he said, and squeezed my hand. "We're coming," he called to his friends, then started running, pulling me along with him. I laughed and almost slipped on the wet sidewalk as I ran to keep up with him.

...to be continued.

- - - - -

Soap Opera Sunday is brought to you/us by Twas Brillig and Walking Kateastrophe.
Click here to read other exciting soapy episodes in the lives of bloggers across the sphere!

Tracing the madness of the past week or two.

Last week I moved everything out of our bedroom so that I could tear up the carpet. (Thereby preventing a flea infestation.) This seemed like a good idea at the time, but really, it just made me so tired that by the time everything was crammed in the living room...


...that I couldn't even tear up a tiny little corner. On Friday, after several days of living like refugees, Steve made me the offer of a lifetime: if I took the girls to Boston for the weekend, he would tear up the carpet and put all our stuff back.

I swooned. Then I left all this: (that's Borax on the carpet, btw. It's supposed to kill fleas.)


packed up the car and took the girls to Boston! We stayed with one of my oldest and dearest friends in her adorable new apartment and had a great, relaxing couple of days.

First we went to the Boston Children's Museum:


For dinner, Lauren made us the hugest meatballs known to man and we just hung around. In the morning we had breakfast with more dear friends and my big little brother.

Then we went to the Museum of Science:


Finally we drove home, tired and happy on Monday night, and were greeted by this:

Hardwood floors! (Which was a surprise - when we bought the house last summer, the agent told us this room had plywood.)


And space! Beautiful space! I didn't know how much I missed it until it was back again.


It was truly a lovely weekend.

But then there was Tuesday. Ugh. Tuesday. It was just one of those off days in which I yelled too much and the girls and I all ended our day in tears. There's been a build up of stuff happening in my life lately: trying to find the right graduate program, adjusting to kindergarten and pre-school schedules, still doing my work, trying to write, keeping the house clean, juggling finances, you know, stuff.

Which brings us to the meme! The one I posted on Tuesday? Because I was just too overwhelmed to write a "real post?" I have the best readers ever. Seriously, I love you guys! I love the fact that you all refused to believe that someone as awesome as me could be the girl who let the cool kids copy her homework. Thanks. But actually, that one was true. The one that wasn't true was the four kids one. I'm done, so done. I love the two I have but... you know, there's all that other stuff. And we have a winner! Amy, from Milk Breath and Margaritas guessed right! You don't actually win anything, Amy, but isn't knowing you were right its own reward?

And I think that's about it. I'll let you know how it goes at Burger King next week, and leave you with some cowgirls:

Dear Ronnie,

Dear Ronnie,

I understand why you couldn't hire me back in June, but several things have changed since then and I'd like the chance to reapply for the position, if it's still available.

For one thing, I want you to know that I have given your claim that I was "not ready to commit myself to excellence" a lot of thought, and I think that I am ready now. I have been thinking a lot about graduate school lately, and while I like the idea of being in school and also the idea of being done with school, I'm not sure I can handle applying to schools. The fact that my shoulders have been in knots since I started researching programs seems to be a sign that my commitment to excellence is better suited to a fast-food chain than a university.

I think what I find the most attractive right now about the prospect of working for you is the total lack of choices that I will be required to make. You have already committed the company policies to memory (oh don't deny it, I know you have) and will not hesitate to let me know if I am not following protocol or if I make some kind of fatal error when folding those little cardboard thingies that the fries come in (and yes, I'm sure they do have a name, but now is not the time for nit-picking).

When choosing a graduate program there are far too many things to consider and no guide book with which to navigate. I need to find a program that works for me, okay. But then I also have to make sure that the location of the program works for my family, and that I can get the financial assistance I will need, that we can afford to live close to the university, that Steve will be able to find work and that I meet all of the requirements for application. I have to figure out when the deadline is and whether they will need to be sent the scores of my upcoming GRE Literature exam. I need to write down how much the application fee is and make sure that I send out requests for letters of recommendation in plenty of time to get them back by the deadline.

You don't require letters of recommendation, do you, Ronnie? That's what I love about you - all I have to do is show up on time and do exactly as you say and you will love me. (No, not like that!) My obligation to you will be minimal - I will not stay up nights trying to figure out when all of this grad school research will actually happen and if I can squeeze it in before March.

In short, please accept this letter as a request for employment. I am available immediately, lack of childcare will not be a problem, I'm pretty sure Matilda can hold down the fort for the duration of my ten hour shift, I mean, she's five, it's about time she learned that I can't always be there for her.

Sincerely,

Nell.

p.s. Veronica wants her CD back, she says you know which one.

We interrupt this blog...

The weekend was good crazy, today was bad crazy, and I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, but for now, a little meme time.

I was tagged by Jessica, from A Bushel and a Peck about a million weeks ago for an all-about-me meme. I will now tell you five very fascinating, possibly life changing facts about myself, they are completely absolutely one hundred percent true, except for the one that isn't.

I know I'm breaking the rules a bit, but it's so much more fun this way, don't you think?

1. Steve and I are not married, but Matilda, who is obsessed with the idea of marriage, is actively planning our wedding. I figure if we wait long enough she'll get the kinks worked out and all Steve and I will have to do is show up and party like it's 1999!


2. As a kid I attended three different public schools (maybe more, actually), three different private schools and home schooled twice, but not in that order, it actually went more like this: Private, public, public, home school, private, private, public, home school.


3. I've always wanted to have four children. I am the oldest of four and my mom had it all worked out: with only one child they get spoiled, two become competitive with each other, with three there is always one odd kid out, but with four everyone has someone to play with and everybody's happy.


4. Some of the books on my shelves are there because they make me feel smart, while others, that I will never read again, are there because just looking at them reminds me of who I used to be. Out of all of them, I have probably only read about half.


5. I only attended high school for one year, but during that year I was the girl who did other people's homework for them, like the football players and the really, really cool girls with the big hair. All they'd have to do was ask and pretend they liked me for about thirty seconds.

And how this for bending the rules? If you guess wrong, you have to do the meme next! You know, if you want.

Soap Opera Sunday: One Rainy Night in Galway

Once upon a time, not so long ago and ever so long ago, I was a single, carefree girl with time and money to spare. Okay, I had a boyfriend, but it wasn't serious, and there certainly were no kids involved. I had saved some money and planned a trip to Ireland, the country of my people.

My plan was to go alone for the first few days, then meet up with my father - who was on a business trip in London - and we would then travel together to the town of his birth and he could introduce me to all of my Irish aunts and uncles and cousins.

On Saint Partick's Day I traveled to New York City where I caught a flight to London, then a connecting flight to Dublin, and finally a train across to the western city of Galway. By the time I stepped off the bus in Galway, I had been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours. It was raining when I arrived, and the streets were shining, people moved quietly and quickly from one doorway to another. I had been once before, but this was my first time traveling alone. As I stood watching the small, wet city, I was filled with a sense of rising anticipation, as if the whole thing had been created just for me.

I found a payphone and dug in my backpack for the telephone number of the woman I was meant to be staying with. She was an old friend of my father's who had offered to let me stay with her until he arrived later in the week.

I made the call, but was met with an answering machine. I hadn't expected that, so I left a brief message letting her know that I had arrived and scooped up my backpack, setting off to find something to eat.

It is impossible to go more than a few yards without coming to a pub, and I entered the first one I saw. Wiping my dripping hair from my face I took a seat at the nearly empty bar and asked for a dinner menu.

"We stopped serving at 5," the bartender told me. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Um, sure." I looked around. When in Ireland... "I'll have a Guinness," I said.

The sound of my American accent attracted a group of boys from the other end of the bar. They moved closer as the bartender set the beer in front of me. He leaned in closer and nodded in the direction of the boys, "They've been 'ere since yesterday." He made sure I caught his meaning before going back to polishing pint glasses.

I looked at the boys. They were cute, about my age. One of them nodded to me, and I quickly looked away and sipped my beer. If they'd been there since yesterday, and yesterday was Saint Patrick's Day... I glanced back at them and then ducked my head again. They were staring.

Knowing that drinking beer on an empty stomach after 24 hours of travel isn't a good idea and not doing it are two very different things. I sipped the beer because they were looking at me, and it wasn't long before one of them left the group and made his way down the bar to where I was sitting.

"You're an American, yeah?" he asked. His eyes sparkled, and in spite of the fact that he had clearly had a lot to drink, he was charming.

"Yeah," I smiled.

"Doin' a bit of traveling?" I could hear his buddies whispering, but didn't look over at them. This Irish boy's eyes were starting to affect me. Or maybe it was the Guinness.

I told him about my trip, how long I'd already been traveling, that I was meeting my father in a few days.

He waved his crew over and there were introductions all around. They all seemed thrilled to meet the American girl fresh off the plane, and they had an easy way about them that made me feel part of their drunken little band right away.

He put his arm behind me, not quite around my shoulders, but leaning on the bar in a flirty kind of way. "Let us show you around, then."

I remembered my father's friend. "I don't know," I said, "I have to call this woman I'm staying with before it gets too late."

"Ah, don't worry about that," he said, "we'll make sure you can call her in a bit."

He took my hand and I scooped up my backpack and left the pub with them. I started to feel like this might be just the adventure I had been hoping for, exactly the kind of thing a girl with no strings attached should do when she travels.

...to be continued.

- - - - -

Soap Opera Sunday is brought to you/us by Twas Brillig and Walking Kateastrophe.
Click here to read other exciting soapy episodes in the lives of bloggers across the sphere!

Ask The Experts: Sleep, Why Won't They Do It?

Transcript of panel discussion: 3 October 2007

We're on location again today, in the dormitory of a lovely Swiss Chalet in the Alps. I'm joined by fellow mother and blogger, Jennifer (aka Binky Bitch) from Playgroups are No Place For Children, and of course our expert panelists to discuss why it is exactly that children refuse to sleep even when they know it's good for them.

Our panelists today from right to left are: Ron Jeremy, narcoleptic "film" star, Faye Dunnaway as Mommy Dearest, Jennifer "Binky Bitch" best known for her award winning book on children's sleep habits, Maggie Simpson, wide-eyed infant, and Dr. Phil, a so-called childrearing "expert."

Me: Welcome, everyone, thank you so much for coming. Jennifer, I'm especially happy to have you with us, because I really think that your theories on children's sleep habits are revolutionary. Everyone, this is Jennifer, Jennifer, everyone.

Jennifer: I'm so glad you could all make it, although I'm really confused as to how THIS particular panel got assembled. This should be a really interesting discussion of children's sleep issues. Um, excuse me, is someone snoring?

The panel looks over towards Ron Jeremy, who has fallen asleep and is snoring loudly.

Mommy Dearest: Wake UP you FOOL! I could have you FIRED! I CAN'T BELIEVE how, how, how inept you are!

Jennifer: Whoa there, Mommy Dearest, I think you're being a little harsh...

Me: I don't know Jennifer, I mean, look at him, he's not exactly America's sweetheart anymore.

Ron Jeremy slumps over onto Mommy Dearest's shoulder, then grunts loudly and sits up.

Ron Jeremy: Geez, Lady. I can't help it. I just fall asleep sometimes, ya know! I'm what they call a "narcoleptic."

Dr. Phil: You need to listen to your body, Ron, because your body is listening to you.

The panel now looks towards Dr. Phil and everyone scratches their heads, wondering what on Earth he is talking about.

Jennifer: Let's begin our discussion of children and sleep, shall we? I suppose we could start with our youngest panel member, Maggie Simpson, and ask her what we as parents can do to ensure that our children are good sleepers.
So Ms. Simpson, what can we do to get our children to sleep, and more importantly, how can we get them to be better sleepers?

Maggie Simpson takes her binky out of her mouth for a moment. Everyone leans forward to hear what she is going to say, but then she sucks her binky back in and stares at Jennifer defiantly.

Jennifer: Am I going to have to take away your binky, 'cause I will? I'm THE Binky Bitch. We could really use your insight since you're a, you know, CHILD.

Me: Oh come on, she's just a baby.

Mommy Dearest: (shrieking) JUST a baby? I know a thing or two about babies, let me tell you-

Maggie Simpson continues to suck on her binky, and crawls over to Mommy Dearest's lap and yawns. Suddenly there's a loud thunk, as Ron Jeremy's head smacks the table.

Mommy Dearest: What is this CHILD doing on me? Where is your Nanny little girl? For crying out loud, can someone please get this child AWAY from me? NOW!

Jennifer: You do realize, don't you, that this discussion is being recorded, Ms. Dearest? May I call you that, Ms. Dearest?

Mommy Dearest: What? This is being recorded? Oh my, well! Look at who I have on my lap! What a sweet, darling baby! Is this a boy or a girl child? And, Jennifer, no, you may NOT call me Ms. Dearest. I prefer being called the full name, Mommy Dearest. You can say that can't you, darling?

Jennifer: Well, sure, I guess.

Mommy Dearest. You guess, Mommy Dearest?

Jennifer: I guess so, MOMMY DEAREST. Alright, where were we again? Oh right. Children's sleep habits. Dr. Phil? Do you have any words of advice or suggestions for parents having difficulty getting their children to bed at night and to take naps during the day? I mean, there is so much advice out there about this subject, it's so hard to make a decision about what method you're going to use as a parent.

Ron Jeremy continues to snore, Mommy Dearest has a wide smile plastered on her face and her eyes have glazed over like that of a mannequin as she vigorously bounces Maggie Simpson on her lap.

Dr. Phil: Sometimes you make the right decision, sometimes you make the decision right.

Mommy Dearest: Young man, as a parent I must tell you, there is only one right decision. Mine!

Me: We all seem to be getting off on the wrong foot, let's just take a minute and...

Maggie hits me in the forehead with her binky, then looks at me with wide eyes. The entire panel is silent while Jennifer automatically gets up and hands Maggie back her binky.

Me: ...I'd like to know more about your book, Jennifer, what insight can you offer in parent's eternal quest for infant and toddler nap-time?

Jennifer: My insight?! Well after LOTS and LOTS of illegitimate research, I've found that children will sleep whenever they want for however long they want. I've also learned that children use sleep as a weapon against their parents. I have lots of illegitimate research to prove this.

Dr. Phil: Awareness without action is worthless.

Each member of the panel rolls their eyes. Maggie takes her binky back out of her mouth, crawls over to Dr. Phil and begins to thump him on the head with it.

Jennifer: Maggie! I JUST put that damn binky back in your mouth! Ugh. I'm tired of being YOUR binky bitch, kid.

Dr. Phil: Anger is nothing more than an outward expression of hurt, fear and frustration.

Jennifer: Shut up, Dr. Phil.

Me: Could we just get back to the discussion?

Ron Jeremy: What's wrong with just sleeping when you're tired? I mean that's what I-

He passes out again. Mommy Dearest pokes him in the side, harder and harder until he tips out of his chair and lands on the floor.

Me: Look at 'im, sleeping like a baby. Or not, actually, why do people even say that?

Dr. Phil: The most you get is what you ask for.

Dr. Phil stands and carries Maggie back to Mommy Dearest who looks as if she's just had a dead rat set on her lap. Holding Maggie on her knee, as far away from herself as possible, she jiggles her.

Me: Here's my problem now, I mean, I can get my girls to go to sleep, usually, but when they're tired at five o'clock and I'm trying to get dinner ready and I want to keep them awake, it's useless.

Jennifer: See! See! The children use sleep as a WEAPON! A weapon I tell, ya!

Me: That is so true. It's just like the potty... Weapons, life is a weapon in their little hands, curse them....

I start mumbling under my breath about infants with swords - they're everywhere! Jennifer throws a spare binky at me. I snap out of it.

Me: Thanks, I needed that.

Jennifer: No problem, chica. I got your back.

Me: Ok, I know I'm not one of the experts here today, but I have a sleep story, that, I mean, do you guys mind if I...

Mommy Dearest: Damn straight you are no expert! You don't even look old enough to have children! Although I myself look YEARS younger than my biological age.

Dr. Phil: We teach people how to treat us.

Jennifer: I'm going to shove a binky in your pie hole, Dr. Phil, if you don't be quiet. Seriously.

Me: Ok so, before I had kids, I did a lot of babysitting and, um...

Mommy Dearest is shaking Maggie back and forth absent-mindedly.

Me: Hey! You can't do that to a baby. Put her down!

Mommy Dearest: Oh, this old thing?

She drops Maggie on top of the still sleeping Ron Jeremy and Maggie crawls under the table. Jennifer checks on her. She's okay.

Jennifer: I do know that if we aren't careful, Maggie is going to get overtired and never fall asleep again. Ever. There's nothing worse than an overtired baby. Trust me. I have more illegitimate research proving this theory.

Me: Why don't you share your research findings with us, that should be helpful, don't you think everyone?

Mommy Dearest: I think that nannies are responsible for the rearing of children. Why don't you have nannies doing this peasant work for you?!

Mommy Dearest looks down her nose at Jennifer and I with disdain. Ron Jeremy awakens for a moment under the table and looks under Jennifer's dress.

Ron Jeremy: Hey lady, did you realize you haven't shaved your legs in a loooooong time. Dude! That hair is nearly long enough to braid. And those granny panties! Ew, you need to get yourself some thongs. Bow chanka bow, bow.

Jennifer: kicking Ron with the heel of her shoe...What are you doing, you perv?! Stop looking under my dress!

Me: Ron, this is NOT the set of one of your "films." Please sit in your chair.

Ron Jeremy: I can't help that I landed on the floor when I fell asleep. See? I have his condition called "narcolepsy."

The entire panel: We know, Ron. You already told us.

Dr. Phil: You cannot be who and what you are unless you have a lifestyle, both internally and externally, that is designed to support that definition of self.

Jennifer puts a binky in Dr. Phil's mouth to shut him up.

Me: Thank you, Jennifer. He was really getting on my nerves.

Jennifer: This panel is beginning to feel really out of control.

Me: Welcome to my life. Where the experts are idiots - except for you of course - and there's no one in charge.

Dr. Phil attempts to say something, but is unable to say anything with the binky in his mouth. Ron Jeremy falls asleep with his head resting on Mommy Dearest's shoulder.

Mommy Dearest: GET. HIM. OFF. OF. ME.

Maggie gives her binky to Ron Jeremy, who again hits his head on the table as he falls to floor. This time the rest of barely even notice.

Jennifer: Uh, does anyone want to hear about my theories, or what? I have things I could be doing right now, like vacuuming or starting dinner.

Ron Jeremy: suddenly awake...Or shaving your legs.

Me: Ron, that's enough. Jennifer, please, tell us about your sleep theories. I'm anxious to hear what you have to say.

Jennifer: Thank you, Nell. As I was saying--

Mommy Dearest has suddenly gone into a rage. We can see that Ron Jeremy is under the table, no longer asleep, and licking Mommy Dearest's ankles.

Mommy Dearest: Ahhhhhh! I'm leaving! I cannot handle one more second of this. You people are beneath me--

Ron Jeremy: I'd like to be beneath you--

Mommy Dearest: Get my coat. I said, GET MY COAT. NOW.

Dr. Phil hurries to get Mommy Dearest's coat out of the closet, still sucking on the binky.

Mommy Dearest: My coat wasn't hung on a WIRE HANGER! NO! That is NOT a wire hanger.

Jennifer: Yeah, so what? It's a wire hanger. That's all this Swiss Chalet had in the closet.

Mommy Dearest: NO! MORE! WIRE HANGERS!!!

Dr. Phil cowers in fear and sucks vigorously on the binky.

Me: Okay, that's enough. Thank you everyone, for coming, oh look Maggie, your mom's here. I'm sorry Marge, I'm afraid she didn't take a nap for us today.

Jennifer: Um, I have to go...

Me: I know, I know, hold on.

Ron stands and shakes my hand, suddenly all professional.

Ron Jeremy: It's always a pleasure to meet a fan.

Me: Um, Mr. Jeremy, I've never actually, I mean, I've seen Orgazmo, but-

He passes out. (He must have a really bad case of narcolepsy. How does he live?)
Mommy Dearest and Dr. Phil are making out in the coat closet, so Jennifer and I hug and say goodbye.

Me: Thanks again for coming Jennifer, it was really great working with you. I'd still like to hear about your theories some time.

Jennifer: Yeah, well, maybe some time. You could always read my blog. I'm always spewing my theories there, where people actually listen to me. Nell, I have to say, I never took you as a Ron Jeremy fan. I guess you learn something new everyday.

Me: But I'm not! I mean, Orgazmo's not, it's just a- a- oh never mind. Thanks for coming.

- - - - -

End transcript.

The "experts" make an appearance at meanwhile every two weeks.
If you have suggestions for a panel topic or panel member, email me at nell.meanwhile[at]gmail[dot]com.

To read the transcripts of past panel discussions, click here.

Next time on Ask the Experts: Eating What They Want, When They Want.

"Yeah, You and Everybody Else"

This post is a part of a special one-day event, hosted by Brillig and Butrfly:

From Behind The Stir-Ups: Your Worst OB/GYN Stories.

My first, and only other experience with the doctor in this story, was on a regular visit - long before any of my pregnancies. While I lay on my back in the chair, feet in the stir-ups, he flirted incessantly with the nurse, barely even noticing that I was there. It was at that point that I decided never to see him again. Too bad he still worked there six years later.

My pregnancy with Matilda was a walk in the park. I looked cute (even at nine months you couldn't tell I was pregnant from the back), felt great (except for the first few months where I felt a little seasick) and had tons of energy (again, after the first few months).

My labor and delivery took place in the small local hospital - only four birthing rooms. I had the most amazing midwife, who knew exactly what to do and say at the exact right moment to help me remember to breathe and push and all of that other fun stuff that you don't expect to forget, but then you do.

And just like the entire nine months that preceded it, it was a smooth as a birth could be, which is why, when I found out we were going to have a second child, I told everyone I was pregnant right away. Matilda was about 18 months old and I thought the timing was perfect, we were so excited to tell everyone, and tell we did.

But then, at week seven, I started having some cramping and some bleeding. That worst-case scenario handbook for expectant mothers (What To Expect When You're Expecting) said that I was miscarrying. I wasn't sure, so I waited, but it didn't stop. So I called my midwife.

Only she wasn't there. It was a Saturday and the doctor took my call and answered my questions, he said we should wait and see, not to panic yet. I asked if I should go to the ER, but he said that there wasn't much they could do except give me pain meds. I said I'd wait.

Sunday was worse. I knew that it was all wrong, but I didn't know what to do about it. So I called again. I'm not usually a very emotional person, but my body was completely out of my control, I was barely able to stop crying long enough to dial the number. When he answered, he sounded annoyed. Through my sobs, I was able to get out, "Hi, um, this is Nell, I called yesterday..."

"Yeah," he snapped, "You and everybody else. You're gonna have to tell me why you called."

His words jolted me. "What?"

"What's this about?"

When I was finally able to choke out my explanation, he did soften a little. But the initial
rudeness with which he had taken my call was shocking.

I finished my miscarriage at home and went to see my midwife the next day who listened patiently to my story and said all the right things.

I've since heard so many stories about this doctor that I can't relate them all here. He's made jokes about episiotomies with a wife's husband, while she is in labor. He took a family vacation while one of his patients was a week over due, and didn't even let her know he wouldn't be there. He's showed up after the birth of children he's meant to be delivering and done more unnecessary C-sections than I can count. Men like this shouldn't be allowed anywhere near the field of women's health.

For those who don't know, I did have another successful pregnancy just a few months later. Her name is Freya, she's almost three.

Shhh! I'm not really here.

Usually when I blog, I feel happy, carefree, as long as I can do it without too many children tugging on my pant legs. But today, today I am not blogging, and here's why:

This is the picture from my blogger profile:


Here's the photoshopped version to match today's general mood:


My inner Pollyanna knows that tomorrow will be better, and my Scarlett O'Hara swears, I will never be too cranky to blog again!

Also I promise to stop making you all look at %#@*ed up pictures of me and get back to hilarious tales of the hijinks of Matilda and Freya soon. Soon. Just as soon as the fleas are gone and I can have my room back. I need my room back.

Here's What I'm Doing on Matilda's First Full Day at School:

Two weeks ago my neighbor asked if we were having a flea problem with our cats. I told her no. We've had fleas before, I was sure I'd notice. She said that her house had gotten so bad that her two cats (who never go outside) wouldn't even set foot on the carpeting anymore.

Since then I've been paranoid, alternately thinking that there are fleas everywhere and then convincing myself it's all in my head. But today I decided to put my mind at ease and combed one of our cats. Yup, she sure does have fleas. So rather than let it get to the point where we're all being driven insane by little jumping bugs, I'm going commando on the little suckers.

And since I'm me, this means not only covering everything in borax and vacuuming and laundering until my head explodes, but also ripping out the wall-to-wall carpet in our bedroom - the last carpet to go. We'll be living on sub-flooring for a while, but it'll be worth in the long run, especially since carpets are terrible for my allergies anyway.

This is being written on a five minute break, see ya'll on the other side - and wish me luck!