Author Archives: Mandi

Sorry, Thumper…No Lifegaurd on Duty

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I couldn’t sleep last night.  At all.  My husband travels for work, and he happened to be out of town, so I spent the night by myself, drinking wine, watching shows he would never watch with me, and looking forward to getting into my nice comfy bed…all by myself.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love my husband, and I enjoy having him around, but he’s a giant man, and he takes up a lot of space, and he practically sleeps on top of me.  Every night.  And I’m claustrophobic.

I went to bed around 12:30 am after watching lots of trash TV.  I totally caught up on the happenings of those classy ladies of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and their stripper poles.  So clearly, I felt enlightened and enriched as I slipped into the nice cool sheets.  As I lay there, eyes covered by my sleep mask, I heard something.  I sat up in my bed and listened closer.  Then I remembered something my husband said as he left town, last Friday.  Almost a week ago.  “Hey, keep your eye on the water level of the pool, and make sure you clean out the skimmer baskets every day.”   To which I said, “Duh.  Of course.”  And he said, “You really have to do it this time.  Seriously.”  And I said, “Ok.  Whatever.  Got it.  Go.”  Or something like that.

As I lay in my bed, listening to the strange gurgling of my pool, I realized that it had been six days, and I had yet to even step foot into the backyard.  So I played every worst case scenario over and over in my head, tossing and turning, and not sleeping.  At all.

Fast forward to this morning.  Before I dropped my son off at school, I stepped into the backyard to take inventory of the task at hand.  Pool level, lower than I’ve ever seen it.  Leaves everywhere.  Strange consistent gurgling sound.  I decided this would take some time, so I took son to school, turned on Doc McStuffins for my daughter, and headed out to “fix” the pool.  First things first…I started the water.  Already, I felt better.  Second, clean skimmer baskets.  I lifted the lid to the first basket, and looked into a sea of leaves.  I reached in, pulled out a handful of soggy leaves, and threw them into the trash.  Then I pulled out the skimmer basket, emptied it, and set it back in its little watery home.  Nice.  I’m taking care of business.  Husband will never know I’m a slacker.   Feeling much more confident, I reached into the second skimmer, also full of limp wet leaves, so full that I couldn’t get to the handle of the basket to pull it out of the water.  So I shoved my hand in further.  I stretched my fingers, reached in and grabbed a huge cluster of ice cold leaves.  Hmmm.  Why are these leaves so heavy?  I thought to myself, but I was in a hurry, so I just squeezed my hand around the leaves and pulled them out further.  Then I felt it.  Fur.  An animal.  A cold furry dead animal.  In my hand.  My bare hand.

I dropped the dead animal and leaves back into the skimmer basket and squealed like a little girl, jumping up and down, in total complete freak out.  My first instinct was to run inside and wash my hands, so I sprinted, full speed to the back door, and turned the handle.  Locked.  Come on!  I banged on the door, hoping my three year old would tear herself away from her fictional doctor cartoon to let me in.  Nope.

This has happened before.  My daughter likes to lock the bottom lock, the one that tricks you when you turn it and it lets you go outside completely ignorant of what’s to come when you try to go back inside.  Thank God for good neighbors.  Crisis averted.  Back in the comfort of my kitchen, I washed my hands for twenty minutes calculating my next move.  I still had a dead rabbit and a bunch of leaves in my pool, which might have been the cause of the strange gurgling sound, so clearly, I had to get them out if for no other reason, I need my sleep.

My rubber gloves were somewhere in a landfill, having been thrown away last time my husband left and I had to fish a dead animal out of the pool, so gloves were not an option.  I cursed myself for forgetting to buy some replacements, but who would have thought I’d be fishing dead animals out of my pool so frequently? I had to come up with a plan.

What would MacGyver do?

I grabbed a wire hanger, twisted it into a hook, and stepped back out to the watery morgue in my backyard, feeling brave and not at all freaked out.  Right.  I hooked my hanger pully thing around the rabbit, and pulled him out.  I tried not to look.  I held it, hooked to the hanger, with my arm stretched out as far as it would go, squealing with every step, and threw it into the field behind my house.  And then I sent my husband an explicit text message that we needed a bunny lifeguard because I’m over fishing dead animals out of my pool.  He responded with this:  When was the last time you checked the skimmers?  Really?  Pfft.

Why is it that the “sh*t hits the fan” when the husband leaves town?  If it’s not a dead animal in the pool, the water heater explodes, the kid needs stitches, the  roof leaks, and every single time there’s a tornado, I’m here by myself with the kids.  I can handle tornadoes, roof leaks, exploding water heaters, and even ER visits for stitches, but I cannot be the undertaker for these foolish animals that can’t swim.

Rabbits - they're smart.

Rabbits – they’re smart.

Does this happen to anyone else?  What’s the worst thing that’s happened while the husband or wife were away?

Fictional Husbands and Stuff

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I have a bit of an obsession.  With Books.  I can’t help it.  I’m a junkie when it comes to written words.  They offer me an escape, a way to fly into the mind of someone else, to journey through a world of black and white that bursts into a kaleidoscope of rich colorful hues in my mind.  They take me from loathing to respect, sorrow to joy, hate to love, angst to calm, and from agony to delight.  The characters come to life, attach themselves to my core, and walk around with me until I see them to the final chapter, the last page…the end. The End.  Gah!   And when the book ends, I’m blue.  I get ridiculous book hangovers and walk around for a few days missing these fictional people, the ones to whom I relate, the ones that I admire, the ones that I *gulp* picture…in my head.  The men…those alpha men…ahem.

I have a few favorites.  It’s grown over the years, my list of fictional boyfriends, but I only have one…just one fictional husband.  Let me introduce you.  Maybe you’ve met him….drum roll please.

James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser

Click on the link below to see a pic of him.  In his kilt.  What’s underneath?  Wouldn’t you like to know?  You see his ginger stubble?  Mmhmm.  Stand back, ladies…he’s all mine.

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/other-projects/outlander-tv-series/first-look-sam-h-as-jamie/

You can find Jamie Fraser in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, a novel written from Claire Randall’s point of view, an English field nurse in WWII, who finally after the war, takes an opportune honeymoon with husband and history scholar, Frank Randall, to Scotland where together they explore and secretly watch what seems to be a druid ritual around a circle of standing stones called Craigh na Dun.  When Claire goes back to the stones alone the next day, she falls through them and lands in 18th century Scotland where she runs into English Dragoons and Scottish Highlanders and lots and lots of drama.  This to me is where the book gets interesting.  I mean, Frank is nice and all, but in 18th Century Scotland, she meets…dun dun dun…Jamie Fraser, and he constantly comes to Claire’s rescue.  Seriously, this chic can’t walk two feet without finding some kind of trouble, and my fictional hubby comes riding in on his dark horse over fields of plush heather, auburn hair shining in the sunlight, kilt bouncing up and down flowing around his long sexy legs and rescues her.  Every. Single. Time.  And I’ve never even found myself attracted to gingers.  I won’t go into details about the story.  It’s a good one.  If you haven’t read this book, read this book, and the other six. Now, like right now, before the eighth book comes out in March.  You will not be disappointed.  Unless you are, and then you will be, but that’s your fault because even if you hate everything about this series, Diana Gabaldon generously gives you Jamie Fraser.  And that’s enough.

He’s been creeping into the hearts and fantasies of women all over the literary world for years, but since the news came out of the television series on Starz, and Sam Heughan was cast as The Jamie Fraser, women from 20 to 90 are google imaging him and drooling over their computer screens today, right this minute, this very second in the multitudes. Hop over to Twitter, and you’ll see the obsession that is everything Outlander, Jamie Fraser, and Sam Heughan.

Here are a few of my favorite lines he’s said in his sexy Scottish accent throughout this book series.  All written, of course, by the ridiculously talented Diana Gabaldon:

“When the day shall come that we do part…if my last words are not ‘I love you’, ye’ll ken it was because I didna have time.”  The Fiery Cross (Book 5)

“You are my courage, as I am your conscience…You are my heart and I your compassion.  We are neither of us whole, alone.”  Drums of Autumn (Book 4)

“Don’t be afraid.  There’s the two of us now.”  Outlander (Book 1)

“Your face is my heart, Sassenach, and the love of you is my soul.” Drums of Autumn (Book 4)

“…yet when I think of you wi’ my child at your breast…then I feel as though I’ve gone hollow as a soap bubble, and perhaps I shall burst with joy.” Dragonfly in Amber (Book 2)

“I want to hold you like a kitten in my shirt, and still I want to spread your thighs and plow ye like a rutting bull.  I dinna understand myself.”  Dragonfly in Amber (Book 2)

“Oh aye, Sassenach.  I am your master…and you’re mine.  Seems I canna possess your soul without losing my own.”  Outlander (Book 1)

“It has always been forever for me, Sassenach.”  Voyager (Book 3)

“And I mean to hear ye groan like that again.  And to moan and sob, even though you dinna wish to, for ye canna help it.  I mean to make you sigh as though your heart would break and scream with the wanting, and at last to cry out in my arms, and I shall know that I’ve served ye well.” Outlander (Book 1)

Sigh

See what I mean?  Pick up your panties, and go buy this book.  The television series premiers in August on Starz, and I have no doubt…this show will be epic (Geez, I really hate that word.), but for me, the challenge is set.  Will they portray the emotion, the heart, the soul that Diana Gabaldon writes into her novels?  Will they be able to transfer that onto a television screen?

Her words create the most elaborate and beautiful pictures that my mind can construct, and the romance between Claire and Jamie, builds slowly, and passionately, and grows so that my hearts swells in my chest ready to burst with love, and I want to wrap myself in their story over and over and over again and wear it like a cloak, like a kilt, with nothing underneath.  I will watch, and I will love it, but the series will never replace the absolute devotion in my heart for the novels that introduced me to my book husband, Jamie Fraser.

You’re welcome to look all you want, but in my mind, he’s mine.  All mine.

So speak to me…who’s your fictional husband, book boyfriend, major literary crush?  Come on…I’m sure I’ve met him, and if I haven’t, I want to…soon!

And the Winner is…

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sunshine award

I hear my name called.  I put a hand over my mouth and make my “what?  I’m shocked” face.  I hug my husband who sits to my right and Adrian Grenier who sits to my left.  He grabs my ass discreetly.  I giggle, and he kisses my cheek.   I make my way down the red carpeted aisle to the marble steps, my red silk dress flowing behind me.  My four inch Valentino heels click click click on each step.  I reach the podium, look out at the crowd and begin.

“Thank you, Beth from www.bethteliho.wordpress.com  for this nomination.  I am truly grateful and humbled that you thought of me.  The Sunshine Award…wow.  And from you?”  (I sigh here for dramatic effect) “I remember sitting across a table at a restaurant with my friend, Beth.” (I point to her where she sits on the first row, smiling and blushing in a green dress that brings out her eyes.)  “We were talking about her book, which is so incredibly awesome, and one day you’ll all read it, and I told her that she needed to get on Twitter and Facebook and maybe even start a blog, and then she did, and wow….she’s one of the best bloggers out there, and then she…that same girl…the one who’s my blog hero…creates an award and nominates me.  I’m speechless.”  Well…not really.

I told her that  I wrote an acceptance speech in jest, and she said I should, so I did.  That’s the best I could come up with, Beth.

I’m supposed to tell you seven things about me.  Seven (funny, funny Beth)…here ya go.  Brace yourself…actually I’m not all that interesting, but I follow the rules:

1. I have FOUR brothers, eight nephews, and no nieces.  My mom had four brothers.  My dad had four brothers, and my husband has two brothers.  Somehow in all of these XY chromosomes, a second X appeared, and my mother birthed a girl, and then weirdly and unexpectedly another XX – my daughter.

2. I  have an unhealthy, slightly obsessive, high school girl crush on Adrian Grenier.  It started 15 years ago and hasn’t stopped.  My friends think I need an intervention.  I know what I need.

3. I hate shopping, and make-up, and most things girly…to the point where my husband gets annoyed and always asks why he married a boy.  See #1.

4. I am extremely competitive in sports, games, and anything that is a competition.  I get really into it, and I really really dislike losing.

5. I once had to have over 50 stitches in my face. Actually it was more, but I never could get past 50 when I counted.  The driver side window of my car decided to go through my head.

6. I play the piano, and I’m not too terrible.  I love to hear a song and then tinker around on my piano until I figure it out, playing it over and over and over until it’s perfect.  Sometimes I break down and buy the music, but I prefer to play most songs by ear.  My kids love playing, “play the song from…” game.  And they get really excited when I play their requested song for them.

7.  I attended the 2007 Emmy awards.  I even got to buy an awesome dress and walk the red carpet with the celebrities.  My husband won a contest at work, and he chose me to be his date.  Highlights of the night:  I sipped champagne with Ali Larter.  She’s even prettier in person.  Keven Bacon winked at me, so next time you play the “Six Degrees of Separation” game, you’re one degree closer.  You’re welcome.  And the best and biggest highlight: I breathed the same air as Adrian Grenier.  I missed him on the red carpet though.  Apparently, punctuality wasn’t important to him that night.  It’s ok.  I forgave him.

Emmy's photo

My Questions from Beth:

1. If you could go back in time ten years and tell yourself one thing, what would it be?
Hmmm…to go back to 25. I would tell myself to wear more sunscreen and to stop smiling all the time that those laugh lines would be permanent. Nah….I think I’d tell myself… “Be still. The best is yet to come, and spend more time with your mother. She won’t always be the same.”

2. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?
Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked and not just because I like that feeling…wait…who said that?

3. Beth asked: If you were to take me on a date, where would we go and why?
I think I would take you to Rosa’s on a Tuesday for lunch. It looks something like this: We sit and talk for hours, face to face. You eat a delicious vegan burrito (I called ahead and had them prepare this. I’m awesome and thoughtful.) while I eat my non vegan tacos full of trans fat and cholesterol. We sit and eat and talk, and of course, we notice that every time we look out the window, another giant truck is going through the drive thru, and then about three hours into our lunch, a huge, silver F250 creeps slowly through the drive thru and stops right in front of the window. We turn our eyes to the big silver truck as the driver side window rolls down and this tattooed bearded guy sticks out his finger and points to you and gives you that “come here” sign coaxing you with that teasing index finger of his, and you look at me and say, “really?”, and I say, “well yeah…I know I’m a catch and all, but I knew if you were to have a fantasy date, you should get your fantasy, so here you go. You’re welcome.” He looks at you, smiles and says, “Wow. You’re even prettier than your Avatar photo.” And I watch as you and your almost fiance/sex tape partner walk back to the silver truck and get in. The window rolls up, and there may or may not be rockin’, but I’m not knockin’ because well…I still have a big trans fat cholesterol full taco to eat, and it’s delicious.

4. Above all else, what are you afraid of? Suffocating, literally and figuratively.

5. What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?
Adrian Grenier – and publish a book.

6. What has been your favorite age to be and why?
I’m 35 now, and I really thought it was going to be tough, but so far, 35 has been my favorite. I think it’s because every new year with my kids is better than the last. I always say, “I love this age,” talking about my kids’ age, and yet, I like the next age even better.

7. Coffee or tea?
Wine – oh ok. Coffee.

BLOG NOMINATION TIME!

Nominees: do with this what you want. No obligations. If you choose to do an awards post, answer the questions I had to answer, and give 7 facts about yourself. Then nominate any amount of bloggers you choose up to eleven. Because Beth is funny – see:  7:11

  1.  Beth over at http://www.bethteliho.wordpress.com – because she’s Beth.  I read the rules like 14 times, and it doesn’t say that I can’t nominate her even though she created the award.  I mean…she is sunshine, in every way, and she makes my world…brighter.
  2. Clair Duffy at http://www.thegrassisdancing.com/  She always seems to post while I’m sleeping (maybe because she’s in Sweden), but I usually read her words from my phone while I’m trying to make myself get out of bed, and she always wakes me up with a smile.
  3. Kate at:  http://anothercleanslate.com  She’s so cute and fun and makes me smile…and well…brings me sunshine.
  4. Dana with http://www.kissmylist.com  She probably has about a zillion awards, but she’s funny and snarky, and I like her.  She is also very supportive, and that’s great to this baby blogger.
  5. Aussa:  http://aussalorens.com/  another great blogger who always makes me chuckle.  Always!  And she’s hot, too.  I’m sure she has more followers than God, but still, she brings me sunshine, and I love her blog!

I could keep going, but Beth already nominated most of my favorites, and I don’t know if I’m allowed to renominate them, and I’m still not sure I deserve to be nominated in the first place.  I’m going to try to say nominate again.  See, “nominate!”

Don’t Eat That Chicken!!!

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Hey!  It’s New Year’s day, so whatever you do, DO NOT EAT THAT CHICKEN!!

Let me introduce you to my husband, Dr. Gellar.  No, not Ross from friends, but Ross from friends.  See where I’m going?  He’s a scientist at heart, a chemistry major (I know!), and he’s brilliant, a sponge who soaks up information and when squeezed, will drench you with his knowledge.  He makes life interesting, and I adore him. And his porous brain.  

Here’s a little glimpse into our life today.   

Dr. Gellar:  “Do you want steak or pork chops for dinner?”  (He’s the cook in the family.  I can make spaghetti and frozen pizza.  And I’m not even Italian.)

Me:  “I thought you were going to make chicken.”

Dr. Gellar:  “I can’t make chicken on New Year’s day,” he says as if I should know this already, his brow furrowing in frustration at my stupidity.

Me:  “Why?”  I really don’t want to know.  He’s probably just watched some show on National Geographic about how chickens contain arson and that people who eat chicken end up losing brain matter with every swallow.  And we eat a lot of chicken.  So that must explain why I’m so stupid.

Dr. Gellar sighs and looks down at me, not because he’s condescending, but he’s 6’3″, and I’m 5’3″, so if he looks at me, he looks down.  I digress.

Dr. Gellar takes a big cleansing breath, one that I am all too familiar with, one that tells me he’s about to lecture, and I’m going to wish I could take back my question.

Dr. Gellar:  “You know how we always eat black eyed peas and cabbage on New Year’s Day?”

Me:  “Uh-huh.”  Where in hell is he going with this, I think to myself.

Dr. Gellar:  “Chickens scratch in the dirt for food, which is symbolic.  We don’t want to be scratching in the dirt for food.  And another thing, as the chicken scratches in the dirt for his food, he moves backward, which is also symbolic.”  He demonstrates, standing in front of me, scratching at he air with his imaginary talons, walking backwards.  Then he looks up all serious and says,  “We want to go forward, dude.”

Me:  “So you want to eat pork?”

Dr. Gellar:  “Yes, pigs route forward when they forage for food.”  See, who talks like that?  This is what I live with, people. 

Me:  “Yeah, but pigs roll around in their own shit.  I don’t want to roll around in my own shit this year.”

Dr. Gellar sighs again.  “You’re missing the point.”

Me: “You want to move forward, but you’re ok with rolling around in shit. Is that your point?”

Dr. Gellar: “Then get steaks.” He resigns. All frustrated and annoyed with me. 

Me:  “Eck.  I can’t eat beef.”  Dr. Gellar made a superb prime rib for Christmas dinner, a huge prime rib, on which we’ve feasted for a week.  Then I got the flu and faced death.  I’m not exaggerating.  The thought of beef turns me green.  I can’t imagine eating any kind of meat really. But beef.  I just can’t.

Dr. Gellar:  “Then get pork.”

Me:  “But I don’t want to get a brain worm.”

Dr. Gellar sighs and starts to lecture me for the 97th time about how I cannot get a brain worm from eating pork that I buy at our grocery store, but I’m not convinced. We’ve danced around this subject so many times.  I argue, but in the end, I get the pork, and he’s currently seasoning said pork, which will probably be delicious, but if I never blog again, well then you’ll know.  I got a brain worm.

What are your New Year’s traditions?  Do you eat black eyed peas and cabbage?  Do you fear that feathery little chicken like my husband does?  Are you superstitious?  Am I missing something?  Dr. Gellar seems to think so…a lot.   

 

 

Sex Dreams and Shit Prints

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He brushes a curl out of his eye then leans down and kisses me, soft but sensual, sending electric bolts of desire through every inch of my body.  Stubble tickles my chin.  He pushes me to the bed, and I feel his weight on top of me.  We kiss again.  This time, hard and hungry. I wrap my fingers around his curly locks and pull him closer, arching my back.  Our faces are so close that our noses touch.  My eyes meet his.  Green with need, asking, begging.  I nod my consent.

He leans in a little more, takes a long, slow breath and says, “Mom.”

Wha?

“Mom,” he says again in my six year old son’s voice.

“MOM!”

No. No. No. No. No!!!!

“Mom.”  I close my eyes, envisioning him again to no avail.

“Mom.”

My blurry eyes try to make out the time.  I think it says 5:24…AM.

“What is it, baby?” I ask the dream sex interrupter.

“Have you seen the helmet that goes to my police officer?”

I want to scream, “Are you effing kidding me?  You just interrupted my sex dream with Adrian Grenier for a Lego, a tiny little centimeter sized helmet???” But he’s six, and I haven’t explained sex dreams and their importance to him, and his world revolves around Legos.

“Buddy,” I say as sweetly as my 5:24 awake self can, “It’s still night time,” because the 5 o’clock hour is still night time in this house, “Go back to bed.  Don’t turn on the lights, and don’t play with your Legos.”

“But mom..”

“No ‘but mom’.  GO!!”

I roll over, put my hand under my pillow, close my eyes, and summon the picture of my celebrity crush back to my mind.  I start to float in the softness of a sleep cloud willing the sex dream to reoccur when….BANG!  My bedroom door flies open and slams into the wall.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  Wah wah wah!!!” In nails on a chalkboard whine.

“What is it, baby?” I ask my 2 year old daughter while looking at the blurry clock again.  5:39.  Awesome.

“I’m all wet.” Oh dear God.  Please tell me this isn’t something involving a bodily function.

I reach out in the dark and pat her down.  Dry.  “You’re not wet, baby,” I say to her softly trying to keep her drama at bay.

“No, mommy, yook.  I’m all wet.  Yook.  See?”  She shoves her arm in my face.  I feel a trace of dampness on her sleeve.  Not even slightly wet.

“You’ll dry.  Come on.  Let’s get you back in bed.”  I sigh, hesitant to leave the warmth of my bed and sleepily walk up the stairs holding her hand.

We get to the top of the stairs when it hits me.

“What’s that smell,” I ask, already knowing the answer.   Then I feel it, cold and wet on the bottom of my bare foot.

I scream explicits in my head and tip toe to turn on the light avoiding getting anymore of what’s on my foot on the carpet.  The light confirms my suspicions illuminating a trail of child sized shit prints from my daughter’s room to the bathroom.

I take a deep breath, a deep cleansing breath.
I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.

I lift my foot into the bathroom sink and begin to scrub the shit off of it. “What happened here?” I ask my big blue eyed daughter who seems completely unhinged by the amount of shit everywhere.

“I pooped.”  Like it’s not all over the floor.

“How did it get all over the floor, baby?”  It’s not even 6:00 am.  I’m never getting back to the sex dream.

“I took my pull-up off.”  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Deep breaths.  Picture a happy place.  There he is again.  He’s so so pretty, that Adrian.

I quickly assess the damage.  Said shitty pull-up sits in the middle of the floor taunting me, laughing at me, begging me to take it and toss it across the house, but I don’t have time because I still have a stream of shit prints to clean, and now with the lights on, a three year old who needs a bath.  Desperately.

I toss the child in the bathtub, filling the water with heavily scented baby wash. I run downstairs and throw on some pants, grab two towels and the carpet cleaner, and run back upstairs.  Daughter is happily singing “Let it Go” from Frozen in the bathtub.  I clean up the shit prints with a wet towel first.  Then I grab the carpet cleaner, and start to spray the prints.  “Foof,” says the empty bottle of carpet cleaner as I spray again and again.  I turn it upside down and try it that way.  “Foof,” it says again as nothing comes out.  I’m pretty sure, it’s laughing at me. I shake it.  “Foof.”

Dammit!!!!  Of all the times to run out of carpet cleaner.

By this time, the six year old is no longer pretending to be asleep in his room with the light on.  He comes out to see what’s going on, so I send him down to the laundry room to get my stain remover.  I mean, I have shit prints here, and no carpet cleaner.  I gotta do something.  He brings it to me.  I spray all of the prints, scrub the shit out of them…literally…soak the entire area in Gain scented Febreze , scrub my hands for 14 minutes, and then get my daughter out of her bath.

And we haven’t even had breakfast.

I coax my children to the kitchen, take out the Cheerios, and pour them each a bowl.  They’re happily arguing with each from across the table, so I sneak to my bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my uniform: yoga pants, sports bra, and tank top.  I make it back into the kitchen just in time to see my daughter reach up to the counter to grab the box of cereal with her slippery little hands.  Crash.  Cheerios everywhere.

Le’ sigh!

I scoop a handful from the floor and put them in her bowl. (Don’t judge.) As I’m getting the broom out to sweep up the remaining honey oats, my husband enters the room, completely oblivious to my morning struggle.  He stretches and yawns, letting out a huge groan (like he’s spent the last thirty minutes cleaning up shit prints).  Then he looks at me and says, “Can I have some coffee?”

“Get your own mother @#^&&%#@ @#^@ @#%^&* @#$$@@ ^#@#^ coffee!!!” I reply…calmly.

He looks at me like, what?  Then says, “What’s your problem?”

I answer under my breath…You’re not Adrian Grenier.

tired mom

Can I go back to bed? Please?

Are You Smarter Than a First Grader?

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First grade math…piece of cake…I got this.  Oh wait.

Please excuse me for a minute while I rant about first grade math.

As a mom/parent, my number one goal is for my kid to be better than everyone else’s.  Don’t even lie and say you don’t agree.  We aren’t allowed to say it out loud, but we want our kids to win first place.  Nobody wants to bring home the green ribbon.  What’s the green ribbon?  Exactly.

Well, as it turns out, my son hasn’t quite achieved gold medal status in math.  Not even close, and of course, being the competitive loving mother that I am, I want to help him get there.  So every day for 30 minutes after he gets home from school, we do this dance around the kitchen table called math.  And I can’t even begin to describe the amount of frustration that takes place during this dance.

Kid:  “I hate school.”

Me:  “No you don’t.  School is awesome. You love school.”

Kid: “No, I hate school.  I only like lunch and recess.”

Me:  “Don’t say ‘hate’.”

Kid:  “I really dislike school.”

And thus we dance around the table for another 20 minutes about how much he does/doesn’t hate/dislike school.  Geez!  And we still have yet to look at an actual number.

Once we finally sit down, he pretends to listen to me explain the directions.  Then I make him read the directions.  Then we look at each other like “huh?”

First grade math is not what it used to be, friends.  It’s complicated.  It involves things like ten frames, part part whole mats, number lines, number charts, etc, and all of these things are basically Greek math to me because I’ve never learned how to use any of them, and I have to sit here and try to teach my kid to learn how to use them, and it makes me want to poke my eye out with his Angry Birds pencil.  ARGH!!!

Here’s the problem.  Math has changed.  A LOT!  I learned math a completely different way than my son is learning math.  I was good at math.   It came very naturally to me.  It clicked.  I often see things in terms of numbers, and when someone needs to know what 24% of something is, I can blurt it out with limited effort.  But my son can’t, and it doesn’t click for him, and he gets really frustrated, and truthfully, I don’t really care if he is the best in math.  I just don’t want him to struggle…for anything…in anything…and all I want to do is help him.

So I went to Google.  I googled “part part whole mat” because what the eff is that?  Well, as it turns out, it’s pretty simple, and after watching 3 YouTube videos, I kind of sort of understand it.  In college, I took 12 hours of Statistics, 3 hours of Calculus, 3 hours of Trig…all upper level math classes, and I made A’s.  But I had to go to YouTube to figure out how to help my son with his first grade math. 

We worked on the whole part part mat, and I taught him how to use his number line to help him with his addition and subtraction, and when he left the table, he was smiling…a big partly toothless grin, and I felt triumphant.  I ran into my husband’s office.  We high fived.  I danced a little jig around his desk, and we all celebrated because I saw that look on my son’s face.  That “ah ha” moment.  The light bulb illuminated.

Today when he came home from school, I couldn’t wait to ask him about math and how it went, but I waited until we made it home so that my husband and I could both bask in the joy of my son’s excitement. “Hey, how was math today?”

He looked down.  No partially toothless grin like I expected.  And then he said, “My number line at school only goes to 20.”  Our number line at home goes to 30.  (the number line his teacher gave me to help him understand math). The thing that gave him the light bulb. What the @#$%^$#@!! 

 

I immediately sent my son upstairs and then began a complete temper tantrum where I used a lot of grown up language but still stomped my feet and folded my arms and said things like, “He needs a new teacher. She’s clearly trying to sabotage him.” And my husband said, “Dude,” (yes, he calls me “dude”) “you need to take it easy.” Which prompted me to storm out of his office, go to my closet, and call my best friend who is an elementary school principal and sort of my hero.

I told her the situation, adding some colorful insights/language, and she listened for a really long time, and then she said, “Are you done being an asshole for a minute?” And I said, “Yes.” And she talked me off the ledge. She told me that my son’s teacher is not a terrible teacher and that she’s only using the tools that she’s given. She then went into a 20 minute long lesson on math and the way kids learn, etc., and I listened to every word. (She reads this, so I have to say that.)

What I took away from her lesson is this: I don’t understand the way my son’s teacher teaches him, and because it’s different than the way I learned it, I’m terrified to teach him “my way”. And I don’t think I’m alone.

We don’t get text books anymore like our parents did. When I had homework that my parents didn’t understand (and they had their moments of confusion, too), my dad would take my text book into the other room for thirty minutes and then come back in completely able to help me. We are lucky in so many ways with technology, but sometimes, I don’t want to have to Google or YouTube. Because even with that, it may be wrong. I need to know how to use the tools that he is given, and I don’t think our teachers understand that we don’t know these things. I want a lesson. I want my teacher to teach me to teach my kid. We aren’t given any sort of “how to’s”, and then we send our kids to school wondering if they’re supposed to follow their teacher’s rules or ours, and we wonder why they can’t get it. I think I could benefit from a lesson in first grade math, a serious, sit down at the tiny desk with my No. 2 pencil and learn the way my kid is being taught. Because at the end of the day, the answer is, “no.” I am not smarter than a first grader. And that’s ok.

I have a conference in 30 minutes where I’m going to figure this all out. I’ll post a video on YouTube for the rest of you. Also, I’m going to get to the bottom of the discrepancy in number lines because that’s just bullsh*t.

ARCTIC BLAST!!!! WINTER STORM!!! And the Worst Road Trip of My Life

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Baby, it’s cold outside, and that has everyone ’round here up in a tizzy.  I reside in Texas, y’all, and every time there’s even the slightest risk of inclement weather, the meteorologist gets what I like to call his (or her) weather hard-on, and that’s all anyone can talk about.  Do I sound annoyed?  It’s only because I’ve survived some winter storms, some bad ones, and today’s Arctic blast is completely B Team all the way compared to the hell I’ve lived through with ice. 

Walk back in time with me for a minute to the year 1996, a time in history when tweeting or facebooking your way through a trip was not even possible, when all the entertainment we had was talking to our families or playing the license plate game or “bury your horses” (that’s a real game.  I promise it doesn’t involve any actual burying of horses), when cars didn’t have DVD players with every movie ever made available in a red box outside of your local Wal-Mart, and radio reception on long road trips sounded like white noise with hillbilly talk radio hosts some where in the background.  Now, let me tell you about the longest and worst road trip of my life. 

Some necessary background:  I had this really awful car accident in November ’96, my first semester of my freshman year of college that landed me in a wheelchair for 4 months.  Yeah.  It was awesome.  I broke my hip in three different places,  inoperable places, so the only treatment was to stay off of my hip and take pills for the pain.  Ok, digest that for a minute. 

As typical for me, I had to travel for the holidays.  We, i.e. my dad, mom, and I, decided to head North to Kansas to visit one of my four brothers for Christmas, and on Christmas day, we had what our meteorologist here in Dallas would call “A Serious Arctic Blast” and by serious, I mean, that the entire state of Kansas along with Oklahoma and Northern Texas were covered in ice.  Covered, people, and the temperature had no plans to raise any time soon.  We decided to brave the roads the day after Christmas with my dad behind the wheel, and my mom in the passenger seat.  I took over the back seat with my pillow and my crutches, wheelchair secured to the roof of the car because the trunk was full of luggage and gifts.

The one good thing about my accident was the drugs.  I had a severe head injury, too, so  that coupled with pain in my hip earned me  some serious meds.  All of which, came in handy on this trip so much so that I don’t remember a single thing about the 10 hour drive to my brother’s house.  The drive home, though…I remember that…and here’s why. 

I woke suddenly from a very comfortable car sleep to my mother’s shriek.  “Oh, honey,” she yelled to my dad, but it sounded more like, “Aw huuny!” because my mother’s accent is totally country.  I love her for it.   “Oh Gawd,” she continued.   I sat up from my back seat slumber to examine the cause of her dismay to see nothing but cars and break lights ahead of us.  Brick like blocks of ice covered the highway, and traffic ceased to move.  Stopped.  Parked.  Nothing happening at all.  

My dad got out to examine the ice simply because he got bored and antsy an hour into our highway halt only to find out from a trucker parked ahead of us that traffic was stopped for miles. The cause:  the trucks could not build up enough traction to make it over the ice on the hills, so every time they would try to move forward, they would slide back. 

We had over a half a tank of gas in the car.  Did I mention that I’m in a car with my parents, and I’m eighteen years old?   Remember, this is before smart phones.  Another interesting fact, my dad was a preacher and refused to listen to secular music, so he used the time in the car to listen to sermons on tape. You read that right…sermons, as in lectures pertaining to the bible…on tape.  As I sat in hell, I listened to the word of God. 

A few hours and three sermons into our sitting still, I felt the urge to pee.  (I know.)  My mom and dad, along with all of our fellow stranded travelers found relief behind trees on the side of the road.  I, unfortunately, could not navigate the ice on my crutches, and my wheelchair was…wait for it…frozen to the roof of the car, so I just had to hold it.  I took a lot of pills, and I slept. 

Drugs are bad though, children. 

We moved twelve miles in nine hours.  TWELVE MILES IN NINE HOURS, Y’ALL.  And every time we rolled over a block of ice, pain shot through my rump, even with the meds.  Not even slightly kidding.

Finally, we drifted into a Loves gas station on fumes.  I rushed to the restroom to see what looked like a thousand women waiting for the three stalls inside, one of which, the handicapped one.  I looked around.  Clearly, I was the only handicapped person in line, but I waited and waited.  Until finally my mom, aka my hero, said in her very loud, very accented voice.  “I can’t believe this.  Don’t y’all see this child’s handicapped?”  Never in the history of my life did I expect that sentence from my mother to sound like music to my ears, but it worked.  Before long, the line of women stepped back and each ushered me with their hands to go ahead of them until I reached the heaven of the handicapped stall and  finally felt relief.  I’m pretty sure I sat there for 10 minutes.  And I sit, not a hoverer. You’re welcome.

So when I hear about “Arctic Blasts” and “Winter Storms”, I get a little perturbed  because nothing sucks worse than being a handicapped freshman in college stuck on an icy road in a car with her parents for nine hours.  NINE HOURS!!!!  And that was just the sitting still part.  The rest of the drive took twice that long. 

PS:  Should you find yourself waiting in line for a restroom, choose the one that’s specified for you, and leave the handicapped stall for the people who really need it.  Remember…there’s only one.

PPS:  If there’s no line, pee away.

Enlighten me…what were some of the worst car trips you’ve been through…with or without parents?  Have you ever been stuck in the ice?  For how long?  Did you too have to pee? 

 

 

 

 

Blogxiety

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Someone get me some meds, I’m having a complete Blogxiety attack. 

First of all, let’s start with my new addiction:  Blogoshere…or at least that’s what I think it’s called. I wrote this little story about a girl who peed in the driveway…true story, by the way, because well, I was bored, and I’m slightly narcissistic, and I thought…sure people will want to read this, and by people, I meant my one blogger friend, and she read it, and then she shared it, and then she opened the doors to “a whole new world”. 

Birds flew from my computer (you think I’m kidding, but I’m not.  I saw macaws people, real ones.  They’re on a photographer’s blog, and they’re mother freaking beautiful, oh and I found her blog through another blog who was “guest hosting”, which I don’t quite understand, but totally support, and if someone wants to be my guest on my blog, please do so.  How does that work anyway?). 

I found myself in a winter wonderland fighting stuffed elves, falling in love with  crazy aunts, reading about chuck’s terriblemind…, reading thousands, I mean, thousands of book reviews (and books are my crack, so I practically licked my lap top as I ferociously added books to my “to read” category), and then there’s this girl who’s a hacker ninja, and she’s hilarious, and I read about 20 of her posts because…she’s just that good.  And then my husband said, “Hey, what are you doing?” and I said, “Shhh.” (but under my breath I used explicits) because he interrupted my blog hit, and you just can’t interrupt an addict when she’s getting her fix, right?

I guess what I’m trying to say is….

I’m not worthy.  I bow to your Blogness. 

You all are fabulous, and talented, and hilarious, and beautiful, and please keep posting because I really don’t want to pay any attention to my husband or my kids, or clean my house, or pay my bills, or do anything but read your blogs. 

 

Thanks for the welcoming me into this world where I’m completely overwhelmed but totally humbled to be in your presence. 

Please, introduce me to the blogs you follow, so I can continue to get my fix.  Although, I don’t see myself building up a tolerance to any of these I already follow.  What do you like?  Did you have Blogxiety when you started, too?  What inspires your posts?

 

 

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The Girl Who Peed in the Driveway

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Oh the holidays and their stories, right? Well, every Thanksgiving Eve, I’m reminded that somewhere between Dallas and a little town in Oklahoma, a family is sitting around their dining room table and one of them says to another, “Hey, Jim. You remember that Thanksgiving when the girl peed in our driveway?” And Jim says, “Yeah, Bob. That was hilarious.” And then everyone laughs because the story of the girl who peed in the driveway never gets old.

Well, here’s my version…

I was a bartender/college student living in Dallas and had to drive to my brother’s house in Oklahoma for the holiday. Because I spent so much money on booze, I mean books, I had to work my regularly scheduled lunch shift on Wednesday but planned to leave directly from the bar and make the three hour drive.

So the lunch shift flies by, I jump in my T-bird, and start on my three hour drive. I should add that this period of my life revolved a lot around my fairly serious coke addiction. Not the powder stuff. The brown, liquid, bubbly stuff. A few minutes into the drive, I hit up a drive-thru for my fix and slurp down the largest coke I can get my hands on as I sing at the top of my lungs with Janis Joplin about me and Bobby McGee.

Then we stop. Not singing. Driving. Stop. No movement. Brake lights. And all of a sudden, just like that, I have to pee. Thanks, Coca cola.

I pound on my steering wheel then calmly breath in and out thinking that it’s probably just a wreck and that we’ll be heading North again in no time, but no, no such luck. We sit forever. FOREVER until finally we start moving, only we’re not going North on the highway, we’re exiting and heading into the middle of nowhere, and it starts to rain. By this time, I’m sitting on my foot, freaking out that I am going to have a serious bladder explosion all over myself, telling myself over and over that there will definitely be a Dairy Queen at the next corner, or a gas station, or ANYTHING, but I’m on a road in the middle of flipping nowhere, and the only thing I see is millions of brake lights in front of me and head lights behind me. So I decide that I am going to turn on the next dirt road, pull over, and just squat behind my car because I have no other choice.

I see an unmarked unpaved road and turn. I drive for about 2 seconds before my bladder decides it’s time, put my car in park, jump out, and pee. And. It. Is. Heavenly. At this point, as I heave a giant sigh of relief, I look up to see that I’m not on an empty dirt road but rather in a driveway, and there’s a house with a big picture window in front and a family sitting at a dining room table, and they’re all staring at me. Oh, I should mention that I didn’t even bother to close my door, so my interior light is doing a fine job of illuminating my peeing in the driveway. Horrified and unable to interrupt the flow, I assess my situation while cursing the giant coke. I grab a pen and bang it into the hinge of my door in hopes that it will at least turn off my interior light. And by the grace of God, it works. I finish my peeing and jump back into my car. I slam my door shut ready to race off, but it flies back open. “What the hell?” I scream to myself. Then I realize that in trying to remove my spot light, I have managed to break my door, and there are people sitting at the dining room table having a nice family meal that was just interrupted by some blonde girl peeing in the rain in their driveway, and OH MY GOD! WHAT DO I DO?

I grab the same pen, say a quick prayer, and jam my pen back into the hinge at least a half a dozen times, and then…sigh…my door closes. I reverse out of the driveway, and leave the nice family a great Thanksgiving story to tell for years to come about the girl who peed in their driveway.

Happy Thanksgiving. May you experience something worth telling again next year.