Speaking of past the point of no return

Things that frost me:

The little postcards that fall out of magazines and then fall on the floor which leads to my daughter finding them, eating them, and screaming bloody murder as I try to extract the mushed bits of paper from her mouth. How do you think I got the magazine? I ALREADY SUBSCRIBED YOU FREAKING IDIOTS!

Telemarketers, disguised as survey – takers. I don’t have time to wipe the bathroom sink much less take your F-ing survey. I am trying to feed my kid dinner and I am about to pee my pants but I can’t leave her in her high chair lest she start screeching like a banshee. At the same time I am trying to simultaneously cook dinner, check e-mails, mentally balance the checkbook and decide whether to take the next days lunch hour to return shoes, work out, make an appointment for Maggie’s plagiocephaly, grocery shop, or actually eat my motherfucking lunch. Motherfucker.

That ANNOYING Chick who got past Jim by LYING and saying she worked for the public School system so she could get inside my house, try to sell me kids books and give me a fake cutesy schpiel about how they are “PB&J Proof”. Are you stupid? I sure wish my house was “stupid proof”. My kid is 10 months old! I do not feed her peanut butter! You do not have ANYTHING to do with the school system! YOU LIED! AND you are infringing on my 1.5 hour window in between lunch and nap so I can take my daughter to the pool! FUCK YOU! Go take your syrupy cute ass somewhere else. You can’t sell a salesperson. She was probably casing my house for a robbery anyway.

People who get off on talking to you like you are stupid. People who are judgmental and reek of fear and narrow mindedness. People who reveal how small they really feel in the way they condescend to others. People who are exceedingly self-important. YOU ALL SUCK ASS!!!! Are you aware of THAT in your infinite wisdom? Please go pontificate elsewhere you unbearable pretentious BORE. YOU SUCK.

Looks like Mama’s in a MOOD!
Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it BEEEEYYYYAAATTTCCCCHHH.

Past the point of no return

So I have already admitted my penchant for Oprah Magazine. That cat is out of the bag. It’s time for another admission. I Tivo Dr. Phil and watch the more interesting episodes on the weekends. Oh, and while we're at it, I love “Dancing with the stars”. I have never watched a boxing match, but I now adore Evander Holyfield for being so freaking cute hopping around in a canary yellow shirt trying to dance the jive to a cheesy elevator music orchestra. He looked SO DISAPPOINTED when they lost too. That man is adorable. But that’s another story.

Last week Dr. Phil discussed the subject of Golddiggers. Women who are out to marry rich, and will pretty much sell their souls to land a wealthy man.

There was one woman, K.T., who stuck out like a sore augmented thumb. She had her breasts enlarged to a double F cup, and has undergone just a smidgen of plastic surgery to help her stay competitive in the marketplace. She is a lingerie and bikini model (this confused me too).

I have a newfound respect for Dr. Phil based solely on the fact that he managed to ask this woman, with a straight face “Do you think there is a point where a person has had too much plastic surgery?"

Ummmmm... When your only facial expressions are blank pout with eyerows raised, or blank pout with eyebrows at ease you've pretty much crossed over that border.

I am surprised she hasn't been attacked while sunbathing on her boyfriend's yacht by a grub-eating flounder who caught a glimpse of those swollen collagen bloated lips, mistook them for his fish version of the glutton jackpot and flung himself out of the water, looking death square in the eye and flipping it the bird. All just to have a chance to latch on to those puffy caterpillar lips like only a fish who thinks they just won the worm lottery can. come to think of it her lack of expression makes her look a little fish-like don't you think?

early a.m. angst

There is something so utterly ironic and frustrating about being sleep deprived on a regular basis due to your four toothed cheese eating crawling roving smiling 10-month old, only to have your husband thrash around at 3:00 a.m., get up to go to the bathroom, heave his 200 pound frame back into bed so hard that your 5 foot 9 inch frame literally BOUNCES off the bed, and pull all the covers off you. Then, you spend the next 60 minutes thinking about evey person you ever slighted, every shameful thing you have done, every decision you regret, and analyze all of these events and wonder if you were just truly manifesting your own shameful dysfunction, or if all of this was just part of what led you on the path you are on. Who the Hell knows? The path may just end up leading to elightenment. Fuck if I know.

I know I have cut people out of my life because they disappointed me. Because they made me feel small and ahsamed. Sometimes I cut people out because I was simply self-serving. My load was lighter without them. I am thinking back on a particular time when I was careening through life, gooning wine like I was being chased by someone who wanted to take it away, and trying so hard to make things feel right and they just didn't feel right at all. Doing things that hurt me, and hurt other people and feeling terrible and ashamed.

I wonder where that all came from. How long it built up and if I am really done with it. I sat in bed for an hour feeling the shame like a pall. Now that it's written into actual words, I see that perhaps it's not as huge and crushing as it felt an hour ago. I think maybe I can roll that huge boulder a little to the left and pull my squashed, pulpy mangled soul out from underneath it. I would really like to put my motherfucking soul back to bed where it can sleep and let go of this horrendous guilt and self-inflicted angst.

While I am at it, I hope to take that little voice in my head that tells me "you are a goddamned idiot" behind the house, put it out of its everlasting misery and bury it.

My therapist told me the reason I was feeling more keenly emotional about things was because I am writing more. I suppose that can't be a bad thing. I am just afraid of what rotting carcasses I might find as I clean my mental house and clear away the newspapers, take out boxes and beer cans that have been cluttering my landscape and hiding all the monsters that I can't see, but can hear. They make creepy rustling noises and I am scared to see what they look like. It makes me think of the time I was babysitting my younger sisters and Betsy, the youngest and probably six years old, came upstairs from the basement TV room looking pale and scared out of her mind. She told me there was something moving aound under her chair and she didn't know what it was. I went downstairs and there WAS something making a huge racket. I didn't know what kind of scary creature was under there but I just squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the chair away. A blackbird flew out from under it. We started shrieking and laughing and after it flew upstairs we closed all the drapes and opened the front door to giude it out. It flew right out the front door, never to be seen again.

rub a dub dub

I took Miss Maggie in the baby jogger for a run through the neighborhood.

About a mile into it I happened upon three children in someone's front yard.

They had lined up three large plastic insulated coolers, filled them with water and were lounging side by side with their legs kicked out over the ends. One of them, a boy, aimed his super soaker at his little friend's head in the cooler next door, sprayed him and said incredulously
"Can you BELIEVE we ever thought of this?"

We mostly use those for stabbing

When my Grandmother the original Margaret, died at the ripe old age of 92,we ended up using my parents house as a home base for family members who were travelling in town for her funeral.

A little bit about my Grandmother Margaret:

Margaret was a home economics teacher for many years. She was a great cook, and a master of ettiquitte. She knew how to set a flawless table, and was a member of the most prestigious Minnneapolis ladies social club for decades. In addition to all of this, she could pull off telling a story about how she drove 100 miles in a car sitting on a pillow because she had a boil on her ass. She would then elaborate into the gory details of its subsequent velocital rupturing and the foul odor henceforth emitted.

I actually asked one of my cousins at one point if they had actually heard the same story, because I was convinced I had conjured it up in some strange dream. Nope. It was just as I remembered. Grandma relaying the boil story up at the cabin, lit romantically by kerosene lantern, expounding on the scourge of ass-boils. Only Margaret could tell stories like that and still be remembered as a lady. I still have no idea how she did it. I would consider myself proud to manage walking that line as finely as she did. She was the master of the delicate balance between being gracious, polite, funny, gossipy, irreverent and most of all human. God I miss her.

Visiting for Margaret's funeral was my mothers cousin, who happens to have a habit of behaving maybe just a wee bit holier than thou when it comes to social graces and general decorum.

We were preparing to leave for Grandma's funeral in Winona Minnesota. It was November, cold, snowy and I was tired and sad and just plain not in the mood to be polite.

As the family congregated to leave for the funeral procession, I reached for a strawberry from a fruit plate on the dining room table on our way out the door.

I fumbled and dropped it on the floor.

My mom's cousin looked at me and tsk tsk'd.

"You know," she said looking down her nose "that's what forks are for."

I shrugged.

"Oh. We mostly just use those for stabbing."

You wanna piece of this? Huh? Yeah.. That's what I thought. Now go home and cry to your mama. Shoot.

You wanna piece of this? Huh? Yeah.. That's what I thought. BEEYATCH. Now go home and cry to your mama. Shoot.
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Madge, the roving snortling mass of destruction

My daughter Maggie has morphed in the last couple of weeks from a docile, smiling, happy baby who ALWAYS went to bed by 8:00 to a wriggling, angry, screeching whirl of dervish who screams and writhes until well after 8:30. She rummages through her toybox like Attila the Hun, flinging toys over her shoulder in disgust in such rapid succession all you see is a blur of color. If there were a cartoon bubble over her head it would read "Terrible! Hopeless! They are all terrible and hopeless! It's driving me MAD!"

When I try to prepare myself for another day of work in the shark tank, I try to set her in her crib with toys and play some music while I dress in the morning. It used to work. Now, she starts screeching furiously 5 minutes into it. I find her standing up in her crib, her fists clenching the slats of her baby prison, glaring up at me, accusing me. Red cheeked and madder than Hell. Indignant in fact, at the injustice of being contained in a space with no electrical outlets to stick a finger into, no large blunt objects to shimmy off the table, no large fluffs of carpet fuzz to inspect and eat. What the Hell?

If she could give me the finger she would. I am certain of it. That is how pissed off she gets.

She used to love her baby jogger and we would go for happy jogs. She would babble and peek up at me from under the canopy and smile. Now she takes her bottle of water-juice and THROWS it in a fit of baby-rage over the side. With Gusto. It's like she is saying "That, MOFO, is what I think of your stinking apple juice and this pathetic excuse for a stroller. No I will say this once and only once. Bring me back to Daddy IMMEDIATELY!!! I said NOW LADY! MOVE IT LARD ASS!!!!"

My regrettable social experiment

When I look back on my checkered past, I have few regrets.

Do I regret falling backwards out of a port-a-potty in a drunken stupor at the first Lalapalooza concert exposing my friend Amy sitting on the toilet to THOUSANDS of people waiting in line to pee? Well, I did feel pretty bad about that once I sobered up.

Do I regret my Dorothy Hammel Haircut in the 9th grade? A little.

Do I regret not looking both ways before crossing the street after getting off a bus which led to me being struck by a Northwestern Bell van, flying 12 feet in the air and landing on my ass on my 13th birthday? Probably not the brightest thing I have ever done. I did manage to limp away from that mainly unscathed, but for the black and blue bumper impression on my left thigh.

Do I regret joining a Sorority? HELL YES!

I can’t believe I ever gave that organization one thin dime. When I was in college I lived at home with my parents, I had no money, I had no car, I took the bus everywhere and I worked 30 hours a week (I know.. .wah wah). My parents paid tuition and I was responsible for everything else. Books, transportation, beer and MY SORORITY.

It started out seeming like a good idea. I lived at home, I didn’t know a lot of people, and I wanted to get into free keg parties at the fraternities (being a little stupid I didn’t realize that the only association required for entry to a frat party was the absence of a Y chromosome). The women there seemed nice. A lot of them actually were nice.

Then the nice people graduated, leaving me with 2 classes full of not-so-nice, spoiled well dressed women who had no idea what it was like to pay your own bills. These people were horrified that you bailed out on pomping (sticking tissue paper in chicken wire a million times over to create horrendously ugly house-fronts for the homecoming parade that would fall down due to poor construction) because you had to go to WORK so that you could PAY FOR THE DINGETY DANGED SORORITY. These people told you during Rush that you weren’t BOUNCING AND CLAPPING with enough pep and enthusiasm. Bouncing and clapping are important skills. These were the ladies that ranked the rushees on a scale of 1 to 5 stars. They would refer “5 star girls” vs. “3 star girls” as if their opinion was the end-all reference point for the worth of a human being.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me. I never felt at ease during our Monday night meetings. My friends Jen, Holly, Becky and I would sneak out and smoke cigarettes in Jen’s Ford Fairmount Futura. I used to try to figure out what my problem was. Why did I feel so nervous and ill-at-ease during these formal dinners and weekly meetings with my SISTERS. Why didn’t I fit in? What was wrong with me?

I was asked to leave the sorority at one point because the balance I owed had grown too large. This was entirely due to my own financial irresponsibility. The president and the house manager (let's call one not very nice, and the other one husband-stealer of a pregnant cancer patient) thought I spent too much time at the house. Because I could not afford to live in, and commuted via the city bus, I often had to stay over-night for the required meetings. They did not like this, and felt I was abusing the system. I was called into the president’s room, where a panel of advisers from the house and from corporate was waiting for me. There were about 5 people lined up in the president’s room preparing to reveal my fate.

They informed me that I was being suspended. That meant that I was to leave the premises immediately, and I was not allowed to SET FOOT in the house or on the grounds until I paid my bill in full. I was shocked. Mortified. They had never done that to anyone. Ever. There had been people whose balances had been much higher than mine.

I was made an outcast in that instant. A Pariah. They had just locked me out of my entire social like. I burst into tears, hurt and confused. I was their SISTER after all. How could they be so cold? How could they DO that to me? Someone mumbled something about being let back in the house when my bill was paid. They all looked very uncomfortable with my pain. I blindly stumbled out into the hall and though my tears found my way to the bathroom, sat in a stall and cried. Then I took my banished ass to the phone where I called my parents to come pick me up. In all their sisterly concern, the “panel” had chosen night-time to ban my car-less self forever and my only other way home was the city bus. Late at night. In the dark. Nice.

So I was not allowed to visit my friends in the house that spring. I worked my butt off all summer to pay that bill. The treasurer at the time, let’s call her Ho-ho, was not one of my favorite people in the house. She was home for the summer and I had left a message for her to discuss my payment plan.

She called me back and left a message on the family answering machine. As sweet as pie, she answered my question and then hung up the phone but not quite ALL THE WAY. Unwittingly, she proceeded to have a conversation with someone about how she had no sympathy for people like me…etc. etc which was all recorded. By the time I got home from work my entire horrified family had heard the message in its entirety. They wondered why I was working so hard to get back to people like THAT.

So I worked all summer and paid my bill. Just to make a point to myself and to them. The president never welcomed me back. I don’t believe she ever said a word to me ever again. There were some pretty decent women in my class who made a point of saying during our bouncing and clapping practice sessions “Ummm… I don’t think Meghan knows this one. She was bonked. Kicked out. Remember? Someone should really teach it to her. “ Only to rub in their obvious discomfort regarding their treatment of me.

So I do have a few good friends from the experience. Jen had always been a friend. I never would have know Holly, Becky, Jen L, Jen T, Krista, or Emily if I had not been a part of that God-awful social experiment. In that sense I do not regret my membership.

What I do regret is that I felt something was wrong with ME for not fitting in. There are a lot of reasons why I felt apart and separate. I will just sum it up by saying I was probably not a stupid loathsome small-minded pretentious bitch. I think that’s mainly why I felt out of place.

Now when I start to feel out of place I stop and consider who I am surrounded by. The problem usually starts there

I also laugh aloud when I receive a letter asking for an alumni donation.

Eh? Did y'all say guilty?

Forty-one years to the day after three civil rights workers were beaten and shot to death, an 80-year-old former Ku Klux KlanKlansman was found guilty of manslaughter.

This really makes me sad. Sad to think about the young, hopeful, intelligent and idealistic lives that were cut violently short by small-minded hatred. These people were making a difference. These people were probably so frightened when they were approached by the gang of sheet wearing hatemongers. I wonder what they thought about in the moments before they were killed. I think about how terrifying that would be. I hurt for them and how frightened they must have been. It makes me ache, thinking about it.

Sad that I am made of the same genetic material that this guy is. It scares the shit out of me, what humans are capable of.

I wonder if the only thing separating me from him is the luck of having parents capable of empathy.

He was someones child. At one point in his life, he was probably a fat-cheeked baby.
I wonder where it all went terribly wrong.

I wonder if this guy prays. I wonder if he thinks the God he prays to loved the people he killed. How does person reconcile that?

I did find the photo sickly amusing though. Justice finally found this fool and he's got one foot in the grave dragging around an oxygen tank.

What a relief

So I was totally surprised by the invitation to C0-lead a break-out session on Mommy blogging with a talented blogger named Jenny. You can see her stuff at threekidcircus.com. FUNNY LADY that Jenny.

I feel unworthy because I have really only been doing this for about 3 weeks now. I am feeling a lot of pressure to keep things interesting and funny. Then I fear that pressure will make me really un-funny. That I will go to this conference and people will whisper about me as I walk out of earshot “She couldn’t handle the pressure….so sad…. thought she had potential….just choked…came all the way from Minneapolis…poor thing”

What would be even worse would be if everyone just kept me around and let me continue to suck . Like the Greenbush twins from Little House on the Prairie (they played Carrie, whose lines were reduced to “Wanna Pay Doll!” by the second season for liability reasons). They were cute for about 3 weeks and then everyone realized they couldn’t act. But they had to keep them around because you can’t just replace Carrie. Me on the other hand….

Then I thought I don’t want to be like, the child star of blogging. You know, early rise to fame and then crash and burn baby. The Corey Feldman of Blogging. I could start wearing a glove and hanging out with MJ. I could develop a heroin habit, and end up on “The Surreal Life: Bloggers” with other blogger has-beens and walk around acting really annoying and narcissistic and smoking cigarettes and refusing to participate in things.

Then I realized that having an imaginary audience is supposed to be an adolescent phenomenon. I am 32 years old. That nonsense should have ended about 18 years ago. People weren’t paying much attention then, and methinks they are probably not paying much attention now. Now I can go on and write whatever I want and not even have to try to picture my imaginary audience in their imaginary underwear. What a relief!

What my damage is exactly, part I

I am having one of those days where I am easily frustrated and it seems like everyone wants a piece of me. I am late to everything, hungry, I have to pee, my husband took ALL the cash out of my wallet, the gas tank is empty, I have a hundred piddly administrative things to do, yet I am supposed to be in training for 2 hours to learn how to give away money to someone a-hole who doesn't do a thing for me or my bottom line.

AND: Am I supposed to feel bad that someone else HAS to hang out with my sweet, four toothed cheese eating monster, crawler, puller-upper and hair puller extraoridaire? The stinker who was a fussbudget wriggler and screamer last night but morphed back into her mild mannered smiling babbling self this morning? Should I pity someone for spending time with that sweet face that I love to kiss and stick my nose into? That sweet smooth back I love to tickle?

I think not.

I should feel bad that I am stuck here with all of this bullshit. I would trade places in a hearbeat if it didn't mean not being able to pay the mortgage and the bills.
If I think about it too much I want to cry.
Back to work.

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers Day
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Happy Fathers day

This has been a wild year, poops. A wild year. We went from a carefree couple with dogs who were the center of our universe to PARENTS. Jim, you and I are somebody’s PARENTS. Wow. We are Maggie’s parents.

You made it through months of watching me expand. You fed me when all I wanted to do was lie on the couch like a beached whale and watch reruns of Law & Order. You took me to buy new clothes as I outgrew my maternity clothes and came home crying because my buttons were popping off. You were witness to the strange and amazing birth of our daughter. You were there through the first few weeks when I was mind-numbingly frightened and disoriented. You sat with me while I cried and explained how helpless parenthood made me feel. What if she gets sick? What if she becomes an addict? I truly felt that she deserved a better mother than me. Looking back I can see that I was a freaking mess but you just sat with me and let me cry on your shoulder and that was really the only thing that made me feel better at the time. I love your shoulders.

I can imagine that you felt a little pressure with your new lot in life too. Newborns are hard, and as Maggie has grown a little older I think you are coming into your own.

I have to say that the job of fatherhood suits you my dear. I love to see the crazed expression on Maggie’s face as she attacks your hair and pulls with both chubby fists. The way she lights up when she sees you are about to tickle her. The way you two are in cahoots together all afternoon, every day, until I get home.

I think you were surprised when you first noticed that expression on her face. That one where her whole body just lights up and she exudes gleeful anticipation upon just SEEING you. I think for a while you thought that expression was only for Mommy. I can see we are clearly entering a new phase where it’s Daddy that is the cat’s meow. The playmate. The tickler, wrestler, and resident silly man. She sure seems to think you are where it’s at these days. You’ve got two turntables and a microphone and you’re spinning Winnie the Pooh and Raffi and your little girl is LOVING it. You are the coolest cat in town.

I remember thinking she looked like me in the beginning and then gradually, day by day it became apparent that this kid was her father’s daughter. The chin, the mouth, the face, the eyes all started to look a lot like yours. At least she got my sweet disposition.
I remember seeing you holding her up facing you. It was a mirror image in profile with those chins pointed towards each other. Those two chins just melted my heart. Three chins if you count both of hers.

Let’s let her adore us as long as she wants to. It’s fun to be her favorite people. It won’t be long until she starts growing up fast. Heck as far as I’m concerned it’s our job to make sure she DOESN’T like us between the ages of 12 and 17.

Jim, you are a great dad. I love you very much. Thanks for being good to me and thanks for being good to Maggie. Thanks for being exactly who you are. We love you.

Love love love love love, Meghan and Maggie, your adoring wife and daughter.

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers Day
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers Day
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers Day
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Happy Fathers Day

Happy Fathers Day
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

How I went to South Carolina for a funeral, Flooded the bathroom and came home with a minivan

We got the phone call early in the morning. As soon as the phone rang I just knew. My Sister-in law, my husbands oldest brother's wife Rose had died after a very long, courageous and exhuasting battle with Cancer. Rose was possibly the world's loveliest woman. She was a teacher, and not just any teacher, but the kind of teacher whose students and their families showed up by the hundreds to mourn her passing. Many of them were college-age by then.
She was sick when Jim and I were engaged and was not well enough to make it to the wedding. I always feel sad when I think about what little time I had to get to know her. What I was fortunate enough to find out first-hand is that she was incredibly warm and kind.

We made plans to travel from Minneapolis to South Carolina to attend the funeral and offer our support to those who missed her most. We got a hotel with Jim' s younger brother and his wife and went directly to Bill and Rose's house which was the home-base for the weekend.

I was pretty new to the family and I was 4 months pregnant. Jim and I had only been married 6 months (see the math DOES work) and I did my best to help out and not get in the way. Emotions were running high, and the sense of loss was palpable. I was so sad for Bill and their two kids, who were both grown.

Being pregnant, I had a problem of sorts that is a common malady of pregnant women. I was terribly constipated. It's not a pleasant feeling. The airplane ride had exacerbated my condition, and I was really feeling all backed up.

Day II in South Carolina, at Bills and Rose's home, I trekked up to the bathroom to see what I could get done. Oh the sweet relief! The spring was back in my step. I felt like a new woman. I went to flush the toilet and realized that due to the amount of steady traffic through that particular facility, things were not working properly. I stood and watched in HORROR as the bowl ssslllloooowwwwllllyyy filled to the rim and spilled over the side. I started to sweat and panic as water flooded the floor. I ran out the door to grab some towels and my mother-in-law, possibly the worlds other loveliest woman, happened to be standing there. I quickly and urgently explained my predicament (like ripping off a band-aid really) and she offered to help. I was mortified and insisted that she stay outside while I sopped up the mess. I sprayed everything down with cleanser and was thinking I had done a pretty good job. The only person who knew was my mother in law. She said quietly "I am just sorry that happened to YOU." And I wanted to throw my arms around her for being so kind.

I trekked downstairs to help get dinner ready for the throngs of people that were expected.
As I arranged carrots on a tray I happened to look up and notice the swollen streaks that had emerged all over the kitchen ceiling. I am talking major damage.

Please God. PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE tell me that was there before... I was sick with embarassment. This was the first time I had met some of these people. I didn't want to be forever known as the fat lady who plugged up the toilet of the grieving widower. How inappropriate.

Although part of me knew that the damage to the ceiling had NOT been there before my washroom fiasco, I was still desperately clinging to the hope that the ceiling had been that way all along and I had just not noticed. That was until Bill walked in, looked up, and said "Hey. What happened to my ceiling?" Bill actually laughed. He is typically a jovial kind of a guy, and I think he had bigger issues on his mind, like grieving over the loss of his wife. My mother in-law gave a quick explanation and named no names. I love that woman.

So I plugged the toilet of a grieving widower and wrecked the ceiling of his lovely home.

Phase II: The minivan.

Now I am not sure how you all feel about minivans. I think we can all agree that they are not the coolest cars in the world. Most of us don't strive to become minivan owners like it's the golden goose or anything. Being in the Famb'ly way, I had planned to trade my Toyota two door in for something more practical with 4 doors. Jim and I had talked about it. I was thinking Subaru Forrester or small 4- wheel drive thingamajig.

I think every member of my husbands family owns a minivan or has owned one at some point. They are Dutch, they are tall, good-looking, exceedingly kind, and also extremely practical folks. Me on the other hand, well I am tall, I consider myself to be kind, but at times my vanity supercedes my sense of practicality. I admit it.

While we were in South Carolina, after I flooded the bathroom, Jim pulled me aside with a proposition. Bill had offered us his minivan. At a very good price. In fact, the price he was offering was well below what the car was worth. He just didn't want to deal with selling it, and under the circumstances I could respect that. As the words came out of his mouth I felt myself slowly backing away and getting smaller and smaller.
I did not want a minivan.

Flashback:

Many years ago, I was in the very painful process of breaking up with a boyfriend I had gone out with for over 3 years. I loved him. I shouldn't have loved him, but I loved him. I do think somewhere in there, he loved me too. However, he had lied to me repeatedly, cheated on me, and had bascially behaved like a total heathen practically every moment I was out of eyesight. I found out about things that had happened with women I knew and had considered friends, and I had been completely crushed. These were dark days. He had betrayed me and had caused me great pain. He had behaved like a total bastard, yet, I was still afraid to let go. Terrified. I figured I had forgiven him, and I figured that gave me the upper hand. After all, he had done me wrong. He had shamed me. Now he owed me big time. He would shape up and we would get married (if I could choose one time in my life go back in time and slap myself HARD for being a total imbecile this would be the time).

It was New Year's day. Circa 1996. This guy and I were nursing hangovers and were sharing a greasy meal. This relationship was limping along on it's last legs, held together only by my sick denial and my oblivious determination to not be left alone. He had just taken a job at a local department store as a buyer, and had gotten a little mack-daddy on me. He was in a new fast-paced world, and had befriended some high-fashion homosexuals and metrosexuals. He was telling me about how charming and witty these guys were.

"My friend (so and so) said something that just stuck with me. He just nailed it. I just don't want to be married to the fat lady driving a minivan. I want more out of life than that."

At this exact moment it struck me like a wall of bricks:

In his mind, I was the fat lady in the minivan. Probably with a bad perm. And bad skin. I was only 23 years old and I WAS THE FAT LADY IN THE MINIVAN.

He didn't want to marry me. He wanted to frolic with his new group of metrosexuals. He wanted to go to swanky cocktail parties and probably watch people snort coke and blow their trust funds on gay hookers. All while very sharply dressed.

I could not compete with metrosexuals. I could not compete with well dressed, witty, probably coke-snorting gay men. I lived with my parents and worked in a day-care center for crying out loud.

I WAS THE FAT LADY IN THE MINIVAN.

He thought I was pathetic and fat. He thought I lacked style. He thought I was boring. He thought I was on the path to becoming THE FAT LADY IN THE MINIVAN.

We broke up painfully shortly after. I silently resolved to NEVER be the fat lady in the minivan. NEVER!

Flash forward:

The words are still hanging in the air: "We can't really say no.... Minivan... you wanted a new car... such a good deal.... can't turn it down...."

What was going through my mind at 4 months pregnant:

"I am the fat lady in the minivan. It is my destiny to be the fat lady in the minivan. I was a fool to think I would ever be anything BUT the fat lady in the minivan. Fat lady. Minivan. Fat lady. Minivan. Fat lady. Minivan."

Jim and I went back and forth. I couldn't say no. I didn't want to tell all of Jim's family that I loathed minivans. Practically all of them DROVE minivans. We resorted to an agreement. I would take the minivan if I could choose our baby's name if it was a boy.

Well we had a girl, we named her Margaret Rose (After Bill's wife Rose) , and I went home with a minvan.

We had to register for Minnesota plates. They arrived in the mail and we put them on.

The first three letters of the license plate are MLF.

I'll take what I can get.

And that, my friends is the story of how I went to South Carolina for a funeral, flooded the bathroom and came home with a minivan.

Julie's Story

This is a story I got from my sister Julie via e mail today.

I loved it so much I wanted to share it with you all.
She has just been through what I think (at least I hope) was the most heart-wrenchingly difficult year of her life. A divorce, financial problems that seemed insurmountable, bankruptcy... You name it, it happened to her last year.
I think every day Julie takes a little more stock in herself. I say it's about time she started figuring out how cool she is.

"When we got home yesterday, we had a PILE of mail. Three items were not garbage. One of the three was Jane's grades, which were MUCH improved from last term, and she was quite proud of herself. Another of the three was a letter from Kraft/Cub Foods, also for Jane, that said, Congratulations! Thanks for entering the 2005 Football Party Sweepstakes! You have won a $100 gift check to Cub Foods! $100!!

I thought about confiscating it and buying lots of boring things like milk and bread. Then I thought, naw. Let 'em have some fun. So we drove to Cub. Jane and Kate had the cart. I followed along behind as they chose their $100 worth of groceries. Blueberries. Mangoes. A cucumber. Fruit leather. A GALLON of chocolate milk. Yogurt. Brown sugar, flour and chocolate chips for making cookies. Of course, they also bought three 12-packs of pop, ice cream, a box of Twinkies, beef jerky, and Jane actually found a BARBIE DOLL that she has been wanting... but overall I was quite impressed at their choices.

It was so funny to watch them dancing around in the aisles at Cub, choosing things to buy for themselves. She was very generous. She let Katie choose several items, and she kept telling me to pick things for myself. I chose marshmallow pinwheels. Our refrigerator is overflowing with snack food. $100, and the only thing from the whole trip that I could make into a dinner is macaroni and cheese.

In the car on the way to the store, Jane said, "It really would have been better if we had gotten this last year when we were so poor." I said I had been thinking the same thing, but this way they could spend it on fun things.
She asked me, "What was the worst time of your life, ever?"
I said,
"Last year."

"Because you had to file bankruptcy?"

"That was the easy part. The hard part was trying to keep food in the fridge when we had no money. The hard part was telling you guys you couldn't go to camp, and knowing you both needed glasses and I had no idea how I was going to pay for them."

She was quiet for a minute, and then said, "That makes me want to cry. Let's not talk about it any more."

Then, the whole time we were shopping, and after we got home and were putting everything away, she kept hugging and kissing me and telling me what a great mom I am.
Jeez."

Running. Down my leg.

I waited 6 dark, crazed, sleep deprived weeks after birthin' Maggie to go for a run. I diligently waited until my 6 week follow-up appointment to make sure I had no lingering tears, abcesses, fissures (scary), or hemorhaging, at least enough to prevent me from performing vigorous exercise.
Feeling pretty excited to finally do something proactive about my jello belly and suddenly wide, suddenly flat ass, I got my gear on, or at least what I could piece together that still fit me, and went out for a jog.
I felt great. It was awesome to be outside. It was awesome to be alone. I was so looking forward to working up a sweat doing something other than eating a turkey melt and appetizer sampler, which is what my workout had been limited to for the previous 9 months. I got about 200 yards into it and that's about when I noticed it.

Pee. Running down my leg.

MY PEE running down my leg.

My first thought "You have got to me frigging kidding me! Haven't I been through enough dear God? A 3rd degree tear, the post partum out-of-your-mind crazies, breast feeding tramua and ultimately failure, sleep deprivation and giving up everything that felt familiar about my life. Everything. "

Now I piss myself.
Isn't that just perfect?

And it's not just when I run. The following are activities that now cause me to piss myself:
Sneezing
Coughing
Jogging
Laughing
Dancing
Reaching for the remote control with a bladder more than half full.

Yeah. It's freaking fabulous.

Welcome to the world of Kegels.
Damn I knew I should have listened to those people! Why didn't I listen? WHY???

WHEEE!

Yesterday I was mad at the world. Today I am happy with half of it, and I don't really give a flying flinger about the other half. I was just asked to host a session on mommyblogging and the blogher conference and after I had tinkled myself and stopped wheezing I graciously accepted.

How exciting!

I Swear

Somewhere undeneath the mess left by someone else's keg party and piles of dirty laundry.....Somewhere buried beneath the rubble and debris left by storms that had nothing to do with me....is an ecstatically happy person trying to get out.

I am trying to locate her so I can dig her out and brush her off and welcome her back to the world.

Yeah, my baby wears a helmet

Yeah, my baby wears a helmet
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Yeah, my baby wears a helmet. You got a problem with that?

Like I said. My daughter wears a helmet. You got a problem? You think that's funny? Cause if you think that's funny I got something funny for you: Your Mama. Now that's funny.

No she doesn't have a hole in her head Beeyyaattcchh. And no she's not retarded like your papa. My baby's daddy gave her a big old Dutch head. Fashizzle. And my baby girl got a flat spot fool. Yeah that's what I said! A flat spot. My baby's helmet is gonna make her head so round. I'd rather have my baby wear a helmet for 3 months than be walking around with a flat, crooked-headed baby. Forever. Not my baby. You wanna mess with my kid cause she wears a helmet then you gotta mess with me MOFO and I will BEAT yo sorry ass. You looking at me? Yeah. that's what I thought. Aah-ite-then.

Yeah that's right. You heard me clown. I said HELMET. And yes that is one bad ass hello kittymotherfucking sticker on the front because that is my baby girl and my baby girl likes hello motherfucking kitty. Shoot.

Madge: aka Danger seeker

Madge: aka Danger seeker
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Reasons why Madge rocks

My daughter Maggie is so cool.
I love the way she cocks her head to the side and tenses up right before the part in the song where she knows I am going to tickle her.
I love the way she gleefully smashes her face into he big oversized teddybear that is twice as big as she is.
I love the way she smiles coyly at herself and high-fives her own reflection in the mirror over and over again. Slap slap slap.
I love the way she has learned to wave but NOT on cue. Example: Yesterday I tried all afternoon to get her to wave at me with no luck. Later, I was trying to weed the garden and sat her on the grass next to me. I turned around to find her waving her chubby little hand at me. I think she did this because she felt I was ignoring her. Too cute for words.
I love the way she wrinkles her nose at me and blows really hard in and out of her nose, mouth open, baring all four of her teeth. She looks like a wild-eyed badger with her dander up.
I love the way she takes off down the hall but stops abruptly, sits up, and looks back to see if I am watching her.
I love the way she giggles hysterically during our sleepytime game. We play it right before she falls asleep, the only time she sits still all day. The game goes like this: I look up at the ceiling, whistle nonchalantly, look around the room and and then quickly look her square in the eye. No words. She erupts in giggles every time. Just a game based on eye contact and the element of surprise.
I love watching her play. She crawls over to her toy box and enthusiastically grabs things, holds them, sticks them in her mouth, and then sets them down, one by one until the whole thing is emptied ALL OVER the floor of her room.
I love the way her helmet sometimes squooshes her eyes down when she turns her head and smiles.
I love the way she won't be swayed from her goal which is unfortunately ususally the most dangerous thing in the room, like the table that wobbles, or things like electrical cords which she wants to CHEW. You remove her from the dangrous area and place her in another. She tries to throw you off by looking interested in her new environment and as soon as she sees your guard is down, she makes a crazed dash for the dangerous object again. Madge. Otherwise known as danger seeker.

To the person responsible

for calling my husbands cell phone at 5:45 a.m today to advertise Cingular's new text text messaging offering. Yes. I said 5:45:

There is a special place in Hell for you. A place where you are woken up at 4:45 a.m. every day by being licked in the face by a high strung black lab with irritable bowel syndrome. A place where some total moron schedules a mass blast call to all cell phone users to alert them of the new text messaging offering CUZ THEY THINK YOU ARE GONNA WANT TO KNOW THAT AT 5:45 IN THE FUCKING MORNING! A Place where all the phone ringers are set to HIGH because your mate is hard of hearing therefore every time a call comes in after 8:00 at night and before 7:00 a.m. the baby is jolted awake and too mad and disoriented to go back to sleep. A place where it doesn't matter if you were up until 3:30 in the morning with a screaming child, you still have to go to work, sit at a computer screen and jump through administrative hoops and prance around like a toy poodle in the fucking circus to get the pricing required to get a customer to sign a contract. These same people who demand that you jump through hoops while perfoming cartwheels will imply that your job is easy and they work a lot harder than you.
A special place in Hell I tell you.

By the way

BRING YOUR FUCKING DOG INSIDE!!!!!

If you wake up four-toothed-she-who-would-not-sleep-for-no-apparent-reason-but-waves now-so-I-forgive-her, I will skin you and put you in a big mesh box like a huskey suet bird feeder.
How's THAT for a similie?

Tired

Why is it that the night that I go out with friends is always the night Maggie doesn't sleep? I come home to a husband who was tired and pissed. Who has a talent for shooting me full of guilt-lead with that emotional sawed-off shotgun he always seems to have on hand. I stayed up way too late with four-toothed-she-who-would-not-sleep for no-apparent-reason.
Then I had to drive to BROOKLYN CENTER for an all day sales-training. Just the words Brooklyn Center and Sales Training are enough said. The only advantage to being the only woman in my office is that I had my own bathroom all day.

If she hadn't started waving today I might have had to put her up for adoption or at least sent her away to camp for the summer.

Mama and Madge

Mama and Madge
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

Sophomore Slump

Based on the Blogs I have been perusing, it appears many blog writers suffer from Sophomore slump and never EVER recover. There are an abundance of 5-entry blogs that have been abandoned. Deserted. There are tumbleweeds rolling through them and vultures circling over head. Gone Daddy, gone.
I think I understand why.
Writing is hard.
Writing is hard in more ways than one. First, it's hard to think of good things to write. Some days you are tired. Some days you just don't feel very smart. Some days you don't feel creative. You don't want to share what's in your head because you don't feel like there IS anything in your head. NOTHING. Nothing but a smattering of random Microsoft passwords and pin numbers bouncing around in your skull. Nothing but "don't forget to pick up milk and water the lawn and you have a 7:30 meeting in the morning".
Second, when I look back over things I have written I start to get really critical. I start to think maybe this is stupid. Maybe I can't write. I look back and it all reads like I am trying too hard and the smell of desperation wafts through my nose into my brain. Maybe any of the excitement I felt when I started this blog has already run its course, and I have gotten all I can from it. Like maybe I am more tired and "in my head" than when I started. Like I just gorged on soda, jolly ranchers and sweet tarts and I am feeling the empty after-effects of a sugar binge.

I suppose now would be the time to examine why I really did want to do this in the first place. I wanted to do this because I was starting to feel lost. I felt like I was losing my identity in a suburban neighborhood with no sidewalks (I SWORE I would never live in a neighborhood with no sidewalks). I felt like I was losing my identity because I drive a minivan (I also SWORE I would never drive a minivan). I felt like I was losing my identity because I am someone's mommy (Okay, I always wanted to do that but in her first act of rebellion Maggie doesn't even LOOK like me). I still want to be Meghan too. I wanted to do this because I felt like I would lose my frigging mind if I didn't start doing something creative. Something that challenged me. Something that made me think. Something that made me feel different from the people in my neighborhood and different from the people I work with. Something that helped me work out some of the laziness and ambivalence that has been threatening to take over my mental state like creeping charlie.

So, there it is. It might not be good. It might not be pretty. I am officially giving myself permission to suck. You know why? Because I am really doing this for me. If any of y'all don't like it, you can go read someone else's blog. Go on now! Go! Get outta here! GIT!
Whoo-Hah that felt good!

Femspot: The Final Frontier

I realized the other day that there exists a line in advertising that has yet to be crossed. There is a subject so tabu, it's ingrained in us to never discuss it in detail. Ever. I am talking about menstruation ladies. It happens approximately every 28 days to 1/2 of the female population and no one wants to talk about it. They want to sell you stuff to try to adress various issues related to the phenomena, but they don't want to talk about exactly what those issues are.

I am often baffled and amused by the way advertisers dance around the minefield of distaste regarding the subject in advertisements for feminine hygeine products. Most recently, while working up a sweat on the elliptical machine at the gym, I saw one in particular that struck me as really walking the line, yet not crossing it. Why don't they just cross it and get it over with for God's sake?

In the commercial a woman armed with a microphone waits in the Feminine hygeine aisle of a local store. Unsuspecting female shoppers approach to peruse the assorment of pads, liners, tampons, plugs, buckets, mops and foggers available to women to help them throught the apparent distress and utter chaos of their periods.

Woman with microphone: "Do you ever notice that your pads feels, umm... Wet?"

Well Dressed shopper with perfect hair and makeup: Looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is listening to her comments on the tabu subject "Well, um.... Yes! Yes I notice sometimes it does feel wet!"

Woman with microphone: "Can I show you something?" She takes a pad, squirts it with clear blue liquid, wipes it on the lapel of her suit and goes "Here! See? It's dry!"

Well Dressed Shopper with perfect hair and makeup: "Oh! WOW! That's Great! I'll take three!"

Why is it always clear blue liquid? Why not yellow (pee) ? Orange (too close to yellow: pee) ? Brown (poop - duh)? Green (poop or alarmingly green pee)?
Okay, I just answered my own question. Blue seems to be the only color that we do not associate with an unsavory bodily function.

May I suggest a more realistic series of events:

Woman with microphone: "Do you ever notice that sometimes your pad feels, umm... wet?"

Shopper with no bra who has yet to brush her teeth that day: "....What the Fuck??" slowly backs out of the aisle.

Or another scenario:

Woman with microphone: "Do you ever notice that sometimes your pad feels, ummm... wet?"

Braless shopper: "Yes! Yes I do!, Especially on the second day of my period when I get really crampy and I can't seem to stop pooping! Then the blood and fluid flooding out of my hoohoo and onto my pad with great velocity feels REALLY wet! Did I mention the SMELL? Like someone slaughtered a school of carp and left them in a Glad Bag in the hot August sun! Do you have any kind of aerosol for that? One time I had PMS so bad, I ate an entire box of nutter butters and tried to put my son in the dryer! And don't get me started on the BLOATING! I look like a kielbasa infected with botulism, practically BURSTING out of my sweatpants! Do you have anything for that too?"

Woman with microphone: :"......What the Fuck??" Slowly backs out of the aisle.

I mean, if they are going to act like all of it so so unbearable that you must buy their product they may as well embellish things a bit. All the covert, hush hush, blue fluid stuff does not make watching it next to the guy you just started dating any less embarassing. Women have been terrorized too long by this nonsense. That's my unsolicited opinion!

Smooth Madgerator

Smooth Madgerator
Originally uploaded by Moogla.

William Wants a Doll

I spent the most recent rainy Saturday afternoon making a mix CD of children’s songs for my friend Janna and her son Oliver. Jim and I have always shared a love of music and a love of mix tapes. I hope I can encourage a love of music in my daughter Maggie too.

I consider the compilation CD to be a bit of a masterpiece (I consider most of my compilations to be masterpieces). That is, aside from that Madonna “Little Star” song which I now regret including in the mix because it is just way too hokey and really just not very good at all in my opinion. I like to share these masterpieces because I feel it’s my duty in life to encourage and perpetuate a sensibility for, and good taste in music. At least what I consider to be good taste in music.

I made two copies. One for Oliver and one for Maggie and I to keep. It’s so nice to have the best songs from your collection all together on one CD. We listened to the songs as I got Madge and I ready for the day, and I realized that they seemed to have a common thread running through them. Here are some of the titles: “It takes all kinds of people”, “to everyone around the world”, “Your friendship is the bestest present ever” “the rainbow connection” “when you wish upon a star’.
The underlying messages seemed to be: dream big, possessions are not as important as people, and that people are boring if they are all the same. Tolerance, if you will, is a great and wonderful thing to be celebrated. Dreams are important. Stuff is not.

As I listened to these songs, my heart soared with hopefulness for Maggie, Oliver and their sweet mystical futures. I want the world to be a friendly place to them. I want them to keep their eyes on the prize. I want them to differentiate between the rhetoric of shame and convention spewed upon them and the sweet little nuggets of their own truths they will sift out themselves. All by themselves. Like sand through those little mesh screens we used to play with in the sandbox. Beautiful, sparkly rocks of truth amidst all the boring brown particles. Theirs and theirs alone. I want them to question. I want them to sleep well, with pure hearts. Or at least sleep well active in the pursuit of finding their pure hearts.

Deep down I am a pathetic sap with a dash of realism tossed in for balance. I truly root for the underdog every single time, and the most irritating quality a person can possess in my eyes is an arrogant and blind sense of entitlement. I am also enough of a realist to consider how often I wield a sense of entitlement without seeming to notice. I try to be aware of my own hypocrisy, and in doing so I try to remember how important tolerance is no matter what side of the fence you are on. A rigid person makes an ass of themselves much more often than a flexible one. Then again, a person hates to be wishy-washy, but I digress…..

I began to think about what led me to choose these specific songs for Maggie and Oliver, and that led me to think about the songs I loved as a child. I am certain they influenced me. “Free to be you and Me” was a staple at our house. I remember listening to the songs and stories, and even at the young age of five or six years old, I knew that the concept of “William wants a doll” was revolutionary. A BOY wanting a DOLL? And that’s okay? Well, the song said it was okay, and I believed it. A Mommy can really do anything a Daddy can, but a Daddy can’t have a baby. That was true too. The album’s messages turned a lot of conventional ideas on their ears. For that I will forever be grateful to Marlo Thomas. I think that woman was terribly brave, terribly creative, terribly generous, and terribly wise.

Then I realized how much a parents choices do influence their children. My parents decided to buy that album, and it really did open my mind up even at that young age. Thanks Mom and Dad (or probably aunt Linda now that I think of it) for buying that album and for letting us listen to it. It was entertaining and a lot less creepy than hiding a tape player under our beds with subliminal messages of peace and tolerance played over and over.

I also have to consider why so many parents around my age with young children are so nostalgic for tidbits of their own sweet memories to pass along to their kids. I don’t remember my parents buying copies of “Dick and Jane” for us and taking a misty-eyed trip down memory lane. I do see a lot of parents buying DVDs of “School House Rock”, and “Free to be you and me” for their kids. Was our kid stuff really that much better? I think the answer is yes. I think it was better because the message was better.

I don’t recall being bombarded with commercials for video games and happy meals. I remember when the teachers let us watch “School House Rock” during recess when it rained. If we behaved we got to watch it again, backwards, which we all thought was side-splittingly funny. I do remember the toy in a box of cereal. My sister Julie and I used to fight over it. To get another toy, we had to eat the whole box of cereal. It was a sweet non-objectifying form of marketing. I think we were considered children, and not a market segment.

I will do what I can to expose Maggie to the sandboxes of the world. I will try my hardest to choose the happiest, funnest, sunniest sandboxes I can find. The kind of sandboxes where a kid can feel like a kid. Then I will hand her a little screen sifter and hope with all my heart that she discovers some really amazing rocks as she lets the sand fall through. I hope she can get to the good stuff.

Willie Winkie

My friend Becky called Saturday afternoon and said that her very sweet and very active 3 1/2 year old son was driving her batty and she needed to get out of the house. He had just basically punched her in the face as hard as he could. His explanation for this was "Spank Mommy's nose!"

Needless to say she needed a break, and fortunately for her son, she was not afraid to admit it.
Becky dropped her son off at her parents and came over to our place for dinner. My husband Jim had also invited his friend Todd (otherwise known as Willie) over. Becky, Willie, Jim and I had dinner, I put Maggie to bed and we moved on to the patio where much wine drinking ensued.

Becky began to tell us about an her son's penchant for self-exploration. In other words, he really likes to hold his winkie. From what I hear, this is common for little boys who are 3 1/2 years old. It should come as no shock to anyone at all familiar with boys of this age that they really enjoy hanging on to their stuff. If I had stuff like that and I was 3 1/2 you had better beleive I would be grasping with mucho gusto.

At any rate, earlier that afternoon Becky gave her son an Icee pop, and instructed him to eat it in the backyard to avoid making a big mess. The next thing Becky knew, her sister walked in saying something to the effect of "You had better go get Grant, he is touching himself in full view of the neighbors." Becky retrieved her progeny and brought him and his winkie inside where they could spend some quality time together without offending any onlookers.

Upon hearing this story both Jim and I insisted that Becky had nothing to worry about. Winkie wielding is very normal at that age. In fact, I am pretty sure it's not even sexual. As Jim informed us, masturbation does not manifest itself as a habit until at least 8 years old.

Willie listened intently to all of this and said flatly "I never did that."
We all looked at eachother like "yeah......right you didn't".
Todd kept insisting that he had no recollection of holding himself. In fact, he seemed to specifically remember NOT holding himself.

Much mockery ensued. We informed Willie that unless he was a 3 year old miniature repressed puritian, there was no way in Hell he never played with himself. The more we insisted that he had wielded the winkie, the more he insisted that he hadn't. He had never kept habits so base as self-grasping. What kind of sick kid holds his own weewee?

Not Willie. Willie never held his own weewee.

For the record: Willie never held his own winkie. End of story.

And no, we still don't believe you.

Animal rescue at the raptor center

At my mother's birthday dinner last night, my partially laid off systems engineer, partially retired, partially selling guns at the local sporting goods store father mentioned that he was thinking of volunteering at the raptor center at the University of MN. I remember the raptor center because about 5 years ago I found a baby chickadee and tried to raise it until it was able to live on it's own. I poked holes in a carboard box to make him a house and I bought cat food for him just like the vet told me to. I painstakingly gave him water from a tiny spoon. I took him out and let him hop around my apartment and sat him on my chest so he would not get cold. He was a sweet little brown baby birdie. I took time out of my wine swilling, camel light smoking twenty-something lifestyle to try to give the little guy a shot in life.
About 24 hours into my plan, I realized my baby bird was not doing so well. Instead of hop hop hopping he was limp limp limping. Sideways. I decided to try to take him somewhere where they might be able to help him so I called the raptor center. They told me that they took in animals in need of rescue and I brought him in.
In the waiting room there was a cute little boy with his parents. They had a little family of baby bunnies they had discovered while mowing the lawn. They were adorable. The family and the bunnies.
They called my name, took a look at the bird and said that he did not look good, but they would do what they could. They said they would try to call to let me know how he ended up.
I never did hear from them and I always wondered if that little guy made it. This is my memory of the raptor center. A place where they rescue wild little creatures who end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
When I said to my father "Oh, yeah. I remember the raptor center. I rescued a baby bird and brought him there". My father looked at me, amused and impatient, and said
"Meghan, it's the RAPTOR center. What do you think they do with baby birds? They feed them to raptors!". He sat back looking rather pleased with himself.
"No Dad" I said. "they rescued animals. I know this because there was also a family who brought in rescued baby bunnies!"
My father looked at me like I just told him I still beleived in Santa Claus.
"They probably fed the bunnies to an owl. What do you think owls eat in the wild? ".
I covered my ears with my hands.
"STOP! Stop right now!"
This was the end of our conversation about the raptor center.
Why the Hell would anyone want to volunteer there?

Happy Birthday Mom

June 2 is my mother's birthday.

Trying to write about your mother in a blog is hard. It's like trying to write a poem about nailing jello to a tree whilst trying to nail Jello to a tree. The Jello Jiggles and pulsates and changes shape. It REACTS constantly. It's a wiggly medium, Jello. Tricky. Hard to pin down.

Here is how I shall break it down:

Top Ten list of good things about my mother:

1.She is always nice to me when the world is beating the crap out of me.
2.She called me in tears from a conference in New York when she found out Paul Wellstone died.
3.She had a difficult and tenuous relationship with her mother. It makes me think she has earned her stripes. She has unresolved issues, I have unresolved issues and someday soon my daughter will have unresolved issues! Ah, tradition.
4. She went back to school 20 years ago and got her masters degree.
5. She wants to make Christmas cookies every year.
6. She has a bumper sticker on her car that reads "people of faith for John Kerry"
7. She grows a mean garden. By mean I mean pretty. Not scary.
8. Although she has not worn it in years, the smell of Jean N'ate still makes me feel safe.
9. She actually took me home from the hospital after meeting me. I was quite possibly the worlds ugliest baby. By ugly I mean that I looked like an 8 pound version of Telly Savalas but with less facial hair and a blank gaping expression. If anyone can prove that they were uglier I will cook them a 4 course meal at my own dining room table. That is how ugly I was. I learned early to set the expectation low. She still took me home and that is proof that deep down she is an optimist.
10. I am certain that underneath that polite veneer she also thinks that one creepy conservative christian relative is a perma-smiling mean-spirited wack job closet neo nazi too. I am sure she also wants to tell her to suck it! SUCK IT!

Happy Birthday Mom.

STOP IT. PLEASE

It's bad enough working with all men and for men in a male dominated office.

When I have to listen to the two of you behind my cube tossing the football back and forth, after you just cried to our sales manager about the account of mine you think you are entitled to work from under me, that football going slap, slap, slap....

I'll give you a slap, slap, slap.....

Slap...

Happy June

It is officially June. Last year at this time my burgeoning belly was getting in the way to the point that I pretty much threw in the towel on exercise and instead planted myself on the couch like Jaba the hut waiting for Jim to feed me french fries like a zoo animal on display with a pillow between my knees. My, it is easy to forget how difficult all the lumbering around with an extra 40 pounds was.
Maggie is so funny these days. We will play in her room and she will just take off crawling down the hall. Scoot scoot scoot. She starts out so fast, but she will stop halfway down, push herself to a sitting posistion and look back to see if I am following her. When she sees me she smiles with her whole moon face. I love that. I would feel sad if she didn't check for me every so often. I also love to watch her go go go.
In the morning when I bring her in bed and bring her a bottle she cranes her neck to see if the dogs are going to walk throught the door. She knows when the part of the song when I tickle her is coming, and she buries her head in my chest in anticipation. It's an amazing feeling to have your child rest their head on you. One of the small moments I finally learned to slow down and savor. The small ones are the best. That is what Maggie has taught me.
Her barking cough has regisned itself to a rattly hack, which I consider to be an improvement. Poor little monkey.
We are all dragging a bit due to the communal germ trough we all seem to be drinking from.
Once my nose stops creating mammouth boogers and I have a wee bit of energy, I plan to enjoy June to it's fullest potential.