Weekend at Maggie's

Let's start out our tour with the Cupboard. Trust me. This will make sense in just a moment. Really. I swear.

As you can see, we have taken precautions to keep Maggie's busy fingers off of the sundries.













All of the following happened on Sunday BEFORE NAPTIME. Madge was a roving mass of epicurean distruction. We have renamed her Hungry Margaret of the Amazons, the Godzilla of toddlers. She has special powers including a built-in food-radar and telekinetic abilities. She has perfected the "stretch and shimmy" maneuver. She uses it to pry open the pantry just enough to grasp boxes of cookies and crackers and shimmy them out the bottom of the pantry.
















































































Next, Madge pulled 2 cups of chicken broth off of the counter and ALL over herself and her pajamas. The child was SOAKED with chicken broth.

And the icing on the cake:

Jim found her hiding in the corner of her room, gnawing on THIS:















Yes. She was gnawing on a STICK OF BUTTER. Don't ask me where she got it. All I can tell you is the child has magical powers. She's like one of the freaky kids from the Disney movie "Escape to Witch Mountain". She visualizes the food in her mind, concentrates REAL hard, and things start going all "WHOOOO-EEEE-OOOOO!" and presto. She is holding a box of triscuits.

That is what I get for spending the morning cooking meals for the week and keeping only half an eye on her. Lesson learned.

On Saturday, Maggie woke up from her nap with a real mess in her diaper. We decided it was so bad, she needed to take a bath to remove the stench. Madge was not quite awake, and not ready top part with her Blankie. We put her in the tub and she cried and cried for her cherished "pinkie". After much wailing we decided to throw in the blanket.















She likes to rub her nose with a corner of her blanket. Let me specify. A corner of DRY blanket. The dry spot got smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared, leaving Madge utterly bereft. We had to remove her screaming and kicking from the tub in short order.































And now a tour of our house. Lets start with our bathroom:




























We plan to have a HUGE party with lots of beer and water. LOTS of water. Our guests will be required to use this facility and this facility alone, surrounded by fellow partygoers.

Okay, really this is our basement bathroom. As you can see it is under construction. This is the basement (JB) where I torture the nipple Nazis.

I figured I would start out with the UGLY.

Speaking of ugly, I would like to introduce my kitchen. I hate my kitchen with the passion of a thousand burning hot suns. Ironically, I love to cook so I spend a great deal of time under the lowered ceiling which boasts the luxurious seizure-inducing flourescent lighting. Flourescent lighting is also oh-so-flattering. It makes a person look fat AND pale. One day soon, I will feel so fat and pale whilst whipping up dinner that I will snap, and take a sledgehammer to the entire room. I will start with the ceiling, and work my way to the 1970's tyle cupboards. Then, I will stab the linoleum floor repeatedly in a fit of rage.

















And here is my true nemesis: The Stove. I loathe my stove. Would you like to know why? Please. Take a look. Don't be afraid. It won't hurt you.














My stove has two large burners and two infuriatingly small burners. One large burner works. This is the second. It is as worthless as an udder on a bull.

I am not sure if you can tell, but it has a large button-type thing protruding from it. If anyone can tell me what the purpose of this is, I will write you your very own limerick.

This appendage appears to serve no purpose but to render the entire burner uselss. Any pot weighing less than seven pounds quickly tips, leaving half the pot hanging with no direct contact to the heat source. I would like to find the person responsible for the design and pinch the inside of their upper arm REALLY HARD.















And the lovely lowered ceiling with flourescent lighting:
















Here is my kitchen in all it's glory. Our kitchen boasts FIVE doorways. Five doorways and no walls. Five doorways which leaves enough wall space to hang one small calendar and nothing else.
















I found chicken on sale this week and decided to make a few meals ahead to freeze.
Please lay your eyes on the bounty of 1 jillion pounds of chicken.















Here is the view from our front door. The colors of the outdoors this time of year make my brain waves go flat. Grey, grey, and grey. If it snows, it's white for a day, and then quickly returns to grey. It's much prettier in the summer.




























































Here are our dogs, Harriet and Rainier. Harriet, the golden retriever, is our good dog and Rainier, the black lab, is our bad dog.

Harriet is sweet, loving, gentle and obedient. Her only flaws: She is really quite stinky, and she has no concept of personal space. If she could learn to hop on for a piggyback, we would wear her like a red furry backpack and bring her everywhere we go.

Rainier is our resident BAD BOY. He gets in fights with other dogs. Our friends no longer bring their dogs over to play because he has sent two to the vet with puncture wounds. He is an ass. He also has obsessive compulsive disorder and oppositional defiant disorder. The only reason he has not been sent off to live on a "farm" somewhere is that I have a soft spot for bad boys. I have several ex-boyfriends to prove it. And I love him. I do. He is a big baby and a sweet dog as long as there are no other dogs to beat up. Around every dog exculding Harriet, he is a giant ass.
















This is our basement. When we showed our friend Mike B. our new house, his comment regarding this room was: "Great fireplace. Your kids can totally blow bong hits up it when they're in high school."
































This is Maggie's room. My lovely talented Irish sister-in-law painted all these creatures on the walls when I was pregnant. We love Maggie's room. When I write the word "seemingly" it's all because of her. Imagine the word "seemingly" spoken with an Irish accent. That's Elaine. She is also adorable.














































Here are the remaining rooms in our house. Notice the blatant abuse of the color red. We can't get us enough red. Someone told me red is an angry color. I cringe to think of what our color scheme says about us as people.

This is the office. This room was decorated by my husband Jim. It is quite manly. There are fish everywhere. And a big Dutch flag, because I married a big Dutch man who gave our daughter a big Dutch head.




















































Our hallway:



















And our Dining Room: More Red!




















Red red red red red.


















I love our dining room table. The weekend I went to BlogHer, Jim went to Indianapolis to pick up this lovely table, plus a four poster bed plus a china cabinet plus two beautiful dressers. My sister in-law Pat decided it was time for a change and was kind enough to pass along her lovely mahogany furniture to us.

I want to lick the china cabinet on a bi-weekly basis.



































Here is our Living Room. We call our color scheme "Ketchup and Mustard"

















































And just when you thought you had reached your limit of red:

















Red part Trois:
















Red with little flowers!


















Red with a big fat couch!




















Here's a novel idea! Green!

















Brown-red:














But honestly, tell me what the Hell matches with THIS:














Daddy and Maggie:















Wee Madge:














Me, holding a dish of parsely, looking fat and pale in the flourescent lighting. It's the lighting! The lighting! Do you like how I set that one up?















Thank you for joining in the tour. We hope to have you back real soon. Take care now! And when you close your eyes to go to sleep tonight and see red, you will know why.

Delurking

Here is a great opportunity to de-lurk, my little pretties.

This weekend I am going to take photos to share with my crappy digital camera (the Nikon D-70 fairy has not yet made it to my house).

Let me start by saying they will be rated G (had to throw a disclaimer in for the pervies, you know who you are and I don't want your 2 cents, Shame on you! Go call your therapist! NOW!!!!! I SAID NOW!!!!!).

What do you all want to see? My kitchen? Dining room? Backyard? The basement bathroom project? My illustrious minivan? What I am making for dinner tonight? The kid? The dogs? What are you people curious about? The errands I run?

I am taking requests. Within reason. And I know you are all reasonable people. The photos will be put up on Monday.

Have a great weekend.

Mofomommyranting

There are a couple of things that piss me off now that I am a mother:

1. Hearing anyone say “she’s more than just a mother”.

No shit Einstien! I was a lot more than a mother before I became a mother. I mean really, if the underlying assumption is that either I am a mother or I do not exist, then you are saying that I was nothing until I became a mother at the age of 32. If that is really what you think, well, you are an idiot.

In addition, since birthin’ a baby I continue to be the evolving human being I was prior to August 21, 2004. I still carry all the same experiences I had before having a child, and I will continue to evolve in the face of changes that motherhood had brought, and the changes life in general brings.

Thank you so much for your vote of confidence that I am more than the mere label I acquired when I went through the totally insane experience of childbirth! Man alive, you are the wind beneath my wings. Before I heard those magical words “more than just a mother” I really thought that is all I was!!!! Before my daughter was born, I was just an itch in my own pocket.

Do you ever hear anyone say “He’s more than just an Electrical Engineer” or “She’s a daughter, but she’s a really good writer.” It’s as though people assume half of your brain cells exited your body with the afterbirth. It’s fucking ridiculous.

2. I read two articles on Blogging Baby that got me thinking.

You know what else pisses me off? People who feel the need to gasp in horror every time someone who has a child mentions things that are hard, or admits that they don’t enjoy every minute of ass-wiping. People who need to spout off about how we should really stop and smell the roses because kids grow up fast. I KNOW THAT AND IT’S STILL HARD AND I CAN SAY IT’S HARD ANYTIME I GODDAMN WELL PLEASE. I don’t want your fucking 2 cents of invalidation. Shut up about it.

If that’s the way you really feel, hooray for you and go home and kiss your progeny. They are lucky children, indeed. Mine’s lucky too. My daughter will grow up perfectly well adjusted knowing that she is loved. She will be clothed, fed, hugged and kissed every day of her life, and her momma will scratch the eyes right out of anything that ever tries to hurt a hair on her head. In addition, my daughter will grow up knowing it’s perfectly okay to admit when you’re tired and not having any fun. It’s okay to admit that sometimes you miss the old times. These are the admissions that keep people from hopping the one-way train to crazy-ville: population: 8,000 perfect mothers.

Mothers are policed like nobody’s business. Usually by other mothers. When I tried to breastfeed and failed, I felt scrutinized every time I was asked about it. I wanted to walk around with a disclaimer that read something like:

“I know I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, and I couldn’t help but notice you noticing me feeding my infant with a bottle. Please let me explain. I tried to breastfeed and pumped for 2 weeks. My daughter never latched on, and I go tired of pumping tiny amounts of liquid out of my malfunctioning breasts with a machine, while my daughter laid in her crib like a Romanian Orphan. I am hoping that now that you know that I gave it a shot, you will not judge me quite so harshly. I am a good mother. I swear. I even read a book on attachment parenting, which by the way, I already know I am failing miserably at. I am failing because I don’t breast feed. I am failing because I have to go back to work when my daughter is 10 weeks old and I can’t carry her in a sling for the 40 hours a week my attendance is required at work. I am failing because we decided against a family bed. Really. I tried. At least a little. Please do not judge me or turn me into social services. Thank you for your time.”

It’s like milling around with undercover Gestapo agents.

All of this crap, all of the put-downs, subtle or overt, come from a deep dark place of insecurity. The desire to covertly to imply your own superiority without a single iota of valid proof or justification for any said superiority. They are cheap shots at someone else’s expense. Cheap shots that are typically a vain attempt to make oneself feel better, smarter, sassier, more punk rock, more mother-earth-goddess, more urban, more suburban, more urban, whatthefuckhaveyou.

And you know what? I could also blame it on men, because God knows they deserve a little blame. The truth is, at LEAST half of this utter crap comes from other women. Women with and without children.

And am I free from guilt? Nope! I have flung the term “soccer mom” like nobody’s business. I did it before I was a mother and after I became a mother. I lamented all the fucking people with their huge fucking strollers who walked around wielding huge senses of entitlement as though they, along with their genius children just DESERVED more space than everyone else. GOD they annoyed me. And now I am one of them. So, yep! I am G-U-I-L-T-Y.

Being a mother is hard. I am pretty confident that every mother out there feels a huge amount of pressure to get it right. No one worth their salt wants to screw up their own kids. I am just as confident that every mother out there is afraid that they are failing their children in one capacity or another. And the judgments we fling on one another all come from the same dark, musty, stanky place of fear in our hearts.

Will things ease up if we can get to a place where it’s okay to not be perfect?

A place where it’s okay to choose not to have children? A place where it’s okay to have children? A place where it’s okay to admit that we’re tired? Can I admit that sometimes I watch the clock, anxious for bedtime when I can have a thought to myself? Will you judge me if I admit that sometimes on a Saturday, instead of playing with my daughter, I just really want to go see a movie or play a game of Trivial pursuit?

I do not have the answer. Maybe the answer is simply to keep in mind that people are annoying and insecure and judgmental. That being said, most people are doing the best they can. I look back at things I have said and done in my life and I want to cringe at my own stupidity. But I keep growing up. At least I hope so.

My point, if I have one, is that we are all idiots in various stages of our own idiocy.

Yeah, you are a judgemental asshole. You know what? So am I. If we can somehow make it okay to BE an idiot and an asshole, perhaps we won't have the need to point a finger every time we see someone else acting like an idiot and an asshole. If it's okay to be an idiot, we can more easily admit to our own idiocy. We can ackowledge our own pasts, presents, and futures, all chock-full of examples of our own utter lack of self-actualization.

And with that, I will take my own advice. Who am I to point fingers anyways? Just pretend you never read any of this. Okay?

Attack of the Girl-Locusts

When I was a kid, we spent a great deal of time with our cousins. They lived about 2 miles from us in Minneapolis. In an unusual coincidence, my aunt Karen and uncle Tom had four daughters and no sons. Exactly like in my family. Eight cousins all staggered in age. One big wiggly mass of bad, tangled hair, giggling, bickering, and compulsive sugar consumption.

We would all pile into our cars to take the 5 hour drive up to the cabin in the upper peninsula of Michigan. These were the days before minivans. Squashed into each of our family sedans were 4 young girls, a dog, two parents, 6 sleeping bags, coolers of food, and enough supplies to get us through seven to fourteen days in a log cabin with no electricity or running water. Again, that was in each car.

I could write another post entirely, just describing the cars my parents drove growing up. They were usually old by the time we got them, and they continued their rapid decline once in our possession. We had a rusty Ford Maverick with holes in the floor and a bad exhaust system. We could see the road passing underneath our feet as the fumes wafted up to hover over the back seat. We tried to claw over each other to stick our heads out the window to gasp for fresh air. My father was driving this very car on a busy Minneapolis highway doing 60 MPH when the rusty hinges connecting the front hood to the body of the car snapped, and it flew right over the windshield, over the roof of the car and landed a few hundred feet behind him where a school bus nearly ran over it . We inherited cars from relatives. They usually smelled funny and were so unreliable that our mother must have repeated silent hail mary’s throughout our 5 hour journeys up to the cabin. Before my parents quit smoking, we would sit in the back and fight off the nausea as my mother and father sucked cigarettes down to the nub all the way through Wisconsin and into the U.P.

Typically at least one sister would throw up along the way, and another sister would fall asleep with their butt sticking out, hogging more than their allotted 4.2 inches of seat space, setting off a screeching girl-riot of indignance. Sharp elbows, bumper-toe tennis shoes and tube socks would fly. These altercations typically ended in my father bellowing “GODDAMMIT, IF I HAVE TO STOP THIS CAR!!!!!!!!!!” We would quickly sit up straight, hold our arms to our sides, and try hard to look as innocent as possible while whispering threats of bodily harm under our breath to whichever sister had it coming.

We would limp out of the car at a liquor store in Hurley Wisconsin where our parents would pick up cases of beer with pull-tops, and we would get free candy and have our one shot to line up to go pee. If you had to wee-wee before we hit Hurley, you were shit out of luck. You didn’t dare make a peep. You just held it and squirmed in agony lest you draw the rage of our father who had typically run out of patience before we even left the greater Minneapolis Metropolitan area. He was not afraid to turn red and yell, or swat a hand towards the backseat.

The excitement would mount as we got our first glimpses of Lake Gogebic. Shimmering beams of dancing yellow sunlight jumped behind the thick, tall pine trees that lined the remote two-lane Highway. We would wiggle and squeal as we turned the corner into the long driveway and got our fist glimpse of the cabin. A vertical log cabin with bright orange shutters, two stone chimneys and a matching three-seater outhouse that boasted a big hole (Pa) a medium hole (Ma) and a little baby hole.

Once up at the cabin with all eight girls, we would impatiently lug our belongings up the stairs so we could finally run outside and down the hill to the lake.

We followed unwritten rules of conduct when all the cousins were together. If the girl was your sister, you could resort to physical violence ranging from punching, shoving, scratching, or as a last resort, hair-pulling . In doing so, you risked a parental reprimand or swat to the butt. If it was your cousin, you were limited to tools of psychological warfare. The more twisted you were, the higher up you ranked on the chain of command.

Being the second oldest of all eight girls, I was high up in the rankings, however my cousin Tiffany, who was 10 weeks younger than I, typically one-upped me in the shrewd and bossy department. She had superior skills. I excelled in subtle passive-aggression and victim manipulations, but she clearly had the upper hand when it came to overt power plays. Julie, who was older and bigger, was President, Tiffany was V.P. and I was resigned to act as the Secretary of state in our Lake Gogebic Government Council.

We worked our way through the food supply like locusts. We started with the contraband, like Faygo soda and tiny boxes of sugar cereal which we were only allowed to eat up at the cabin. Then, we moved on to fresh fruit, next, any remaining non-perishables, finally ending our epicurean tour of duty with the vegetables our uncle Bob brought up for stew. Uncle Bob didn’t have any children, and was horrified by the unabashed voracity with which all eight disheveled girl-monkeys devoured everything in sight. Our parents, who had long ago ceased to be shocked by our ravenous appetites, simply shrugged their shoulders, sighed, and tried to come up with a plan B for dinner.

Once the food was gone, we were left to stretch our own twisted imaginations to entertain ourselves. A week with no television brought out the creative masochists is us. The more of a frenzied lather we could work our younger sisters into, the better. Eliciting horrified shrieks and wails from the younger generation only fed our adrenaline. We were master tormenters of the younger siblings. We knew their weak spots, and made short work of exploiting them. We were junkies, always searching for our next fix.

One covert mission began with a stealth round-up of all the cherub faced dolls our younger sisters dragged around everywhere. The Cabbage Patch Kids. We bound them, gagged them, and placed them in all of the scariest places we could think of. One doll hung by a noose from the rafters of the second story. Another was locked up like a drum in the ancient oven of the wood burning stove. The most unfortunate Cabbage Patch Doll, belonging to the most unfortunate sibling, was left in the July heat in the three seater outhouse with the flies and the spiders and the stench that made us hold our breath while in its confines. That little doll sat there, helplessly soaking up the smell of decades of Devoy excrement. Sitting atop the very same throne my great grandfather sat upon in the first years of the 20th century. Those terrified vacant Doll Eyes searching out the answer to the question “why me? Why here? I’m just a doll. Have you no decency?”

We left ransom notes where the dolls had been carefully placed by their owners. When the younger sisters came back from swimming and found their cherished babies not just missing, but kidnapped, all Hell broke loose. The screaming and wailing began, and so did our adrenaline rush. We giggled and jumped up in down with excitement for the success of our evil plan. I believe we even drew real live tears of anguish which we savored and relished as proof of our evil victory. We had won cabin domination. They were at our mercy.

The panic began to subside as our young, relentlessly tortured counterparts read the clues and realized we had not destroyed their precious dolls, but had merely placed them in compromising positions. One by one the dolls were recovered to their rightful owners, only slightly worse for wear. When all was said and done, I think they would admit that they had some fun in the process. We may have been evil and mean and conniving, but we also provided much needed entertainment to make up for the lack of TV.

It was a magical place, the cabin. It still is.

100 Things about me

100 Things about me.

1. I have 3 sisters, they are all different and I adore them.

2. When we were younger our neighbor asked if we were all adopted, even though we are not.

3. I have a knack for analyzing people’s dreams and reading palms.

4. I am really good at trivial pursuit.

5. I have 2 dogs. Harriet and Ranier. I love them, but since I had Maggie I don’t pay enough attention to them.

6. I wanted to play Annie in the broadway musical “Annie” when I was young.

7. I sang every song from the broadway album nearly daily for about 4 years straight. But I had stage fright so I sang them in the laundry room with the door shut.

8. I have always daydreamed a lot. So much that my elementary school teachers often had my hearing tested. They thought I couldn’t hear. I was just daydreaming.

9. I, along with my sisters, was (and still am) obsessed with Little House on the Prairie

10. I have run 6 marathons

11. I finished all of them, I didn’t run very fast though

12. I love my parents.

13. The man I am married to stood me up on our third date and we didn’t date again for 3 years.

14. I always had a crush on him though.

15. I spent 4 years between the ages of 9 and 13 campaigning my parents for a dog.

16. I finally got one on my 13th birthday

17. His name was Oliver

18. He was really mostly my dad’s dog though.

19. I was an ugly baby. My own grandmother told my mom I had nice……ears.

20. I have horrible feet

21. I have a weakness for McDonalds but I try not to act on it often.

22. I always knew I wanted to have children

23. My biggest fear was that I would die before I got to be a mom.

24. Sometimes I like that I work full time.

25. Sometimes I wish was a stay at home mom.

26. I think Mark Ruffalo is TERRIBLY sexy. Grrr. Terribly.

27. I love dark chocolate, the kind that makes you weak in the knees.

28. I was responsible for much of the childcare of my sisters when I was young

29. I made up weird games to entertain them like “hatchet lady” which involved them sitting in the abandoned Dodge Charger and I would climb on the roof and pretend I was trying to kill them with an imaginary axe.

30. They seemed to enjoy this

31. I like to paint watercolors, but have not for a long time.

32. I am a Democrat, but more a liberatarian who sees the value of a safety net. That means stay out of my business you insipid sanctimonious judgemental A-hole (not you, but the MAN).

33. I can’t stand George Bush

34. He makes my skin crawl.

35. I am afraid women’s rights are being eroded as we speak and soon we will be wearing Berkas and scarlet letters.

36. I believed in Karma before I knew it was called Karma. I thought I had come up with the concept on my own.

37. I make myself cry all the time in the car thinking about sad things. Like someone I know dying.

38. I didn’t realize how much I love writing until very recently.

39. I love Patty Griffin, the Singer
40. I love Ray Lamontagne the singer. His song “Joleen” breaks my heart every time I hear it. It just kills me.

41. It breaks my heart because I have loved a couple of boys who had issues with chemical dependency and the concept of love.

42. I loved them anyways but eventually chose myself. I don’t regret that.

43. I love my husband

44. I still sometimes dream about ex boyfriends

45. I think I had post partum depression

46. I am so happy to be a mother. I can’t believe how great it is. Really. I love it. Even thought it is hard. But I didn’t feel like a good mother until recently.

47. I didn’t know fear until I had a baby.

48. Now I am terrified that something will happen to my daughter.

49. I love to sing.

50. I am kind of good at it.

51. I sang at my friends Janna’s wedding when I was 8 months pregnant and I was scared but it turned out to be good. I sang “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac.

52. I wish I would have been brave enough to try out for drama club

53. I really like Sean Penn.

54. I was teased as a kid because of my shitty clothes and bad hair and general awkwardness.

55. I didn’t got enough attention as a child.

56. I have a strange obsession with true crime.

57. I am fascinated by the human mind, and what creates a sociopath.

58. This is ironic, because I tend to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy.

59. I was in a sorority.

60. Looking back, my sorority was really lame. REALLY LAME.

61. My daughter makes me happy.

62.I know I am a good mom.

63. I waited tables in College, and some guy once grabbed my butt and I yelled at him and kicked him out, and after he left, I cried.

64. I was a child psychology major and almost went on to get my teaching degree.

65. I decided I wanted to make money instead. Now I schlep Network Services to IT Directors.

66. I am very sensitive.

67. I am usually very kind

68. But sometimes I am a royal bitch. Not often, but sometimes.

69. I like to be around intelligent creative sensitive people.

70. I ordered the pre-test for MENSA certification but was too scared to take it. I am afraid to find out I am not as smart as I hope I am.

71. I play the piano by ear.

72. I love red wine and sometimes drink too much of it.

73. If I won the lottery I would buy an old red Cadillac convertible.

74. I would also hire a full time soup maker. I love soup. Good soup.

75. I love to cook and I put on a mean dinner party.

76. I have had chronic low self esteem which is just now getting better through the magic of therapy. My therapist tells me I am a lovely person though.

77. This sometimes surprises people because I am very good at faking it.

78. I am sometimes ashamed of the way I have allowed others to treat me.

79. I do not like confrontation or conflict but I am learning to get better at it.

80. I make a flawless roast chicken.

81. and popovers

82 and chocolate bread pudding

83. When I was a kid I used to hide bags of chocolate chips under my bed.

84. I also drank Hershey’s syrup right out of the can.

85. I LOVE a good purse, but a good purse is a rare find.

86. I have a temper, especially when I am hungry. When I am well-fed I have an infinitely greater amount of patience.

87. I am easily frustrated

88. I swear a lot and I am trying to stop. Or maybe not, motherfucker.

89. I was in a show called “Battle of the Books” in the 5th grade and took home the prize. I was TRULY a nerd.

90. I was a bit of a reject through elementary school and Junior High. Things got better in high school. When people could tell I was a girl.

91. My sisters make me laugh more than anyone.

92. I love my friends. A lot. It doesn’t always show but it’s always there.

93. I loathe mosquitoes, and people who wield an unearned sense of entitlement

94. I see a lot of people wielding unearned senses of entitlement.

95. I was raised Catholic

96. I tend to like People who were raised Catholic and people who are Jewish. They just feel right to be around.

97. I also tend to like Canadians. I have yet to meet a Canadian I don’t like.

98. I snore.

99. I never had braces.

100. Every night I sneak into my daughter’s room when she is sleeping to put her socks back on her feet. Sometimes I shut my eyes and allow myself to feel the enormity of the gratitude I have that I am actually her mother. It overwhelms me and makes me cry which is why I can’t stop and think about it all the time. Only in the dark, quiet of her room.

Thursday

Yep. It's Thursday. Yep. I am lazy.

You can see my post for the day here.

Y'all take care now.

"Uh! Uh! Uh!"

This morning I set Madge up with some toys in her room while I got ready for work.

As I applied my mascara, I paused and cocked an ear. I heard a strange voice exclaiming “Uh! Uh! Uh!” repeatedly. On and on it went, wafting from her room. “Uh! Uh! Uh!”

It sounded like my daughter was in her nursery watching a porno.

In French.

Then the light bulb went on. I realized it was her toy phone that talks in three languages. It was set to French and she was hitting the number one over and over again.

So it was actually just saying “Un! Un! Un!”

But it still sounded like a French porno.

Martin Luther King Jr.

In honor of the Memory of Marting Luther King Jr.

All of the following quotes are from Martin Luther king Jr.









"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."









"All progress is precarious, and the solution of one problem brings us face to face with another problem."

"The good neighbor looks beyond the external accidents and discerns those inner qualities that make all men human and, therefore, brothers."

"Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men."



















"I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant."

"Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time; the need for mankind to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence. Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love."

"Rarely do we find men who willingly engage in hard, solid thinking. There is an almost universal quest for easy answers and half-baked solutions. Nothing pains some people more than having to think."



















"Peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek, but a means by which we arrive at that goal."

"We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people."

"It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me, but it can keep him from lynching me, and I think that's pretty important,"


"The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict."



















"A riot is at bottom the language of the unheard."












"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."







"Peace is not merely a distant goal that we seek, but a means by which we arrive at that goal."


"The first question which the priest and the Levite asked was: "If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?" But... the good Samaritan reversed the question: "If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?" "










"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."

"I submit to you that if a man hasn't discovered something he will die for, he isn't fit to live."

"Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will."

















"Philanthropy is commendable, but it must not cause the philanthropist to overlook the circumstances of economic injustice which make philanthropy necessary."

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
















"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

"Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him."
Note from author: I will continue to TRY.




















"Never succumb to the temptation of bitterness."

"The true neighbor will risk his position, his prestige and even his life for the welfare of others,"

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

"Ten thousand fools proclaim themselves into obscurity, while one wise man forgets himself into immortality."


"Never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was legal."












"Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted."

"Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase."

"Like an unchecked cancer, hate corrodes the personality and eats away its vital unity. Hate destroys a man's sense of values and his objectivity. It causes him to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true."


















"Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed."

"Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend."

"Man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation."

"He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it."
















"Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree."

















"Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness."

"Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?"

















"Almost always, the creative dedicated minority has made the world better."



"A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual doom."

"A nation or civilization that continues to produce soft-minded men purchases its own spiritual death on the installment plan."

"We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools."

"The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists who are dedicated to justice, peace and brotherhood."

"I am not interested in power for power's sake, but I'm interested in power that is moral, that is right and that is good."

Holmes-eopathic Cold Sore Treatements

Katie Holmes gets cold sores. I am fortunate to have thus far avoided contracting the darn things, but I know a lot of lovely people who get them through no fault of their own. I know they totally suck.

You can't see it in this picture, but she's got a real Doozie on her upper lip on the right hand side.

My question is this: What is Tom Cruises answer to healing cold sores without the use of the frivolity of modern medicine?

Does sitting in a waft of steam actually help heal the eruption? Because frankly, I think the "Sweat it out" treatment is doing absolutley NO good for poor Katie. In fact, I fear the homeopathic approach is only exacerbating the problem. The eruption on her lip looks like Mount Vesuvius.

Did Tom pry the prescription bottle out of poor Katie's hands? Did he put the kibosh on cold sore medicine, as he would with other medications like anti-depressants? What is the man's stance on chemotherapy for Cripes sake?

I ask because I don't recall seeing Katie with an enormous cold sore until she started dating "the teeth". Speaking of, he clearly does not rely on vitamins when it comes to his oral hygeine because the man has had some SERIOUS cosmetic veneer work done. So antidepressants= no-no, but total oral makeover= non-stop blinding perma-grin ABUSE.

As the churchlady would say "Isn't THAT convenient".

Do you think he kisses her during a coldsore breakout? Do his vitamins protect him from contracting the Herpes virus that causes them?

I just keep thinking to myself, Poor Poor Katie.

The Optimist

I can’t drag my butt out of bed lately. I have been sleeping later and later each day. Even I have to laugh at my ridiculously impossible optimism. OH! It’s 7:45 a.m.! Well sure I can get up, feed the dogs, get Maggie a bottle, change her diaper, dress her, occupy her while I take a shower, get myself dressed, put her shoes and hat and coat on, load everything into my car, realize she has taken a stinky poo in her pants, undress her, change her diaper again, dress her again, place her in the car, and drop her off at Grandma and Grandpa’s in 15 minutes! I might even have time to check e-mail too! And time to pick up coffee. Damn I am good. I’ll make it into work by 8:15. GODSPEED!

Who the Hell do I think I am anyway?

Needless to say I have been running a bit behind lately. I do not understand morning people. I like my sleep, and my dreams have been amazing lately. Bed. It is a lovely place to be in the dark early hours of the morning. I believe the sunrise times this week were right around 7:40 a.m., and I think the late appearance of the sun throws a wrench in our circadian rhythms. I depend on Maggie to wake me up in the wee hours of the morning, but man alive that child has been a slacker. I suppose that’s what I get for relying on a toddler. As a rule, toddlers are not reliable people, really. This morning, I awoke at 7:45 all on my own. I had already let the dogs out by the time Miss Madge started whimpering and knocking her little tin cup along the slats of her crib.

My in-laws must think I am off my rocker. They watch Maggie every morning while I work, and her dad picks her up in the early afternoon. I can’t seem to show up at the same time each morning. They never know when I am going to pull into the driveway. Occasionally Maggie’s hair will be pulled back in a barrette, but more often than not, her hair is hanging in her eyes like some sort of street urchin. Sometimes if I can’t find her shoes, I bring her over in pink cowboy boots. And her socks. Not only do they not match, but often the sock that I misplaced in my rush to get her ready is stuck to the inside of her pants, waiting for Grandma to make that first diaper change to fall out and holler “Hi there! Your Daughter-in-law is possibly the world’s flakiest mother! I am the sock that matches with the one on the child’s LEFT foot. Don’t ask me about the sock of another shade on her right foot. I HAD NO PART OF THAT.”

When we sleep late, our mornings get a little frantic.

And yet on the weekends she is bright eyed and bushy-tailed by 6:45 a.m.

Because, you know, we would hate to be late for hanging out in our pajama’s ogling eachother.

I heart gay cowboys

I went to see the gay cowboy movie with my mom. It’s nice to have a mom who is willing to go see the gay cowboy movie. My dad refused to go, because he wasn’t so keen on the idea of watching gay love scenes. Neither was my baby’s daddy. So, Mom and I decided to go.

I must say, it was a feast for the eyes on so many levels. I am not much of a camper. My rule for traveling is this: NO SLEEPING ON THE GROUND. I have to say that the scenery in this film made me want to grab a few yards of canvas, pitch a tent, and sell the house to buy a horse. It was breathtaking, mesmerizing, awe-striking beautiful out there in Wyoming or wherever the movie was filmed. I really considered moving there. And I am a city girl through and through. The cinematography was mind boggling. Who knew a herd of sheep could become writhing cinema graphic art?

And then there’s Heath Ledger. I have never had the desire to grab a gay cowboy by his broad shoulders and plant a face-sucking passionate kiss right on him. Until now. Those cheekbones. That jawline. The beauty of them brings tears to my eyes.

And then there’s Jake Gyllenhal. Good Gravy, that man is intriguing. Those eyes. Those lips. That vulnerability. I just want to take him home, feed him a good meal, ask him to tell me a sad story, and then grab him by that finely chiseled waist and plant a big juicy, full-lipped lip lock on him.

Them boys are real nice. I wish I could quit ‘em. I do.

And a side note: Yes I love my husband, and I would definitely clear all of the aforementioned activities with him first. I think in this case he just might let me fulfill the fantasy. Just kissing of course. If he ever gets a chance to meet up with Angelina Jolie’s pillow lips, I would return the favor and offer him a little slack.

My mother and I left the theater and walked through the lobby, our minds still processing all that we had seen.

My mother said “You know, it was hard not to laugh.”

And I thought to myself, “laugh? That was one of the saddest movies I have ever seen!”

My mom continued “All I could think about was your dad and uncle Chuck, and all the time they spend together up at the cabin”.

My dad (Karate Black belt and avid gun collector) and uncle Chuck (former Marine) are so NOT gay that the thought of it left me near hysterical.

I have been laughing ever since.

Whining

Hello lovelies,

Happy Monday. I have a post here

More tomorrow.......

Loss

Jenn Satterwhite's mother died this morning. Please go on over and offer some words of love and support for our dear friend. Blessings to you and yours.

Additions to my spontaneous emotional vomit

My friend Brooke had a couple of additions to my "good things" list regarding my self-disclosure or spontaneous emotional vomit post.

"You make a bread pudding that is the best thing I have ever tasted and I don't even like chocolate that much. I would completely understand and it would make perfect sense if you revealed that it was laced with crack.

You do a very unconventional dance move, let's call it "watch me play my trombone" that you did on the dancefloor of the former foul play on your bachelorette party. Don't be fooled by it's name though, it doesn't actually involve a trombone just the ellaborate imagery of one. That made XXX( shall remain nameless to protect the innocent / incontinent) and I laugh so hard I nearly wet myself, ok maybe I did a little in my pants. If XXX (shall remain nameless to protect the innocent / incontinent) really wanted to be honest I bet she wet herself a little too."

Carnival of Feminists

I am honored for a second time to be featured in the Carnival of Feminists. I never in a million years dremed Barbie would get me there, but she did! Go over and peruse the essays. They are good.

New Years resolutions, or spontaneous emotional vomit.

New Years resolutions are for people with follow-through, organization, and most importantly, people with the general where-with-all to locate a clean sheet of paper and a pen with which to write them down in a reasonable amount of time. That and five minutes of quiet to actually think of good resolutions. So, New Years resolutions have really never been my bag.

Frankly, most nights by the time my little Shorty is in bed I would rather watch Law & Order and not think about anything for a few minutes. After that, I typically limp into bed to read 3 pages of my morbid true crime novel before falling asleep, book in hand.

I recently watched an episode of “Oprah” that featured and author by the name of James Frey. He wrote a heart-shattering autobiography called “A Million Little Pieces”. I actually read the book over a year before it hit Oprah’s show.

READ IT.

The book details his journey through life-threatening addiction and rehabilitation. It also details the very real and very human pain and suffering of several other remarkable people along the way. Some of their stories have happy endings. More of their stories begin and end so tragically that thinking about those people, in fact one in particular, makes me want to sit down and cry to this very day. This very moment, in fact. My heart broke, and my heart sang while reading his personal account of human survival, love, and his journey to finding enough courage to grasp for the tiniest shred of HOPE in the face of overwhelming pain.

A subject that kept coming full circle during his discussion of the book was the importance of taking an honest personal inventory of onesself. James talked about having to admit, when he wrote the book that he “Was a bad guy.” He had caused a great deal of pain in his life. In order to tell the story properly, he had to tell the truth about he was, even though it was enormously difficult.

Facing who you really are, who you have been, and being honest with yourself about good, the bad, and most importantly, the ugly are crucial components to self-knowledge and happiness. To un-stick yourself, sometimes you have to look right into the eye of the demon. When you do that, and it doesn’t kill you (and it shouldn’t) it is then possible to move forward. You know, it’s not all Pollyanna around these parts, even if I try to filter the ugly muckity muck out before presenting it to you all in writing.

My New Years resolution is to be truthful with myself, and to be truthful with others. So let’s start out with the ugly. I am going to let a few cats out of the bag here. I have some issues people. Brace yourself.

I sometimes find people and their habits to be extremely annoying, and then I smile and pretend I am not annoyed. Sometimes it eats away at my insides and makes me feel like a dark, mean, petty, nasty person. Because I am really angry but don’t have the balls to be proactive about it. Because I am lazy and it’s easier to sit and be angry than to be proactive and potentially create a confrontation. Confrontation gives me anxiety.

Sometimes I realize I am incredibly angry but I have no idea what about. That makes me feel like an idiot, because I think it means I let people treat me badly without even REALIZING I am being treated badly. Then I am ashamed for not seeing it.

I can act the martyr like no ones business

I can be a flake, and I am sometimes extremely self-centered.

When I am in doubt, or feeling anxious, I freeze and get stuck in a state of inertia, and I let other people take care of things that are really my job. Then I feel terrible for being lazy and frozen and stuck.

I have SKILLS in passive aggression that would boggle the mind. So subtle, I am afraid they could be insanity inducing.

My intentions are only followed by action about 50% of the time.

I can be a blamer. I blame first, rationalize second. Acknowledge my part in the matter third. This is why I often keep my mouth shut and stew for a while in confrontations. Which is actually pretty darn smart if you think about it.

I can be the most ambivalent towards the people that I love the most in the world. I think it’s because they are the people that have the most power to hurt me, and I don’t like to trust people with that.

I have a difficult time trusting people (see above).

I often feel very very dysfunctional and overwhelmed by my own dysfunction.

People who act superior make me want to scream. I feel physically ill when being condescended to. Then I feel petty for not being the bigger person and forgiving their condescension which is likely based in their own insecurities anyways.

My first response to confrontation is usually to feel anxious and intimidated. Once a little time passes, I regroup and sometimes take defensive attack mode. I can be very dangerous in this stance, and can feel and spew bitter angry things. Unfortunately, when I say bitter angry things, they are often my true feelings. Then I realize I am an angry person. Then I feel ashamed.

I judge myself very harshly, and often allow myself to feel judged by others. I can also judge other people very harshly.

People think I am nicer than I am. I feel like I am pulling the wool over their eyes. Then I think to myself that maybe they see through me, and like me anyways. What a nice thought…

When I feel small I often find faults in other people. When I feel better about myself, I find their faults endearing. When I feel small, I point them out so that I can feel superior. Then I feel petty, but pettily superior, which is apparently preferable to feeling small.

Sometimes I drink like a normal person, and then sometimes I drink wine like I am being propelled by an insatiable compulsive demon. Then I tell people my secrets and then I am embarrassed about it the next day, and many days following. I am afraid I don’t know how to socialize without liquid social catalyst juice.

I crave social intimacy, but much of the time, I am afraid to go there sober.

My therapist told me I lack proper emotional framework. I want to start over and do childhood again, because it’s really hard to build a whole emotional framework at the age of 33. I don’t have the time or the vision. Perhaps I will just build a simple lean-to and slap some planters with geraniums in front. Done!

I have bunions.

Oh, and I occasionally vomit too much personal information on people!


On to the good:

I am a great mother. My daughter is the number one most important thing in my life, and I think I communicate that to her

I am a great cook.

I love to take care of people.

I love to seek out the good in people.

My therapist tells me I have no idea how wonderful I am. And I really want to believe her. But then again, I am paying her to say that. Money well spent.

I am hopeful for my future.

Sometimes I am struck silent by the beauty of things.

I care.

I have an overdeveloped sense of empathy. I hate to see people suffer.

I am learning to be more honest. And it feels good.

I am learning to be less afraid of myself, and of other people.

I am learning to trust myself.

I throw a stellar dinner party.

I am learning to not feel ashamed of who I am (this is one exercise in that. Are you scared of me yet?)

I am a great mother.

My capacity for love is enormous, and it grows all the time.

I have an above average IQ.

I have an excellent sense of humor. Even I find myself funny. Sometimes I am the only one that laughs, and that’s fine by me. In fact that makes it even funnier.

When I love someone, I love them forever. People take up permanent residence in my heart. Even if they hurt me, and even if I go to that seemingly ambivalent place, I love them always.

I am diplomatic and I love to share.

I am learning how to seek out help when I need it.

I am generous.

I like to have fun.

A lot of really intelligent wonderful people seem to like me.

I am very quick to forgive. Goes back to hating to see people in pain. When someone is truly sorry, I just want them to stop feeling pain.

I realize I can’t be perfect and I don’t have to be, and on the occasional moment that I actually “get” that, I breathe a luxurious sigh of relief.

So there lies some of my ugly, and some of my beautiful. For some reason, it feels good to put the words out there. Because it makes the bad less scary, and it makes the good seem more real. Not sure why, but it does.