I'm Not Crazy, I've Got Twins

NOW AT A NEW HOME....

2009-01-29T14:28:00.000-08:00

So Anyway, What's New With You?

2008-09-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

So anyway, I have been gone for awhile. Seems I hurt my back over vacation (not that it's any of your beeswax, gutter-brain, but there is no juicy and salubrious reason as to why) and I have been either humped over or laid flat out for the past three weeks. Good times. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am quite snarly, thanks for asking. I cannot exercise, which makes me tense as well as chubby. I vacationed for two weeks in Maine, lobster and cholesterol capital of the world, so I was a bit extra chubby before even getting home apparently. Great.

The good, nay the great, news is that kindergarten started last week!!! This news is great because MY two children were in it! Let me tell you, two years ago I thought this day would never come. And I mean NEVER. Kindergarten is so much fun! I don't know if they enjoy it but I sure as shoot do. We walk around the corner to the school every morning, and Handsome Boy and Girly Girl get right in there, with their new backpacks (filled to the brim with absolutely nothing) and shiny shoes all ready for a whole new day of learning adventures! I myself am all shiny and ready for two and a half hours of whatever I damn please, thank you very much and YAHOO!

Besides that enormous bit of news in my life, not much is new, other than the fact that if I ever hear any of the following again I will come out shootin' :
1. Moose stew
2. Maverick
3. If we wanted a bridge.....
4. Pit bull/Lipstick (if I hear that one again I will shoot any poor sap who happens to be nearby. Sorry for your troubles but you're goin' down. I cannot hear that ridiculous phrase one single time more without losing complete control of my faculties.)

You know what I'm talking about, right? Oh, I have so much more to say, but for the moment I will contain myself. However, I will leave you with this: the woman that the conservatives are putting forth for the second in command of our nation is someone who once inquired what was necessary to ban books. She never actually did it, but she inquired about it. Banning books. BOOKS. BANNING THEM.

EXCUSE ME?

The Guy in The Flag Pin Needs a Mulligan

2008-08-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

Really, John, Alaska? Are you sure? Have you ever met Joe Biden? Cause he's gonna chew her up and spit her out, you do know that, don't you? So, you're sure? You're sure you're sure?

I don't have a good feeling.....and I'm not even voting for you, dude.

Alaska? Really?

Share and Share Alike

2008-08-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

I am thinking of giving my husband the go ahead on polygamy.

Think about it -- how bad can it be? I mean, certainly no way on the under age marriage for my daughter and all that, plus the hideous dresses are off the table, but there's huge upside. At 6:00 every night, when I am completely and utterly exhausted and can not take one more moment of family life, Mommy #2 comes in. She fixes and serves dinner, she makes pleasant conversation with those around her, she gets them washed, changed and into bed. She convinces them to stay in bed until they fall asleep, and she changes the tinkly sheets that periodically pop up in the night. Meanwhile, I am watching cable til I happily toddle off to bed myself. Total win-win, am I right?

It's not so much a love-share, it's more of a job-share, and job shares happen all over the country every day, so why can't one start happening at my house?

Actually, maybe I do not need polygamy so much as that robot from the Jetsons. Rosie, I think her name was. She had Elroy whipped into shape every day, and I could probably afford her. Plus, she's not looking for any action from my husband. Not that George wasn't a hottie....

One More Thing Before I Go...

2008-08-08T15:37:00.000-07:00

Is it me or does John Edwards' girlfiend look just like Camilla Parker-Bowles? Bowfreakinwow. Why do these men pick the dog-faced girls? I can do tricks in bed, and I'm a heck of alot cuter. Of course, they're card tricks, but those are very popular too, you know.

See you in two weeks. Wish me luck.

Keep Your Hands and Feet Away From the Suitcase

2008-08-07T08:52:00.000-07:00

We are going on vacation this Saturday. Two weeks on the coast of Maine, and I am practically bursting at the seams to get there. Remember when I said last time that I couldn't wait to get home? And now I can't wait to go away? You can see how difficult life is for my husband, right?

So I am in full preparation mode. I am not one who travels by the seat of her pants. I used to be, but one husband and two maniacs later I am not anymore. I am now a Boy Scouts nocturnal emission (I hate the other term) in the level of my preparedness. Consider the following:

The dog is bathed, the toys are put away, and the sunscreen is ready and waiting, even though we do not leave for 48 hours. Packing is in full swing, now that all the laundry is done. I mean all of it too, and I am not doing any more. It has been no easy task convincing my family to wear the same outfit since Tuesday. Once I am getting ready for vacation, though, I am very strict, and you do not want to cross me. They really balked at the idea that no one was allowed to wear underwear this week. Well, all but my husband...

The refrigerator has become a no-fly zone. Nothing goes in or out without written permission. I do not want anyone eating the arugula intended for lunch on our fourth day at the beach, but they are more than welcome to the somewhat greenish bacon that I bought in February. I am nothing if not reasonable. That fridge will be empty and sparkling by six a.m. Saturday, or heads will roll.

Rigid? What do you mean?

See those boxes in the corner? Hands off, Jack. Those boxes are filled with vacation things, and I have been collecting them for weeks. You know, mini-packs of sugar cereal that the kids are never allowed to eat 50 weeks a year, boxes of CheezeIts, bubbles that were 75% of at the grocery store, club soda, ice cube trays (you never know), whatnot. Things I cannot leave home without.

We are keeping our fingers crossed that our little dog doesn't go paws up while we're gone. He's a really old guy, and every day he wakes up wagging we breathe a sigh of relief. We have dogsitters coming to care for him, which means there will probably be a keg tapped in my living room at some point, but it wouldn't be the first time.

I think I forgot to mention that we are taking the children with us. For two weeks. Away from home. The four of us. Together. Two weeks. Oh god....

The Middle Ages

2008-08-01T06:27:00.000-07:00

I am so middle-aged. That doesn't really bother me, and I have no desire to be 21 again, but the side effects of middle age are beginning to disturb me. And disturb me alot.

Case in point: last night we went to a play at a local theater. No major production, just a relatively small piece about a somewhat interesting subject. Apparently not interesting enough though, because halfway through the first act I found myself wondering whether it was more worth it to watch the performance, or more worth it to be in my bed. My bed won, and we left at intermission.

I believe that is the sort of thought process that can single-handedly bring you closer to death.

Second: Some people cannot leave home without their astma inhaler devices. I can no longer leave home without my restrictor devices. You know what I mean. It begins with a "g" and rhymes with hurdle. I can no longer just be out there on my own, flying free and breezy in the wind. I need to be restricted.

These are the days that try mens souls. Well, women, but you see my point.

And this: we were travelling last week. Two quick trips in one week, which turns out to be way more than I can handle. By the end of the second trip I was practically weeping to go home. I was having lots of fun, don't get me wrong, but I have become such a homebody that I barely like to stick my toe out the door. Homebody, agorophobic, whatever.

These are the signs of aging, not wrinkles and brown spots on your hands. I've got plenty of those too, believe me, but that's another post. Limitting your fun makes you old. Worrying about your jiggly bits makes you old (unless you just let yourself go, and then I don't even want to know you.) Not wanting to see the world makes you old. Plus stupid, so stay away from me anyway. Did I mention crabbiness makes you old? Good god, I must be one hundred and ten.....

I'm Exhausted From All This Leisure

2008-07-18T07:41:00.000-07:00

Lazy, hazy, crazy MY ASS!

Summer is wearing me out. I thought it was supposed to be a time of relaxation. A time for sipping cool lemonade on the porch (which p.s. I do not have) or, better yet, the hammock, while reading a novel. This while my children romp playfully through the sprinkler just before taking themselves on a nature hunt. I thought we would sleep in. When did it all go so very, very, wrong?

I'll tell you when it went wrong, Denise. It went wrong when you signed them up for 9:00 AM enrichment courses at the high school. They are 5; why do they need to be enriched? Then you put them in swimming lessons at noon, and tennis lessons at 1. In between, you change them in and out of bathing suits, into tennis gear, then back into bathing suits for more swimming. You asked for this, remember? It's good for them, remember? They can't drive the car themselves yet, remember?

By 3:00 each day, I am tired. By 3:00 on Friday I am bleary-eyed. This summer business is tiring, you have to admit. They are having fun, though, and we will go away for two weeks soon, so I'm not complaining. Well, in fact, that's exactly what you are doing, Denise, so shut your pie-hole. Plus, I do get to have a poolside cocktail every now and again. And again. So there's that. And I see my friends way more in the summer, when we are not shut away in the house during a New England winter. So my gossip quota is way up. That's pretty good. AND there are lots of landscaping crews around our neighborhood, which means lots of strapping young men nearby every day. Hmm.... summer might not be so bad after all.

I Am a Sirius Dork. Seriously.

2008-07-10T17:18:00.000-07:00

I have always found those people who listen to oldies stations rather sad. Why on earth would you want to hear "Wake Up Little Susie" or something called "Yakkety Yak" ever again? Why can't they move on, I would ask myself. Why do they insist on hanging on to their youth instead of aging gracefully and keeping up with the times? They are so lame, I would say to myself.

We have Sirius Satellite radio, which has about ten trillion stations. Not too long ago, I discovered a station called First Wave.

I am now one of those pathetic losers, longing for the days of my youth.

The Cure, The Smiths, Talking Heads, Erasure. The list goes on and on. Who remembers the Thompson Twins? New Order? Depeche Mode? They're all there, and I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough. It just makes me want to dye my hair purple again and wear flouncy mini skirts with ankle socks. Call me Molly Ringwald, but please, please, please, let me, let me, let me get what i want this time........Ok, I got weird there for a minute, but you either know what I'm talking about or you don't. I saw "Pretty in Pink" like 11 times.

Who didn't love the Pet Shop Boys? C'mon, admit it. Haircut 100? I know, me too! What's your favorite Squeeze song? I can never decide. There's just so many.

So here is my big fear: you know all those annoying boomers that pay $200 to see the Eagles? In ten years that will be me, only I'll be paying like $900 by then, and I'll be seeing Flock of Seagulls. Who's with me?

Nothing New...

2008-07-08T17:06:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm just not cut out for blogging. Twice a month, Denise? Please. If that was your sex life....let's just leave that alone for now. Moving on.

Now, I did have something I was going to post about, but then the phone rang and now I forget. Give me a minute.... Crap. I really forget what I was going to say. Oh yeah. Summer. A couple of things about summer.

Number 1: Check to the left for today's tip. Actually with me it's more like the two week tip, as I never update. But consider the little slice of heaven under today's tip as my summertime gift to you. It will change your life, and you need to run not walk to make it happen. You're welcome, my friend. You're welcome.

Secondly, are your children in summer classes/camps/lessons? Mine are in just a few, and here's what gets me: do I go do my own thing? I do not. I sit there and watch them do their swimming/tennis/golf lesson like they were the first children to ever dog paddle or swing a seven iron. Do I go get a latte and enjoy it peacefully? I do not, because I cannot bare to miss one of them getting the ball over the net. What if I am home folding laundry and it's the babysitter who sees the first cannonball? Can you imagine my horror? So I sit, day after day, while they do pretty much the same things as yesterday and the day before that, and my eyes are glued to their cute little selves. I hate to admit it, and I wouldn't want it getting around, but I am just a sucker for those two little stinkers. Stinkers.

Ok, now back to me. Do you have any suggestions for some good summer reading? I do not want anything sad, or mentally challenging in any way. I only want funny things, but not completely stupid. I have the newer David Sedaris and I love him so much that I am saving it until I just can't wait anymore, so I need other things in the meantime. Any thoughts?

I Am Not Remotely Amused.

2008-06-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

We recently went to an amusement park.

You will never hear me utter those words again.

Why do people enjoy that kind of thing? It was horrible. HORRIBLE. There was nothing amusing about it. I will remove my toes with a butter knife before I go to another one.

In theory, it was a great idea. We went with Handsome Boy's tee-ball team, to celebrate the end of the season. I was actually looking forward to it, since the parents are a really fun group, and I never say that. The coaches were`fun too, and had arranged a whole package of things to do at the park. A Saturday in the summer at the amusement park! Sounds great, doesn't it?

It was not great.

It was a horrible effing nightmare of a hot, sweaty day spent mixing with the thousands of great unwashed (and I mean NOT WASHED) who had the same ridiculous idea.

The fun people I was looking forward to spending the day with? Gone. Chasing their own little lunatics, just like I was, who could not possibly decide between playing yet another game to win yet another stuffed animal, or waiting in another line to go on another kiddie ride.

I do not like rides. I am the anti-rider. I do not like speed, I do not like the feeling of falling, and most of all I do not like making ridiculous faces that invariably end up on a photograph. Bad, all of it. DID I MENTION IT WAS HOT?

Then it began to rain. Scratch that. The skies opened and water streamed from the heavens, even though the ninety degree temperature did not drop one smidge.

Now do you get it?

But Denise, aren't you the one who rhapsodizes so longingly for Disneyworld to anyone who will listen? How is this different? What's with the hate?

It just is. Mostly because when I am at Disneyworld, at the end of the day I get to go back to a beautiful luxury resort and get completely, ridiculously pampered. After a hot, sweaty, crowded day at the local park, I got to go home and make dinner. That's oh so wrong.

What? What was that? I am oh so spoiled? You are oh so correct.

Who Do I Have to Sleep With to Get Some Shut-Eye?

2008-06-26T17:04:00.000-07:00

I had big plans for last night. At this stage of the game, some of my biggest plans revolve around sleep, and that was the case last night. The key was that the dog was at a sleepover. Yeah, you read that right. The dog was at a sleepover. My brother was spending a few days at my father's house, so he took the dog. The dog likes being with guys. I don't take it personally.

So the dog, who is one hundred years old, was sleeping elsewhere, which is now a huge event in our lives. Because he is one hundred years old, his nights are rough, and because my husband and I are a couple of jackasses I mean caring individuals, we let the dog sleep in our bed. You read that right too: IN our bed, not ON our bed. Let's just move along, shall we? So, he sleeps in our bed, and he needs a drink in the night (take a number, buddy) so we have to lift his old little body out of the bed, then lift him back into the bed, then he circles eleven times before taking up too much space, then he pants madly for ten minutes because his lungs are old, and you can see how this would effect one's sleep. So when he is gone, I miss him but I sleep better.

Oh, I was excited to go to sleep last night, yes I was. No interruptions, right? The dog is gone, I can sleep all night, right?

Wrong.

Precisely forty minutes after I had fallen asleep (which was a little late to begin with, since my husband and I had been out for dinner), there was some kind of tapping on my arm. You know when you've just really gotten to sleep and the for some reason you are woken up and it feels like you died? It was like that. After quite some time, I begrudgingly open half an eye, and there is Girly Girl, wide awake as always.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

This is not bad. This is actually very, very, VERY good, because at the rate we had been going, Girly Girl will sleep in a diaper on her wedding night. The fact that she got herself up and ready to dash to the toilet was a huge development. So I didn't even mind getting up for this. In fact I pretty much tap danced my way to the bathroom, and after getting Girly Girl settled back in her bed I fell asleep again, which almost never happens.

My enthusiasm was significantly diminished precisely forty minutes later, when Handsome Boy started tapping.

"I tinkled in my boxers." He loves his little boxers.

Did I miss the memo about Tinklepalooza?

Listen up crazies, Mommy gave at the office. She has done her time in the waking up in the middle of the night department, and she's all done, so you need to find another sucker, got it? Every now and again, we'll let it slide, but none of this tag-team nocturnal pee-fest, are we clear? Good.

I have sleep issues. I am not a good sleeper. Falling back to sleep once in a night was unusual; falling back to sleep twice in a night was just never going to happen. So I lay in bed for awhile, wondering if my husband will have to change my diapers first or the other way around. Our day will come. I saw the futility in this line of thought, however, and went to watch Craig Ferguson. Then Carson Daly (didn't he used to be cute?), followed by something about Marie Osmond making dolls or something. Kinda creepy, but you have to love those Osmonds, am I right? Anyway, the morning news was on before I knew it, and I had gotten a solid ninety minutes of sleep before greeting the dawn of a brand new day with two five-year-olds.

Lucky for them they're cute.

I Forgot......

2008-06-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

.....how much time my thighs spend together in the summer.

We are in a miserable heat wave here in New England, and in case you have forgotten, homey don't like it hot. As in, when I go outside, which I try to avoid under the best of circumstances, and my skin feels like it is sizzling, I am unhappy. It makes me tremendously unhappy, inordinately unhappy, unhappy in an unbalanced way, when I am uncomfortable in any way. When I am too hot, though, this is the worst of times. For me and those around me.

For the past four or five days I have been in a bathing suit or shorts. I was hoping to avoid exposing any part of my body other than my eyes and wrists, but my chador is at the cleaners. For the poor unfotunates who have seen me, I am sorry for your troubles. I am pale and chubby. My thighs are pale and chubby, and they have apparently missed each other all winter. All that denim and corduroy that viciously kept them apart is gone and they are free to embrace once again. So that is what they do, all sweaty damn day long.

Yes, in answer to your question, which p.s. seems unnecessarily snippy, I could skip dessert every now and again. I could have fewer martinis. A girl's gotta live though. Every now and again I need to have a steak, probably with a potato, which is always better with cheese of some sort, and what is better with steak and a potato than a brownie, am I right? I know, I thought so too.

I do exercise periodically, but you need to be careful with that kind of thing. You don't want to overdo. So, if you see me and my chubby thighs out there, remind me to sit down, won't you? You're a pal.

SPANX ME!

2008-06-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

Holy god -- where have I been? One post in all of May? Is there a "Lamest Blogger" award? I'm a shoe-in....

So anyway, I went away a few weekends ago. Let me say this to all the stay-at-home moms out there: GO AWAY. Now, usually I mean that in a completely different vein, but this time I mean that you have to leave your children every now and again for longer than a few hours. Longer than lots of hours. You have to leave them for many consecutive days. Everyone is happier afterwards. Happy, happy.

I went to Manhattan, two hours and many, many worlds from here. I met one of my dearest friends (hi there, you. put that device DOWN for two seconds.) and we had a TOTAL splurge of a weekend. We went here, which you absolutely MUST do the next time you are in New York, and ps do an all day package, and we stayed here. Now do you know what I mean when I say splurge? Worth every single little penny, let me tell you. A girl needs to spoil herself every now and again, am I right? Or, as often as possible, whatever.

We did the following: eating, drinking, spa-ing, napping, shopping, drinking and eating. I think we worked out once, but only so we could order another martini. We shopped at the yummy Scoop downtown, and at the register I saw a pack of Spanx, which I had never worn before. Needed, yes; worn, no. The size on the package indicated that I would be almost exactly in the middle of two sizes, and my so-called dearest friend advised me to go for the smaller size.

She is so off the Christmas card list.

Do I look better in the Spanx? Yes, I do. Do I seem to have fewer "bumps" in the Spanx? Yes, I do. Do I have better color in my face in the Spanx? I do, thanks for asking. Is my blood pressure higher in the Spanx? Since all the blood in my body is being squeezed upward at the time, yes I do. I also seem to burp more frequently, due to some sort of bodily function on which I do not wish to linger. Additionally, I think that I breathe in an adequate fashion less frequently, but since I am a "glass is half full" type of gal, I choose to see this as saving me from unnecessary pollutants. Turn that frown upside down, is what I always say.

Here's the thing: I never leave home without them now. The other day I wore my Spanx under leggings with a camisole and dress on top. Combine that with my bra and I'm pretty sure I could have gone scuba diving in that getup.

Her Pants Are on Fire

2008-05-13T06:08:00.000-07:00

Girly Girl lies.

She lies about little things. "No, Mama, I did not let the dog out," as I am trying to hurl the children into the car for school in the pouring rain while the g.d. dog buries himself in the mud underneath the new bushes just before being thrown back into the house to lie his muddy ass on my lovely beige (what was I thinking???) couch because god forbid he lie on the torture chamber commonly referred to as the floor. "I did not do it, Mama."

She lies about big things. "I did not write on the wall, Mama."
"But, Girly Girl, there is writing all over the wall in your bedroom."
"I did not do it, Mama."
"But, Girly Girl, the crayon IN YOUR HAND matches the color of the crayon on the wall. And the writing was not there two minutes ago when I left to go to the bathroom."

I guess that's not such a big thing, but she looks right at me and lies. And when I talk to her about how bad it is to lies, she looks remorseful and swears she will never do it again. Until an hour later, when she DOES IT AGAIN.

She is only lying about five-year-old things now, but before long it will be worse. Soon she'll be lying about going to the mall with some boy that looks like a criminal, then she'll be lying about a road trip with some boy that looks like a criminal, then she'll be a member of Congress and then where will I be?

What do you when your little one lies?

Back to Me...

2008-04-30T12:47:00.000-07:00

My wonderful and very fun friend Merecat has tagged me.

I've never been tagged.

I feel like the cute boy just asked me to the prom!

p.s. I went to the prom with a very cute boy. Unfortunately for him, in between the time he asked me and the night of the prom itself I met an even cuter boy. So there was no action for cute boy #1, poor thing.

Here's how this particular tag works:

1. Link the person who tagged you:MereCat

2. Share 6 unimportant things about yourself.

3. Tag at least three others

4. Be sure the others know they've been tagged by commenting at their site.

So, since you never asked:

1. I am petrified by the thought of eating in front of people. The thought of someone seeing me chew, or food getting messy near my mouth, paralyzes me. Unless everyone is sitting down and eating at the same time, I will never do it. For this reason, I get ridiculously drunk at cocktail parties. Never fails.

2. I cannot be in the same room with an unmade bed. Same goes for dishes in the sink. I simply cannot tolerate that sort of chaos.

3. I adore dogs way beyond normal, but if you are going to have a dog that weighs less than 20 pounds, you might as well put a leash on a squirrel.

4. I think really highly of Liberace. I'm not kidding.

5. I think bald men are hot, and always have. Works out, doesn't it, honey?

6. I would rather remove my eyeballs with a soupspoon than run any kind of distance whatsoever. Distance, as in from here to the television. Hate the running.

7. Did she say six? Oh, what's one more? I see very little need in my life for fresh air. I'm an inside gal.

Let's see, who has their hands raised? Oh, I see MadMad, and I see Guwi, and I see CrazyLife.
Have at it, girls!

The Reverend Goes to The Mattresses

2008-04-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know I keep saying I am all done with the election. It really is like a nasty car wreck, though, and I just cannot avert my eyes.

Am I the only one that wants to ask the NAACP what in the hell they were thinking? Assuming they are interested in seeing an African American in the oval office, why on earth did they give the stage to Jeremiah Wright and let him froth at the mouth? They might as well have given Hillary Clinton a little light blue box wrapped with a white ribbon ('cause we all know that nothing makes a girl happier than a little something from Tiffany, not even the leadership of the free world.) Then he goes to the National Press Club and gets even frothier, and just a smidge more crazy, if you ask me.

How giddy do you think they are right now in the Clinton camp? Hillary is undoubtedly doing a happy dance, Bubba's probably taking the day off (thank god) to stock up on his Crispy Creams, and Chelsea is off putting together her run for Congress. It must be the happiest place on earth at the moment, and good for them. This was sheer stupidity on Barack Obama's part. He should have tied that man up in the basement until November 5th and let Michelle stand guard. Then everybody can get their book deals and it's a win-win. Win.

If there is any happier place in the universe than the Clinton campaign it must certainly be John McCain's house. If he knew how to laugh he would probably be doing it right now. As it is, he could be on a lounge in Cabo with a margarita in his hand, for all the work he has to do. Just sit back, John. The Dems will destroy themselves without any help from you. Save your wife's fortune.

Ok, now I'm done. No, seriously.

Give It a Rest, Lady.

2008-04-24T12:31:00.001-07:00

As my poor, beleaguered husband would be only too happy to tell you, I tend to get a little obsessive about things. I glom onto an idea or a plan, and I eat, drink and sleep nothing else (with the possible exception of a nice martini, extra dry with a twist, please and thank you very much) for weeks on end. I talk to him about nothing else until he begins to work progressively longer days. Then weekends. Then it's over, when I crash and burn and take to my bed. Figuratively, but still...

Take this now miserable election. In the runnup to Super Tuesday, which p.s. Wolf Blitzer was not even a little super but really closer to boring as hell, and in the days following, it was all I talked about. Every night when Jim came home from work I was completely wired with all the latest developments -- which candidate had what for breakfast, which candidates were wearing what, which candidate said what about Britney Spears -- you know, issue-oriented stuff. He would barely get in the door before he'd hear something like, "And here's how I know Mrs. Huckabee used to be a man.."

Every now and again I bring up a home renovation. Not a new bathroom, not a sliding door in the kitchen. I mean a renovation of our entire home. Top to bottom. Rebuilding. Since Jim wants this as much as I do, and since we have planned it for every home we have ever owned (four in ten years, but never again, I tell you), he humors me for awhile. He knows we will get to it one day (or his next wife will love his next home), but this is not the time. However, he also knows when I need to obsess. So he keeps his mouth closed when he comes home and I have drawn up an entire set of plans with a crayon on pink construction paper. When I buy no groceries for two weeks and instead spend the money on seven issues of the latest home magazines, he smiles and makes eggs for dinner again. When I make yet another appointment with the builder that has been to our house four times and has yet to see a dime from us, he calmly sits me down and reminds me that the mortgage officer at our bank has issued a restraining order against me. That usually sets me right.

These days I am on to planning our vacation for next winter. We live in New England and our snow has barely melted, but already I am mentally in next March, packing my bags for some yet to be determined tropical locale. You would think that, after spending the winter inside with two kids, we would be delighted to go anywhere, but we (ok, mostly me) are finding that our standards have somehow gotten ridiculously high (not my standards, actually. His standards, really. I am happy to go anywhere that someone else will make my bed. Anywhere.)

So we decided on an inclusive somewhere in the Caribbean. But somewhere that's easy to get to. One flight, no connections. And not too big. With not too many people. But enough people that our kids can meet other kids. But kids that speak mostly English. But not too many Americans (because you know how they can get on vacation, and I'm one of them and even I know it). With two bedrooms. Queen bed in one and two twins in the other. Nicely decorated. But not too fancy, in case we break something. But nice. On the beach. Not near it. ON it. With kids activities. But the right kind of activities. Crafts, not corny talent shows.

Can you imagine the stress that this puts me under?

Plus, how do people afford these trips? Here's my choice: Feed my children for one year or take them to Club Med for one week. Help me decide, won't you?

More Dirty Laundry

2008-04-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

Every family has their secrets, right? Things they don't want anyone to know, things they don't think others would understand, things -- well, you kow what a secret is. Everyone's uncomfortable about it, but no one dares bring it up to outsiders. So it builds up over years and years, and gets worse for all the silence kept about it. Then there's more tension about it, and it becomes a deeper secret, and then it becomes something shameful and ugly. That's where I am right now.

My husband has a little "problem." Something we both thought he would be able to control, but after years of trying we know now that he cannot. I could have gotten him help long ago, but I thought we could fix it ourselves without anyone knowing. Now look at us. His little problem has become a big problem, and we are fast running out of money because of it.

No, he's not a gambler. Not drugs. Porn? Nothing out of the ordinary.

It's rugs. My husband has a rug problem.

Not toupees, you idiot. Floor coverings. Oriental rugs. Persians, Indians, Turkish -- you name it, it's in my damn house.

Sounds great, right? Beautiful rugs at every turn, everywhere I look another masterpiece, a home filled with this exsquisite form of art.

You have no idea what this is like. There are literally rugs on top of rugs on top of rugs, because we have run out of places to put them. My laundry room, which is in the basement, has beautiful rugs on the floor. Did you see the "s" on the end of that word? There's more than one. In my laundry room. Which is in the basement. Which is not a lovely, redone basement. It is a dark and creepy basement that hopes for re-doing, but is not yet redone. That's where the rugs are. Handsome Boy has three rugs on the floor in his room. He is two and a half inches taller in that room than he is anywhere else in the world. He is a five-year-old boy and he has three Oriental rugs in his room. Girly Girl has two, but only because she saw the writing on the wall and put her tiny little foot down. She's stubborn like her father.

We had a new one delivered this week, and when the man walked into our house he almost dropped to his knees (facing Mecca, of course, so thankfully he was on top of a prayer rug at the time). After I helped him with some smelling salts, I watched while he brought in two more, "just to try out." Enabler.

Could he pick a less expensive addiction? Is that too much to ask? How about sports cars? Forget I asked that, which would be easy for you to do if you saw the little speedster that parks next to my mini-van every night. Alright, well what about ties? Or golf clubs, cigars or baseball cards? Even Hummels would seem economical if they weren't so darn ugly. And also a completely girly thing to collect, but you see my point....

I should use it to my advantage. I should open the front door, put on a sari, plop a hooka on the front step and sell all but the top ones while he is at work. He'd never know, and I could spend a few months on Nevis. Now if only I could throw in the twins with the deal.

UNCLE!!!!!

2008-04-15T17:19:00.000-07:00

ENOUGH!

I can't take any more!

NO MAS!!

If I hear any of the following words again I will murder Chris Matthews in his sleep: super delegates, polls, bitter, Reverend Wright, PennsylvaniaFloridaMichigan, NAFTA, day one, 3am, or, my personal favorite: disenfranchised.

Other than someone who owns a restaurant that has a drive-thru, have you ever known anyone that describes themselves as enfranchised? So unless they have lost said drive-thru, how can someone be disenfranchised?

I am tired of this election. I am sick of this election. Sick and tired. I have had enough of the polls, enough of the sniping back and forth, enough of the speeches that now all sound the same, enough of the pant suits (sorry, Hillary, but even those tree-trunks of yours should see the light of day every now and again. You're a girl for god's sake) and enough of the talk. ENOUGH.

In January, I was excited. In February, I was thrilled. By March I was disillusioned and now I am just pissed. This is Bible and verse of 90% of my dating life, in case you're curious, but I digress. What was once energizing and intriguing is now annoying and grating. The candidates are no longer exciting and worthy; they are now typical and phony. No, seriously -- am I talking about past boyfriends or the three candidates for President of the United States of America? The lines are blurring in an alarming and disconcerting way....

I have been an unabashed fan of Barack Obama, for the energy, excitement and new focus he brought to the process. He has gotten caught in the quagmire and, even though he is still adorable, he is taking on the stank of a politician. His wife still wears great outfits though. I am not a fan of Hillary Clinton and never have been. I have to hand it to her, though: she is as scrappy as a junk-yard dog. I just can't stand her screeching at me, and her husband makes my skin crawl. And sorry, Chelsea, but yes it is our damn business, so answer the questions, you little whippersnapper. John McCain? Who really cares?

I oversubscribed. I got too involved. I obsessed. Now I have flamed out, with nothing to show for it except alot of time spent with Campbell Brown (could somebody give her a sandwich? Too thin to be truly happy), and too many annoying emails from every campaign. There are still seven months to go. I need a new focus for my news time. Maybe a worthless war that costs squillions of dollars and thousands of lives unnecessarily with no end in sight! Oh, right.......

Speed Post

2008-04-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

I have to be really quick, as storytime at the library is about to end, but here are some things that I would like to open up for group discussion (since me and a few dear, sweet, misguided-with-free-time-on-their-hands friends are the sole visitors here, it should be a blessedly brief discussion):

1. I just might have a celeb-crush on Joe Scarborough from MSNBC. He's just cute as pie with his nice little oxford shirts and cute smile. His politics are a nightmare, though, so it would have to be a "Listen up, handsome. I'll do all the talking" type of relationship.

2. They needed a jury to decide, eleven years later, that Princess Diana's death was unlawful? Now, I am no legal eagle, but she was driven by a man that was pie-eyed drunk, with sedatives swimming merrily along through his system, all the while being chased by papparazzi, the scourge of celeb-society. I could have wrapped that decision up a long time ago. Plus, have you ever been to Paris? You take your life in your hands on those roads.

3. I forgot about my other crush, on Paula Deen's delicious (and I do mean delicious) two sons. They kind of fell off the radar, but that makes them no less yummy. I could even forgive their Southern accents, and I am a New England snob, so that, my friend, is sayin' somethin'.

4. I wasn't going to admit this, even to you, but I am watching "Real Housewives of New York City." I am deeply, deeply ashamed. Apparently shame does not trouble me terribly, though, because there I am every Tuesday night. Listen, if you want to feel good about yourself, watch this show. The women are attrocious. Shallow does not begin to describe them (good thing I am perfect, btw). Better yet, have your husband watch them. Then remind him, as I often do, that "See, honey? It could be much worse."

Am still ruminating my diatribe I will post regarding the decline and fall of American society as evidenced during our recent trip to Disneyworld. The librarian is standing at the door tapping her foot though, so I guess that means I'll have to take the twins home. AGAIN.

Always Wear Nice Underwear

2008-03-31T10:52:00.000-07:00

Because you just never know.

Last night, around 6:00, my husband and I decided to have a cocktail. Not unusual in our house, given the hour. Or given anything else, for that matter. We enjoy a cocktail, ok? Almost always its only one. One. No more. Thankfully no less, because a girl needs a little somethin' at the end of the day, know what I'm sayin'? So we generally have one. Plus, my husband (or "my personal mixologist" as I like to refer to him) makes the very best drinks in the world, so how can I refuse? I'm only flesh and blood....

Last night he decided to make Gimlets, which is our traditional spring drink. We are very seasonal in our consumption. Manhattans in fall and winter, never spring or summer. Whiskey Sours are for spring, Dark and Stormys are for summer, Pimms No.1 Cup also summer; red wine will never cross my lips from Memorial Day to Labor Day. I am no amateur. So last night was Gimlets.

My husband has any number of habits that annoy me no end. Since I have many more that annoy him, and since he has even more that delight me, it all comes out in the wash. One of the ones that really yanks my chain is that after he makes a drink, he does not tidy up. Maybe he is in a rush to get to that first sip (we do have twins, after all), or maybe he's just parched, but I do wish he would put things away. I don't complain, though, because after all he's made a drink for me too, and you have to pick your spots, right? Plus, I am most definitely in a rush to get to that first sip.

I like vodka (ALOT), and he likes gin, so last night there was a great big bottle of vodka left on the counter, and a great big bottle of gin. Plus, a few spare glasses and a cutting board for limes. As we sit down, we hear sirens. Says my personal mixologist, "I wonder where those sirens are going." Turns out they were going to our next-door-neighbors, because turns out their house was on fire. Big fire. BIG.

Then things went completely haywire, as you may well imagine. Fire trucks, hoses, hysterical neighbors, smoke everywhere, running, crying, making sure everyone is safe. You can imagine. In the midst of this, I am trying to make sure that my own children are otherwise occupied, so that they do not get scared. Luckily, they had started watching a movie before all this happened, and even the sirens and hubub did not distract them. Good old "Dumbo." I quickly threw some dinner together for them, to be ready when the movie was over. The kitchen was by now a complete mess. MESS.

Have I mentioned yet that I was wearing sweatpants? Not my finest hour.

When things began to calm down a tick, my husband brought the man from next door, whom we do not know well at all, into our kitchen, brought out a great big bottle of bourbon, and poured him a drink. A big one. The man's home had just gone up in smoke, and he and his wife and two children were now homeless. Give the man a drink.

In the midst of all this, our priest walks into our kitchen. He is the chaplain for the fire department in our town, and was here to minister to the family that was involved in the fire, as well as the firefighters.

Now, our priest is not an uptight man. He probably would never care that our kitchen was a complete disaster. I, on the other hand, am a very uptight woman. I am very self-centered as
well, because all I could think about the entire time he was here was: 1. There are liquor bottles strewn all over my kitchen and my priest is here and now he thinks I am a drunk; 2. My kitchen is a disaster and my priest is here and now he thinks I am a slob; 3. I am wearing sweatpants in front of all these people.

Mortified.

The house next door has just burned, the poor family is homeless, and all I can think about is my wardrobe choice?

So after all the smoke cleared (literally) and everyone left, my husband looks at me, knowing full well that I am dying a thousand deaths of embarassment, and says, "You feel like you were in an accident wearing ratty underwear, don't you?"

He knows me so well.

A Bit Too Much Magic.....

2008-03-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

We just got back from six days at Disneyworld. SIX DAYS. SIX DAYS AT DISNEYWORLD. Let me tell you this: if I see one more human being EVER it will be too soon.

Holy mother of god, there are alot of people out there. Yet another reason not to leave home. Alot of people, and let me tell you something else: they look like crap. You are grotesquely overweight and shamefully underdressed, America. You look like crap.

I am not ready to write about this yet. It is too, too distressing. Let me gather my thoughts, calm myself down, and prepare my diatribe properly.

For the record, we had a fabulous, fabulous time.

Lookin' For a Love to Call My Own.

2008-03-04T07:05:00.000-08:00

Good lord, did I just quote J.Geils? How old can I possibly get?

I need a new celebrity crush. I am totally tapped. I always have one going, and life just doesn't make sense when I am not obsessing about someone I have never met and never will.

It probably started way back with the Bay City Rollers, my first true love(s). Now, that was love, in all it's plaid-and-short-pants glory. It went on for a long time, a little longer than it should have, to be honest. I chose not to tell many people about it, which in hindsight seems wise. At the time, though, it was the real thing. I gave up Tony DeFranco, and never bought into the Shaun Cassidy thing really. Life was all about the Scottish boys, for far too long.

Jump ahead many years to my mid-twenties, to when I married Michael Jordan. Those were the best of times. All my friends (and more than a few strangers who made the unfortunate decision to choose the barstool next to mine) knew about us, even though we came from vastly different backgrounds and lived vastly different lives. Apart, mostly. Well, entirely. We didn't actually marry, per se. We didn't actually meet either, but this doesn't seem the time to split hairs. Love doesn't always make sense, does it? God, he's hot.

More recently my crushes have seemed quirkier, like my completely nonsensical weeks of loving Stephen Colbert. I refer to them as my "Lost Days." I have been quite open about Tony Bourdain, but his snarkiness has worn thin. Plus, he has really bad teeth, and apparently just remarried and had a baby. Blah, blah, blah. Like that ever stopped me crushing on someone before.

You all (oh, please Denise. "You all"? Exactly two people read this blog, and you're one of them) know about my strong feelings of admiration (red hot lust) for Barack Obama. I gotta tell you though, our days together might be numbered. If he doesn't start talking about something other than his judgement and Iraq, I might start looking elsewhere. How about talking about ME every now and again, Barack, huh? Is that too much to ask? How about mentioning how cute I look today? Or where I might like to go for dinner? Oh, I can see where this is going....

I am thinking about falling in love with Brian Williams from NBC. What do you think? He's adorable, he wears great ties, and he is hilarious once he gets away from the news desk. I might love him, except that would mean I would have to watch NBC news and I just can't tolerate the drivel they mix in.

This weekend I watched "Wedding Crashers" three times (thank you TBS), and spent alot of time trying to decide if I might love Vince Vaughn or Owen Wilson. I loved Vince Vaughn's character, and definitely would have been one of his conquests at someone's cousin's wedding, but in real life he's just not cute enough for me. Owen Wilson couldn't be cuter, or seemingly sweeter, but given recent events in his life I think I'll hold off. I practically tinkled at that movie, though, it made me laugh so hard. I've seen it six hundred times and still I laugh like a rabid hyena.

So who should I stalk I mean love? Let's open it up for discussion, shall we?

It's Not You. It's Me.

2008-02-27T17:44:00.000-08:00

Hi,

Listen, I have been doing alot of thinking about us, and where we are headed together. I know it has been kind of tough, getting to know one another, figuring out if we were right for each other, trying to get comfortable with one another....new relationships can be really hard, right? Plus, you've been really busy with work and everything...

It's just not going to work out between us. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you, really I don't. It seems crazy, because we should be such a great match. We have similar values, we believe in alot of the same things and we want the same kind of future-- we should be such a great couple, you and me. I just don't see it happening, though.

There's just no sparks for me. I need sparks right now. I know relationships are about more than sparks, more than attraction, but sparks matter, especially after some of my past relationships. Plus, we all have our baggage, but you do have to admit that you have more than most. I thought I could get past it, but I can't. I'm sorry, but the past matters too.

I want you to know that I am truly touched by how hard you have tried to make things work between us. God, no one works as hard as you do at relationships. You communicate, you think about things that are important to me, you really try to make me happy. I know that you will find a relationship that is good for you. I just know you'll be ok, even if this is hurting you right now.

Is there someone else? Why do you ask? That's not really important right now, is it? I didn't want to get into that. This is about us. Well, ok, yes, there is, but that is not the entire reason....Why does their name matter? Don't torture yourself. Don't do that. It doesn't matter. I don't want to make this any harder for you.... Fine. It's Barack, ok? His name is Barack, and I think we could really have something special between us. I think it's the real thing, and I am hoping that one day you will be happy for us.

Well, I'm going to take off. I think I should go. Good luck in Texas. And Ohio.

How's Socks? Oh my god, really? I didn't know......

Falling Off the Wagon

2008-02-10T07:14:00.000-08:00

I thought I could do it. I thought I was better, and that this time would be different. I thought I had finally achieved peace and tranquility in my life, in my heart. That I could live without it. By taking one day, one hour, at a time. But I am back in it's clutches, and I am reaching out to you, my friends, for your support and help to get me through.

I am hooked on a reality show again, and this time I am in really bad shape. As I have confessed before, I do not go in for the high-brow stuff like "Survivor" or "Dancing With the Stars." No, no, not such cultured, academic fare for me. Although I did spend some time with "The Bachelor", I was happier with "Average Joe". I really, really went for "Who Wants to Marry My Dad?" and am not too proud to admit that I am anxiously awaiting the return of "My Life on the D List". There, now you know.

My problems began getting out of control a couple of years ago with "Flavor of Love". Familiar with it? I thought not. I followed former wrapper Flavor Flav and his drunken romance with Brigette Neilsen. Do you know who either of them are? I didn't either, until I knew every little thing about them. For weeks I followed them. Months, probably, if I am to be honest. Things got pretty bad after that, when I was so wrapped up in "Blowout" on Bravo, and I could never understand why people always reacted with a blank, if somewhat concerned and a little frightened, stare when I asked if they were watching it. There were not too many of us, come to find out. By the time I found "Breaking Bonaduce" I was too far gone to be helped. When he cried, I cried. When Gretchen pouted, I pouted. We were our own enablers, me and those Bonaduces of mine.

Then, last year, I hit bottom and gave it all up. I credit Sanjaya with saving me from myself. Last years' "American Idol" was just so horrific that I finally made my break with simulated reality, even if it meant never seeing Simon's pecs again. I vowed, day after day, that I would never, ever go back to reality shows. I was so grateful to finally be free. Never again would I wonder what those zany Gottis would be up to tonight, or whether Kathy Griffin would reconcile with Matt, her sweet but apparently embezelling husband. I was done with that. "Masterpiece Theater" -- I am back! Or so I thought.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled onto a little something called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew Pinsky." I tried to click right through it, because I could feel that familiar tingle. Then I sat down on the edge of the bed, telling myself I just needed balance as I took off my socks. The lies begin all over again. I am just concerned for their welfare, I tell myself. This will be my last episode, I tell myself. Maybe just half a show, I tell myself.

I am so hooked.

Well, how can I not be? There is a porn star, a minor rock and roller, one of those smarmy Baldwins, a female pro wrestler, and Brigette Neilsen herself (she haunts me, that one)! How can someone like me be expected to turn away from something like that? I am only flesh and blood, after all. There is Jeff Conaway, who was so adorable in "Taxi" a hundred years ago, and now he's in a wheelchair and half dead because of his addiction, and I can't turn it off!!! Plus, there's Dr. Drew himself, who never did much for me until two weeks ago when he showed up in a hot little black t-shirt with arms like I have never seen. Nice pipes on the old doc. So I'm warming up to him, which is nice......

Hey listen, at least it's not "Girls Next Door." Yeah, you know who you are.

Denise Thomas on American Politics

2008-02-05T07:12:00.000-08:00

Oh man, do I love this! The freak show that is the 2008 elections is in overdrive today, and I love every minute of it! Not because I have any well-informed sound judgement as to who should be our next leader and why. Not because I have educated myself on the policies of the candidates or who would do what, when and how. My personal approach to American politics is less Wolf Blitzer/Jim Lehrer/David Gergen, more People Magazine/Inside Edition/The Simpsons. It goes like this:

Yes, Hilary may have a better health care policy, and more experience in D.C., but for my money you just cannot beat Barack's behind. Sweet, sweet backside on that man. Four years? Oh, yeah. You can have four years, handsome. Here's my number.

John McCain is clearly an American patriot, and I do believe he is an honest man, if nasty and frighteningly short-tempered, but if his delightful wife wears purple one more time I am sending her to Paisley Park. And I am a Prince fan from way back, so that is no empty threat, young lady.

I find it ironic that Mike Huckabee is so rabid when it comes to same-sex marriage, but have you seen his wife lately? Dude, that is a man if I ever saw one. She has more facial hair than my husband, and my husband's an Arab, for crying out loud, so you know how hairy he is.

Now, I cannot really agree with much that Mitt Romney has to say, but those sons of his might get my vote. Are you kidding me with them? Each one is yummier than the last. Plus, Donny and Marie are a very real possibility for the innagural, and I just cannot pass that up. I just wish that cretin windbag Rush Limbaugh would shut up about him. Actually, I just wish he would shut up.

I miss Dennis Kuchinch, that little shrimp. Yes, he is a wacko, but it was hilarious watching him and his wife after every debate. She is like nine feet tall next to him, with hair like Rapunzel that he could just scamper up to make his speeches. He may have needed a telephone book to sit on in the Oval Office, but we would have laughed for four years.

Is it just me or does Ron Paul make sense some of the time? Don't tell anybody I said that.

Can we get back to Barrack's butt? Nice. Very, very nice.

John Edwards had alot of good ideas, but it drove me crazy when he would drag those little kids of his out for every concession speech he made. They need to be at home in bed at that hour Mr. Handsome, and if you don't know that you are too dumb to be president. Plus your hair is too slick. And, enough about the mill. We get it. You're kinda cute though. You're no Barrack, but you're cute.

As Mr. Colbert says, don't f#$% this up, America!!! You need to vote. VOTE, VOTE, VOTE!

As long as you vote for that cute butt.

It's Not Really a Post....

2008-01-29T14:39:00.000-08:00

I am trying not to panic, but I can't write anymore. Not that I have suffered an unfortunate stroke and am forced to do everything with my toes -- I just no longer have anything in my brain that wants to come out. My brain is no longer sharing. I cannot write anymore. Did I say I was not panicking? Cause right now I feel like I am panicking. Hang on while I breathe into this paper bag....

I just can't get back here. I come up with ten other things to do, instead of writing. They mostly involve being lazy and generally shirking as many responsibilities as possible. Don't know what to do. Any tips????

A Weiner by Any Other Name.....

2007-12-14T14:02:00.000-08:00

I love my neighbors. They are fun and kind. They are an eclectic bunch, and, almost without exception, interesting. They respect our privacy but are always there when we need them. They all (I think) adore our twins, even when the twins act up, which is often.

Neighborhood gatherings, though, are another story all together. I do not enjoy neighborhood gatherings. I get so nervous that I perspire. I get crabby in advance because I am anticipating the small talk that is so torturous for me. I am not kidding -- I hate small talk like I hate ...oh my god I cannot think of one single thing I hate more than small talk. So, you see what I mean.

Today, one of our neighbors, who is perhaps the warmest, kindest woman I know, thought it would be fun if we took all the children in the neighborhood sledding before dinner. Here's the first thing you need to know: by dinnertime, I am done. DONE. I have chased twins around all day, mediated more conflicts than NATO (not saying much, but you see my point), fed and bathed them, and I have had enough. The only thing I like to do before dinner EVER is have a very large cocktail with my husband. VERY large. The second thing you need to know is: I do not like to go outside. EVER. Nature holds no appeal to me. So the thought of going out, in the cold, in the dark, with a group of children of all things, was beyond a nightmare.

I did it, though. Here's why: the very sweet neighbor who was organizing this horrifying event called to tell me about it, and just as my ears were streaming blood, she said, "And afterward So-and-so has invited us all to dinner at their house, and she's making blah-blah-blah, and blah-blah-blah, and blah-blah-blah." Neither neighbor is blah; the specifics just are not important.

Until this part. Then she said, "Oh, and for the children she is going to make blah-blah-blah and pigs-in-a-blanket."

She hadn't even shut her mouth before I was piling the kids in the van, throwing their snow pants at them, and racing full speed to the sledding hill. Maybe I don't like the cold, or the outside, or children, for that matter, but man do I love pigs-in-a-blanket. LOVE THEM. Eat myself sick on them, usually, because isn't there always room for just eleven more? Yummy pastry wrapped around a teensy little hot dog -- what more could you want out of food? They are perfect, they're heavenly, and you can eat like 35 of them. You don't need a plate, or utensils. Some people like mustard with them but frankly I am a purist so I prefer mine straight up, please and thank you very much.

I never got them the other night, though. It just got too late, too cold, and we all got too crabby. So I begged off and brought the children home to relax and have dinner before bed. No pigs-in-a-blanket, but I did have a cocktail with my husband. Yeah, very large.

Here I Am

2007-12-03T16:54:00.000-08:00

Well, here I am. It's an odd feeling, trying to figure out how to get back here.

My father died. It was Thanksgiving morning. I had been with him in his room for two consecutive nights, and while I ran home to quickly swap cars with my husband, he died.

He was an incredible man, and an incredible father. He was fun, and kind, and generous, and just kooky enough to make life interesting. If my children love me one iota as much as I love him I will be happy. He lived a long and happy life, and he told me that all the time. What more can you ask for, for yourself or someone you love?

It doesn't feel real yet. It feels like I have been having some bad dream for the past few months, and now that I have woken up, Dad must be on some great vacation, because how can my dad be dead? That just can't be, you know?

So it's time to shake myself off and figure out how to make this work, which I will, somehow. I want to get back to writing, I want to get back to laughing, hard and often, and I want to get back to life. I know that my dad wants me to do those things too. So, I'll be around.

Just Before I Crawl Into Bed

2007-10-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

Alright, take your finger and place it parallel to your lips. Waggle it really fast up and down and make some kind of sound at the same time. That's me right now. Dad is in a nursing home, I have whiplash from the swift kick we got from the hospital, and somehow everything is ok. Tonight.

Actually, in the big picture everything really is ok, and you wanna know why? The one single reason is that, eleven years ago tomorrow, the kindest, sweetest, quirkiest, nicest, annoyingest (i know it's not a word), most understanding, considerate and compassionate man in the world was foolish enough to take me on for life. If I began to describe the burdens I have brought to bear on his life we would be here all night, so I won't. Yes, I know, I have brought joy to him as well, but believe me when I tell you that he has not had an easy go of it, all due to me.

You can have millions of dollars, and you can have a big fancy house, and you can have a big fancy life. By some ridiculous accident, a genuinely good and kind man married me. He is my very own embarrassment of riches, and I spend way too much time letting him think otherwise.

If he doesn't put me through the chipper this year, I'll do better. If he does, no one will blame him.

Happy Anniversary, sweet thang.

And Just One More Thing...

2007-10-10T18:23:00.000-07:00

I am thinking about deleting this blog and starting from scratch. Kind of a fresh start, once I get myself back together. Less death stuff, less mommy stuff, more fun.

The only thing is, when the heck am I going to get myself back together? Cause right now, I feel like that is impossible.

I HATE THIS!!!!!!!

2007-10-10T17:49:00.000-07:00

Ok, now it's kind of funny. The only thing is that you have to imagine me saying that in a high-pitched, exhausted, frustrated, crying and laughing at the same time like I'm on a bad acid trip kind of voice. Cause that's what I am doing now. And I've had my share of bad acid trips, so believe me, I know.

Roughly two weeks ago, we put my dad in the palliative unit of a nearby hospital. It was where my brother spent his last days, and where my father decided he wanted to spend his. It was no longer comfortable or safe for him to be at home, and the hospice people as well as his oncologist agreed that it was time for him to be admitted. Dad had begun hallucinating, he was rarely awake, and controlling his pain had become even more difficult.

Today, the doctor told us that Dad is no longer "actively dying" and needs to be discharged.

He's better.

Let me repeat the phrase for you: No longer "actively dying." Excuse me?

Does that mean he's passively dying? Because really, aren't we all?

It's crazy. The ups and downs are so hard, and sometimes so extreme, that we no longer know where we are with any of it. I guess tomorrow means looking at nursing homes. Good times.

This is why I am not writing anymore. I cannot get thoughts together. I am so drained and exhausted that my writing is complete crap.

I do have a new crush though: Stephen Colbert. Can't really explain it, but there it is. He's no Tony Bourdain, but not every crush can be a bad boy. Well, that's not entirely true, is it?

Oh well. Tomorrow will be better.

No it won't.

DID I NOT SAY THAT I WASN'T GOING TO WRITE ABOUT THIS ANYMORE?

Never Believe a Word I Say. Just Don't Do It.

2007-09-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I was wrong.

On Sunday, my dad went for a ride in a convertible. It took three of us to get him out to the driveway, and two to get him into the car, but off he went, bathrobe, sunglasses and all.

There have been days and, worse, nights, in the past three weeks when we thought that the time had come for Dad to go into the hospital because the end was approaching. Invariably he would wake up the next day good as new.

To say that our life is a rollercoaster right now is an understatement. Last week the strain became too much for me, and by Friday I was in full meltdown mode. Thank god for my husband, who miraculously doesn't run screaming in the opposite direction, and instead kindly and calmly listens, soothes, and pours wine.

So we hang on. Some days are good, some days are horrendous, most days are somewhere in between. It's all a blur, right now, really. I would say that I can't wait until the blur is over, but...

There's No Good Title For This

2007-09-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

I have very mixed feelings about posting this, so I may delete it, but here goes:

My father is dying. We found out yesterday that he has maybe one more month to go, but I seriously doubt it.

I have written too much here about death and sadness. I have spent way too much time thinking about death and sadness, and I want to eventually move WAY past that. I am not posting recently because I do not want this blog to become a permanent downer, and until I can come back with something remotely positive, I think I should just pipe down. Thank you to everyone who periodically checks in. Please keep doing so, because I will be back. No, really, I swear. Seriously. I mean it this time.

Can't Talk. I'm Too Busy Eating My Words.

2007-08-06T12:31:00.000-07:00

Did I say I love summer? I freakin' HATE summer, man. What is the problem with going to school 12 months a year, can someone please tell me that? Why is that such a problem? Full time school, all year, from BIRTH is clearly a much better plan.

MOMMY IS OUT OF IDEAS!!!!!! LEAVE HER ALONE!!!

How many days until September? And why, oh why, did I think they needed another year of preschool? Did I not understand that kindergarten is FIVE days a week? How has this all gone so terribly, terribly wrong???

DID YOU KNOW...

2007-07-18T17:46:00.000-07:00

That 4-year-olds have no idea what the heck they're talking about when they run around the house, shouting at the top of their lungs, "I ain't no holla back girl...."

Well, Here's a Surprise...

2007-07-11T04:56:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness! A happy post! Didn't think I had one in me, did you?

First, quickly, my dad is home and recuperating. He seems to be getting a bit stronger, but he's really ticked that after spending 3 weeks in a hospital bed he cannot get right up and race around town like a normal 84 year old madman. Very ticked. It has been, and continues to be, a rollercoaster of emotion that follows his health. He goes to his oncologist on Monday, perhaps to determine whether or not to continue treatment.

So, I've been thinking about this completely unrelated turn of events: I've discovered that I love something that I thought I detested. Really hated. Think of the enormity of that. Total change of lifestyle. Not in the Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler "I hate you but really I love you and want you in my bloomers this instant damn it all to hell Aunt PittyPat" sort of way. Not in the "I truly love my new job" Katie Couric kind of way, either. This was genuine hate, and now it is sweet, sweet love.

Of course I am talking about summer, previously my seasonal archenemy. I cannot bear to be hot, and that's mostly what summer is all about, so I hated it. No longer. Now, it is glorious, marvelous, summer! Formerly overrated, overheated, I can't wait til the damn thing ends, summer. Now, I wake up every morning with a smile, just thinking of all the fun to be had. Just thinking of how I do not need to get out of my pajamas until I'm good and ready, thank you very much. Just thinking of how I do not need to rush Handsome Boy and Girly Girl out the door with an unfinished toaster waffle in their tiny little hands so that we can get to preschool on time so that they can get into Princeton. We can go to swimming lessons, or we can skip swimming lessons. Harvard be damned. Ditto tennis lessons (although I do stand to profit significantly if I can work this tennis thing. Those Williams sisters aren't even twins. I've got a hook. Good lord, Tiger is a singleton, and you know his mom is queen of Easy Street).

Now that I have children in school, I can truly appreciate what all the hoopla is about, and I am totally hooked, man. When I was working, it didn't matter if it was Christmas or Fourth of July, I still had to work the next day. When it was 95 degrees, I had a suit on, and NOT a bathing suit. Now, we can do whatever the heck we want! Sweet! The twins are not yet at the age when they have ten camps to get to every week, and let me tell you, I am loving every minute of it. We go to the pool, we go to the beach, we hang around, whatever the heck we want, did I mention that part? Whatever the heck we want. Love it.

Not that it doesn't have its drawbacks. If the twins aren't in school that means they have to be somewhere ELSE, and that seems to be generally with me. That means the amount of arguing, bickering and whining I am exposed to in a 24 hour period has spiked, but our polling suggests that I don't really mind. Wait, that came out wrong. Of course I mind, but they serve cocktails at the pool, didn't I tell you that part? So, if I wait until a decent hour and order something that appears relatively benign to those that do not know me, I can make it til evening. You have to play the hand you're dealt, know what I'm sayin'?

Ok, I may have posted this too soon. The twins are downstairs as I am typing this, shreiking at one another over their Cheerios. You can hear them at your house, right? What is actually the definition of "decent hour"?

Smoke and Mirrors

2007-07-02T17:49:00.000-07:00

Ok, consider this a mirage, because I am only going to appear for a sec before dissapearing again. I did want to tell you about a couple of things going on, but I am so desperate to get to bed that I have to tell you in list form:

1. My father was released from the hospital last Wednesday and readmitted last Thursday. New day, new infection. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all those who have been thinking about us and keeping in touch. Who knows what is ahead?

2. The other day, as I was standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, Girly Girl quite nonchalantly said, "Mummy, there's a frog in the house." Because of her cool and calm demeanor, I understood that to mean that she wanted to play some type of froggy game, or was pretending to be a frog herself. Surely one would not be so reserved if an actual amphibian were in residence, at least not anyone who had sprung from MY loins. I waited to turn around until I heard her say, "No, really, Mummy, there's a frog in the house." Sure enough, the hateful creature (term I use for anything smaller than a beagle) was sitting on the oriental runner in the front hall. Do you remember how Wilma Flintstone would stand on a chair shreiking for Fred when a mouse entered their house? Yeah, that was me.

3. I had a dream the other night that I was involved in a mad, torrid love affair with Anthony Bourdain. In the dream, neither of us were married, so that was ok, but it occurred to me that this is a repeating dream for me, and the man is always Anthony Bourdain. It happens so often that it's kinda messing with my head.

4. I went strawberry picking with Girly Girl and Handsome Boy today, and then Jim and I took them to a carnival tonight. All this summertime fun is tiring for a girl.

5. I have fooled the nice folks over at Hot Moms Club into believing I am one of them, and this month I have posted one of my favorite essays ever. It's about how I suck at gardening. Go see it here and let me know what you think. Better yet, tell that publishing friend of yours to sign me immediately, will you? What kind of a friend are you anyway? Sheesh.

Now I am going back undercover for awhile. Thanks again for all your kind thoughts, friends.

2007-06-22T05:07:00.000-07:00

Once again I have dropped off the radar screen. My apologies to those intrepid souls who are kind enough to periodically check here. I am just temporarily gone, and will return. My dad has been hospitalized twice in the past week, and life is a little jumbled and jagged right now. Please bear with me; I am experiencing technical difficulties.
Thanks,
Denise

Further to Previous

2007-06-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

In the words of Richard Nixon (file this under "Be Careful What You Wish For", but he doesn't even seem so bad now, does he?): Let me make one thing perfectly clear.

I fully understand that my expressions of frustration in my last post must sound like a whole bunch of bellyaching. Crushing responsibilities? Please, Denise; you're a suburban housewife, for god's sake, not George Bush's moral compass. You have a wonderful husband, two healthy children, a lovely home and a great life. What's your problem, woman?

THAT is my problem.

Sorry for my bellyaching, but I would still like your advice. As long as you're my friend. And don't hurt my feelings. Or make me cry. Or say anything in person, if you know me, because that would make me itch. Or openly criticize me. Can't you just come over for a glass of wine and tell me what to do????? Except at bedtime, because I'm too dog tired. Or dinnertime, because that's too crazy. So, wine for breakfast. Is that so wrong?

Where My Girls At?

2007-06-06T17:57:00.000-07:00

Ok, I don't know what it is, but I am in yet another slump. Seriously, I am asking you, my blogging friends, for your input. Where my girls at?

I have noticed recently that life seems to be nothing more than an endless series of chores, things that need to be accomplished. I no longer say to myself, "Ooo, I can't wait for that party Saturday night. I have the cutest outfit". I now say, "Crap, if I didn't have to go to that G.D. stupid party I could be in bed by 8". What? What the heck is that? And don't tell me I am getting old, because that just isn't good enough.

I seem to live by a list of things to do that constantly occupies my mind (I never actually WRITE a list because I am not a list person. Perhaps if I wrote it down I could stop waking up for the day worrying at 3am, but that is a problem for another day). I just tick things off, mentally and physically sludging through each day, instead of living a happy and enjoyable life. Does anyone else ever find themselves like this? Put your hands up.

Lately I have felt like the seemingly endless responsibilities in my life are completely crushing me. This is bad, I know. I just don't know how to shake it. There are demands on me from every corner, all the time. What I struggle with is this: that's just life, Denise, and there are demands on you because you are blessed to be surrounded by people you love, who love you back, and you have chosen to include them in your life, so buck up and find the joy, sister. Why can't I just do that? Why?

Yeah, I've got some crud going on. My dad's health is really failing, and it's freaking me out that he is quickly becoming a very old man, because that is so not him. So it is likely that we'll have yet another death in our family in a relatively short time and thanks for asking, God, but I gave at the frigging office so find another sucker, ok? And one of my brothers has moved halfway across the country and pretty much stopped calling me and I don't know why but I'm afraid to ask and he's just about my best friend so that really blows. The twins are sucking the lifeblood out of me day after day but there must be some good side to having children because everyone keeps doing it so I'll just keep looking for that. Oh well, at least my husband is in the liquor business (does anyone else hear the angels sing when I say that, or is it just me?)

I wish you were here, blogging friends. I really wish you were here.

All the News That's Fit to....

2007-05-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

Here are the things that are working my nerves tonight:

1. NBC has fired Stone Phillips. Now, I am not a huge Stone Phillips fan, and I do not have much regard for the news division at NBC. However, I am a news geek of the highest order, and I do not like news people being screwed with. When CNN fired Aaron Brown I assumed and remained in a fetal position for days. The revolving door of their morning show makes me dizzy and pissed, but there's no way I can watch the garbage on the big 3. A wedding on a news program? Please. But my real deal with Stone Phillips is that we have precisely the same vertical wrinkle between our eyebrows. I feel somehow simpatico with this man. But really, who the hell has a name like Stone, anyway?

2. Did anyone ever watch "One Punk Under God" on Sundance? It was really, really good and there have been no new episodes this season. Jay Baker is cool, man.

3. When my husband came home from work tonight he kindly emptied the garbage can. As he was doing so he said, "Why is there hair in the garbage?". I paid no attention until he said it again, more seriously. I looked and found little, curly ringlets. The twins cut their own hair and then went out to play. Fabulous.

4. I am doing Weight Watchers, but contrary to the name I am not, in fact, watching my weight. Basically I am paying money to strangers and then going out for hot dogs.

5. Two people I love are sick and getting sicker, perhaps not to get better. I am bone-tired of this. That sounds selfish, doesn't it?

6. Have you ever just wound yourself up into a mad twist of stress and anxiety and fear and anger and then felt like everyone else would be able to handle all the crap of your life so much better than you can? And you can't even tell anyone exactly why you are so worked up because you are so used to all this crap that it doesn't even seem like news anymore, that it's just the way your life permanently is? That there is constantly someone dying, someone screaming, someone pissed, someone struggling and sometimes you either want to physically explode or tiptoe off into the distance? Ever felt that way?

7. My laundry doubles itself in the night, I swear to god. The dog tried climbing over the mountain of it today and had to fetch a sherpa for assistance.

8. I need new music to listen to.

9. Chocolate cake would be good.

Idol Ponderings

2007-05-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

Does Blake think he is Morrisey, or Simon LeBon? Dude, please go home.

Can any of them actually move? They may be able to sing, but it seems their feet are nailed to the floor.

Is Jordin an Amazon, or are the rest of them shrimps? Hate the dress tonight.

What makes LaKisha so grumpy? If she could smile and stop yelling and move a little (not easy, with the front porch), she would totally be my choice.

I wish I could be as nice as Melinda. She inspires me to niceness.

Please, please, please, let it be Blake tonight.

I Live at Shea Stadium

2007-05-09T17:08:00.000-07:00

I wasn't born yet, but I've seen the footage over and over through the years. In 1964, the Beatles landed at JFK (what was it called back then?) or Laguardia, to thousands of frenzied, screaming fans. Mostly girls, I would imagine, but I am sure there were some boys in there too, maybe just to catch the girls when they swooned. It was insane. I think there were some who were frothing at the mouth, but I can't be sure.

Then, as the chaos continued, the Beatles went on to play Shea Stadium. More screaming fans, more shreiking and swooning. I think the Ed Sullivan Show was that same trip, but since I am so very young, again I can't be sure. Did I menton that all this happened before I was born? Just want to be clear.

There are two little girls that live directly across the street from us. They are delightful children. They are bright, well-mannered, easy-going, and a pleasure to be around. They are kind to my twins, and their parents have become our friends in the two years we have lived in the neighborhood. My children adore these girls. No, that's not it. My children worship them. That's it. Worship. Sounds sweet, doesn't it?

SWEET, MY ASS!

The girls are a few years older than Girly Girl and Handsome Boy, which of course makes them all the more interesting, and of course means that they are at school all day. This means, for me, that my two jump up from the breakfast table to forlornly wave goodbye as the girls walk past our house on the way to school. If I am able to corral their now-morose little bodies back to finish their Cheerios, I have about 45 seconds before it begins: "When will the girls be home?". "Are the girls home yet?". "Could you call their mommy to see if they are home yet?". "Is it still school time?". All day. Five days a week. It ain't so sweet anymore.

If I can make it, without my head popping off my body, until 3:00, when the girls FINALLY get home (what the heck takes them all day to teach these kids, anyway?), and they are available to play, great. Fine. All is right with the world. In fact, my twins' reaction when they see the girls coming down the road is frighteningly close to that of the screaming, weeping, fainting teenagers at Shea Stadium. From lunchtime on, the excitement level of my children skyrockets. By 2:15 it reaches a fevered pitch and by 2:30 I am checking their vital signs repeatedly.

Today, Girly Girl sat in our front yard from 1:00 on, staring at their house, as if willing them to walk out the front door with their chalk to color on the road with her. No matter how many times I discussed the downside of staring, she paid her mama no mind. It was pretty hot here today, and I was tempted to hose her off just to shock her back into some sense, but I figured I'll have to do that alot when she's older; probably better to go easy on her when she's four. Handsome Boy kept himself busy chasing the bubbles I was blowing for him, but he demanded that the bubbles be blown in a certain direction, so that the pine trees would not block his view of the girls' house.

The real problem, aside from gnashing my very last nerve all day, is when the girls are NOT available to play. Oh, this gets so very ugly. Handsome Boy and Girly Girl spend their days pining for their little friends, counting the breaths they take until school's out and they can all be merrily together again. Imagine their chagrin when the girls say, "Sorry, we have gymnastics/art lessons/horseback riding today".

Usually the lips are first. A little quiver, just as the eyes begin to fill. Then the low, gutural moan, leading into the classic, full-fledged wail. Times two. Tell them Christmas is cancelled, but please, I beg of you, do not tell them the girls can't play.

It is impossible to compete, and close to impossible to comfort. These two girls across the street are Paul and John (let's face it, Ringo's a dog, although I have always felt George was a little cute in that quiet, smokey way), and I am the bearded lady in the freak show. Hold up: I don't actually have a beard, or any unusual facial hair of any sort. I was just making a point.

It has really become a problem, though. I need to find them more friends or something. Some kind of activity would be good, but honestly, by late afternoon I am getting close to my finish line for the day, and rallying the troops is frequently beyond my energy reserves (I am not as young as I may have led you to believe...). What should I do? Got any chicken pox?

Welcome to My Day

2007-05-02T06:42:00.000-07:00

Would love to post right now, but since I have had a splitting headache since 7:30am, and since my four-year-old children have been constantly bickering for just past eleven years, I need to go find a bridge to jump off.

Wish me luck.

Smug Doesn't Pay

2007-04-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

First of all -- what is WITH me? I can only post once every two weeks? Lame.

We had new windows put in our house last fall. Let me tell you how much I love doing things like that. Nothing thrills me more than taking a buttload of money (and I have a really big butt, so we're not talking chump change) and plunging it into truly exciting things, things like hot new windows, an absolutely adorable new roof, a dying-for-it furnace, oooohhh maybe a driveway. No, I don't really want to go to Nevis this year, thanks. I'd rather have my shrubs replaced. Love that.

We are a little picky about windows, insofar as we require them to periodically OPEN, which our old windows were not always willing to do. That is not to say the old windows were tempermental, or unwilling to help out. They would spit out their screens on a moments notice, so I cannot say they never did anything for me. They let the wind in, too, there was that. Didn't have to be opened; the wind just whistled on in right through those windows. They were old.

These new windows do open, which is nice, and they can actually open from the top down, something the old ones never even thought of doing. Top-opening windows are good, usually.
They are really good when you have a lunatic beagle, who sleeps 23.5 hours a day, and only wakes up when his normally completely deaf ears hear your toes begin to step out of the yard, at which point he rushes to the highest point in the house, scratches at a bottom-opening window until the screen falls out, then dangles his little body dangerously in your direction, barking for all he's worth. When you have a lunatic beagle, top-opening windows are good.

Let's just say that windows opening from the top is still a novelty in our house. Since springtime is still a novelty in New England, and the air is just now beginning to warm up, we did not have the screens in the windows until this weekend, so we had alot of windows, open from the top down, with no screens. Hhhmmmm.......what could possibly go wrong?

One day last week I was standing at the kitchen sink cleaning up the dishes from lunch. I had sent Handsome Boy and Girly Girl up to the playroom, where they had been playing quietly for quite some time. Quite some time. Quietly. Or so I thought. Just enough time for me to say to myself, " You know, I've never really had any major mishaps when the twins are playing together. They never get themselves into any damaging mischief. Well, except that time when they painted their faces with my brown lipstick five minutes before the babysitter came. You know, the Al Jolson Incident. But other than that, nothing much."

Just as I turned my smug self around from the sink, I saw a flash of pink zoom past the dining room window. "Unusual," I thought, "That looked like Piglet." Then several multi-colored flashes, followed by white sheets of paper. What on earth? Wait a minute........

Quietly, I crept out the kitchen door and tiptoed around to the front of the house. The lawn was littered with toys, mostly pink. Looking up, I saw the front window of the twins' bedroom open, top-down. After a moment I saw Handsome Boy pop up, climbing toward the top, one fist full of his sister's stuffed animals. He looked at me, stopped for a split second, smiled broadly and waved madly, and went right back at it.

I miss my old windows.

The Devil Wears Frosting

2007-04-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

The devil does not, in fact, wear Prada. The devil wears frosting. I know this to be true because, as it turns out, the devil seems to take the form these days of little tiny cupcakes that I made with my children for Easter.

I did not expect this. When contemplating Satan, Lucifer, Beezlebub, call him what you will (oh yeah, the devil is a man. Don't tell me he's not. I once dated a man who told me he was trying to decide between me and another girl and the other girl seemed to be edging me out. The devil is a man, dude.), when contemplating him I never imagined him as a baked good or confectionary treat. But let me tell you, I was wrong. Mini cupcakes are the devil. I have eaten about seventeen today, and I know of what I speak.

They're just so yummy. Vanilla cupcakes with vanilla frosting; the beauty is in their simplicity. My first choice would of course be chocolate, but then the youngsters wouldn't even have a shot at getting one, so just to be kind I made vanilla. What can I say, I'm a giver. So after they were made, we mixed vanilla frosting with some food coloring and got some yellow frosting, some pink and some green. Then my little Picassoes wondered what might happen if they mixed the pink with the green, so we have an awful lot of grey cupcakes. They were also curious about a grey and yellow combo, so we have quite a few that resemble regurgitation of an unknown origin. I hate to stifle curiosity.

You may not see a problem with having a cupboard full of mini cupcakes (holy crow do those box mixes make alot), but I do. And so does my butt. I changed sizes this winter, you see, and not in a downward direction. Lately I have been really trying to reverse course, and even went so far as to join Weight Watchers. I had a really good week. Three weeks ago. I just don't love smaller pants as much as I love mini cupcakes. I do hate my big legs though, so maybe I should look at it as though I DO hate my big legs more than I LOVE mini cupcakes. I need to feel the hate. Right, ok, I can do this as long as I remember the hate. Focus on the hate. That sounds healthy, doesn't it?

Sittin' Around

2007-03-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

Listen, I would have loved to post sooner than this, but I am still, weeks later, on my Disney Detox 12-Step Program. Not making much progress actually, and have very little to say, other than "Can we go back yet"? Sad, isn't it?

The good news is, I have found an after-school babysitter who can spare me more than eleven minutes a month. What is it with these youngsters these days? (Ok, what eighty year old just said that?) Seriously, after-school has become the new rush hour. When my oroginal daytime sitter, who Handsome Boy and Girly Girl adore, had the temerity to sign up for a sport of some kind, I figured ok, once or twice a week I suppose she'll have to practice (you may have noticed I am not of the athletic persuasion so I do not know what these sorts of things entail). Imagine my pique when she declared that this practice of hers was going to be EVERY DAY and she would no longer be able to babysit on weekday afternoons. She clearly had no regard for my sanity.

I am picky about babysitters. Our evening sitter is a 25 year-old kindergarten teacher, so the bar is already set astronomically high. For the afternoons, they can be younger, but they have to live in walking distance because otherwise I feel guilty if I cannot pick them up or drop them off, and that gets too complicated and exhausting. The big thing is, my number one prerequisite for sitters is that my children have to LOVE them. Not just get along with, not just kinda like; they must love them the same way I love brownies/Prince/silver jewelery/going to the beach/vodka/George Clooney. Well, not exactly the same way I love George Clooney, but you see my point.

Now, since kids love just about everyone, that shouldn't be too tough right? Wrong. Even when I am willing to make exceptions to my walking distance rule, finding someone my children adore who has any kind of free time whatsoever is next to impossible. One of their cousins would be perfect, except now that I need her she has a job, of all things. What the hell? Another girl, who they have known since ever, has a thirty minute commute each way to school, plays every sport known to mankind including ice-hockey, and I am not sure but I think she may go to school on Saturdays as well, or some kind of craziness like that. How am I supposed to get an hour in edgewise? All I want is a damn manicure, but young America is too busy being athletic/academic/responsible. For the love of God, what kind of teenagers are we raising?

But now I have found a little savior. It occurred to me that babysitter number one has a younger brother, who Handsome Boy and Girly Girl (but especially Handsome Boy) adore possibly more than they adore his sister. I have conned him into believing that caring for twins in the afternoon can be fun, and so far he hasn't found me out. So for two weeks I have a window of sanity in my afternoons. Why two weeks, you ask? Because in two weeks, lacrosse practice starts. Know any sedentary kids?

Hey, A Mouse Has Gotta Eat......

2007-03-11T17:31:00.000-07:00

PHRASES I HAVE OVERUSED IN MY LIFE:

IN COLLEGE: "Yeah, I'll have another."
IN MY TWENTIES: "This time it's REALLY love."
IN MY THIRTIES: "Do I have to go to work today?"
SINCE HAVING TWINS: "If I have to count to three..."
IN THE PAST WEEK: "Time to feed THE MOUSE..."

We have spent the better part of the past two weeks on a truly divine trip to Florida. It was so wonderful, I get all dreamy when I think about it, which is really all I do now. You know, trip hangover. Oh, I've got it bad. We spent a wonderful week with family, then took the twins to Disney World. Yeah, you heard me. Disney World.

This was a trip I never thought I would take, and that was ok by me. I didn't really want to go. Don't like rides, don't like crowds, frankly don't like kids, so really I could pass.

Oh, was I wrong.

I freakin' love Disney World. LOVE.

It really is the most exciting place on earth. Yes, I am easily entertained, but that's not why I think it's the most exciting place on earth. No, as a matter of fact, I don't get out nearly enough, but that's not why either. Being at Disney World with two four-year-olds is the most exciting place on earth because there is nothing, nothing, nothing more exciting than seeing your child be DELIGHTED. And Disney World delights them at every turn. Until it's 7:00 at night, you've been there all day and everybody starts to cry, but that's another story.

The phrase "Time to feed the mouse" was coined by my husband. While I do love the nice folks at Disney, they do take a breathtaking amount of your money. Thus, after Jim developed "Mickey Elbow" from the repetitive motion of reaching for his wallet all week, we began to say "time to feed the mouse" each time we spent some cash. Sometimes it was "The mouse needs new shoes". All we knew was, he is apparently a mouse with great needs. And I am an enabler.

More later.

Have to Get Away

2007-02-23T14:21:00.000-08:00

I love vacation. I love everything about it. I love the planning, the excitement, the anticipation, all of it. It doesn't even have to be mine. I get just as excited (almost) about anyone else's vacation as I do my own.

In a few days, we are packing the twins and what seems like most of our belongings and going to Florida for awhile. I can barely contain myself. I have been planning and organizing for WEEKS, and that brings me to my point.

My husband isn't so much of a planner. He is an unplanner. I wouldn't go so far as to say that he is a planophobe, but -- wait, yes, I would. He is a total planophobe. An antiplanner. THE antiplanner. I begin planning our next vacation in the car on the way home from this vacation; he plans our next vacation when we get there. No, actually, he doesn't even do it then.

I spend untold hours researching where we should go, what we should do when we get there, where we should go to dinner, the historical significance of the little dive bar on the corner. He grabs his toothbrush on the way out the door. I wrestle the suitcases out of the basement way ahead of time, because if they are in my bedroom for a month, that just means I'm practically on vacation already, right? When, three weeks before departure, I look at him and say, "Should I bring four swimsuits or five?", then I get the look. I get it more and more often the longer we are married, and it says something like, "Good god, I wish I knew you were insane before I signed on the dotted line."

This year I have cranked up his annoyance meter with the refridgerator. I began "Project Empty 'Er Out" last week, with the intent of leaving nothing in there while we are gone except maybe some maple syrup and a couple of pickles. I have done this somewhat frantically, often serving quirky little meals like, say, eggs and french fries, broccolli and toast, or pork chops with a side of kielbasa. As I hand the children their pancakes I say, "Would you like a bit of horseradish with that?". Why can't a child just eat some radishes to help his mother out? If you are wondering why I am obsessed with making sure our fridge is empty before we leave, read this.

The thing is, for all my planning, fussing, and agitating, at the last minute I am always as freaked out and disorganized as if I hadn't even ironed my socks or memorized the pilot's home phone number. Mr. Wonderful, on the other hand, has the temerity to SLEEP all night the night before, then puts his wallet and an extra pair of boxers in a bag and he's ready to roll. That kinda thing's just not right. Not right at all.

Sweet Thing

2007-02-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

I should have known I was screwed. Valentine's Day screams "CRAFTS", don't you think? Here's something to know about me, in case you do not know me in person: I do not do well with crafts. That's pretty much because I do not do crafts in any way, shape or form. The very word "crafts" sets my teeth on edge, and any further contemplation of them makes my skin itch more than seems healthy.

It is not because I am necessarily bad at crafts, although, for all I know I might be. I never do them, so how would I know? My interests simply lie elsewhere. To me, crafting means remembering to put a cherry in my Manhattan, or adding another bracelet. If I'm stretching, artistically, crafting becomes dog-earring my "Vanity Fair", blending lipstick colors, or mixing placemats at dinner. That's as far as it goes, really.

When the twins' preschool announced plans for a Valentine's Day party, I thought it was sweet, and then it occurred to me that I needed to do Valentine cards for each classmate, times two for both twins. Sixty-two cards. Are you kidding me? Say it with me: BUYING THEM. As a mother of twins there are certain things I have learned to let go, things that one day I will do better, but not right now. One day my exercise routine will improve, and so will my butt. One day my free time will increase, and so will my organization around the house. One day I will make things, right now I buy things.

So I bought our Valentine's Day cards, and helped the twins get them ready for the party. It was fun, especially when we glued a tiny little picture of each twin on their cards. I thought that was crafty-ish of me. I got smoked. You should have seen the sparkle-laden, glitter-glue sporting, lollipop-holding creations we got today. One had something like a doilly on it. What? The last time I saw a doilly, Marion Cunningham was serving pie on "Happy Days."

Well, the twins had tons of fun, and honestly that is all that ever matters to me. We came home, opened all their cards, ate too many lollipops, and got ready for more Valentine's Day fun tomorrow. I think I saw the dog helping himself to a chocolate heart at one point, but I was too busy scrubbing the twins' teeth to notice. You don't have to be crafty to maintain good oral health, you know.

The Poop's the Thing

2007-02-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

I really needed to clean up the yard today. By "clean up", I mean clean up after the dog. I have not done it for ages, so there was plenty of cleaning up to do.

Girly Girl decided to help. She went out ahead of me, as a sort of dog poop spotter, and when she found some she would yell "POOP!"and stand right there next to it so that I would know where to bring the scooper next. This worked out well for a few minutes, but as I said, there was ALOT of poop in the yard. For some reason, my patience seems to be in short supply today, and after a while it just got annoying to hear the child yell "POOP!" over and over and over. After a while, I just wanted to search for poop in peace.

Let me repeat that. I just wanted to search for poop in peace. This is what the twins have reduced me to. The thing I longed for most this morning was solitary poop scooping. How pathetic can one individual possibly get?

Have you ever had a day when you were just not in the mood? A day when you just didn't feel like doing whatever it is you need to do? I am a stay-at-home mom, and my job is to engage my children, teach them, play with them, lead them to do things on their own responsibly. That's what I do.

I don't feel like it today. Today I feel like lying in bed, watching TV and talking on the phone to my friends. I do not feel like playing with children, I do not feel like entertaining children, I do not feel like mediating their conflicts and I do not feel like taking them somewhere to stimulate their minds (which I also don't feel like doing). I feel like napping. Actually, at the moment I feel like banging my head against the closest hard thing I can find, if they interrupt me one more *#&% time!

Ok you're not going to believe this: I just heard her shout from the bathroom, "Mama, I pooped!".

YOU ALL KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!

2007-01-28T17:17:00.000-08:00

Listen, Meredith Viera: Perhaps if children were exposed to adults who handle alcohol responsibly and in moderation, they would not become the binge-drinking college students in the emergency room for alcohol poisoning that we see more and more often.

Or this: Perhaps if the women who deal 25 hours a day with the Mack truck of responsibility involved in raising children (WITHOUT A NANNY TO DO IT FOR THEM) could do so without ridiculous criticism from other women all trying to do the same thing, maybe they would communicate their difficulties more freely, share more openly with those around them, and raise children less stressed and less likely to become binge-drinking college students.

Or maybe this: Maybe if women put less energy into small, petty criticism of others' parenting styles and more energy into seeing the positive aspects of other moms and just MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS, maybe we could ALL raise happier children. Isn't THAT why we're here?

P.S. And another thing: all moms are good moms sometimes, and all moms are bad moms sometimes. Call me back when you're perfect.

And just one more thing: I believe, and I am not joking, that American society will be destroyed not by radical Muslim terrorists, although they suck, but by precisely this kind of zero-tolerance, "You're different, so you must be bad and wrong" attitude. Or by George Bush. But probably the first thing. Mostly.

It's Good to be Wrong!

2007-01-23T17:08:00.000-08:00

Maybe if I spent a little less time ranting and raving, and a little more time checking my local listings........

John Adams Pisses Me Off!

2007-01-23T14:31:00.000-08:00

Constitution, my ass!!!

Could the framers have picked another night? Did it have to be Tuesday? If George Bush believes we should amend the Constitution because he thinks gay marriage threatens his gig with Laura, could he not amend it it so that the State of the Union would not pre-empt American Idol? I know the man has priority issues, but please.

It's not like I can not watch it. I have to watch it. YOU CAN'T NOT WATCH THE STATE OF THE UNION. Did you hear me, thinking people? So I have to watch it. I can't abstain as some kind of protest. I can't march up and down my street like some kind of Cindy Sheehan carrying a big placard and chanting "What do we want? IDOL! When do we want it? Eight p.m. eastern!"

Maybe I should think about getting a job.

Monday, I've Got Tuesday on My Mind

2007-01-22T14:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not livin' for the weekend. I'm livin' for Tuesday night. Fox. Yeah, you guessed it. American Idol. What has become of me?

I'd love to tell you that "Frontline" and "Masterpiece Theater" were all I watch. The cold, hard truth (I CAN'T HANDLE IT) is that I watch American Idol. In the recent past, I have also been loyal to "Dog the Bounty Hunter", "Blowout", and that freakshow about Brigette Neilsen and the guy with the enormous watch. Do you feel like we're bonding because I am admitting these things to you? Cause that's how I'm feeling. I feel like we're closer now. I think it's good.

Normally, I have a policy against watching "American Idol" this early in the season. It is simply ridiculous, and at times cruel. They highlight people who are so pathetically bad, some just pathetic, and some who honestly do not know any better, and that is when it is cruel. Also, I can only take so much of Ryan Seacrest. By mid-season I will be shouting obscenities at the television every time his tiny little pin-head comes on the screen, and hurling things at him whenever he lamely attempts to go up against Simon.

Speaking of charm-school dropouts, I thought Mr. Cowell has been relatively civil thus far; visciously honest as always, but civil in his visciousness. However, if I hear him see "Off you go, then" one more time, like he's a nursery school teacher leading his moppets to the toilet, I will combust. And if any of them say "Other door" again I will pull the fur off my dog. And I like my dog.

Minneapolis was bad, Seattle was torture. Did no one backstage notice the bleach-blonde without a bra on? And she wasn't a Pam Anderson bleach-blonde with no bra on. She was a...I don't know what the heck she was, actually, but I almost revisited my dinner while she screeched. That little Steve Buscemi bug-eyed guy will no doubt call from prison one day soon, having been caught stealing the identity of the mildly retarded nice guy he chummed up with. I thought they handled that guy relatively well, although the fact that Fox would put him on at all was nauseating. But I guess nothing should nauseate me from the network that writes Bill O'Reilly's paycheck.

Now you know. By way of rationalization though, it is all I can do after a day with my lunatics. Today, for instance, I took Handsome Boy to my father's and Girly Girl to her ballet class, then dragged both of them through Costco for like three things, only one of which we had gone in for. We came home for endless games of Candy Land, interspersed with alternating playing and arguing, puncuated with whining. Today was an easy day, and still I will be 100% exhausted by 7:30. 6:30. Now. Always. Good god I'm tired. I'm too old for twins, and it is leading me to watch bad television. There, I've said it.

A Pathetic Cry for Help

2007-01-09T17:37:00.000-08:00

Alright, listen. If any of you tell anyone what I am about to tell you, I will hunt you down like the scurvy dog you will then be. And then you'll be dead to me.

We are booking a trip to Disneyworld. I KNOW. Shut up already. I used to spend my vacations in South Beach (before the bridge-and-tunnel crowd took over), Paris and the Carribean. Now I am planning the one trip I swore I would never take. Of course, I also swore I would never get married. And I swore I would never have children. I would never live in the suburbs, I would never stay at home, I would never drive a mini-van.....I'm crying, are you happy now?

Any tips?

Better Late Than Never, Isn't It?

2007-01-08T17:22:00.000-08:00

I know the holidays are totally yesterday's news, but since I went into my decompression chamber, and then spent a week hurling, I never got to do the post-party dish. You don't mind, do you?

Oh my god it was totally fun, and I NEVER say that about the holidays. This year I was just determined to be all about the fun, though, because for my family it easily could have been all about sadness. There was definitely some sadness without my brother, but I kept telling myself that he was in really bad shape last year, really sick and struggling, and I believe that he is now somewhere where his struggles are over. I also told myself that I cannot control how other members of my family choose to deal with it, because that has been a major problem for me in the past. I know that it was a difficult time for my dad, and I tried to help him as much as I could, but in the end I cannot make his sadness go away. It truly breaks my heart, and I can't fix it.

Anyway, back to the fun part. We did all the normal Christmas stuff, the twins had a BLAST, and let me just ask: is four the perfect age for Christmas? I cannot imagine it being better, but please clue me in if you can. Then, two days after Christmas, my husband and I had a little party, cause Stef was in town, and we had never met! Turns out to be one of the best parties we have EVER had. Not one person drank anything other than champagne all night long. How great is that? Seriously, that is party greatness. That, my friends, is a great flippin' party. But wait, it gets better! Two nights after that, I went out with Stef and her sister-in-law, who happens to be one of my favorite friends in the world. OH, did we throw it down. Let's just say hi-jinx ensued. Stef is wet-your-pants funny, plus she's really beautiful and really bright. I love her anyway. SO MUCH FUN!!!

And then decompression and then puking for a week and here I am. What's up with you?

She's Alive. SHE'S ALIVE!!!

2007-01-08T16:59:00.000-08:00

Holy Mother of God. Being sick is a drag. A DRAG. I never, ever, ever get sick. A cold here and there, fine, but nothing that ever knocks me on my behind. I have spent the last ONE WEEK as a stomach bug's bitch, and let me tell you, it was a bad scene. I'll spare you the details of the nastiest bits; suffice it to say that I may have lost a few pounds. For days on end it felt like my body was made of cement, and dragging myself around the house was a close-to-Herculean effort. Getting out of bed was always a mistake, and I always needed to go immediately back. By the way, you only want to stay in bed for the day when you can't. When you must, it's no fun.

Here is something you rarely hear me say about my twins: THANK GOD THERE ARE TWO OF THEM. Actually, I am always (now) thankful that I have twins, for a million reasons. I have never been more thankful, though, than this past week. I could not do much playing, leaving the house was out of the question, and there was not much fun to be had from me. The two of them, though, would play together on their own while I was in bed, for like an hour at a time. Then they would come looking for me, we'd read for awhile, and then they'd go back to playing on their own. They didn't even fight much. This is a strange and curious new phenomenon in our household.

So, to anyone who I owe a phone call or email, please forgive me. But I'm back, baby, and I'm back big!

Great. Just Great.

2007-01-03T17:24:00.000-08:00

So, now I'm sick. I don't mean sniffles and sneezes. I mean I have been vommiting since last night, as well as other symptoms that I can't even bear to broach. I had a bout of it last week, but I really thought that was due to the warm generosity of an overzealous bartender. No, this is the real deal.

2007 blows.

And Now for Something Completely Annoying...

2007-01-02T14:40:00.000-08:00

I am simply posting to tell those few and far between readers that I am not posting. I will post soon, but I am totally in holiday decompression mode. I do not want to think, be witty, or think (obviously). I am overdue on returning phone calls, writing thank you notes, and paying bills. Anyone wanna do that last one for me?

I think I had the best Christmas I have ever had as an adult. It was fun, at times too much fun (you know who you are), only mildly stressful, and I only cried about my brother when his high-school track coach walked into church on Christmas Eve. More on all of that later.

Please stay tuned. I will be back in a couple of days.

The Nap is Dead, Long Live the Nap

2006-12-14T16:57:00.000-08:00

The twins no longer take a nap in the afternoon.

I think, considering the magnitude of that statement, that it deserves to stand alone, don't you?

I loved the nap. Oh, how I loved the nap. I could get things done around the house, I could have civil telephone conversations without "Mommy, I pooped!" echoing in the background, I could take the ocasional nap myself, I could HAVE A BREAK from the constant onslaught of mayhem!!! AAARRRGGHHH!!!!!!!

Now, it's just constant. There's no break. None. No break all day unless I declare one myself, which usually occurs at the top of my lungs, around 4:00 in the afternoon, when I can take no more of their particular brand of charm.

The upside to this recent change of events? They are asleep by 8:00 at the latest, usually before. After wrestling alligators I mean twins all day long, nonstop, argument after argument, finally they sleep! I know I sound like CrabbyMommy, but give me a break, it's tough.

How do I celebrate? I do my standard happy dance, then go directly to the computer. To look at pictures of them.

I think they call it "addiction".

Moon River

2006-12-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

I was held-up and robbed by a marauding bandit last week. Well, held-up may be a little too strong. And robbed could be excessive, too. He wasn't necessarily marauding, but he was a bandit. Bandit, or overly-made-up-queen-that-works-the-Chanel-counter-at-Macy's. Either way, he took the entire contents of my wallet. I may have promised him a new car.

We had to go to this black-tie Christmas shindig last weekend, and I needed a little something to wear. Buying clothes is a nightmare for me. NIGHTMARE. I live twenty miles past nowhere, so the shopping is grim. GRIM. I could shop online, but I have to try things on, and I detest shipping things back when they are not right. DETEST. Plus, I have the fashion equivalent of champagne tastes on a beer budget. Miller Lite. LITE.

Ok, that's enough of the caps for tonight.

So I head out to the mall (oh, that one aches for caps, but I promised). Did I mention it was the Saturday after Thanksgiving? Freaks come out for that, in case you're curious. So I am sprinting through the mall, thinking my misery will be lessened if I can get in, out, and home quickly. I try and fail at every reasonably decent store to find something remotely appropriate for a black-tie evening. Now I am pissed off at a whole myriad of issues, not the least of which is why can't I live anywhere near actual civilization? when I see the light: if I can't find something to wear, I will do some spite buying. You know, when you can't find what you want, so you buy something you do not even need just to stick it to the shopping gods. Oh yeah, I'm in charge, you mealy-mouthed sons-of-bitches. You think I can't find something to buy here? Well watch this.

That's when I saw him. He was wearing more make-up than I have ever worn in my life, including my Duran Duran years. Now, to me, you must really love make-up to do it as a profession. So, if you are a man, you must really, really love it. If you are a man living in the hinterlands, wearing make-up and working at a make-up counter, you must really, really, really love it (I would cap here if I could). I went straight up to him and practically french-kissed him. I admitted that I know nothing about make-up, which is completely true. In a few quick minutes, he had me looking and smelling better than I have in years. I handed over all my money, and he handed me an obscenely small amount of stuff.

I adore Chanel. Oooh, I can't help this one: ADORE. Back in my single days when it did not matter how I spent my money as long as rent was paid, I always bought Chanel make-up and perfume. Somewhere along the road I have convinced myself that if I wear Chanel I will one day wake up and be Audrey Hepburn. Perhaps Holly Golightly without the creepy Jed Clampett background, just the great hats and drunken parties. No luck so far, but you can't blame a girl for trying.

So anyway, the long and short of it was that I had to borrow an outfit from a friend in Chicago because I blew my entire budget on the guy who curls his eyelashes. She totally saved the day by FedExing me an array of get-ups to chose from. Then, here's the kicker: we go to the shindig, and I am the youngest woman in the room by about forty years. For a couple of hours, if you didn't look too closely, I was Holly Golightly!

Oh, So Thankful

2006-11-22T18:12:00.000-08:00

I have a ridiculous amount to be thankful for in my life. Truly, it amazes me every day. I thank God for my husband, who is quite simply a dream I never knew I had. My children are miracles in more ways than one, and I am humbled by the blessing of being their mother. I could go on and on, but today something happened that reminded me how thankful I am for one person in particular.

My father got out of the hospital today. It does seem that he had a reaction to some new medication, causing him to faint. Luckily it was no more serious than that. I went to bring him home this morning, and when I walked into the room, there he sat in his cashmere sweater and handsome corduroys, looking as always like a million bucks. My dad is quite dapper, and I take pride in telling people that he wears a suit and tie to bed. It's a joke, but not too far off the mark. He gave me a big smile and even bigger hug, and immediately rushed me from his room to introduce me around.

He had been in the hospital for about 60 hours, and I couldn't get him out. His doctor had given him the all-clear, the paperwork was done and he was packed up. I couldn't get him out because their were so many of his new friends to meet. It took an hour. I met every nurse on the desk, his doctor from his last visit (who came up two floors to wish him well), a physician's assistant that he met last spring, the janitor and cleaning lady, and the person who delivers lunch. Dad knew more than a little about each of them, and he had known them for moments at a time over the course of a little more than two days. He is always genuinely interested in people, and treats them with real respect and affection. As we said goodbye, every single person got a hug and kiss. Just about every one told me Dad was their favorite patient ever.

My dad is extraordinary. He has never been either wealthy or poor. He has worked hard all his life, served his country with tremendous pride, married the girl down the block and raised his family. He has known immense joy and the worst sorrow anyone can imagine. Through all of it he has held his dignity and great humor. Always, he is a gentleman. At 83, he works as often as he can because he genuinely loves it. He maintains his friendships, and over the years his children's friends have become his own. Recently his health has begun to decline, and he has some real struggles. He continually tells me how he counts his blessings, and feels like he is the luckiest man in the world.

I hope that I take none of my blessings for granted, but I am sure that at times I do. Today was a reminder that I have been incredibly blessed with the people in my life. Am I thankful? Thankful doesn't begin to describe it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

So, What's New With You?

2006-11-20T18:33:00.000-08:00

Nice. I complain about nobody posting on the weekends and then don't even show up myself for a week. Some friend you are, Denise.

How am I keeping myself busy? Funny you should ask. The monkeys have had YET ANOTHER cold (that makes Mommy lose sleep, Junior, so would you be a peach and get your own cough medicine in the middle of the night?), a minor construction project in the kitchen has turned into a major pain in my heiney and is STILL NOT DONE (which means that for days at a time we live out of a cooler, which unfortunately is not filled with beers for me to knock back at will), and the real highlight: last night I thought my dad was having a stroke and we went by ambulance to the emergency room. That was really great, so much fun. Good, good times.

He came over in the late afternoon for a cocktail before going out to dinner with my brother. As soon as he walked in the door I knew he wasn't feeling well because he was a funky greenish-grey color. He said he was ok, not feeling great, but ok, so we got him some water and a drink. Doing fine, talking with us, everything pretty normal, except for his recently-expired-trout coloring. Then I look over at him, his eyes are closed, he's slumped in his chair, and his arm is in a weird position like it is paralyzed. I reach over and gently shake his shoulder, his eyes open slightly, he looks at me and begins speaking in tongues. Fu**, my father is having a stroke.

We whip into action. I shout to my husband to get him an aspirin (excuse me, Dr. Denise isn't that for heart attacks?), and call 911 just as the twins run into the room to investigate the ruckus. Afraid they will witness their granfather's impending demise in their own kitchen and be screwed up for life, I pick them both up at once and run them across the street to a neighbor.
Running with two 30-pounders is not easy for a weakling like me. By the time I got back our house is littered with emergency types and Dad is slightly coming around.

The rest of it is fairly standard issue: ambualnce to emergency room, Dad clears up relatively quickly, tests and more tests, admitted for observation, seems to be a reaction to new medication, not a stroke. In between there was an incredibly hot doctor (Indian with English accent. YUM!), lots of flirting with the nurses (classic Dad), and madcap laugher with my brother. But, you know, after the past year, I am tired of being at one hospital or another for one critical reason or another. A break in the action would be good.

This is why I don't write at night, because I get so sleepy that I totally lose my steam. It was a late night and I need some sleep. More tomorrow.

It Ain't Easy Bein' Geeky

2006-11-12T08:43:00.000-08:00

Rainy days and Mondays may have always gotten Karen Carpenter down (ok, how much older can I actually get?), but weekends do it for me. They are such downers. What the hell am I talking about? I love weekends! Who doesn't? My husband is around, the days are a little lazier, more time for fun. The problem is, it seems like the blogosphere stands still. I miss my blog friends, who post little if at all at weekends, and make me wonder if they are all off doing fabulous, interesting things while I sit around and check my damn computer like some AV Club geek. It's a drag.

Plus, I am a news hound, and most news sites barely bother to update between Friday and Monday. Apparently they forget that there are people out there with very little to occupy their brains, who are in desperate, frantic search for some stimulating information. "Dragon Tales" just doesn't stimulate me like it used to. I'm just not happy unless there's a good catastrophe, state of emergency, or political upheaval going on.

So, blogging friends, would you do a sister a solid and show me some love on the weekends? It's lonely out here.

I Can Never Stay Mad at You

2006-11-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

I tried. I tried to walk away, but I just couldn't. I tried somewhere else, but it just wasn't the same. I'm a fool for you, baby. You had me at sign-in. I'm yours. I'm still grumpy, but if you'll have me back, I'm yours. Even if you don't want me back, I'm stayin'. So listen up.

What have I been doing since my self-imposed exile? Funny you should ask. First, there was a toe infection run amuck. Oh, so amuck. VERY uncomfortable, aggrevated by wandering around Manhattan a few weeks ago. After wasted efforts (and much howling on my part. Well, shreiking, really. Almost a scream.) by a well-intentioned nurse practicioner, my MD finally sent me to a podiatrist, who diagnosed and went about removing an ingrown toenail. Sounds horrid, right? Well, yes it was, but the podiatrist was cute as a button, so now I am looking for heavy things to drop on my feet. I'll let you know how it goes.

Next, the twins turned four! Lots of fun. Family birthday party at a farm, Mommy able to escape throwing a children's party for yet another year, fun, fun, fun all around. And then it began. The night of their birthday, Girly Girl began to vomit. Thirty six hours later, she wrapped up, and Handsome Boy began. Forty eight hours later, he finished and my husband began. Then Handsome Boy went back at it. It was like a vomit relay race. In the past ten days, I have had precisely one full night's sleep. Yesterday marked the first twenty four hour period that I have not witnessed any bodily fluids flying out of anyone's orafices. Woohoo!

Can we discuss the laundry involved? If doing laundry were an Olmpic sport, I would have medaled by last Tuesday. Without fail, no sooner would I get everyone's sheets washed, changed, replaced, and everybody back in bed, then someone would hurl. Never failed. Once or twice an Oriental rug was foolish enough to stay right where it was. Off to the cleaners for you, silly rug. At one point I began to wonder if I had, in fact, gone out and had the smell of vomit permanantly installed in my nose, so sure was I that this was a never-ending situation. But, finally, just in time for Halloween, everyone seems to be back on track. Please, God....

Speaking of Halloween. Now that it's over, the candy is still here. Problem. Because also still here are my one-size-bigger-than-they-oughtta-be pants, and if there's candy in the house, that's a battle I'm gonna lose, my friends. I'm only flesh and blood, and there's Nestle Crunch right downstairs. Of course, the dusty old treadmill is in the next room. I think. At least, it was around here somewhere....

Here's the other thing: I really need help with this blog. I am a total computer retard. The technology revolution not only passed me by, it picked me up in a bar and never called the next day. Can anyone help me, or point me in the direction of help? I can't even post a picture, or post a link. What do I do?

It's good to be back!! Thanks for being patient.

Just One More Thing Before I Go....

2006-10-18T11:51:00.000-07:00

Has anyone seen those YUMMY Dean boys on Food Network's "Road Tasted"? Are you kidding me, with them? They are so delicious I could eat them both with a spoon. My husband has to leave the room when they are on, just to give the three of us some privacy. I'm starting to sphitz right now, just thinking of them. Can't decide which one I like better, the tall hotty or the short one with the cutest personality I've ever seen in my life. I haven't been such a fan since the Bay City Rollers. Oh, crap I'm old.

Now I'm going. I mean it.

Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Girl

2006-10-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

I am worried. I am worried that my blogging days are numbered. I am worried that, either the thrill is gone, or that I have as little to say as I worry I do. Either way, I am deeply bummed out.

Then it began to occur to me that lately I only blog when I am royally pissed off about something. This led me to wonder if I am pissed off way too much of the time, and the unsettling answer is yes. So please excuse my absence while I attend to this unpleasant fact of my life. I will come back when I figure out how to be not pissed off all the time. In the meantime I am going to blog somewhere annonymously where I can rant and be pissed off until I'm done. I assure you, a happier me will return. Please stay tuned.

Hello, It's Me

2006-10-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

Here I am again, such a lazy blogger. I've made it this far without having succumbed to the woodchipper, but let me tell you, I mind my p's and q's around here now. Oh yeah, I'm under his thumb, this siamese cat of a girl....

So here is a completely random update of what has been keeping me away.

1. I had a home party last week. You know, where you invite people into your home, ply them with liquor and then hope they buy whatever it is you are selling. I was selling silver jewelery, which happens to be gorgeous. I wasn't even selling it, the company rep was, all I had to do was invite people and toss them a few pretzels and some wine. However, from the level of anxiety beforehand and exhaustion afterward, you would have thought I was throwing a bat mitzvah in my living room. I have become an entertaining wuss. Must practice to regain my party acumen. There was a time I could really throw it down.

2. Today I helped my dad and brother host a memorial golf tournament for the scholarship foundation in my other brother's name. Again, not too tough, but again I am completely wiped out. Have worried and fretted about it for weeks, and it came off delightfully without a hitch. Basically my sister and I spent most of the day hugging our brother's handsome high school friends -- tough assignment, that.

3. Last week completely BLEW! The twins were a little sick, just enough to interrupt their sleep at night, which completely destroyed my sleep at night, which isn't too difficult to do but which puts me in a nasty tailspin. I'm still not right. Truly, I am sleep's bitch.

4. Here's the real kicker: I have discovered that Girly Girl REALLY likes Strawberry Shortcake. The annoying animated character, not the yummy dessert. She is fascinated, and I'm annoyed. I feel about Strawberry Shortcake the same way I feel about cauliflower: I don't know what's involved, but I know I don't like it.

I am sure there is more that has been going on. Oh yeah, did anyone catch any of Anderson Cooper's tremendous work on CNN about the horror that is Africa these days? It was really tremendous reporting, and it got totally overshadowed by the Mark Foley crap, and that REALLY pissed me off. Also, I have gotten totally hooked on "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" even though I swore I would not. Sorry, but I am just too weak to resist Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry together in one hour.

Ok, now I really need to get some sleep. My eyes hurt.

Red Alert

2006-09-30T06:12:00.000-07:00

My sweet, darling, thinks-he's-a-woodsman husband bought a woodchipper. Have all of you seen "Fargo"?

If anything happens to me, check the mulch.

And I Just Can't Get Enough.....

2006-09-28T18:03:00.002-07:00

We went back to the fair yesterday. We saw just about every inch of it last week, rode every ride the twins qualified for, saw the parade, saw the non-sneezing cows, smelled the cow/horse/who-knows-what poop, and still, STILL, I had to go back for more. Never satisfied. Actually, we went back because, after having such a great day last week, their foolish parents promised the twins that we could go back. But when you're taking two three-year-olds to an enormous, overwhelmingly large event, there can be, just like when you're drinking tequila, too much of a good thing. We hit that mark yesterday. Oh, did we hit it.

Shoulda seen it coming. Handsome Boy had been sick at the beginning of the week, and as a result was pretty tired yesterday. That led to being cranky, even before we left home. Girly Girl saw his crankiness as an opportunity to hone her own cranky skills. With all the practice she got yesterday, she'll be playing Carnegie Hall by Christmas.

It was hot, it was crowded, and my kids were snarly. I've been cured of the fair.

For eleven months.

Fair and Square

2006-09-21T18:30:00.000-07:00

I love fairs. I don't mean dopey craft fairs (sorry, crafters. It's just not my thing). I mean fairs with farm animals and freakish enormous vegetable competitions. Fairs with rides, although I hate rides, and horse shows. The kind of fairs that smell like hay. You know what I mean now? You've heard of the Iowa State Fair, the New York State Fair, enormous celebrations of regional agriculture, bizarre giant pigs or tiny horses, and even more bizarre food. Those kinds of fairs.

In my part of the world we have the Eastern States Exposition, or the Big E, as it's known locally. It is the New England state fair, and all six New England states participate in some way. It runs for a few weeks in late September into early October. With rare exception I have gone every year for as long as I can remember. It changes little from year to year, but every year I love it.

I love the animals at the fair -- cows by the dozens, and who doesn't love a cow? Every single time we enter the cow building, my husband, Henny Youngman, loudly asks, "How about steak for dinner?". One of these days we'll be lynched in the cow building. One time I was there with my dad on a pretty warm day. I was wearing shorts. As we were touring the cows, one of the charming bovines sneezed on my bare leg. Have you ever been sneezed on by a cow? They are large animals, and the detrius that emenates from their nose is large as well. I froze. I love cows, but please, keep your bodily fluids to yourself, Bossy. Thank god my father, ever the gentleman, had a handkerchief in his pocket. Still, I was so horrified I had to go home and lie down.

I am fascinated by the carnies, the people that operate the rides and keep the fair going. I cannot explain this fascination. I am sure many are perfectly nice people, but they are not an attractive group, as a rule, and few have all of their teeth. They are a rough crowd. I wonder about them alot. What are their lives like, what do they do in their off-hours? I don't think I would really like to hear the answer to what do they do in their off-hours, but I wonder about it. I've often said I would like to be allowed to sleep at the fair just so that I could see what the carnies do in the middle of the night. I guarantee you I would not last the night. I am way too candy-ass to hang with the carnies. It would be like Conan O'Brien trying to hang with the Gotti boys.

Yesterday we took the twins to the fair, and it was so great. They were beside themselves with excitement, and they were most excited to go on the rides. I detest rides. There is way too much unpredictable movement, and frankly I am way too big a fan of solid ground. You make funny faces on rides, and I choose not to look ridiculous if I can help it. Plus, they just make me queasy. I mean, the teacups make me queasy. My mate and offspring, on the other hand, love the rides. While they are not ready to join their dad on the gigantic coasters he loves so much, I think they would if they could. They kept looking at the grown-up rides, and I could almost hear their minds working, trying to figure out how to get on. "Well, if I stand on your shoulders and we put our coats on over us, and if you stand up tall..."

Handsome Boy, no surprise, could barely contain himself. There were rides with tiny motorcycles, and tiny cars, and tiny jeeps, and he ran, RAN, from one to the next. Girly Girl's favorite is always the merry-go-round, which is actually tolerable for a rideophobe like me. Until I get on it. The damn merry-go-round whips, you know. It looks nice and slow, but don't be fooled. It's faster than it looks, believe you me. Whenever I go on it, I spend the whole time trying to look off at the horizon like they tell you to do on boats, to avoid vommitting. Anyway, the second time she wanted to go on it, her brother wanted to come along. My husband went to get something to eat (can't remember if he opted for the turkey leg as big as his head or the fried-anything-you-could-possibly-imagine), so I hopped on with them.

So I am standing between two carousel horses, Handsome Boy on his (brown, of course) and Girly Girl on hers (pink, purple, sparkles and ribbons) when the hateful contraption starts. And it's going around and around, FAST, and the horses are going up and down, but they are going up and down at different intervals, and the carny in the middle is standing still, flipping switches, and I am frantically looking off at the horizon, and all in all it was just more ride than I could handle. The merry-go-round.

It was all so worth it, though. The twins had such a great time. For that, I would ride the gigantic coaster. Not really.

Who, Me? ZZzzzz......

2006-09-10T17:27:00.000-07:00

I knew I had a point to make in my last post, but it seems I never got around to making it.

There is something I am terribly nervous about, with the twins starting preschool. I am not at all worried about the place we have chosen; it seems friendly, warm, stimulating and nuturing. I am not worried about the children going into a new experience on their own. I am excited for them. They handle new things quite well, and they are not going to be truly alone. One of the upsides of twins is that they have each other, like it or not. They are not clingy children in the least, so I do not anticipate seperation issues. I am not worried about any of that.

What I am worried about is the adults. Not the children interacting with new adults, I am sure they'll do fine. I am worried about ME dealing with the adults.

You could accurately say I am not a people person. That would be accurate. That would be dead-on. Not a people person. I am uncomfortable when meeting new people. Uncomfortable as in, sweating. On the outside, I may seem, momentarily, at least engaging. Inside, however, I am terrified that people will discover I have nothing interesting to say, so I either blather nervously for awhile (most often about weather -- ZZzzzzz) or I say nothing at all. Either way, people soon come to believe that they have developed narcolepsy soon after meeting me.

Well, what the heck am I going to talk about? I spend eight days a week, twenty-five hours a day with two three-year-olds. They are frequently charming and delightful, but really, who wants to hear about how one of them hit her brother over the head with a wrench? That actually happened today, but you know who wants to hear about it? No one. You know why? Because to the normal, outside world, IT'S BORING. I would rather have oozing leprosy than be boring, but at this point in my life the sad truth is.....oh, sorry, I just nodded off there for a bit....

Small talk paralyzes me. It is pure, unadulterated torture for me. I SUCK at it, and I hate taking part in it anyway. And what is meeting new people, really, other than making small talk with strangers? So tomorrow I have to start this whole new phase of my life, being friendly to other school parents on a regular basis, making small talk, talking about my children repeatedly and confronting the fact that I am boring and posess limited social skills. It's like high school all over again. At least this time, I know I get to make out with the cute guy on the weekend!

And They're Off....

2006-09-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

The twins are starting preschool next week. It seems hard to believe that they will soon be four years old. I remember when they were turning two, and people constantly asked me, "Can you believe they are going to be two years old?". I would usually smile, nod, and inwardly think, "You're damn right I can believe they're going to be two years old! It feels like they're going to be ELEVEN years old". Now, though, I really am starting to notice time go by more quickly, the milestones ticking off, and our children, whom I once believed were permanent infants (then permanent toddlers), growing faster and faster. Not every day is all fun, but more days are more fun. In the beginning, having twins means alot of joy but frankly alot of, well, drudgery, and we are past that now.

So anyway, with preschool starting, people are now asking me, "Are you doing ok with that?", or "How are you going to handle that?". Like this is going to be so anxiety-ridden for all of us, a big trauma, so sad and teary. I really want to say to these people, "What are you, insane? They're going to preschool, not Camp LeJeune". And by the way, how am I going to handle it? I am going to go get my nails done, thank you very much.

Maybe I should not jinx myself. In fact, it would only be fair play if the twins threw tantrums every morning before school, which is precisely what I did when my parents sent me to kindergarten. My poor mother. My dad had taken my oldest brother to Indiana to begin college, and Mom was on her own for a few days when school started. Every morning I would lock myself in the car when she tried to drop me off, then run away from the classroom when she eventually got me in there. So if that's what my monkeys decide to do, I am just going to have to grin and bare it, and listen to Mom chuckle from the Great Beyond. And wait for a second round at cocktail time.

Change, Change, Change.....

2006-09-07T11:09:00.000-07:00

There are perks to insomnia. For me, they include hours of quiet, which, no matter when they occur are like gold. The alone time is good too; I am kind of a loner at times. Luckily my husband is too so he totally gets it. Probably my favorite thing about my insomnia, though, is the weird stuff I see on television that you would just not get during the hours that normal, sleepy people watch. I mean, there's weird stuff out there.

One night (morning) this week I caught a concert by Earth, Wind and Fire. I do not listen to alot of older music, but I love them. I love big, funky bands with a full array of smokin' horns, and they are absolutely the real deal. Plus they make me dance, and what more can you ask for? I did notice after a few minutes that Philip Bailey, the lead singer, had changed his outfit about seven times. He had sung maybe five songs, and worn seven different outfits, each more sparkly and resplendent than the last. Strange.....

Or is it? There are days when my very own Girlie Girl will be on her third outfit before waffle time. Ocaisionally she will wear the same clothes to dinner that she put on when she woke up that morning, but not always. It starts literally as soon as she wakes up. She gets dressed immediately. Her brother, on the other hand, would stay in his pajamas all day, preferably the threadbare Superman set that became too small for him about eighteen months ago. If it were not so unseemly he would wear it to church on Sunday, cape and all. Though possessing a wonderful sense of humor, I am not sure that our rector would appreciate Handsome Boy's personal statement on who is the right man to save the world.

Our Miss Thang, though, does not like to be tied down by committing to one particular ensemble. She prefers to work her way through her drawer as the day progresses, with complete disregard for prevailing weather conditions.
Today, for instance, is a beautiful day in New England. Sunny and warm, around 80 degrees. She wore her winter coat to go apple picking. "But Mommy it's BEAUTIFUL".It would not have surprised me in the least if she chose her princess costume to wear underneath, but today she was apparently feeling more subtle. She has been known to wear her tiara in the bathtub, her swimsuit in January, and her underwear on her head. Oh come on, we've all done that last one.

Part of the reason we adults are often delighted by children, I believe, is their lack of convention, their uninhibited quirks. We love that about them, yet we discourage it in ourselves. Red flag, don't you think?

Midnight Companion

2006-09-04T20:01:00.001-07:00

I can't sleep. I am so tired. I am in the midst of a really yucky patch with the twins; they are completely wearing me down every day, and I am exhausted. Still, I can't sleep.

When my brother is on my mind at night, I can never sleep, and tonight he is on my mind. So I have left my blissfully snoring husband and come downstairs to do exactly what Ric would do when his illness kept him up at night, usually all night, night after night after night: I am listening to music on the computer, and writing.

I do not know what brings Ric to my mind at night. I think of him frequently each day, sometimes during discussions with a friend or family member, sometimes when I am trying to keep his memory alive for the twins, whom he adored so much, or sometimes just because I am thinking of him. But when he comes to my mind late at night, in the quiet, in the dark, he sticks, and it is always then that my sadness and grief completely overwhelm me. I save it all up until I am alone, and then the dam breaks.

I think of him when he was young, I think of him in his last days, his last moments, in his happiest days, his dark days. I think of him in places all over the world and at my dad's house around the corner. I think of his friends, and I wonder if they are thinking of him right then too. He was really complicated, and he was really uncomplicated. Really happy, and really unhappy. I wonder where he is now, and what he's doing. Is he here? Is he in this room with me while I am crying because I do not understand why this happened? What good could possibly come of a man dying years before his time? How can that be good? I know, I know, life isn't all good. Some of life is really bad. Talking to my father about his dead son is so far beyond bad that I cannot imagine the word that might begin to describe it.

I wonder if he would be ok with how we are all handling this. He definitely does not want me to be crying in the middle of the night, but right now that's the best I've got. I wonder what would give him the biggest kick out of the twins right now. Probably Handsome Boy learning to fish; he would definitely want to get in on that. Maybe Girlie Girl learning some of the words to some songs from "South Pacific". It's hysterical, and I bet he would giggle madly. God, how I wish he could see them now. It'll be tough to celebrate their birthday next month without him. Last year he was with us from morning til night, using every precious ounce of his dwindling energy to see every smile. He was in bed for days after, but I know he would not have missed it for the world. He loved autumn in New England, and it's really hard to know he won't be here for it this year. He loved Halloween. Two years ago he wore a candy-corn costume and pushed the twins in their stroller. Last year he didn't have the strength to go out with us but made sure he was here to see the get-ups.

There should be a tear allotment. Everything in your life that makes you cry should come with a pre-set number of tears, and when you are done, you are done. Every time I think I can't cry anymore about this, that I have grieved appropriately and am pretty much done, I have a breakdown. I do not like breaking down, I do not like floods of emotion and I do not like thinking that I am susceptible to them. I know I should be on some therapists couch but I am just not in the mood to go through that whole scene again. It's weird -- the people I would normally talk to about something this big are going through it too, so while we can, and do, commiserate and lean on one another, we're all struggling the same way. I know it will get better, but right now, almost seven months down the road, it still feels like a burning stick in my gut.

I should try and get some sleep. In a few hours those two monkeys will be up, trying to get Mommy into that white jacket that ties in the back. Meanwhile I have somehow erased my entire music library as I have been writing, so now I am crying AND I am really pissed.

Sorry for the downer post, but thanks for listening, cyberfriends.

What I Learned Today

2006-09-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

They say you never stop learning. "Learn something new every day". Constantly learning. Learning, learning, learning.

I have learned I do not like three-year-olds. I am not kidding. I do not like them in any way, shape or form. They whine, they fight, they cry, they pout (hmm...sounds like a certain forty-year-old my husband is married to). They are horrible creations and I would like never to see another as long as I live.

That would be tough, since I have two of my very own.

They are making me insane today. Insanity, I am approaching insanity. They are driving me to it, and I am not sure there is any going back. Clearly, this will never end, and I am stuck for eternity with two shorties that cannot stop bickering, arguing and TALKING BACK TO THEIR MOTHER!!!!! If one is holding a toy, the other steals it and runs. If I tell them stop, they go. If I tell them go, they do nothing at all. When one is not crying, the other is whining, or considering crying. The poor dog has been outside all day, in the pouring rain, just because he can. I do not know how or why it started today, but WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE MAKE IT STOP????

The problem is, they are normally really, really good children, so when they are not really, really good, it flips me out. Completely. I have zero tolerance for it, and that is not a good thing when you have children. I continually remind myself that they are, in fact, children, and occaisional misbehavior is actually a good thing. It shows they have some spunk, some mischief, some backbone. Those are all things I want my children to have, just not in such large doses all in one day when I am NOT IN THE DAMN MOOD!!! AAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!

As I willingly admit, I am not a perfect mother, nor would I want to be. Today I would just like a little credit for doing this without sedatives. Is that too much to ask?

I Wanna Stay Home

2006-08-27T17:33:00.000-07:00

We should really not go away. Ever. For any reason. Bad things happen when we go away.

We went through one streak when people died whenever we went away. I am not joking. On one of our pre-children trips to South Beach, the phone woke us up on our first morning. My best friend's father had died. Another time my husband's uncle died while we were somewhere. Another time we returned from a trip to learn that my mother was about to die. I stayed home for a very long time after that.

Lately our luck has turned. Death no longer necessarily occurs when we venture out; we have upgraded to simple disasters. On our first weekend away on our own, no children, we went to Manhattan. A blizzard paralyzed the city, and simultaneously someone drove their car through my husband's place of business. Just recently, a sewage pipe burst in the basement of the same building while we were out of town. That was a good time.

We returned last night from a lovely trip. As we unloaded the van and began bringing things into the house, I noticed that the kitchen smelled a little funky. I didn't think too much of it; a couple of things had been left in the sink that should not have been, and I attributed the odor to that. Continuing to schlep, I decided that the smell was really pretty bad, and I wondered if something had gone bad in the fridge. Bravely (for me) opening the door, I was propelled backwards across the room by the stench that slammed me. The fridge had shut off at some point during the week we were away. Every single thing in both the fridge and freezer had warmed up and gone bad. Oh, so bad.

I do not have a strong stomach. I cannot put it any more clearly than that. Eggs, in any form, frighten me. That is what a food wuss I am. So a full fridge/freezer combo loaded to the rafters with rotting food that is practically spewing itself at me sent me running. Literally. I may have been crying. I caused enough of a ruckus that my husband came running, and luckily for me, ordered me outside to drink wine with my neighbor while he loaded the garbage cans. I did screw up enough courage to come in afterwards and wash out the hateful contraption, but only because my neighbor continued to ply me with wine. Actually, she did most of the cleaning while I tried to recover from my case of the vapors. She's a good friend.

I have decided to try and develop some agorophobia.

Gone Scale Tippin'

2006-08-12T11:22:00.000-07:00

Today's warning: the following is not intended to entertain, amuse, or inform. It is purely selfish, and singularly self-serving. Reading this will do nothing for you. It may, however, assuage some tiny fraction of my own guilt. That's what I am hoping for, anyway, so here goes.

I have gained alot of weight this summer. Ok, that's not right at all. I have gained alot of weight this year, and have failed to lose said weight this summer. I am not just talking about a couple of pounds. I never like to focus on numbers per se, so let's just say that parts of my body are moving that should not be moving at all. And not limbs and appendages, either. I mean whole new areas of my stomach, legs and butt have emerged, and they move. Involuntarily. Ok, fine, you want me to spell it out? They JIGGLE. AAARRRRGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

As I have noted before, this year I discovered that the official retirement age for human metaboloism is 40. I do not know what the metabolism knows that the Department of Social Security does not, but metabolism has a pretty sweet deal. Work pretty hard for awhile, ramp up for the teen years, coast through the twenties and thirties, then knock off for good. Last I heard, my metabolism was playing mah jong in Boca before going out for the early bird.

So, what is a girl to do? After all, I am supposed to look like Eva Longoria for the rest of my life, right? Right. I bought the treadmill. I used it. Actually I used it pretty regularly this spring, early in the mornings. After a difficult winter, it was a good stress reducer, since my favorite stress reducer is not offerred until later in the day, in polite circles. Then it got hot, then I went on vacation, then I stayed in bed in the morning, then I developed a nasty Milano cookie habit....well, you can see where I am going with this.

While I am once again ready to mount an attack on my additional body parts, it ain't easy, girlfriend. We have another vacation next week (poor me), then we come home and before we know it autumn will be here. Food automatically gets heavier when autumn comes. The twins have their birthday, there's Halloween, Thanksgiving and then the holidays. I am afraid I have gotten on the fat train and can't get off. No, that's not true. I WILL make it happen. After all, everyone loves the traditional Thanksgiving tofu, don't they?

Rapture, Be Pure

2006-08-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

Today started off normally enough, for a bit. Here's how it usually goes: I hear THUD, followed by quick, tiny footsteps. Girly Girl appears at my bedside, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like it's noon, with her Albert Einstein morning hairdo. She catapults into our bed. A few minutes later, Handsome Boy appears, much the opposite of his I'm-A-Morning-Person sister. Very sleepily, he pads into our room, smiling shyly, rubbing his eyes. He climbs into bed and reaches for a snuggle. He's loaded with sleep leftovers.

Today, all of that changed quickly. After the twins got into bed with us, my husband got out. He is not crazy about the crowd, which of course includes the beagle, jamming the queen-size bed. Once he did that, he realized that the tree service we had hired to work on our yard had shown up. There were five guys, some trucks, saws, ladders, a chipper, and various tool-looking things that elude me, on our front lawn. Once my husband informed Handsome Boy of these developments, the child shot out of bed like a cannon. You would have thought my husband had told him the circus was parading down out street.

Handsome Boy was beside himself with excitement all morning. He literally ran around the house, front to back, upstairs and down, searching for the best view, keeping tabs on the progress of the workers, and, more importantly to him, the tools that were IN HIS YARD!!! I was surprised that he didn't put one of his hard hats on. You'll noticed I said "ONE OF his hard hats".

While his excitement was somewhat contagious, Girly Girl was half-hearted in her enthusiasm. That got me wondering: what would the yardful-of-tools equivalent be for the rest of our family? Here's what I came up with.

For my husband: waking up to realize that a Bugatti had materialized in his driveway. Keepsies, no backsies. Vroom, vroom.

For Girly Girl: Cinderella, Snow White and Jasmine have all moved in with us, to stay forever. Just cause.

For me: Oh my, the neighbors house has been mysteriously replaced with the Tiffany store. Not some outpost, upscale mall version, but the 5th Avenue and 57th Street, real-flippin-deal, Tiffany.

Handsome Boy was so overjoyed at the goings-on in the yard, I wished the workers could have stayed all day. Of course that would mean barren landscape all around us by now, but if you could have seen his beautiful face lit up, you would probably agree it would be worth it.

Bringing the Space Shuttle Home Can't be This Hard

2006-08-03T10:55:00.000-07:00

Am I the only lucky one whose children go beserk the week AFTER vacation?

What the heck? Every single time we have gone away, whether for a weekend or a full week, the twins are absolute NIGHTMARES for the following week. Just today, as Girly Girl's head was spinning and I was hanging the garlic on Handsome Boy, I decided to cancel vacations forever. Yes, we had a delightful time at the beach, but ever since all I have experienced is yelling, crying, hitting and more crying. I am typing this with my teeth because we are all in straight jackets.

Does anyone else have this re-entry problem?

Brother, Brother

2006-08-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

Today did not begin auspiciously. I opened my eyes and realized I was staring down the barrel of the dog's butt. Not a good way to start your day.

It is beyond hot here today, as it is in much of the country. Even hardy New Englanders, used to Mother Nature's vagrancy, are shell-shocked by this heat. Hardy, I am not. Delicate flower? Not quite. Sugar-coated candy ass? You got it.

So I was going to write today about how ridiculously hot it is, and the personal misery that that means for me. Then I heard a little story on National Public Radio about a woman in the Middle East whose family was being terrorized by, well, terrorists. How her family was dragged out of their home by these savages, and the horrors that they endured, and continue to endure on a daily basis. And I thought, hhhmmmm......

Let's review what my options are for today:

1. I could take my two healthy children to our country club, where we can swim, play tennis or golf, and order whatever we would like for lunch. Seven days a week, this is available to me. We would be comfortable, safe and happy there.

2. I could take my two healthy children to our town's library, where they are free to learn about any topic we so choose, where innumerable references are available to us to widen our minds. We would be comfortable, safe and happy there.

3. We could stay home, in the air-conditioned comfort (sorry, Mr. Gore, I am not helping the cause today) of our perfectly lovely house. We are comfortable, safe and happy here.

My choices, within econmic reason, are virtually limitless, when you think about it. But put that into perspective of the rest of the world, and it almost shames me. I cannot shake the image of the woman in this radio story, and she is another reminder to me of the terror and horror going on all around the world while Americans (ok, maybe just me) worry about their damn air conditioning, and how much it will cost them this week to fill up their ridiculous Suburbans. This woman is not comfortable, she is not safe, and she is not happy. And the mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles and neighbors of every soldier everywhere in the world are probably not too comfortable or happy either.

I know I am just ranting, and please note that I am not running to join the Peace Corps, or driving a hybrid, or doing anything to help anyone in any way. I have no answers. I am simply stating that the state of our world is starting to frighten me. I guess, not starting to frighten me, because it has been very frightening for awhile now. But the terror and the horror are widening, and widening, and widening. It is only a blessed accident of birth that I am not that woman I heard on the radio. She did not do anything wrong to get where she is, and I did not do anything right to get where I am.

So my day is not so bad. Not remotely bad. I am just going to try and remember that there are millions who cannot say the same.

We'll Always Have Paris.....Sob

2006-08-01T07:06:00.000-07:00

What is your favorite part of vacation? I have two. One is Monday morning, knowing that the rest of the world is going to work for the man, and I can do whatever the heck I want to do. Mimosas for breakfast? Sure! Nap at 11:00 a.m.? Count me in. Let the poor working saps keep the wheels of industry turning. I'm going to the beach.

My other favorite part of vacation is Sunday evening, in anticipation of my gleeful Monday morning. The anticipation of such blissful freedom is, in some ways, better than the freedom itself. Ok, maybe that is a little excessive, but I do love the anticipation.

This year I hated Sunday night. Hated it as in, I wanted to cry, and in fact I believe I did. We were in our little cottage, steps away from one of my favorite beaches, the children were happily tucked into bed, and I was miserable.

One of my husband's hobbies is cycling, and every July we watch the Tour de France, or the Tour DAY FRANCE for you Bobke fans (and you know who you are). I am not a rider, but I enjoy watching as well, and tuning in each evening has become a traditional part of our summer over the years. The scenery is stunning, and I spend night after night planning a dream trip to the countryside of various European lands. With two very young children, the trip does not work for us right now. But I have plans. Oh, do I have plans.

The Tour lasts for three weeks, and it is truly a spectacular sporting event, and an amazing feat of doping I mean athleticism. While my husband knows the rider's names and understands the strategies involved, I enjoy their well-toned arms, strong legs and divine little behinds. My favorite really is the scenery, though. Really.

Until the final day.

On the final day of the Tour de France, the riders approach the finish line from a suburb of Paris. Leaving the breathtaking countryside behind, they get closer and closer to the City of Lights. Soon the familiar sites come into view -- the Eiffel Tower here, a shot of the Louvre there. When they begin to show the Arc de Triomphe, I begin to whimper. The end of the race is a series of laps on the Champs-Elysees, one of the most famous streets in Paris. Because the riders are lapping, these beautiful sites are shown again and again. It soon becomes too much for me to bare, and by the end of the evening I am usually begging for mercy. This year, I believe my final words were, "Make it stop..."

I love Paris. I adore Paris. I get dreamy when I think of it, and silly and giddy when I speak of it. Go ahead, call me a troglodyte. Please remeber, though, that I live in a tiny little suburb of a tiny little what-might-be-called-a-city in New England. It's dull here.

I know there are more beautiful cities, and less cliche, less touristy cities, and I know the French have their faults. The food, artwork, and architecture of Paris, however, are surely not among them. Additionally, I am unsophisticated enough to know that I am a sucker for sophistication, and compared to any American city you can name, Paris pees sophistication. Parisian women take out their garbage and look amazing. The men? I think Parisian men just might be the original bad boys. I yearn, I long , to return to Paris, no matter what the season.

My twins are not so interested. YET.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

2006-07-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

Only one way to describe our vacation, and that is: swell. Well, there are surely plenty of ways to describe it, but I just love the word "swell", and there are far too few opportunities to use it. So, our vacation was truly swell.

We really did have a fabulous time. Or fabuloso, as Girlie Girl has been saying alot lately. Great weather, fun people around, and lots of beach time. Now we are fat and should probably check in to Betty Ford, but hey, we had a great time.

It was a typical beach vacation, nothing other than sun/fun/eat/drink. I did, however, come to one conclusion that I think I should share. We, as parents, are foolish. Kind of pathetic, actually. We spend so much time, energy and dinero worrying about our childrens' toys. What would Christmas or birthday time be without hours of planning, fretting and seeking new and better toys? This one will be faster, bigger, more fun and raise your I.Q.!! How can you beat that?

I'll tell you how. All kids need are sand and water. Maybe a shovel. That's it. Sorry, ToysRUs, but we no longer require your services. Take your giraffe elsewhere.

I have just spent seven days at the beach with two three year-olds, digging and castling, and they were deliriously happy. I will be extracting sand from every orafice of their bodies until middle school, but it was worth it. All they wanted to do was dig, and splash, and run and build. Still, their idiot parents would load up the wagon every morning with dozens of beach toys, and lug it down the beach. Every single toy except maybe three went untouched. It was so simple, and they were so happy, that now I understand why people live in California. Well, you know what I'm saying.

So for this Christmas, I am scrapping our plans for a major home renovation, and simply adding on a beach room to our house. Not some dopey little cottage decorations in a den, I mean an actual interior beach. Throw some sand on the floor, a shower near the door and you're set. Now if I can only figure out the tides.....

From She Who is Out of Touch Anyway

2006-07-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

Good Lord, when was the last time I wrote anything?

Anyway, I am packing up my long-suffering husband and our two lunatics, I mean delightful children, and taking off for the coast of Maine for vacation. For those lonesome souls who periodically read here, we will be back next week.

Here are my predictions for the trip:

1. LOTS of Dark and Stormys. Check a bartending book. They are a brilliant summer drink, and I never leave home without my favorite mixologist.

That's really the only prediction I care about; the rest would involve misquito bites, stubbed toes, tinkling in the ocean and a screaming lack of air conditioning. God, it sounds like I'm going camping, which I am certainly NOT. Just a little cottage by the seashore, the monkeys, my darling mixologist, and me.

What more can a girl ask for?

Wait For It, Wait For It....

2006-07-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

So, we've been on the vomit-watch since last night. You know -- your child is sick, hasn't thrown up yet, but you sense it is coming, so you touch them with just the right mix of compassion and caution. You want to comfort them, but let's be honest, at the same time keep yourself and your oriental rugs as regurgitation-free as possible.

I should have known something was up. The twins were absolutely diabolical yesterday, pinning the cranky meter all day. The sitter pleaded with me to let her leave. Out of pity, and because she is my niece whom I adore, I waved her goodbye during naptime, which I thought was uncharacteristically brave of me. At dinnertime, I discovered Girly Girl asleep on the couch, a truly unprecedented event, so I knew things were grim. When I woke her, she looked at me with glassy, bloodshot eyes. Since she's not a drunk, I surmised that this was not good. Handsome Boy soon followed suit.

We put them to bed early (DIVINE!), but then couldn't enjoy it. That was indeed a cruel twist of fate. I spent the evening on tenderhooks, just waiting for the hurling to begin. Surely any moment, I thought, one will call to me, and as soon as I get really close to them, they will vomit in my face. You can see why I was nervous. I just wasn't looking forward to it. Around 11:00, just as I was really falling into deep sleep, Handsome Boy cried out. Bracing myself, I ran into their bedroom without my raincoat on for protection. False alarm. He was very feverish, uncomfortable and upset, but not yet pukey. I took him and my edgy nerves into a guestroom and the bunch of us got into bed together.

I knew it would come. Lying there next to Handsome Boy, my eyes as big as saucers in anticipation of the upcoming upchuck, I barely slept a wink all night. Not only did I not want to be hurled upon, most importantly I was afraid to fall asleep and have my little one Jimmi Hendrix on me. My husband had Girly Girl in the master bedroom with him. Oddly enough (not really) they both slept like the tiniest little lambs; he, with not an edgy nerve in his history, and she, well medicated.

Today I think the vomit fear has past. Handsome Boy is still quite feverish and in bed. Girly Girl, however, is just about back to her ninety-miles-an-hour self. Today's dilemma? Having two children sick is no fun, but having one that is sick and one that is well is worse. Playing Florence Nightengale and Mary Poppins all in one day is exhausting, and frankly I just don't have the wardrobe for it.

These Things I Know

2006-07-05T04:44:00.000-07:00

I know that, one day, my children will be teenagers sleeping until noon at every opportunity. Right now, they wake up at 6:15 every day, and it frequently makes me want to cry.

I know that, one day, I will want to beg my children to talk to me. Right now, they chatter, babble, BLATHER ON AND ON incessantly. Put them in the car and it only gets worse. At times it is charming and delightful, but at other times, frankly it makes me want to bang my head against the nearest, hardest structure I can find.

I know that, one day, my children will want nothing to do with one another. Right now, they must be together constantly, if only to get close enough to hit, pinch or kick each other. I mediate so many conflicts every day that I make Kofi Annan look like a hack.

I know that, one day, most likely my children will not want to be with me all the time. Right now, I can barely move a muscle without one of them hanging off of it. It makes me want to call the orphanage about vacancies.

I know that, one day, my children will be horrified by my affection. Right now, I take every kiss, hug, chance to pick them up or rock in the rocking chair I can get.

I know that, one day, my children will likely be able to sense the anxiety and sometimes overwhelming sadness I have way down in my heart. Right now, all they sense is that they want chocolate pudding for dessert. For this I am unspeakably grateful.

I know that, one day, my children will not want to lie in bed with me in the morning. Right now, I don't even mind too much if it happens at 6:15. Seven thirty would be better, but....

I know that, one day, my children will have lots of questions, many of which they will not discuss with me. Right now I try to encourage their curious minds, even though it means they talk more. And more. And more and more and more.....AAARRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!

I know that, one day, my children will leave our home for good. Right now, I watch them run away from me in the backyard, arms flailing, curly hair bouncing, and I am happy to know they will run back to me in a moment.

I know that, one day, my children will have problems I cannot fix. Right now, I know I can stop their tears simply by finding a lost flip-flop. That's sweet.

I know that, one day, I will wistfully remember these days, that are sometimes so long and difficult. Right now, I just wonder: Is it really SO bad to have a martini with lunch?

ACamping We Will Go....

2006-06-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

The twins started camp this week for the first time. It goes for five days, and lasts from 9am to 12pm. Three hours. Three hours that they are out of the house, in the care of other responsible adults, doing fun, stimulating things that make them happy. That gives me three hours to myself. Three hours to my what, now?

This is the first time that the twins have repeatedly been out of the house without me for an extended period. Sure, sometimes my husband will take them on a jaunt to the hardware store, on errands or out to lunch, but you know how that goes. He is enormously capable, but still I worry that he will forget to feed them, or stay out past nap time, or buy them a toy with 9000 pieces that will clutter the playroom for eternity and make me curse. We have two wonderful babysitters that the children adore, and even though I am totally comfortable leaving my children with them, still I worry. Not so much about the twins, more about the sitter -- are the twins driving the sitter insane? Here, I should really stop worrying and just accept that the answer is yes, but we pay her well.

With camp, though, for some reason I am not worried. The children are in a small group of five, with three adults for supervision. Their activities are age appropriate and seem safe, and in a room of three-year-olds I am luckily not yet at the stage where I have to worry about bullying, I think. So, the twins are enjoying themselves, and I have unfetterred free time. WHAT????

This is so unusual for me, so completely foreign to my life for the past three years, that I feel like the first person who has ever been alone in her own house, the first person with the luxury of quiet, the ability to fold the laundry without six hands involved (ok, now this is getting pathetic). Do you know what I did yesterday? I got a pedicure, bought new shoes and a handbag, and I did not need to rush. I'll repeat: I DID NOT NEED TO RUSH. Talk about luxury. Not needing to rush is the extra-soft Tse cashmere turtleneck, the 600-thread count sheets, the hot rocks massage, the Mercedes of free time.

I have been rushing frantically, some would say maniacally, every waking moment of every single day since the twins were born. There are moments, say when we are reading, or when the twins are asleep, when I slow down slightly. Even then, though, I am mentally checking my watch because I have to get dinner ready, or get somewhere, or do the ever-present-never-really-done- DAMN LAUNDRY, or somehow just prepare for whatever is next. If I am not doing something, I am worrying about something just as busily as if I were doing something. Scratch that. I am ALWAYS doing something, and usually actively worrying about something at the same time. I have not been calm for one moment in three years.

But now I have found camp. And soon I will find pre-school, then kindergarten, then - dare I say it? - full day school! Hours of my own time to while away as I please (Yeah, right). Now, don't get me wrong, I am not wishing my life nor my children's childhood away. I will simply be grateful for some time to breathe on a regular basis, and enjoy a balance of children-time and alone-time, which I seem to need more than your average bear. Do I sound like I am trying to get rid of my children? Probably a little. I do not mean it that way. There is no word to remotely describe the love I have for my little monkeys. But every now and then, I just want out of the zoo.

2006-06-22T19:25:00.000-07:00

So, something else happened today. I took the twins for a bike-ride, which for us means, the twins ride their bikes and I walk the (lunatic but oh-so-cute) dog. Fine. As usual of late, we go out of driveway, heading toward the new house being built in our neighborhood. Handsome Boy cannot get enough of the construction zone, and, surprisingly, Girly Girl goes along. So off we go.

Lots of truck traffic on our little road, all kinds of building- and construction- related trucks that slowed us down. Since the twins are very good about pulling over to the side of the road whenever they see an oncoming vehicle, it takes us some time. After awhile, though, Mommy gets tired of the pullovers, as they are not entirely necessary each and every time, and as, cumulatively, they slow down Mommy's day an awful lot.

Anywho, we get to the building site, see the nice men drinking their extra-large cups of coffee, which are probably hot even though Mommy hasn't had a cup of hot flippin' coffee in three years but that's ok, and then we are all done. So we head home, and my monkeys I mean darling children decide that they did not want to ride their bikes home, they want to WALK their bikes home. OK. No sweat. It will take us longer, we will probably not get to the library before lunch, but really no major deal.

Then the skies opened.

It was pouring rain. No one seemed to notice that my hair had originally come out quite well this morning, but that was all gone now. Cooperation ceased, and whining began. I can tolerate alot -- ok some would say only a little but ocaisionally alot -- but I cannot tolerate whining in any way, shape or form. Too bad for me I have two three-year-olds, for whom whining is a primary source of communication. So I am standing in the pouring rain with two freaked-out kids who did not know what to do, and here comes a car. So Girly Girl does what any of us would do in a rainstorm: she hops on her Cinderella bicycle and rides down the middle of the road, straight toward the car.

Me, Handsome Boy and Lunatic Dog are on the other side of the road. Instantly determining who is the most expendable (sorry, Pooch) I drop the leash, run into the middle of the street and grab Girly Girl, Hurling her bike to the side of the road. She is now under my arm, parallel to the street, and the FEMALE in the Mercedes driving by gives me A LOOK! Are you kidding me? Drop the tude, be-yotch, cause I know where you live.

Now I am fuming, due to all of the above. Mostly the Mercedes, though, because can't you just give a sister a break??? The, as usual, I start thinking that I am a lousy mom for going off the deep end when its only raining on my parade, quite literally. Just then, my kind, sweet, FUN neighbor pulls up, opens her van door and says "Who wants a ride?". I stopped almost crying long enough to load everyone in and thank God for REAL girlfriends!!!

He's Cute, But......

2006-06-22T17:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, so Tuesday was a bad day. Understatement. Sorry to be crude, but Monday and Tuesday blew. We survived, and Wednesday was better. Thursday was better. Life is back to some sense of twin-induced normalcy, whatever that may entail.

Oh, one glitch, though. Just when things were going swimmingly, my husband got involved.

Just let me state for the record: I adore my husband. But for a monumental snooze on God's part, there is no reason why such a kind, quirky, interesting-in-a-left-of-center-way man should be with me until death do him part, since surely life with me shall kill him. He is above all kind; there is no other word to so well describe him. He understands that the little acts of kindness make the difference. Just tonight, as my own dad lay in bed, exhausted from chemotherapy and feeling generally crummy, my husband insisted on making him a milkshake, loaded with egg and milk and protein. He truly know its the little things.

Alright, so he's nice. It's not a trait we share. Let's move on, shall we? Tonight, after all that nicety, he singularly decides that the twins no longer need diapers when they sleep. Let me repeat that for all you moms: he got the twins dressed for bed in their underwear, to sleep for a period of perhaps eleven hours, with no diapers on. Who can say MORE LAUNDRY???????

Wish me luck.......

Proceed With Caution

2006-06-20T11:29:00.000-07:00

Fair warning: I am growling while I write this. I have to know, though, so I ask the community at large: Are you ever just massively annoyed at every person, place and thing for no detectable reason, or am I really the freak I think I am?

Usually I am delighted with my children. For three-year-olds, they really are pretty good. They play well together, they're cooperative, and generally have pleasant demeanors. For the past two days, they have been the polar opposite of all of those things. Simultaneously, I have been raging, ranting, and yelling myself hoarse. Hmmmm....let's see..was it the chicken, or the egg?

Truly, I do not know who got pissed off first, but at this point I do not give a tiny little rat's behind. I am so tired of uncooperative children that I could put my fist through a wall if I wasn't such a chicken**it and afraid of the pain and perhaps disfigurement. I have mountains of laundry, a disgracefully dirty kitchen, so many thank you notes to write from when my brother died (which was MONTHS ago), friends I haven't called in so long that they are probably not even my friends anymore, the list goes on and on and on and I am just PISSED!

My children are not cute today. They are not fun today, and they are not funny today. Today, they are annoying. Their requests are annoying, their issues are annoying, even their humor is annoying. If my son does not poop on the damn toilet in the next 48 hours I will sell him for short money, I am so sick of trying. If my husband tells me to be patient about it one more time I will rip the toilet from the wall and hurl it from the highest available precipice. If the damn dog does not stop barking simply for the practice he will be sent to the Chinese restaraunt up the road. Bored, frustrated housewife? YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT I'M A BORED, FRUSTRATED HOUSEWIFE, YOU IDIOT!!!!!!!

Before you get all righteous on my ass, I know my children are only three. I know I need more patience. I know they do not need to be perfect and cute and fun every day (even though, clearly, I am). I know, I know, I KNOW. But today, I just haven't got what it takes. Today I am not being a good mom, and I just needed someone to listen that would not judge me or put me in a white jacket that ties in the back. Am I the only one like this???????

Well, Scarlett, tomorrow is another day.....

Another Reason to Stay Inside

2006-06-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

Now that summer is here it means I have to spend alot of time outside, which as I've mentioned is not my favorite place to be. One of the few redeeming factors of this season, however, is that I get to spend much of that outside time near pools or at the beach. This is good because I do not like being hot at all. Homey don't do hot. The redeeming factor, though, is then un-redeemed by the fact that, unless I am to appear freakish, I need to wear a bathing suit. Believe me when I tell you, that's not good for any of us.

Winter has not been kind to my hips. Let me rephrase: I have been far too kind to my hips. I have stayed in bed when I should have been on the treadmill, I have neglected to forgo far too many desserts/cocktails/steaks, I have overall pampered these thighs, this butt, the remnants of this waist. I have been the dream enabler for the fat cells on my body. Compounding the effects of my largesse, this year I celebrated the eleventh anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday. I'll let you do the math, but what it really means is this: my metabolism has apparently reached its personal retirement age.

Yesterday, no longer able to avoid the upcoming heat of the summer, I heaved myself to a local department store's bathing suit department. Clearly, I should have medicated more heavily first. Bathing suit manufacturers must all be under the age of twenty-five, be related to Kate Moss (or perhaps BE Kate Moss), or simply want us to cry. As I began to sniffle, I heard a friendly "Hello!". It was my dearest girlfriend, on a quick break from work, looking for a bathing suit to put on her tiny, gorgeous self. She had her pick of the litter -- she is one of those women that can donn a pair of polyester elastic waist pants that they offer in the back of Parade magazine and she would look fabulous. Here she is, next to me, looking for a bathing suit. I need something to disguise my thighs (they no longer simply touch, now they actually embrace), and she is looking at suits that come in two pieces. God must be mad at me, to torture me in this way.

Finally I found one, not too hideous looking, that I can add to my small collection of middle-age mother swimsuits. Good thing my children are still too young to be embarrassed. Life would be so much easier, and far more pleasant for the community at large, if I could wear a turtleneck and pants to the pool. I suppose even I am too young for a muumuu, but if it were not for the fact that my husband would immediately divorce me...OH, I'M KIDDING.

Momarazzi

2006-06-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

Alright, fine. I watched it. We don't have to tell anybody, but I watched Matt Lauer, that seasoned, cerebral journalist, interview Britney Spears. I SAID WE DON"T HAVE TO TELL ANYBODY! I don't know what made me do it. Maybe because sometimes at the end of the day all I can possibly muster the brain waves for is mindless television. Maybe because the skank factor was so high that it was like that awful car wreck and I just had to look. Or maybe just because it hurt so good.

Anyway, for whatever reason, I watched it. Now I've showered and don't feel so dirty, so I can think about it. At first I was stunned by the overwhelming lack of any kind of grace, finesse or class of this woman. Keep my secret, but I'm not an ardent Britney fan, and was completely unprepared for her. On national television she sat chewing gum, her skirt so short it was really more of a belt, her pregnant breasts tripping over themselves on their way out of some skimpy, transparent maternity thing that was never in the maternity section of Target while I was shopping.

She made a valiant effort to impress upon us how happy she is, how life with her reportedly estranged husband is just fine, how she just loves being her. Happy, happy, happy. When she answered Matt's questions, though, she invariably looked away while painting these lovely pictures, and a thinnly veiled, very sad look in her eyes was just barely noticeable.

Now, many of us are sad, and we all have our reasons. Few of us are made sad by flaunting ourselves and our life of excess for all the world to see. I am not boo-hooing for the poor little rich girl. But no matter who she is or how she brought herself to be this way, 24 is awfully young to be so sad. Whether you are a squillionaire pop star or a welfare mom on the block, 24 is too young to be so sad. I did not expect to empathize with this woman in any way, shape or form, and that was my first surprising moment of the show. Don't worry; there weren't many more.

What really struck me was how Britney Spears of all people reminded me how parenting can be so tough, and some days you just need people, even one person, to be decent to you, to not judge you. She wants to make a happy life for her child, and so do all parents. I do not believe that she is a role model for motherhood, but she reminded me that neither am I. The only difference is that, when I trip while holding one of our children no one prints a photo of it. If Protective Services visited my home, it would not be discussed on national television. Some days I yell too much, I react too sternly to unimportant things, some days I am not a great mother. I am never a perfect mother. Neither are you. But Britney is doing her version of her best, just like me, and just like you.

I think I had a point, but I lost it. I'm just too tired. Told you I'm not perfect.

Is There a 12-Step Program For Me?

2006-06-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

First, let me clear about one thing: I am in no way being facetious about addiction. There is no possible way I can understand the struggles that so many people face, and I am not attempting to make light of that in any manner.

That being said, I think I have a problem. My particular addiction is, if not careening out of control, definitely getting away from me. It changes the way I spend part of my day, it has clear if relatively insignificant financial ramifications, and it is beginning to affect the way I relate to others. I gotta get this monkey off my back, man.

Now, I have a number of things in my life that I love way more than I wish I did. Among them are bacon, American Idol (let's keep that our little secret, shall we?), kitchen renovation magazines, Ruffles potato chips, our beagle's habit of sleeping in the bed with us, and brownies. Oh, and pajamas. You can never have enough pajamas, if you ask me. Now, those all affect my life in various ways, but none so aggregiously that I ever consider giving them up.

The real trouble in my life, the big kahuna, the mac-daddy of all my addictions, is the shower. I am a shower junkie. Not my neccessarily my own shower, which is nothing special, just the act of being in the shower, any shower at all. I am so not particular that really you could call me a shower whore. They all delight me. Its more than that, though. Any shower that I walk into, I am that shower's bitch.

I get in and I can't get out. I am not overstating this. Today I was in there, having finished any kind of washing quite some time ago, and I heard a noise in the house. It was an unusual noise, and should have been a troubling noise. My husband and children were not at home, so it wasn't them. They had the dog so it wasn't him. For all I knew, the Boston Strangler was in my house and STILL I did not get out of the shower to investigate. I still do not know what the noise was, but no one murdered me.

It's not because I wash the entire time. I do all the required things, and I love to be clean, but this is not about hygiene. This seems to be about refuge. The shower is the one place where I can be alone, usually uninterrupted (often thanks to those nice folks on Sesame Street), its quiet, and its warm. I can think in there, which with twins in the house is a rarity. No one needs my attention, I do not need to speak, and no one is pulling hair. The shower is the only place in my life where all those things occur. No wonder I can't get enough.

My husband would like me to find other hobbies, ones that would not affect our utility bills so much. When he suggests this, I take the opportunity to remind him how many women rival Imelda Marcos with their predilection for shoes. I do not have the shoe addiction gene in the least, which in my opinion he should be eternally grateful for and get the heck off my back. For emphasis, I sometimes bring him to our closet to show him my six or seven boxes of shoes, stacked neatly near his two dozen pairs of loafers/bucks/dirty sneakers strewn about. I can usually count on a win.

I suppose that if I am going to have an addiction I could keep this one. I get clean and sane in one shot. Its cheaper than therapy.

Too Much Fun

2006-06-11T07:32:00.000-07:00

Mommy had too much fun last night. Too much fun as in, Mommy doesn't feel well today. It takes far less fun for Mommy to have too much fun than it used to. I am afraid of that for the following reasons:

1. Does that mean I do not have too much fun often enough anymore? Because that could conceivably mean I am not having enough fun overall, or that I am no longer able to have moderate, appropriate amounts of fun. Okay I am overthinking that concept way too much.

2. Is my rickety, aching, aging body no longer capable of fun in large amounts? Not too worried about this, because I think the answer is no. What my rickety, aching, aging body is no longer capable of in large amounts are vodka gimlets. I can accept that.

3. Did I exhibit poor judgement? Well, clearly yes I did, but there are worse things to exhibit than poor judgement, and I exhibited none of those. Plus, my children were not involved, no animals were injured and I came home with everything I left with, so how bad could it be?

I am going to go ahead and stop worrying because, as I tell the twins every day, fun is good. Six gimlets are bad, but fun is good. Who's with me?

I Can't Always Get What I Want

2006-06-09T11:51:00.000-07:00

Welcome to New England in June. In 2006, that means it has been raining since Valentine's Day, except for one snowstorm and one heatwave. It has been raining for so long that even I want to go outside, and as my last post will attest, that's sayin' somethin'. I never want to go outside. Ever. What I usually want is to be cozy inside, with sweaters and blankets on, my children sitting quietly (HA!) by the roaring fire reading books all the day long. But even the voices in my head tell me that's not gonna happen.

However, like many of us, I always want what I cannot have. So, now I want sun. I want alot of it, at the perfect temperature of not-too-hot-just-nice-and-warm, with no bugs, little wind, and, of course, zero humidity. I want it so that I can finish my paltry attempts to make our yard attractive, but mostly I want it because I can no longer bear two three-year-olds in the house all day long with little outlet for their boundless physical energy. Did I say boundless energy? I meant infinite. No, wait, I meant interminable. No, annoying. No, I mean that I have two lunatics with me all day that never stop moving. That's all you need to know.

How is it that they don't even WANT to stop moving? All I think of, from the moment I wake up in the morning, is the dreamy stillness of my magnificent bed. Well, its not all I think of, but I think about it alot. My children, like most, care not a fig for the entire concept of bed, or rest, or sleep. How can that possibly be? If there is one concept that I can not grasp, and there are many, but if there is one in particular that I cannot get my hands around, it is not wanting to sleep. Or stop moving. Or sit still. I want to do all of those things all the time, and do them actively for a long time every day. Is that so wrong?

You Are Such a Mother, Nature

2006-05-30T17:22:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer. Here it is once again, the season of barbeques, picnics, frisbee, the beach. Finally, after that long winter we’ve all spent inside (at least those of us in New England, ok those of us in New England that don’t ski, which would be me and two ninety-year-old women in Rhode Isaland) and that tease of a spring, finally summer is here at last. Now we can get outside, feel fresh air and warm sunshine on our skin, dig in our gardens; do all those summer things we have longed for lo these many months. The days get longer, with more time to enjoy nature’s beauty that surrounds us…….

I don’t really like nature. I mean, sure, it’s awe-inspiring at times, keeps the world going round and all that, but let’s just say that, for me, nature is best experienced from the couch, or at most from the air-conditioned comfort of a luxury vehicle. Suffice it to say that I am an indoor girl. Those who know me are now holding their sides, wiping tears from their eyes at this most ridiculous of understatements.

For someone like me, summertime comes with an awful lot of pressure. The pressure to get outside, because its summer! The pressure to eat outside, because it’s summer! Let’s play golf/tennis/go for a hike because IT’S SUMMER!

None of this interests me. Well, I guess just getting outside is fine, for awhile, provided it’s not too hot, or too humid, or too buggy, occasionally. But the eating outside? Thanks, no. It’s too hot/humid/buggy. Sports? Please.

I do love the gardening, though. In May. Oh, I get off to a great start, making the rounds to the local garden centers, buying cute new gardening gloves, choosing new perennials for the yard, adding in a few annuals for variety each year. Mostly I just like the gloves. So I get started, digging a little here, pulling a weed there, planting my new purchases, going back for the purple gloves instead of the pink, oh what the heck why not both? Then the temperature warms up, and I move inside to begin hugging the air conditioner. The plants may think warmer weather is good for them, but with me at their helm it is in fact the kiss of death. By the Fourth of July, mine are the loneliest, driest, sorriest little plants on the block.

This weekend I did some gardening for my father. That sounds like a simple task, but for me it is very intimidating. You see, I come from a family of many gardeners. My mother always had lovely flower gardens, and would spend her summer days lovingly tending them in her swimsuit. We used to say that she put her suit on at Memorial Day and took it off on Columbus Day. One of my brothers, a long-time cosmopolitan city dweller, is somehow also a wonderfully talented flower gardener, coming home to re-create and reinvent my mothers gardens year after year, breathing beautiful new life into them each and every time. For as long as I can remember, Dad has planted an enormous vegetable garden every summer, yielding far more tomatoes, hot peppers and zucchini than Mom would be able to cook.

For many reasons, Dad is not feeling up to it this year, and while completely ill-equipped to do so, I volunteered to help. Bringing a smile to his face is close to the top of our priority list these days. All I had to do yesterday was get the plants in the ground, perhaps two dozen at most. Dig a little hole, put the plant in, fill the hole, move on. A little watering, and I can jump in the pool.

Does the name Lisa Douglas mean anything to you? I’ll give you a hint: “I just ADORE a penthouse view…” My brief-but-sweaty foray into Dad’s garden reminded me that I am much closer to the Eva Gabor character on “Green Acres” than the Eddie Arnold character. Foty-five minutes of gardening had me sweating madly, gasping, swatting at gnats or whatever it is flies around gardens these days, my approaching-middle-aged-joints yelping in pain, aching to stand up, but when I did I was so dizzy from the god-awful heat that I had to drop back down into the dirt again IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY CAN I PLEASE TAKE A SHOWER!

Did I mention I’m an inside girl? It’s going to be a long summer……

Velcro Shoes

2006-05-02T12:09:00.000-07:00

There were many things I never understood in those long-ago days before having children. Long, long, long-ago days. Very long ago. Whimper.

Anyway, there were lots of things I never understood. Like velcro shoes. What? Why would you need those? They're ugly, and as we all know, life is too short to wear ugly shoes. Why would you need to close your shoes with velcro, anyway? How lazy can you be? How long can it possibly take any of us, considering we are fortunate enough to have all of our faculties intact, to tie a pair of shoelaces? Really, now.

Then I had twins. Let me tell you, if I could fill our closets with wardrobes encrusted with velcro I would do it. I adore velcro shoes now. Tying the shoelaces of our two three-year-olds is like wrestling a jacked-up alligator, and I'll have none of it, thank you. Never mind the fact that, as soon as I get said shoelaces tied and said child outside, said child will announce to all and sundry that he/she "HAS TO TINKLE"!!! For some reason, we are not yet at a point where we can tinkle with our shoes on in this house.

Then let's not forget coming home. Provided I get shoelaces tied, tinkling accomplished (theirs and mine), milk cups packed, jackets on, dog inside, keys in hand OH MY GOD THIS IS RIDICULOUS ALL I AM DOING IS GOING TO THE #$%@^&* STORE!!! Provided all this gets done in anything approaching a timely fashion,there is always the return home shoelace extravaganza to deal with. The UNtying is no less aggravating than the tying itself, as the laces are usually in double knots, and there is usually some far more pressing issue that the twins must get to before taking off their shoes, which are not allowed in the house. Frequently this pressing issue is tinkling. Perhaps I do not have a shoelace problem; perhaps I have a bladder problem. But I digress.....

So, velcro shoes were something I did not adequately understand, or treasure, before having children. Sort of like free time, enough sleep, or a manicure. An uninterrupted telephone conversation, an organized house, or silence. Or the importance of patience, a sense of humor, and a supportive spouse. Like the sound of a child's laughter. How the littlest hands can give the biggest hugs. The way my heart feels when the tiniest voice says "I love you". How such a small smile can make such a huge difference. So many things I did not understand.......