as well as a song by the Beatles.
Sometimes people who are poor,
really are just lazy.
Sometimes you feel like a nut,
sometimes you're just fucking crazy.
It's hard not to judge people,
especially when they are idiots.
History repeats itself,
even when you swore it wouldn't.
Comfort is knowing that at least you still look good
and brush your teeth daily while some people don't.
Comfort is also knowing he couldn't live without you,
while his interest in other parties fades away.
People change and when they do take a turn for the worst,
you are obligated to punch them in the balls.
Oh, and divorce. Yeh, THAT SUCKS.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Life's a beach
Is there anything more supremely relaxing than a day spent at a beach? Let me answer that for you... 'No, Casey, no there is NOT anything. Everything else dulls in comparison to a leisurely day filled with sand, surf and attractive life guardians.'
So, Sunday my mother and I took Braeden to a hybrid park/beach in Tarpon Springs. This was also the location of Brae's last birthday party. We are fortunate enough to live pretty close to the beach, a 30-45 minute drive (the rate varies according to my mother's anguish) and we are burying our toes deep into the sand and thwarting gulls attempts to make away with an entire bag of BBQ chips.
Bastards.
The weather has been ideal here this past week, started off cool and then slowly the sun started peeking out and nodding in agreement to my requests for a nice beach weather weekend, which was awesome.
Because Brae has a love affair with the beach. And I say this with such a serious face because the level of his affinity for the beach is unparalleled with his love for anything else, except perhaps butterfly barrettes.
It's the ocean that he loves and forces his mother to slosh through. Try as hard as I may to convince him that it may not be a fantastic idea to go trampsing around in areas in which our feet are not visible, he wades in further and the look on his face, that crazy exhilarated look just about kills me. He is having SO MUCH FUN that it radiates out his eyeballs. That, or he is wizzing in the water. Also, very possible.
So I splashing, I trudged, I climbed rocks and ate sandwiches laced with sand. And loved every minute of it as did he:
I was all, 'hey Braeden, lets be the little mermaid' and he was NOT responsive to my request, As you can plainly see........
So, Sunday my mother and I took Braeden to a hybrid park/beach in Tarpon Springs. This was also the location of Brae's last birthday party. We are fortunate enough to live pretty close to the beach, a 30-45 minute drive (the rate varies according to my mother's anguish) and we are burying our toes deep into the sand and thwarting gulls attempts to make away with an entire bag of BBQ chips.
Bastards.
The weather has been ideal here this past week, started off cool and then slowly the sun started peeking out and nodding in agreement to my requests for a nice beach weather weekend, which was awesome.
Because Brae has a love affair with the beach. And I say this with such a serious face because the level of his affinity for the beach is unparalleled with his love for anything else, except perhaps butterfly barrettes.
It's the ocean that he loves and forces his mother to slosh through. Try as hard as I may to convince him that it may not be a fantastic idea to go trampsing around in areas in which our feet are not visible, he wades in further and the look on his face, that crazy exhilarated look just about kills me. He is having SO MUCH FUN that it radiates out his eyeballs. That, or he is wizzing in the water. Also, very possible.
So I splashing, I trudged, I climbed rocks and ate sandwiches laced with sand. And loved every minute of it as did he:
I was all, 'hey Braeden, lets be the little mermaid' and he was NOT responsive to my request, As you can plainly see........
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I'm a hustler
Hustling to study for this test that is.
FTCE
Saturday
8:30 am
Light a candle in prayer for me.
FTCE
Saturday
8:30 am
Light a candle in prayer for me.
It is what it should be.
It's always at night that I ache for him.
He sleeps beside me, still to the world and silenced in the movement around him. His features have not changed much from years ago. His eyes still bat delicately with the rise and fall of his chest. His lips still pull tight against the ruddy and plump cheeks supporting them, murmuring inaudible words to the night. His arms still reach out pawing at the void surrounding him as I watch him combat the dreams encompassing him.
He is blissfully unaware of the turmoil that surrounds his life.
He sleeps without the hurt of one less heart of which he can hold. He sleeps in a state of comfortable security, my breath holds seconds from his. He sleeps without the hurt of an abandoned child.
How swift the tide of your life moves, drawing back from what you thought could be. I would have listed it all and browsed my faults, still electing to repeat my mistakes for this.
And if the truth were to surface to light it would shine on the ways in which I wanted this this to be, exactly this.
He sleeps beside me, still to the world and silenced in the movement around him. His features have not changed much from years ago. His eyes still bat delicately with the rise and fall of his chest. His lips still pull tight against the ruddy and plump cheeks supporting them, murmuring inaudible words to the night. His arms still reach out pawing at the void surrounding him as I watch him combat the dreams encompassing him.
He is blissfully unaware of the turmoil that surrounds his life.
He sleeps without the hurt of one less heart of which he can hold. He sleeps in a state of comfortable security, my breath holds seconds from his. He sleeps without the hurt of an abandoned child.
How swift the tide of your life moves, drawing back from what you thought could be. I would have listed it all and browsed my faults, still electing to repeat my mistakes for this.
And if the truth were to surface to light it would shine on the ways in which I wanted this this to be, exactly this.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Crazycakes
So, Brae has taken to rolling his eyes at me. Often. So often in fact that I threatened to duct tape his eyes closed if he does not stop.
Plus, it scares the ever loving daylights out of me when he does it:
Is it just me or does it look like that face is the result of a one night stand with this guy-
'Brae, I am your father.........'
Plus, it scares the ever loving daylights out of me when he does it:
Is it just me or does it look like that face is the result of a one night stand with this guy-
'Brae, I am your father.........'
Redneck motorsports
If you will remember, about a month ago I had the pleasure of taking Braeden out to our county fair to watch a demolition derby
And while I was less than enthusiastic about the event, I bit my lower lip long enough to get through it and ended up having a rather pleasant afternoon. When I told Brae about the concept of the demolition derby he was thrilled, 'you mean they can crash cars?!'
'Oh yes son, they can. But only in an arena- and only if the driver is sporting 10 year old Wranglers that have a permanent crease in the back pocket from the Copenhagen that he/she has been sitting on for centuries.'
While I was happy enough to take Brae to the first installment of redneck motor sports, I wanted to drop kick my mother into that arena when she offered up to Brae that there would be ANOTHER demolition derby in only a month! Yay!
Damn.
So last weekend we made a 30 mile trek to a neighboring county for their fair and their version of the demolition derby, which heretofore will be known as the derby of death or 'D.O.D.'
Walking up to the fair booth to purchase our tickets I soon realized that we had been ripped from our comfortable suburbs and spewn forth into the land of cowboy hats and cow manure. Everywhere I looked there were confederate flags and Dixie cup spittoons. I signaled my mother over to whisper that I thought we could very well be out of our league here, to which she brushed off and said, 'This is for Brae, you'll survive."
But would I? I have a very sensitive nasal passage and the disastrous combination of Marlboro and B.O. was deadly to my delicate senses. I could feel the brain cells dissolving as I sat on the bleachers attune to conversations around me.
The 'arena' consisted of a dirt pit which was blockaded off from the crowd by giant cement blocks a mere 5 feet from where we sat. Something inside told me that this was not adequate safety measures to ensure that a rusty bumper would not come sailing into the crowd to maim or decapitate my family.
The D.O.D. was over half an hour late in beginning. Half an hour in which I sat sardined into those bleachers between a chain smoking grandfather and a eight year old in a midriff. Half and hour, at which point my nose said, 'fuck this' and slid off my face to go get a corn dog.
It was miserable, and did I mention that we live in Florida? In a state of constant heat and humidity and our state is all, 'Spring? Whats that?!'
The heat only escalated the pheromones emitting from the bodies surrounding me. Thank god my nose had already vacated the premises, or we would have had a serious problem.
Finally, the D.O.D started. Brae was enthralled, as expected. I kept a death grip on his arm, shielding us from potentially airborne car parts, as expected.
Through slanted eyes, I was able to witness some of the carnage. The level of enthusiasm from the bleachers surrounding me was deafening.
'Yeh, gettem. Gettem good! Hit 'em hard. Woooooo! Just like that! Woooooo!'
I tried to coerce my son into yelling, ' GIT R DONE!' at a particularly quiet moment during the D.O.D, but he shot me that, 'mom do NOT mess me right now, mmkay?' look that I have become all too familiar with.
So we survived with all limbs intact, much to my general amazement. And we left before THE MAIN EVENT! as to beat the throng of spectators out to the parking lot.
I was pleased with my level of tolerance. There was a man smoking less than an arms length away from my son and I didn't take the cigarette and shove it up his ass. This new level of patience was incredible.
However, on the way out I grabbed my mothers arm firmly as I whispered on a level not audible to my son, that this was the last demolition derby ever, and if she was to even let the words 'demolition derby' slip through her lips, I would make sure the next man I brought home to meet her would look like this:
YeeHaw.
And while I was less than enthusiastic about the event, I bit my lower lip long enough to get through it and ended up having a rather pleasant afternoon. When I told Brae about the concept of the demolition derby he was thrilled, 'you mean they can crash cars?!'
'Oh yes son, they can. But only in an arena- and only if the driver is sporting 10 year old Wranglers that have a permanent crease in the back pocket from the Copenhagen that he/she has been sitting on for centuries.'
While I was happy enough to take Brae to the first installment of redneck motor sports, I wanted to drop kick my mother into that arena when she offered up to Brae that there would be ANOTHER demolition derby in only a month! Yay!
Damn.
So last weekend we made a 30 mile trek to a neighboring county for their fair and their version of the demolition derby, which heretofore will be known as the derby of death or 'D.O.D.'
Walking up to the fair booth to purchase our tickets I soon realized that we had been ripped from our comfortable suburbs and spewn forth into the land of cowboy hats and cow manure. Everywhere I looked there were confederate flags and Dixie cup spittoons. I signaled my mother over to whisper that I thought we could very well be out of our league here, to which she brushed off and said, 'This is for Brae, you'll survive."
But would I? I have a very sensitive nasal passage and the disastrous combination of Marlboro and B.O. was deadly to my delicate senses. I could feel the brain cells dissolving as I sat on the bleachers attune to conversations around me.
The 'arena' consisted of a dirt pit which was blockaded off from the crowd by giant cement blocks a mere 5 feet from where we sat. Something inside told me that this was not adequate safety measures to ensure that a rusty bumper would not come sailing into the crowd to maim or decapitate my family.
The D.O.D. was over half an hour late in beginning. Half an hour in which I sat sardined into those bleachers between a chain smoking grandfather and a eight year old in a midriff. Half and hour, at which point my nose said, 'fuck this' and slid off my face to go get a corn dog.
It was miserable, and did I mention that we live in Florida? In a state of constant heat and humidity and our state is all, 'Spring? Whats that?!'
The heat only escalated the pheromones emitting from the bodies surrounding me. Thank god my nose had already vacated the premises, or we would have had a serious problem.
Finally, the D.O.D started. Brae was enthralled, as expected. I kept a death grip on his arm, shielding us from potentially airborne car parts, as expected.
Through slanted eyes, I was able to witness some of the carnage. The level of enthusiasm from the bleachers surrounding me was deafening.
'Yeh, gettem. Gettem good! Hit 'em hard. Woooooo! Just like that! Woooooo!'
I tried to coerce my son into yelling, ' GIT R DONE!' at a particularly quiet moment during the D.O.D, but he shot me that, 'mom do NOT mess me right now, mmkay?' look that I have become all too familiar with.
So we survived with all limbs intact, much to my general amazement. And we left before THE MAIN EVENT! as to beat the throng of spectators out to the parking lot.
I was pleased with my level of tolerance. There was a man smoking less than an arms length away from my son and I didn't take the cigarette and shove it up his ass. This new level of patience was incredible.
However, on the way out I grabbed my mothers arm firmly as I whispered on a level not audible to my son, that this was the last demolition derby ever, and if she was to even let the words 'demolition derby' slip through her lips, I would make sure the next man I brought home to meet her would look like this:
YeeHaw.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Cathy Nichols
And just like that, Im back to birds
Etsy store: http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5120532
Website: http://www.cathynichols.com/
Etsy store: http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5120532
Website: http://www.cathynichols.com/
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Spring has sprung
A couple of weeks ago, Braeden's daycare held a 'Spring Hat Parade'.
The weeks leading up to this event proved to be quite the challenge, because, hello? We all know that if seasons were people, spring would be the fancy young mare with a spring in her step and a daisy tucked delicately behind one ear. It's a girlie season and there is NOT many ways to craft a spring hat without the use of a bonnet, gingham ribbon and half-pound of paper lilies.
However, I brainstormed and came up with the idea of a turtle. Ask me how a turtle is incorporated into Spring and I will lie, because I have absolutely no clue. But, I wanted him to wear a cap, and the cap was round and turtles shells are round and.......you get the picture.
So we started by buying a plain white hat (I got mine at a craft store called Michaels)
We used basic green dye, which we boiled the hat in on the stove (and promptly ruined a pot)
Then, I cut a sponge into triangles and let Brae paint the top of the hat with orange triangles
I then used a semi circular piece of foam(?) that florist use, purchased at the same craft store
I painted it green, glued some googly eyes on it and cut out a mouth from red felt
The step that took the longest was crafting the legs, I couldn't think of anything good to use for the legs, so I ended up just buying green felt and stuffing it with craft stuffing and hand sewing it into circles.
In the end I think it came out rather nice:
I have a few more pictures to share, these are from last weekend when I took Braeden to the performing arts center to see 'The very hungry caterpillar' by Eric Carle. A few observations, as this was our first play.
Number one: Please do not bring a child under 3 to a play. Chances are, they are not going to pay attention to any of the action on stage and will rather wail loudly and glare at you from the seat ahead.
Number two: If your child insists on shitting during the performance (and I understand, people tell me that some children have no control over this), promptly remove him from the theatre and diaper him so that the entire world must not gag through the show.
Number three: Do not touch my child, seriously, back the fuck up.
Number four: If you are going to lose everyone's tickets at the box office, please open additional windows so that an angry mob with toddlers to use as projectiles are not killing you with their eyes. Or you know what, if you are going to have a 'computer glitch' a half-hour before the show starts, you go ahead and just keep two windows open. It'll be fun.
Number five: I need to write a children's book. I am pretty sure this could be accomplished in my sleep.
Okay, so Braeden located our seats on the map. He is such a smart cookie.
Here we are waiting for the show to begin and snorting fecal particles that were floating about the air. No wonder my smile is fake.
Oh, and at this point my camera's battery died. So I would have some photos of the actual play to share with you, had I not been such an assclown and actually charged it.
Doesn't matter, the poop particles wafting through the air killed any brain cells I would have had left to operate the camera.
Seriously, it stunk. And hooray for a kid that craps in a toilet.
The weeks leading up to this event proved to be quite the challenge, because, hello? We all know that if seasons were people, spring would be the fancy young mare with a spring in her step and a daisy tucked delicately behind one ear. It's a girlie season and there is NOT many ways to craft a spring hat without the use of a bonnet, gingham ribbon and half-pound of paper lilies.
However, I brainstormed and came up with the idea of a turtle. Ask me how a turtle is incorporated into Spring and I will lie, because I have absolutely no clue. But, I wanted him to wear a cap, and the cap was round and turtles shells are round and.......you get the picture.
So we started by buying a plain white hat (I got mine at a craft store called Michaels)
We used basic green dye, which we boiled the hat in on the stove (and promptly ruined a pot)
Then, I cut a sponge into triangles and let Brae paint the top of the hat with orange triangles
I then used a semi circular piece of foam(?) that florist use, purchased at the same craft store
I painted it green, glued some googly eyes on it and cut out a mouth from red felt
The step that took the longest was crafting the legs, I couldn't think of anything good to use for the legs, so I ended up just buying green felt and stuffing it with craft stuffing and hand sewing it into circles.
In the end I think it came out rather nice:
I have a few more pictures to share, these are from last weekend when I took Braeden to the performing arts center to see 'The very hungry caterpillar' by Eric Carle. A few observations, as this was our first play.
Number one: Please do not bring a child under 3 to a play. Chances are, they are not going to pay attention to any of the action on stage and will rather wail loudly and glare at you from the seat ahead.
Number two: If your child insists on shitting during the performance (and I understand, people tell me that some children have no control over this), promptly remove him from the theatre and diaper him so that the entire world must not gag through the show.
Number three: Do not touch my child, seriously, back the fuck up.
Number four: If you are going to lose everyone's tickets at the box office, please open additional windows so that an angry mob with toddlers to use as projectiles are not killing you with their eyes. Or you know what, if you are going to have a 'computer glitch' a half-hour before the show starts, you go ahead and just keep two windows open. It'll be fun.
Number five: I need to write a children's book. I am pretty sure this could be accomplished in my sleep.
Okay, so Braeden located our seats on the map. He is such a smart cookie.
Here we are waiting for the show to begin and snorting fecal particles that were floating about the air. No wonder my smile is fake.
Oh, and at this point my camera's battery died. So I would have some photos of the actual play to share with you, had I not been such an assclown and actually charged it.
Doesn't matter, the poop particles wafting through the air killed any brain cells I would have had left to operate the camera.
Seriously, it stunk. And hooray for a kid that craps in a toilet.
A tool is right
Dad: "So do you want know how I remembered to buy all of things we needed for dinner tonight?!"
"Well, see what I did was I listed all the things we needed to make cubans in my head. So, we've got the meat- ham, salami, Spanish pork roast. Then the cheese- swiss. And then of course, the cuban bread. So I made a story in my head to help me remember these items at the grocery store, because you know how bad I am, I always forget something........ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, my story! So- there is this Spanish fleet sailing across the Atlantic and on one of the ships is a Cuban baker (see, cuban bread!) and he has with him this pig, right? So he is holding this old pig (yeah, ham) named Sal (short for what? Salami!) and a little Spanish man comes up behind him and stabs the pig with a fork (get it, Spanish pork roast?!). So the Cuban baker gets really mad and shoots him full of holes (like...what? like....what? A cheese that has holes, what would that be? Swiss!)."
"See, and then I remembered everything when I was at the store because I had this story I could think of to help me remember! Like a memory tool!"
Pause
Mom: "So, uh, what happened to the baker?"
I tell you, I am still laughing, two days later and still funny.
"Well, see what I did was I listed all the things we needed to make cubans in my head. So, we've got the meat- ham, salami, Spanish pork roast. Then the cheese- swiss. And then of course, the cuban bread. So I made a story in my head to help me remember these items at the grocery store, because you know how bad I am, I always forget something........ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, my story! So- there is this Spanish fleet sailing across the Atlantic and on one of the ships is a Cuban baker (see, cuban bread!) and he has with him this pig, right? So he is holding this old pig (yeah, ham) named Sal (short for what? Salami!) and a little Spanish man comes up behind him and stabs the pig with a fork (get it, Spanish pork roast?!). So the Cuban baker gets really mad and shoots him full of holes (like...what? like....what? A cheese that has holes, what would that be? Swiss!)."
"See, and then I remembered everything when I was at the store because I had this story I could think of to help me remember! Like a memory tool!"
Pause
Mom: "So, uh, what happened to the baker?"
I tell you, I am still laughing, two days later and still funny.
Monday, April 7, 2008
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.
It must be noted that as a first time mother, I may be overly concerned with some problems my son presents to me.
"Mommy, I have cramps in my legs"
OMG, it's the onset of juvenile arthritis.
"Mommy, I'm so dizzy"
REALLY?! Are you feeling hyperglycemic?!
"Mommy, I have a bad headache"
Jesus, it's a TUMOR!
HOWEVER, the crisis faced at bedtime last night was most certainly a cause for concern and spun me into an exaggerated mother panic mode that ended with my son pleading with me to shove an entire washcloth up his anus.
It was during our rudimentary bedtime routine, somewhere between pinning him down to brush his teeth and insisting that it was NOT time for some chocolate milkshakes, that I noticed the vigorous tugging on his bum. It started with a slight 'lean and tug' and progressed into a full-fledged excavation, wherein Braeden started to wail.
"MOOOOOMMMMY, MY BUM HURTS"
"What's wrong with it"
"It itches, FROM THE INSIDE"
"Okay, well maybe you have to poop" (Because a good poop is obviously the solution to every bum problem).
So hours went by, (it could have been minutes, but as he is male, and it was bedtime, he sat there until I insisted that nothing was going on down there and 'yes, your legs are numb because the toilet seat has cut off the blood flow to your lower extremities')
After a few minutes of back patting and comforting through the symphony of moans and grunts emitting from my disgruntled toddler's mouth, I did what every good mother parenting through the 21st century does: I Googled.
Suddenly, a clutched hand flew to my heart. Fungus'?! 'Pinworms?!'
.....and we rapidly progressed from a conditioned yellow raised state of alertness to RED ALERT as the sirens sounded throughout our home.
First we tried some basic diaper rash cream I had left over from diapering days. No good. He was pleased for .7 seconds and then the screeching returned.
Next I warmed a washcloth and placed it between cheeks. This was nice. This was good. But then, 'it wasn't deep enough and mommy can you put it alllll the way in'? No, because I will have a helluva time explaining THAT one the EMT technicians.
Exasperated after an hour of trying to calm the itchy bum I yielded to my toddlers pleas to leave his bed. We went into the living room and watched "House Hunters" which seem to placate him enough to allow commentary on the houses.
"Ooh, that kitchen is CUTE"
"Hey, your bum feels better?"
"Oh, No. Ouch! OUCH! MY BUM........ I like that pool, Mommy."
"If this is a ploy to stay up later I am going to be very mad at you"
"WOW MOMMY LOOK AT HIS CAR"
So finally, after 'House Hunters' was over I was convinced to lay down with him (and thus did not get any of my ironing accomplished, which threw me out of whack this morning and we all know what I can be like out of whack.)
At my mothers suggestion, I waited until he had fallen asleep and pulled out my flashlights and went searching for worms. Apparently, pinworms in humans is NOT a myth. Yet, teasing them out with a banana IS. And then I wondered what my reaction would be had someone opened the door just then as I hoovered inches above my child's bum with a flashlight strapped to my head peering and poking about. I can imagine something similar to this .
This morning he awoke without any recollection of the past nights events and only when I asked how his bum was doing did he acknowledged that, 'oh yes, my bum DID hurt last night, didn't it?'
Oh yes. It did.
Commence the decrease of alert level. Yellow alert. Remain stable.
"Mommy, I have cramps in my legs"
OMG, it's the onset of juvenile arthritis.
"Mommy, I'm so dizzy"
REALLY?! Are you feeling hyperglycemic?!
"Mommy, I have a bad headache"
Jesus, it's a TUMOR!
HOWEVER, the crisis faced at bedtime last night was most certainly a cause for concern and spun me into an exaggerated mother panic mode that ended with my son pleading with me to shove an entire washcloth up his anus.
It was during our rudimentary bedtime routine, somewhere between pinning him down to brush his teeth and insisting that it was NOT time for some chocolate milkshakes, that I noticed the vigorous tugging on his bum. It started with a slight 'lean and tug' and progressed into a full-fledged excavation, wherein Braeden started to wail.
"MOOOOOMMMMY, MY BUM HURTS"
"What's wrong with it"
"It itches, FROM THE INSIDE"
"Okay, well maybe you have to poop" (Because a good poop is obviously the solution to every bum problem).
So hours went by, (it could have been minutes, but as he is male, and it was bedtime, he sat there until I insisted that nothing was going on down there and 'yes, your legs are numb because the toilet seat has cut off the blood flow to your lower extremities')
After a few minutes of back patting and comforting through the symphony of moans and grunts emitting from my disgruntled toddler's mouth, I did what every good mother parenting through the 21st century does: I Googled.
Suddenly, a clutched hand flew to my heart. Fungus'?! 'Pinworms?!'
.....and we rapidly progressed from a conditioned yellow raised state of alertness to RED ALERT as the sirens sounded throughout our home.
First we tried some basic diaper rash cream I had left over from diapering days. No good. He was pleased for .7 seconds and then the screeching returned.
Next I warmed a washcloth and placed it between cheeks. This was nice. This was good. But then, 'it wasn't deep enough and mommy can you put it alllll the way in'? No, because I will have a helluva time explaining THAT one the EMT technicians.
Exasperated after an hour of trying to calm the itchy bum I yielded to my toddlers pleas to leave his bed. We went into the living room and watched "House Hunters" which seem to placate him enough to allow commentary on the houses.
"Ooh, that kitchen is CUTE"
"Hey, your bum feels better?"
"Oh, No. Ouch! OUCH! MY BUM........ I like that pool, Mommy."
"If this is a ploy to stay up later I am going to be very mad at you"
"WOW MOMMY LOOK AT HIS CAR"
So finally, after 'House Hunters' was over I was convinced to lay down with him (and thus did not get any of my ironing accomplished, which threw me out of whack this morning and we all know what I can be like out of whack.)
At my mothers suggestion, I waited until he had fallen asleep and pulled out my flashlights and went searching for worms. Apparently, pinworms in humans is NOT a myth. Yet, teasing them out with a banana IS. And then I wondered what my reaction would be had someone opened the door just then as I hoovered inches above my child's bum with a flashlight strapped to my head peering and poking about. I can imagine something similar to this .
This morning he awoke without any recollection of the past nights events and only when I asked how his bum was doing did he acknowledged that, 'oh yes, my bum DID hurt last night, didn't it?'
Oh yes. It did.
Commence the decrease of alert level. Yellow alert. Remain stable.
Friday, April 4, 2008
What? It's protein!
Guess what we found dead in our communal company water cooler this morning?
I'll give you a hint: I used to clip them to my ears as a hillbilly backwards bumpkin' growing up in rural central Florida.....
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Annette Mangseth
I really adore mixed media artwork and aside from my beloved Amy Rice, I have yet to find another artist that so completely envelopes everything I love about mixed media until by chance. nay, FATE, I stumbled upon Annette Mangseth.
Of course I love every piece with each little crevice of my beating heart and would gladly name my next child or canine after her (you know, whichever comes first), but I have to set my current obsession with birds aside, and worship at the frayed edges of her collection of women with colleged 'do's.
Have a look around her Etsy store and if you are so compelled, buy me something.
http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5002535
Of course I love every piece with each little crevice of my beating heart and would gladly name my next child or canine after her (you know, whichever comes first), but I have to set my current obsession with birds aside, and worship at the frayed edges of her collection of women with colleged 'do's.
Have a look around her Etsy store and if you are so compelled, buy me something.
http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5002535
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Jokes on you
Last night's conversation between my mother and grandmother proved to be quite entertaining for strained ears.
My mother on the phone with Granny:
"So did you prank anyone with an April fools joke?"
"You did?!"
pause
"Well, that just doesn't seem right!"
"What was his handicap?"
(my mind is now reeling with visions of my beloved Granny shoving an invalid down 30 flights of stairs only to point and shout, 'fooled you!')
"Ooh no, that still doesn't sound right?!"
"Haha, well I guess if he thought it was funny, personally- I'd be pissed......"
END OF INTERESTING CONVERSATION AND THE POINT AT WHICH I STARTED TO PACE BACK AND FORTH BEFORE MY MOM LIKE A DOG WITH WITH A WEAK BLADDER BEGGING FOR HER TO GET OFF THE PHONE.
Me: "What happened to the poor invalid that she propelled down the stairs?"
Mom: "What are you talking about?"
Me: "You said she pranked someone with a handicap, Is she going to jail now?!"
Mom: "Settle down, she pranked one of the kids on her bus" (Granny is an assistant on a school bus for the special education children).
Mom: She has a boy with downs syndrome on her bus that asks what his treat is everyday (as if they give them candy, which they don't). So today when he asked for his treat, she said, "I have a treat for you...." and handed him an empty box of chocolates. He sat down and opened it and started laughing and she said, "April Fools!"
Me: "Wait, so he thought it was funny?"
Mom: "Yeh. I guess"
Me: "Hmmm. I would be pissed."
Mom: "Thats what I said!"
So good news, Granny is not a heartless old woman after all. Which is nice.
My mother on the phone with Granny:
"So did you prank anyone with an April fools joke?"
"You did?!"
pause
"Well, that just doesn't seem right!"
"What was his handicap?"
(my mind is now reeling with visions of my beloved Granny shoving an invalid down 30 flights of stairs only to point and shout, 'fooled you!')
"Ooh no, that still doesn't sound right?!"
"Haha, well I guess if he thought it was funny, personally- I'd be pissed......"
END OF INTERESTING CONVERSATION AND THE POINT AT WHICH I STARTED TO PACE BACK AND FORTH BEFORE MY MOM LIKE A DOG WITH WITH A WEAK BLADDER BEGGING FOR HER TO GET OFF THE PHONE.
Me: "What happened to the poor invalid that she propelled down the stairs?"
Mom: "What are you talking about?"
Me: "You said she pranked someone with a handicap, Is she going to jail now?!"
Mom: "Settle down, she pranked one of the kids on her bus" (Granny is an assistant on a school bus for the special education children).
Mom: She has a boy with downs syndrome on her bus that asks what his treat is everyday (as if they give them candy, which they don't). So today when he asked for his treat, she said, "I have a treat for you...." and handed him an empty box of chocolates. He sat down and opened it and started laughing and she said, "April Fools!"
Me: "Wait, so he thought it was funny?"
Mom: "Yeh. I guess"
Me: "Hmmm. I would be pissed."
Mom: "Thats what I said!"
So good news, Granny is not a heartless old woman after all. Which is nice.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Detox to happiness
The first few pills I took projected me into a physical and emotional tailspin. Dizzy and nauseated, I recall living those first few painful weeks shielded from my own misled thoughts and feelings, clouded in a trance-like stupor. They were wonderfully numbing, coating the pain throughout my scarred body like aloe. A simple solution to my pain, no larger than my pinkie, provided by my doctor to help ease me through a life-altering transition.
I toted a blanket to work with me for the first two weeks, napping throughout my lunches. I forwent the lunch time gatherings of my co-workers, pulling the blanket taut around my face and allowing myself to submit to the safety the blanket afforded me. The day a panic attack shook my body from it's trance like state, I allowed myself to be whisked away from my cubicle, exposed to the world once again, if only for a few minutes, before being guided into the safety of my mother's waiting car.
For eight months I have held the tiny orange bottle tight in my hand every morning and listened with satisfaction to the popping sound made when I upset the lid. Faithfully, I have chugged liquids and ate a nibble of food as not to upset my stomach. Curled upon the couch were days spent when I forgot to re-fill a prescription. Tremors and dizzy spills wrecked my body with such intensity, that much of my day would be spent praying to the porcelain god for an end to my madness.
Eight months I have allowed myself to be cradled and carried along, dazed and pleased inside my drugged haze.
And then I heard an upsetting story told by a friend.
The genuineness of the story, the raw scathed feelings of a young girl who was molested by a family member were confessed over a plate of spaghetti and a bottle of cheap red wine. My insides shook with sadness, my heart pounded with anger and my throat constricted at the confession of my friend. I sat as a bubble of sorrow built in my stomach and started its journey upwards. I waited as I felt the bubble expand in my throat and stall. I blinked back dry eyes. The bubble sat lodged in my windpipe as I willed the tears to appear. They refused and as I sat drenched in pain for another, a new painful revelation overtook me.
I haven't cried.
In eight months I have lived somewhat in denial for my loss, my son's loss and the pain that I know the future is keeping for us. I have allowed myself to be swept up in a numbing tide and carried out to an island where pain does not exist.
That night I sat on the edge of my bed and fingered the label attached to side of the orange bottle that had been my crutch for so long. Gently, I stripped away the label, peeling away the information that contained my lifeline and prescribed happiness. I discarded the directions to mask emotions and embraced another important decision.
Today is only the beginning of the first week of detoxing from anti-depressants. Though I am grateful for the many nights I was rescued from drowning in a sea of pity, I am ready to live un-medicated and vulnerable to myself and subsequent emotions. I can embrace tomorrow because no longer is tomorrow shadowed in dread.
It will be okay because I will be okay.
I toted a blanket to work with me for the first two weeks, napping throughout my lunches. I forwent the lunch time gatherings of my co-workers, pulling the blanket taut around my face and allowing myself to submit to the safety the blanket afforded me. The day a panic attack shook my body from it's trance like state, I allowed myself to be whisked away from my cubicle, exposed to the world once again, if only for a few minutes, before being guided into the safety of my mother's waiting car.
For eight months I have held the tiny orange bottle tight in my hand every morning and listened with satisfaction to the popping sound made when I upset the lid. Faithfully, I have chugged liquids and ate a nibble of food as not to upset my stomach. Curled upon the couch were days spent when I forgot to re-fill a prescription. Tremors and dizzy spills wrecked my body with such intensity, that much of my day would be spent praying to the porcelain god for an end to my madness.
Eight months I have allowed myself to be cradled and carried along, dazed and pleased inside my drugged haze.
And then I heard an upsetting story told by a friend.
The genuineness of the story, the raw scathed feelings of a young girl who was molested by a family member were confessed over a plate of spaghetti and a bottle of cheap red wine. My insides shook with sadness, my heart pounded with anger and my throat constricted at the confession of my friend. I sat as a bubble of sorrow built in my stomach and started its journey upwards. I waited as I felt the bubble expand in my throat and stall. I blinked back dry eyes. The bubble sat lodged in my windpipe as I willed the tears to appear. They refused and as I sat drenched in pain for another, a new painful revelation overtook me.
I haven't cried.
In eight months I have lived somewhat in denial for my loss, my son's loss and the pain that I know the future is keeping for us. I have allowed myself to be swept up in a numbing tide and carried out to an island where pain does not exist.
That night I sat on the edge of my bed and fingered the label attached to side of the orange bottle that had been my crutch for so long. Gently, I stripped away the label, peeling away the information that contained my lifeline and prescribed happiness. I discarded the directions to mask emotions and embraced another important decision.
Today is only the beginning of the first week of detoxing from anti-depressants. Though I am grateful for the many nights I was rescued from drowning in a sea of pity, I am ready to live un-medicated and vulnerable to myself and subsequent emotions. I can embrace tomorrow because no longer is tomorrow shadowed in dread.
It will be okay because I will be okay.
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