School Started! School Started!

It seems to me that there are two kinds of back-to-school reactions: The Crier and the Cheerer (you can vote on which one you are here.)

I am mostly a cheerer. I love my kids, but we all do better with the rigorous school schedule. My kids are the same way. Three years ago, E.G. was so angry with me for not taking him to Kindergarten that I had to drive him to the empty school to prove to him I wasn't deliberately keeping him from his education. This year, Proximo starts Kindergarten and he is similarly excited to bust outta this joint. I will cheer, cry, and sleep when they're both in school starting next week. Oh, and work. It will be just me and the baby, refusing to answer the door when random people show up, writing during naptime, and enjoying a house that stays clean longer than 5 minutes.

Today is officially the third day of school, but the first where I "served" cold cereal for breakfast. Proud of myself for making it three whole days. Also proud of myself for forgetting to take pictures of my departing child in absolutely no new clothes. Let's not get too weepy, I'm pretty sure I'll remember to take a picture of him at some point this year. Maybe.

It's Joe's back-to-school time, too. He marooned me with these three people to teach the Future of America. He's been prepping for the school year all summer, and recently started meeting with parents and new students in anticipation of his harder classes. Which is where this conversation happened:

"Well, Mrs. So-and-So, I know I just met you, and after talking with the other teachers this seems crazy, but on this paper is my email and number, so if you need to, call me, maybe."

The mom thanked him without a clue and the daughter did an eye-roll facepalm. Your tax dollars at work, people.

Lulu has been cutting teeth for the past two weeks, turning me into a zombie with her midnight, 3am, and 5am blood-curdling wakings. It's been a good time. Only four more years until she's in school, too.

Perhaps I should see if someone is selling some sentimentality and pick some up? Also, extra emotional tears? Because I'm not sad about school starting, not one little bit.

It's a Pot Boiler!

I've jetted off to Seattle to see if I can make a pot boil just by watching it.

Not that it's not fun to walk around downtown Seattle with all the homeless people and women without makeup, but it's more fun when you're making your pregnant sister walk around with you. I like hearing her say, "Yesterday" when people ask her when she's due. I will not like it so much on Sunday when I have to fly home and she will not have had my first nephew. We also think it's funny when she's holding Baby Lulu and is awfully pregnant in public. A decent woman would be in her confinement! You can see people doing the baby math in their heads and trying to figure out this hyper-fertile lesbian couple taking the light rail.

The day before I left Proximo woke up with a sore throat and quickly developed a fever. I'm no over-reactor, so I just kept an eye on him. My eye does not possess magical healing powers, because he added vomiting to his symptoms by 7pm that night. He woke up every two hours after that complaining that his tummy hurt, but that he did NOT need to throw up, and then threw up. (See? Even if the baby sleeps through the night doesn't mean I get to sleep.) I was in more of a panic than usual, so after touching him, or wiping up his inaccurate aiming, I'd scrub my hands vigorously and then follow with anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. I was terrified of the baby getting sick.

Today, after three days of fever that wasn't abating, and me two states away, J took Proximo to the doctor where he was given scarlet fever. You pay a co-pay and you get a disease in return, right? Excellent.

Sometimes, after these doctors appointments where they award your child something scary, all I can think is, "100 years ago my child would have died from this."

The tooth abscess E.G. developed in July of his 6th year? Dead.
Proximo's scarlet fever? Dead.

If I'm feeling especially soft I'll cry over the dead child I do not have but would have had. Yes, I have that many spare tears.

Today my watched pot and I will head off for more bargain hunting and to meet Marie for a snack. At least that's the plan if my nefarious plot to send her into labor by schlepping all over the city followed by Internet-assisted foot reflexology didn't work.

Boil, pot, boil!

I Can't Make This Decision

I have a bit of a conundrum I need your help with, dear reader. I know that pregnant women all over the world are suffering from terrible fetal-maternal health, no skilled attendants to help delivery, are at risk for fistulas, and all kinds of deplorable conditions. So let's talk about my first world problems, OK?

My mother-in-law wants to buy me a glider for this baby. Generous, right? Of course.

But....

Gliders are ugly. They all look like bad, overstuffed 80s furniture. LOOK AT IT TAUNTING US WITH ITS DISGUSTING ROLLED ARMS. Ugly furniture gives me the creeps. And maybe the vurps. EWW.

I've thought about getting a glider and then recovering it--by myself of course because I am cheap, broke, and completely delusional about the amount of sewing projects I can get done in the next week or two.

So when MIL told me that my sister-in-law found an inexpensive glider at IKEA, I got a little excited. Something in my style? Modern-looking? Not cottage-y, sage-y, beige-y, hideous? I want that fictional glider. I couldn't find anything like a glider on their website. I drove to IKEA and scoured the floor, no glider.

I did find the Poang chair and Poang rocker, which both have an ottoman. Boy, are those chairs comfortable, at the right angle, and NOT UGLY. The chair bounces so there is a range of motion that could soothe a baby. The rocker is a rocker, and you understand how that works because you are an intelligent human being. What's more practical, a rocker, or a chair that can transition to a grown-up space?

Turns out my SIL got her glider at Target, not IKEA. Shoot. I'm back to looking at gliders.

Do I accept my MIL's offer for a glider and get one? Even though this is my last baby and a piece of ugly furniture I will hide? Will I really use a glider and am I insane for thinking that I can recover one before I have a baby? What color and brand of glider do I get? The budget can't afford a Dutailier. So I say, Thanks, but I really like this rocker at IKEA and could I get that?

I can't make this decision anymore. And someone make me a drink.




Over at Today's Mama:
What to do about Father's Day

The Birthday Presents

(I might be a little bit pregnant.)

My mom started laughing nervously after dinner last night. “First of all, I went to the mall to try to find you a present, and you know how I hate the mall.”
“I do know that.”
“And I looked and looked for a present but had no idea what to get you and there was so much stuff going on and so many stores and it was crowded...”
“So you panicked and bought whatever was in front of you?”
“YES! I’m so sorry. I don’t know. There was a kiosk and I didn’t know what to do and I bought a bunch of things from it and I’m sorry!” she said apologetically as she handed me a white plastic bag with four headbands inside with humongous sequin and feather flowers larger than my head, a pile of pastel jewelry, and some earrings that were pretty cute.
“It’s OK, mom” I giggled.
“But isn’t the necklace pretty?” She said.
“It’s very pretty,” I agreed.
“You don’t like it.”
“It’s just that I can’t wear pastels; it doesn’t go with anything I have. But you like it! You should keep it!”

Some people are blessed with the gift-giving gene, and some people are...not. My poor mother. She has absolutely no idea what to buy her children, but she really wants to buy things for us. This results in a motley vision of plastic bags wrapped around oddly-colored (yet cashmere!) sweater-sets from DI, strange matching jewelry that we’d never wear, Japanese-inspired poly-silk robes, inexplicable items from Ross Dress For Less, or satin shoes (what?)

The other problem is that she buys things, stashes them, and can’t remember where she put them. Half of Christmas morning she spends walking around saying, “I thought I got something else for you guys...I wonder where they went.” There’s the year she gave my sister the same pair of flannel pajamas she gave her the year before. It’s kind of endearing.

“How about this, “ I suggested, “We go back to the mall together, return these things, and you can spring for a nice pair of flats.”
“OK,” she concedes, “And I’m SORRY.”

What Year Is This?

My name is Carina.

I am thirty-four years old.

And I wrecked my dad's new car last night.

I'm Sick, Whine, Whine, Whine

The children ran into the bed, "Hey mom!" said the big one, bouncing off the bed.
"Hey mom," echoed the little one.
I lifted my head. They looked like urchins: still in pajamas, dirt crusted their mouths, snot smeared their faces, and did I detect a red ring left from fruit punch?
"Hi, guys," I coughed.
"If you need anything, anything at all mom, you can call me," said E.G.
"You can call me!" echoed the little one.
"Thank you, babies."
"I mean it, I can bring you anything, mom," said E.G.
"Mean it. Anything, mom!" echoed the little one, wiping a smear further along his round cheek.

I've been sick, and blogging about being sick is incredibly boring. You almost always illicit a ton of "Aww, feel better!" comments, and while those are nice, they almost seem like fishing. And I don't fish. Anymore. As of now. Second, it's just a cold, and no one can make a cold amusing, right? There's only so many ways you can describe post-nasal drip and a wicked cough; we've all been there, we all know it sucks, and we all just get over it.

So I called Allison, "Are you still sick?"
"Yes," she sniffed.
"Come be sick with me. We can lie on opposite ends of the couch in the same PJs we've had on for three days and watch Firefly. The kids can run around."
"OK," she sniffed.
That's exactly what we did, all day Monday, because nothing makes being sick cooler than having someone be sick with you.

"You know that if I could, I'd take this sickness for you," Other Half said.
"No," I said, "I don't want that. You're a pain when you're sick. You're just awful." Sure, it's great to have someone be sick with you, but it can't be your partner, that's just not right.

We all know what would happen if you were both sick: one of you would be convinced that he is dying and a single heart's beat away from his head exploding in a torrent of mucous, roaring like a wounded dinosaur, and you, while theoretically being at the same level of suckage, would still be expected to feed the children, clean the bathroom, and make sure no one dropped the brand new toy wooden barn on anyone else. That's why yes, I will be the sick one, I'll just do it, because the happiness of everyone is worth it.

Even if your children are given "fruit" punch behind your back.

Reds Are The Best

photo by food2

I received a phone call while out with some friends.

"I bought something for the house," Other Half said very seriously.

"Oh. OK," I try to keep calm.

"And about half of it is already gone," He responds, more seriously.

"OK..."

"It's an 89 cent package of Skittles. We're about 44 cents out at this point."

I start laughing.

Other Half has a system on Saturdays. The boys go do a specific task, pick up their rooms or put away all the toys in the play room, and they each get 2 Skittles. They rush up and down to finish chores since every completed one earns them 1-3 candies. The children think this is the most awesome thing ever on the face of the planet. I have to admit: it works, it works like only a sugar-coated sugar drop could.

However, it smacks of bribery to me, sweet, Red 40 bribery. I think I may be morally opposed to using candy to get children to do their chores. Children should do their chores the normal way--with threats and punishments hanging over their heads--and they should be grateful to have parents who recognize the value of hard work for the sake of hard work. But Skittles also work, really well.

It is really bribery if the candy is earned?

Or am I calling a spade a club and we're digging ourselves a hole that tastes like the rainbow? Guide me, Internets!

October Surprise

Last week our ex-nanny, and still cousin extraordinaire, M, asked our family to be in a movie on Saturday.  OK, so it was just a student film, but we couldn't say no to M.

Friday night was just marvelous.  I wasn't sleeping, which was good, since Proximo wasn't either. I had the distinct privilege and honor of cleaning El Guille's throw up from where he missed the bucket, changing his sheets, cleaning him off, all three kinds of delightful! I woke up to a call from M reminding us of call time. 

I got up so tired that I thought I would throw up. And then I did. And did again. Yet, a promise is a promise. I know what a hassle it is to plan a shoot and then not have people show up, or have something go wrong. I managed to get into full makeup, get everyone dressed, and all of us out of the house. I rode shotgun, armed with a bucket.

We drove down to the park with Proximo screaming in the back seat because I had not let him buckle his own belt. All we had to do was sit on a blanket and pretend to be a happy family enjoying the park.  I got out of the car, walked two steps, and retched into the bucket. At some point, just holding the bucket wasn't enough, I had to fall onto my knees, in the middle of the park, in a skirt, cardigan, and full makeup, and empty the contents of my already empty stomach. I just like attention.

I walked a little wobbly to where our blanket was set up and laid down with the rest of the family. Proximo clung to me like he always clings to me, but this time with anger and loud noises, apparently annoyed with my inconsiderate illness. The crew did a couple more takes of the scene they had already set up and then turned to us. Just as we were ready to roll, I motioned to M to bring me the bucket. You know, with a cinematographer, a director, a sound guy, production assistants, rolling film, in a city park. I guess I can't run for office anymore without some really fantastic and perfectly lit YouTube footage ready to make an October surprise.

There's just something really funny about looking at yourself in the mirror after throwing up and seeing yourself in all that makeup. I thought about washing it all off, but decided that if models have to do it with perfect cat-eyes, so could I. The rest of the weekend was just as lovely. I may have even forgotten to feed the children one day, who can keep track? Solid food is for suckers.

All at a Price

I got to sleep in Sunday morning while Other Half got up with the kids. It was lovely: the light filtered through the pink sheers in the pink room, getting warmer and brighter.

On the edge of consciousness, I heard the door open and someone sit on the bed. Someone started talking, so I made myself start listening. El Guille was asking me a question, "Do you want a small one or a big one." "
"Big one," I reflexively answered, and then thought better of it, "I mean, which one do you want me to have?"
"feawpjo graojp eawfjp," He said, or maybe I couldn't quite focus. He was talking a lot.

"I think you should have a big one," he decided. I opened my eyes and saw him next to me, cutting up (with unauthorized scissors) his brand new school pictures, his very first school pictures, with all of the dexterity and precision that a Kindergartner can offer. Just then, I heard Other Half's loud, rumble-y voice yell my name. He sounded insistent. And then I heard him demand towels. Not a good thing to demand.

I came downstairs to a scene:
El Guille, finding his father a novice in the morning child-watching business, took advantage. In the time they were together, he managed to spill nearly my enter oil canister on the kitchen floor. He proudly announced that he "made chocolate muffins!" meaning he cut the challah bread I'd been saving for french toast with a paring knife, found chocolate chips, and jammed them into the bread. Tada! Muffins! And of course, made short work of his school photos.

I find that sleeping thoroughly made me simply shake my head at his antics, maybe with the smallest of smiles, and carried on with my clean up of our destroyed kitchen.

Turns out that if you only towel up the oil, the floor is still pretty slick and you, as well as every member of your family, will at some point slip-n-slide on the vinyl. The toddler will biff it every time.

What can I say? I don't mop on the Sabbath!

(Because I am lazy.)





Catch me over at Segullah today, where I drop the bomb.

Covert Operations

You might remember that once upon a time (35 days ago) I bought a play set which then sat in the parking lot at Lowe's while the store and the rest of the universe couldn't figure out how to help me get it home. Lamenting the cruel separation of my money and my play set, tempered with the anguished cries of my children, last Sunday dinner yielded one very capable volunteer: my cousin Clark.

He called me Tuesday night and asked if I'd meet him in the parking lot at 11:45. No, not a.m., p.m. "Of course," I said.

(Look, it's a family thing, we're always out in the middle of the night or up doing crazy things. In fact, why wouldn't we be running errands in the wee small hours? There are no lines and the traffic is light. Besides, sleep is for babies.)

Clark had already gone to Lowe's earlier in the day, disassembled the play set, and loaded it onto a trailer, which he had left in the lot. He mentioned that no one asked him what he was doing, demanded a receipt, or bothered him in any way. That's so bizarre, I thought, because if I'd been the manager of that store (and I have been a retail store manager) I would have been out there asking questions, especially when someone left a loaded trailer in front of the store in broad daylight. But nope.

Clark asked if I could please drive behind him in case anything fell out and to prevent the over-size load from causing any problems. ANYTHING AT ALL TO GET THAT THING HOME HERE TAKE MY BLOOD. So, yes, I agreed to meet him at quarter to midnight and be the rear guard.

Tiffany came over in the meantime and we sat on the couch to dish. She was texting, I was tweeting, just a couple Gen Xers living the life of Millennials. I told her about Clark's plan and she was game. We might have done a drive by past a house of a guy that she kind of likes on our way to Lowe's. (More Millennial stuff.) (Or is that high school stuff?) (And what did we think would happen if our high school crushes had actually came out of the house? Would we just drive even faster, only screaming? Not a lot of thought went into drive-bys, did they?)

Clark pulled into the lot with his pick up truck and jumped out of the cab with a headlamp on his head and a busted up tee. He moved frenetically hitching the trailer and digging around for a bungee cord while telling us all about the movie he's shooting in the morning. Clark is a wizard. (Not that kind, the special effects kind.) The movie is about orcs. Do women find orcs as attractive as vampires, I wondered? Clark demanded that we explain the current feminine obsession with vampires. I do not have an answer, Tiffany stammered one out. I pretended not to be obsessed with True Blood.

As long as we were in a deserted parking lot in the black night, Clark suggested, and no one was asking any questions, maybe we should just throw the other display play set next to mine onto the flat bed and create some sort of ginormous mutant play set that appeared to be self-replicating. I was sorely tempted. Yes, outlandish ideas and scheming plans, we are related.

He dug a military grade flashing flare out of his truck (of course he did) and tied it on the play set boom extending from the trailer. "Excellent!" Clark proclaimed, and fired up the pickup. Tiff and I jumped into her luxury car to follow the flat bed. Clark blasted over the speed bumps at top speed with every slat screaming to abandon the trailer. I begged Tiffany to stay further behind the careening truck. Sure enough, boards tumbled out onto the road in front of Five Guys and Fries. I jumped out of the car, golf cart style, and grabbed the boards. Up the road we watched the flare detach and bounce-flash along the asphalt and land in the dark. Tiffany and I scan the road and spy the bungee. Another car is racing towards us as I scoop up the bungee in the middle of the road and let out a scream as I vaulted back into the car.

I wonder what the neighbors think of us moving this thing at 12:20 a.m. I hope they think we're mysterious. Not so mysterious that we're selling meth, but just mysterious enough to be moving large, bulky items under the cover of darkness.

Am I sad that Lowe's took my contact info after my last post and then didn't call me back? No. Why? Because when Clark was taking apart the set no one batted an eye. He left a trailer in the Lowe's lot and not a word. We came back in the dead of night and not so much as a rookie security guard moseyed on over to see what the Hey For we were doing.

When Clark is done with the orcs he'll be back to put the play set together, which prompted me to come up with a cracking idea for next week's posts, just you wait.

So now we have our play set; it's just in pieces in the backyard, but at least it's not still in the parking lot of the hardware store.

Justin Was Right, What Goes Around...

Last month my mom slipped in her kitchen while cleaning and broke her ankle. It was a pretty serious break requiring surgery, insertion of metal pins and plates, and a few months of recovering ahead. I could not relate. First of all, cleaning the kitchen? Second, I’ve never broken a bone in my life. Not when I was playing soccer, thought I loved hiking and mountain biking, or went out dancing in sky-high heels.

A week later my mom gasped in horror (she does that a lot) when I walked in balancing Proximo on my hip while sporting my new Steven spectator four inch pumps. She pointed to her ankle and said, “You’ll break your ankle someday!” I laughed in her face. Wait, no, first I said, “Were you wearing heels when you broke your ankle? No, you weren’t! Maybe you wouldn’t have broken your ankle if you’d been wearing heels.” Then I laughed. Then I switched back to speaking English.

Karma is a bitch.

This morning, in an attempt to run fast to my room to grab a shirt while Proximo was in the tub (my room is 3 steps from the tub, I counted once) and yet return before he’d drowned himself, I shut the bathroom door on my toes.

Hey, did you know that breaking your toe hurts? It totally does.

I thought at first that I’d just stubbed it and tried to shake it off. That really didn’t work. For a few minutes I tried to move it, tried to put on some socks, thought about shoes, and slowly came to the realization that the sharp pain was overwhelming any chance of it being just a stub. I crawled on my hands and knees to my phone, begged LaQuina to come get the baby, switch me cars so I could drive an automatic, and drove myself to Urgent Care.

Fractured left pinky toe, buddy tape, post-op shoe for 2-3 weeks.

Mostly injured: my pride.







P.S. The doctor tried to give me Lortab. What in the? An Advil will be fine, dude. Pushers...

By Request

(Now with update)

While El Guille and I were having an in depth discussion on the merits of bananas, the other resident of our east side loft was doing his worst.

Completely emptying my pocket book in record time is just the first trick. His mischief wouldn't be perfected without pulling the silicone earplugs off my Skullcandy, eating them, and then having the nerve to flash the "Take Me to Target" card along with the don't-blame-me expression.

He's so busy.

I guess it takes real work to destroy a home and all its contents within a cool ten minutes. He should form a union.

Hmm. Frying pan?

Oh, right, for porting the eggshells from the garbage can to the living room. Awesome.

You should consider eating them, too.
Oh? You already did? And now you can't get the little bits off your fingers because the raw egg makes the shells so sticky? More awesome.

Well, maybe a kiss would make me feel better.

But only if it accompanied by a "Uv Oou!"

Right, onto ripping out the plastic wrap and then complaining when your brother gets in the shot.

Not a moment to spare!


UPDATE:

Sometimes I feel like my children and I have different priorities.

For example, I took a shower this morning.

They got tattoos.


I had no idea Proximo was such a fan of Heath Ledger.

When is a Gallon of Milk Not a Gallon of Milk?

If you were part of a certain generation, your parents were concerned with squeezing the most out of a dollar and the pantry. They read pamphlets, they exchanged bargain ideas, and they rinsed out zip loc bags. You’re saying to yourself, what could possibly be so different now? Sure these days we budget, save, and prepare, but trust me, we are not going to the same lengths.

Are you a part of that certain generation?

* Your mom would buy a gallon of milk from the store and that gallon never ran dry.
At first, your heart leapt to see the gallon come out of the paper bag from the store. Then, under the cover of nightfall, mom would gradually mix in reconstituted powdered milk into the store-bought gallon. YOU AREN’T FOOLING US, mom!
Never-ending gallons do not exist, not even in Zion.
Eventually, mom would break down and buy another gallon of milk (to start it all over again.)
I mean, I guess it was better than the way they usually tried to get you to drink powdered milk: slightly warm, because the powder dissolves easier in warm water. The sickeningly sweet smell with just a hint of sour wafted out of the beige pitcher as the milk sloshed against the sides. Know what’s better than powdered milk?
A glass of water and eating your cereal dry.

* Peanut butter that you had to stir.
The great grease slick at the top of the jar that would make a thunk sound as you plunged in the spoon. The jars of Skippy at your friends' houses seemed so...glamorous.

* Your dad would give you a couple of tablespoons of wheat to chew.
Not wheat flour, actual wheat grains poured into your hand. You were supposed to chew these because they made gum. And the wheat did make gum, but guess what? WRIGLEY’S IS ONLY A DIME. Why did we have 50 pound bags of wheat hanging out in our basement? So you could grind wheat and make your own bread, of course. All four of us used to beg and plead for ‘store-bought’ bread. Oh, store-bought bread! It was so soft! The thick, crusty loaves my dad pulled out of the oven? NO, THANKS! Why couldn’t we just have Wonder Bread like everyone else?

My parents went the extra mile: making their own yogurt in a bowl they’d set above the hot water heater, toasting their own granola, and the time dad tried to make his own malt. There even were homemade Tootsie Rolls (because why buy Tootsie Rolls? Do you know how much money you can save by making your own Tootsie Rolls?) Believe me, that recipe was a hot ticket around Edgemont.

So tell me, were your parents reading the same pamphlets as mine? Did you can peaches and put up tomatoes? Spend an afternoon at the Welfare (charity) farm picking cherries? Or were you one of the lucky ones: Wonder Bread for your sandwich and pudding cups in your lunch—oh, and real gum?

-I was reminded about all of this in an IM convo that I had with Sue. You need to read her take on this subject. Warning, you'll learn about something called 'chocolate treat', are you prepared?

What should you eat on the first weekend of October?

Pumpkin Pancakes!

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons brown sugar
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 can of evaporated milk (12 ounces.)
  
• 1 cup pumpkin puree
• 1 egg
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 2 tablespoons vinegar

If you have time, process the pumpkin with about 1/3 can of milk in the food processor to break up the fibers, if you don't, just stir together the wet ingredients. Whisk dry ingredients together (you can do pumpkin pie spice if you want.) Add wet to dry and stir until just combine. Allow batter to rest while griddle is heating. Batter will be fluffy. Drop batter onto the grill, spread out with a butter knife or spatula. These take a little longer than regular pancakes to cook. Turn once until both sides are golden. Serve with maple syrup....

...and if you're us, with whipped cream stars too.



One of my favorite toys is my whipped cream dispenser. I have wanted one for a long time, but couldn't justify spending the cash, because honestly, a whipped cream dispenser? I saw one at my mother-in-law's, so fancy, so pretty, so...Austrian.

One day a package arrived at the door. Inside the package was not only this fancy aluminum dispenser but a candy apple red soda dispenser as well. The cream dispenser is wonderful, you can place a pint of sweetened cream with a drop of Mexican vanilla inside and it stays whipped for a week. No more separating cream, or throwing away excess.

I still haven't used the soda dispenser...any ideas?

El Guille approves of pumpkin pancakes.

Oh no! What's that we hear? Sounds like Proximo is awake.


It's time to play, Little Sleepy-Face.

In other news, my sister Jeffiner works for a law firm.

All last week when clients were calling for appointments, she didn't schedule a single one for Monday. Why? Because it said 'Holiday' on her calendar. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because it was Columbus Day. Who besides banks close on Columbus Day?*
The lawyer at the firm looked at his calendar and said, "Hey, we don't have any appointments, do you think we should close for Columbus Day?" Jeffiner printed up the signs for the doors posthaste.

So, if you are needing a holiday, go ahead and enforce one.

In other-other news,
Happy Birthday, Other Half!
You're older than me!
(still and always.)

*Should we even celebrate Columbus Day anymore? I'm having survivors guilt. Wait, no, you're having survivor's guilt. Someone should be feeling guilty, I think. It was my ancestors' monies that paved the way for Columbus. So, uhm, thanks for all the gold and silver, Xochitl Girl, and for the land ~j, Can we still be friends?

Chollas

Let’s get this weekend out of the way:

Parmesan, water, and daddy’s shoes, sounds like a plan!

And now the Filthy Padawan has a cold. Coincidence? No, it's Karma, baby, Karma.

My friend Anne tried to give me some parenting advice. She Who is Without Children asked me, "But have you sat down the Filthy Padawan and explained to him how this is unacceptable? He needs to know that! Just sit him down and explain to him that he needs to stop." I, who was also a better parent before I had children, said graciously and with a knowing twinkle, "Yes, we have tried that."

*************

Monday I was sitting at my desk trying hard to concentrate on my work. I was a little in the dumps, missing the babies and thinking through some projects which are giving me a mental block. I had a case of the Mondays.

And then, out of the deep reaches of cyber space, I got an email with the subject

Open Immediately!

Contents included this:

Those are my hawt sisters, Jeffiner and LaQuina.

Who doesn’t like sisters? Nobody doesn’t like sisters, or is that Sara Lee?

Obviously, the next question I needed to ask was,

“Is Jeffiner flashing a sign? Do we even have a family gang sign?”

I guess we do.

I love those chollas. Apparently, they love La Virgin.

Jeffiner works for Hotel Conglomerate. She will answer the phone when you call Hotel Conglomerate. I called her tonight…

“Thank you for calling Hotel Conglomerate, this is Jeffiner, how may I direct your call?”

“You can direct it up your butt,” I said.

She started laughing so hard that she put me on hold.

I can call her and say things like that, but you can’t.

That’s what sisters are for.

Family Business

I casually mentioned to my cousin that we are thinking of buying a house. If you know me, however, you know that I’m always thinking of buying a house. It has been a singular obsession for seven years. If we actually bought a house I don’t know what I’d do with my time. Cure cancer? Partition Iraq? Watch another episode of Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares?

My cousin took it upon herself to refer a real estate agent to me (I guess cousin gets a piece of the commission if I buy something.)

I got a call from the agent today (and I just love to get calls from agents.) Here’s a hint: if you want to do business with me, don’t call me sweetie on your introductory phone call. That makes me hate you because I am sentient.

How do you feel about mixing family and business?

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Congrats to my sister Jeffiner (not her real name) and Other Half!

They graduated!

In honor of their graduation, may I quote Fred Stoller?

My mom wants me to finish college. I asked her why. She said, "So that you can say you're a college graduate." What, like I can't say that now? I’m a college gagadua; I’m a conalge ganagnera.”

Thanks to Eric D. for the Dr. Katz memory jog

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And finally, you can also catch me today over at Good Mommy/Bad Mommy.

Hey, do you remember that weird lady at the pharmacy that Other Half and I met a couple weeks ago? She wanted to touch my baby and I was totally creeped out? Because who in their right mind tries to touch babies when they’re in line at the pharmacy, sick, and in need of medication?

She was one of those people who start talking to you about every intimate detail of their life even though they just met you. The kind of person where you do a lot of closed mouth mmmm-ing, while moving your eyebrows up and down trying to convey both sympathy and all the social cues to leave you the H alone?

Well, we went to a family reunion on Saturday and SHE WAS THERE.

Icy

I faced temptation today that was almost too much to bear.

I finally flopped into bed last night at 1:45am. At 2:15, El Guille came into our room asking to sleep with us. Other Half took him back to his bedroom. At 2:30, El Guille came in again. I got up this time. We sang some songs, we held hands, he fell asleep, and I crawled back to bed.

At 4:30am the baby woke up screaming. I don't know how long he'd been crying since I was so deep into sleeping it could have been 20 minutes. I moved and felt El Guille at the foot of our bed anyway (the previous ministrations had been for naught.)

The baby and I decided to use El Guille's twin since its owner was away. I awoke at 6:00am, put the baby back in his crib, and tried to convince my protesting back to carry me to my bed. I nudged El Guille out of MY spot, hoping that it wouldn't awaken him for the day. I feel asleep on a sliver of bed. At 8:00, El Guille woke up—he slept in! Other Half got up and I got to sleep for another 45 minutes.

Argh.

I wrenched myself from bed with a desire, a craving, and a plan forming in my mind.

I wanted a Coke.

Yes, NieNie, a Coke—an icy, shocking Coke that would keep me awake.

Yes, I am a bad girl.

Wednesday is my meetings day and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyelids from betraying me without chemical intervention. I tried to remember the half life of caffeine. I figured that if I drank half a Coke by 11am, I would be safe to nurse again by 5 or 6pm. I was saved from my dastardly plan by a friendly reminder that our meetings were canceled today.

It made me remember when El Guille turned 13 months and I fell off the wagon, hard. I drank one icy Diet Lime Coke on that equally frosty morning and THUD. I had one everyday that week.

What a binge! It was positively Roman!

So, no, Nie, I didn’t have a Coke.

I wanted one.

But I didn’t have one.

As most of you know, my 90 something abuelita speaks only a few words of English. Tonight I learned that she loves the TV show Frasier. She has no idea what the show is about, but she loves “the nervous skinny man” and the “old man who walks with a cane.” Her favorite is the little dog. He’s such a good dog! He’ll do things! Like sit on the couch! He gives us the best looks; that dog is hilarious. People are always running around and falling and it’s a very funny show, she tells me.

Apparently she watches a lot of the Disney Channel during the day (why, I don’t know, when Telemundo is super-classy entertainment.) Her absolute favorite show is the one with the "big black girl." Oh YES, my Spanish grandma is totally into That’s So Raven. Raven Symone’s humor and pathos transcends language and borders.