Saturday, September 30, 2006

What Did You Call Me?!

The following is an excerpt from the conversation in the car this evening between Mr. J. who's 4, Little P who is 2 and myself (who 36).

Unidentifiable noise is produced from back seat.

Mr. J.: Hey Mom! Guess who's making that noise.

Me: I don't know. Who is it?

Strange noise happens again.

Mr. J.: It's someone whose name starts with P.

Me: Hmmm. Is it Little P.?

Mr. J: Nope. Guess again.

Strange noise continues.

Me: Is it Penelope (for the record there is no one by the name of Penelope in the car)?

Laughter erupts.

Mr. J.: Yes!! How did you know?

Mr. J: Hey Penelope! Stop making that noise.

Little P: ~belly laughs~

Mr. J.: Hey Penelope! You're Penelope!

Little P: ~belly laughs~

So my question is...will little P always respond to being called Penelope by his older brother with roars of laughter? Even when he's twelve, walking out to the pitcher's mound for the big game? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Moms Who Blog!!

Everyone's doing it and no one is talking about it. It's just like going to 2nd base in 7th grade in my day or having sex before marriage in my mom's day. Who knew?!

Until today, I had run across a few other blogs written by mothers, but until today I had no idea there was a whole network out there--a number of them as a matter of fact! Thanks primarily to my favorite Mamma of twins 2B who regularly sends me blogs of interest I discovered both Amalah and the Blog Antagonist. From the Blog Antagonist it was a short jump to Suburban Turmoil and then to MommyBloggers. What fun! What delight! Other women who have not stopped being funny, ironic, cool, bitter, etc. just because they became moms!!

I don't know what to liken it to...but it feels quite similar to growing up a brunette in Florida and then visiting your relatives in another state and discovering you're not the only female on the planet with brown hair!! And I know. I was that kid.

Anyway, here's hoping I get welcomed to the network...

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

A Practice Midlife Crisis

At 36, I'm praying that my recent doldrums were not indeed a midlife crisis but just some surge in annoying hormones--I plan on annoying my darling husband and children for a very long time. Either way, I share the following conversation with a friend about our plans for a midlife crisis. We are after all women and you must plan these types of things. You wouldn't want to have completed your crisis and then realize there was something you forgot to do.

But I digress...

A note about this particular friend. When asked in college what she wanted to be after school she always replied quite matter-of-factly, "Dictator of a small Latin American country." She now has three children and lives in Texas. So same thing I guess.

Mamma: Will you please tell me that you’ve considered a mid-life crisis! I need to know I’m not alone.

I'm planning my mid-life crisis for 45, when my life will be half-over. Right now, it's mid-thirties chaos.

What sort of crisis ideas do you have? Mine include (1) moving the family to Mexico; (2) getting a full-time job to get away from childcare and housework; (3) adopting abused children from CPS; (4) starting my own business; (5) spending all my savings on long lavish trip. Since I don't have the courage or stamina to do any of these things, I medicate with alcohol and everything looks better.


1. An affair with Patrick Dempsey
2. A road trip across the country
3. Spending an obscene amount of money on a new fabulous wardrobe
4. Opening a chic-chic shoe boutique

But with the inertia necessary and the size of my ass…I’ll just complain.

An excellent list. I forgot about the new wardrobe fantasty, and of course, the extra-marital affair with a superstar fantasy, which I should also add to my list.

I keep telling myself I can have a new wardrobe when I lose ten pounds. I was very happy in August when I could get back into my skinny jeans, after yet another bout of strep throat, when I couldn't eat anything for several days. But, now that I've been able to gobble chips and queso and down margaritas for several weeks, the skinny jeans don't even TRY to close around my hips.

Thank god for my girlfriends!!

Monday, September 25, 2006

Being Pissed

Okay, mamma had a whole entry about closure. She loves closure, she has gotten some lately. She had a good story about this stupid highschool "friend" who used to yank her chain who later she later ran into at a party and that "friend" turned out to be the cigarette girl. But mamma's readers don't get to read about it, because stupid blogger got stuck in some circle of publishing hell and the post disappeared into thin air! So now mamma is just pissed. She even found a picture of a cigarette girl to accompany the entry...but now--nothing!

What will the closure be on this situation? There will be none. I mean I could stop using Blogger and hope that the CEO notices. But mamma is realistic. She'll just have to bask in the glory of her other recent closure events (ah sweet peace) and go to sleep cursing this damn program under her breath.

Okay, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I tend to fly off the handle on occasion. Apparently, this is a good example. When I logged off of blogger last night none of these posts appeared. I figured they were just lost in the stratosphere. But today, miraculously, they appear. You can be sure that if it had been a term paper that had disappeared this would not have happened.


This might just be a girl thing. But mamma loves closure. I've been lucky enough lately to get just that--in a few ways.

Thinking back to highschool. Didn't everyone have a friend who would run up to you between classes, right before the bell was going to ring, and say "Oh my god, I just heard Brian talking--but I can't tell you about it now." And there you are, sitting through Geometry trying to concentrate on the area of triangles while all you can really think about is that adorable Brian and hoping that he was talking about wanting to ask you out and at the same time fuming that your friend is too dense to get to the point. Maybe it's the bow she was wearing in her hair in the desperate attempt to hold her brains in. Maybe she just loved to keep you hanging--because we all had those "friends" who we later found out we should have defined more accurately as a blood-sucking, stab you in the back enemy. So you get out of class, run to find her and she's like "oh it's no big deal, he was talking about the awesome car his parents just bought him. Deflated. You have closure on the conversation, but your crush goes on unrequited. What you didn't know then was that the ultimate closure (okay revenge) would come when you'd meet the same "friend" years later while you're hobnobbing it at swanky affair and she's the cigarette girl dressed in little more than a leotard and fishnets. Ahhh! Closure!

Closure may take years to occur. It may come when you least expect it. It may happen in a cloud of coincidence. But when it comes, it is wonderful. You didn't really know that you had been holding your breath all that time. But at that moment you can sit back, put your feet up and take a deep breath and exhale. Then you feel it--peace in your world.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Really, Your Big Server Makes Me So Hot!

There is nothing inherently wrong with techies. After five years working for a technology company, I can testify that they were the most honest off all of the people I worked with. They were fun, they were problem solvers, they saved my ass on a number of occasions. Now maybe I was able to develop this appreciation for some particularly great folks because I took the time to attempt to learn about what they did or because I "niced" them to death, whatever.

All I know is that I just didn't want to be treated like I just was by some snot-nosed ninny who seriously just asked me in a very slow delievery if I understood what he was talking about. It's a fucking email server port bud--not quantum physics! And the word "port" yes there are so many different ways to misinterpret that meaning. Shit, I thought you were talking about an appertif.

I can be a fiesty mamma. I can get ticked off quickly and tend not to bite my tongue--it's a negative personality trait. But I behaved. I just hung up briskly and started typing my little heart out to relieve my INCREDIBLE frustration at not being able to slap the little booger who thought he could insult me from the safe distance of CANADA (no offense to all Canadians).

Honestly, what about working in an IT job makes you think that niceties are unneccesary? Do you really think that just because you've got your finger on the server switch you control the world? Wrong button dude! You have no red phone, there are no army guys in silos waiting for your call. Don't screw it up for your brethren. There are a bunch of good techies out there--I married one. But your big server--won't make up for your small dick!

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Cel-A-Brate Good Times C'Arrr

Could there be more of a reason to celebrate?

It's Talk Like a Pirate Day!! I can see no better reason me hearties to lift your tankard and give a hearty Arrrr!

But beware wenches a pirates trying to shiver yer timbers (scroll down).

Monday, September 18, 2006

I Got Nothing

Seriously, I have thoughts all day long that at the time I could go on about, but tonight I am just tired. Trying to get the two year-old to learn how to go to sleep on his own (without using Mamma's hair to twirl). So I've spent the last forty-five minutes walking back and forth down the hall as he a) tried to escape from his room b) sobbed hysterically to the point of coughing c) removed his pajamas and d) has taken up talking loudly so neither he nor his brothers can fall asleep.

Maybe I should be proud of the persistence in this little guy. I hope he decides to use the talent for good some day. But tonight, he's just wearing me out!

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Mighty Oaks from Tiny Acorns Grow

I know autumn doesn't officially begin for another week or so, but the oak tree in my yard doesn't know that. The squirrels must sense the impending change. I love our oak tree. Oak trees to me are stately. The oak is the national tree of our country. They are known to represent strength and endurance--both admirable qualities (especially necessary if you're trying to raise three boys). However, at this time of the year I begin to wonder if a nice prickly cactus wouldn't be a safer choice. My front yard has become an upside down mine field.

Acorns are falling on my head. So far they have all been near misses. But every time it happens I'm convinced there are a pair of squirrels perched way up high one saying "oooh, that was so close" to which the other replies "close only matters in horseshoes and handgrenades."

Did you know there is actually a mathematical formula that relates to acorn production?

The mathematical formula that relates the acorn production (A) to the age in years of the tree (Y) is:

Apparently the number acorns produced increasese exponentially with the age of the tree.

So supposing my oak tree is only 50 years old (my house is just a little younger) I think I'm going to have to start wearing a helmet while I get my yard ready for the winter.

The true question is from what height must an acorn fall to cause a concussion?

It's amazing what you can find on the internet--and what people spend their time trying to figure out.


"My muscles are really big. I ate my plate of lasagna really much."
-jt, 4

Friday, September 15, 2006

I'll Miss Ann Richards

The story below (told by Molly Ivins) perfectly sums up why I looked up to this woman. I would love to think that I would say the same thing...though even if I were that witty, I'd never have that wonderful accent.

I will miss you Ms. Richards.

Several years ago there was a big political do at Scholz Beer Garten in Austin and everybody who was anybody in political Texas was there, meetin' and greetin' at a furious pace. About halfway through the evening, a little group of us got the tired feet and went to lean our butts against a table by the back wall of the Garten. Like birds in a row were perched Bob Bullock, the state comptroller; me; Charlie Miles, a black man who was then head of Bullock's personnel department (and the reason Bullock had such a good record on minority hiring); and Ms. Ann Richards.

Bullock, having been in Texas politics for thirty some-odd years, consequently knew every living sorry, no-account person who ever held office. A dreadful old racist judge from East Texas came up to him, "Bob, my boy, how are yew?" The two of them commenced to clap one another on the back and have a big greetin'.

"Judge," said Bullock. "I want you to meet my friends. This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer."

The judge peered up at me and said, "How yew, little lady?"

"This is Charles Miles, who heads my personnel department." Charlie stuck out his hand and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. It took him a long minute before he reached out, barely touched Charlie's hand and said, "How you, boy?" Then he turned with great relief to pretty, blue-eyed Ann Richards and said, "And who is this lovely lady?"

Ann beamed and said, "I am Mrs. Miles."

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Open Mouth...

I have this horrible problem with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I have come to believe that I lack a necessary filter between my brain and my mouth. This is not a new condition. Some of my oldest friends like to sit back and just watch it happen. They can see it coming and they find it very amusing. I wish they would just hold up a big sign that lets me know when I'm getting too close to the edge. The great thing about these friends is that they still love me, even after I've made the faux pas.

My husband is the best at loving me no matter what. I guess that's his job, but there is something pretty darn special about looking up after I let one of my bombs loose and seeing him just shaking his head and smiling. I know that with him everything is still okay.

My direct approach is not always a bad thing. It definitely comes in handy you know with things like work and getting good service when you need it.

Today unfortunately I was wearing boots and they didn't feel too good in my mouth. I'm hoping the offended party will find it in their heart to forgive me.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I Suck!

Have you ever tried really hard NOT to do something? I don't mean in the physical--holy cow it's the sour apple quick steps I've got to find a bathroom fast (too bad I have to walk 8 blocks to get there)! I mean something you have control over. It's tough.

It seems the more I try not to do something, the more I think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I want to do it. A vicious, vicious cycle.

I'm sure alchohol might help. But is the headache really worth it?

Today I'd like to be 24 again. I could manage the headaches then.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Things You Don't Want to Hear

  • The tests have come back, and it's definitely herpes.
  • Ma'am, do you know how fast you were going?
  • It's not you, it's me...
  • Do you think my arms are in proportion to the rest of my body? (I seriously had a date ask me this once!)

and tonight's winner...

  • I have poopy on my hands.

Things I Don't Like/Shoes Say it All

  • Men with long fingernails--even if you are a classical guitar player it still wigs me out.
  • Men whose feet are too small for their body. This is not for the reason you think it might be...get your mind out of the gutter. It just looks weird. And I find that it usually occurs on men who wear their pants just a little too tight--like everything else grew but their feet.

I don't mean to pick on guys. I've just encountered a couple of these folks in the past few days and I haven't been able to let it go. I know, it's my problem.

The thing I find with guys with small feet is that they often wear loafers. And not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with loafers--they just seem to be a favorite. You can really tell everything you need to know about a guy from the shoes he wears.

I can hear all the guys groaning right now. But trust me on this one. Ask any woman you know and she'll tell you. Your shoes say it all. They tell us if you have style, if you have taste, if you primp, if you're all sizzle and no steak, if you're cheap, if you're lazy, if you're hard working, if you're fun, if you're not. Show me a pair of men's shoes and I'll tell you all about the owner. Go ahead, send me a picture with your email address. I'll let you know.

Write v. Jog

Sometimes I just feel like I need to write. I'm feeling that way right now. Probably what I'll do is write a bunch of stuff that I'll eventually delete because it's probably not fit for public consumption. But it's the act of writing that is cleansing. If I could sing, I would belt out an aria. If I could paint, it would be a mural. If I could write, it would be a great novel--but alas it is this here blog with its limited readership.

There is probably a better way to release the excess "energy" that seems to be bubbling inside. Exercise would certainly be more beneficial to my health. But it's 12:15 a.m. It's not likely that I'm going to go outside and jog. Funny thought though. Can you imagine if I did? People would a) think I'm crazy b) think I just committed a crime or c) wouldn't bother with me because there's no telling about a woman who goes jogging at midnight. So maybe I'm on to something. Midnight jogging. It's dark, no one can see how out of shape you are or if you walk every other block and no one would bother with you because they'd think you were too scary for being out there in the first place. And if you just wanted to ensure that potential assailants (or neighbors) thought you were crazy you could jog in a colonial dress. I just happen to have one upstairs. Now there is an image.

So you can see why I just write.

Monday, September 11, 2006


Blog blog blog
blog blog blog
blog blog blog blog blog
oh what fun it is to blog
blog blog blog blog blog blog blog

Sorry, it was in my head had to get it out. What else is in there? Queen of Hearts by Juice Newton. I have been downloading new tunes for the past two nights so it's no wonder there are tunes floating around my head, but I must say that neither of these was on the list. The first (Jingle Bells if you didn't recognize the beat) just came to me. The second, it has infected my brain and won't let go. Apparently the words are trapped in some fold of my noggin and must have been touched off by my listening of some of the other doozies from the 80's that I've recently downloaded thanks to my friends Ryan and Danielle.

When was the last time you thought about:

Babe by Styx
Blue Monday by New Order
Evangeline by Matthew Sweet
Goodbye To You by Scandal
Tenderness by General Public

It's fun to revisit old tunes. I've been hit with a rush of memories over some of these songs (not these in particular, but others). I'll never hear Milli Vanilli without picturing my old roommate dancing in the middle of our favorite college hangout. Won't hear Rob Base without a nod to an old football game date--who was always a perfect gentleman. True Faith by New Order and I'm immediately suffering the pangs of heartbreak over a certain high school boy.

Certain music, like certain smells, can bring me back to a moment in time within seconds. And the emotions all seem very fresh. I associate music with emotions as it is--even if I don't have a memory tied to them. I probably should have made my living as a conceptual designer for music videos. Play me a song and I'll close my eyes and have an image almost immediately. The easiest are the Sunday Night Songs. Those are the songs that recall the mood you're in on the last Sunday night of summer when you're laying in the dark with the only visible light being that of the red power indicator on your radio. You can't sleep because you've been staying up late all summer, but you know you need to because you have to get up early in the morning. It's sort of a lonely feeling as you're laying there all by yourself with your only company the voice of the late night DJ. Boys of Summer is the most obvious version of the Sunday Night Song, but there are more. You Are The Everything by REM is another. And pretty much anything by Steely Dan.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Through Another Set of Eyes

Over the past couple of weeks I have been provided descriptions of myself by people who I know in varying degrees. I hadn't solicited any of these remarks--at least directly. And none were unkind. It's just interesting and thought-provoking to hear what about you strikes someone.

The first was one I've heard before--comments on my eyes. I have to say they're probably my best asset (there aren't many to choose from). They are blue (fading over time). I have long eyelashes to go with it, so they work. But what also has been interesting is that I also was subjected to a family photo in which my first reaction to my own image was that I don't know why people comment on my eyes because you can't really see them. I've always felt this way about photos of myself. My eyes I think are only my asset when you see me up close in person. Great, I'm a close up kind of gal. I guess that's why I never got picked out of the crowd to go up on stage with Bono and have him serenade me. Yeah, that's the reason.

I have a sort of intensity. Now granted this was used to describe the person I was more than a decade ago, and at that point in my life I thought I was going to change the world. So I can sort of understand it, but the person went on to describe that impression by a quality of mine I don't think has softened with age. I tend not to suffer fools well. Now granted this is my definition of fool. And I would guess that my definitions have softened. I think, I hope that I have become a bit more understanding over time. It's just funny, because I never would have thought of myself as intense. I love to be silly, to have fun. I don't skulk around, wear lots of black eyeliner and only listen to The Cure (have I dated myself?). I love Disney World, dancing to 80's music and singing at the top of my lungs.

I'm so open--to the point of being intriguing. Okay, this I know about myself. On the outside I seem very open because I'm willing to talk about things and ask questions that many others would not. What most people don't know--or maybe they do and I'm just kidding myself--is that there is so much inside that I don't share--at least not with the general public. Certain people see certain sides of me. And I have to admit, there is really only one or two who know the whole thing. And, I'm still amazed they love me.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

A Free Flow of Thoughts

Friends brought home a new dog today--a cute Labradoodle puppy. Her name is Elsa. This reminded me of Elsie the Cow of Bordon fame. Remember when gallons of milk came in big huge cartons rather than plastic jugs? I associate Bordon milk with that. Which reminds me of Sealtest milk. I think it might have been a Northeastern brand. Same with StateLine potato chips. And Charles Chips--they used to be delivered by a man and came in a big metal tin. Can you imagine a successful business of delivering potato chips to people's homes? I don't remember them be THAT good. My neighbors the Clarks used to get them. Mr. Clark was a State Trooper and a nurse. We had two male nurses that lived on our street. When I was little I thought it was odd that there were male nurses. My mom was a nurse and all of her co-workers who were nurses were female. Interestingly, neither of the men who were nurses were working as nurses. I wonder if they became nurses during Viet Nam. I'll have to ask mom.

Took a drive through my old hometown last week. It was fun to see all of those places. I love both of the towns and could see myself living in either of them again. I just don't know what I'd do for a living. I love the feel of a New England town. The town green, the one post office, the grocery store where you know the owner. When I was little, Gus DiNova the owner of the only grocery store in town saved my from rolling my mom's car into traffic. He yelled at me because I had put the car in neutral and was rolling backwards out of the parking lot. I think he yelled because it scared him. But his yelling scared me and I cried all the way home and up into my bedroom. I thought I was in so much trouble. Turns out my mom wasn't mad at me and now that I'm a mother I realize that she probably felt stupid for leaving my sister and I in the car unattended. But it was the 70's. I don't blame her. We lived in the safest little town. I went to a red schoolhouse. No need to think anything could happen.

Okay so I've gone from my friend's new dog to small towns in the 70's. Didn't think I'd get that far in two paragraphs--though I'm sure I'm not using completely perfect structure and could probably have used a few more paragraphs.

Trying to add an entry every day again. So sometimes it's just going to be these random thoughts.

Big day for the boys. They got to use Target gift cards. New buildings for their train set and birthday boy A got a new bike, an iPod shuffle AND a headset for his PS2. Happy, happy boys. As for me? Hair dye, shampoo for color-treated hair and oh yeah, don't forget the South Beach bars. I think I would have prefered a bike.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Mamma Hates Being a Slacker

Sorry Mamma readers (if there are any of you left) it's been a while since the last post. It's summer--what can I say. Life got busy with nothing that I can remember now, but it was busy. Oh yeah, there was a vacation/family reunion which supplied more than enough stories which are best ignored. Been considering a possible change with work--but who cares about that. And meanwhile, my house just gets dirtier each day.

I'd love to be one of those people who kept a perfect house--okay I'd settle for neat. I've never been good at neat. I get too overwhelmed and just don't know where to begin. And if I manage to get one place in order, it all just goes to pot within days. Don't get me wrong. I like order. I like a clean house, ironed clothes, being able to find things instantly. It's just that I can't seem to organize myself in that way. Now at work, I'm neat. Papers are filed, desk is relatively neat, plants are watered. I think it's because there isn't too much there to get out of order. The job of maintaining order doesn't seem overwhelming. But in my house? My bedroom? It's not pretty. I truly hate this fact about myself. So you'd think I'd do something about it. But I HATE to clean. I'd much rather spend my time doing about a million other things. Like what?

Here's just a short list:

  • reading
  • playing with my kids
  • relaxing, gardening
  • shopping
  • surfing the web
  • watching TV
  • seeing a movie
  • visiting with friends
  • getting a pedicure
  • going to the dentist
  • getting a pap smear

You get the point? I need help!! I've tried Fly Lady (too much email), books (they're just cluttering my shelves), my mom (I can't take the disappointment). Anyone have any good ideas? That don't involve hiring someone? Right now that's a discussion with my dh that is going nowhere!!!

Okay, I promise more entries. I just haven't felt very witty and haven't wanted to make anyone suffer through my boring observations. Well, there have been a few chucklers, but you all might think I've gone off the deep end if I really shared them.