I Want the World's Most Dangerous, Dung Spewing Mammal for Christmas

Around this time of year, radio stations begin playing the legions of holiday music we've all forgotten about since last year. Music that should have been taken out back and put out of its misery with daddy's deer rifle, but lives and breathes anew each season. Who knew Billy Squier had a Christmas song? I do, because some desperate radio station plays it once a year. Hope you're enjoying those residuals, Billy. (Side note: Billy Squier is way hotter in his old age than he was when he was popular.)

Along with the Mariah Careys, Celine Dions, Bing Crosbys and Dean Martins come the novelty songs we love to hate. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth, and ... of course ... that one we hate the most. The Hippo Song.




Some cherubic 10-year-old named Gayla Peevey recorded this song in 1953, and it has peeved modern day society ever since. I am also alarmed to find out in the course of my research for this post, that this fine masterpiece has been remade by the likes of country singer Gretchen Wilson, the talent for the ages Jonas Brothers, and the more likely Alvin and the Chipmunks. The version done by Alvin, Simon and Theodore is possibly more irritating than the original, if you can conceive of that. It's on YouTube if you don't believe me.


Why would a child choose a hippo for a Christmas, rather than "dinky Tinker Toys" (which are pretty awesome - have you ever played with them? They kicked ass. Note to self: get children some Tinker Toys this year)

After all, the hippopotamus (from the ancient Greek for "water horse") isn't exactly cute and cuddly like a Pillow Pet. Or fun to play with, like this amazing new game.

In fact, the hippo has been branded as one of the world's most dangerous animals. They've racked up a bigger human body count in the African wild than lions have. They aren't afraid of humans and will think nothing of cutting a bitch if they have to.

Also, they weigh 8000 pounds. Can the floorboards in your home withstand 8000 pounds of pressure? I'd bet you wouldn't like to find out. They also do this thing called "dung showering" which for many reasons, I won't describe, but it is what it sounds like. Just what I always wanted under the tree.

All I'm saying is, this misguided child should have quickly been shot down by her parents, long before the lyrics were penned and the recording studio was booked. Many generations of haters would have been grateful, and this blog post might have been about Mariah Carey instead.

Anything Could Happen

Scribble loves books. His favorites are books about animals, especially those with photos. He knows most of their names and the noises they make, and whether they could eat or bite you. It’s always fun to read one of these books with him, as his commentary along the way is priceless.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, Scribble was paging through a magazine that we got from the Cleveland Zoo. “Look at this,” he’d call to me and show me a large picture of a giraffe, which he knows is my favorite. Once he had my attention, he flipped the page to show a grizzly bear, and screamed out in mock fear. I laughed and went along with the game, saying how scary the bear was. He thought this was great, so he looked up at me as he curled back the next page.

“Anything could happen,” he said with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. As he turned the page to reveal the snake and lion, he repeated the scream performance, and in turn, I gave him my over-exaggerated look of shock and surprise.

Something magical happens when you get lost in a story or can’t wait to see what’s on the next page of a beloved picture book. The love of books, and the feeling that anything could happen as you turn the page, is something I hope stays with him through life.

Brilliant

This weekend, my husband made homemade spaghetti sauce with tomatoes from our garden. It was an afternoon-long effort and I know he was proud of the result. Last night, he used the sauce and made eggplant parmesan. Doodle and Scribble had spaghetti and meatballs, because, homeys don't play dat eggplant. Doodle takes his first bite and declares, "Dad, this sauce is BRILLIANT!" I was thinking to myself that it was such a great compliment coming from King Picky himself, until my husband confessed that he had given the boys Ragu from the jar.

Smurf My Life

Last night at dinner, I remembered a promise I had made to Doodle last weekend.

"We still going tomorrow?" I asked him, and as the words were leaving my mouth, I turned to my husband and said, "Why did I just do that? Why am I doing this to myself?" I mean, maybe Doodle had forgotten what we had talked about doing on Friday night.

But it was too late. I had to follow through. "We still going to see the Smurfs movie?"

And thus, my fate was sealed.

Scribbleisms

I honestly can’t remember what Doodle was like when he was 2. I’m sure he was adorable, and his control freak behavior was probably just peeking its carefully-combed little head out of the surface. So, rather than let Scribble’s precious moments (not the dolls – eek!) slip away, I am using this blog space to take note of some especially cute ones of late:

At Scribble’s day care, every Wednesday the 2-year-olds get to have “Splash Day” and must come to day care in their swim suits and water shoes. I bought him the cutest little flip flops at Target that have little fishies and sharkies on them. Did I just say “sharkies”? Yes, yes I did.

Previous to this, Scribble has worn flip flops or any kind of sandal exactly zero times. And the putting on of shoes does not rank high on his favored activities list (but the taking off of shoes sooooooooo does.) So that first Wednesday morning, I began in earnest to try and get the kids out the door on time, as I always do, and always fail miserably at doing. When I tried to put Scribble’s toes into the flip flops, which involves separating the big toe from the other four, Scribble put up quite a fight. “I don’t want it the fwop fwops!” he said repeatedly, his legs flailing and showing unprecedented strength and avoidance tactics. Finally, I prevailed and the fwop fwops stayed on for approximately enough time to get him strapped into his car seat. We probably didn’t make it out of the driveway before the first one went. At least, when I got to day care, he was contained in the car seat and I was able to replace the wayward fwop fwops without incident. Since then, “I don’t want it the ______” has become a handy catch phrase in my house.

--

Doodle knows 2 or 3 knock knock jokes that he can tell without ruining the punchline. Example would be the classic “boo who” or the “orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” Telling of these knock-knock jokes is standard fare at the dinner table when conversation has lapsed. Not to be outdone, Scribble added one with his own flair last night:

Scribble: Na-knock.

Us: Who’s there?

Scribble: *starts laughing* Uh …. A BUG!

Us: *raucous laughter and overacting*

Repeat the previous about 10 times. Sometimes he couldn’t wait for us to ask “who’s there” before he delivered the funny.

Dopple Ganged

I'm an only child. People often find this surprising about me, because I don't fit the stereotype. I don't have that spoiled princess vibe going on, at least not most of the time. Although I had plenty of friends in the neighborhood to play with when I was a child, I had a vivid imagination and could entertain myself for hours on end by making up games with dolls, stuffed animals, etc. But I did always wish I had a sister. A twin sister. There's just something undeniably cool about identical twins. They have that whole language thing (I mean, you've seen those twin babies, right?), they understand each other in a way that no one else does. In high school was the first time I'd heard about her. I think it started with someone calling me by the wrong name. Laura. But it was a case of mistaken identity; apparently, I had a lookalike, and not only that, but she hung out at the same place I hung out at! I had just never seen her. Several more times during high school it was mentioned to me how much I looked like this girl. Or did she look like me? But after I went to college, I forgot about her. I never did meet her. A few months ago, I was in the elevator in my office, and this dude, kind of a creepy looking guy, is staring at me. I mean, staring hard. Made me uncomfortable and I couldn't wait to get off at my floor. "I know you," he said. I shook my head no. "You have a twin sister?" he asked. Again I shook my head. "You went to my high school." Since I went to an all-girls, Catholic high school, I found this impossible. "Man," he said. "There's a girl who looks just like you who went to my high school." I assured him it was not me, and thankfully the elevator god, Otis, opened the doors at that moment and I click-clacked my high heels onto the linoleum floor and away from his creepiness. But was it a strange pick up line, or, was she back? I chalked that up to a strange encounter with a strange person, until I was out meeting with my book club a few weeks ago. We met up at this wine bar none of us had been to before but wanted to check out. After we got settled, we were chatting with the bartender and complimenting the decor and artwork at the bar. She started telling us a little bit about the history of the bar when she turned to me and said, "You know this already, you're here all the time!" I gave her a furrowed brow. "This is my first time here," I said. She gave the look right back to me. "Come on now," she said, a little sass in her voice. "Don't mess with me. We put your paintings on the wall here!" She clearly has not seen that I can barely draw a stick figure correctly. I told her again that she had me mixed up with someone else. She was almost getting mad at me, thinking I was playing some kind of bizarre trick. Finally, she let it drop. After a raucous book club meeting that of course involved very little discussion of the book, I walked with some of my fellow book clubbers to the parking garage when I realized I was out of cash. As we were in a downtown area, at night, with no ATM around that I was aware of, I pulled up to the gate hoping they would take a credit card. An older lady was at the booth, and within eyeshot there was a security office where a man was sitting. As I pulled up she smiled and waved at me. Before I could share my cashless predicament with her, she gestured toward the security guy and said, "Fred says you're the girl who comes in here all the time. You don't have to pay." And lifts up the gate. I thought to correct her but, being that I had no money, said, "Thank you! Have a good night!" And drove away. Remind me to thank my twin for the free parking. If I ever do meet her.

Senseless

I haven’t had a sinus infection in a good three months, so clearly my timecard was going to get punched again. So here I am, honking into countless Puffs tissues – the kind with lotion – and putting petrolatum-based ointment around my nostrils. When I first noticed cold symptoms, I tried everything in my power to prevent it from turning into a sinus infection – inhaling saline nasal spray and letting it drip into my throat … SO GROSS …, taking decongestants (the good stuff they keep behind the counter to deter those meth heads from making meth in their meth labs that you have to sign in triplicate and provide three forms of Photo I.D. to get one pack from the Walgreens pharmacist), making sure I was taking vitamins daily (which I should be doing anyway, tsk tsk) and finally, sanitizing my ass off. Blow my nose? Sanitize. Blow a kid’s nose (because of course they’re both sick)? Sanitize.

I did, however, stop short of using a neti pot, although I hear this is like the be all and end all of sinus clear-outage.

Aside from the usual crappy symptoms and general malaise that go along with such an ailment, I have one more added consequence of being sick: I cannot taste, or smell, ANYTHING. I could be holding the steaming rear end of a skunk up to my nose and I’d be like, hey, this skunk is broken.

This has some pros and cons which I’ve observed over the past few days, and I’d like to share those with you. There are times when I think it’s not such a bad thing to only be operating at 3/6 senses. Yep, I said six.

PROS:

Decrease in appetite. Since I can’t taste the foods I love to eat but aren’t necessarily good for me, which include Red Vines, chips and pudding, I don’t eat them (as much). This should, theoretically, lead to some weight loss. I’m also finding myself eating smaller portions since the food is completely tasteless.

The denial of the existence of poopy diapers. Last night, my husband thought that Uncle Dom, our cat, had broken wind, the kind of which smelled of rotting garbage. I blissfully smelled nothing. I then sat Scribble on my lap, read him the lion book that he loves so much right now – twice – and put him down to go get me another book. Scribble wandered over by his dad, who immediately exclaimed, and I’m paraphrasing here, “Good GOD! It’s YOU!” and he promptly picked Scribble up and took him to get his diaper changed. Which meant, I didn’t have to do the changing. Thanks, defective sniffer!

I can eat stuff like squash, and not take much of a notice. With taste buds in fully-functioning operational mode, there is no way in hell I would willingly put squash in my mouth, let alone chew it, swallow it, and allow it to pass through my digestive tract. See also: arugula, asparagus, anything that touched a fish stick, spam, cool ranch flavor anything, etc. So I may as well take full advantage of the health benefits of eating otherwise unpalatable vegetables since I can’t taste them anyway.

CONS:

I have no idea if/when I have B.O. Right now, I’m operating on blind faith. In the morning, I apply deodorant and perfume in the usual dosages based on past performance. However, I did do some hallway power walking at lunch (as powerful as my compromised immune system would allow without me getting light-headed and falling over. On a side note, I think I pulled a hammy on this walk. Is that even possible?), and as such, perspired in the underarm region. The effects of previously-applied deodorant and perfume could have long since worn off, leaving only the ripe human stink of sweaty pits, but I can’t be sure. Would people tell me if I stank? Or would they just turn their chairs ever so slightly away from me and breathe through their mouth for the rest of our 3:00 meeting?

Lack of enjoyment of rare treats. I took myself out to Chipotle yesterday for some hot burrito bol action, and couldn’t even taste the spicy corn salsa. A waste of $7.95. I would have been better off going to the salad bar across the street from my office and filling up a Styrofoam container with a heaping amount of squash and arugula for 4 bucks and saving my Chipotle indulgence for a time when I could enjoy every last calorie-packed bit of guac. See also: pros 1(a). Decrease in appetite.

I have no idea if the milk is spoiled. So I guess I’ll keep drinking it.

If the building is on fire, I’d have to rely on the smoke detectors doing their job. Does anyone smell smoke? I don’t.

I could kill brain cells and not even know it. Yeah, I’m holding this Sharpie up to my nose, but it doesn’t smell. Hey, this Sharpie is broken!

So, as you can see, the cons do outweigh the pros, although the potential for weight loss is a very attractive pro. Nonetheless, I will be seeing my quack-for-brains doctor tomorrow, who will no doubt prescribe me antibiotics that won’t work and I’ll see him again in two weeks for antibiotics that do work. In the meantime, I’ll be dining on arugula, diligently checking expiration dates on milk cartons, and doing a re-application of my deodorant mid-day, just in case.

I suppose it’s very nice

Poetry. It’s a conflagration of words meant to evoke imagery, emotional response, connection.

Some poetry rhymes, some of it follows a nice rhythm that, if you have nothing better to do, you can clap out into its metered form. Some of it makes a nice visual image on your page. And some of it transcends the page and becomes song. And song becomes ingrained in our heads as we hear it repeatedly.

That’s why, even as a nine year old child, I could sing every lyric to Duran Duran’s popular hits.

At the time, I wasn’t concerned with meaning. Cherry ice cream smile? I suppose it’s very nice. I thought Simon LeBon was cute, the videos intrigued me (especially the one for “Wild Boys” where he’s strapped to that revolving wheel contraption and appears to be being tortured for some unknown reason).

(now that I watch this again, it is disturbing as all get out. Why was I allowed to watch MTV when I was younger?)

Not to flash my credentials, such as they are, but I minored in English in college, and majored in journalism. So, I feel fairly confident in saying that I know a thing or two about words. But child, I need a master’s degree to figure out the lyrics to these songs. Or, at the very least, a 300-level English class.

That’s why I thought I’d try to deconstruct some of the lyrics and see if we can make some sense of them, together. Let’s start out with an easy one, just to get in the groove.

Is there Something I Should Know – lyrics

Please please tell me now

Please please tell me now

It seems there is a sense of urgency to communicate a key piece of information. So far, so good.

I made a break I run out yesterday tried to find my mountain hideaway
Maybe next year maybe no go

I know you're watching me every minute of the day yeah
I've seen the signs and the looks and the pictures that give your game away yeah

To this point, I kind of follow what’s going on. And then, this happens:

There's a dream that strings the road a broken glass for us to hold
And I cut so far before I had to say

But thankfully, this quickly gives way to:

Please please tell me now is there something I should know
Is there something I should say that'll make you come my way
Do you feel the same cause you don't let it show

Which I can totally follow, and sing along to, and not have to think much about. Ok, back to the verses.

Oh oh, oh, oh people stare and cross the road from me
oh oh, And jungle drums they all clear the way for me
Can you read my mind can you see in the snow
And firey deamons all dance when you walk through that door
Don't say you're easy on me you're about as easy as a nuclear war

I worry about the drugs these fellows were taking. I think it made them see stuff.

Let’s move on to something a little more difficult. The one that made me wonder, as a tot, if I would ever be friends with a girl this exotic, or if I could change my name when I got older.

Moving on the floor now babe you're a bird of paradise
Cherry ice cream smile I suppose it's very nice
With a step to your left and a flick to the right you catch that mirror way out west
You know you're something special and you look like you're the best

Clearly, there is one fine lady up in this club.

Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand
Just like that river twisting through a dusty land
And when she shines she really shows you all she can
Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Grande

Can this broad walk on water?

I've seen you on the beach and I've seen you on TV
Two of a billion stars it means so much to me
Like a birthday or a pretty view
But then I'm sure that you know it's just for you

What puzzles me here is what is “it” that is “just for you”? The pretty view? The stars? The beach? The TV? The sand? The cherry ice cream?

Hey now woo look at that did she nearly run you down
At the end of the drive the lawmen arrive
You make me feel alive, alive alive
I'll take my chance cause luck is on my side or something
I know what you're thinking I tell you something I know what you're thinking

OK, now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. This Rio chick has done something troublesome to stir up some trouble at the club. This is a real turn-on for him. Oh, Rio.

Do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do do

I got nothin’.

I could keep going, but I’d like to skip directly to the 300 level class. Mensa members have tried and failed to understand what is going on in this song. So for me, a woman of slightly above average intelligence, I clearly have my work cut out for me.

Union Of The Snake
Telegram force and ready I knew this was a big mistake

Telegram force? With the first two words of the song, I am already lost.

There's a fine line drawing my senses together
And I think it's about to break

A little bit easier. He’s about to lose it.

If I listen close I can hear them singers oh-oh-oh
Voices in your body coming through on the radio-oh-oh

This man has forgotten to take his anti-psychotics and is starting to hear things that aren’t there.

The union of the snake is on the climb
Moving up it's gonna race it's gonna break through the borderline

What kind of union is this? Is it based in Mexico? Or, given that Duran Duran is from England, maybe it’s an Irish union? This is clearly some kind of gang that is planning on making a move. But should we believe him? He’s not exactly a reliable source, given the whole “off his meds” thing.

Nightshades on a warning give me strenth at least give me a light

Give me anything even sympathy there's a chance you could be right

I think Cory Hart said it simpler: I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can.

Well, I’m not sure I shed any light on these lyrics. Does it matter? For some reason, these songs resonate. People still clamor to see Duran Duran in concert. I have at least three of their songs on my iPod (including the last, above). So I guess the conclusion to be drawn here is that cohesive, understandable lyrics don’t necessarily make a song good. A song can be good if the music is good, if the singer is charismatic, and if there is compelling visual to go along with it. These three components are undeniable.

So I’ll continue to sing along and not get hung up on the meaning..

Let’s get re-acquainted, you and I.

It’s certainly been a while. Turns out this new job does not allow me to wile away the days on Facebook and write incredibly witty blog posts on the company dime. This is most unfortunate. I could be, like, level 90 in Farmville by now.

(This is some random FV character and DEFINITELY not my own screenshot.)

So many times I have wanted to visit. To come share some small observation with you, weave it into a short yarn, take that yarn and make a nice warm scarf that you could wrap around your brain. Or show you the latest pictures of my two boys, who are getting so big, so fast. Because god knows one day I am going to come to you and be like, what were those days like again? What did they look like? I remember that shirt Doodle has on!

(It was stripedy!)

It’s appropriate, then, that I meet up with you again around the holidays. It tends to be a reflective time of year anyway. Old friends get together, perhaps throw back a couple of adult-type beverages, and reminisce about co-workers long given the axe, or That One Time Back in College, and I think you know what time I mean.

So what are you drinking these days? Still gin and tonic? Oh, you’ve moved on to flavored vodka? Fine, then. Let’s get two of those on the rocks, and we’ll do a quick catch-up. I’ll even break it down month by month like one of those Year in Review things that pop up each December.

January 2010

• I turned one year closer to forty, but still able to round down to thirty. This will be the last year I can do that.





• Scribble was seven months old; able to look cute while in his bouncer. His brother, Doodle, at 4 ½, entered the phase where he was incapable of smiling for a posed photograph.
  

February 2010

• Otherwise known as “the dead of winter.” Not much evidence exists that February actually happened. I’m sure it snowed, Valentines were exchanged, and Doodle and Scribble grew another month older.

March 2010

• The weather broke; allowing us to capture the CUTEST VIDEO EVER:

• Speaking of cute, something possessed me to do my child’s hair in a Mohawk, although I systematically oppose this hairstyle on kids.
  
  

April 2010

• My first work trip is to beautiful Orlando, Florida. The weather is non-cooperative, and I get about one hour of sunny pool time, not even enough to come home with a tan.
  

• And it was Easter, a late one at that. Which meant ... EASTER EGG HUNT!!!!!!
  
• And this thing appeared in a pan of scrambled eggs. But like a certain ROYGBIV miracle, aka the Double Rainbow, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

May 2010

• The sideways universe reveals itself to be a holding tank for dead people to pass on to heaven. Jack discovers this when he comes into a church and finds his long since dead father, Christian, inside. Christian is finally able to bring Jack to terms with the fact that he is dead. In some other universe, on an island, Jack lays, bloodied and beaten, looking skyward at a plane that carries his friends Kate, Sawyer and Miles (although were they friends? I don’t know. Anyway.) Vincent the dog is by his side in his final moments. We zoom in closely on Jack’s eye as it closes, bringing six WTF seasons to a fade to black.




• My work travels take me to the city of brotherly love. It looks nice from my hotel room window, but I don’t venture out.

June 2010

• Scribble turns 1!

• ... and becomes mobile.

• Doodle graduates from Pre-K, which is commemorated with a graduation ceremony. I do the requisite amount of crying about the passage of time, directed at my firstborn, but also a reflection that I am getting old.

• I vow to never fly into or out of the Atlanta Hartsfield airport ever again after nearly having to spend the night there. I had a nice little phone booth picked out and everything for the long haul. Why, Georgia, why????

July 2010

• Doodle turns 5

• Scribble attends his first Akron Aeros baseball game and meets Orbit, the team mascot. The game eventually gets rained out after four innings. Does that mean that it technically was NOT his first baseball game? Someone please consult the rule book and let me know.


• The county fair was in town. This meant corn dogs, guys with mullets, lots of tramp stamps, and of course, livestock:


Smilez!

August 2010

• R.I.P. Peepers.



• Doodle starts kindergarten. On the first day, when I ask him how it was, he responds, “I forgot.” When I asked him if he met any new friends, he replied, “I forgot.” This was followed by a heavy sigh. We will repeat this conversation, ad nauseum, until he is at least eighteen.

• We take Doodle to his first Indians game, which he loves, except for the fireworks. We meet such dignitaries as the Mustard hot dog, as well as the Indians manager Manny Acta, and after the game, Doodle gets to go on the field (as do we) to run the bases (as we are ushered to a designated spot to pick up our kids and get the hell off the field).

September 2010

• Speaking of baseball, Doodle's little league Coach Pitch team, the Pirates, is halfway decent.

• My work travels take me to Myrtle Beach. I look forward to spending some time in the sand, but tropical storm Nicole has other plans for me. I spend one frightening night on the fifteenth floor of my hotel room, facing the ocean, feeling every gust of wind shake the building.



• I finish “Infinite Jest,” a book I began reading in January of 2009, and subsequently, ritualistically burn some of its pages in our Webber grill.

October 2010

• My work travels bring me to a charming, or depressing, depending on how you look at it, little town called Frankenmuth. The only picture I take on this trip ends up being with my sepia tone filter on it, which actually is quite fitting. The shopping is killer there, though, and I see a movie for grown-ups in a movie theater for the first time since, I don't know, I think George W. was still in office.

• The weather in October was gorgeous, was it not? This allowed for one last trip to the zoo. In short sleeves, no less! Bare arms in October is always a good thing.


• 
  
• Then, of course, Halloween. Doodle went all ninja on our asses, and Scribble was Yoda. Although some people seemed to think he was Shrek.
  
  Shown here with Mary, who had a (real) little lamb.

November 2010

• Doodle loses his first tooth.

• We took a trip to an indoor water park and Doodle stayed in a hotel for the first time. Also, this elephant got fresh with me.

December 2010

• My final work trip of the year is to Las Vegas. My hubby comes with me and it is our first vacation alone since I was six months pregnant with Doodle. Good times are had, but we lose all the money we came to gamble with. What happened in Vegas, stayed there.



• Oh, and I took some pictures of dolphins!


• Jud Birza won Survivor. You remember Jud, right? You may remember him by his nickname on the show, which was Naonka.

See any good movies this year? I didn’t. But I did read some good books. Here’s what I would recommend:

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It lives up to the hype. Believe that.

The Help. A very moving, well-written story about southern women in the 1960s when segregation was still the norm. Hard to believe that wasn’t that long ago!

As you know, I love my TV. On my DVR this year were shows such as:

Mad Men. Best show on television right now. And I think as a woman, it's my duty to mention that if you don't have a late night fantasy involving Don Draper, you'd better check to make sure you have a pulse.

Lost. See you in another life, brother.

Parenthood. I’d follow Peter Krause to the ends of this earth after his performance as Nate Fisher in Six Feet Under, and this show is really well done.

Survivor. Jeff Probst gets sassier and sassier as the seasons wear on, and I say, bring it.

I Love Money. OK, how’d that one get on there?

And with that, I depart once again, for God only knows how long. Until next time, happy holidays to you and yours, and may your days be merry and bright.

What's poppin'

Let's face it.

There is no dainty, ladylike way to eat popcorn.

I should know - I've tried to find the method, and it just doesn't exist. I could, quite possibly, be the world's messiest popcorn eater. When I eat popcorn, it looks like a jackal going to town on some dead thing in the Serengheti. Some of it may find its way into my mouth, some may find its way onto the floor instead. It all just depends on my aim and if I can get my lips around it just so.

I've had to work masking my disgusting popcorn eating habits at my NEW JOB!!!!! Yep, I am employed at some place other than the Bad Place, which means one thing: I can now begin working on the tell-all novel I have been threatening to write for the past five years or so.

Anyway, at my new place of employment, one of the perks is popcorn day. Popcorn day is a twice-weekly occurrence. Great heavenly joy! I live for popcorn day. I plan my days around it. If I know it's popcorn day, I won't pack as elaborate of a lunch. Then I try to resist it for as long as I can. If I happen to walk near the popcorn maker, it's over. MUST HAVE POPCORN!!!!!!

And then, I take my treasure back to my desk, and pray that no one is watching the horror that is about to unfold. It is as if my hands grow to twice their normal size as I dig into the popcorn bag for a handful. Then I jam as much as possible into my mouth as kernels go everywhere.

I tried to go for the One Kernel at a Time strategy, but man, that takes waaaaayyyy too long to GET IN MY BELLY. I will have to work on a technique that is somewhat more graceful before someone at my new job sees me and labels me with a giant FREAK tag. Trust me, I've already done a few things that have made me highly susceptible to this nomenclature.

Berry good

I was nearly an adult before I realized that a cranberry was an actual berry, rather than the gelatinous, cylindrical substance that came from an Ocean Spray can. When I was growing up, it was my job every Thanksgiving to open the can, run a butter knife along the inside of the can, and then very carefully, shake out the cranberry sauce. The goal was, of course, to get it out in one solid tube, with no cracks or slices missing. Once out of the can, I had to put the cran-tastic tube onto a serving plate, and slice it into even discs.

It was a ritual I looked forward to, and perfected over the years. I loved the vacuous sound the cranberry tube made as it slowly evacuated its place in the can. Sometimes a gurgle, sometimes a flatulent act of defiance. Every once in a while, my knife skills failed me, and a chunk of jellified material would stick to the bottom of the can and would have to be exhumed at the end. Then, rather than present the cranberry guts on the plate with the other perfect slices, these remnants had to be eaten right then and there. I was always more than happy to take care of their disposal.

Because next to the turkey, the jellied cranberries were my favorites. Forget the gravy. As a child I couldn't be bothered with it. Or the stuffing - gross. Mashed potatoes were ok. Peas? Blech. I would much rather pile my plate high with white meat from the bird, and a few majestic magenta floppy cranberry frisbees.

As an adult, my taste buds have matured. Gravy? Yes please! Stuffing? Why sure. Mashed potatoes? Keep em coming. Peas? Blech. I've even acquired a taste for green bean casserole.

We spend Thanksgiving at my in-laws, and unfortunately, the cranberries are made fresh, from the berry, rather than shaken out of a can. In my opinion, the fresh berries are too tart. I like mine far removed from its organic form and pumped full of preservatives and sugar.

Hey. It's Thanksgiving. I'm allowed.

Baby steps
With any luck at all, one day this week I will come home and discover that I have steps on the side of my house, leading up to the side door.

Sound familiar?

Maybe it should - because about thirteen months ago, I was having the same hopeful thoughts. And then one week went by, then another, then another. And then it became fairly obvious that we'd been had. We got GOT, to quote a BB11 houseguest.

It all began in October of 2007. Our garage roof was in dire need of repair. And, rather than pay a contractor a couple of thousand greenbacks to do the job, my husband decided to take on the task himself. So he recruited a couple of his buddies, rented a giant-size dumpster, and they did the repair. While the dumpster was on our property, we figured, why not also demolish the steps on the side of our house? The cement was crumbling and the railing was wobbly at best - a few of the spindles of the railing were gone long before we had even taken the title. We'd rebuild them as soon as we had the money saved.

Well, you and I know that saving money is easier said and done, especially when there's day care to cover. And then things kind of went in the crapper money-wise. But last fall, we finally had a little "wiggle room" in our monthly budget - not much - and it just so happened that a contractor came to the door asking if we needed anything done.

That should have been the first red flag. I remember at the time feeling like it was a little bit shady, but I wanted those steps. The guy drew a diagram and showed us his plan for rebuilding them. We also hired him to take down some high tree branches - which he did that day.

The second red flag was that he wanted to be paid in cash. No checks.

The third red flag was that my husband said he couldn't pay him until payday - and when my husband came home, the contractor was waiting for him in the driveway.

We only gave the contractor half of the total payment - on the assumption that he'd use it to buy supplies. I think he DID buy supplies - Jack Daniels, Cuervo, Budweiser. Nothing that you'd find at Lowe's.

And we never saw him again. My husband called him a few times and he'd always have an excuse - too many other jobs, the truck broke down - and then he finally stopped answering the phone when my husband called. We called daily for weeks and left messages. Where did this guy go? And what did he do with the money he gave us?

Finally, we gave up. We paid a steep price for a lesson learned. Get it in writing - and checks only. We didn't even have a contract from this guy - just a flyer he made on his computer.

This year, we decided to give it another go. We've spent two years with a non-functioning door that leads to nowhere. We have a nice masking tape "X" near the doorknob to remind us that there is a three-foot drop awaiting us on the other side should we attempt to exit that way.

I got a solid referral from a colleague, we have a contract, we wrote a check with a down payment, and most importantly, we have this guy's home address. If I don't get my steps built, I will go to his home and hunt him down.

Outsmarted by the master

Doodle and his dad come home from school the other day and Doodle spots his squirt guns on the back porch, cast aside from some sizzling September day. "Dad, can I play with my squirt guns?" he asks.

"No, Doodle," says his dad. "You can only play squirt guns when it's warm out." It's jacket weather when he says this - a biting October day where crisp leaves form a blanket over the driveway.

A couple days later, Doodle and his dad come home from school. It is a beautiful sunny day, one of only a few fleeting days of warmth before fall gives way to winter. "Dad," says Doodle. "Is it warm out?"

"Yes," he says.
"Then can I play squirt guns?"

What shot do we have against this kid, I ask you. What shot?

Como se dice, "stupid?"

I knew it would happen eventually, but I thought he'd at least be in grade school. I saw it in the still-distant future: Doodle comes home with school, armed with homework that is just too difficult for me to help him with. Heck, after he masters basic math, I'm out. But I wasn't ready for his four-year-old self to come home and be reciting stuff in Spanish.

I think it's great - but it's forced me to try and harken back to the early 90's, when I was wearing the blue and green plaid uniform of a Catholic schoolgirl. I was a Spanish whiz - I took four years of it in high school and got straight A's in the class. But then, in college, instead of taking advanced courses in Spanish, I decided to start fresh and take la francais. I only took the 100 level of French, but this consisted of three semesters' worth of work.

Since then, the two languages have blended together in my mind. And a lot of it, I don't remember. Especially, and surprisingly, French. Even though that is the more recent of the two, I actually remember more espanol. And even though I spent countless hours in college in a little bit of torture here on earth known as "Language Lab." This is where you'd take a little cassette tape into a booth, where other students were also listening to cassette tapes in their own little boothes, and you'd put on a giant-size pair of headphones and were expected to verbally answer the questions the overly-cheery cassette tape French speakers would ask you. Or they would want you to repeat words or sentences. Often, their inflection was so over-the-top that even listening to it, let alone repeating it IN A ROOM WHERE OTHERS COULD POSSIBLY HEAR ME, made me want to sucker punch the frat boy next to me. It's possible that the language lab was so lame, and so traumatic, that I have forever banished any remembrance of the French language from my brain.

So, instead I remember Spanish. But not enough to help Doodle.

He was learning the colors in Spanish, and HE actually knew more than ME. I'm sure this is only the first of many instances in which Doodle knows more on any given topic than I do.

I just wasn't expecting it to happen this quickly. I did, however, earn his respect when I counted to ten en espanol. He made me repeat it over and over and over.

Time to unearth those old workbooks!

Safety Tips

When picking up Doodle from school on Friday, my husband noticed a list the teacher had made entitled "Safety Tips." It was tips given by the kids, and each tip had the kid's name who contributed the tip.

The list reads something like this:

Don't run in the hallway - James
Keep all the legs of the chair on the ground - Ava
Pay attention to the teacher - Madison
Listen to the directions during a tornado drill - Tyler
Don't bring fire to school - Doodle
Call 9-1-1- in an emergency - Nolan
Be careful with scissors - Lydia

Thank goodness Doodle warned everyone of the dangers of bringing fire to school. If I don't get called in for a parent conference, I'll be surprised.

A messy situation

Warning: this post is going to deal with the topic of baby poop. If you can't handle the poop, come back another time.

I arrive at my office this morning, log in to my e-mail, and up pops a message from a family member with a subject line of "[Scribble's] Poop."

Without reading it, I already know what's coming. Last night, while we were at said family member's house, Scribble went on a marathon pooping spree. He hadn't gone since Friday, so it was understandable that it was time for him to go. Plus, he had downed a huge bottle, and what goes in must come out. While the concerned family member was changing him, she remarked on how dark his poop was and asked me if it was normal. I said I wasn't sure, because Scribble ever-so-kindly poops at school during the week, and so I really don't have any frame of reference when it comes to the coloration.

The conversation ended at that point, or so I thought. But apparently, it's become such a worry that an e-mail had to be written about it. Fortunately, a friend emailed me a link to a site that shows photos of various colors of baby poop and what each color means. (It's like the facebook quiz you never wanted to take.) And, I'm pleased to report that Scribble is perfectly normal when it comes to the contents of his diaper. I e-mailed this link to the interested party and I'm hoping that is the end of that.

Like I needed this on a Monday.

Chubbified

By a show of hands, who thinks I am damaging Scribble for life by calling him "Chubs?"

Maybe it's because Doodle was a string bean as a baby, and still is. He never had any delicious baby thighs to pinch. His were always pretty thin. Lucky kid, he inherited his father's genes! Scribble, on the other hand, has pinchable thighs, a nice buddha belly, and irresistable baby arms. I find it hard to leave him alone when I'm holding him on my lap. If I see a spot that needs a little pinch, I just have to go for it.

So the nickname of "Chubs" to me isn't deroggatory; it's a term of affection for everything I love about him. It just seems to fit. It's come to define who he is. It has derivations such as "Chubbington" or "Chubby McChubberson." The noises he makes? They're known as "chubbing."

I am hoping it's a nickname he grows out of, because ultimately, I understand the implications it may have on his self-image. I don't think he will have a weight problem - in fact, I'm sure when he starts walking, he'll probably be skinny like his dad and brother. But until a better nickname comes along, it's going to stick.

Home away from home

I’ve been in my current job for ten years, in my current office for about 8 ½. We moved in early 2001 to a brand-new facility, custom-made for us. I remember in the early days, we were not supposed to eat at our desks for fear of soiling the new carpet. There are tales of people being busted by executive assistants for having such banal snack foods as apples and bananas at their desks. If we ate lunch at our desks, we did so hunched over, quickly, in case the Food Patrol came by. God forbid we have to heat something up. That was a covert op that had to be done with the precision of Jack Bauer. You had to go through a certain door to minimize being seen by anyone. Then you had to do something about the smell. We covered for each other, creating diversions.

As the years went on, the rules became more lax, we ate freely at our desks. Even smelly stuff.

Tomorrow, we are moving again. The moving boxes are piling up, and ghosts of past employees are stirring. In the process of moving, old files, personal belongings and long forgotten objects are assessed to see if they are move-worthy, or dumpster material. Some things are no-brainers. Those boxes of old brochures with outdated company logos? Those can go. IBL’s golf club paper weight that he left behind when he retired? (Yes, he’s gone. I don’t want to talk about it.) I can’t bring myself to part with it.

I consider this office to be my home away from home. I spend most of my waking hours here. It’s a place I’ve kept my stuff in for longer than my current house. The people here, for as much as they drive me nuts, are a pseudo family. I still refer to abandoned cubicles as “So-and-so’s desk”, even if that person has been gone for years. I’ve become used to the constant chatter of those around me, and of Bad Lady’s radio (that plays that damn Black Eyed Peas song at least six times a day – which is six times too many). Hell, I’ve even spent my share of Saturdays here, in my grubby clothes. One Saturday, while waiting for a response from management, IBL and I pitched pennies at a spot on the floor – closest to the spot won that round. I was pregnant with both my children while I worked here (and hence twice got to park in the exclusive, close to the building “Expectant Mother” parking spot – the envy of my co-workers). I got married while I worked here. I turned 30. I saw the Twin Towers fall while huddled around the television in my boss’office. I watched our current president’s inauguration with the company CEO, who stopped his day to watch the revelry, on a co-worker’s computer screen. I said goodbye to friends who moved on, were downsized, retired.

So it’s no surprise that I am a bit emotional over this move. It’s a piece of my history. I’ll never see this space again. Others will sit where I now sit, they will fill the shelves with their own photos, hang their own silly cartoons or child’s drawings on the walls framing the cubicle. They will go through their own milestones in life and at work. Maybe they’ll wonder who it was who sat in the seat before them.

As for the new office, my feelings about it are ambivalent. After so long in one spot, it’s hard to accept a new one, that for me in particular, brings with it a longer commute each day. On the plus side, my new cubicle is secluded, so I might not get to hear the Black Eyed Peas song at all. It’s just off the kitchen, so I can discretely heat up my lunch and bring it back to my desk without the Food Patrol breathing down my neck (although I doubt they’ve been retained in our new building). I can re-hang my photos and silly cartoon clippings on my new walls.

And maybe, eventually, it will start to feel like home.

Information Gathering

At the tender age of 4, there's stuff that Doodle just doesn't want to talk about with me and my husband. Such as, "What did you do at school today?" So we had to find out about the fire drill they had a school from my in-laws, with whom Doodle shared the whole incident, including how Scribble was carried out by a teacher, since he can't walk yet. Can you imagine a fire drill at a day care? I cannot. Only that it must be complete chaos, and even though the cost of day care is causing me to forego such things as my haircut and going out to dinner on Saturday nights, I have to say that daycare workers are just not paid enough for what they do.

He also confided in my mother-in-law about his crush on teacher Miss Katie.

His answer to most questions we ask him is "I dunno" or "I can't how to do that."

So any little bits of info I can gather about my son and his emerging personality and likes/dislikes are little nuggets of treasure that I like to put away in my pocket. Today I saw one that made me smile, and I'd like to record it here so I can remind him when he's older. On the wall outside his classroom door is a sign that says "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up." I think we have asked him this before and gotten his standard "I dunno" response.

However, the answer that is recorded on the wall for all to see is "astronaut."

I guess decorating his nursery in a son and moon motif wormed its way into his subconscious. Or maybe it's his obsession with all things Star Wars, Transformer and robot.

Anyway ... nugget: pocketed.
To infinity ... and beyond!

Someone, please light a fire under my hubby's patootie

Some people, maybe all, I haven't asked everyone so I will only assume "some", feel that their lives are out of order when their house is out of order. I am one of the some, fo' sho'.

So you may have noticed by my last post that the first few weeks of Scribble's life were a little chaotic and that I may not have been the Mother of the Year. I assure you that things are settling down now and I am actually feeling much more balanced now that I'm back at work. (Which is so scary, you have no idea. My lack of postings about the job is not for lack of drama - I assure you there has been plenty. I am saving it for the book I am going to write about it someday.)

But when I get home, the disorder and clutter pings off some piece of crazy in my brain, perhaps in the amigdala (or is she the princess in Star Wars?). A major part of that is because we still have not figured out the sleeping arrangements for the new baby. Right now, temporarily, Scribble is still in his bassinet in my bedroom. Since I am the world's lightest sleeper, this means that I wake up at every grunt and baby noise that Scribble makes (read: about 13,763 a night). And then when he's QUIET, sometimes I wake up and check to make sure he's still breathing. The lack of baby noises lulls me from precious sleep. So, even when Scribble sleeps through the night (which he's done, about three times so far. Who IS this wonderbaby?), I still wake up a bunch of times to check on him.

We need to get him into his crib and out of our room, pronto.

The bottom line is: I need a bigger house. But, given the real estate market and the fact that we have some major repairs to make to the house before we can sell it and NO money for said repairs, we are making do.

So there are only so many options for where the crib can go. On the first floor, we currently have our bedroom and Doodle's bedroom. Ours is slightly larger. On the second floor, we currently have a computer and a bunch of junk. Some junk is important, but other junk is just occupying space and needs to be tossed. The second floor could easily accommodate a crib.

Problems with the second floor scenario:

• It is HELLA hot up there in the summer and HELLA cold up there in the winter. May be difficult for a baby to deal with these conditions. Solutions, such as a window-unit air conditioner and a space heater, will increase our bills drastically, and the space heater is unsafe.
• I will be climbing the stairs several times at night (well, hopefully not) to retrieve Scribble.
• We'll have to use the baby monitor, and I'll therefore still be able to hear every grunt and baby noise, resulting in me waking up multiple times during the night.

Option #2 would be to move Doodle upstairs, and move the baby into Doodle's room. In addition to the heat/cold problem, I think I'd need a baby monitor for him just in case he needed something during the night. Also, I don't want him trying to come downstairs in the middle of the night. Finally, every time we mention this possibility, Doodle gets really upset, and I just don't want to rattle his cage more than I already have these past few months.

Option #3 is that the hubby and I move upstairs and Scribble moves into our room. We can endure the heat/cold. However, I still have the stair issue and the baby monitor issue - and I'd now need to have a monitor in both boys' rooms.

I'm not thrilled about any of these options, so I am hoping that Option #4 will work: everyone stays on the first floor, but we flip-flop rooms. I've been thinking about it, and I mean, at 3 a.m. when I'm listening to baby noises, I'm thinking about it, and I think that we could fit a crib, Doodle's bed, and the changing table in our room (and not much else) and then we could move our bed and one of our dressers into Doodle's room. But that means one of our dressers, and Doodle's dresser as well, would have to move upstairs. I'd much rather be going upstairs to retrieve clothes during the day than going upstairs in the dark of night to tend to a child. So this may be the winner.

So now, the only problem is time. I hope over this long weekend that we are able to get this done ...