Thoughts on giving and receiving

After a grumpy little incident involving my Bird, my mom, and a pair of brand new jeans, Bird and I had this exchange at bedtime.

Mama: You know, when someone gives you a gift you don't really like, most of the time you just say "thank you" and move on.

Bird: Why?

Mama: So you don't hurt the person's feelings. Think about how you would feel if you gave someone a present and they said they didn't like it.

Bird: Oh. It would hurt my feelings. Ok.

Mama: So... what if I gave you... a hat you didn't really like?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

Mama: What if I gave you... a really ugly shirt?

Bird: I would say "thank you."

(( long pause ))

Bird: What if I gave you a fart?

Mama: Well, I guess I'd have to say "thank you."

(( long pause, giggles))

Bird: I just farted, mom.

Somethings

Something I actually said today walking home from daycare:

"We are not going to go back and put that poop in your bag. And I am done talking about it."

Something that actually happened today:
Home appraisal for the Great Refinance of 2009. Felt super weird sitting on my couch pretending to read my new Vegetarian Times while the (very kind and fatherly) appraiser took a picture of the World's Tiniest Bathroom, clunked down the basement steps, peered into the guestroom/ graveyard of bullshit. And after he left I realized the toilet lid was up, prominently displaying a nice big wad of TP (thanks, Bird) floating around in there, with maybe some... is that pee? Cheers! Thanks for checking out the house! Maybe the memory of the toilet paper floater will erase the memory of the plaster cracks and weird wet spot in the basement!

Something I'm wondering about:
How many pounds of chickpeas can one family eat in a year? Because seriously, we are chickpea-heavy for at least 3 meals a week, and one of which is always Mediterranean Night.* Do other veg families lean this hard on the bean?

Something I'm loving:
Veganomicon. OMG. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Even if you are a raging carnivore, this book has the potential to rock your world or at least your side dish reportoire. A. has developed an addiction to the chickpea cutlets, which we now make in double batches and freeze half for quick & easy deliciousness, though they never seem to stick around long. Tonight's dinner: chickpea cutlet sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, avocado slices, Vegenaise, dijon mustard, red onion on homemade (thank you trusty little breadmaker) french baguette, served with roasted potatoes, onion, and asparagus. And yes, Bird will even eat a chickpea cutlet. This book is magical, I tell you.

Something that did not work:
We were on such a streak with Veganomicon that we branched out to try the Tempeh with broccoli and whole wheat rotini last night, which was under 45 minutes in prep and cook time as promised, but it was an intense 45 mintues. And the verdict? A. started out with, "yeah, I don't know if we should make this again, it seemed pretty complicated." and on to, "Maybe it would be better with a little more vinegar" to "I don't think I'll eat the leftovers, probably" to scraping the pot out into the garbage and saying, "That was disgusting." Should have known by the tablespoon of fennel seeds. I hate fennel. And yet still remain a little shocked that I hated this dish. That's how magic the V-con is. It romances you into thinking you might even like fennel in your tempeh, and you don't hold a grudge when it's gross.


*Mediterranean night = one tub of Bobbbi's Your Favorite Hummus + homemade pita +red peppers, carrots, olives, red onion. One plate, almost no dirty dishes. WIN!

** OMGOMG tried to find a website for the very yummy and insanely garlicky Bobbi's Hummus and came up emptyhanded. I buy it at Turnip Truck so go find it there. BUT! In my search, I ran across a random discussion board post that claims to be the Bobbi's Recipe. I. do. not. jest. After tomorrow (when we are scheduled to have Mediterranean Night, so lookout vampires) I might be the most-seven-dollars-savin'-est mama in the 'hood.

Summer Dress

My big girl, in her sweet new dress from Great Grandma O.

*sigh*
Three is only about two months away.
Looks like I'm going to need another one of these.

Behold, my laundries:

Look what came to my backyard this weekend!



Finally putting that hot Tennessee sun to work for us.
Love this thing. Just one step closer to living that country life I babble on and on about from time to time.

Want to hang your spouse's skivvies up for your neighbors to admire? One super awesome feature of this little beauty is that you only cement a little plastic sleeve in your yard, giving you the option to pluck the whole thing out of the ground and store it when you're not using it. Also awesome: comes fully assembled. Thanks to my most greenest C.S. for the recommendation. (And to my most helpfulest A. for the cementing.)

***

Conversation with my nine-year-old neighbor from across the street:

Mama:
Dude, did your uncle just drive up and give you money?

Littel:
Man, that's the easiest two dollars I ever made. All I had to do was get up early and pee in a cup so he could take it to work.

***

Conversation with my daughter over breakfast:

Mama:
Birdy, watch out! You almost spilled your milk.

Bird:
Mama, don't freak up.

***

What I saw today down the street at Wayne's Unisex, the haircut place that hasn't changed one bit since, oh, about 1979, and is probably the last place you'd think to take a two-year-old for a haircut, but it is so cheap and just so awesome in there:

Skinny old droopy guy, pretty tall, with paper-white hair.
Cut in the most fabulously long mullet I have ever seen.
A six hundred year old woman was trimming the "party" part straight across, which came almost down to his non-existent old-man butt.
I do not kid.

***

You know, for being a pretty handsome guy, he's not very photogenic. So I picked the most bizarre shot (a little Picassoey with all the legs, right?) to give you an idea of the Bear's new summer 'do and the distinct line between head (not shaved) and body (totally shaved).



This guy, on the other hand, is a bit more handsome. In a crazy, anxious, reclusive movie star kind of way. Tragically handsome, tragically a few horses shy of a library.


This is a somewhat terrible photo of what we like to call "the curler." When Big D gets nice and worked up, like during a thunderstorm as in this case where he nearly tried to climb into the bath with Bird, he curls his ears up in this super bizarre way, like little bat wings. The vet says he's never seen anything like it.


And how 'bout this haircut?

Easter Fever

First, this:


see more crazy cat pics



Now that we have that out of the way
So. This house is like my house on the inside in a lot of ways-- built in the same-ish time period, same-ish room size, same-ish layout, same-ish details, woodwork, arches, same teensy bathroom, etc. I love this rehab and feel like my house could learn a thing or two from this one-- after all, our bathroom is only SLIGHTLY less grimy than the one in the "before" pic. But what happens when I get the home improvement itch is that I stand in one room making a mental list of the projects large and small that need to be organized, funded and begun and I end up making myself nauseous and just walking away to eat cheerios by the handful. But damn, I do love the color of that living room.

Things About Bird
Bird came down with a gnarly Easter fever, beginning at church where she hunted Easter eggs like a champ and wilted in A's arms during the sermon, red and hot as a biscuit. It lasted all day and through the (very restless) night. Note to parents out there: throw away your ear thermometer. That little piece of advice would have saved us a call to the on-call doctor late last night when the damned thing gave us a false reading of 106 and my heart nearly exploded.

Bird got some flip flops (which she pronounces "thlip thlops") in her Easter basket. Also, the "I wish I could, but..." stuff from the last post is now a commonly used phrase in our house. As in, "Hey Bird, let's clean up this gigantic mess of toys and shredded paper" and she says, "I wish I could, but I'm really kind of doing something right now."*

Reading Rainbow
I'm reading this book and you should read it too. And oh my goodness, when I searched that title I learned that she also has a blog.

Ah, Employment
Still waiting on scheduling information for the second slob minterview. I'm controlling myself but only barely as I have not called or emailed a "what gives?" to anybody just yet.

Here at the job I already have, last week was a bruiser. I negotiated a tense peace between three staff people and in doing so lost my will to give any more than a quarter of a shit at any given time. That, and I had to watch a poodle dance around in a cheerleader costume for twenty minutes and feign interest. So, yeah. Somebody from the slob minterview place, please make contact. I am sweating.


*You know, something important like putting a size 5 toddler diaper on a tiny plastic dog.

So Stop Laughing.

2/15/08

"No, Mama. Poop is not funny. It's very sad."

I Received an Email Demanding a Blog Post, So

Here we are on the Greenway on Saturday. A truly lovely day, fantastic weather, quality family time.

While we were walking along the greenway, we heard a bicycle whizzing up behind us (a common occurance on this trail), and as he approached, the biker said, "On your left, Ladies!"

And then I said to A. "Huh. He just called you a lady."

++++++++

So the not smoking thing is going GREAT. Greater than great. A. has made it through situations (drinks, backyard fire pit, bars, band practice) I would never have dreamed he could make it through, and has remained his funny, easygoing self instead of morphing into a six-headed monster throughout the process. And because of that, I have been extra-strong as well. It's been over two weeks and I haven't wanted to hurt anyone or crawl into a corner and die, so that's a plus. And an even bigger plus is that I haven't really wanted to smoke. It's only a taste of success and I realize that, but yum.

+++++++

This work, this work! There is such bullshit running unchecked! As in, my boss totally did a no-call no-show on Friday and FLAT OUT LIED to me about it. MY BOSS. Hello, we are being led by a tenth-grader.

+++++

So, we haven't been sleeping well at our house, for a few reasons. Weather, for one. Tennessee has had some dramatic nights in the sky as of late, with wind and lightning and slapping rain, bright red radar screens on the news and devastating photos the morning after. Even if we could sleep through it, the big dog does not and he's a quivering, drooling, pacing mess before, during, and after the storm. And he totally wants to plant his stinky ass in YOUR bed until the sky gets quiet.

Bird has not been sleeping well, either, and when Bird doesn't sleep well, nobody sleeps well. She's clingy, on the verge of a winter cold and still staving it off, but barely. One of us spends at least half the night mashed into her twin-sized bed with her while she flops and clings and whines and pops up in the middle of the night fully awake and wanting to change her clothes. We've got to make another game plan-- I haven't woken up next to my husband in several days.

I also have not been sleeping well, with a tense body and a zillion things on my mind that keep my wheels whirring in the dark. I'm a champion sleeper, and In my life, not being able to sleep is the equivalent of not being able to enjoy, say, cheesecake. It's absurd.

And the fact that much of my unwelcome wakefulness is related to my work frustration makes me even more angry. I have plenty of important things to worry about, but for some reason I can't let this one go.

+++++++

Because the big things really are big and they bust open a hole so big in the fence of my brain that all of the smaller worries can slither in after them and there is no stopping it: No money in the bank or in the pocket or anywhere I can see it, Grandpa in intensive care with ilius and a MRSA infection, other Grandfather in his final days with family and hospice hovering close by, dad having prostate surgery to remove stage 2 cancerous spot on Thursday, Mom shouldering all of this worry, child not sleeping, immense job dissatisfaction, looming exam, dog with mystery hairless patch on bum, attic needing insulation, car tags needing renewing, giving up cheese for lent (stupid), clogged sink in upstairs bathroom, out of tomatoes, no clean underwear, and on and on like this until I find myself drilling down to a point of lying in the dark and obsessing about whether or not the dogs are going to ruin the garden I have not yet planted, purchased, or planned.

Welcome, it's scary and disorganized in here. And there aren't any cigarettes, so don't ask.

++++++++

Me: Ouch, Bird. You're pulling my hair. I don't like that.

Bird: I don't care.

++++++++

Okay, there's a story behind that. A. was trying to get Bird back down to sleep night before last, and she was trying to lay on his face in the middle of a sleepless vacuum of time, and he was all, "no, Bird, you can't lay on my face." and she was all, "Daddy, I don't like that when you say I can't lay on your face," and he was all, "I don't care, you can't lay on my face."

The next morning they talked about their rough night and hurt feelings. Bird told A. that it hurt her feelings when he said he didn't care. He said he was sorry, and that he was frustrated and tired. They kissed and snuggled made up.

But we're still left with the occasional "I don't care." She throws it out there and looks at you like, "Holy shit, what's going to happen next?" And I look at her like, "Holy shit, what do I say next?" And I have a whiz bang glimpse of the future where I am standing nose to nose with an adolescent Bird and I have to just snap out of it already and enjoy that I have to try not to laugh now because man alive, it is so not going to be funny when she is thirteen, no sir.

++++++++

Bird: (running laps through the house as we're trying to cook dinner and have some semblance of a conversation) POOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOOOPOOPOOPOOPOOMOUSE!!!

A: Hey Bird, I think it's time to call your parents and tell them to come get you.

++++++++

Just kidding.
Just look at her, so cute.
So TWO.




+++++++

So, A. shaved off his mustache. I think this is the closest he's come to psychosis while taking Chantix. He started out trimming his beard, and I got in the shower, and when I got out he was sporting a mean fu manchu. The fu was quickly removed, but the redneck photo is freaking priceless. I am fortunate to have married a man so weird and lovable.

Weekend Collection of 10 things

1. Bird talking about seeing "Santa Closet."

2. Also from Bird a few long rants about someone named Jason and how he "Just can't stop," an emotional description involving large hand gestures with her palms out toward you in a "stop right there" kind of motion. No idea what she means, but she means it.

3. An excellent impromptu Girls' night with three of my favorite ladies. (Okay, that wasn't weekend, that was earlier, but still worth a mention.)

4. Falling in love with my city a little bit more at our Public Library, stopping in to check out some books for Bird and happening upon a really fantastic puppet show adaptation of John Updike's A Child's Calendar. I know-- you're thinking of people crouched down with hand puppets behind a little red box making stupid voices, but our downtown library has a really wonderful children's theater staffed with professional puppeteers and everything. Running commentary for everyone's learning pleasure during the performance was provided by Bird:
"It's dark now. There's the guy. There's the other guy. The guy is talking. There's a squirrel!" And so on.

5. Falling in love with my neighborhood a little bit more at our new fab Wine Merchant just right over there around the corner... un-snooty with the friendly wealth of wine information and un-ghetto with the absence of crack addicts and lotto ticket sales/ check cashing services. A true first in liquor stores for our patch of the metro area.

6. My husband knows all (and I mean ALL) of the words to Skid Row's I remember you. Still. And I got to hear every one of them in the car Saturday afternoon while he pointed out a new hole in his jeans:

A: Hey, check this out. (in bad-guy voice, as if he were leaning up against the side of my high school, showing off a full pack of smokes and a fifth of Jack Daniel's.)
Me: What?
Me: Your pants? What about your pants?
A: (points)
Me: Is that the corner of your pocket sticking out of a hole in your pants?
A: Yep. check it out.
Me: *blink*

And that? THAT is what a Skid Row song can do to a person, almost twenty years later.

7. Falling in love a little bit more (or at least making up) with our house. It sounds so simple, but removing a rug that smells like a dog's ass can make the biggest difference in your desire to want to spend time in a place.

8. Last-minute dinner with friends on Saturday further confirms that we don't need to move to Indiana to be close to family, that our chosen family here in Tennessee-- while not a substitute for our nearest and dearest-- is pretty near and dear in its own way, and in some ways even nearer and dearer.

9. Bought the teensiest tree at the Farmers' Market, put it up, decorated it. It's tiny but fits just fine, considering we'll spend so much of this Christmas holiday on the road.

10. Three solid days inside my real life makes my work life look pretty unappealing by comparison.

No, I got them ALL cut.

First off, Bird told me one morning last week that she wanted to wear a belt. And we had this cute ribbon from one of her birthday gifts, so I tied it around her waist. She's worn it almost every day since.


So, here's our shaggy little peach before the haircut:


And now, all groomed up and grown up:


It has been kind of an adjustment, painfully cute as it is, because now I look at her and I think she might really be some kind of kid, not a shaggy toddler-baby. A kid.

Here's Something to be Uneasy About

Yesterday at a Fazoli's in Bowling Green, Kentucky I had to tell the counter/ food prep staff that they were out of soap in the bathroom. I would like to think that the soap ran out during some kind of big bathroom rush that happened AFTER the last female employee washed her hands, but there is much uncertainty, as the restaurant was not busy and well after lunch rush, and there was about one female employee. Odds are she was the last one in. Out. guh.


Halloween Story:
Birdy had a monkey costume. A damn cute monkey costume. A damn cute monkey costume that she wore all day on Tuesday at daycare where she learned how to trick-or-treat proper-like. A damn cute monkey costume so damn cute and special that she made an extra phone call to my brother and sister-in-law to tell them all about it before dinner last night.

A damn cute monkey costume that must have been made of molten lava or creepy crawly bugs when A. went to put it on her after supper. She wouldn't even let one foot get in the one fuzzy little leg. NOoooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOONOTWearMonkeySuuuuuuuuuuuuit! with the wailing and the kicking and the tears.

So A. said, "That's fine. But if you want to go trick-or-treating, you need to dress up."

And she did. All by herself. She put on a tutu, a hat knit by my friend S., some butterfly wings, and one red glove.

We decided her costume was "Age Two."

Cat! DO NOT!

So after my last post I got an email from a concerned friend who thought I sounded depressed. Apologies to all, it had been a shitty week. It's all fine. Or will be fine, whatever. There are things I can't discuss because I'm not dumb about posting work stuff on the internet, but know that there are things in the world that are making me grouchy and I'm trying not to take it out on you, all four of you, my loyal readership. Instead I will take it out on the cat.

Birdy takes everything out on the cat. Direct quote from tonight:

"Cat! DO NOT! You know BETTER!"

I'd like to say she came up with that on her own, but it's definitely a page from my book. But what's a girl to do? That cat knows better! And he breaks things!


A. pinched Birdy's teeny finger totally by accident in a cooler and kind of peeled back some of the skin. She cried. A lot.

A: Oh, Birdy, that breaks my heart!
Bird: It breaks my heart, too!

Birdy will be a monkey for halloween. It will be so damn cute your teeth will melt out of your head, just wait.

I made this, and you should, too. Easy, delicious, with leftover mileage. Passes the Mama Snee test. I also made an Eggplant + Zucchini bake that involved a trip to a second grocery store to find eggplant, all in an attempt to convince myself that I do like eggplant. And sadly, despite my best efforts, I still do not like eggplant. Even smothered in mozzarella. And that's really saying something. There have been times in my life when I would have eaten styrofoam peanuts smothered in mozzarella and asked for seconds.

I'm thinking I'm going to do nablopomo, and I know you think that's funny, considering I post once every year or so, but LOOK OUT, I'm going to think of some things to say.

Starting Thursday, because it's late and I'm tired and in the middle of a freelance project due tomorrow, and I'm going to go on a hunt through all of the kitchen drawers for a stray cigarette I may or may not remember hiding from myself a very, very long time ago.

Here are your bonus pictures.

Helping make Granny-ola bars

This is Bird screaming at Reggie, the fish who came to live with us on her birthday.

This is Bird making some wooden breakfast on Sunday for Baby and Dog at her new birthday kitchen from Granny and Grandpa. It was the laziest of days. The next time I wish for lazy days where Bird and I lay around in our pajamas and cook wooden food and read books and drink coffee all morning while A. makes a huge, delicious breakfast and occasionally shouts out answers to whatever smartypants quiz show is on NPR, remind me that we do that. A lot.

I can think again, now that the temperature is below 145 degrees in Tennessee

A couple of days ago, I finally met Girl, Corrupted and her sweet Mr. Cooper, live and in person, walking toward me on the Greenway. If you don't already visit her in blogland, you should, because she likes to talk about poop, which automatically makes you a gem of a lady in my book. She reminded me that I have a blog, and I think she may have even shaken a finger at me? Hmmm. In any case. Here I am.

So never fear, readers (all four of you), I'm alive and well and mostly holding my shit together. My little mental break from/ at work has passed, and I'm back to busting it during the work week. I finished my very last class last weekend and hosted my in-laws for two nights. We traveled to Southern Indiana for Labor Day and attended no fewer than four major family functions/ events, all involving different combinations and permutations of the same group of people wearing different combinations of clothing. And this weekend is the single most big-assed fundraiser for the organization that pays me, A. will be traveling to Indy to play a sloppy drunken mess of songs with members of our old Hoosier college family, and my parents will come into town to visit/ volunteer for the fundraiser/ soak up as much Bird time as they possibly can. I lost my gigantic bundle of keys and discount tags and was made to pay the Honda dealership seven hundred thousand dollars to replace my huge, electronic car key (it has buttons on it. It is complicated.) My large dog seems to be losing his hair and his mind. Bird is getting tall. I cleaned the upstairs bathroom.

So far, September is kicking my ass.

This is just a bonus picture. She's taking a Bird Bath in the sink.

I'm going to trick you with photos to make up for the lack of words

Bird has peepeed in the potty at least once a day since Friday. That's five days of pee in the potty, baby. We are on a roll. A peepotty roll.

And while we're celebrating, here's to good friends from far away:
And to good friends just down the street:
And to good friends right here in the house.

Love You, Cheese and Triscuits

Any time I am having a conversation and someone near me is having a simultaneous and separate conversation -- let's say it's on a cell phone, with, say, their spouse-- and that person near me says "love you," I suddenly have the feeling of being very, very stoned, and I look at the person I'm talking to and I can't figure out if they've just told me they love me or if I've just told them I love them, completely by mistake. But in any case, I am certain I have not heard the last several words of the conversation in which I am engaged, because the "love you" is still in the air and I'm not sure who said it but I feel like I need to say it back. This is especially true if the conversation in which I am engaged is wrapping up at the same time as the peripheral "love you" conversation-- I have had a few too many foggy moments where I'm 50% sure I've just professed my love for some unsuspecting acquaintance.

I just finished a hearty snack of Triscuits and cheese and grapes and mmmwaah! So delish. No matter how hard I try, I approach this snack with an unconscious game plan to finish all three elements at the same time, keeping a watchful eye on the Triscuit, cheese square, and grape count and rationing one or another to keep everything in check until the final moment where I eat the last Triscuit, the last Grape, and the last Cheese Square in one delicious and well-executed stack. And that's how it just happened-- a clean finish, and I ate more than I was hungry for just to make that happen. Because I am totally fucking nuts, apparently.

So, Bird. Last night, naked and waiting for the tub to fill up, (when will we learn on this one?) She looked me straight in the eye and shit on the living room rug, standing straight up and looking both surprised and victorious at the result.

Also, walked right up and hit the unsuspecting and endlessly gentle Ninny-dog on the butt. A. warned her of a time-out to come, and in response she picked up her little blue chair and carried it to the hallway herself, with no prompting, and sat there and looked at the floor in silence for a few seconds. She came out triumphant and giggling, and thirty seconds later, she smacked Ninny on the butt again, and replaced herself in time-out, joyously. What do you do with a kid like this?

A. helped me clean out a closet on Mother's day, which sounds completely lame but which was exactly what I wanted, now that I'm on my purging-the-shit-from-the-small-house kick. He frightened me with his emotional detachment and purging ferocity. He is at times a pack rat and at other times a ruthless sorter. I have a carload of junk to drop at the Goodwill this afternoon, and that feels marvelous.

In appreciation of his furious cleaning efforts, here's your A. quote from the weekend:

"Feel me. I'm silky and manageable."

Holy Effing Eff

Did you think I had run off and left? Set my house on fire and run screaming into the street? Did you mistakenly think I am a person capable of keeping a blog afloat?

Well, I am here, just quiet lately and unable to breathe through all the layers and layers of shit going on. Are things out of control? Yes. Always. Am I okay with that? Yes. Because it has kind of always been this way, hasn't it?

So here are six things I felt like talking about tonight. And one more bonus thing right here in the beginning: our smoke detector battery has started its slow, chirping death this evening, and I don't have the right sized batteries or the right sized arms and legs to reach up to replace it, so it chirps about every four minutes or so, which is making my dogs act like a bunch of weenies and try to crowd under the desk together where they absolutely do not fit. They are driving me nuts. And the cat? The cat shits in the house, in a box, because I not only said it was okay to shit in the house, I invited him to shit right there in that box. It is awesome.

One
First of all, if the collective world keeps setting out Easter candy, I'm going to keep eating it, and I will be a big fat slug that waddles around holding her belly and whining about how she feels so siiiiiiiiick. Eat your own candy, everybody. I am here to help you, but do not make me help you eat that shit.

Two
Second of all, living with a toddler is like sharing your home with a severely bipolar midget with bowel and bladder control problems, who talks with her mouth full and throws things from time to time. And sleeps in a big, open-topped cage.
Seriously. She gets funnier and more clever, sweeter and more herself every hour. But with that growth comes independence, opinions, the word "no," and periodic short-circuiting that usually ends in mild to moderate bodily injury for one or more parties and, ultimately, a sweaty, teary little exhausted person.
Daycare was closed yesterday and I had the privilege of spending the whole day with Bird, just me and her, playing and running errands and making lunch and flopping around in the big bed. It made this morning's drop-off 300% harder on both of us.

Three
Next item: School. I think the last I spoke of it, I was getting sort of fucked over by the new schedule at school. The update is that I met with the director and she did not receive my carefully crafted email with the zinger at the end, of which I was so proud. There were reasons for the schedule shift and I get that now, but I still think it was handled shittily. She was willing to wheel and deal a little bit with me, and now I will start intern clinic in May (!!) and graduate in September, which is about 8 months earlier than I'd projected. So yay to that.

And to the person that landed here by Google-searching "Massage School rip-off No Jobs," thanks a bunch for bringing up that encouraging scenario.

Four
Removed. It wasn't very nice. Sorry.

Five
I tried to do our taxes on Turbotax, but when it told me we owed $1500 I was certain I had made a mistake. (We had, in fact, made a mistake-- walking around for 12 months with our heads squarely up our asses not having enough tax withheld and not realizing how much contract income was coming in that is now being taxed). So I went to HR Block for the miracle experts to fix it and get us that fat refund they're always talking about on television.

I started just now to write out the whole moment-by-moment encounter, but I'm tired and I've told the story a hundred times already because I needed to hear myself tell it, because the whole time I was sitting there I was pretty sure nobody would believe me when I tried to explain. Like the time I went to the psycho mad-scientist dentist and wondered for years (still do) if I dreamed the whole ordeal, with the goggles and the spelunker's headlamp and the shredding of my gums.

The short version (do I ever do a short version?) is that my tax preparer was blind, for the most part-- definitely not drivable and definitely shopping in the audiobook section-- with one eye looking one direction and one eye not really looking anywhere but definitely not the same direction as the other eye. And he spoke in a barely-audible whisper. And he ignored my questions, or maybe he answered them, who knows? Because his voice was the teensiest, mousiest whisper.

I'm all for people with disabilities getting jobs just like anyone else, and when this guy greeted me at the front desk of HR Block, I got all psychosocial rehabby and was really impressed that they'd hired a disabled guy to be the greeter. Until I realized he was going to do my taxes. That he would be there to read the fine print, literally. And I had dashed in to HR Block on my way back to the office after a patient visit, so it wasn't like I had all damn day.

Collectively, A and I had four W-2's between us, two mortgage interest statements, four 1099s and a shitload of daycare and school receipts. And he read each one with a magnifying glass, less than an inch away from his face, and punched the keys on the keyboard one by one, looked back through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Looked through the magnifying glass, hovered over the keyboard, punched a key, squinted at the screen. Lather, rinse, repeat. All of those forms. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

And at the end? After the blind guy read the teensy numbers off of the complicated forms and performed a barely interactive reading of TurboTax? It was going to cost me TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT DOLLARS for the whispering and magnifying and the pecking out of the letters and numbers. On top of the $1500 we do, in fact, owe. The $1500 we don't have immediately available, as we are the definition of paycheck-to-paycheck living.

A blind guy. Did my taxes.

Five and a Half
Visited my in-laws for Easter. Ate yellow foods and brown foods, no green foods. Some small, hard pink and blue foods, also.

Bird hunted Easter eggs in the freezing-ass cold during the day, ate sugary treats in the afternoon, and violently fought sleep Saturday night, forcing us to employ the "cry it out" method which I have used less than five times in the entire almost eighteen months I've been a parent. I just can't see the point in forcing her to fall asleep so lonely and out of control that she collapses in an exhausted heap. That does not feel like a parenting success to me.

While in Indianapolis, I slept in a bed so Downy fresh that I woke up feeling like I'd rubbed a dryer sheet all over the inside of my mouth. Please, if you are having guests, don't double-up on the freshness. Some people just don't like it.

Of course, the only Downy fresh bed I ever sleep in is there at my in-laws' house, and usually we are there for a celebratory occasion and I might be associating waking up in a Downy-fresh bed with waking up with a fierce hangover. In any case, I had little to drink this trip and I can say with certainty that the bed was over-Downied and I stand by my dryer-sheet-in-the-mouth description.

Six
I've been checking Bloglines here and there, though I have not updated my own little corner, thanks to my barely flickering personal life. I find myself getting really jealous of all the crafty blogs- -the women who just decide on a whim to stitch up a sundress or a this or a that or bake homemade bread and take the time to get delighted by this pattern or this thing or this thrift store find or whatever. All with beautiful photos and a true appreciation for little satisfying details. I'm not talking about jealousy like "oh, that's so well done! I love that! Omigah! I'm so jealous!" I'm talking about actual, poisonous jealousy of these bloggers and their fucking awesome crafts. I covet their time and their productive use of it. I have a traffic jam of shit to crank through before I can even speak the words "sewing machine" or even "photoshop" outloud.

But I can say "Fuck!" outloud! Also "Fuck this!" and "Fuck that!" and "For fuck's sake, cat, get out of the fucking sink!" Because I am prim and sweet and I dream of stitching up some aprons.

Who is this little person?

And what did she do with the baby that was living here?

14 months

I still haven't eaten dinner, guess I should do that.

So, if you want to know where to shop this year for toys like Francis the Love Bunny over here, go to the Holiday Shopping Guide for the Indie Sonofabitch Parent at Sweet Juniper.

I love Francis.

Holiday Cheers
So, one of my jobs this holiday season is to pair the families of our terminally ill and financially drained families with members of the community who have volunteered to provide gifts and a holiday meal for them. And what I have to say today is this: Just because the family I assigned you isn't warm and fuzzy does not mean they don't need you. Some people are uncomfortable asking for gifts in the first place, so they may not feel comfortable rattling off their wish list to you on the phone. That's why I sent you a printed copy in the mail. Not everyone is going to meet you at the doorstep, wide-eyed and waiting for you to save Christmas and make it all sappy-better. So no, you can't switch families. And pssst: If your giving is conditional upon the specific emotional return you expect get back, maybe you should re-evaluate, you know, a shitload of things.

The Bird Report
When Birdy is upset or impatient, she whines. It's a regular toddler whine, and it means "get me out of this high chair right NOW," and "Hello, upstairs!? The downstairs has been awake for ten whole minutes!?" and "But I waaaaaaaaaaaaant it! That thing up there!" You understand this whine.

I usually reply in my own whiny voice with "I know, Bird. I know."

So now, at 6am sharp, Bird whines through the baby monitor and pierces the silence of our little attic bedroom, saying "I knnnnnoooooowwwww. I knnnnnoooooowwwww."

It's pretty damn cute.

She's pretty damn cute.

Sunday Again?

Blueberry and waffle breakfast of 11.12.06.
Note to self: required scrubbing.

Where did this week go? And more importantly, the weekend?

This afternoon I had such grand plans to unpack the winter sweaters from their tubs and put them on the shelves where they belong, do some laundry, etc-- domestic catch-up stuff, if you will-- while Bird was napping.

Instead, I sat down on the couch to have a bowl of cereal and turned on the television to keep me company for a second. Rollerball was on. Yes, that Rollerball. The old one.

I was asleep within 10 minutes, and slept for an hour and a half, awakening periodically to what I swear was the Balls- Licking Convention of 2006, hosted by the big dog and the medium dog in the middle of the living room rug.

I can't wait to see what kind of google searches show up in my stats for that one.