If your kid puked in the car on the way there, would you still take them to the dentist?

No? Oh. Um. Okay.

But what if the dentist was 30 minutes away, and you got really lost so you were already 15 minutes late but really almost there and still kind of lost, and you knew you had to find the dentist before you could even begin to find your way home?

And what if the puke wasn't like real puke, but just a little bluecch -- watery nothing that didn't even get on the real clothes, just the jacket? What if it was erasable puke?

And what if she perked up right after? And said she still wanted to go to the dentist?

Still no?

Yeah, well, I totally did.

And she was completely fine at the dentist, puke-wise, but notsomuch look-at-my-teeth-wise, when faced with lying down on the dentist table, which, WTF, we had been talking for a week about the cool dentist chair and that little plot twist totally mucked up the plan. There was much wailing and pulling on mama's clothes and exposing much mama skin and jiggle in the flabdomen and boobular area. And then there was the flossing. Flossing! At three and a half!

Emotionally, it was like taking our old cat to the vet, for both of us: me feeling helpless over the terror of this thing I love, and the subject of the examination coming very close to doing some actual biting. And then she got a treat, all was right with the world.

There was also me lying down on the table like a goof ball and letting the hygenist poke around in my mouth while I, in exaggerated happiness, brushed the very large teeth of a stuffed purple hippo. And Bird sat in a chair against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, giving me and my shenanigans a look that could not be mistaken for anything other than "Surely You Are Not Fucking Serious."

There was also the part where I thought I had locked my keys in the car, but didn't, and the hygenist found them at the front desk while I rooted through my cavernous bag like a raccoon going for the banana peel at the bottom of the garbage can, all grubby wild-eyed and hissing.

And there was also the part where we waited for a long time while they sorted out Birdy's heart murmur history with our pediatrician, and everything was totally fine, just a CYA thing involving possible antibiotics and more drama than I was prepared for at this, our first dentist appointment.

This sounds so traumatic-- Nobody got hurt or permanently emotionally scarred, the whole thing just felt a little more like a pediatrician's visit with shots than the happy fun denist time that this particular practice advertises in their tv commercials.

And then there was also the part where Bird looked really, really tall to me today, in her new dress and "no-feet tights," puke or no puke, with this suddenly big kid face, saying big kid things and asking me to turn off the radio, please, because she was "constentrating."

So yeah. We went to the dentist.

And this evening I made homemade pretzel dough in the bread machine and brushed some egg on top and baked 'em up and OMG.

I am crossing some shit off my list:

Tonight: Taxes!
Tomorrow: The rest of the shit on the list! *

And just so you know, I never intend to neglect this blog, though I do admit it is often first on the chopping block since I am spending my days clickety-clacking out words in various persuasive and illustrative combinations so as to earn the money to pay the mortgage, buy the toilet paper, etc. Makes the pulling-together-the-words thing a bit less appealing after coming home, cooking/ eating, Bird-ing, bedtime-ing. Seems there is less to write about now, even though there is just as much as ever, and I think it's because I no longer spend hours alone in my car thinking about weird things, encountering fascinating tribes of rural humans, and generally twisting my brain around however I want. Instead, I am flattening it out like a pancake and writing very informative and detailed web sites about technology and services within the healthcare industry. Yes, I know. Maybe I should start smoking again, just to spice things up. Or maybe start drinking. Around noonish.

* Okay. At a minimum, one of the things on the list. And let's be honest, it's probably not going to be "organize photos" or "guest room closet." That is the kind of shit that I am leaving for Bird and any subsequent children to deal with after I pass from this world at a ripe old age, finally tired from my many years of not really organizing anything, ever.

Sweet Sounds of Southern Indiana

A list of things my Granny says:

Cheekin (chicken)
Marnin (morning)
Caish (cash)
Schnoe (snow)
Boosh (bush)
dreckly (directly)
downtha (down at the)
deeshis (dishes)

(3/15/09) Edited to add:

Warsh (wash).

Thanks to Mr. Littlebrother-- can't believe I forgot that one.

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There's been a lot going on around here. Tons of work, a little accomplishment, not much balance, more family loss, a sense of things totally falling apart (and also-- weirdly-- coming together), and really, not a minute of time to myself. A lot going on, for sure.

So instead of talking about any of that, I'd like to tell you about a sandwich-- on homemade whole wheat with peanut butter, bananas, thin apple slices, a drizzle of honey and cinnamon, toasted--the very one we just ate on this gorgeous 65-degree Saturday in February.

And now, off to make: pita bread, a shopping list, a trip to the grocery, sense of everything.

I'll open with a quote, then there will be eleven things:

mama: Bird, which coat do you want to wear?

bird: My pink coat.

mama: Good choice.

bird: I love this coat, in spite of everything.


1. After the holiday feeding frenzy, A. and I gave up cheese, large portions, and junk food. We gave up laziness and tight pants. We bought a bathroom scale and a pedometer, fired up the ipod and started exercising. It's been about a month and we are still, for the most part, on the wagon. The wagon that is full of sunflower seeds and carrot sticks. The wagon in which we sit and stare wistfully at the other wagon, the one full of feta crumbles and sour cream and stringy, gooey lasagna.

2. I have discovered some super kick-ass vegan cookbooks, and have gotten in over my head on occasion but for the most part have learned that there is life after cheese. And that things actually have a taste when they are not covered in dairy products. I'll stop short of calling myself a vegan because I'm just not ready to be That Girl, but it has been a satisfying road so far. Highly recommend Veganomicon and the Vegan Lunch Box, both of which were available at my local library, and that means FREE for all of you playing along at home.

3. Also, I have started running. First on the elliptical machine at the community center, then on the treadmill at the community center during the commercial breaks on Oprah (walking the rest of the time) and in the last few days, running on the actual sidewalks in the actual neighborhood. It is not graceful, and it sure as shit is not easy. And it hurts like the devil, but I keep doing it.

4. A. is doing great with the running, the bastard.

5. We quit smoking a little over a year ago. WOOT!

6. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?? 13 months ago, I was gnawing on hunks of cheddar and the only place I was running was into the 4-stop to buy a pack of smokes. And look at me now, with all of this bothersome health crap. Apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I am farting like an aging dog with a belly full of pinto beans. On that topic, we are trying to dissuade Bird from saying "fart." She now says she "has the vapors." Ah yes, much better.

7. Job. I like it. Being a mom. Like that, too. Not as mutually exclusive as I once thought. Either I'm getting better at balance or numb to the guilt and the second-guessing. Both, probably.

8. To the person that told me to clean my cast iron skillet with vegetable oil and coarse kosher salt, avoiding water unless it's a true stuck-on emergency: Thank you, kitchen wizard.

9. I hate playing "school." I get put in Time Out a lot. And then there is a version where there is a "teacher" and a "mama" and we replay a dropping-off-at-preschool scenario until I can't remember my own name. This is Bird's favorite thing to do-- she starts insisting on playing school before we even have our coats hung up in the afternoons.

10. I think it is time for a blog diet to compliment my new healthy eating plan. I have, like, nine thousand jillion blogs on my Google Reader. That link over there to my bloglines? Ancient. I've moved on to the Google Reader, and I will subscribe to anything. Everything. Cooking blogs. Mama blogs. People I Know blogs. And all of this blog checking has become a task, a pain in the ass, and it keeps me from writing here. There are things! Out there! That I haven't read yet! So I'll just read one more!

Mostly it's this: I subscribe to a lot of very beautiful blogs where people take pictures of their morning cups of coffee or write essays about their cherubic children weaving on looms in the wilderness or their gorgeous collection vintage dresses and heirloom quilts and and perfect crafts made in their tranquil, sunlit rooms before they prepare beautiful homemade meals for the family they love so very much, and it is all just such a huge load of bullshit. Obnoxious fiction. But I get sucked in, I scroll through these perfect little fantasies and they cast an ugly little shadow on my real life until I snap out of it and feel disgusted that I've just spent a very real part of my very real life looking at pictures of white curtains and whitewashed floors and reading about peaceful mornings spent playing with blocks in front of the fire or stitching up aprons or other such nonsense. So I am going to unsubscribe to these blogs very, very soon. Or at least put it all in one folder so I can avoid it as if it were cheese.

11. My mom is totally on facebook.

Brought to you by the numbers 8, 53, and a number between 6 and 10

8:
hours in the car again this past weekend (hey, it beats our usual 10), up and back to E'burgh for the last of the'08 Christmases. It was an especially difficult one, as everyone is still so raw from A's Mamaw's death in November, but everyone kept their shit together for the most part and a good time was had by all. And as a bonus, I passed on my 24-inch Dancin' Singin' James Brown to a STOKED ten year old in the (lively) gift exchange. DSJB was originally a wedding gift from my brother, who reads this blog, and dude, before you get all hot under the collar about it: the Godfather of Soul was scaring the crap out of Birdy and he had to move on to a place where he would be loved. Okay.

53:
Degrees in our house Thursday night, even though the thermostat was promising 72. Ice on the insides of the windows and sub-zero toilet seats. Frozen pipes to the washing machine. Wearing several pairs of socks over my tights, under my jeans. Birdy's icicle fingers.

It got very cold in Tennessee-- the coldest in 12 years or something crazy-- right around the end of last week. It wasn't any colder than what we knew as "normal" in Indiana, but we have softened up and thawed since then and DAMN, single didgets are brutal. And it seems our little old Southern heat pump agreed with us. The heating repair guy came out in his van and spent some time in the scary dirt basement region while I ran up and down the steps to flip breakers on and off (more responsibility than I was prepared for). He delivered a sorry prognosis.

Replace this whole part, he said.

$700, he said.

Wait, he said.

They don't make that part anymore, he said.

Replace the whole thing? I said.

Yep, he said. Ob$cene amount, he said.

Wait it out? Miracle recovery? I said.

Take your chances, lunatic, he said.

Sounds like a plan, I said.

And lo and behold, when the temperature started to feel more like a Tennessee January than a Siberian one, the Little Heat Pump That Could? Totally DID. And we took off our coats and hats and thanked God above in advance for Birdy sleeping in her own warm toasty bed and not digging her little toes into our ribs.

The moral of this story: Sometimes old shit still works, but just part of the time and probably not when you really need it. But old shit does not require financing, just extra socks and sweaters and a decent space heater where you sleep.

A number between 6 and 10
percent paycut. Announced last Friday, the freezingest day, just before I left work to meet the gentleman about my failing heat pump. Asking your child to take off her mittens to eat dinner makes you feel one step away from the poor house, and doing the paycut math in your head while you serve the beans and rice* makes your kitchen feel even colder.

But! I have a job! And the people at that job are optimistic, positive. The cut is promised to be temporary. Kind things were said to me about the way I do my work, and truly, I am feeling quite happy there, finally comfortable. And hey, the heat came back on. Just put on another damn hat and wait it out, right?


*that's not for dramatic effect, we just happened to be having beans and rice, but it did make things seem a little bit more desperate in my moment of hand-wringing.

You set 'em up, babe, I'll knock 'em down.

TV commercial: That's right, CASH for your GOLD!!

A: They smelt it.

B: Aaaaaand they dealt it.

A. That was the Best. Joke. Ever.