Happy Christmas!

Five Gooooooold Rings

Brilliant!

I have been putting off wrapping presents because, well, I hate doing it. All that tape and ribbon and pressure and I just suck at making corners and getting things neat and tidy.

So I had an idea. A brilliant idea, even if I do say so myself.

All the gifts that are being given to adults are going in to re-usable grocery bags, either from Whole Foods (for big gifts) or Stop and Shop (for smaller gifts). I will be green and will save my sanity, all in one swell foop.

Sometimes I am a fucking genius.

Five Things I Know I'm Not Getting For Christmas

Or, No Wonder People Find Me A Bit Odd.

I have long coveted this knife block. It makes me laugh.
Actually, it makes me chortle, which is a whole different kettle of ballgames than laughing.

I also find these doll head candle holders creepily appealing.
I spotted them on Blackbird's blog originally.

This just rocks.

Again with the twisted. I want these. If I had them, the bitten edges of the cookies would be dripping red icing. Preferably red gel icing (if there is such a thing).

And just because I can't resist a good pun....

The Coolest Lights....

Go check out my post at Blogabetes on the dLife website. I made some wicked cool Christmas lights this year.

Interchangeable

You know how sometimes you can exchange things in recipes? If you don't have chicken stock, you can use chicken bullion. You can substitute applesauce for oil. No molasses? Try honey instead - it will taste a bit different, but will still be the same dish.

Tonight I made coconut macaroons. Every year, I do cookie plates for Olivia's teachers (and, let's be honest, for us, too) and this year, I decided to branch out and try some new recipes. Coconut macaroons are delicious and very easy to make, so I thought I'd give them a shot.

And hey, presto! They came out looking great. See?



Except for one thing. I didn't have parchment paper, so I used wax paper. You know what happens when you bake coconut macaroons on wax paper?

They fuse.

That's how many I was able to scrape off the paper before I gave up in disgust.

Back to the market for more coconut, I guess.

And parchment paper.

*sigh*

The Boss

I finally got my hands on Magic, Bruce Springsteen's new disc. It's fantastic. It's like the Bruce of old, only grown up. You really should go buy a copy. Even TCBIM, who, for the longest time has barely tolerated my undying affection for Mr. Springsteen, really likes this CD.

But it started me thinking - pretty soon, my musical idols are going to start dying (I know, what a cheery thought for a Friday afternoon, huh?). When Freddy Mercury died, I was sad, but I was, what? 25? It was shocking, but it didn't upset me for long.

(Not really a video, but this song kills me. In a good way.)

It's kind of sick that I dread the thought of some of my favourite singers and actors dying. It's something I've been thinking about recently and I have no idea why. Maybe I'm getting maudlin in my old age.

But this is the only song that consistently brings tears to my eyes and sends shivers and thrills down my spine. I can still remember the first time I heard this song - I was a freshman in high school, working on a photo montage to be shown at graduation and someone thrust a battered copy of Born To Run, on vinyl, into my hands and said "Use something from this for it." And I cued up Thunder Road and was blown away. It's my go-to song when I'm sad or pissed off or in a really great mood. It's what I blast when I'm doing 80 down the Mass Pike. It's what I play on the first warm day, when you can drive thru town with your windows down. The plaintive harmonica opening, then those amazing lyrics (Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, Hey, that's me and I want you only), the piano that sounds like a carnival, each instrument joining in, getting more insistent as the lyrics push for leaving, getting out, and finally, all of it comes together in a crescendo of let's-go-let's-go, get in the car, fuck 'em all.

I wound up stealing the album. I still have it somewhere, mixed in with the Depeche Mode and Cars (OK, OK, and Wham. You wanna make something of it? Huh?) albums. It's warped as hell and I don't have a record player to play it on but I'll never get rid of it. It was the beginning of a long, sometimes painful (Ghost Of Tom Joad, Bruce? Really? I dealt with Nebraska, but that? That was asking a lot.) frequently rekindled love affair.

Now if I could just get my hands on this documentary I saw on VH1Classics called Wings For Wheels, I'd be thrilled. I can't find it anywhere. I'm starting to think I hallucinated it.

Brownie Drop Cookies

I emailed this recipe to Mrs. Chicky and then thought maybe I should share it with the group. So here you go. You can thank me later. Oh, and to all my readers who have diabetes - I'm sorry. It's definitely NOT low carb. Or low calorie.

This is the top secret, Bedhead family recipe
(actually, it was on a package of Baker's Chocolate
back in, probably, 1973, but it *sounds* better the
other way. :D )

2 Packages Baker's German's Sweet Chocolate
1 T butter
2 eggs
3/4 C sugar
1/4 C unsifted all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 t cinnamon
1/8 t salt
3/4 c finely chopped pecans
1/2 t vanilla

Melt chocolate and butter in top of double boiler (or
in a glass bowl) over simmering (NOT boiling) water.
Stir occasionally.  Remove from heat.  Meanwhile, beat
eggs until foamy.  Add sugar, 2 tablespoons at a time
and beat constantly until mixture is very thick (This
takes 5 minutes at high speed of electric mixture -
mixture must be well beaten because eggs, not flour,
thicken this mixture).  Blend in chocolate mixture.
Add flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt, then stir
in pecans and vanilla.  Drop from teaspoon onto
greased baking sheets.  Bake at 350 for 10 - 12
minutes or until "set" when lightly touched.  Cool.
Store in tightly covered container.  Makes 3 dozen.


These are excellent. They're almost like a meringue in
that they just about melt in your mouth, but they are
definitely cookies.  I love them.  

I'm Memeing Of A White Christmas, Or; Hey, I Stole The Meme, Might As Well Steal The Title, Too

As stolen from Joke.

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?
Both, although this year, I'm thinking of giving people those green shopping bags instead of paper gift bags. Whole Foods has nice ones and they're only a dollar a piece. On the down side, they're huge, so the gift shall have to be appropriately large, too.

2. Real tree or artificial?
Fake. I have toddlers. And a cat.

3. When do you put up the tree?
If I had my way, it would go up on the 23rd, but instead, usually around the 15th or so. Comes down after Three Kings Day (Jan. 6th - we're Spanish. Why this is important, I do not know, but it's what my father always said. "It'll come down on Three Kings Day. Because we're Spanish." Ok, dad.)

4. When do you take the tree down?
Whoops. See above.

5. Do you like eggnog?
I always think I like eggnog, but then I have a glass and realize, no, not so much.

6. Favorite gift received as a child?
I always got a not-quite-right gift. When I was four, I wanted a Winnie The Pooh bear but got a regular bear whose fur zipped off (I guess for ease of cleaning.) I loved him anyway and called him Winnie, but still. I wanted a powder blue dotted swiss dress that I saw at Jordan Marsh when I was about 8. Oh, how I longed for that dress. It had ruffles and puffy sleeves and a wide, satin sash and a tulle petticoat and it fulfilled all of my Laura Ingalls Wilder/Little Women/Gone With The Wind dreams. Instead, I got material and a pattern that wasn't even close. I can still taste the disappointment over that one. And it's a good thing my mother doesn't know about this blog because I never said anything to her about it.

7. Do you have a nativity scene?
Yes. It's Lladro. It hasn't been out since Shriek Sister #1 entered the scene, though.

8. Hardest person to buy for?
Me. For myriad reasons.

9. Easiest person to buy for?
The Shriek Sisters. And my dad and his wife. I get them wine. They get me half a cow.

10. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
The re-gifted dessert plates and the two diet cook books given to me, in the same gift bag, by my crazy-ass stepmonster.

11. Mail or email Christmas cards?
Neither, recently, because I suck.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie?
It's A Wonderful Life, followed closely by A Christmas Story. Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra ra ra ra ra

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
End of October, early November.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
Yep. Mostly Yankee Candles and booze.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
Linzer cookies. Brownie Drop cookies. Mexican Wedding Cakes. Trifle

16. Clear lights or colored on the tree?
Clear.

17. Favorite Christmas song?
I Saw Three Ships
A Consort of Choral Christmas Carols - PDQ Bach

18. Travel for Christmas or stay home?
I usually go to my mothers. It's not really traveling, since she's only an hour away. I'd love to just stay home, but all my family is near my mother's, so we go there.

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeers?
Yes.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star?
A very sad angel that I've had forever and really should replace.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?
Christmas morning. It's traditional, dammit.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of year?
The crass commercialism seen in the ads that imply that if you don't buy your wife a diamond or your husband a huge flat-screen tv, you are a failure as a human being.

23. What I love most about Christmas?
The cookies. All of the food, really. Not eating it, so much, although that's nice, too, but the preparation of it.

Two Tickets, Please

I need to stop fast-forwarding thru the commercials because I very nearly missed this.

Tonight I caught a glimpse of Johnny Deppp, so I stopped to see what, exactly was what. I mean, it's Johnny Depp. He is on the illustrious imaginary boyfriend list, along with a short list of other fine, fine specimens.

But look! Look what's coming to a Cinema 1-2-Many near you. Tim Burton directing Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman and Helena Bonham-Carter. In Sweeney Todd, no less!

I guess I know what I'm doing on December 21st.

This Is Me, Opening A Can Of Worms

I'm spouting political over on the New England Mamas blog.



Anyone have a flak jacket they aren't using?



Edited to fix broken link.

How About Now?

I missed my monkey.

I can't tell, however, if it's running slowly because it doesn't do that for me. Let me know if it crashes your computer or stalls it or just loads like mole asses. If you can't leave a comment, email me at book _ ish at yahoo dot com.

My Other Boyfriend

Do you read I Am Bossy? If not, you should because the woman is a fucking riot.

This, however, is just not on. He's been mine for lo, these many years.



He was on Inside The Actor's Studio tonight. I TiFauxed it and will watch it one of these nights when TCBIM is out.

They're Giving It Away!

I contribute to the New England Mamas blog, along with a bunch of other great women. We're officially launching our new site, hosted by Typepad. If you scoot over there today (or any day this week, really, but c'mon, why wait? Go now! I'll wait.) you can put your name in the metaphorical hat and win some fabulous prizes. Go have a look - they really are great. A $25 voucher to Sephora, some Envirosax, $20 in Dunkin Donuts gift certificates - the list goes on. If I wasn't part of the blog and thus ineligible, I'd be throwing my name in too.

Verily, It Doth Sucketh. A Lot-eth.

I honestly don't know what to do with Boo. In the last week, she has:

• emptied all the drawers in her dresser at each nap time, flinging clothes all over the room,
  
• climbed up the drawers to stand on top of her dresser.
• climbed down the drawers, pulling the dresser down and hitting herself in the head with a drawer (no blood drawn there).
• emptied the diaper pail - the full diaper pail - all over her bedroom.
• took all the wipes out of the container and scrubbed the floor with all of them. All 200 of them.
  
• scaled the four foot high gate that's on her door - the one with no horizontal bars.
• figured out how to loosen the straps and undo the top buckle on her car seat, thus allowing herself to very nearly get out of said car seat.

She whines incessantly. When she's not whining, she's yelling. When she's not yelling, she crying. She has about 10 good minutes a day. The rest of the time is spent tormenting her baby sister, getting into things she shouldn't get into or having a temper tantrum because it's time to eat/time to go/or the fucking wind is blowing the wrong way. I loathe this kind of shit. It makes my blood boil, it makes me want to scream at her and it takes away most of my enjoyment of motherhood. In short, it sucks ass.

I have removed everything from her room, 1. because I don't want her to kill herself and 2. because I'm sick of picking up everything two and three times a day. It gets old. Her dresser is on the landing, along with her diapers, wipes and diaper pail. There's nothing in her closet except stuff on a shelf that's 6 feet off the floor. I'm seriously considering just putting the toddler bed up and taking the crib out - she never stays in the crib anyway. I'll put a couple of stuffed animals in there for her, blankets, pillow, that sort of thing, but that's it.

She's in a pre-school program that meets 2 or 3 times a week, depending on the week. She goes to a play group once a week. It's not like she's sitting around the house with nothing to do. She paints, she colours, she does little craft projects, but everything is a huge whine fest. She cannot stand to wait - if I tell her to hold on, she has a meltdown. If I tell her it's time to go/time for lunch/time for bed, she has a meltdown. If I tell her to stop hitting her sister, she has a meltdown.

I honestly am at my wits end with this child. People laugh when I tell them what she does, but it's really got me at the end of my tether. I don't like feeling this way about my kid.

V.I.P.

What do you think of when you see those initials? What most people think of, I'm sure. Not me, though. For me, those initials stand for Virtual Irish Pub.

Back in the dark ages of the internets, chat rooms were all the thing. Or so I was told. I had no idea. But I'd just recently bought a computer so I thought I'd check it out. I was (and still am) fascinated by all things Irish and somehow stumbled upon the V.I.P. (along with another one - P45). I'd never been in a chat room before, so I had nothing to compare it to - I just thought it was cool. It had a limit of about 30 people at a time, so it wasn't hard to keep up with conversations. At the time, I was infatuated with the show Ballykissangel, so my handle was Niamh (not that I liked her, I just thought it was better than Assumpta, the character I did like.)

One day, I started chatting to this guy whose handle was Aston. He told me he was from the back of beyond in Ontario. He asked where I was from and when I said Boston - I always said Boston, it was all people knew of Massachusetts - he said "Number Four, Bobby Orr!" We chatted a lot when we were both logged on. Eventually we traded email addresses and real names. But there was one thing we lied about; our ages. He told me he was 23 (he was 19). I told him I was 29 (I was 31, soon to be 32).

The emails got more and more frequent and led to phone calls. We'd talk for hours (until I got a $400 phone bill one month) and he finally asked if he could come down for a visit. I said yes and he came down for New Year's Eve, for the big 1999/2000 changeover.

And that was that. He came, he visited, we confessed that we'd lied about our ages. Then he went home, packed up all his stuff and moved here permanently at the beginning of March and he's been here ever since. We got married that June, thus rendering him That Canadian Boy I Married (TCBIM for short). It's been seven and a half years - longer than any relationship I've ever had. And even though he drives me insane some (many) days, we still laugh a lot, we still talk a lot and in spite of the vast difference in our age, I think we're doing ok.






This post is part of Flaunt It Friday. Go check it out; participate in it, even.

Is that better?

I took a bunch of stuff out of my sidebar. Is it loading better now? If so, I may go back to the Tiki Monkey template.

Is It Me?

Except, of course, I don't have that serene smile on my face and the floor would be strewn with toys. Other than that, it's exactly like me.

The End Is Near

Thank fuck. I can't wait until November is over. I don't think I'm going to do this next year. It's been more stress than fun.

The Socket, She Is Dry

Whatever a dry socket is, that's what I've got. It fucking hurts. The dentist packed it with something yesterday, which helped immensely, and I have to go back tomorrow to get it done again. Why can't I just have a normal tooth pulling? Why all these unnecessary complications?

In other news:

Boo has learned how to scale the four-foot high gate we put on her door. The kind that you screw in to the wall. It only has up and down bars, so I don't know how she's accomplishing this, but she did tonight. Tomorrow, I'm buying one of those chain locks for the outside of her door. I don't have any other options at this point.

And my dryer is dying. Because that's what I need right now - one more fucking expense.


I'm so sick of my life right now, I could scream. Just scream. But I'm not going to because it will make my mouth hurt again.

The Daring Book For Girls

Upon first perusal, some might wonder why The Daring Book For Girls is getting such rave reviews. In this age of cell phones, video games and instant messenger, do girls really want to know how to press flowers or make a daisy chain? Isn't that a little old-fashioned?

Yes. Yes it is. And old-fashioned is good. Old-fashioned can be fun. But the old-fashioned ideas in The Daring Book For Girls, by Andrea Buchanan and Miriam Peskowitz (founders of Mother-Talk) are also interspersed with such common-sense information like how to change a tire. How to negotiate a salary. The Greek and Latin roots of words. All useful information that anyone (girl or boy) should know.


Read the rest of the review here.

Boo Baby!

Today was Boo's third birthday.

Everyone wore party hats.

Even the dog.

There was obviously homemade cake.



And there were presents.

It's good to be three.


Happy birthday, baby girl.

I Have No Time

I''m not reading any blogs these days. I open Bloglines and say "Holy shit, there's no way I can read all those posts," and I shut it down again, totally overwhelmed. I'm not really enjoying NaBlowhatsitwhatsit this go round. I don't think I was reading this many blogs this time last year. So, I apologize. I'm not ignoring you...well, I am, sort of. *sigh* Reading blogs shouldn't be this much pressure. And I know people aren't commenting on my blog as much (although that could be the dire content recently), so it's not just me. Are all of you feeling as panicked as me or am I just a freak? Don't answer that.


Anyway.


I had to get a tooth pulled on the day before Thanksgiving. Holy fuck. It kills. And I have this taste in my mouth that is just vile. VILE. Like rotting flesh vile, constantly draining down the back of my throat. It's Dis. Gus. Ting. Yesterday, I looked like I'd been beaten - my eye was puffed half shut and my cheek...Well, I could have been this guy's sister:


I can't believe I had to get a tooth pulled. Well, I mean, I can because I've been babying this damned tooth for a year or two now. It had a huge filling in it and I knew a bit of it had fallen out, so I bought the stuff you get at the pharmacy, the stuff you're supposed to use until you can get to a dentist. Only I didn't go to the dentist because we don't have dental insurance and if it was pay the mortgage or fix my tooth, well, we paid the mortgage. I kept packing the tooth with the filling stuff and every so often, more real filling would fall out. About six months ago, the whole thing fell out. So, I packed the entire hole in my tooth; and it was sizable - the tooth was more filling than tooth. But finally it abscessed. And it hurt like hell. I finally was forced to the dentist's two weeks ago and she charged me $98 to take an x-ray and tell me the tooth was not really salvageable. No shit, Sherlock.

My options were to get a root canal and a crown, to get an implant or to get it pulled. A root canal and implant? $3,100. An implant? $2,980. Pulling the tooth? $153. So, no tooth. And I feel old and kind of like a female Cletus. It's really bothering me, really bumming me out.

And it really fucking hurts.

Where are the Kleenex?

I just finished watching Stranger Than Fiction, with Emma Thompson and Wil Farrell. I don't really like Wil Farrell, but I love Emma Thompson and the premise of the movie looked good. If you haven't seen this yet, watch it. It's not crazy, nutty Wil Farrell. It's good. Really, surprisingly good. I didn't expect to like it so much. I also didn't expect to wind up sobbing on the couch at the end, though.

Roast

Well, I managed to make the roast. It wasn't nearly as good as I'd hoped. It wasn't horrible, it just wasn't $70 good. I'd definitely try cooking a roast that way again, just probably not a rib roast. Everything else was excellent, though, and we had a really lovely, low-key Thanksgiving. The kids are asleep upstairs, TCBIM is asleep on the couch and I'm going over to my friend's for adult beverages.

I hope all of you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, too!

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever, part whatever

Doesn't Suck/Sucks

Doesn't Suck: Spending an hour and a half roaming Barnes & Noble, blissfully child free. With a $25 gift card burning a hole in my wallet.
Sucks: Spending $30 above and beyond said gift card.

Doesn't Suck: Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake
Sucks: That the Chai tea you asked for to have with said cheesecake came as a Venti Chai Latte. With a fuckload of sugar.

Doesn't Suck: Letting the remnants of a roasted chicken simmer for hours to make stock.
Sucks: Spilling 32 ounces of it all over the kitchen floor. And your leg. Hot chicken stock, did I mention the hot bit? At midnight. While your cat decides to take a wet, runny, holy-god-what-crawled-up-your-ass-and- died shit in the corner. Not in his litter box, mind, just in the corner. While simultaneously hawking up a hair ball. And glaring at you like it's all. your. fault.


Just fucking shoot me if I ever laugh at someone else's karmic ass bite again, ok? Because all that chicken stock/cat shit/hairball thing? Happened about fifteen minutes after I posted the karma post.

I'm going to drown my sorrows in a glass of wine and a little Good Eats.

Instant Karma's Gonna Get You

Excuse me, Miss, but I believe your uppance has come.

I was at Target tonight, shopping (alone, which was absolutely heavenly). I always get lost in Target and never go to the register nearest to the door where I entered the place - this particular Target has three entrances and I was at the wrong one. But I was oh, so happy to be there.

Not at first, though. At first, there was only one register open and about 12 people in line. The front end dood got on his little walkie talkie and asked for some warm bodies to be sent to open other registers. One girl showed up almost immediately. People were waiting until she actually got behind her counter before moving over into her lane. Or so I thought.

Suddenly, this Blonde Chippy who was about 5 people back in line, with a cart stacked full of crap, barrels into the newly not-even-opened-yet register. Well, the woman who was second in line just about went postal. She said "There are other people ahead of you, you know. It's very rude to jump the line like that." But Blonde Chippy wasn't paying any heed. She started unloading her mountain of crap onto the belt and started talking loudly into her cell phone. The rest of us just rolled our eyes and grimaced sympathetically at each other.

And then karma came and bit Blonde Chippy's ass. The girl couldn't open her register. Blonde Chippy had unloaded all of her stuff at this point and she had to stand there and cool her jets while the clerk walked a-l-l-l-l-l-l-l the way to the other side of the store to find a manager to help her.

I had all I could do not to laugh at her. I was at least three people behind Blonde Chippy and I still got out of the store before she did. And I chuckled all the way to my car.

Alton Brown To The Rescue!

I've been sitting here, freaking out over what to make for Thanksgiving dinner. I've never prepared it before and even though it's only going to be for the five of us and my friend C, I was still dithering and chewing my bottom lip and fretting over what to cook. Then, last night, I watched Iron Chef America (I love that show. It's so cheesey. Not as cheesey as the original, but still, high on the cheese scale.) and one of the chefs prepared venison. I thought, "Aha! I could do that!" But alas, the recipes from Iron Chef American are not posted online. At least not online anywhere that I could find. So I started thinking about meals and what constitutes a good holiday meal.

Everyone does turkey. It's been done to death. Besides, I'm allergic to it or something - I get a migraine and I puke whenever I eat it, so since I'm the one fixing the meal, I figure I should at least be able to eat the meat, right? It's only fair. My stove, my meat choice. So nyah.

*ahem*

Anyway. Not doing turkey. What else is there to do? Goose, but I hear that stinks when it's cooking. Duck, which I love but everyone else is sort of meh about. Pork tenderloin, but again...meh. I do those a lot for every day meals. I wanted something special, something that would knock peoples socks off. Then I thought, "Oooh, one of those roasts with the paper hats. And maybe Yorkshire pudding, too. Very Dickensian, very festive. Yes. Ok. That's settled." So I did what I always do - I went to the Food Network website. And I came across a recipe for a Dry Aged Standing Rib Roast with Sage Jus and my mouth watered and I said, "Ooooh, yes, indeed, I'll have that recipe, thank you very much." And it's a recipe from my one of my chef-y crushes, Alton Brown.

He's got that geek-cool thing down to a science. And he's in front of a diner.

Granted, he's no Anthony Bourdain....

But does Anthony Bourdain have a KitchenAid mixer that has hot rod flames on it? Huh? I bet he doesn't.

So, anyway. Now that I have my chef fix for the day...I have my Thanksgiving Day dinner sorted, all thanks to Alton Brown.

Here's the menu:

Butternut squash soup (laced with cream, apples and cider - yum)
Standing Rib Roast
Roasted garlic mashed potatoes
Pan roasted asparagus
Cranberry sauce (home made, not that crap from a can)
Apple streusel
and the obligatory pumpkin pie.

It's My Party....

I had people over last night for my birthday. I spent all day Saturday cleaning and cooking and getting ready. Everyone showed up around 5:30 and it was mostly a fun time. The Shriek Sisters were pretty good until about 7:30, when they started to melt down a bit, but I expected that - it was past their bedtime.

What I didn't expect was for everyone to pack up and leave at 8. Especially since the ones who left are typically real night owls. It was kind of a bummer. I felt like I spent all that time preparing but I didn't have any time to relax and socialize with anyone before they all went home. Just as I was getting to that point, poof! Everyone was gone.

Unfortunately, I then thought it would be a good idea to finish the bottle of wine that had been opened. I spent most of the day today on the couch, placating the kids with cereal bars and Noggin as I winced and held a washcloth over my eyes. Oy.

TCBIM gets home tomorrow night. He owes me big for this.

Go Fish

In the next room, right at this moment, I'm listening as O tries to teach Boo, who is thisclose to being three, how to play Go Fish.

O: Do you have a six?
Boo: Ummmmm....no? Yes. What's dis? (Holds up a card.)
O: You're not supposed to show me your cards!
Boo: Ummmm....ok. Here. (Shows O all her cards.)
O: NO! Boo, don't show me your cards. Now do you have a six?
Boo: Yes. (Hands her a king.)
O: *big sigh* That's a king, Boo. Lemme see your cards. See this one? This is a six. (Takes card from Boo's hand.)
Boo: (indignant) HEY! You took my card!!
O: That's how you play, Boo.
Boo: *sigh* Fine.
O: Do you have a jack?
Boo: No. Yes. Here. (Gives O a king)
O: That's a king, Boo. Let me see your cards.
Boo: Here. (Picks up pile of cards she'd hidden under her knee.)
O: Boo! You're cheating! (Takes jack.)
Boo: I don't wanna play any more, I gonna go colour. (Stomps off in a huff.)
O: Hey, Bug, wanna play cards?
The Bug: Uppies.
O: Take a card, Bug.
The Bug: Uppies. Numnums. (Swats cards out of O's hand and tries to eat one.)
O: No, Bug, you can't eat the cards.
The Bug: Numnums! Uppies!
O: Bug, you got boggers on the cards!
The Bug: Numnum.

Harriet Homemaker I'm Not

I was washing the never-ending mound of dishes earlier and Boo dumped not one but two bottles of nail polish on the floor. The hardwood floor. The hardwood floor that I don't own and thus, don't want to wreck to badly. I got most of it up with paper towels but some dried to the floor. Anyone know how to get this up without also removing the floor varnish?

Not having a dishwasher is killing me.

The people who lived here before us had cats. Those cats had to have been infested with fleas because all of a sudden, my dog and cat are covered in them. I bought some of the flea stuff you can get at Petco but it doesn't seem to be helping. I know I could take them to a groomer and get them dipped and bomb the house while they're gone, but I don't have the money for that.

The flea stuff really disagreed with my cat - he's losing hair at an alarming rate. He's also taken to sitting on top of the fridge or the kitchen cabinets. It's bizarre.

Also? I think the house is haunted. My vacuum cleaner just turned itself on for no apparent reason. No one was near it. The girls are in their high chairs (contained, where they can't wreck anything). The cat was on top of the fridge and the dog was in the living room. Very weird.

World Diabetes Day

Today is World Diabetes Day.

It's also my birthday.

So, for my birthday, here's what I want:
If you don't know anything about diabetes, find out about it. Really find out about it. Don't just ask your great aunt Nelly who lost a leg to diabetes. Check out the American Diabetes Association or dLife for information on type 1 and type 2 diabetes. Check out the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation or Children With Diabetes to find out the vast, VAST difference between the two diseases. Because, seriously, people, there's a big, big difference and people with type 1 get a little peeved at being told they can cure their diabetes by going on Atkins or by losing weight or that they must have brought it on themselves with a poor diet. And people with type 2 are sick of the guilt and blame and shame thrown out there by the media and general public.

Every 10 seconds, someone dies from diabetes. Every. Ten. Seconds.

This is a serious disease, with serious complications. It requires meticulous attention just to maintain a relatively normal life. It is expensive - one test strip costs one dollar. My daughter tests 10 - 12 times a day. That's $70 - $84 a week, just for strips. Add in insulin and pump supplies and you are talking about $600 per month for supplies. Thankfully, we have health insurance that covers much of those costs, but what about the millions of people in the US who have no insurance? What about those in other countries who lack even basic supplies like meters and syringes to administer insulin?

Learn about the disease. Learn the symptoms, learn the differences between the two, educate yourself so that if this disease ever enters your life, you'll know what to do.


That's all I want for my birthday.

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever, part 6, I think

I'm so fucking tired. I am still hauling stuff from the old house to the new place and it's wearing me out. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to do all this while having the Shriek Sisters underfoot? No wonder I'm losing weight....

Even though I have a hate/hate relationship with my Mac, their commercials crack me up. The guy who plays PC (John Hodgman) is very funny and, in real life, is an avid Mac user. He also appears on The Daily Show, and has written for McSweeney's and contributes to the New York Times Magazine. And he lives on the Upper West Side. AND he collaborated on the TMBG CD/DVD Venue. So, basically, he has the life I want. *sigh*





Tomorrow I shall plea for help with my dinnah pahty on Saturday. I'm also going to need help (and copious amounts of wine) to fix my First Ever Thanksgiving dinner. That, oh, by the way, a professional chef will be attending. Fabulous.

The Thirteenth Tale

I reviewed this book for MotherTalk.

I love books. I mean, I really love books. I just moved recently and I had forty boxes of books. And that was after giving away 5 or 6 grocery bags full. It's pretty safe to say I am a book junky. I'm also picky. I don't like books that broadcast the plot on page three. I don't like books that have stilted dialog or ridiculoulsy complicated plots. I can be a bit of a snob when it comes to books and I'm unapologetic about it.

When I opened my copy of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield, I had no preconcieved notions about the plot. I hadn't read a review, I didn't know anyone who was reading it and had never even heard of it. It didn't take more than five pages before I was immersed. I fell into this book and didn't want to come out. This passage was what got me:

"As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead."

The rest of the review can be found over here. But really, just go buy the book. It's fantastic. I don't often recommend books before I've finished them, but I'd told half a dozen people about this book before I was half way thru it.

You Can Sleep When You're Dead

Things are taking their sweet time about improving around these parts. It's getting really, ridiculously annoying. Scratch that. I think we've gone beyond annoying now and have stepped straight into driving me bat-shit crazy.

I went over to my friends' house last night - the ones with the gorgeous garden. They're great. They don't do that whole men in one room, women in the other that seems so prevalent (and annoying as hell) with many people I know. Plus, they're wicked smaht. We all hung out and played a few rounds of Balderdash. I was wiped and was home by 11:30. Good thing, too, because Boo woke up at 3 a.m., screaming her head off. TCBIM wasn't home - he'd gone out to play video games (getting his geek on) and planned to stay the night there. I brought Boo into bed with me and she would not go back to sleep. She kept playing with my hair and rustling around and talking to me. She finally started to drift off around 5:30 when, of course, The Bug woke up, wanting to be fed. We all fell asleep for a little while, but they were both up again around 7. TCBIM had come home at some point during all this and I made him take the girls downstairs so I could snooze in relative peace.

Needless to say, Boo was a total bear today. She had meltdown after meltdown. Every bump and knock was met with Sarah Bernhardt-esque dramatics. She wouldn't take a nap for love or money. Neither would The Bug. I finally, finally got The Bug to bed tonight and decided to let Boo stay up until she was good and tired. We sat and watched Blue's Clues (that girl loves her some Blue. And I like me some Steve.) and snuggled under a fleece. When I put her down, she only got out of bed once, compared to the 87 times the night before.

This whole move really seems to have kicked Boo's butt. She never climbed out of her crib before we moved. She'd go to bed without a fuss nearly every night. Now it's a constant struggle and every request is met with a most emphatic "No!" It's wearing me out. I don't like feeling this way about my kids, but right now, I am not enjoying them much at all. There are moments of fun, but they are far outnumbered by these hideous, mind-numbing stretches where one or both of them are shrieking their heads off over absolutely nothing at all. If I were my neighbours, I'd hate us.

I get so impatient when they're like this. I try so hard not to snap, to stay relatively calm, but at some point, I almost always lose it. I yell a lot and I hate that. It's such an easy habit to get into and I have to work so hard not to do it. My mother was a yeller. I remember her always being snappy and loud and so impatient with us and I really don't want to be like that. I just wish I could figure out how to get more patience because I don't want to fuck up my kids and make them think they're a burden, the way I always felt as a kid. I wish I didn't feel like I was doomed to repeat the same stupid shit my mother did with me. I hate this....

Well, There Goes NaBlo

Fucking ComCast, man. For some reason, our internet was restricted because we moved. I don't understand. I don't really care. But I'm pissed off that it blew my chances at NaBloPoMo.


Fuckers.

Chuffed. And Whipped.

I don't usually post links to it over here because, well, I'm a space shot and I forget, but I also write a blog for the dLife website. Today I got some great feedback from my editor that really made my day. She said I have a really high reader return rate, which means people are reading and then coming back to read more of my stuff. I don't know why I get so embarrassed about hearing stuff like that, but I am a bit. It's really nice, though.

It was lovely to get that email at the tail end of what's fixing to be a horrible day. Boo has not only figured out how to climb out of her crib, she knows how to climb over the gate. I'm going to have to plane down her door (it's an old house - the door won't shut all the way) and put a lock on it. I don't know how else to keep her from roaming the house when she should be sleeping. And she wakes up The Bug when she does this because she climbs into Bug's crib and usually strips the poor kid naked and then tosses all the kid's blankets on the floor. The Bug stands there, naked and cold and wailing to beat the band. 's great.

Today I separated them. I put The Bug back into our bedroom (fanfuckingtastic) and left Boo in her room alone. She trashed it. All of her clothes are out of the dresser. She ripped down the mini-blind. She pulled the mattress off the toddler bed (that she refuses to sleep in) and put it on the floor. She stripped off her clothes and her diaper. She finally collapsed in exhaustion, I'm guessing, on the mattress on the floor, stark naked, with a towel covering her, and slept for about 45 minutes.

The Bug slept well in our room for her nap today, but I am not happy that I have to separate them again. I was really looking forward to having my room back. The last few nights I've been able to read without the light waking her up. I like that. It's relaxing. I don't want to go back to sneaking around my room like a thief.

Tomorrow I'm hanging up all the pictures that were in Boo's room. I have a rug I can put in there, too. I'm hoping those two things will make it a little more homey for her and get her to actually sleep in there rather than trashing it.

I think I need to clarify about The Bug's "Shut up" issue - she's only 15 months old. I can't really reason with her. I do tell her to say "Shhh" instead, which she does. After she says "Shut up!"


So. Yeah. I'm fucking whipped, man. I have a fever, a horrible croupy cough and I generally feel like ass. Parenting the Shriek Sisters is challenging at the best of times, but you throw all this extra shit in and I'm hanging on by my fingernails right about now.

Whiskey. It's yer only man.

Shut up! N0, YOU shut up!

So, um, somewhere (whistles nonchalantly) The Bug has learned the phrase "Shut up." She says it all the time. All. The. Time. She says it when I'm talking, she says it when her sister is screaming, she says it when she's screaming. Which is kind of funny in an oh crap kind of way. I don't know how to break this habit. She's been saying it for weeks now. When I say "No, you don't say that, you say 'Shhh,'" she says "Shut up." Sometimes she hits me and says "Shut up," which is lovely.

Anyone have any suggestions? Or should I just enroll her in The Little Dictator program at pre-school?

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever, part 5

Boo and The Bug are sick as dogs and they've passed it along to me. I have the chills and I ache from head to toe.

But in good news, I've dropped two sizes in my jeans. This is due to running up and down the stairs 87 times a day trying to get the girls to go to sleep. And unpacking. Holy god, do I have a lot of shit.

I May Never Eat Out Again

I'm taking a break from the commercials for a moment to bring you this little gem.

I love Gordon Ramsay. Any man who swears like that and can cook the way he does is ok in my book. His show, Kitchen Nightmares, has been a favourite of mine on BBCAmerica for a couple of years. He seems to have sold his soul to the devil known as Rupert Murdoch and the show has been brought to America. Of course it's bigger and brasher and faster and holy sweet suffering fuck, is it dirtier.

My skin has been crawling for an hour after watching this.

Sweet dreams.

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever (part 4)

Holy sweet suffering fuck, people. I am TIRED. My legs, they hurt. I no longer need to join a gym because I'm going up and down stairs roughly 60 times a day, either putting things away or trying to convince Boo and The Bug that sharing a room is, actually, a very good idea. They aren't buying it. And Boo wants nothing, NOTHING, to do with the toddler bed. So poor Bug is sleeping in the play pen right now and the women's shelter I was going to donate the crib to may be out of luck for now.

I need a massage. Badly.

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever part 3

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever (part 2)

I Don't Mind Them When They're Clever (pt 1)

(Nov. 1)

OK, listen, people. I signed up for this NaBloPoMo whatever it is before I realized that I was going to have to pack my house and move it on November 3rd. With two toddlers underfoot all the time. Yeah. Pushed for time? Moi?

So here's the deal. I'm posting The Shit That Amuses Me for the next week or two. Think of it this way: You won't have to listen to me whine about packing. Or moving. Or unpacking. Or how my husband has to go out of town for 5 days a week after we move in. You'll thank me later.

When You Don't TiFaux The Commercials...

...you sometimes get something unexpected.




This ad cracked me up. Because I'm really an 8 year-old boy....

Defiance, MA

I don't know what to do. My children are sapping me of my will to live.

Boo is so fucking defiant, all the time. If I ask her not to do something, she stares at me while doing it anyway. If I ask her to do something, she runs away. She ignores everything I say. She's not supposed to go into the office area of the living room. She knows this. Yet, time after time after time, she goes in there. I have it somewhat blocked off with a bookcase and she still gets in. She takes her sister's toys right out of her hand. She's not supposed to play with the cordless phone, but every time it's within reach, she grabs it and starts pushing buttons. When I ask her to give me the phone, she runs away with it. When I take it away from her, she fucking melts down. Shrieking and screaming and flailing her arms. This happens dozens of times a day. It. makes. me. insane.

The Bug isn't much better. She can't really talk yet, so she screams. At the top of her lungs. Over everything. She also hits. Yesterday she hit me and grabbed my new glasses off my face (Boo broke my old ones) and threw them on the floor. When Boo grabs her toy from her, The Bug will scream and whack Boo over the head. Hard. If she doesn't get her way immediately, the screaming and shrieking starts in. Her whole body shakes because she's so angry.

Both of them are very unpleasant to be around right now. I refuse to take them out anywhere for longer than 45 minutes because they're guaranteed to have at least one meltdown a piece while we're out. I'm getting seriously angry on a daily basis and have started putting Boo in her crib when she misbehaves, as much for a time out for me as it is for her.

We're trying to finish packing and that's only making this situation worse. This has been going on for a couple of months, since long before we found out we had to move, so I can't blame all this behaviour on the move. But if this is what my life is going to be like until they start pre-school, I might as well check into the loony bin now. I really feel like I'm on the verge of losing it.

Oops, We Did It Again!

WHAHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Awww, Mike Lowell won MVP! Oh, god, if they're smart, they'll sign him to a big, fat contract.

Shhhhh.

Shhhhh.


Almost there. Almost. Don't get cocky.


The Fat Lady hasn't even begun to warm up.


My nails are bitten down to my elbows.

The Reincarnationist

This is a Mother Talk book review.

The Reincarnationist, by M.J. Rose is a fun read. Josh Ryder, a photographer, is badly injured in a terrorist bombing. This triggers in him memories, or lurches, when he experiences the life of Julius, a pagan priest in Rome in 391 A.D.. Julius is attempting to save his temple as well as the life of his vestal virgin lover Sabine. These memories lead Josh to The Phoenix Foundation, a group that works with children experiencing past life memories.

Read the rest over here.

Reviews

I was recently asked to review a cookbook aimed at people with diabetes. This one was an unpaid review (although I did get a cookbook out of the deal). It's over here.

This post is mainly to alert the woman who sent me the cookbook. Like the scatterbrain that I am, I deleted her email without saving her address.

Shhhh

OK, that was almost embarrassing.

But we won. 13 - 1.

6 more to go.

Still not tempting the whatever, high atop the thing. No, no, appeasing the whatever. See? Look? Humble. Not cocky. Not taking it for granted, no. Never.

The Peace Process

TCBIM and I really like to go to this local outdoor flea market. It's a fun thing to do on a Sunday morning. It's outdoors, which is nice because it means I don't have to get too up close and personal with people. I don't mind humanity but people can really suck. Plus, there's always a guy there selling paperback books for $1 a piece (and I wonder why I have so many books). The guy selling fresh cut French fries is a lure, too, especially because he has two kinds of vinegar in addition to the ubiquitous Heinz ketchup.

Last year, before The Bug was born, we were there, perusing the stalls. I was lusting over an old, 50s-era formica and chrome kitchen table. TCBIM was eyeing the power tools. Both of us knew we couldn't afford either of the things we wanted. A couple of booths over was a heap of brightly-coloured plastic toys. There was, of course, a talking Elmo, which I quickly moved out of Boo's sight line. And then I saw a cute little dump truck.


And I thought "Aha! A truck! It's cute. It's not pink. And it doesn't have batteries! (Ok, it did, but it wasn't obvious that it did.)" So I paid my $3 and brought it home.

Boo didn't really want anything to do with it until recently. Actually, she didn't want anything to do with it until The Bug discovered how much fun it was to shove it around the floor. Then Boo was all about the truck. Good lord, it was like negotiating peace in the Middle East, trying to keep those two from killing each other over this damned truck. Boo would grab the truck away from The Bug. The Bug would shriek her patented, blood-curdling shriek and toddle as fast as her chubby legs could carry her, running after Boo and then hauling off and smacking her upside the head. The Bug would get it back and Boo would sit there, all pathetic-looking, saying "Please, Bug, please can I have the truck?" Meanwhile, The Bug is whipping that truck around the room like she's Mario Andretti's daughter.

So today I was at Target, my other favourite place to be, especially when it's raining and I've had just. about. enough. of the Shriek Sisters. As I walked into the store, I had an epiphany. The sun actually broke thru the clouds for a second and it came to me. "Dood! Just buy another truck!"

So I did. And now peace reigns in the Happy Valley.



At least until they start fighting over Bitty Baby.

I Am A Delicate, Fragile Flower

You want to know what pisses me off? (Shaddup. It's my blog and I'm going to tell you whether you like it or not.) The fact that I am 40 years old and get zits on my chin like I was a 17 year-old fry cook. What. The. Fuck??

In an attempt to rid myself of said blemishes, I bought (on the recommendation of a friend) some Clearasil facial cleanser. It gave me more zits. So I used the zit cream that came bundled with the Clearasil.

Guess what?

I'm allergic to it.

So now, not only do I have zits on my face, I also have huge, red, welt-y looking blotches. All over my face. Like this kid.

Purty.

In an effort to distract myself from clawing picking scratching my face, I decided to read some blogs. I noticed that motherbumper updated, so I went to check it out. Her post? It's about big, fuck off bugs.

Now, not only does my face itch like a motherfucker, my skin is crawling and I keep seeing black things darting across the floor out of the corner of my eye.

It's going to be a long night....



Edited to add: I have a review of a cookbook aimed at people with diabetes up over on my review blog. It's a good cookbook, one I'd find useful even if I didn't have a child with diabetes. Look how productive I am when I'm busy trying not to scratch my face off.

OHMIGAWD, OHMIGAWD, OHMIGAWD!!!!!

Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

8 - 2, bottom of the 8th, Pedroia just cleared the bases, knocking in three runs and ohmigawd, ohmigawd, ohmigawd, we might do this again!!!!

Shhhh. Shut up. Stop tempting the whatever.

Do you know how much it sucks to be watching this all by myself? I have no one to get all giddy and excited with, so I'm sharing it with the internets.

I can hardly sit still. I need a beer. I need a cigarette (and I don't smoke any more). I need something celebratory. Wheeeeeeeeeeee!


Edited to add: Youk just hit a homer off the Coke bottles. 11 - 2.

Yeah, baby. Goin' to the show. Bring on those Rockies!

So, Do You Think Kevin Millar Wants To Come Back?

Bet he doesn't have a job with the Orioles next year.


Shhh. Still not tempting the whatever high atop the thing....shhhh.

If Only Murder Wasn't Illegal

TCBIM has always snored, since the day I met him. Over the last several years, the snoring has grown worse, to the point that he will wake me up with it. I have been saying, for the last year or two, that he needs to go to the doctor, he needs to get a sleep study done because he may have sleep apnea. I wax and wane on the subject, depending on how much sleep I've gotten lately.

For the last six months or so, he will come home from work, eat dinner and almost immediately fall asleep on the couch. He's usually out by 8:30 or 9 pm.. Snoring away. So again, I got on his case. Call the doctor, call the doctor, I'm not your fucking mother, I don't know your schedule, call the doctor and set up an appointment. Ad nauseum. It has been driving me infuckingsane, the snoring and the sleeping and the nagging to just call the damned doctor already.

Last night, as he's about to leave for hockey, he says, "I was talking to a guy on a job site today and he said I might have sleep apnea and I should really get it checked out by a doctor, that that could be why I'm so tired all the time."

Seriously. Isn't that cause for justifiable homicide? Or at least for a cast iron skillet to the head?

Shhhhh.

What? You want to tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing?

No.

Then go outside, turn around three times and spit.



I do love me some Toby Zeigler.








Sox are up 7 - 1 in the top of the 8th. Shhhhh. (I've updated this score twice in the time it took me to find and post that picture. I'm whooping a very small whoop.)

OK, Now I Can Tell You

We've given up the house. We can't afford the nearly $1700 a month it was costing us. Plus taxes, plus water, plus sewer, plus trash removal, plus, plus, plus, the fucking thing is a money pit, with a leaky roof and sills that need replacing (oh, and that's not a cheap fix, lemme tell ya) plus the leaking cellar that needs a trench or something bored into the concrete floor and then run off somewhere, plus, plus, plus. I felt like I was drowning. No wonder I couldn't sleep.

We've found an apartment, in the city next to our town. It is 50 times nicer (and about 500 sq. feet bigger) than our house. It's a duplex. It has a kitchen, with a pantry (swoon!), a dining room with a built-in china cabinet and a living room. Upstairs, there are three big bedrooms. On the third (third!) floor, there is a full, walk-up attic that the landlady said we could turn into a bedroom or an office or just use for storage. There are hardwood floors throughout the entire house, including the kitchen. There is a big three season porch off the kitchen and a full cellar (that's dry) with washer and dryer hookups. There's a garage! There's a fenced-in back yard with a clothesline. There are brand new replacement windows and a new heating system. We can keep our dog and our cat. And it's half of what we're paying for a mortgage right now. Half.

I feel like a two ton boulder has been lifted off my shoulders. Last night I slept well for the first time in months.

But just because life likes to fuck with me and I can't have anything good happen without an equal and opposite reaction, today I got on the scale and I'd lost 8 pounds. Yay, right? But I also noticed that I was peeing. All the time. And I was thirsty (although I'm on medication that makes your mouth dry). But the peeing thing. That was new. I kept forgetting to dig out one of O's 87 meters until about 2-1/2 hours after a carb-laden dinner of pasta and garlic bread. My blood sugar was 141. I'll do a fasting check tomorrow morning and keep an eye on it and call my GP if things are looking wacky. It's entirely possible that I have it - my dad has it and god knows, I need to lose weight. O is going to laugh her ass off at me if I have diabetes too.

In Which I Am Constrained And So I Swear A Lot

I can't type about what I want to type about and I don't want to type about what I can type about.


I hate this shit. And it has hit the fan, but in his usual, inimitable fashion, TCBIM appears to be sliding in to home just under the tag. He's like a freakin' cat.


The fucking Red Sox had better fucking win tonight or I'm going to be pissed. Wicked fucking pissed.

Song of the day:

In Which I Swoon Over The Red Sox And Discover I Am Old

I pink puffy heart Mike Lowell. Papi and Manny get all the glory, all the media, all the attention, and there's Mike Lowell, quietly belting things over the fucking Monster and making incredible plays at third.

I love post-season play. Love it.

Do you remember the mug? I blogged about it a while back, but I can't seem to find the post. I have this mug that I love. I got it at a craft fair. I am not a craft fair person. At all. There's usually entirely too many booths exhibiting the gingham dog and calico cat type of craft and that sort of thing makes my teeth itch. But this craft fair is different. It's juried, first of all, which means the wares exhibited tend to be less of the hearts-and-flowers/crocheted lady toilet paper covers and more of the turned wooden bowl/Reiku pottery type of thing. It's nice stuff.

Anyway. I bought a mug there about 6 years ago. I loved that mug. It fit perfectly into my hand and had a great handle with a spot on top to rest my finger. It was a gorgeous shade of green with a sort of oriental feel to the design. A few months ago, it developed a crack. I was devastated.

Oh, I found it. (Nothing like a little stream of consciousness blogging, huh?)




Pretty, no?

I went to this fair today specifically to find this potter. And was he there? Nope. There were lots of other potters (and a wonderful photographer from NYC - Zim Photography - if I had money to spare, there were four or five of her photos that I would have bought in a heartbeat, the one I linked to is the one I loved the best, but they were all stunning.) but none of them had just the right mug. Some came close, but alas, no dice. So once again, I'm mugless. Well, I'm not mugless, I just don't have MY mug.

It's ridiculous how attached I am to this stupid mug. I realize that.



But just on the off chance that any of you recognize the potter's signature, I'm asking again. Anyone have any ideas?

And why does my post title say that I'm old? Well, I'll tell you. Not only did I go to a craft fair today and thoroughly enjoy myself, I also listened to A Prairie Home Companion on NPR on the way home. And laughed my ass off.

This distresses me. Why? Because I used to roll my eyes and groan at my mother every Saturday night when she'd squeal and run to the stereo to change the station from WBCN over to WBUR. "God," I used to think, "how can she find this crap funny? She's so oooooooooold. She's so not cool. I'm never going to be like that." Yeah, well, be careful what you think about your mother. Some day you'll find yourself driving home from a craft fair, giggling away to Garrison Keillor. And I'll be there saying "Told you so."

*sigh*

If We Yell Loud Enough, She Might Hear Us In California

It's my sister's birthday today. Since my organizational skills are on par with that of a rhesus monkey, I forgot until about 20 minutes ago. Buy a card? Hah. Besides, this is more environmentally friendly - the kids can colour on the other side. And? I don't have to wait in line at the post office.

Happy Birthday, Sue!

Gettin' around.

I'm posting ovah heyah today. And I have a couple of new posts up over at Blogabetes.

It's been raining here for a week. It's definitely soup weather. Chicken vegetable today, I believe.

Do You Eat In The Toilet?

Or with a blanket over your head? Would you do either of those things if someone told you to? Probably not. And yet, nursing mothers are being asked to do this all the time. Why? Because people have sexualized breasts to the point that they've forgotten their original use, which is to feed babies.

I don't know and don't much care why people find breastfeeding so offensive. They don't seem to object when those same breasts are covered by the merest slip of fabric, when those breasts are push up, pushed out and spilling out of a shirt. That's ok. But nursing? God, no. We can't have that! That's sick and wrong. Facebook, while allowing all kinds of boob shots, will not allow women to post pictures of themselves nursing. Bill Maher equated breastfeeding to masturbating, for god's sake. Apparently, in Bill's world, boobs are only for fun. It's fine if they're shaking 'em in his face, but good lord, let's not feed any babies with them! That's obscene.

Well, fuck that. I will nurse my baby where ever I please. I will not be yanking my boobs out for the world to see. In fact, I'd be willing to bet, unless you were really being nosy, you wouldn't even notice that I was breastfeeding.

Women are rightly furious about this double standard. And they're speaking up, loud and clear.



I'm at 1:39.

MIss Elle Annia

Could someone please explain why I'm so fucking tired all the time? I took a 2 hour nap yesterday while the girls were napping. They went to bed around 7 and I dozed off on the couch for a good hour. I went to bed at midnight (early for me) and slept until 7 this morning and I still feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck. I'm not sick, I'm not pregnant (that'd be a trick), I just had my thyroid checked and it's fine. It's maddening.

Someone from Romania has been hanging out on my blog for 20 - 30 minute chunks of time. Odd. But, hey, you could say hi, Romanian person. I don't bite.

Comments and site hits have dropped off precipitously. I'm sort of bummed, but if everyone is in the funk that I'm in, I'm not at all surprised. I look at my Bloglines page and have a minor heart attack because I have 519 unread posts. I'm going to have to do something to rein in the blog chaos. Reading and commenting shouldn't be so stress-inducing.

Speaking of funk, I can't think of a damned thing to write about, either here or at the other blogs I contribute to. My mind is like a desolate landscape, with nary a thought or idea to be seen.

My god, I need a nap....

I Almost Feel Bad

but only almost.

The Angels are about to get swept. They keep bringing in new pitchers and we keep scoring. Seven runs in the top of the 8th alone.... The commentators on TBS have really drunk the Red Sox Kool-Aid, too. They just rave and rave about them. I don't think our own guys are even that biased.

In other news, Joe Torre's going to lose his job if the Indians win tonight. As much as I hate the *spit* Yankees, I like Joe Torre. He seems like a solid guy and anyone who can put up with George Steinbrenner for so long has got to have nerves of steel.


Edited to add: Yep, Sox swept. Sorry, SueBob.

We Have A Winner!

Congratulations, Angewl! You won the book. Drop me an email at book _ ish at yahoo dot com so I can send it to you.

Too Bad, So Sad

Up 2 games to nothing, baby! And the *spit* Yankees? Oh, so sad. Down 2 games to nothing.


Manny Ramirez, channeling David "Walk Off" Ortiz, smacked a three-run homer way the hell out of the park.

I love this game.

Mama Knows Breast

I have a new review of Mama Knows Breast: A Beginner's Guide to Breastfeeding up over here. It's a nice little book and would make a perfect gift for any expectant mum you happen to know.

A Big Thank You

I got 48 49 comments on de-lurk day, which just blew me away. Thanks, everyone that commented. It was lovely. I'm going to call that one a success.

And now on to the random crappe.

Today is MUCH better than yesterday. Much. Boo's not doing her Regan imitation any more and I don't feel like consuming beverages out of craniums. It's all good.

I have a review of Peyton Place, of all books, up over at New England Mamas. Have you ever read it? I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I'm taking O shopping in town tomorrow. She wants to go to Faces, Deals and Steals and to Steve & Barry's for jeans. We'll probably go for pizza and possibly for desserts at La Fiorentina. TCBIM is staying home with the Shriek Sisters. I can't wait.

Anger

Isn't that fantastic? I am in such a foul mood today that the thought of drinking from someone's skull is incredibly appealing. This happens every month, without fail. It's like someone painted the inside of my head crimson red. I get so angry, over every little thing, that there are times that I scare myself. It seems to have mostly gone away at this point, but I was pretty thankful that TCBIM was working from home - he helped wrangle Boo and The Bug during their channeling-the-imps-of-Satan moments.

My mood combined with Boo's determination to do the exact opposite of what's asked of her has made for a shitty, shitty day. She's defiant, she takes ignorage to a whole new dimension and her propensity to laugh in my face when I discipline her is infuriating.

Bedtime can't come quick enough today.

Would It Kill Ya To Say Something?

See the pretty button I have over there? That's because today is delurk day. Leave me a comment. I get just over 100 separate hits a day on this site and if I'm lucky, I get 10 comments. So come out of the woodwork and leave a comment. I don't bite (often). And sometimes I give away free stuff!

Besides, all the cool kids are doing it.....


The Scribe template I liked so much doesn't seem to be modifiable. I'm not highly enamoured of this one, but until I can scrape up some cash to get a new template, this one will have to do. All my bling in sitting in a Word document. I'm going to see if I can put some of it here, especially the diabetes stuff, but for now, the dots will have to do.

Witter

It's what you do when you don't have Twitter.

• I'm sick. I hate being sick. I used to not mind it because it meant a day curled up on the couch, sipping tea, dozing and watching mindless stuff on television. Two little kids, though, means that I don't get to sleep much unless they happen to nap at the same time - something that's happening less and less frequently around here.
  

• I signed up to do NaBloPMo again. It's waaaaaaaay easier than NaNoWriMo.

• The contest. Have you signed up yet? If not, why not? It's a free book, people! I'm going to draw names Friday night, 11 p.m. EST. I'll post the winner on Saturday.
  

• I've had a couple of complaints that my blog is taking far too long to load. Anyone else having this problem? I don't know if it's the template or the things in my sidebar or what.

• O was going to have a birthday party sleepover this weekend, with three friends. They all bagged on her. She's upset about it an while I wasn't looking forward to having four teenage girls in my house (the squealing! My god, the squealing.), I'm upset on her behalf. It's such a shitty thing to do.
  

• And now, I'm off to drink whiskey tea and try to have a lie down.

Edited to add: Well, I took down my template and put this thing up. I don't like it and I can't figure out how to add all the stuff in that I had in my sidebar. Fanfuckingtastic. I need a new template. Something that's easier to play with that the stupid crappe they have on here.