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.