This IS About Politics; or John McCain is Coming For Your Women

(Soapbox underfoot. Loud mouth turned on. Wearing protective clothing to shield tomatoes and/or rocks.)

Sarah Palin, the Hockey mom, former part-time Mayor, newly-elected Governor of Alaska, is John McCain's version of Hillary Clinton's younger sister from a Red State. Felt that ass kiss earlier today, women? That was John McCain pandering to you. That was John McCain thinking outside the box and choosing with his heart as if he NEVER EVEN noticed that she (being a SHE) might appeal to a certain (Hillary) demographic mightily pissed off right now. But John McCain, dude? Pleeeeease brother. Nice try.

Let me say this (she says, dodging arrows and insults): my (ahem) private parts do not push levers in voting booths. Nor does my skin color. And while my brain does not technically slide out of my skull and actually do the deed, it's the only organ that I plan to use, that any one should use, in November.

Words do matter. Vision matters. Ideas, concepts, imagery: it all matters. But it's not all that matters. Even those among us who maybe teared up a little bit last night (just sayin'), we know that (at least I hope we do).

You know what matters? Not bumper stickers or pandering VP choices or nasty ads or powerful speeches. The freakin' Supreme Court is what matters. The Supreme Court.

(Soapbox kicked over. Loud mouth turned off.)

This is Not About Politics, Really

The GFYO went to work with the Kid today. He packed his bathing suit and two water guns; he is always prepared. The girls left at 9:30 for an all-day birthday party at a theme park. That's right: ALL DAY. So what have I done with all this delicious silence?

I watched tivo'd Convention coverage, that's what I did! Without being interrupted once by an eye-roll or a "yeah right" or an "oh please." And since I was able to rewind and fast-forward, I really learned a lot and came to some very important conclusions regarding this historic event:

People at Conventions wear funny clothes and funnier hats. I don't know why. Do they wear this style of clothing in general or just at political rallies?

As far as the gesture goes, I give the "thumbs up" a major thumbs down. It just looks lame. Go ahead and point at me, I can take it.

And similarly, I think the hand-held microphone is cheesy. Lose it.

I would prefer hand-written signs rather than the mass-produced ones on the sticks. They look so mass-produced and the overall effect is very creepy: we all have the same sign and it's on a stick and we wave it together! Wouldn't a few hand drawn placards with some misspellings and smiley faces add more flare to the whole thing? More joie de vivre? More rugged individualism?

Also, I would like to see The Wave done at least once.

Why is it that all politicians love their mothers? I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but statistically speaking, there have got to be at least a few who really despise the old broad.

Truth is, I don't think the pant suit completely sucks. I think on the right woman it can be very sharp.

The roll call of states is teevee genius and at times incredibly hilarious, kind of like when beauty queens dress like their state's most compelling feature. I think John Adams would be proud. I mean that.

Mostly, the whole dog and pony show is really rather entertaining if you can get over the fact that these are all a bunch of politicians. I'm already popping the pop corn for tonight. But lady with the 83 buttons covering your entire upper torso? The eyes of the world are upon us so let's keep our jackassity to a minimum, OK?

Pouring You Into A Cab

Dear First Real Friend,

When I walked into that bar last night to see you for the first time in like, what? Fifteen years? I was expecting to totally pit out my tee-shirt with nervousness (which is why I wore the tank with the cute drapey cardigan thing if you must know) but I didn't. I was expecting to get all tongue-tied or the complete opposite, ultra did she just do a few lines in the parking lot chatty. But that didn't happen either. Instead I walked in there like I was walking into your basement from your backyard.

Sweet relief! You are funny and smart and sensitive and as cute and nice as you were when you were eight. And you have good taste in wine which I tasted for you which you soon learned was ridiculous since my palate is pretty much twist-off or in a can. You laughed at that and leaned over and hugged me for real and we were off.

I felt sorry for the bartender and the toads on the other stools because we were way too funny and way too interesting for anyone in that joint to compete. (Were there other people there? Actually I don't really know.) Turns out we didn't even need the booze to get down and ridiculously dirty, because within about six minutes I think we spilled all the major shit. And yo! That's some shit we both have, which just proves my point that most stuff comes undone in regular ways. Even for us. Mostly for us.

Remember when you asked me if my sister was still so TALL and BEAUTIFUL? She is beautiful, but she is 5'3". I think you are taller than her now. Remember when you asked me about my parents? And I asked you about yours? And then we both sat there, slack-jawed and all WTF and hold on and are you serious? I'm pretty sure that's when I knew we would have a second date.

Remember when I told you that I took a year off from that fancy college and you told me that you had done the same thing from your fancy college? And then you asked me why? And when I started to tell you, even though to this day I still don't have a great answer to that question, you finished my sentence and hugged me again and high-fived me? And then we howled about that time you "had no knees" at that Dead show in Virginia and that other time when we both had ridiculous hair issues and about the gay boyfriends we both had. That was some serious funny shit. I'm glad we still laugh at the same things: I'm glad we both know when to start laughing. I'm glad we never cried. I do that sometimes. I'm pretty sure you do too.

And the work stuff? I get that. And when you asked me

so, what have you been doing since you sold your business seven years ago?

I wasn't offended or even surprised because I get that a lot. And it was really nice of you to step in and apologize, which was totally unnecessary really, but appreciated. And after babbling about all the volunteer stuff and the Short Drunk People and the massive amounts of alcohol you said, straightface,

so you've been working?

which was perfect really and enough said and we moved on again.

And more hilarity ensued. And more stories. And peeing together in the bathroom. And standing on the sidewalk with the sun closing down, smoking butts like jackasses. Like 14 year olds. Like nothing had ever changed.

Somewhere between what was supposed to be two hours and turned into three hours, you had the great self-knowledge to consider a cab. And because I was once your best friend, I knew enough to know you needed one. So I got you one. So I put you in it, kissed your cheek through the window and sent you off in a blaze of absolute love and with luck for an easy hangover.

I got your message -- sent at 7AM! -- at about noon. Seven aaaa emmm? Really? You are GOOD girl and should know better: pouring girlfriends into cabs is my specialty! I don't think there's ever been a friend worth the trouble who does not have that cab pour down to a science. That's what we do. That's how we roll. I pour for you, you pour for me.

Next time: it's your turn. Didya hear me? I said "next time" which means... there will be a next time.

Thanks for meeting me on a work night with a baby at home and two other kids. Thanks for letting me make sure you got home OK. Thanks for growing up and moving on and moving back and remembering everything like I do.

Love,

Ms Picket

PS: I drove by my old house. The sucker's been torn down, replaced with a monster that I think takes up the entire acre lot. Our fort is gone. Our woods seem small comparatively. The new house sums up so much really, you dig?

ROAD TRIP

The first thing you should do when traveling with children: lower your expectations. Do this especially when you are traveling to see relatives. Relatives who rarely see your children. And who happen to be seeing them at the end of a long summer.

If you expect your children to be either a) bratty b) insolent or c) mute wild animals, you will be pleasantly surprised when they are only slightly rude and slightly naughty. Trust me. I speak from recent experience, as in -- the last three days or 72 hours or 4,320 minutes when my parenting genius was on full display. For my mother in law to witness in real time. Yay me!

The good news, having learned from said recent experience, is that I have adjusted my expectations for our next round of travel. The Short Drunk People and I will take off again tomorrow for visits with an aunt, a grandfather and a couple of old friends with younger children (aka, the kind who still fear the "I'm going to count to five" routine). If the dudes don't break any laws, I will consider it a successful journey. Also per my new lowering the bar strategy, I will plan on our drive taking 10 hours and two fist fights so I can be pleasantly surprised when it takes considerably less time with only one brawl. And I will anticipate losing all of our shoes, so I can congratulate myself when we lose only a few of our shoes.

Meanwhile....

It's not been all beach and bikinis over here. I took a spin in the Minivan Soapbox while she was away at her own beach and waxed poetic about one of the most embarrassing moments of my (sigh) youth. And by embarrassing I mean... oh god: just go over to Kerrie's and laugh at me, OK?

OK.

At least it's not as bad/awesome as the dude at Goat and Tater when he wrote this love song to his younger days which seriously made me hurl, but in a good way. So go check that out too. And while we're getting all linky, read this really sweet thing from Aimeepalooza that made me all thoughtful, but also in a good way.

Just remember: if you are taking any children with you on this virtual expedition (and why would you really?), expect them to write something like xjskgdjftisutf%%&*^*%#%$hjgsfhj in the comment section before you can stop them and then say, "My goodness! He never behaves like that at home!"

I'll believe you.

Fun With Houses

So the house painters are scraping and sanding and doing what they do which includes pressure washing. And I am doing what I do which is... well not a hell of a lot really... driving around, making lunch, pretending to do laundry, unsticking gum from the GFYO's hair, the usual. One thing I did not do, however, was close any of the windows in the house. Do the math on that one.

I'm used to these minor messy setbacks because I lived for a good six months with no back wall to the house. Once I got over the whole freezing to death part, the lack of the back was quite useful: I never had to the open the door for any of the worker people who were coming and going for the better part of every day. This was especially handy since I had a new baby at the same time who was rather fond of my (cough) bosom so I pretty much sat on my ass and flashed waved at the workers from my perch.

A new set of workers arrived one day. I had never seen them before, but no matter, I still waved and let them walk through the "wall" so they could get busy. Who knows what they were doing and who cared anyway: a good day on a construction site is a day that someone shows up. Am I right? Right.

I noticed their vehicles parked in front my house -- one was your standard white box truck and the other was a very, very colorful kind of bitchin' camaro. I couldn't see either that well as I was still very busy sitting on my ass waving (no wonder the GFYO is so G). This construction job had gone on far, far too long, at a great expense to my neighbors who had to suffer through the noise and the traffic, so as long as the vehicles weren't parked on their lawns, I figured everything was ship shape.

If I squinted my eyes, I could see that the colorful, colorful car was in fact painted, like fancy painted, like mural painted. And I thought, how cute! how creative! And had visions of something like this:



or this:



But noooooooo! B came running over all wild-eyed and frantic and asking, "mama! what are those ladies doing on that man's car?" And "those ladies" on that "art" car? Why, those ladies were mostly nekkid and all grown up and doing x-rated sexy times on the hood of the car.

The car that was parked in front of my house.

The neighbors were so, so happy.

More Blogging about Blogging

Or: Not Letting Sleeping Dogs Lay (Lie?) (Wait.) Lay. (Lie?)

Or: Not Letting Sleeping Dogs Just Sleep. Dammit.

I am pretty sure right after page one in every self-help book ever written comes advice about how "letting go" is the first step. Since I have never actually read a self-help book, except for all those ones about babies (which is the reason most women go completely nuts to begin with), I may be be completely talking out my ass here, but I like to think that things are the way I assume they are, so just go with me on this.

Here's how I think it works:

You turn over page one of self-help book and you get some big-worded essay about closure and moving on and making peace. You know this is a good idea, a great idea, a sane idea, and you try to carry on. You read more big words and it starts getting tiresome and maybe a little annoying or preachy or like, you know, work. So, you shut the book in absolute disgust and go eat something really yummy instead. Or drink something. Or smoke something. Or take a walk around the block. Or whatever.

You do this because you are not ready.

Which is to say, that if this were a dog, I am not ready to put the damn dog to sleep. In between Heather waxing way more poetic than I ever could about what it means to have new dreams for your grown up self that may or may not include the word "fuck" or Meredith taking a dive and having regrets (holla!) or the mom to the Chitlins finding a video that included both the bees knees and Jack Black to make my sad sorry day much better or Aimee who always seems to say something completely unrelated that completely relates to anything I am thinking -- stops. takes a breath -- and in between all the new faces who came* and shouted and all the familiar ones who are my beloved playground posse (like Carolyn and JenW and Meg and Kristin and Laggin and those Dads Who Mock and NashsMom and Goat and X and Bedhead and MAW and -- I talk too much; gestures at side bar) -- stops. takes another breath -- well, in between all of that, a girl gets to thinking (and thinking and thinking):

WAIT? Why am I doing this again? she thinks.

< minor interruption: um mom? yes. you know when I sleep on my head with my hair back there? um? yes? it hurts. OK. sleep on your cheek then. night nights.)

And it's not the hate (or the shame or the ugh OMG did I just say that OUT LOUD?) (well, maybe that IS a little part of it) that has me wondering. And it's not the worry that somehow writing a blog might inhibit my chances at a future in politics (because, um? this little thing is the least of my concerns on that front). It's the WHOLE BIG IDEA of writing stuff down (about kids or cooking or gardening or bikini waxing or celebrities in various states of mental illness or what have you) and allowing other people to read it that has me in a qua-qua-quandary.

WAIT? Why do we do this again? she thinks.

I might answer that question if I asked it of myself, which apparently I am, that I like the whole writing process so that's why I bother (despite the meanies; despite my better reasoning), but I'm not sure that is the answer completely. Some of you (and you being: you know who you are) (Carolyn) (NashsMom) do not consider yourselves to be writers or even thinkers, when in fact that is pretty much what you are doing. Writing. Thinking. Writing. Sometimes writing and then thinking as the case may be. (Mirror on self shining way, way too brightly.)

Maybe you (we?) do this to document some time and space like a virtual scrapbook. Maybe it's to make permanent some funny story before we forget it. Maybe it's to get a book deal (dare I go there? name names? I won't). Or maybe we want to stick a thousand needles in our heads like that acupuncturist did in Beijing to "honor" the Olympics and "express" himself. Is that what you (I?) (we?) are doing? Sticking needles in our heads to prove that we exist? Sticking fuck.ing needles in our heads?

Tell me. Tell me the answer, you great self-help sister/brotherhood of the blogosphere (should I tell you how much I hate that word? no, probably not, she writes, having learned from experience). Tell me, you writers of blogs and you readers of blogs, why? WHY?

Why do we do this again? she asks.

Because mostly: seems lately some great ones have fallen (Manager Mom, how you are loved) under the weight of these questions so GOOD GOD GOOD PEOPLE, ' fess up.


*****

*Those other new faces? They are Deeples and TwoBusy and Parties with An Infant and Different Girl and Lisa and and Lori and also blondebaldgirl and susieT and pandamom and skimom and ilana who I think I know and also notatenniskirtmom who I don't think I know (do I?), but love. With a capital L. That kind. And Anonymous, our new best friend.

This Ain't No Disco

The GFYO was invited to a bigger kids birthday party with his sisters. This, I think, has been the highlight of his summer. The whales? They were alright. The Red Sox? Cool. A week at the beach with jellyfish and seals? Not bad. But THIS? A chance to not be left behind like usual, to actually GO to the party?

Funny thing is, he didn't want a party of his own when he was two or when he was three. When he was four, he finally obliged and said "if I must" and then? Well, wonders of wonders: who knew cake and balloons and presents could be so amazing! And now he's downright obsessed with parties. Wants to go to one every day. Thinks every bill that slides through the mail slot is a potential invitation. Dreams about parties. Has become a party animal.

So, when I sent everyone to get changed (not into dresses or anything; I was just looking for clothes that didn't have yogurt stains on them), he attacked the challenge with a motivation I rarely see. About three minutes later the girls had arrived, all presentable-like. About 15 minutes later, the GFYO walked every so delicately down the grand staircase stairs to make his debut.

I think he was going for this look:


But he missed the mark.

Because madras button down + camo cargo pants (in corduroy no less, since it was 80 degrees) + a track suit kind of jacket + red Crocs?

I give it an A for effort GFYO, you dapper little dude, but the hair flip you just performed? That might be a little overkill.

Let Me Tell You Why I Love You

You know how sometimes you send an email to someone which you intend to be funny and nice but since your voice is not attached to it and they can't hear you laughing, they completely misunderstand what your saying? And then you have call them PRONTO and explain what you meant with actual words that come out of your mouth? And not this kind of mouth :0 but the real one on your face?

I've done that before. I bet a lot of people have.

And it's not that I worry that this was misunderstood, because honestly, there are so many shades of gray in there I think it's easy to misunderstand and also gripes like that are probably going to mean one thing to one person and another thing to another person. Understood? OK.

But the whole meanie Anonymous person completely scared the pants off of me (and no meanie Anonymous person; not literally; there are children in the house after all). Because if I didn't know me, and who really knows oneself anyway (but I digress), I suppose I could seem like some complete nightmare with an anger problem.

So here's the thing: this is a page on a computer that lives in the internet which is essentially a connection of lots of other pages on lots of other computers that are all linked together by... magic. It is ten minutes of a life that has about 4 million other minutes in it. Or ten million. And most of those minutes are filled with all kinds of good things -- maybe not butterflies and unicorns -- but laughter and cute kid stuff and great friends and kind neighbors and a nice husband and a kooky, yet extremely close family and ball games. And PTO meetings.

Sometimes there are swear words. Sometimes there are days filled with nothing but bad news or scary news or sadness. Some days are complete piss and vinegar. But mostly, when I consider the 20 million minutes? I'm a pretty lucky person who gets to love a lot of people and also gets to be loved back. And I'm trying as hard as pretty much anyone I know to raise a bunch of kids in a complicated world, to make a difference in their lives and in my community, to be a better friend and a better daughter and a better wife and a better cousin and a better sister and a better citizen. Which is not easy stuff. Which is hard work.

Which makes this one page on this one computer a little bit like recess. Sometimes I am chatting in a huddle with my buddies, sometimes I am doing laps around the track, sometimes I'm swinging from the monkey bars howling like Tarzan, but it's my recess and I make the rules. And rule number one is everyone is allowed to play. Even if you completely hate the way I jump rope, you still get to play.

But just because you're out here with me on the playground (meanie Anonymous person) doesn't mean that you know anything about what I do when recess is over.

And also? Watch out for the kids who play in these parts. They do not take kindly to meanies.

Let Me Tell You Why I Hate You

Ummmm.... dudes?

The following are fifteen random negative, nasty, bitchy, awful, hurtful things I am spitting out to get myself all exorcised:

+++++

1) Your baby is not that cute. At all.

2) I do not care that your wife turned 50. She is a home wrecking bitch.

3) I mean really? You still think I care about your hobby? Which is a hobby lest you were too stupid to think otherwise.

4) The reason I stopped calling you is not because I was busy: it is because you were boring and I had better things to do.

5) You prance around in Prada in the Small Town: you look like an asshole.

6) I am pretty sure you used me and that you are a climber of mega proportions.

7) You're pink hair stripe has lost its luster and just makes you look like a mean bitch who is afraid of people.

8) No one cares as much as you think about all the kids you have.

9) You lied to me. Many times. I wish I could stop telling lies to you.

10) Bitch: he has kids. Back the fuck off.

11) Return my Pyrex plate, loser. And also: a "hello" would have sufficed.

12) You're coldness is not proof of your righteousness. It just makes you cold.

13) You ARE sexist. And a bad joke teller.

14) I said sorry. Many times. Many. Many. Times.

15) You ditched me because you thought I would be hurt and sad and let down. You were wrong. You should have known that I was the only one to save you.

+++++

It's easier than you think, this exorcism: just write it down. At least, I feel better.

But be cryptic. Don't actually hurt people. Which is another way of saying, if you think this about you? It probably isn't.

Feel free to play.

LiveBlogging the Witching Hour

Start: 6:00pm

School starts in two weeks. I know this not because I have bothered to look at my calendar, but because I have that itch to organize, like with folders and files and bulletin boards. And charts. I've got the taste for more predictable days, regular dinner times, routines that though... routine make me feel all cozy and mommy-like.

****
I want to start yoga again. Or find a pick-up soccer team. Or maybe try pilates (which my sister pronounces "pie-lates:" she also has called aspartame -- "ass-par-tuh-may").

Just like the promises I used to make that I would keep my binder perfectly ship-shape, I make similar promises in late summer that I will get all ship-shape. So I sign up for classes that I will neglect to attend.

****
Phone rings. Ignore it. Listen to message. Move on.

****
The Man on the Radio has pissed me off so much that I have given up on swaying him with my super mental telepathy: he obviously is not getting my "i hate you i hate you" ESP-ish messages.

****
R and the GFYO are obsessed with baths. The Kid tossed them in the other day with about half the bottle of Tired Old Ass Soak and they smelled like dirty hippies for a solid 24 hours. Patchouli is no place for children.

They're in the tub as I type, which pretty much explains the "****". Every time I insert a "****" I am yelling at them to cool it, stop it, shut it off.

****
The Short Drunk People have recently discovered Legos. After nine years of no one touching the things, it is now Lego Love up in here. They build to their personalities: B makes houses with walkways and flower boxes, R makes ultra-modern homes with big garages, and the GFYO makes multi-functional vehicles ("it's a boat and a plane and a car and a robot and a dog and it can rocket and it can spin and it shoots"). It is relatively quiet when they are building. I like it. I do not like picking up Legos. So I don't.

****
Also, why should some televangelist "spiritual" person be hosting a "conversation" with any candidate for anything? And was that really a sound-proof booth? A "cone of silence"? Shut the fuck up! Is this a game show or a fucking election? I am so over politics right now, I can taste the apathy.

****
ARE YOU ACTUALLY WASHING? This is soap; use it. Yeah, yes, I do love it: I love that hairstyle. Now wash! And KEEP THE WATER IN THE TUB! Silently, to self: for fuck's sake...

****
Phone rings. Will call her back. Make mental note to email friend about PTO consignment store volunteer hours.

****
B is busy making yet another Lego dream house. When she asks me what color the bedside tables should be if one bed is red and the other is blue and the table lamp is green, I consider the dilemma with great seriousness until I remember it is a Lego dream house and then I say "um? white?" but what I really mean to say is "you are brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind and I think you can choose for yourself." So I add, "whatever you decide will be great" to which she says "uuugh! can't you just help me?"

****
I have two PTO meetings this week. I've tried to remember where I left my xanax smarty pants giant PTO binder, and then remembered, I never had one. It's a good thing that no one really wants to be president of the PTO or else I would surely be impeached. I think my first act will be to ban three ring binders from all meetings.

****
STOP IT! That's enough!!! TURN THE WATER OFF! NOW!

****
And also, if we're supposed to care what the candidates play on their Ipods (or 8 tracks as the case may be), I think it should be one of those sweet mash-ups. I'm thinking equal parts "Peace Love and Understanding," "Bad to the Bone", "This Land is Your Land", "Blue Suede Shoes, "Wichita Lineman," "Three Feet High and Rising," "I Am Woman" and for good measure and good luck, "Imagine".

Make mental note to figure out how to actually do a mash-up. Imagine my life as internet celebrity.

****
R comes to me wrapped in a towel to let me know that the GFYO has some "bad poops" and "um you need to go" and then she throws me this "I shit you not" look and so I know it is serious. And it is. And I am sparing the details but what a sad little image of the GFYO trying to clean up the mess (butt nekkid of course) (soaking wet) and I tell him not to worry and I'll take over and what a nice little GFYO he is. And he says his tummy hurts and I say I figured as much and he says that's why I didn't eat my dinner and I say yes that IS why, poor little GFYO and he says but if I don't get any dessert I am not going to be happy at all.

I shit you not.

End: 7:30pm

Color Blind

The Kid took the day off today, and by "day off" I mean that he didn't check his email during any of the thirty minutes we spent fine dining at the diner for breakfast (solo!) today. And he didn't check it when he was complaining about my driving (which was nice) or when we went to the Amazing Small Town Paint And Decorating store to pick out a new color for our house.

The Kid pulls a major "who knew" when you get him around the decorative arts. Just because he is 6'4" and could pass for a professional hockey player does not mean that he did not pick out our china or once become so obsessed with the house in the Royal Tenenbaum's that he tried to convince me to paint our stairwell pink. (None of this comes as any surprise to me: he told me about three months into our lurve affair that it was the man in me that brought out the woman in him. Which I think he meant as compliment. Which I sort of took as one.) On the flip side, he can seriously manage all sorts of manly stuff, like grilling and bug killing and not listening to one word I am saying whenever he feels like it, but paint colors? Tonalities? Saturation? He is all over that shit.

We've been in the house (our only house, and the longest place I have ever lived anywhere) for ten years. Painted it twice I think -- maybe once, but there was an addition thrown on (literally) (don't ask) (I get panic attacks just thinking about it) four years ago and I can't remember if we painted the whole house then or just the new part (it was blur) (a bad blur) (Ativan! take me away!) (I kid) (sort of) -- but what with the weather in these parts, the house painters are generally very busy. This paint job however will be the first time we're actually changing the color. Because, you know, after ten years of throwing away your children's inheritance at your house, you start to feel like you own the son of a bitch.

But change is scary! Very scary!

Thankfully the Kid had his decorating skirt on today. He and the owner of the Amazing Small Town Paint Store, who also happens to be a friend and a wickedly smart and all kinds of talented person, were definitely communicating on a level that was way over my head. When they saw orange or red or gray, I saw "pretty" or "not so pretty." When they knew beforehand that certain shades of white would change the main color by inexplicable degrees, I was all, wait? is that good? do we want that? When I mentioned that paint colors were like nail polish colors ("tomfoolery" and "stomp" being the house paint versions of "i'm not just a waitress" and "french francs"), no one really laughed. Which was a good thing really, if you think about it. (Not like there's anything wrong with that...)

My mother is an artist, an oil painter. I can barely draw a smiley face. I know what I like, but I do not understand why I like it. And while I can see the various different shades of blue, I do not really see the "red" in the blue that the Kid does, even if I squint my eyes. I am better with black and white and the alphabet, although, considering that he is writer who gets PAID to write, I mean to say that I am better than the GFYO with black and white and the alphabet.

So basically, I am gonna open my ears to what the Pro and the Kid have to say and just close my eyes, point and pick and wing it. And if the house ends up looking like some color blind two-boot wearing oversharey beeyotch picked the colors? Then you will know that I asserted myself way, WAY too much.


****

Picked the boots. Returned the others. And now I look like this:


Thanks, dudes. Awesome.

Glass House

Woman spotted on the sidewalk, deep in chat with fellow sidewalk-stander.

She was sporting a Pucci-inspired mildly garish top. Elastic waist pin-stripe trousers. Very large eye glasses. Bangs combed, but maybe wet (or greasy?). Trader Joe's grocery bag. Holding a copy of "Feng Shui For Dummies." Let me write that again: Feng Shui For Dummies.

Because I have been incredibly and perhaps deliriously bored lately, this image and that book completely made my day. I totally rubbernecked. Which made me feel a little judgy and a little bit like a bad woman driver, but honestly?! I wish I could sneak around that lady's house and see what the Feng Shui she is all about.

I considered pulling the rig over and waiting for her to leave so I could follow her to the home in need of some Asian decorating magic. Is it money she wants? Harmony? Love? Would she consider moving the potted plant to the corner or the mirror to another wall? Will she sit down and read every word right away? Or will she tackle it more strategically, a chapter at a time? Does she have more shirts in her closet like that or different glasses? Would she notice me lurking around her bulkhead trying to peak inside?

The traffic shifted and my fantasy spy life ended. The dudes in the back seat were all shouty and squirting juice boxes and it was instantly clear how awful they would be as co-hort investigative journalists.

And lest you think think I or my house looks any better? I am currently wearing two different boots, newly arrived from Zappos (free overnight shipping! free returns!) with shorts no less, and only ten minutes ago, used my staple gun to repair the upholstery on the couch in the kitchen. If it doesn't hold (this time), I'll pull out the duct tape.

It is a very, very good thing that I do not live here:

Small Town Video Store

The Small Town video store is like crack to the Short Drunk People. The movies are good, but the free popcorn and the penny candy and the fact that we usually see at least one person we know there pushes the place into the awesome stratosphere. Naturally, I use it to get the dudes to do my bidding: wanna go to the Small Town video store, I say, well, then get your asses to the playroom and clean that shit up! It works every time which means I am a parenting genius.

When we first moved here, The Kid was obsessed with the owner of the place. Not in a stalker kind of way, but he very, very desperately wanted the guy to know his name and he wanted to walk in there and be greeted like he was walking into Cheers. I can't really explain this, except to say that The Kid also believes people should wave to each other when passing in their cars. He waves to everyone, like a frickin' beauty queen, and shakes his head in utter depression when drivers do not wave back. I think the waving and the video store guy knowing his name means something hugely important to The Kid, but I haven't yet figured out what that is.

The day the owner man said "Hey Kid" when we walked in for yet another movie to get over the hangover with watch, I honestly thought The Kid might cry.

So, since he's away (which means anything goes kids) and I really needed someone to clean the house, I took the Short Drunk People to the Small Town video store. Hi Small Town video store owner, they shouted. Hi Little Ms Pickets, he shouted back. And then he noticed the soccer shorts R was clutching in her hand. Why you have those Middle Picket, he asked.

And this is when I held my breath and hoped she would get all shy on me.

But noooooooo....

My mom said she would pay me TWO DOLLARS if I wore them in here on my head but I didn't want to 'cause B said I looked kinda dumb and I tried to get my mom to pay me FIVE DOLLARS to do it, but she said no and then I said I would do it anyway and my mom said it looks cool and that you would like it but then I thought maybe I really did look stupid with my shorts on my head and plus my mom owes me TEN DOLLARS anyway so I really don't need the TWO DOLLARS and also, I tried to make GFYO do it but he wanted to wear his Red Sox hat and so then I thought I would do it anyway and my mom said DO IT DO IT and then I said no. That's why I got my shorts Small Town video store owner.

And without missing even one beat, that incredibly cool man who knows all our names and doesn't hate me when I lose his movies and gives all three of my kids free popcorn, said, your dad used to wear his shorts on his head in here ALL THE TIME.

When I drove home, I waved at every car I passed.

To Blog or Not To Blog

The first post I ever wrote was about a day when I left two of my children unattended in my car on a snow shit day to retrieve my other child and her friend from school and returned to find the car about six feet from where I left it. It had slid down the crappy parking lot hill sideways (where it was parked illegally) with the kids still inside. I wrote a gripey, pissed off email to some friends about it, though I really don't know why because I had never done that before. I was mostly writing letters to the editor and press releases and the occasional ACTUAL PUBLISHED article at the time and truth be told, I really didn't even know what a blog was. The Kid sent me a link to an article about (wha?) mom bloggers, said I should do that too, and because I rarely shy away from a challenge, I did. Cut and pasted. Hit publish. Freaked out.

I told no one. Not. One. Person. After a couple weeks, I finally 'fessed to about a dozen people and I was pretty content to leave it at that. About six months later, I let it slip into some Christmas cards I had written. I was pretty sure no one read any of it anyway (and subsequently, I was kinda hoping someone would), so I figured what the fuck.

Six some odd months later, a handful of pretty awesome broads starting showing up. Then some dudes. All of 'em blogger people like me, all of them funny, and I learned a lot. I learned how a real garden works and how to gracefully handle death, but mostly I found a wide swath of well-written strangers who though not necessarily like-minded were all equally open and seemingly truthful and engaged in trying to make meaning and fun out of what could be considered mundane. The details matter, after all, and lots of these people write about the details with complete, hilarious perfection.

(I read something written by CS Lewis (not in a book, duh, in a catalog, where it was sewn onto a pillow): “friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one" and lately, this has mattered to me more than any pillow ever should.)

I started writing more. It got easier. I used to hear a good sentence and think about that for a week; now, I hear whole paragraphs and write them down in a day. And it's good because that was the point of this whole experiment to begin with. It's also good because I like the tap tap on the keyboard. I always have, even when it was pen on paper, which makes more of scratchy and then slivery noise if you care, but whatever.

Anyhoo, here's the thing: I think I have some local lurkers.

Maybe even PTO parents. Maybe people from soccer. Maybe... well, who knows who they are or how they got here, but I think they are here. And that brings me right back to Post #1: hit publish... freak out.

There are words I rarely say in my everyday life (like "holla" and "yo") and words I say all the time (like "dude" and "fuck") yet I use all of them here without mercy. There are things I write about my kids and The Kid and me that I wouldn't dare bother saying out loud to anyone in actual public, but sometimes I worry that I am repeating some sorry old story to someone who's already read it before. Which has happened. Which is weird.

And truth be told, there are times I literally hold one hand back from the publish button, sit and stew for a while, worrying about eyeballs and whose eyeballs and fuck! I could make myself crazy and truth be told, I'm kind of doing that right now. Which is all kinds of ridiculous and maybe even narcissistic and why should I care anyway because when I go on Oprah with all my bloggy friends after we streak through the next Blogher conference (really: please click on that link, because that's some funny shit by Jen W via CarolynOnline) ... well, what else left is there to hide?

Still, STILL, I gotta grow some balls or something because the local lurkers are kinda worrying me. (This is the part where the local lurkers might get all bummed out -- which is NOT THE POINT -- because we really should be worrying about me right now, shouldn't we? So, anyway...)

**** RELEVANT INTERLUDE****

This very nice woman who Drinks and Cusses (she had me at "drinks" and "cusses") threw a kick ass salutation my way -- because apparently I KICK ASS, (yo) (see sidebar if you want and also your comment box, because that's where I gotta throw down the accolade, once I figure out how to). She also invited me all bloggy style to write about seven things no one knows about me.

I am hoping that this post gives me the pass I need on that one, because right about now, I am thinking I might be kicked out of the Small Town (what with all the drinking and cussing) (and trash talk) (and less than stellar parenting) and anyway she wrote two things that could just about sum up my seven:

"3. On people: I don't understand people who are brag-a-docious. And I don't trust people who don't drink, or don't like me.

5. I had always felt that I could get away with smartass humor like a guy, but at this point in the late spring (or early Fall?) of my life, I've realized that, in fact, I cannot. It pisses me off that they can be taken for themselves and women are judged strictly on appearance and first impressions. That's why i like it HERE."

See? She also wears straw hats. Nice.

**** END RELEVANT INTERLUDE ****

Lest you think I am pondering a path of untruthiness, I am not. It's been raining for pretty much ever in New England and I dare anyone not to get all down and wishy washy during a deluge. Bear with me my introspection, my wistful, my whine.

I once read this (from an actual book; Thoreau, if you must know) and I've had it scrawled inside a lot of notebooks:

"Pursue, keep up with, circle round and round your life, as a dog does his master's chaise. Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still."

Right now, my bone is about two inches down. And I'm not sure I'm giving it the full dig.

In Which I Consider the Olympics

Unlike my temporary desire to be an astronaut, I always wanted to be in the Olympics. I was decent at soccer, until I started smoking and listening to the Dead, and I could ski better than my sisters but nowhere near as well as my cousins. I did however have an ace in the hole: I was born in the Philippines. I figured I could cash in on my (maybe?) dual citizenship and be the first downhill skier from the Island. Kind of like Eddie the Eagle, but I'd be Picket the Pretend Filipino.

Quite obviously, that was yet another obsession that thankfully passed. I do still tune into the Opening Ceremonies, if only to dream for a minute (or ten hours since that's how long the thing seems to last). I was late to watch it tonight: things get busy when four women are trying to feed six children with a charcoal grill. Especially if that meal comes post amusement park (which I mentioned to CarolynOnline is, in fact, neither).

After the natural hysterics and tantrums and tears as one woman (being me) tried to put five children to bed (go ahead: figure the fucked up math on that one) way too late, I finally sat down to marvel at the whole skeptical spectacle of the thing. It comes at a good time really: at last, something else to talk about besides the Drunk People or well, me.

There's an election happening and a war and yet another Democrat lyingcheater (John Edwards) and the weather is all kinds of wack after all, so it's pathetic that I haven't brought any of it up. And the countdown to school (though still a month away) has begun which means the harsh reality of "meetings" has begun too and god knows, I like to get my bitch on about that. I must be in some kind of apathy zone and I hope it has more to do with the beer sun season than anything else. After all, there must be more to write this genius blog about than the blah blah yada yada. I mean, I could have been an astronaut!

But oh! the Olympics! Chinese pollution! The protests! Tibet! The detention of the American journalists! Dara Torres and her sick 40 year old abs! The earthquake! The world's people gathered in peace!

That's some serious blog for thought (or thought for blog?).

But you know what I was thinking as this Parade of Nations paraded through my mother's tv screen?

The premier athletes of the world are some serious good looking people, as in hot, yo, as in yum and helllooo and how you doin' and then I realized, this isn't what I had in mind when I was thinking "inspiration."

Blah blah yada yada.

Girl in the Moon

Nine years and one week ago, I sat in my bedroom -- the only room the Kid would allow an AC; he can be weird that way -- in the heaviest heat of August with an extra 45 pounds of fat baby. I was too tired and too fat pregnant to do much more than tap the remote and stuff cookies in my mouth. I remember catching a glimpse of my pathetic self in the mirror over my dresser and just sighing. What was the point really of not eating another cookie? What was the point of bothering to move at all? I was already about 5 days past the so-called due date (fuck you to all doctors who offer up these flimsy glimmers of hope) and about three weeks past happy.

Some astronaut was making a return flight into orbit; I think it was John Glenn. The news people were getting all excited about it for a couple reasons: August is generally a slow news month and this dude was old. The whole shebang added up to a sweet opportunity for metaphor and poetry and ratings.

So I'm sitting there, barely moving, barely able to move, while the Kid flexed his muscles and admired his skinny self, and I burst into tears. Not like weepy, sob sob tears. Like hysterical, can't catch a breath tears. Wailing. Howling. Bawling.

The Kid started to panic: what's wrong? what's the matter? oh my god what's going on?

I'm alright, I managed to utter in between gasps for air, it's just that I will never, ever be an astronaut. It's over for me now. Over!

LOOK AT ME, I wailed. LOOK! No one wants big fat pregnant astronauts! OH MY GOD! What have I done?? (wail, sob, weep)

The Kid took a deep breath (or at least I am assuming he did, as I was too busy wringing my swollen hands to notice) and said, didya wanna be an astronaut? which was really a stupid question as he knew full well that science mostly meant horoscopes to me and I'm also kind of a fraidy cat.

NOOOOOOO, I howled, maybe not but still! that is so NOT THE POINT. The point is -- (sob sob blow nose) -- I don't know what the fucking point is, but I am never going to space. Ever. Not nooooooowwwwww. (wail, howl, weep, sob)

A week later, I was howling for entirely different reasons, none of them worth mentioning because ewww, gross. And in so many of the weeks and months later, I was crying from the prolonged freak out that included leaving a job and starting a business and nursing a baby and raising a baby and trading in my cool card for a Costco Card. I struggled at least once a day with an extreme lack of confidence I had never in my life felt. With a baby who I was convinced couldn't, wouldn't and probably shouldn't love me.

It wasn't that I was depressed or even ambivalent, but I did have moments of feeling totally unworthy of who she was and what she needed and completely confused about how I was supposed to feel about all of that. I didn't know her and I didn't know me with her, and also, there was fear -- fear of failure, fear of success, fear of perfection, fear of anything less than perfection. I was terrified of fucking us both up.

Sometimes, I want to grab that kid and tell her, I am so so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know that it wasn't me (and I never thought it was you), but I wish I had given us both a break.

Turns out the girl has been blessed with a resilience that has made every one of the injuries done to her by a rookie me by mistake simply roll away with a shrug and hug and wise kind of knowing that I am just doing my best. Turns out she has the kind of resilience to handle the occasional mean girl or the occasional failure with a whatever kind of 'tude that will serve her well. Turns out she was the mother-maker this mutha needed.

I never did become astronaut. Or a rock star or a sports commentator or a foreign correspondent or a sailor of the seven seas. (I actually never really wanted to be that last thing but I just felt like writing it: sailor of the seven seas. OK: I'm over it now.) Truth is I didn't so much give up any of the big dreams I had, I just opted in to another one.

And she turns 9 years old today.


****

Props to Goat and Tater and Baby on Bored who reminded me of this stuff with their own stuff.

Also, I am at my mom's with my family, most of whom consider the internets to be a good place to get directions and not much else. I'm sneaking my screen time like I used to sneak booze out of the garage: I promise I'll make it up to you soon.

NOT How I Do It

I generally fail in the picture taking department. It started when I went to work in Jamaica during the summer of my junior year and forgot my camera. After being devastated for the first few days, I started to completely dig the freedom it gave me: I was actually seeing where I was in 3D rather than through a lens.

When B was born, I went a little shutter psycho resulting in about 4000 lame pictures taken of the same thing. They now sit in a box somewhere which is a good thing because otherwise R and the GFYO would feel seriously shafted: what, they might say, only 250 shots of me eating a lemon?

Sometimes though my camera is at the ready for the really important moments. Like when the GFYO decides to indulge his inner neatnik....








Naked.

Boxed In

Nothing reminds a person more of their identification as a proletariat then when sitting high above the crowds at a Bruce Springsteen concert. The reserved parking is nice and the private bathroom has it benefits, but one cannot completely rawk while perched in a class glass cage. That being said, I took my flip flops off and still got my groove on. I also talked myself into three free cold beers from the nice people in the parking lot because I still got it.

On other hand, when taking Three Short Drunk People to their first Red Sox game, the box seats pretty much rule. The GFYO can roam around at will, the hot dogs are free and plentiful as is the popcorn and cracker jacks (and beer), and the bathroom is lovely and clean and does not include a urinal. Also, when a foul ball pops up into your nifty little piece of Fenway heaven and your 7 year old daughter CATCHES it, you and the Kid get to be the Best Parents Ever.

The perks of the Kid's company are far and few between -- unless you consider ruthlessly long hours and boundless profession-wide job insecurity to be a perk -- but access to the occasional box seat is definitely a bonus. Unless you think you are 24 and a rock and roll goddess and wish to wail on a little air guitar so that Bruce sees you and pulls you up on stage ala Courtney Cox. Then you probably would not so much like the box seats.

Just sayin.'