Vaughn often likes to provide me with bathroom entertainment whenever I venture to answer the call of Mother Nature. He evidently feels it is his sonly duty to keep me company whenever I use the toilet, because God forbid a mother should ever be left alone to "do her thing."
"Watch this."
While I sat on my front-row throne, he proceeded to perform a kind of Kindergartner version of self-mutilation, taking his excessively long fingernail (because I am so pro-hygiene that way. I barely get my own nails clipped, much less his) and scraped his fading tanned skin so that a long white line appeared in the nail's wake.
"_____________ (unintelligible or senile hearing or a combination) the person who sits next to me at school."
"What? The person who sits next to you does that to you at school?!" My mind starts formulating all the horrendous acts that my son is enduring at the Abu Ghraib that is his kindergarten class.
"No. I show that to her, the person who sits next to me."
"You do that for the girl who sits next to you?"
"Yeah. See?" He juts out his fat little arm to show me the white line has disappeared. "Ta-Da!" He beams.
"Wow, lucky girl."
Boys are so weird.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Puppy Potty Train Derailment
Our puppy is potty-train proof. I'm convinced she will never be potty trained in the conventional sense. No, it will be more the 1950s style potty training in which you take them (them in the 1950s referring to an actual child) to go potty on a schedule every 45 minutes or so. We have become confident enough in her bladder muscles that we have started giving her more and more freedom in the house, but it always comes back to the critical issue of her leaving it up to us to tell her when she needs to go outside to do her business. She seems to be completely incapable of alerting us as to when she has the urge.
Take this morning for instance. I'm sitting on the bed, writing on the laptop, when I get a whiff of Odeur de Poop, and I stupidly think, "Huh, that's smells suspiciously like poop, but that's impossible! Oh WAIT..." I had forgotten that Poe had been running loose in the house all morning long. I catch out of the corner of my eye a shadowy figure and look down to see this black menace curled up in the Hunchback of Notre-Dame pooping posture. Immediately, I jump up, flailing appendages frantically, screaming unintelligible monosyllabic sounds, gracefully executing the "No! No! Stop shitting on the carpet!" dance. Of course, soon after this I realize that she chose where I was sitting as the end of her crap journey and that there is a whole trail of treats preceding her. After I get her out the door, I start planning my poop scooping strategies. I can't believe a part of my day is actual spent in planning how I'm going to pick up excrement. This incident requires more creativity than usual because we have run out of paper towels. (We haven't made our Costco pilgrimage this month and, again, too cheap to buy them anywhere else.) After I've spent a little time, appropriately, in the bathroom, devising my battle plan, I make it back to the scene of the crime with Nature's Miracle (nature's miracle indeed) in one hand and napkins and plastic bag in the other. Dave has already beaten me to it. It's interesting to see how our minds work. His weapons of choice are handy wipes and paper plates cut up into makeshift shovels. (Evidently, I was in the bathroom for a while.)
Vaughn has been blissfully unaware of the whole event, in his room (if you must know, watching TV), and trots upstairs after we've finished our cleanup job, the evidence of the whole distasteful experience having been promptly eliminated. Unfortunately, the air in the room has been permeated with the potent Odeau de Poop, what with the whole bottle having been spilled on the floor. Of course, leave it to Vaughn to state the obvious with his power of observation in his ever so delicate manner, "Something smells stinky up here."
It baffles me that Poe is now 8 months old and the ability to notify us to let her go outside to potty still eludes her. The closest she comes to it is doggy charades in which she sits on her haunches and goes through a series of paw signals and earnest eye contact, puppy sign language for "Pardon me, but I do believe I need to use the facilities." Unfortunately, you have to actually be looking at her to grasp this cryptic communication because she would never be so crass as to actually interrupt you with a bark or nip to get your attention. It's the equivalent of a mime trying to alert someone that a bomb is about to go off.
I have also concluded that I not a very good potty trainer. I started before Vaughn was 2, and it wasn't until he was well over 3 that he was potty trained in the conventional sense. (I was biting my nails, fearing that he wasn't going to be trained by preschool. As a matter of fact, I think I was still covertly putting him in Pull-ups for that first year, just as a matter of insurance, of course.) He's still in diapers at bedtime, and frankly, I am retiring from my potty trainer duties, taking the advice of the pediatrician that "It'll happen. Give it time," and if that means eventually switching over to Depends, so be it. After my ordeal with Poe, I am at peace with the fact that it's me, not them. I will never make it to the potty training big leagues, and honestly, I'm okay with that.
Take this morning for instance. I'm sitting on the bed, writing on the laptop, when I get a whiff of Odeur de Poop, and I stupidly think, "Huh, that's smells suspiciously like poop, but that's impossible! Oh WAIT..." I had forgotten that Poe had been running loose in the house all morning long. I catch out of the corner of my eye a shadowy figure and look down to see this black menace curled up in the Hunchback of Notre-Dame pooping posture. Immediately, I jump up, flailing appendages frantically, screaming unintelligible monosyllabic sounds, gracefully executing the "No! No! Stop shitting on the carpet!" dance. Of course, soon after this I realize that she chose where I was sitting as the end of her crap journey and that there is a whole trail of treats preceding her. After I get her out the door, I start planning my poop scooping strategies. I can't believe a part of my day is actual spent in planning how I'm going to pick up excrement. This incident requires more creativity than usual because we have run out of paper towels. (We haven't made our Costco pilgrimage this month and, again, too cheap to buy them anywhere else.) After I've spent a little time, appropriately, in the bathroom, devising my battle plan, I make it back to the scene of the crime with Nature's Miracle (nature's miracle indeed) in one hand and napkins and plastic bag in the other. Dave has already beaten me to it. It's interesting to see how our minds work. His weapons of choice are handy wipes and paper plates cut up into makeshift shovels. (Evidently, I was in the bathroom for a while.)
Vaughn has been blissfully unaware of the whole event, in his room (if you must know, watching TV), and trots upstairs after we've finished our cleanup job, the evidence of the whole distasteful experience having been promptly eliminated. Unfortunately, the air in the room has been permeated with the potent Odeau de Poop, what with the whole bottle having been spilled on the floor. Of course, leave it to Vaughn to state the obvious with his power of observation in his ever so delicate manner, "Something smells stinky up here."
It baffles me that Poe is now 8 months old and the ability to notify us to let her go outside to potty still eludes her. The closest she comes to it is doggy charades in which she sits on her haunches and goes through a series of paw signals and earnest eye contact, puppy sign language for "Pardon me, but I do believe I need to use the facilities." Unfortunately, you have to actually be looking at her to grasp this cryptic communication because she would never be so crass as to actually interrupt you with a bark or nip to get your attention. It's the equivalent of a mime trying to alert someone that a bomb is about to go off.
I have also concluded that I not a very good potty trainer. I started before Vaughn was 2, and it wasn't until he was well over 3 that he was potty trained in the conventional sense. (I was biting my nails, fearing that he wasn't going to be trained by preschool. As a matter of fact, I think I was still covertly putting him in Pull-ups for that first year, just as a matter of insurance, of course.) He's still in diapers at bedtime, and frankly, I am retiring from my potty trainer duties, taking the advice of the pediatrician that "It'll happen. Give it time," and if that means eventually switching over to Depends, so be it. After my ordeal with Poe, I am at peace with the fact that it's me, not them. I will never make it to the potty training big leagues, and honestly, I'm okay with that.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Bob the Brainwasher
Vaughn woke up at an obscenely early hour this morning. (I think it was 8 or something like that, which is obscene considering he didn't actually fall asleep until 10 p.m. or so the night before.) We do try to get him in bed at a reasonable hour most of the time (8 p.m.), but he manages to keep himself distracted and awake until 10 or thereabouts. His techniques range anywhere from repeatedly slamming his head or various other body parts against his bed's headboard and the surrounding walls to enlisting our participation in a sudden epiphany or invention or creation of the moment. His greatest inspirations seem to come after the hours of 9 p.m. Last night he slithered his way up the stairs to the foot of our bed at around 9:30 and covertly handed me a "card" he had just made. I guess all this undercover action was in an effort to keep from alerting Dave to his presence. I'm afraid Dave was already wise to him, though, because Vaughn had to slither his way past the side of the bed where Dave was perched, watching TV, to get to me, and then, ever so sneakily, slither his way back past Dave, back down the stairs to feign sleep in his equally sneaky manner.
Anyway, I put on OPB this morning and let him watch it in our bed so Mommy could get some more "rest." I think I mentioned that my New Year's resolution this year was to be the best mediocre mom, and in working towards that goal I do liberally use the TV as my nanny 24/7. In the background I start to hear the pithy theme song of Bob the Builder.
"What day is today?"
"Wednesday."
"So Bob is on Sundays and Wednesdays." Vaughn says this like he's figured out some complex math problem. Hey, he may not be able to read, but I'll have my own live-in human TV Guide. Unfortunately, it will only have the listings for PBS kids programming, but I can work with that.
Twenty-five minutes later, Bob is wrapping up his program with his usual meaningful life lesson--something about trees and recycling or some other environmental crap. I really liked Bob when he was an actual builder and cut trees down, sawed them up, and used them to expand the growing metropolis of Bobville, but then the Powers That Be decided the show needed a little refreshing. This involved, among other things, a new British character in the form of a quad bike (because a construction site isn't complete without one of those, and if a quad bike could talk, you know it would have a British accent) and a new, more gay, voice for Bob. Bob didn't have the most masculine voice to begin with, but evidently, it was too butch for the new theme of "Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle." Yes that is a very common refrain on new construction sites everywhere as they're bulldozing down acres of old growth, herds of little helpless forest creatures scampering frantically ahead of them, snatching a last desperate glance back at what used to be their home.
Bob now spends more of his time..well...reducing, reusing, and recycling, waiting for old trees to succumb to Mother Nature before building anything, and scrounging around in his neighbor's garbage for other building materials. Because of this new politically correct Bob, I haven't been as keen on Vaughn watching it. Frankly, it gives me the creeps, and this morning's episode did nothing to reassure me.
Bob: That's right, Lofty. Remember what I always say, "Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle." (They repeat this ad nauseam in every episode, just in case the little kiddies don't get it the first time.)
Beside me, I hear a quiet monotone child's voice: "Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce, reuse, recycle..." I turn and Vaughn is staring, unblinking, at the TV monitor, rocking back and forth, repeating this mantra again and again as if his life depended on it. Okay, now that is just creepy.
Don't misunderstand. I don't have a problem with recycling as a concept. We recycle, but not obsessively and more out of practicality than because we actually "love our Mother" (Earth). We get more mileage out of our allowance of 1 garbage can a week if we recycle. If we didn't recycle, we'd have mountains of refuse heaped in our backyard because we're too cheap to pay for the extra garbage can. We finally had some professionals come in to finish our deck. One of the carpenters, evidently environmental inclined, admired the fact that Dave had used a pail handle as part of the deck's cement foundation--part of that whole reuse motto. What he didn't know is that Dave didn't use it to re-use it. He used it because it was within arm's reach at the time and it didn't cost him anything.
No, I don't have a problem with the general concept of reduce, reuse, recycle. I have a problem with burdening 3-, 4- and 5-year-olds with the idea that they need to police the waste disposing activities of their homes. I was raised with the 3 R's, only at the time I just thought I had a cheap dad. I was taught the 3 R's often and regularly. For example, I didn't learn to ride a bike without training wheels until I was 12. I wasn't developmentally delayed or anything. It's just that it wasn't until then that my feet could actually hit the ground while sitting on my bike. You see, I graduated from my tricycle straight to an adult bike, complete with fatherly fashioned training wheels, neither of which hit the ground unless I was dangerously tilted to one side or the other. My dad figured: Why buy her an age appropriate bike when we know she still has a good 10 or so years of growth in her? That's a waste. (Reduce) Why buy and get rid of 2 or more cheap bikes in the next 10 years when we could just buy 1 cheap bike now that she can take with her when she moves out of the house? And furthermore, (my dad's a Planner), why buy training wheels from a thrift shop that she's eventually not going to need when we have perfectly good metal laying around and a welder that is just itching to be used? I'm sure the wheels came from my trike (Reuse), and he probably melted my trike down for the metal (Recycle).
Ah, sweet, sweet memories. Aw, I love you, Dad. *muh*
Anyway, I put on OPB this morning and let him watch it in our bed so Mommy could get some more "rest." I think I mentioned that my New Year's resolution this year was to be the best mediocre mom, and in working towards that goal I do liberally use the TV as my nanny 24/7. In the background I start to hear the pithy theme song of Bob the Builder.
"What day is today?"
"Wednesday."
"So Bob is on Sundays and Wednesdays." Vaughn says this like he's figured out some complex math problem. Hey, he may not be able to read, but I'll have my own live-in human TV Guide. Unfortunately, it will only have the listings for PBS kids programming, but I can work with that.
Twenty-five minutes later, Bob is wrapping up his program with his usual meaningful life lesson--something about trees and recycling or some other environmental crap. I really liked Bob when he was an actual builder and cut trees down, sawed them up, and used them to expand the growing metropolis of Bobville, but then the Powers That Be decided the show needed a little refreshing. This involved, among other things, a new British character in the form of a quad bike (because a construction site isn't complete without one of those, and if a quad bike could talk, you know it would have a British accent) and a new, more gay, voice for Bob. Bob didn't have the most masculine voice to begin with, but evidently, it was too butch for the new theme of "Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle." Yes that is a very common refrain on new construction sites everywhere as they're bulldozing down acres of old growth, herds of little helpless forest creatures scampering frantically ahead of them, snatching a last desperate glance back at what used to be their home.
Bob now spends more of his time..well...reducing, reusing, and recycling, waiting for old trees to succumb to Mother Nature before building anything, and scrounging around in his neighbor's garbage for other building materials. Because of this new politically correct Bob, I haven't been as keen on Vaughn watching it. Frankly, it gives me the creeps, and this morning's episode did nothing to reassure me.
Bob: That's right, Lofty. Remember what I always say, "Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle." (They repeat this ad nauseam in every episode, just in case the little kiddies don't get it the first time.)
Beside me, I hear a quiet monotone child's voice: "Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce, reuse, recycle..." I turn and Vaughn is staring, unblinking, at the TV monitor, rocking back and forth, repeating this mantra again and again as if his life depended on it. Okay, now that is just creepy.
Don't misunderstand. I don't have a problem with recycling as a concept. We recycle, but not obsessively and more out of practicality than because we actually "love our Mother" (Earth). We get more mileage out of our allowance of 1 garbage can a week if we recycle. If we didn't recycle, we'd have mountains of refuse heaped in our backyard because we're too cheap to pay for the extra garbage can. We finally had some professionals come in to finish our deck. One of the carpenters, evidently environmental inclined, admired the fact that Dave had used a pail handle as part of the deck's cement foundation--part of that whole reuse motto. What he didn't know is that Dave didn't use it to re-use it. He used it because it was within arm's reach at the time and it didn't cost him anything.
No, I don't have a problem with the general concept of reduce, reuse, recycle. I have a problem with burdening 3-, 4- and 5-year-olds with the idea that they need to police the waste disposing activities of their homes. I was raised with the 3 R's, only at the time I just thought I had a cheap dad. I was taught the 3 R's often and regularly. For example, I didn't learn to ride a bike without training wheels until I was 12. I wasn't developmentally delayed or anything. It's just that it wasn't until then that my feet could actually hit the ground while sitting on my bike. You see, I graduated from my tricycle straight to an adult bike, complete with fatherly fashioned training wheels, neither of which hit the ground unless I was dangerously tilted to one side or the other. My dad figured: Why buy her an age appropriate bike when we know she still has a good 10 or so years of growth in her? That's a waste. (Reduce) Why buy and get rid of 2 or more cheap bikes in the next 10 years when we could just buy 1 cheap bike now that she can take with her when she moves out of the house? And furthermore, (my dad's a Planner), why buy training wheels from a thrift shop that she's eventually not going to need when we have perfectly good metal laying around and a welder that is just itching to be used? I'm sure the wheels came from my trike (Reuse), and he probably melted my trike down for the metal (Recycle).
Ah, sweet, sweet memories. Aw, I love you, Dad. *muh*
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Toilette Etiquette
These are my 5-year-old son's rules of conduct for the disposal of human waste:
1. If you pee, there is no need to flush.
2. If you poop, theoretically, you should flush, if you remember (and in his case, he rarely does because the majority of the time he is peeing and, therefore, not getting into the habit of flushing).
First thing this morning we had an argument about flushing the toilet after he peed.
"You know, Vaughn, you should flush the toilet every time you go to the bathroom, even when you pee."
Vaughn crosses his arms and settles into a defiant stance, stocky little legs hip width apart, brow furrowed, bottom lip Angie Jolie'esqe.
"Vaughn, go flush the toilet."
"No."
"Go flush the toilet."
"No."
"GO FLUSH THE TOILET!"
"No."
Good Lord, I can't believe he's choosing this to rebel against.
"Do you need a time out?"
"No."
"Then go flush the toilet."
"Hrmph!" Off he goes to do the evidently distasteful deed of flushing his pee.
Is this some kind of Freudian thing, some marking of territory or something? As I recall my nephews were the same way. In their whole childhood years, I don't recall ever seeing a "fresh bowl" when they visited us, the concept of clear toilet water evidently being abhorrent to them.
To his credit, though, I have managed, for the most part, to train Vaughn to put the seat down, so at least then when I go to the bathroom I don't fall butt first into the disintegrating, unusually large turd floating in the toilet bowl that he forgot to flush, not to mention the leftover pee he, by principle, didn't flush. His future wife can thank me later.
1. If you pee, there is no need to flush.
2. If you poop, theoretically, you should flush, if you remember (and in his case, he rarely does because the majority of the time he is peeing and, therefore, not getting into the habit of flushing).
First thing this morning we had an argument about flushing the toilet after he peed.
"You know, Vaughn, you should flush the toilet every time you go to the bathroom, even when you pee."
Vaughn crosses his arms and settles into a defiant stance, stocky little legs hip width apart, brow furrowed, bottom lip Angie Jolie'esqe.
"Vaughn, go flush the toilet."
"No."
"Go flush the toilet."
"No."
"GO FLUSH THE TOILET!"
"No."
Good Lord, I can't believe he's choosing this to rebel against.
"Do you need a time out?"
"No."
"Then go flush the toilet."
"Hrmph!" Off he goes to do the evidently distasteful deed of flushing his pee.
Is this some kind of Freudian thing, some marking of territory or something? As I recall my nephews were the same way. In their whole childhood years, I don't recall ever seeing a "fresh bowl" when they visited us, the concept of clear toilet water evidently being abhorrent to them.
To his credit, though, I have managed, for the most part, to train Vaughn to put the seat down, so at least then when I go to the bathroom I don't fall butt first into the disintegrating, unusually large turd floating in the toilet bowl that he forgot to flush, not to mention the leftover pee he, by principle, didn't flush. His future wife can thank me later.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Want to Drink Something Weird?
(click on link for recipe. Trust me. It is really good.)
Despite my aversion to the Californian mascot, I, like a good mother, smashed avocados up with bananas and stuffed this into my unsuspecting 6-month-old's mouth. According to my make-your-own-baby-food-for-absolutely-no-logical-reason-because-regardless-of-what-you-feed-them-at-1-when-your-child-turns-3-they-will-only-want-to-eat-hotdogs-and-gummybears book, avocadoes are an excellent source of all kinds of vitamins and healthy fats--"something that is essential to your child's growth now because once they get a taste of cupcakes at preschool, they will preternaturally detect and refuse to eat anything with a trace of nutrients forever after." Once my brother David saw me smashing up this concoction of avocado and banana and shared his disgust at what an unnatural combination this was.
"You're going to give him that?!"
"Hey, he doesn't know any different; he's a baby! He'll eat anything. He has nothing to compare it to." Oh to live those days again. I, of course, never did taste test this seemingly mutant mix because--I hate anything green, especially avocados...and peas...and limabeans...and asparagus...and uncooked tomatoes (even though they're not green), black-eyed peas (largely because it contains the word peas. I have a particular psychological aversion to peas), etc.
Anyway, much to my delight, the last time we were at the store, Vaughn suggested we buy some avocados. Since he's been anti-anything-healthy for the last 2 years or so, I had not been buying avocados. I know that's not an excuse, but...I can't come up with anything better. In my persistent goal to better myself and heal some of the psychological scars of my childhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to try making an avocado shake and trying it. It could be one less green thing that I didn't hate. Well, one more vegetable/fruit that carries a caveat: Must be eaten in the form of a shake. I still hate guacamole.
I started searching the Internet for the perfect avocado shake recipe and found a Brazilian version and an Indonesian version. Indonesia gets points for having chocolate milk in it, so "Alpokat" it is.
Vaughn was very excited about the whole idea and couldn't wait for the final product. This I did taste test, and I admit, it was amazingly scrumptious. I proudly presented my creation to Vaughn, who looked at it suspciously, took a sniff, and declared, "Ewwwwwww."
What?
"What do you mean 'ewwww?' You haven't even taken a taste."
(in whinese) "It has chocolate."
"Yes, so...? That makes it that much better. You like chocolate and you like avocados. It's a win-win!"
"I don't like it."
"You haven't even tasted it! Take a taste. It's reeallyyyy goooood. If you don't drink it, I will. Taste it!"
Takes the minutest of sips. "Ewwwww. I don't like it." Then cheerily, "You can have it!"
Now I am morally outraged. "You said you liked avocado shakes!"
"It didn't have chocolate in it." Evidently, there are some things that my son thinks don't go good with chocolate. I, however, am not of the same opinion. I think I might even eat peas if they were chocolate coated. (Make note: Search Internet for chocolate coated peas.)
"So, did it have like apples and bananas in it?" (the Brazilian version)
"Uh-huh. I want that shake. Make that shake." Yeah, in your dreams, Buddy. In...your...dreams.
I'm making the Brazilian avocado shake tomorrow.
Our friend The Analyst likes to constantly challenge his palate with unusual tastes and textures. So it was that Vaughn was introduced to the avocado shake. Dave, Vaughn, and The Analyst went out to eat and ordered this drink, which, surprisingly, Vaughn evidently asked to sample, and even more surprising, actually liked. As disgusting as this drink sounded, Dave said it didn't taste anything like avocado.
I am not fond of avocados, staying true to my dad's assertion that I hate anything green, a little factoid he insisted on sharing, to my utter mortification, every time we were guests at someone's house. Of course, he waited until we were sitting at the table with a dish load of peas in front of us before he delicately (and, in his mind, humorously) informed our hosts of this. Nothing like a good guffaw at the expense of your children.
I am not fond of avocados, staying true to my dad's assertion that I hate anything green, a little factoid he insisted on sharing, to my utter mortification, every time we were guests at someone's house. Of course, he waited until we were sitting at the table with a dish load of peas in front of us before he delicately (and, in his mind, humorously) informed our hosts of this. Nothing like a good guffaw at the expense of your children.
Despite my aversion to the Californian mascot, I, like a good mother, smashed avocados up with bananas and stuffed this into my unsuspecting 6-month-old's mouth. According to my make-your-own-baby-food-for-absolutely-no-logical-reason-because-regardless-of-what-you-feed-them-at-1-when-your-child-turns-3-they-will-only-want-to-eat-hotdogs-and-gummybears book, avocadoes are an excellent source of all kinds of vitamins and healthy fats--"something that is essential to your child's growth now because once they get a taste of cupcakes at preschool, they will preternaturally detect and refuse to eat anything with a trace of nutrients forever after." Once my brother David saw me smashing up this concoction of avocado and banana and shared his disgust at what an unnatural combination this was.
"You're going to give him that?!"
"Hey, he doesn't know any different; he's a baby! He'll eat anything. He has nothing to compare it to." Oh to live those days again. I, of course, never did taste test this seemingly mutant mix because--I hate anything green, especially avocados...and peas...and limabeans...and asparagus...and uncooked tomatoes (even though they're not green), black-eyed peas (largely because it contains the word peas. I have a particular psychological aversion to peas), etc.
Anyway, much to my delight, the last time we were at the store, Vaughn suggested we buy some avocados. Since he's been anti-anything-healthy for the last 2 years or so, I had not been buying avocados. I know that's not an excuse, but...I can't come up with anything better. In my persistent goal to better myself and heal some of the psychological scars of my childhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to try making an avocado shake and trying it. It could be one less green thing that I didn't hate. Well, one more vegetable/fruit that carries a caveat: Must be eaten in the form of a shake. I still hate guacamole.
I started searching the Internet for the perfect avocado shake recipe and found a Brazilian version and an Indonesian version. Indonesia gets points for having chocolate milk in it, so "Alpokat" it is.
Vaughn was very excited about the whole idea and couldn't wait for the final product. This I did taste test, and I admit, it was amazingly scrumptious. I proudly presented my creation to Vaughn, who looked at it suspciously, took a sniff, and declared, "Ewwwwwww."
What?
"What do you mean 'ewwww?' You haven't even taken a taste."
(in whinese) "It has chocolate."
"Yes, so...? That makes it that much better. You like chocolate and you like avocados. It's a win-win!"
"I don't like it."
"You haven't even tasted it! Take a taste. It's reeallyyyy goooood. If you don't drink it, I will. Taste it!"
Takes the minutest of sips. "Ewwwww. I don't like it." Then cheerily, "You can have it!"
Now I am morally outraged. "You said you liked avocado shakes!"
"It didn't have chocolate in it." Evidently, there are some things that my son thinks don't go good with chocolate. I, however, am not of the same opinion. I think I might even eat peas if they were chocolate coated. (Make note: Search Internet for chocolate coated peas.)
"So, did it have like apples and bananas in it?" (the Brazilian version)
"Uh-huh. I want that shake. Make that shake." Yeah, in your dreams, Buddy. In...your...dreams.
I'm making the Brazilian avocado shake tomorrow.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Scarily Annoying
Vaughn is currently on this kick of "scaring" people. This generally involves jumping out of some undisclosed spot and screaming "Boo!" every 5 minutes or so. He then proceeds to interrogate his latest victim--"Did I scare ya?"
Now this is a tricky question. If I say, "No," which is generally the case--the heavy breathing and precipitant giggling are usually a dead give away, that and the fact that he's usually in plain sight--then I know he will be that much more determined to increase his efforts, which means this same scenario repeats itself over and over again every 3 minutes.
However, if I say, "Yes," he then becomes suspicious and questions my sincerity. (Evidently, he is not fully confident in his frightening abilities.) "Are you lying?" Suffice it to say, I now have the veracity of a crack whore when it comes to this subject--"Noooo. You really scared me." This at least carries with it the possibility that the next attempt will not be for another 5 minutes or so. Of course, often I am not convincing enough in my performance, at which point he screams, "You're lying!!!" and promptly starts searching for the site of his next attack.
Now this is a tricky question. If I say, "No," which is generally the case--the heavy breathing and precipitant giggling are usually a dead give away, that and the fact that he's usually in plain sight--then I know he will be that much more determined to increase his efforts, which means this same scenario repeats itself over and over again every 3 minutes.
However, if I say, "Yes," he then becomes suspicious and questions my sincerity. (Evidently, he is not fully confident in his frightening abilities.) "Are you lying?" Suffice it to say, I now have the veracity of a crack whore when it comes to this subject--"Noooo. You really scared me." This at least carries with it the possibility that the next attempt will not be for another 5 minutes or so. Of course, often I am not convincing enough in my performance, at which point he screams, "You're lying!!!" and promptly starts searching for the site of his next attack.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
For the Love of Dickens
I so long for a good book to read I could scream. I cannot believe the dearth of readable modern material. To be perfectly honest, though, I am judging this based on a narrow criteria: I must be able to get it from the library--now. I guess that's probably not a good guide as to the availability of fine literature. If I can get it from the library immediately, I suppose that by itself should indicate something, but I'm too cheap to go out and buy a recomended book, and based on my present experience, perhaps rightly so.
My latest fatality is "Jinx." Sounded promising for a summertime read. I finally manage to squirrel away some Vaughn-free time and hunker down to what I believe is going to be some good reading (which is mystifying given in the last 2 weeks I have returned 10 books, applying my 50-page rule, not finishing one. What can I say? I am an optomist. Despite what Dave says, damnit, I do have hope for the future, just not confidence in or great love of humanity.)
The first page is something like a very short poem, one of those poems that doesn't rhyme but is a stream of conciousness, or unconciousness, depending on how you look at it. I figure this is the prologue. However, the prologue then leads into 10 more "prologue poems," each from a different character's perspective, characters that I'm having a hard time keeping track of because they're only referred to in their poems. Now, I know I have short-term memory problems, but this is reaching "50-First-Dates" proportions when on page 6 (the average page being largely empty except for a 10-line widely margined paragraph) I'm already turning back to previous pages to try and figure out who Grace and Connie are. I have gotten far enough in the book, though, to be introduced to the obligatory gay character, who is Grace, Connie, Jen, or Serena--I can't remember which.
Gays are guessed to make up anywhere from 1-10% of society's population, yet this number is inversed in the literary world, with gays making up 99.9% of literary fictional society. Is there some kind of fictional quota that I'm unaware of? Is this something taught in Writing 101? You can't even win a "Children's Book Award" without having at least one major character who is gay. It's a wonder Harry Potter books are so successful. As far as I'm aware, no major character is gay. Maybe that's in the last book--Hermione ends up coming out of the closet. She is a witch, after all. I think you have to be a card-carrying Wiccan to be considered a lesbian, so she's just one step away. Wait...I bet it's Neville!!!
"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" is another book I'm too cheap to buy, even though after reading book 6 I was fantasizing flying to England and personally camping out on JK Rowling's lawn so I could rummage through her garbage, desparately seeking book 7's rough draft castoffs for my next fix.
Back to "Jinx," after reading the first 10 pages or so and feeling thoroughly disoriented, I decided to read the jacket synopsis to help ground me. I don't generally read book jackets because I like to be suprised or at least have a vague ignorance of the ending until I finish reading the book. Having read "Jinx's" book cover, I discover that "Jinx" is a "verse" novel for teens. Now, I get how a verse novel could be extremely popular with the "Y" generation, what with them having been weaned on MTV and videogames, possessing the attention span of a gnat, and the fact that 3/4 of them are virtually illiterate. Assuming they will actually sit down to read a book, once having done so, you have exactly 2.5 seconds to reach them before some sparkling object catches their attention.
But really, come on, "verse" novel??? Admittedly, I'm not an English grad, but isn't "verse" novel just a sophisticated way of saying the writer was just too darn lazy to actually outline a plot and develop characters, much less write a full page of dialogue? (Page 42 has exactly 11 words on it.) I want to sign with this publisher. Maybe I could write a "symbol" or emoticon novel. Each page would have one symbol. Something like this:
Page 1: :-)
Page 2: ;-D
Page 3: :'-(
Page 4: >:-[
Page 5: ?:o)
Page 6: <:-O
Notice the subtleties in character, the intense emotion. Why, I'm half done!
Oh, but you ask, aren't you afraid that you've just offended any potential Gen Y reader with your insensitive observations of their innate generational idiosyncrasies? Nah, they wandered off to text someone in the first paragraph.
My latest fatality is "Jinx." Sounded promising for a summertime read. I finally manage to squirrel away some Vaughn-free time and hunker down to what I believe is going to be some good reading (which is mystifying given in the last 2 weeks I have returned 10 books, applying my 50-page rule, not finishing one. What can I say? I am an optomist. Despite what Dave says, damnit, I do have hope for the future, just not confidence in or great love of humanity.)
The first page is something like a very short poem, one of those poems that doesn't rhyme but is a stream of conciousness, or unconciousness, depending on how you look at it. I figure this is the prologue. However, the prologue then leads into 10 more "prologue poems," each from a different character's perspective, characters that I'm having a hard time keeping track of because they're only referred to in their poems. Now, I know I have short-term memory problems, but this is reaching "50-First-Dates" proportions when on page 6 (the average page being largely empty except for a 10-line widely margined paragraph) I'm already turning back to previous pages to try and figure out who Grace and Connie are. I have gotten far enough in the book, though, to be introduced to the obligatory gay character, who is Grace, Connie, Jen, or Serena--I can't remember which.
Gays are guessed to make up anywhere from 1-10% of society's population, yet this number is inversed in the literary world, with gays making up 99.9% of literary fictional society. Is there some kind of fictional quota that I'm unaware of? Is this something taught in Writing 101? You can't even win a "Children's Book Award" without having at least one major character who is gay. It's a wonder Harry Potter books are so successful. As far as I'm aware, no major character is gay. Maybe that's in the last book--Hermione ends up coming out of the closet. She is a witch, after all. I think you have to be a card-carrying Wiccan to be considered a lesbian, so she's just one step away. Wait...I bet it's Neville!!!
"Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" is another book I'm too cheap to buy, even though after reading book 6 I was fantasizing flying to England and personally camping out on JK Rowling's lawn so I could rummage through her garbage, desparately seeking book 7's rough draft castoffs for my next fix.
Back to "Jinx," after reading the first 10 pages or so and feeling thoroughly disoriented, I decided to read the jacket synopsis to help ground me. I don't generally read book jackets because I like to be suprised or at least have a vague ignorance of the ending until I finish reading the book. Having read "Jinx's" book cover, I discover that "Jinx" is a "verse" novel for teens. Now, I get how a verse novel could be extremely popular with the "Y" generation, what with them having been weaned on MTV and videogames, possessing the attention span of a gnat, and the fact that 3/4 of them are virtually illiterate. Assuming they will actually sit down to read a book, once having done so, you have exactly 2.5 seconds to reach them before some sparkling object catches their attention.
But really, come on, "verse" novel??? Admittedly, I'm not an English grad, but isn't "verse" novel just a sophisticated way of saying the writer was just too darn lazy to actually outline a plot and develop characters, much less write a full page of dialogue? (Page 42 has exactly 11 words on it.) I want to sign with this publisher. Maybe I could write a "symbol" or emoticon novel. Each page would have one symbol. Something like this:
Page 1: :-)
Page 2: ;-D
Page 3: :'-(
Page 4: >:-[
Page 5: ?:o)
Page 6: <:-O
Notice the subtleties in character, the intense emotion. Why, I'm half done!
Oh, but you ask, aren't you afraid that you've just offended any potential Gen Y reader with your insensitive observations of their innate generational idiosyncrasies? Nah, they wandered off to text someone in the first paragraph.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Delimma Resolved
My in-laws have convinced me to sanitize my blog and delete any entries that might be offensive to certain relatives that might chance to stumble across it, or more likely someone that knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who might chance to alert a certain relative to the blog and the offensive material. I guess that answers the question as to how personal my public blog is going to be. Now what do I write about?
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Conversations with a 5-year-old Fatalist
"Mommy, I have a scar."
"A scar from when you got in your accident and lost a tooth?"
"No. (whispering conspiratorially) I have a mental scar."
"Oh, from your accident?"
"No. From being put in time-out at school."
"From Ms. Eileen?"
"No. This is from kindergarten."
"But you haven't been in kindergarten."
"But I'm going to be."
My son the optimist.
"A scar from when you got in your accident and lost a tooth?"
"No. (whispering conspiratorially) I have a mental scar."
"Oh, from your accident?"
"No. From being put in time-out at school."
"From Ms. Eileen?"
"No. This is from kindergarten."
"But you haven't been in kindergarten."
"But I'm going to be."
My son the optimist.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Man's Best Friend. Woman's Worst Enemy.
I lazily decided to leave the dog out of her crate last night. I had personally witnessed a huge poop session out in the yard an hour or so before going to bed; so, I thought, how much poop can one puppy make? She's been doing good about not messing in her room. I'm safe. Big mistake. Huge mistake. MONUMENTAL mistake, and let me emphasize the MENTAL part because that's what I must have been when I made that decision. In hindsight, of course, I was being truly stupid because I had forgotten about her escapade earlier in the day.
I had let her out to, yes, go poop, and left her loose. (Hey, I'm PMSing. It must be the stupid hormone raging through my system right now, whichever one that might be.) I was keeping a relatively close eye on her. One second in the yard, next second not. I started yelling for her. (Here's where those obedience lessons pay off.) Repeatedly. Finally, she comes with one of those maniacal I-just-found-something-awesome! dog looks on her face, with a string of saliva encircling her snout. I bring her in the house to praise her profusely for coming on the 20th call, and I get this whiff that only one word can perfectly describe. Putrid. I declare she needs to be bathed immediately, which, of course, even though I'm working (you know the you're-working-but-you're-not-really-working-because-you-work-from-home! clause) this task falls to me. Never mind she has just left a cloud of putridness in her wake in the kitchen and it is following her "Pigpen"-like everywhere she goes in the house. No, I'm the one that ultimately wanted the dog, so all these lovely dog tasks fall to me. Dave is the first, of course, to pronounce her a "GREAT DOG," though, when I start fantasizing about a dog-free home. He irritatingly does the same about our child. Whatever.
Now, to be fair, Dave was willing to bathe her. However, first he was going to lock her up in her room with all her bedding and toys for an indeterminate amount of time to "season," evidently, in true procrastinator fashion. (Okay, he was tired from getting home from work at midnight, but still...)
So with the knowledge that our sweet, sweet puppy ate an indeterminate amount of an "unaccustomed diet," I'm thinking after a 10-minute long poop session in the yard that she's pooped out for the night and safe to uncrate??? Yeah. Damn hormones.
Fast forward to this morning, getting ready to microwave my coffee at 7. The microwave is in "her" room. This itself speaks volumes about us as people--that we live in a house with 3 bedrooms, one of which is the dog's.
Now, when I walk into the room, even before I turn on the lights, it's the smell that hits me first; however, I still put my coffee in the microwave and start it. Hey, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm going to need the coffee. I flip on the lights, and there IT is in all its glory, with the perpetrator guiltily looking out from her crate. Oh, now you're in your crate.
Oh the horror! The humanity! The shit on my slippers. Excrement everywhere. It looked like a monkeys' cage. It's like during the night she sat there thinking (and I hear this with an English accent for some reason), "Hmmm. What special surprise can I cook up for Mummy tonight? What lovely display could I put on for her to wake up to? I'm thinking a lovely poop pastoral. A symphony of shit, only for the eyes and nose! A fecal Fantasia! Let's see, I'll use my tail for a brush and start poop painting!"
Now, I know from all the puppy books I've read that dogs never really do these things on purpose. That I'm sure she felt just as bad about it as I did. Yeah. Right. I think I saw a smirk on her little fluffy face as my body was convulsing, gagging back vomit. Let's see how Animal World/National Geographic/Jane Goodall you're feeling when YOU wake up to that. I'm sure if the gorillas had left a little surprise poop party in Jane's tent, she wouldn't have been feeling too generous with the bananas.
I should have taken Vaughn up on trading the dog in for a hermit crab. *sigh* Hey, maybe he's still interested!
I had let her out to, yes, go poop, and left her loose. (Hey, I'm PMSing. It must be the stupid hormone raging through my system right now, whichever one that might be.) I was keeping a relatively close eye on her. One second in the yard, next second not. I started yelling for her. (Here's where those obedience lessons pay off.) Repeatedly. Finally, she comes with one of those maniacal I-just-found-something-awesome! dog looks on her face, with a string of saliva encircling her snout. I bring her in the house to praise her profusely for coming on the 20th call, and I get this whiff that only one word can perfectly describe. Putrid. I declare she needs to be bathed immediately, which, of course, even though I'm working (you know the you're-working-but-you're-not-really-working-because-you-work-from-home! clause) this task falls to me. Never mind she has just left a cloud of putridness in her wake in the kitchen and it is following her "Pigpen"-like everywhere she goes in the house. No, I'm the one that ultimately wanted the dog, so all these lovely dog tasks fall to me. Dave is the first, of course, to pronounce her a "GREAT DOG," though, when I start fantasizing about a dog-free home. He irritatingly does the same about our child. Whatever.
Now, to be fair, Dave was willing to bathe her. However, first he was going to lock her up in her room with all her bedding and toys for an indeterminate amount of time to "season," evidently, in true procrastinator fashion. (Okay, he was tired from getting home from work at midnight, but still...)
So with the knowledge that our sweet, sweet puppy ate an indeterminate amount of an "unaccustomed diet," I'm thinking after a 10-minute long poop session in the yard that she's pooped out for the night and safe to uncrate??? Yeah. Damn hormones.
Fast forward to this morning, getting ready to microwave my coffee at 7. The microwave is in "her" room. This itself speaks volumes about us as people--that we live in a house with 3 bedrooms, one of which is the dog's.
Now, when I walk into the room, even before I turn on the lights, it's the smell that hits me first; however, I still put my coffee in the microwave and start it. Hey, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm going to need the coffee. I flip on the lights, and there IT is in all its glory, with the perpetrator guiltily looking out from her crate. Oh, now you're in your crate.
Oh the horror! The humanity! The shit on my slippers. Excrement everywhere. It looked like a monkeys' cage. It's like during the night she sat there thinking (and I hear this with an English accent for some reason), "Hmmm. What special surprise can I cook up for Mummy tonight? What lovely display could I put on for her to wake up to? I'm thinking a lovely poop pastoral. A symphony of shit, only for the eyes and nose! A fecal Fantasia! Let's see, I'll use my tail for a brush and start poop painting!"
Now, I know from all the puppy books I've read that dogs never really do these things on purpose. That I'm sure she felt just as bad about it as I did. Yeah. Right. I think I saw a smirk on her little fluffy face as my body was convulsing, gagging back vomit. Let's see how Animal World/National Geographic/Jane Goodall you're feeling when YOU wake up to that. I'm sure if the gorillas had left a little surprise poop party in Jane's tent, she wouldn't have been feeling too generous with the bananas.
I should have taken Vaughn up on trading the dog in for a hermit crab. *sigh* Hey, maybe he's still interested!
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wine Appreciation 101 for 5 year olds
Vaughn is now in his second session of Tae Kwon Do, begrudgingly, with the carrot of Legos being dangled in front of him once again to entice him to behave himself and grin and bear it. These classes are costing me on average about $60 for 6 classes, figuring in the cost of Legos. Oh, but one day he'll say, "Mom, Dad, now that I'm Tae Kwon Do World Champion, I am so grateful to you for insisting that I stick with it, even though I hated every minute of it. I love you." Yeah, well, something like that. We finally forced him to wear the uniform. He looks wicked cute in it, but as he puts it "It embarrasses me." It isn't quite up to his fussy fashion standards. "It looks stupid." Yes, unlike the Spiderman goggle/mask and flipper hands you wear around the playground when you're not even swimming. Tres chic.
Anyway, this time he's the experienced one in the class for once, with the rest being filled with newbies. Evidently, there are 5 others besides him, 4 of those lemonade aficionados and 1 alky. Allow me to elucidate: The teacher demonstrates the knife cut (I believe it is officially called???), and while the hand is in the extended position, one should be able to place a cup on the palm and then, of course, drink from it. Ummm. Teacher has lemonade in his cup. Vaughn, what do you have? "Ooo, I have lemonade, too," and so follow the rest of the class, until we come to our resident preschool alcoholic in pajamas coming late to class (evidently hungover) yelling enthusiastically, "I have wine!"
I guess he'll hit the hard stuff in kindergarten.
Anyway, this time he's the experienced one in the class for once, with the rest being filled with newbies. Evidently, there are 5 others besides him, 4 of those lemonade aficionados and 1 alky. Allow me to elucidate: The teacher demonstrates the knife cut (I believe it is officially called???), and while the hand is in the extended position, one should be able to place a cup on the palm and then, of course, drink from it. Ummm. Teacher has lemonade in his cup. Vaughn, what do you have? "Ooo, I have lemonade, too," and so follow the rest of the class, until we come to our resident preschool alcoholic in pajamas coming late to class (evidently hungover) yelling enthusiastically, "I have wine!"
I guess he'll hit the hard stuff in kindergarten.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
My Crab "Dog"
"Mommy, I've decided what pet we're going to trade for a hermit crab."
"Oh?" This is news to me. Since when did he want a hermit crab?
"Yeah. Rainbow."
Okay. I'll play. Now, in my mommy wisdom I think if he wants to trade a pet, we're going to trade one that actually doesn't run the other direction when it sees him. That'll make him face reality.
"No, if we're going to get rid of a pet, it's going to be the dog."
"Pogisa? Okay."
Darn. Foiled again. Let's keep trying.
"I'll put an add on Craig's list right now. I'm sure there's another little boy who'd just love to have Pogisa."
"Okay! I can't wait to get a hermit crab!"
And the rest of the morning continues with him saying goodbye to the dog. Okay. You want to play that way. I'm going to teach this little ingrate a lesson--Mommystyle. I clandestinely call my cell phone with our home phone.
"Hello? Yes. Yes. She's about 7-8 months old. A really good dog. Uh-huh. Part Lab, part Whippet, part Shitzu. Black. Yes. She's been fixed and has all her shots. Today? Sure. I have to drop my son off at a class, but when I get back, you can pick her up around 1:45. Oh your little boy is going to love her. Really? Oh, his friends are going to be envious! Yep. We have a dog crate, bowls, leashes, the works! Thanks a lot. See you soon. Bye." Give that girl a Grammy!
"Mommy, who was that?"
"Oh, that was someone who's going to come get the dog."
"Today?"
Snap. Oh yeah.
"Yes. Today. When you come home, (dramatic pause) she'll be gone." Okay, ready the violins.
"They have a little boy?"
"Yes, and he's very excited to have a dog. He can't wait to get her."
"Is he coming?"
"Oh yes." Here it comes. Wait for it. Wait for it...
Dripping with disappointment "Ooooooo, why don't I get to see him? Why can't I be here to see the little boy." *in full whine mode*
What?!
"Because that's what works for them. THE DOG WILL BE GONE WHEN YOU GET HOME."
Whimpering, "Well, make sure you show him my room. Okay? And tell him my name."
"Yeah. Whatever." Okay. Did not see that coming. Obviously, I'm going to have to take this further. In the meantime...
"I'm going to miss you, girl, but we're getting a hermit crab! I can't wait to get a hermit crab. Mommy, can I get one or more? I'll keep it in a plastic bag at night in my bed, so it can sleep with me."
A la trouts. Now, I'm starting to get annoyed.
"Vaughn, you can't keep a hermit crab in a plastic bag in your bed."
"Why not?"
"Because it will suffocate and die. You can't sleep with hermit crabs. You can't pet hermit crabs, either."
"You can too! You can hold them and pet them."
"That's not petting. That's...touching. It's different." Blood pressure rising. "They're not a pet!"
"Well, I'd better play with you, girl, because after my class I won't be able to. Awww, girl. We're going to get a hermit crab! I can't wait. Mommy, when can be go to get the crab? After class?"
And so it continues. Meanwhile my blood is reaching the boiling point thinking how cavalierly my son is ready to trade in an animal we've had for all of 5 months, spent hundreds of dollars on, tons of time, and cleaned up millions of messes, all for a damn crustacean. I wrack my brain on ways I could arrange for the dog to temporarily disappear so the reality hits him when he comes back from his class, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pay more money on doggy daycare so Vaughn can learn a valuable lesson, and it's for this simple reason: I know in my heart that the only reaction I'd get after going through all my machinations is the minute Vaughn sees the dog gone the first words out of his mouth are going to be:
"Can we go get the hermit crab now?"
One point Vaughn. Zero for Mommy. I don't understand it. It always worked for the Bradys.
"Oh?" This is news to me. Since when did he want a hermit crab?
"Yeah. Rainbow."
Okay. I'll play. Now, in my mommy wisdom I think if he wants to trade a pet, we're going to trade one that actually doesn't run the other direction when it sees him. That'll make him face reality.
"No, if we're going to get rid of a pet, it's going to be the dog."
"Pogisa? Okay."
Darn. Foiled again. Let's keep trying.
"I'll put an add on Craig's list right now. I'm sure there's another little boy who'd just love to have Pogisa."
"Okay! I can't wait to get a hermit crab!"
And the rest of the morning continues with him saying goodbye to the dog. Okay. You want to play that way. I'm going to teach this little ingrate a lesson--Mommystyle. I clandestinely call my cell phone with our home phone.
"Hello? Yes. Yes. She's about 7-8 months old. A really good dog. Uh-huh. Part Lab, part Whippet, part Shitzu. Black. Yes. She's been fixed and has all her shots. Today? Sure. I have to drop my son off at a class, but when I get back, you can pick her up around 1:45. Oh your little boy is going to love her. Really? Oh, his friends are going to be envious! Yep. We have a dog crate, bowls, leashes, the works! Thanks a lot. See you soon. Bye." Give that girl a Grammy!
"Mommy, who was that?"
"Oh, that was someone who's going to come get the dog."
"Today?"
Snap. Oh yeah.
"Yes. Today. When you come home, (dramatic pause) she'll be gone." Okay, ready the violins.
"They have a little boy?"
"Yes, and he's very excited to have a dog. He can't wait to get her."
"Is he coming?"
"Oh yes." Here it comes. Wait for it. Wait for it...
Dripping with disappointment "Ooooooo, why don't I get to see him? Why can't I be here to see the little boy." *in full whine mode*
What?!
"Because that's what works for them. THE DOG WILL BE GONE WHEN YOU GET HOME."
Whimpering, "Well, make sure you show him my room. Okay? And tell him my name."
"Yeah. Whatever." Okay. Did not see that coming. Obviously, I'm going to have to take this further. In the meantime...
"I'm going to miss you, girl, but we're getting a hermit crab! I can't wait to get a hermit crab. Mommy, can I get one or more? I'll keep it in a plastic bag at night in my bed, so it can sleep with me."
A la trouts. Now, I'm starting to get annoyed.
"Vaughn, you can't keep a hermit crab in a plastic bag in your bed."
"Why not?"
"Because it will suffocate and die. You can't sleep with hermit crabs. You can't pet hermit crabs, either."
"You can too! You can hold them and pet them."
"That's not petting. That's...touching. It's different." Blood pressure rising. "They're not a pet!"
"Well, I'd better play with you, girl, because after my class I won't be able to. Awww, girl. We're going to get a hermit crab! I can't wait. Mommy, when can be go to get the crab? After class?"
And so it continues. Meanwhile my blood is reaching the boiling point thinking how cavalierly my son is ready to trade in an animal we've had for all of 5 months, spent hundreds of dollars on, tons of time, and cleaned up millions of messes, all for a damn crustacean. I wrack my brain on ways I could arrange for the dog to temporarily disappear so the reality hits him when he comes back from his class, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pay more money on doggy daycare so Vaughn can learn a valuable lesson, and it's for this simple reason: I know in my heart that the only reaction I'd get after going through all my machinations is the minute Vaughn sees the dog gone the first words out of his mouth are going to be:
"Can we go get the hermit crab now?"
One point Vaughn. Zero for Mommy. I don't understand it. It always worked for the Bradys.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Fine Finned Friends
For Father's Day, Dave planned with his brother to take Vaughn fishing for the first time.
Now, it was some frustrated fisherman's bright inspiration to create these things called trout farms where little impatient kiddies could get their first taste of "real" fishing. The fish are practically jumping out of the water and landing in the boat, they are so easy to catch.
I remember the days when I'd go with my brothers, riding for hours in the backseat of a Bug on long windy roads, only to spend more hours "enjoying nature," waiting for the minutest of tugs on the line and then (only after it was pitch black. My brother is truly an optimist) to go home empty handed, with the exception of the multitude of mosquito bites as mementos of my Grand Fishing Adventure. *sigh* Those were the days.
Anyway, Vaughn was all excited about bringing the little trophies home to live because, you see, he was going to bring them back alive! None of this distasteful violent business of bashing in little fishie heads. No. He generously was volunteering to bring home these little orphan trouts to live in our 10-gallon fish tank, company for the goldfish. Thankfully, it is against state law to leave the fish farm with live catch (thank you State of Oregon!), but the fish farm does the distasteful business of executing the little buggers for you. They were also willing to clean, gut and behead them (Yes! Yes! So Mommies everywhere don't have to do this. Bless you.), but Dave decided it was a good compromise to leave the tail and head on for a more realistic effect. Since Vaughn couldn't bring them home alive, at least they'd look alive, except for the unblinking eyes that constantly stare at you accusingly--"Murderer!"
So it was that a very proud Vaughn came home after 15 minutes (okay that's an exaggeration, but not much) of fishing with 5 little trout in a gallon size Ziplock bag. Oh, they looked tasty. Little did I know that the trout saga had only begun. While I was planning recipes for these fresh juicy farmed fish, Vaughn was going to get his entertainment's worth out of these little guys. Fishing was only the beginning. We managed to initially wrest them out of his grubby little hands and deposit them in the freezer for frying the next day. However, not 20 minutes later, Vaughn is swinging them around, fish faces pressed tightly against the plastic, eyes bulging, telling me goodbye as he heads out to eat with Daddy and other assorted Hogues.
"Daddy said I can take them with me to the restaurant to show everybody!"
Say what?
"He did, did he?" Okay, this is the digital age. We could take a picture. This parenting thing would be so much easier if there were just one of us, and I'm volunteering to concede my role.
My mind is conjuring up images of half-frozen fish, basting in the warm sun in the van for untold hours while little microscopic anaerobes are multiplying at the rate of a hundred horny rabbits. So much for the fish feast.
"Okay. Whatever."
The next day...
"Where are my fish? I want to say good morning to them."
"They're in the freezer, but... Oh, forget it." Dave had still been holding out hope that the fish were still edible, so they had returned to their rightful place in the freezer. When it comes to food, that man is willing to literally risk his life.
Vaughn takes out what is now a great big fish ice cube. Oh, that's a problem.
"I want to hold one." Again?
"Well, they would have to be thawed out first."
"How do you do that?"
"You leave them out of the freezer and wait." I say this with clenched fists, eyes squeezed tight, teeth grinding, hoping against hope that this isn't that important and he'll decide to go torture the dog instead.
"Okay!" he chirps, and away he goes, spending the rest of the morning gallivanting around the house with the poor beleaguered fishcicle, happily showing it to the goldfish, the cats, the dog, waving his new found finned friends tauntingly in front of the animals' hungry eyes. Later adventures planned for the scaly chums were a "swim" in his kiddie pool (to speed the thawing process), followed by a good mud mask and consequent washing off in the bathroom sink. Vaughn was busying himself with all this fish recreation while I was outside, distracted with planting. I didn't fully realize what he was up to until I saw him happily trotting in and out of the house, conspicuously with fish in hand.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm washing the fish off. They're dirty. See? Look! They came apart."
It is at this point I realize he has successfully thawed the fish, and I seriously contemplate whether or not I should divulge this information to Dave before refreezing them. After all, he started this ride.
"You took those fish inside?"
"Yeah." Now, at this point the fish are starting to smell, well, fishy--that overpowering odor you get when passing the "iced" seafood section of your local discount grocery store.
I run in to see a lone trout laying, soaking on the bathroom sink counter. You can virtually see those little squiggly lines in cartoons wafting up from its bloated little body.
"Okay. No more fish in the house! They stay out here. FOREVER!"
Based on the look on Vaughn's face that followed, you would think I had just told him I don't love him, I've never loved him, and I'm dropping him off at the nearest foster home.
"But...*gulp*...how...*hiccup*...will...*tears*..they...*more tears*...get...*snort*...clean?" Now we're in full-on-heart-wrenching bawling mode. "They need to be clean!"
Now, I'm not sure when my son developed this obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness, but this is the first time it's manifested itself, believe me.
In the end, the fish were cleaned, with the hose--outside. They then found their final resting place in the freezer, where they are to this day until enough time has passed that I can safely dispose of them without the topic rearing its stinky little fish head.
Now, it was some frustrated fisherman's bright inspiration to create these things called trout farms where little impatient kiddies could get their first taste of "real" fishing. The fish are practically jumping out of the water and landing in the boat, they are so easy to catch.
I remember the days when I'd go with my brothers, riding for hours in the backseat of a Bug on long windy roads, only to spend more hours "enjoying nature," waiting for the minutest of tugs on the line and then (only after it was pitch black. My brother is truly an optimist) to go home empty handed, with the exception of the multitude of mosquito bites as mementos of my Grand Fishing Adventure. *sigh* Those were the days.
Anyway, Vaughn was all excited about bringing the little trophies home to live because, you see, he was going to bring them back alive! None of this distasteful violent business of bashing in little fishie heads. No. He generously was volunteering to bring home these little orphan trouts to live in our 10-gallon fish tank, company for the goldfish. Thankfully, it is against state law to leave the fish farm with live catch (thank you State of Oregon!), but the fish farm does the distasteful business of executing the little buggers for you. They were also willing to clean, gut and behead them (Yes! Yes! So Mommies everywhere don't have to do this. Bless you.), but Dave decided it was a good compromise to leave the tail and head on for a more realistic effect. Since Vaughn couldn't bring them home alive, at least they'd look alive, except for the unblinking eyes that constantly stare at you accusingly--"Murderer!"
So it was that a very proud Vaughn came home after 15 minutes (okay that's an exaggeration, but not much) of fishing with 5 little trout in a gallon size Ziplock bag. Oh, they looked tasty. Little did I know that the trout saga had only begun. While I was planning recipes for these fresh juicy farmed fish, Vaughn was going to get his entertainment's worth out of these little guys. Fishing was only the beginning. We managed to initially wrest them out of his grubby little hands and deposit them in the freezer for frying the next day. However, not 20 minutes later, Vaughn is swinging them around, fish faces pressed tightly against the plastic, eyes bulging, telling me goodbye as he heads out to eat with Daddy and other assorted Hogues.
"Daddy said I can take them with me to the restaurant to show everybody!"
Say what?
"He did, did he?" Okay, this is the digital age. We could take a picture. This parenting thing would be so much easier if there were just one of us, and I'm volunteering to concede my role.
My mind is conjuring up images of half-frozen fish, basting in the warm sun in the van for untold hours while little microscopic anaerobes are multiplying at the rate of a hundred horny rabbits. So much for the fish feast.
"Okay. Whatever."
The next day...
"Where are my fish? I want to say good morning to them."
"They're in the freezer, but... Oh, forget it." Dave had still been holding out hope that the fish were still edible, so they had returned to their rightful place in the freezer. When it comes to food, that man is willing to literally risk his life.
Vaughn takes out what is now a great big fish ice cube. Oh, that's a problem.
"I want to hold one." Again?
"Well, they would have to be thawed out first."
"How do you do that?"
"You leave them out of the freezer and wait." I say this with clenched fists, eyes squeezed tight, teeth grinding, hoping against hope that this isn't that important and he'll decide to go torture the dog instead.
"Okay!" he chirps, and away he goes, spending the rest of the morning gallivanting around the house with the poor beleaguered fishcicle, happily showing it to the goldfish, the cats, the dog, waving his new found finned friends tauntingly in front of the animals' hungry eyes. Later adventures planned for the scaly chums were a "swim" in his kiddie pool (to speed the thawing process), followed by a good mud mask and consequent washing off in the bathroom sink. Vaughn was busying himself with all this fish recreation while I was outside, distracted with planting. I didn't fully realize what he was up to until I saw him happily trotting in and out of the house, conspicuously with fish in hand.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm washing the fish off. They're dirty. See? Look! They came apart."
It is at this point I realize he has successfully thawed the fish, and I seriously contemplate whether or not I should divulge this information to Dave before refreezing them. After all, he started this ride.
"You took those fish inside?"
"Yeah." Now, at this point the fish are starting to smell, well, fishy--that overpowering odor you get when passing the "iced" seafood section of your local discount grocery store.
I run in to see a lone trout laying, soaking on the bathroom sink counter. You can virtually see those little squiggly lines in cartoons wafting up from its bloated little body.
"Okay. No more fish in the house! They stay out here. FOREVER!"
Based on the look on Vaughn's face that followed, you would think I had just told him I don't love him, I've never loved him, and I'm dropping him off at the nearest foster home.
"But...*gulp*...how...*hiccup*...will...*tears*..they...*more tears*...get...*snort*...clean?" Now we're in full-on-heart-wrenching bawling mode. "They need to be clean!"
Now, I'm not sure when my son developed this obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness, but this is the first time it's manifested itself, believe me.
In the end, the fish were cleaned, with the hose--outside. They then found their final resting place in the freezer, where they are to this day until enough time has passed that I can safely dispose of them without the topic rearing its stinky little fish head.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Mommy Dearest Disorder (MDD)
I think I've figured out what Angelina Jolie does with this adoption thing. Most people go to a country and they want to bring a souvenir back to their homeland to remember their lovely trip and to also have something cultural in their home that signifies that they are world travelers, wandering the globe, picking up knickknacks here and there. Only with Angie, this little cultural souvenir happens to be human, a sort of baby bauble to bring home to Papa.
"Surprise! Look what I brought back from Taiwan as a memento from the movie I filmed there. You're a grandpa! Again."
I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't have a serious problem emerging here, besides the anorexia. (Speaking of that, Barbara Walters interviewed Paris in jail. Her quote from Paris was she was not screaming and crying, but she wasn't eating or sleeping, so pretty close to the way she was living her life before she went in, sans the booze. Oooooo. Might we be able to see her coccyx through the front of her dress now?. Well, at least something good will have come out of her ordeal.)
Back to skeletal Angie, she's looking remarkably articulated and energetic for a lab specimen, and in great spirits. Must be the speed she is on that helps her feel no need to eat and yet gives her tons of endless energy for her compulsive shopping for orphans. In normal charitable circles that means going out and buying shoes, coats, and other essentials the foster homes run low on. Nope, none of that prosaic shopping for Angie. That's way too vulgar for the socially aware Jolie. She lines the little kiddies up like Julie Andrews in Sound of Music. "Now, let's see we have a white one here, 2 yellow ones here, and 1 black one here. No, no. This is ALL wrong. Something is missing. It seems off balance somehow. You. Yes, you, Tax? No, oh right, Pax, move over here next to the incredibly gorgeous white baby girl. Yes. That's it. HHmmmmmm. I think I have it...We need another white baby. I'll bring one back with me after my trip from doing that movie in the Czech Republic."
I definitely think she suffers from an new emerging disorder in Hollywood that they will have a special place for in rehab in about 10 years. They'll call it the Joan Crawford Ward, a.k.a., Mommy Dearest Wing.
I noticed in the bradgeline latest outing promoting a movie Angie has starred in about Daniel Pearl (that should be interesting) that Angie was a shining, smiling bag of skin held together with very taut, sinuous muscles while Brad looked distracted to say the least. I'd seen this in other photos and put it off as just wanting some private time, but this was an official publicity promotion of her new movie that she starred in and he produced, one would think there would be a little more enthusiasm displayed.
"So, Brad, does Angie have anything special planned for you on Father's Day?"
Disgruntled and distracted Brad, "What?"
"Are you going to be doing anything special on Father's Day?"
A bleary-eyed, hassled, and disheveled Brad looks at the TV camera while nervously rubbing the back of his neck and says, "Nope. Just gettin' up with my kids. That's enough." Indeed. Evidently, he's had a lot of practice over the last few months while Angie was filming the movie. This was largely part of his "producer" duties. "He's a good boss...uh, and a GREAT dad!"
Ah, the joys of being a father. Hey Brad, can you ever have enough kids? Angie doesn't think so!
One last complaint about Hollywood mothers in general. This is how high they have now raised the bar for woman and gone into a territory they never should have entered. We hausfraus should have had this territory locked up:
First, it wasn't enough to not gain any more than 40 pounds with your pregnancy, then you had to wear sprayed on clothing to emphasize that it's ALL BABY! I was okay with that. I gained a reasonable amount during my pregnancy, unfortunately the majority of it all Ben&Jerry's and donuts. But no. That wasn't enough. Then we were required to come sprinting out of the delivery room 2 minutes after having plopped out our bundle of joy wearing the size 2 we wore before we even dreamed of getting pregnant. Now you have to wear sprayed on clothing that shows right up until you delivery that sweet little baby bump and nothing else. Your thighs and arms are still the size of sticks. Your butt still has it's lovely lifted rounded pertness, but your boobs have gained 2-3 cups and they're deliciously plump. Evidently all the fat in the body has miraculous self-contained itself to your boobs. When it's all over and your posing for your celebrity photos with baby, you have the luscious-still-breastfeeding boobs, but they look like they've been pasted on the body of some donated university cadaver.
Note: I understand Angie has been grieving her mother's death and that "I just finished breastfeeding and am having trouble getting my nutrition back on track." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't your nutrition have been on track while you were breastfeeding? And, I don't know about you, but while I was breastfeeding I was eating for two. That's where my troubles began. I had a voracious appetite and no matter what I did, couldn't seem to lose that lovely extra fat insurance that your body stores for the baby in just about every other area but your breasts.
Here's a tip Ang, eat lots of Ben and Jerry's and you should have no trouble getting your figure back. Carrots and celery just doesn't pack on the pounds like you'd think.
"Surprise! Look what I brought back from Taiwan as a memento from the movie I filmed there. You're a grandpa! Again."
I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't have a serious problem emerging here, besides the anorexia. (Speaking of that, Barbara Walters interviewed Paris in jail. Her quote from Paris was she was not screaming and crying, but she wasn't eating or sleeping, so pretty close to the way she was living her life before she went in, sans the booze. Oooooo. Might we be able to see her coccyx through the front of her dress now?. Well, at least something good will have come out of her ordeal.)
Back to skeletal Angie, she's looking remarkably articulated and energetic for a lab specimen, and in great spirits. Must be the speed she is on that helps her feel no need to eat and yet gives her tons of endless energy for her compulsive shopping for orphans. In normal charitable circles that means going out and buying shoes, coats, and other essentials the foster homes run low on. Nope, none of that prosaic shopping for Angie. That's way too vulgar for the socially aware Jolie. She lines the little kiddies up like Julie Andrews in Sound of Music. "Now, let's see we have a white one here, 2 yellow ones here, and 1 black one here. No, no. This is ALL wrong. Something is missing. It seems off balance somehow. You. Yes, you, Tax? No, oh right, Pax, move over here next to the incredibly gorgeous white baby girl. Yes. That's it. HHmmmmmm. I think I have it...We need another white baby. I'll bring one back with me after my trip from doing that movie in the Czech Republic."
I definitely think she suffers from an new emerging disorder in Hollywood that they will have a special place for in rehab in about 10 years. They'll call it the Joan Crawford Ward, a.k.a., Mommy Dearest Wing.
I noticed in the bradgeline latest outing promoting a movie Angie has starred in about Daniel Pearl (that should be interesting) that Angie was a shining, smiling bag of skin held together with very taut, sinuous muscles while Brad looked distracted to say the least. I'd seen this in other photos and put it off as just wanting some private time, but this was an official publicity promotion of her new movie that she starred in and he produced, one would think there would be a little more enthusiasm displayed.
"So, Brad, does Angie have anything special planned for you on Father's Day?"
Disgruntled and distracted Brad, "What?"
"Are you going to be doing anything special on Father's Day?"
A bleary-eyed, hassled, and disheveled Brad looks at the TV camera while nervously rubbing the back of his neck and says, "Nope. Just gettin' up with my kids. That's enough." Indeed. Evidently, he's had a lot of practice over the last few months while Angie was filming the movie. This was largely part of his "producer" duties. "He's a good boss...uh, and a GREAT dad!"
Ah, the joys of being a father. Hey Brad, can you ever have enough kids? Angie doesn't think so!
One last complaint about Hollywood mothers in general. This is how high they have now raised the bar for woman and gone into a territory they never should have entered. We hausfraus should have had this territory locked up:
First, it wasn't enough to not gain any more than 40 pounds with your pregnancy, then you had to wear sprayed on clothing to emphasize that it's ALL BABY! I was okay with that. I gained a reasonable amount during my pregnancy, unfortunately the majority of it all Ben&Jerry's and donuts. But no. That wasn't enough. Then we were required to come sprinting out of the delivery room 2 minutes after having plopped out our bundle of joy wearing the size 2 we wore before we even dreamed of getting pregnant. Now you have to wear sprayed on clothing that shows right up until you delivery that sweet little baby bump and nothing else. Your thighs and arms are still the size of sticks. Your butt still has it's lovely lifted rounded pertness, but your boobs have gained 2-3 cups and they're deliciously plump. Evidently all the fat in the body has miraculous self-contained itself to your boobs. When it's all over and your posing for your celebrity photos with baby, you have the luscious-still-breastfeeding boobs, but they look like they've been pasted on the body of some donated university cadaver.
Note: I understand Angie has been grieving her mother's death and that "I just finished breastfeeding and am having trouble getting my nutrition back on track." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't your nutrition have been on track while you were breastfeeding? And, I don't know about you, but while I was breastfeeding I was eating for two. That's where my troubles began. I had a voracious appetite and no matter what I did, couldn't seem to lose that lovely extra fat insurance that your body stores for the baby in just about every other area but your breasts.
Here's a tip Ang, eat lots of Ben and Jerry's and you should have no trouble getting your figure back. Carrots and celery just doesn't pack on the pounds like you'd think.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The 80s Are Back!!!
My 15?-year-old niece at her high school "retro" 80s party. Oh my God. I cannot believe I have reached an age when my teen years are "coming back." Depressing. The only thing more depressing is the fashion from that era coming back and the idea that it's worth reviving.
I'm not sure what is more pathetic--that I dressed that hideously when I was 15 or now in my 30s I am once again buying leggings and flashdance tops, but I'll be damned if you'll see me with a sideways ponytail. However, in the off chance you do, just slap my head and call me silly.
Friday, June 08, 2007
PERSONAL
Okay, I just did something really stupid. I was so pleased with my previous post that I brilliantly thought I would share it with family and friends. So what did I do? I cut and paste it into an e-mail and sent it out in a group mailing. Cut and paste. Yep. The old C&P.
The beloved cut and paste, by friend, has betrayed me. As I'm passing this information along to Dave and forcing him to read a print out of my group e-mail, including to my parents, he says,
"You put this on your blog?"
"Yeah, but nobody reads my blog and I needed a bigger platform for my brilliant and scathing exposition (today's word of the day) on the latest Paris Hilton update, so I decided the best way to share it was to e-mail it."
"You didn't want to just send them a link to your blog?"
"Noooo. I don't want any of my family and friends reading my blog, especially if I'm going to get personal." (Duh.)
"Well, you know it's bound to reach them sometime."
"Ha! Possible but not probable." (I'm incredibly eloquent today. It's that time of the month.)
It suddenly dawns on me that the title in the body of the e-mail I sent out (Rich Bitch Syndrome) is the damn hyperlink to my blog, not just pretty green font. Great. Unfortunately, there is no way to correct this predicament without freezing my blog so essentially no one can read it but me, and as much as I enjoy onanism (yeah, that's right, you lazy butt. Yesterday's word of the day. Look it up, and I'm referring to the first definition, not the second. God, no, not the second. I mean, what would be the fun in that? Anyway, I digress...) it's much more fun with spectators and preferably strangers *heh, heh, heh* (yeah creepy, I know, and yet I still write it knowing my mom quite possibly could be reading this. Ugh! What's wrong with me?!)
Anyway, to any family or friends that may have meandered their way over here through the hyperlink in the e-mail:
STOP. STOP NOW! FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP. There is nothing to see here. Nothing interesting at all. Just close the window, delete this link, and pretend you never saw it. Back away slowly from the computer and just walk away, NOW. If you love me, if you truly, truly love me, you WILL do this.
The beloved cut and paste, by friend, has betrayed me. As I'm passing this information along to Dave and forcing him to read a print out of my group e-mail, including to my parents, he says,
"You put this on your blog?"
"Yeah, but nobody reads my blog and I needed a bigger platform for my brilliant and scathing exposition (today's word of the day) on the latest Paris Hilton update, so I decided the best way to share it was to e-mail it."
"You didn't want to just send them a link to your blog?"
"Noooo. I don't want any of my family and friends reading my blog, especially if I'm going to get personal." (Duh.)
"Well, you know it's bound to reach them sometime."
"Ha! Possible but not probable." (I'm incredibly eloquent today. It's that time of the month.)
It suddenly dawns on me that the title in the body of the e-mail I sent out (Rich Bitch Syndrome) is the damn hyperlink to my blog, not just pretty green font. Great. Unfortunately, there is no way to correct this predicament without freezing my blog so essentially no one can read it but me, and as much as I enjoy onanism (yeah, that's right, you lazy butt. Yesterday's word of the day. Look it up, and I'm referring to the first definition, not the second. God, no, not the second. I mean, what would be the fun in that? Anyway, I digress...) it's much more fun with spectators and preferably strangers *heh, heh, heh* (yeah creepy, I know, and yet I still write it knowing my mom quite possibly could be reading this. Ugh! What's wrong with me?!)
Anyway, to any family or friends that may have meandered their way over here through the hyperlink in the e-mail:
STOP. STOP NOW! FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP. There is nothing to see here. Nothing interesting at all. Just close the window, delete this link, and pretend you never saw it. Back away slowly from the computer and just walk away, NOW. If you love me, if you truly, truly love me, you WILL do this.
Rich Bitch Syndrome
A few things:
First: Poverty does not cause people to commit acts of crime. Lack of values does.
Second: Entitlement is not just for the underprivileged.
Paris Hilton Is Ordered Back to Jail
By MARIA NEWMAN
Published: June 8, 2007
A judge today ordered a tearful (oh boo-hoo! I feel for ya, Par, I really, really do.) Paris Hilton back to jail, reversing a decision by the Los Angeles County sheriff to release her and keep her under house arrest after she had served only five days of a 45-day sentence.
By MARIA NEWMAN
Published: June 8, 2007
A judge today ordered a tearful (oh boo-hoo! I feel for ya, Par, I really, really do.) Paris Hilton back to jail, reversing a decision by the Los Angeles County sheriff to release her and keep her under house arrest after she had served only five days of a 45-day sentence.
Okay, first of all, by what authority does the Los Angeles sheriff override a prosecutor and a judge's sentencing? I read an article earlier today when Paris was first released quoting some yahoo in the Los Angeles "judicial system" stating that cutting sentences short like this and releasing people early was not unique to Paris. Because of overcrowding, the county jail released people all the time.
Really?! Because if that's so, why not bypass the court system all together. Let's just take a page from the mental health/medical system. Here's the scenario:
Cops intervene in a rape/robbery/assault/what have you. They call the admitting desk at the local county jail and ask if there are any current spaces open. The admitting desk clerk states that currently there is a 30-day-plus wait. The cops page a triage legal assistant from the DA's office. (There would be several of these available on an on-call basis.) Several hours later, the triage legal assistant arrives and interviews the perps (yeah, I'm down like that with legal lingo). They take into consideration the following in their evaluation:
1. How serious were the perps in executing their plan and did they succeed?
2. Were there any obvious victims, i.e., someone dead or seriously maimed?
3. Was it planned in advance?
4. Were they under the influence of an unnatural substance, something beyond Red Bull.
5. Do they have a record? (or maybe that isn't really relevant)
6. Are they poor/rich/celebrity/fat/minority/etc. (This would count in the perps favor.)
7. Was their mother/father/brother/aunt/uncle/sibling/priest/rabbi/pastor mean to them or molest them in any way, shape or form? In Paris's case, this could include her parents denying her a convertible until the age of 12.
8. Are they really sorry, or at least say they are, and/or do they accept the Lord Jesus/Allah/Krishna/Joseph Smith/or some facsimile of a religion (Al Gorism counts)?
After having input this information into a handy-dandy computerized sentence evaluator on their Blackberry, an estimated sentence is calculated by the software. If the sentence is estimated to be twice the amount of the wait time, then the cops can then proceed to the nearest county jail and then they can go through the traditional judicial system.
Unless, of course, you're a celebrity, in which case all of the above is moot.
Superior Court Judge Michael T. Sauer said that Ms. Hilton will have to serve the entire sentence he had handed down last month for repeatedly violating the terms of her probation on alcohol-related reckless driving charges stemming from an incident last year. (What a novel idea. Serving your entire sentence! Wow. What will they think of next?)
The hearing had been delayed for more than an hour after Ms. Hilton and her lawyers insisted that she be allowed to talk to the judge by telephone, instead of appearing in person. (Indeed? Why bother making a trip to the court, when I'm only going to end up back here at home, right? Waste of gas. I'm environmentally conscious that way. I just hope I can be an inspiration for young people everywhere.) The judge would not allow it, and ordered a sheriff’s deputy to drive to Ms. Hilton’s mansion in the Hollywood Hills, where she was handcuffed and brought in. (Oh, to be the proverbial fly...)
As Ms. Hilton was driven back to court, her trip followed by news helicopters, she cried in the back seat of the police cruiser. When she entered the courtroom, where her parents were also waiting, she broke down and sobbed. (Again, boohoo. Wow, contrast this with her press announcement after the award show. What happened to the brave face, Par? Hmmmmm?? No deal waiting in the wings? )
Sheriff Lee Baca set off a furor in legal circles and beyond when his office announced on Thursday that Ms. Hilton would be allowed out of jail and instead put under house arrest because of an unspecified “medical condition.” (I have inside information that she has a serious case of Rich Bitch Syndrome "RBS". Highly contagious among millionairesses--more serious the bigger the bank account. Can be terminal when net worth reaches the billions. There is currently no known cure. Once infected, there is no antidote. Unfortunately for Paris, her case was genetic. She can't help it. She was born into it. It could have been prevented if her parents had taken the appropriate measures soon enough, but as in most genetic cases, it is often too late once it is diagnosed. Her case was further complicated by inexplicable celebrity. Tsk, tsk.)
The city attorney whose office prosecuted her case, Rocky Delgadillo, said it was a case of preferential treatment for a celebrity. (Ya think?) He asked the judge to order Ms. Hilton back to jail and asked the sheriff’s department to show why it should not be held in contempt of court for letting her go in the first place. (Well, that ought to be good. Do you think a precipitous 6-digit rise in the sheriff's bank account is sufficient reason? And, no, there is no decimal, only comma. Beautiful, beautiful comma. It's like winning the jail lottery!)
“We cannot tolerate a two-tiered jail system where the rich and powerful receive special treatment,” Mr. Delgadillo said after learning of the release. (Here, here. Bully, bully. *clearing of throat*)
Officials had said Ms. Hilton, a hotel heiress and cable television star, (about time you should have to pay to see "Simple Life." Hey, Paris, look up! You could do a sequel sans Nicole. "Simple Prison Life." See--you can do this! After all, prison is just "a simple life," right? Just pretend there are cameras, muck it up, and play dumb or be dumb or whatever that dumb thing is that you do) would probably spend only about 23 days behind bars because of automatic credits for good behavior (Ah yes, the well known good-behavior-automatic credits, riiiigghhtttt), but prosecutors had not expected her to serve only five days. (Huh. Fancy that.)
Najee Ali, a community activist in South Los Angeles who heads Project Islamic Hope, said he was disappointed in the sheriff’s decision. (Disappointed? I'm disappointed when my dog barfs on my shoes. This? This was not disappointment.)
“It’s shocking that we’re living in a star struck judicial system,” he said. “Sheriff Baca caved in to the star power, the celebrity and wealth of the Hilton family. What happened is unprecedented. (OJ Simpson anyone?)
“There are hundreds and perhaps thousands of inmates in Los Angeles County jails who have much more serious illnesses like AIDs, heart problems and they have never been released to go home.” (Oh, you silly, innocent immigrant. You don't understand. Nothing is as serious as RBS--Nothing.)
The county supervisor, Don Knabe, told The Associated Press: “What transpired here is outrageous.” He said he received more than 400 angry e-mails and hundreds more phone calls from around the country. Ms. Hilton’s return home gives the impression of “celebrity justice being handed out,” he said. (I just don't see how you can make that conclusion based on the facts.)
City attorney spokesman Nick Velasquez said earlier Thursday that the office had been “inundated with calls and emails from people,” with “100 percent of them” angry (What? 100 percent? Not 99.9 or 99.98 or 99.999?) about Hilton’s release.
Mr. Delgadillo said that no one had shown that Ms. Hilton suffered from any malady that could not be treated while she was serving her sentence. “Los Angeles County Jail medical facilities are well-equipped to deal with medical situations involving inmates,” he added. (You don't understand!!!! This is RBS we're talking about. You don't have the capacity to treat this kind of malady! You just don't!!!! You just don't! You...just.. don't... *sob*)
Meanwhile, sheriff’s department spokesman Steve Whitmore told KNBC-TV that the contempt accusation “appears to be another Rocky Delgadillo press stunt.” (Yea. Obviously. What a bozo suggestion you should be held in contempt. Please.)
“We’ve examined documents (passport) and will respond accordingly in court,” he said. (Yeah, court--as in the court-yard of my hotel in a beautiful tropical area with a fun name like...Tahiti!)
But even within the sheriff’s department, others disagreed. (*sigh* Some people will just not listen to reason.) Steve Remige, president of the Association of Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriffs, told KNBC that the system definitely worked in Ms. Hilton’s favor. (Wow. It's just amazing how they always manage to come up with the obvious.)
“It appears that in Los Angeles County, if you are a wealthy individual or famous individual, that you are getting preferential treatment in the county jail system, in the county criminal system,” Remige said. (Yes. It appears. We've never seen anything quite like this before in Los Angeles. It is truly an anomaly.)
The news about Ms. Hilton dominated news coverage today. At CNN, the news was breaking during the cable news network’s daily CNN International news hour. The Paris story led the show after one commercial break, coming even before updates on the G8 Summit and Italy’s Rendition Trial.
“It’s the kind of day where we’ll always have Paris,” Stephen Frazier, one of the anchors, said, trying for a wry delivery.
I don't generally make a habit of commenting on or paying (much) attention to celebrities and their naughty escapades, but this just goes beyond your common celebrity gossip. There are just so many things wrong with this story I can't begin to comment. Suffice it to say, I am disgusted with our justice system in general and this was just one more straw.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Inspiration
I started getting that weird inner restless feeling lately and realized it's been quite some time since I've read something other than a how-to or self-improvement book. So I just got from the libary what is turning out to be a lovely book. I don't know if it'll end up on my recommended list, but it is witty enough that I find it inspiring and a good chuckle. "We're Just Like You--Only Prettier." Written from a "Southern Belle's" perspective, they're little essays of just observing the eccentrities of Southern life and life in general. It's only made me laugh out loud once, but I'm only on the third essay.
I do have one little criticism, though, and it isn't unique to this book but an observation of my own. Why must Democrats/Liberals/Leftists always end up in one way or another bashing those they don't agree with? I'm getting to the point of feeling that if it's a left-leaning person writing a food review, I expect them to somehow politisize it and use it as an opportunity to slam a Republican/Christian/Bush. "The beet tartar was divine, and I devoured it as if it were a Bush-loving Christian Republican slathered in honey, bound and dropped on a fire ant hill, savoring each writhing and shrieking bite until the end." You get the general idea. I have always found it fascinating that my liberal leaning friends can send e-mails and make comments that are basically insulting my intelligence and questioning my moral integrity, yet they still want to hang out with me. I'm a dumb slimy snake but make good company, evidently.
I, on the other hand, am acutely aware of who my liberal friends are and purposely stay away from any topic remotely close to politics, although that's a real challenge because it seems that everything is somehow connected to politics, even tampons.
"Are those fair trade tampons?"
"Um, I'm not sure, let me pull it out and check, k?"
I'm also amused by the fact that these incredibly judgmental people are so "tolerant." That's quite a balancing act. Bush is the Devil and should die a slow painful death, but Sadam had a bad childhood, and we must understand where he's coming from and what made him do what he did, cause we know down deep he's a really good person. He was a baby once, just like you. Bush, on the other hand, is the Devil's spawn--pure and simple. Ah yes, let us not forget that they are also not concrete like those idiot Republicans. Nothing is ever just black and white. Life is just too complex. It's all various shades of gray. However, Bush is evil and must die. That is not gray.
I do have one little criticism, though, and it isn't unique to this book but an observation of my own. Why must Democrats/Liberals/Leftists always end up in one way or another bashing those they don't agree with? I'm getting to the point of feeling that if it's a left-leaning person writing a food review, I expect them to somehow politisize it and use it as an opportunity to slam a Republican/Christian/Bush. "The beet tartar was divine, and I devoured it as if it were a Bush-loving Christian Republican slathered in honey, bound and dropped on a fire ant hill, savoring each writhing and shrieking bite until the end." You get the general idea. I have always found it fascinating that my liberal leaning friends can send e-mails and make comments that are basically insulting my intelligence and questioning my moral integrity, yet they still want to hang out with me. I'm a dumb slimy snake but make good company, evidently.
I, on the other hand, am acutely aware of who my liberal friends are and purposely stay away from any topic remotely close to politics, although that's a real challenge because it seems that everything is somehow connected to politics, even tampons.
"Are those fair trade tampons?"
"Um, I'm not sure, let me pull it out and check, k?"
I'm also amused by the fact that these incredibly judgmental people are so "tolerant." That's quite a balancing act. Bush is the Devil and should die a slow painful death, but Sadam had a bad childhood, and we must understand where he's coming from and what made him do what he did, cause we know down deep he's a really good person. He was a baby once, just like you. Bush, on the other hand, is the Devil's spawn--pure and simple. Ah yes, let us not forget that they are also not concrete like those idiot Republicans. Nothing is ever just black and white. Life is just too complex. It's all various shades of gray. However, Bush is evil and must die. That is not gray.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Phantom Voices
One interesting thing I've discovered about parenting is this weird phenomenon of hearing echos of your child calling for you. I wonder if that lasts for as long as you are a parent (or for that matter, even after. Maybe it's worse when you lose a child)? It used to be, obviously, phantom cries. Actually, earlier than that, in the first year or so, it was phantom kicks. Yeah, very odd. I would actually feel him kicking inside me, even though I was looking right at him very much on the outside of me.
Later it was the phantom cries, usually late at night, of course, when you are just starting to relax and you're almost positive he's finally asleep, which, as it turns out, he is.
Now, it's him calling out "Mommy." I just heard it this morning. It's 6 in the morning and I was pretty sure he was asleep, and yet, there it was, very faintly, sleepily, "Mommy is that you?" I checked on him, and low and behold, fast asleep. Weird.
Later it was the phantom cries, usually late at night, of course, when you are just starting to relax and you're almost positive he's finally asleep, which, as it turns out, he is.
Now, it's him calling out "Mommy." I just heard it this morning. It's 6 in the morning and I was pretty sure he was asleep, and yet, there it was, very faintly, sleepily, "Mommy is that you?" I checked on him, and low and behold, fast asleep. Weird.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Aaahhhh
Deep breath. I love parent getaways. Unfortunately, they are just too few and too far between. We're vegetating at the lovely Salishan Lodge. The weather is beautiful. I'm sitting out on the little balcony overlooking the lush green manicured golf course. There is no one around and here I am out in the fresh sea air, smokin' a stogie, and blogging on my laptop. Ah life is good. I could almost imagine that I have no parental obligations whatsoever, except for the nightmares I have of arriving back to my parents' house without Vaughn's special surprise of a dead crab. I kid you not. That is what he wants as his payoff for enduring my parents while we get a much needed break. And I am also not kidding about having a nightmare last night about arriving back empty handed.
Today's to-do list:
Get dead crab.
Today's to-do list:
Get dead crab.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, etc.
We bought Vaughn his first big boy bed today, as in big boy into college bed--full twin. More importantly, we have moved him into his own room!!!!!!!!!! I would go on with the exclamation marks, but fear it would become annoying. Anyhoo. We met my goal, sort of. I said no later than 5 years he's out of our bedroom (Dave with his foolish optimism said 3. Ha!). We're several months past the 5-year mark, but hey, it's not 6 yet! That's beating some third world countries! Now maybe we'll have sex more often. Well, maybe...
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Mini-Me Not
I read time and time again how parents supposedly want their children to be little mirror images of themselves. First off, I don't know how accurate this statement is. I think parents want children that are like themselves in that they can understand them. Or perhaps people want their children to be the best of themselves, if that makes any sense. Themselves idealized. I mean, really. Do you really want a little mini-you? I don't. Maybe a mini-new-and-improved me. Or a mini-the-best-parts-of-me-but-none-of-the-bad. Probably the aspects of Vaughn I dislike the most are the mirrored parts of me--the nail-biting, temperamental, easily frustrated, mercurial, moody, hyper-sensitive, oh God, I could go on. I see those parts of myself, and I find them most disturbing. I feel no pride in thinking, "That's MY boy." However, there are obviously those parts that I can't relate to. That I don't understand fully. I'm not sure which I find more frustrating. Probably the warped reflection, if it is warped. I like to think it's warped, but maybe that's the most disturbing thing of all. It's not as warped as I'd like it to be. Perhaps it's too crystal clear. I want my son to be wholly different from me or the best me, and unfortunately, he only has me and his father as his examples, and who do you think he's going to relate to the most? I am fighting my shadow.
Paradise Lost
I'm back to reality, with a flu/cold as a souvenir. I feel, if possible, less rested than I did when I left, more stressed out, and bitchier than ever. Wow. How's that for a break? Of course, it doesn't help that I have Aunt Flo's cramps on top of it all.
I did manage to get the iPod back in working order in time for the trip back home. I tried all the reboot advice I could find on the Internet to no avail. I didn't have the cord, but thankfully, I did have an adapter for the car, which did the trick. I still curse Apple and all those who birthed them, but at least I had something to listen to besides Vaughn's whine-curse fest on the way home. You name it, he was screaming about it. Wow, 5 weeks, 5 months, and now 5 years, and nothing has changed, he's just gotten louder and better at it. Speaking of cursing those who birthed them...
I did manage to get the iPod back in working order in time for the trip back home. I tried all the reboot advice I could find on the Internet to no avail. I didn't have the cord, but thankfully, I did have an adapter for the car, which did the trick. I still curse Apple and all those who birthed them, but at least I had something to listen to besides Vaughn's whine-curse fest on the way home. You name it, he was screaming about it. Wow, 5 weeks, 5 months, and now 5 years, and nothing has changed, he's just gotten louder and better at it. Speaking of cursing those who birthed them...
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
May Apple Fry in Hell Forever and Ever
So I'm trotting down my parents' mile long forested driveway, doin' a little jog, doin' a little dance, gettin' down with my little iPod, thinking, "I don't know what the heck these reviewers are talking about that the iPod couldn't take a little jostling. I should have gotten one sooner. They don't know what they're talking about." The song ends. I go to the menu to change the mood. Pick a new song and boom. Nothing. It displays the song but no sound. I can't turn it off. I can't change songs. It's just frozen. And of course, I didn't bring the cord with me, so now I'm stuck with a frozen iPod. Arugghhhhh!!!!
Monday, May 14, 2007
Musings
Wow. This has got to be some kind of record posting two days in a row. I guess I solved my dilemma with that last post regarding how public I was going to be with my private life.
I really have nothing witty or profound to report. I am taking a much needed break up at my mom's, killing several birds with one stone--celebrating a belated Mother's Day with my mom and celebrating my dad's BD today. A rather pathetic celebration, if it can be called that, involving picking up a cake and cards last minute at Albertson's on my way up here. At least the gift was good, and given that my brothers barely ever remember my dad's BD, I'm already ahead of the game. We gave my mom and dad a joint present of a digital photo frame. Those things are awesome and I so want one now. It would take care of the fact that I haven't updated the photos on display in our house for the last 2 years.
Crap. That reminds me. I knew I'd forget something, the external hard drive with all our photos. I could be spending this time catching up. Oh, well. Maybe I'll be caught up by June, which will be about a year's worth of photos. Such is my life.
I really have nothing witty or profound to report. I am taking a much needed break up at my mom's, killing several birds with one stone--celebrating a belated Mother's Day with my mom and celebrating my dad's BD today. A rather pathetic celebration, if it can be called that, involving picking up a cake and cards last minute at Albertson's on my way up here. At least the gift was good, and given that my brothers barely ever remember my dad's BD, I'm already ahead of the game. We gave my mom and dad a joint present of a digital photo frame. Those things are awesome and I so want one now. It would take care of the fact that I haven't updated the photos on display in our house for the last 2 years.
Crap. That reminds me. I knew I'd forget something, the external hard drive with all our photos. I could be spending this time catching up. Oh, well. Maybe I'll be caught up by June, which will be about a year's worth of photos. Such is my life.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Delimma
So I still struggle with the subject of my first post I ever put here, which is: Just how public do I want to be about my private life? Since I now have virtually all my family members on myspace and I've linked this to myspace, I'm not sure just how much I'm willing to reveal. The odds are pretty good no one related to me or who knows me will ever read this. However, I'm too aware of just how small a world we live in, especially with the Internet, and the horror stories of people losing their jobs because they posted in their blog all the gory details of their office politics. Of course, now that particular person makes a living blogging, so I guess things could be worse.
Being an introvert, I do still want to have a private life, which is extensive. However, this is the closest I've come since Vaughn was born to keeping a regular journal, and I'd like to have something for prosterity purposes.
Remove link from myspace? Reveal all? Hmmmm.
Being an introvert, I do still want to have a private life, which is extensive. However, this is the closest I've come since Vaughn was born to keeping a regular journal, and I'd like to have something for prosterity purposes.
Remove link from myspace? Reveal all? Hmmmm.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
Why is it always like this? Whenever I get an opportunity to get away and get some much needed "me" time, the last day I get the crappiest sleep?
So, here I am at 4 in the morning, seeking something to help me get maybe a few more precious hours before I have to face the reality that is my life. Of course, I cannot escape the whole reality entirely when I'm on my mini-vacations these days because of the new addition to the family. I swear it is just like having another kid. She was a large contributor to my crappy sleep last night. I am completely out of earplugs at the moment (I knew there was something else I was suppose to pick up at the store today), and so with every grunt, groan, squeak, gnaw, scratch, rustle, sneeze, I wake up. I can't put her in another room because then she goes into her incessant screech-howl sessions. What happened to the near mute mutt we brought home?
I tried reading, but I'm starting to get truly depressed about the seeming dearth of entertaining modern reading material these days. I used to masochistically stick to a book, no matter how awful, due to some misguided idea that once I picked it up and started reading I had made some kind of binding agreement to finish it. Ah, the luxuries of youth. Now, I apply the 50-page rule (I'm starting to think that's too much). If the thing isn't a page turner by then, I'm on to the next one. As a result, I'm making my way through a shocking quantity of books. I'm currently in a horror/fantasy mood, and that particular genre seems to be especially lacking. Where have all the good authors gone? Even the authors that had established themselves as the "masters of horror" are a disappointment. I can't remember the last time I read a Stephen King novel. I think one of his last readable books was "Salem's Lot." Most everything after that seems to have been written with the primary goal of fulfilling his publisher's 10-books-a-year requirement. That reminds me of some song. Who did that? Something about churning out crap... Anyway, it seems to be pretty common. An author puts out a really good debut, and thereafter, it's all a variation on the theme, if that.
Well, it seems the sleep club has finally whacked me. Now if the dog will just stay quiet for the next few hours...
So, here I am at 4 in the morning, seeking something to help me get maybe a few more precious hours before I have to face the reality that is my life. Of course, I cannot escape the whole reality entirely when I'm on my mini-vacations these days because of the new addition to the family. I swear it is just like having another kid. She was a large contributor to my crappy sleep last night. I am completely out of earplugs at the moment (I knew there was something else I was suppose to pick up at the store today), and so with every grunt, groan, squeak, gnaw, scratch, rustle, sneeze, I wake up. I can't put her in another room because then she goes into her incessant screech-howl sessions. What happened to the near mute mutt we brought home?
I tried reading, but I'm starting to get truly depressed about the seeming dearth of entertaining modern reading material these days. I used to masochistically stick to a book, no matter how awful, due to some misguided idea that once I picked it up and started reading I had made some kind of binding agreement to finish it. Ah, the luxuries of youth. Now, I apply the 50-page rule (I'm starting to think that's too much). If the thing isn't a page turner by then, I'm on to the next one. As a result, I'm making my way through a shocking quantity of books. I'm currently in a horror/fantasy mood, and that particular genre seems to be especially lacking. Where have all the good authors gone? Even the authors that had established themselves as the "masters of horror" are a disappointment. I can't remember the last time I read a Stephen King novel. I think one of his last readable books was "Salem's Lot." Most everything after that seems to have been written with the primary goal of fulfilling his publisher's 10-books-a-year requirement. That reminds me of some song. Who did that? Something about churning out crap... Anyway, it seems to be pretty common. An author puts out a really good debut, and thereafter, it's all a variation on the theme, if that.
Well, it seems the sleep club has finally whacked me. Now if the dog will just stay quiet for the next few hours...
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Day of Dread
My New Year's resolution is to be the best mediocre mom. I will never be the best mom, and I don't think I want to compete to be the worst, so an attainable goal seems to be mediocrity. I already have a good start on it. As I type, my son is watching a Clifford video for the umpteenth time while munching on caramel-flavored rice cakes for breakfast. Yep, I'd say this is a goal I most certainly can achieve.
Along those lines (and maybe I'm tipping into the worst category here), one of the days I dread is coming upon us--Vaughn's birthday. Now, it's not that I am loath to celebrate the birth of my son. It is what that entails that I dread. It's the celebration part. Being the introvert that I am and my son being the extravert that I suspect he is, is where we run into problems.
This year, for the third time in a row, he wants a train party, and he wants all the family and friends he doesn't really have to come to our house to celebrate it. I would be more than willing to shell out a couple hundred bucks to just have some children's gym host it and supply cake and ice cream, but noooooo, we have to have yet again a train party. So, here I am, less than 30 days away, wracking my brain as to what we're going to do this year for a train party and how I'm going to accommodate all these people.
Well, this morning, he announces he wants a cat party for his birthday (music to my ears).
"So you want a cat party for your birthday instead of a train party?"
"Well, I want both."
"You can't have both. It's one or the other. Since you have had a train party the last 2 years, how about having a cat party this year?" (desperation dripping from each syllable.)
"Hey, how about we have a cat-driving-a-train party?!"
Great.
Along those lines (and maybe I'm tipping into the worst category here), one of the days I dread is coming upon us--Vaughn's birthday. Now, it's not that I am loath to celebrate the birth of my son. It is what that entails that I dread. It's the celebration part. Being the introvert that I am and my son being the extravert that I suspect he is, is where we run into problems.
This year, for the third time in a row, he wants a train party, and he wants all the family and friends he doesn't really have to come to our house to celebrate it. I would be more than willing to shell out a couple hundred bucks to just have some children's gym host it and supply cake and ice cream, but noooooo, we have to have yet again a train party. So, here I am, less than 30 days away, wracking my brain as to what we're going to do this year for a train party and how I'm going to accommodate all these people.
Well, this morning, he announces he wants a cat party for his birthday (music to my ears).
"So you want a cat party for your birthday instead of a train party?"
"Well, I want both."
"You can't have both. It's one or the other. Since you have had a train party the last 2 years, how about having a cat party this year?" (desperation dripping from each syllable.)
"Hey, how about we have a cat-driving-a-train party?!"
Great.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Happy New Year, blah, blah, blah
So, here we are. 007. As usual, I am totally overwhelmed with all the things that I have to do at the beginning of the year and will probably take me the next half of the year to complete. Yeah, I also make the inevitable New Year resolutions, too, on top of it all, as if the first is not enough to make me feel like an utter and complete failure.
On the up side, this year we decided to use our Christmas presents from my parents to finally buy a laptop computer. I feel like I'm some prehistoric discovering the wheel or fire. I haven't gotten beyond the sense of surrealism. The other thing was I was totally hunting and pecking (my niece found this quite amusing, given my occupation) on the laptop keyboard (so excuse any typos here, but that's my excuse). I'm now getting a little better hang of it where I'm actually able to get into my usual "sensing" the keys mode. I should now have absolutely no excuse not to continue a daily blog, except for lack of inspiration of which I never seem to lack and is sufficient enough of an excuse.
So, write/read you next month/year.
On the up side, this year we decided to use our Christmas presents from my parents to finally buy a laptop computer. I feel like I'm some prehistoric discovering the wheel or fire. I haven't gotten beyond the sense of surrealism. The other thing was I was totally hunting and pecking (my niece found this quite amusing, given my occupation) on the laptop keyboard (so excuse any typos here, but that's my excuse). I'm now getting a little better hang of it where I'm actually able to get into my usual "sensing" the keys mode. I should now have absolutely no excuse not to continue a daily blog, except for lack of inspiration of which I never seem to lack and is sufficient enough of an excuse.
So, write/read you next month/year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)