I'm published

I know that I said in my last post that this blog would be about the kids, but I do have some mildly exciting news to share. A little story of mine got published on The Poor Chef website. You can read it here. Gotta start somewhere, right?

What is the point of this blog?

I have completely lost focus and motivation to keep this thing up. Why? Because I have no purpose. Seems that generally this is the just the way of having an ongoing conversation with those friends and family we don't get to hang out with like we used to. That's good enough, I suppose. But it bores me. Sigh.

Per the name of the thing, I suppose it should focus on my kids. But the fact is that my mothering has gotten so crappy during the past year that all I ever do is negotiate with my toddlers, but one of them isn't even a toddler anymore. I could say the title represents the parenting principle I aspire to, but that isn't true anymore either. I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I somehow gave birth to two very strong-willed children who are wholly and consistently unwilling to abide by my motherly demands and commands. I chose Matt as the father of my children with the intention that his "I don't give a shit/yeah, whatever/that's cool with me" attitude would prevail in our genetic intermingling. But how could it? By definition, my controlling, obsessive, "my-way-or-else" personality traits were surely going to trump. So, apparently, what we're left with is two kids who look exactly like Matt and act exactly like me. Damn -- on both counts. I mean, we all know I'm the cute one, right?

Well, I hereby declare the focus shall return to the kids and our ongoing negotiations. Tonight, for example, Matt and I ate dinner alone because our children summarily refused to join us. About twenty minutes after we'd finished up, Luke meandered in the kitchen and informed us he was hungry and wanted his dinner on the couch while he watched the Flinstones (the boys are big fans of the old school cartoons). Matt told him 'no.' He said 'yes.' Matt told him to ask his mother if it's ok. He looks at me and says, "Mommy? It ok I eat my dinder on da couch?" I opted to trade that privilege for a slobbery, giggly kiss. Totally worth it. (The dogs will clean up the mess anyway.)

Mary, Mary, quite contrary... how does your garden grow?

We have two of these raised beds. This one has heirloom tomatoes, red leaf lettuce, romaine, arugula, fennel, red cabbage and peppers. The one next to it (not pictured, because there aren't a lot of plants in it yet) has beets, more tomatoes, more peppers, onions, and room for other stuff. I'm thinking okra and more beets.
All of our plants are going to have an uphill battle of survival if this continues. If Gus disappears someday soon, this will be why...
This is the strawberry patch and rhubarb bush. On the other side of the fence, we have cantaloupe and raspberry bushes.
And here, behind the house, we have the herb garden. On either side of the herbs is a zucchini plant and a patty pan squash plant.

And here are just some other random pictures of the house and yard. We have spent the last four weekends (plus many weekday hours from me), working on the outside of the house and yard. We've made LOTS of changes since we've moved in. One of these days, we'll be having the house painted and getting some professional landscaping. But for now, this is good enough for us...

So funny, so true

Selected excerpts from A Special Balls Deep Message to the Class of 2009, by Drew Magary. You can see the whole thing at Deanspin.com:

I bet you grads had one hell of a spring, didn't you? Oh, I bet you spent your whole spring taking a miniscule courseload, lounging on blankets outside on the quad, fucking each other, drinking your gay little Twisted Teas... I bet you even smoked pot on Wednesday morning, just for the hell of it. I bet you just had the time of your fucking lives the past four years, didn't you?

YOU MAKE ME SICK.

Guess what, fuckos? Party's over. You're out of college now, and your parents are now too poor to nurse you through grad school. No more fantasy life for you. No more ice luges. No more intellectual discourse. No more ripe teenage pussy. That's all over now. YOU ARE FUCKED. Your days will now consist of searching for a job in a marketplace where no available job of any sort fucking exists. Your commencement speaker will probably tell you your class "faces enormous challenges," or some bullshit euphemism like that. This is a lie. A challenge is something you can overcome. You, on the other hand, are completely, unavoidably fucked. You're not going to cure cancer. You're not going to stop wars. You're not going to save the planet. If you're lucky, you may stumble upon a $2 coupon for Honey Nut Cheerios one day. That will be about it.

Otherwise, you are entering a world that is running out of money, a world that will slowly choke itself to death unless it somehow stumbles upon a miraculously clean, cheap energy source that has yet to be invented and almost certainly never will be. Ten years from now, your degree will be 1/100th as useful as a fucking life vest. So wipe that nauseating smile off your faces and heed now this glimpse into your very near future…

95% of your future happiness will come from finding a good parking spot. You know that annoying Joni Mitchell song where she bitches and moans, "They paved paradise, put up a parking lot. OOOOOH BOP BOP BOP!" Suck it, you hairy-bushed twat. If it were up to me, there would be a 17-level parking garage on every other block in this fucking country. I swear to fucking God, I spend the majority of my time every weekend stalking outgoing Trader Joe's customers in my Honda, watching them walk to their cars, then having them wave me off because they weren't actually getting out. HEY COCKTEASE, GIVE ME A FUCKING HEADS UP.

I promise you, when you reach my age, not only will you exult at finding a great parking spot, but you'll immediately tell the first person you see about having secured it. "Yeah, I got a GREAT spot! I didn't even have to wait! Usually, that lot is a NIGHTMARE. God, I feel fucking good!"

At some point, you will not be able to sleep in past 8 or 9AM, and this will piss you off. I used to be cool. I used to be able to sleep until noon no problem. I SPAT RIGHT IN MORNING'S FUCKING EYE. No waking up at dawn for me. Waking up early is crazy gay. Am I right?

Except then I got a job, so I had to wake up early every day. Then, my body got used to waking up early every day, so it just woke the fuck right up at the same time on weekends, too. "But Body," I said to my big fat body, "There's nothing to fucking do, and I wanna sleep more." But my body wouldn't have it. Then I got married. Then I had kids. And holy shit, do kids wake up early. Not only does my kid come storming into the room at 6AM, but she screams WAKE UP at the top of her lungs every damn time. Having a kid is just like having a really mean spinning instructor. They give no fucking quarter. They're like tiny little Hitlers.

Now, even if there are no kids around, I wake up at 7AM at the latest. This should be good for me, I suppose. I get to run out and experience the full day, or something. But I don't feel that way. I feel like a complete asshat for getting up that early. I feel lamer than shit. Which is completely irrational. Then again, most anything I think or do now is beyond explanation. So rest up, kids. Because soon you'll be chewing Ambien like they're fucking Bubbalicious.

The day you become old is the day you find yourself looking at a paint swatch book. Holy shit, that shade of blue is only .000001 degrees away from that shade of blue! You practically have to view them at the atomic level to know the fucking difference! How the fuck am I supposed to choose? Fun fact: any paint color you choose will end up looking like a radically different color once applied to your walls. Why? Because the people at Sherwin-Williams are pricks, that's why.

You will begin caring about stupid shit in the front section of the newspaper. I used to read USA Today in college. I would read only two sections: Red and Purple. The green section was for boring assholes, and the front section was about a bunch of stupid political bullshit. I never cared about politics or world affairs when I was younger. College kids who care about politics are fucking douches. But suddenly, annoyingly serious shit like health care actually started to matter to me. And I don't like it one bit. I read an article in The Atlantic a while back. Voluntarily. I can't begin to tell you how annoyed I was at myself for this.

You will get dumber every day from now on. You're done learning. Time to start forgetting shit! The other weekend I was sitting in the parking lot shuttle bus at the Baltimore airport, on my way to get my car after a flight, only to realize I had left my car keys at my parents' house, which was now 300 miles away. I then bit down on my own finger until I had broken the skin. I am retarded, and I am only getting worse. IT'LL HAPPEN TO YOU.

Going out will stop being appealing to you. What? I have to put on pants? And pay $5 for a drink when I have 30 beers in the fridge? And talk to people? FUCK. THAT.

There is no point in raising your kids well, because other people's retard kids will end up ruining them anyway. You can teach your kid good manners. You can feed them nothing but organic dairy products milked from an angel's tit. You can read your kid 500 Sandra Boynton books every night. I promise you, none of it will matter. Because once your kid goes to school, some spoiled sack of shit kid with horrible parents will teach your kid the word "pussyfart," get them hooked on straight Whoppers, and immediately undo every good thing you did. Trust me. Other people can't parent for JACK SHIT.

You will find yourself, at times, tired of drinking. But you will continue drinking anyway. Beats the alternative, which is NOT drinking.

The key to a decent existence is owning a good bed. Most of your future life will be consumed with addressing reams and reams of tedious bullshit. You'll have to work. You'll have to run errands. You'll have to clean shit and pick shit up. Your only salvation is that fucking bed at the end of the day. So make sure it kicks ass in every conceivable way. Get it all: the pillowtop mattress, the egg crate, the featherbed underneath, the nice comforter on top… ALL THAT SHIT. No day is ever that horrible if you have a sultan's rest awaiting you. You'll still wake up at 6AM involuntarily. But at least you'll still be nice and cozy when you do.

What have we done?

Everyone, meet Gus. He is our new 9 week-old Goldendoodle. His full name is Gustafson (because we live in Minnesota now, dontcha know?). He's black now, but he'll his coat will change to silver as he gets a little older.

Probably still drunk off the high of having gotten an offer on the Charlotte house (we are officially "under contract"), we decided to be spontaneous and just go get the new dog we'd been fantasizing about for a while. We took a trip to the local humane society on Friday night, hoping to find a boxer or boxer mix (we are in love with my brother's boxer). During that excursion, we learned quite a few things about our eldest son. We knew he seemingly had sensitive hearing, but the poor kid absolutely lost it upon entering a kennel full of about 20 barking dogs. He was crying uncontrollably, with hands pressed against his ears, begging to leave. So Matt and I took turns waiting in the hall with the boys while the other scoped out the dogs. We decided to ask for an outdoor visit with Tank, a 7-month old, super cute boxer mix. It was then that we learned how much Noah hates big dogs. We knew he wasn't a huge fan, but he wanted NOTHING to do with poor Tank, who admittedly was pretty hyper and very strong and not exactly gentle with the boys. No matter how we tried to convince him otherwise, he remained completely freaked out by that dog and adamently opposed the idea of us taking him home. So we left the pound empty-handed and headed to the Chiptole for dinner (yum).

Our dilemma was that Noah was going to be perpetually freaked out by any large dog or yappy dog or any other dog with a persistent bark (thankfully ruling out Matt's request for a coonhound). But Matt & I really, really wanted a "big"dog. Mabel is great and all, but she's not much for fetch and can barely tolerate a walk around the block. She sleeps approximately 23 hours of the day. We wanted a golden retriever or a labrador -- a fantastic family dog, known for being gentle on the munckins -- to take on hikes and trips to the lake, but we didn't want the shedding. So we decided on a doodle, and we knew that we had to get a puppy, so Noah would have time to get used to it before it got too big.

And voila, Mabel has a baby brother. Wish us luck.

UPDATE: Day 1 and a half, and Gus is doing great. He made it basically the whole night without having an accident (Matt took him out early this morning and waited to do his business until he was outside), and barely whimpered at all during the night (or maybe he did, but we just couldn't hear him because he insisted on sleeping under our bed). When Mabel pees (which she only does outside, God bless her), Gus pees. Mabel is clearly in charge, and Gus seems to gladly submit. But he desperately wants to be outside, and only occasionally and with much hesitancy is he willing to leave his spot on the rug by the backdoor. We're off to the vet at 3 to have him checked out. I think this is going to be great!

In case you're wondering where Luke went....

We've decided to send him to military school. Sure, he's only 2 and a half, but something has to be done with this kid. Here are the immediate events that have necessitated such a bold move:

• Friday, 3/13: took a pen to our newly-painted walls.
  
• Tuesday, 3/17: scooped his yogurt out of the bowl and rubbed it all over the picture window.
• Wednesday, 3/18: poured an entire (full!) bottle of doggie shampoo all over my ottomans and my new area rug. (FYI, soap is a bitch to get out of shag carpet.)
• Daily: throws everything out of the toy box in search of his Batman costume, which is sitting two feet over from him on the floor.
• Monday, 3/23: poop. lots of poop, out his diaper and smeared on his leg. (This occurred while his Grandpa was babysitting, by the way, but since he insisted to Grandpa that he didn't need a new diaper, Grandpa ignored it, and I got the pleasure of cleaning it when I got home.)
  
• Monday, 3/23: upon seeing the bowl of gourmet chili at his chair for dinner, he said, "Ooooh yuck, that's disgusting." He then walked away.
  
• Tuesday, 3/24: found a jar of green paint, scooped it out with his fingers and started smearing it all over the (newly-painted) wall in the office. I yelled at him, took it away, and cleaned up his hands. Then I returned to the office, only to discover that he had already smeared the paint all over the arm of our light yellow couch. And we're not talking about crayola washable paint here -- we're talking about the paint included in the rock painting kit a friend got the boys for Christmas, which was being stored in the office closet. Thank you, Harrison family.
• Later on Tuesday, 3/24: took a pen and wrote ALL OVER the very same yellow couch. ALL OVER IT. Dozens and dozens of 6-in. to one-foot long lines, everywhere. Sure, we could flip the cushions, but the other sides are already stained from a couple of years of dripped pizza grease from our days sitting on our asses eating take out in Brooklyn.
• Every time we get in the car: "Rock Star song!" "RRRRROOOCCCCKKK SSSSTTTAAARRR SSSOOONNNGGGGGGGG!!!" Loud, incessant shrilly screams insisting on listening to Weezer sing "I'm a Troublemaker" over and over and over again. And as my brother pointed out, the song consists ENTIRELY of two guitar chords, making repeated airings feel like Chinese water torture (or what I imagine that would feel like). We have to alternate between the "Rock Star Song" and a song with a man singing about what he finds in his belly button.

Let this be a warning to all of you out there with a "second child." Never, ever underestimate them. Don't think that just because your eldest didn't do something, that his/her younger sibling won't do it. This may be especially true for younger brothers (Jeff, Anna -- thoughts?). You think they've reached some independence and that you have leave them alone to entertain themselves for a while, but this is a fatal mistake. You must never take your eyes off them, even for a second. They can be destructive little monsters, wreaking havoc everywhere they go. And whatever you do, stay strong when they come to you, crawl on your lap, and say "I love you so much Mommy." They're just setting you up.

What I did today...

In no particular order:

• Fed my children breakfast.
• Blew off preschool.
• Patched, sanded and painted holes in the wall where we removed the double doors in the den.
• Installed a coat rack in the foyer (drilled holes for the anchors and everything!).
• Hung a few more pictures.
• Replaced a few more switchplates.
• Gave a tour of the made-over house to the realtor.
• Made an appointment for Mabel at the groomers.
• Cleaned the floors.
• Scrubbed, scrubbed and scrubbed again the guest shower, which -- based on the layers of rust, hard water stains and soap scum -- hasn't been cleaned in years.
• Sanded ALL of the walls in the guest bath, which had been basically spackled in their entirety.
• Removed a couple of doors.
• Replaced the handrail down to the basement stairs.
• Fed my children lunch.
• Cleaned up the playroom.
• Cleaned up the playroom again.
• Cleaned up the playroom again.
• Cleaned all of the junk out of the "exercise room."
  
• Painted 1 and a half coats onto the walls of the "exercise room."
• Tore up the carpeting in the "exercise room"; cut it into 4 inch strips; rolled and taped the strips and carried them up and out to the garage.
• Ditto the carpet padding.
• Donned safety goggles and used a crow bar to pry off the tacking strips that had been nailed into the concrete floor of the "exercise room."
  
• Made a fabulous dinner of pasta, apple/gouda chicken sausage with sauteed onions, peppers & spinach.
• Folded and put away 6 loads of laundry.
• Whined incessantly about how much my back hurts.
• Drank a bottle of wine.
• Watched Lean on Me on BET. Damn this movie is awesome.
• Refused my husband's request that I assist him in hanging the new storage cabinet and medicine cabinet in the master bath. He can do it himself. I'm done.