Sunday, February 28, 2010

we built this sh*tty

Wow. 4 days since my last blog entry. And I haven't been on vacation. Nope. I was busy, and then I pulled my neck and was crippled. Here's how it went:

Mom: (Thursday) Are you ready for this consignment sale, which we've tried to do twice but failed to due bizarre circumstances including walking pneumonia?

Me: Yeah, totally cool.


Me: (Saturday morning) Plenty of time.

Me: (late to the sale) AAAAAAAAH! (etc.) Also, my neck's a bit stiff.

Me: (picking up baby) SNAP. Oh, was that my neck?

Me: (walking around without moving my head or neck, feeling like Uncle Fester)

Me: Wow, this consignment sale is wickedly lame. There are, like, six people here.

Consumer: I want to buy this bag of toys for $2. Here is my $50 bill. And now, you're going to say, Oh, no, just take it, I don't have change. I am very clever. Ha ha!

Mom: Here's your $48 in change. Have a nice day.

Consumer: I have failed, and now I'm stuck with this bag of toys and 48 ones. Sh*t.

Me and Mom: HA HA HA!

Biscuit: It's time for ballet.

Me: Ballet was great. Now let's go get ChickfilA for grandma. Hi, I'd like a Chik-N-Strips Valu-Meel with fr00t and llemonaade, please. And lots of that crack-like ChickfilA sauce.

Mom: Why did you bring me bizarre little mini Chik-N-Biskits with ChickfilA sauce?

Me: CHICKFILA FAIL. Those guys are jerks. Sh*t.

My neck: I no longer function. You can't carry your kid or help reload the truck with all the sh*t you didn't sell. In fact, your recently-recovered-from-hip-surgery husband is going to have to move all of the sh*t you didn't sell. Oh, and I'd like a Five Guys burger, by the by.

Me: Sorry, Dr. Krog.


Dr. Krog: I will never let you forget this.

Mom: I spent all day trying to sell your sh*t to three people while reading a Michael Crichton book, and I won't even take any of your $66 as a reward, even though you made me eat Chik-N-Biskits. I am a saint. Now get your sh*t out of my attic.

Dad: Maybe when t.rex is 30, he'll come get this sh*t out of the attic.

Dr. Krog: Why do we have all this sh*t?

Me: We need to sell that sh*t so we can buy more sh*t.

Dr. Krog: Like what? What could we possibly need?

Me: Well at the good consignment sale today, I bought next year's clothes for the kids, a sequined headband, our fourth pink leotard, and two VHS cassettes featuring Disney princesses.

Dr. Krog: Sh*t.


Me: Sh*t.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

10 unfortunatenesses

10 Unfortunate Facts about Motherhood

1. If your husband is working from home and on an important call, your children will choose that exact moment to have a raging, screaming cryfest over the fact that he stole the batteries from their favorite toy to use in his XBOX controller. Sadly, he will not appreciate the irony.

2. When you manage to defy the universe and sneak in an extra hour of sleep, it's on the day that your kid is the Big Chicken at school and needs some major face washing. With 10 minutes to go, she needs to wear a Big Chicken Outfit, which involves a dress that is two sizes two small and in the dirty clothes. By the time you cobble together a decent outfit that she'll actually wear, you've run out of time to swipe your armpits with a baby wipe and brush the coffee out of your clenched teeth.

3. You get to enjoy a freshly cleaned room for 3 seconds before broken bicycle helmets, dirty socks, and the Lady Gaga CD insert are splattered across the floor. And don't even get me started on how fast laundry piles up when your daughter changes clothes three times a day so her "legs can get a little bit of air".

4. You'd really like to sell all of your old baby things, but you don't have time to sort, price, display, and sell them because you're too busy watching your babies, who are busy outgrowing their current clothes.

5. When your husband hands you a $10 dollar bill, your first thought is, "Oh, good, now I can buy him that hamburger he keeps asking for."

6. You are now on your 147th pair of $9.99 sunglasses from TJ Maxx because nothing makes your baby quite as happy as breaking $9.99 sunglasses. Although he might expand to $16.99 sunglasses, if you use that $10 for an upgrade.

7. You can tell the time between 1am and 6am by how crusty your eyes are and how full the baby's diaper is, and you have vivid, breathtaking dreams about what it would be like to sleep until 9am.

8. You no longer crave Haagen Daaz gourmet ice cream, because then your kids would ask for it. Instead, you get a hankerin' for Chickfil-A Ice Dream because you can get it in the drive-thru and eat it while driving before they realize that you even had a treat.

9. You get a hair cut based on how well it will grow out over the next six months, and when you actually bother to paint your toenails, you choose a color that will dry quickly and fade in an attractive and unnoticeable manner while not staining your nails.

10. You are constantly surprised by the things that come out of your mouth, such as, "Please don't show your parts at the table," "Maybe you could put that booger on your shoe until I'm done shopping," and "Don't do jiujitsu on your brother or he'll smack you with his lightsaber."

And now it's time to wrestle my caffeinated octopus of a sleep-deprived toddler into an unwanted nap while I try to read as much of my book as possible.

Speaking of which, have you read Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series for young adults? It's captivating.

Monday, February 22, 2010

unruly review: the golden compass

Light on the gold, heavy on the a$$.

The book? Awesome! Inspiring! Brilliant! Colorful! Rich! Maybe it's not the most inspiring prose every typed, but it draws the reader in and builds a solid, intriguing world.

The movie? Annoying, boring, lifeless, bland, ridiculous. At the climax, Dr. Krog looked at me and said, "I'M BORED."

Do you know how hard it is to bore Dr. Krog? He has to listen to me yap all the time, and play Go Fish with the Biscuit all the time. Heck, he even read her the entire book of Pocahontas tonight, something I have not yet managed to do without going into TL;DR mode.

It was like Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy all over again, but without the delightfully droll voice of Alan Rickman.

It's about this little girl named Lyra.

She has a daemon, which is pronounced "demon", but it's not a demon, it's her soul, and his name is Pantywaist or something, and he's often a ferret. Then her uncle who's actually her father gives some old dude a fancy pocketwatch, and when the mean lady that's actually her mother shows up with a mustard-colored monkey, the old dude gives Lyra the pocketwatch. But it's not a pocketwatch, see, it's an alethiometer, which helps you read the truth which lots of little pictures and glittery special effects.

Got that?



And many things in the movie are desperately unoriginal. Like...

The Great Hall in the "college" where Lyra was raised.

I started whistling the Harry Potter theme music for that one.

I'm not a very good whistler.

Moving on.

You may also recognize...

Seriously, guys. Not every magical city looks like steampunk England ate Florence during a sunset.

And there are zeppelins, you know. Loads of zeppelins.

But the best part is the panserbjorns. The armored bears. I was so excited to finally see Iorek Byrnison made flesh.

Oh, Golden Compass.

Or, as we now call it, Moldy Sucka$$.

Those three hours are gone from my life forever, all because I thought, "Hey, Dr. Krog would love this book, but he's too busy working, teaching kids to choke each other, writing a book, being an awesome father and husband, and watching South Park reruns to really enjoy it. I know-- I'll rent the movie!"

More foolish words were never spoken.

Except maybe for that time when I said, "Hey, let's go see Van Helsing!"

Or, "Hey, this recipe for pork chops and cabbage in Real Simple looks tasty!"

Or possibly, "I'll surprise Dr. Krog with a new cat!"

I may need to attempt to be less impulsive.

Thank you, Moldy Sucka$$, for a proper chastening.

In conclusions, READ. THE. BOOK. BURN. THE. MOVIE.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

frigidaire + panda bear

Also, in case you're a skimmer, there's a little giveaway at the very end.

I just love looking at fridges. The interesting ones, that is.

I like to see the artwork, photos, magnets, notes, and doodads. They say so much about a family.

Our fridge says, "We like layers and layers of mementos, but we only seem to have one small picture of the second child, but he can't see that far up, anyway."

But my favorite thing about the fridge, besides the delicious Braeburn apples within, is the artwork. It's a Gallery du Biscuit.

First, there's this guy. He reminds me of a scene from Total Recall.

And in the same vein, we haz more baer.

We haz Fite Club Baer.

Fight Club. Tyler Durden. You know, when he says he wants to put a bullet in the head of every panda bear that won't f*#$ to save the species?

Surely that's what comes to mind when you see a child's innocent rendition of a panda bear.

In fact, if you removed the googly eyes, it kinda looks like a dead panda bear on its back. The nose would be the tail, and the four ovals are the feet.

No, I do not wish to take a Rorschach test and start Xanax. Thanks for asking.


Then there's this masterpiece. Reminds me a late work by Mark Rothko.

And it reminds me of another movie, of course. Everything reminds me of movies, most of which somehow involve Robert Duvall. My life isn't about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. It's more like Eight Steps to Robert Duvall.

But you know who has nothing whatsoever to do with Robert Duvall? This guy, a creation so completely unique, so utterly la Biscuit that I can't even bring myself to write on him.

I love you, Monster Henry.

And I love my child's playful artwork, the whimsical randomness of it all. I love a world where everything doesn't have to mean something, where little mistakes become touches of genius.

Like this.

Can anybody guess what it is?

I'll send a surprise present to a random commenter who can tell me what's in the picture.

Friday, February 19, 2010

spinster city

You know what's fun?

When your three-year-old beats your ass at card games.


While wearing a leotard and tiara.

Dr. Krog and I comfort each other by saying, "It's just luck."

And then she beats us again.

Me? They call me "Big Sister".

That doesn't show why, though. The Biscuit took that picture, and it's better than all the ones I tried to take of myself. So she's good at cards *and* photography.

Here's why.

That's right. I look like the picture of the Big Sister. The Mom looks like a goof from Mad Men. You can just see her saying, "Oh no! I left the casserole in the oven! Billy! Wipe your feet, gosh darn it!"

And Dr. Krog.

Oh, Dr. Krog.

He kept planting the Old Maid so that I would be stuck with her, then admonishing me for trying to pass her on to the Biscuit, which I did not do, thank you very much.

Biscuit always draws from the left, but you didn't hear that from me, cuz I ain't one to talk.

Know what else she always does?

An awesome victory dance.

So here's a tip.

Toss Candy Land and Chutes & Ladders in the trash, because they suck.

And go spend $2 on Old Maid.

What the heck-- go for broke and spend the extra $1.97 on Go Fish.

It's good for the soul, provided the soul doesn't cheat at children's card games.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


I'm going to go ahead and talk about the elephant in the nursery:

Today, I don't really like being a mother.

Everything I want to do? Can't do it.

Naps? They won't take 'em.

Work? Like they'd let me.

And the one time I actually got t.rex almost asleep, the Biscuit banged his door open, hopped over his baby gate, and screamed that she needed a ponytail like Tinkerbell's, causing him to pop up like a demented jack-in-the-box.

I've been scratched, clawed, hollered at, smacked, drained, pooped on, and petitioned for one more snack until it feels like 40,000 baby iguanas are ice skating on my brain to a Lady Gaga song.

These are the days that really test my mettle. Painting a mural? Fun. Writing a book? Easy. Flying cross-country to work for Lexus? Pshaw.

Getting to 6pm without screaming so hard I pee myself?

I'm not makin' any promises.

I can feel that part of it is hormonal, that my body is doing something annoying and irrational that probably once helped my ancestors kill bears. And part of it is the kids themselves, because if there is an age more annoying than 15 months, which has all of the mobility with none of the caution, then it is surely 36 months, which has all of the boundary pushing insanity of... I don't know... a weasel in a soap bubble.

Sometimes, and it's hard to admit this, I don't feel like I have the chops to be a mom of two, like there's simply not enough of me to go around. I spend a day like today, where I yell and nag more than I hug and read, and I am nearly overwhelmed with guilt and self disgust. I don't even like myself, really.

But raising a child to be a strong, self-sufficient human being means that they aren't going to be happy all the time. That every day won't be a trip to the zoo, complete with cotton candy and a ride on the carousel. Some days are going to flat out stink, for them and for me.

So listen up, kids. Today's suckage is my gift to you.

Because just think how great tomorrow will be by comparison.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


That stands for "Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in My Daughter's Second Year of Episcopalian Preschool". It's not as elegant as that whole blah-blah-Kindergarten book, but we ain't in kindergarten yet.

1. This outfit matches because today is Valentine's Day, and the shirt is for Halloween, and they are both holidays. The penguin leggings have an orange polka dot, so they match the orange Halloween shirt. The purple socks have Sleeping Beauty, and her mom is a witch, and the Halloween shirt has a witch. The skirt is pink, which matches orange. The headband has Tinkerbell, who is a fairy, and fairies have sparkles, so that matches the glittery silver shoes. The sunglasses are just because.

2. It's good to have bad eyes because Jean* has glasses, and Jean is four and therefore a big kid. Ergo, having glasses would make my kid a big kid. I don't think she's going to be as excited about myopia as she thinks.

3. Nearly every single class day is someone's birthday or a holiday, because my kid comes home on an annoying sugar high with light blue icing crusting her lips and requests a juice box.

4. Jesus made people, who made the dinosaurs.**

5. White is not a color.**

6. Columbus found America, then the guys with the funny hats had dinner with the Indians, and they ate corn, and that was Thanksgiving. **

7. The best game to play on the playground is Baby Dragon, because the baby dragon gets to cry a lot, and the big sister dragon gets to tell it to be quiet. Screaming and nagging are the two funnest things ever.

8. Johnny has a peeper, which we know because my daughter had to wash her hands while he was tinkling. His peeper is also bigger than t.rex's peeper. "I checked, mama."

9. Teacher was out for a few weeks because she gave her brother a kidley.

10. They've changed the words to "Jesus Loves Me". It now goes like this:

church and family
churchy family
churchily family
church and family and god
church and god and family and church and GOOOOOOD
Jesus loves me
better than anything
he loves me
better than Bella or Kaelin or Reese or even Jade***
better than anything
Jesus loves me so
la la la la
he looooooves me
here you go, little brudder
here is a ball.

I can't wait for the four-year-old class next year.

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent and their glasses/peepers.

** We had to have a serious talk about each of these issues.

*** Sorry, guys. I'm sure this is a tough lesson for the moms involved. But Jesus don't lie.

Friday, February 12, 2010

what's this white crap?

I was in the middle of writing all these juicy confessions for you
when it occurred to me that I'd rather post pictures from
a very rare snow day in Georgia.

How was it? Well...

But on the other hand...

Still, we must consider...

Yeah, that's great and all. But what about...

Very conflicted. Mommy thought it was adorable. Dr. Krog was slightly mortified to have his son galumphing around in clown shoes, one crab sock, and a girl's parka.

But still...

Mmm. Flying Biscuit. That place is so yummy. Best BLFGT sammich in the state. That's Bacon, Lettuce, Fried Green Tomato, for you Yankees.

But it wasn't all fun and biscuits...

And as always, Dr. Krog suffered more than anyone.

It was an accident, I swear!

Why are there no pictures of me? Because I was too busy comforting the crying baby, taking photographs, and giving my husband rakish scars, of course.

It's a full-time job.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

cap'n barfy and the salad of doom

Are you ready for it?

Just imagine. You're halfway through your free salad, which you're eating out of a to-go box, because the restaurant took 35 minutes to make a salad. It's not very good-- just sliced chicken tossed in boring sauce over plain lettuce and a few sad flickers of white cheese.

But it's food, and it's free, and you're hungry.

Then you stab up another big ol' bite and find this...


Are you ready?


You aren't. You'll never be ready for this.


But I'll show you anyway.


Here goes.




That's right. Not just one hair.

An entire hairball. Like, with three different colors of hair all tangled up together, as if some vengeful cook cleaned out a hairbrush over my meal.

I wonder if these folks are perhaps in cahoots with that Mexican restaurant that we don't mention?

What's amusing is that earlier that day, I said to myself, "Man, I need to clean up my diet. I need to eat less."

So I went way out of my comfort range and ordered a salad.

A hairball salad.

I think it's nature's way of telling me to eat cookies and stay curvy.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

heart @ cookie .com

I am a very mean person, because I am finally coming to terms with the fact that I am legitimately addicted to sugar, so I made these cookies to give to friends for Valentines Day, but I can't stop eating them, which puts me in a bad mood, because it makes me feel weak and explains certain things about my muffin top.

And Dr. Krog has just returned home from his lone portion of our failed family vacation, and I suspect he's going to leave whiskers and shaving cream in my newly cleaned sink, but I can't say anything, because he brought me two bath bombs from Lush.

And I didn't paint anything tonight, but I'm okay with that, because I've been painting two boards at a time, and I don't have any more boards cut, and the mitre saw would wake up the children.

And, in my last run-on sentence of the night, my mother was supposed to email me the picture of the GIANT HAIRBALL I found in my SALAD today so that I could SHOW YOU, but she DIDN'T, so I CAN'T, and I think the sugar is taking effect, and OMIGOD, I WISH I WAS COSMIC BOWLING ON ROLLER SKATES RIGHT NOW. HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE?

I'm going to go now.

Before I say something else I regret.

Me and this cookie.

We're going.

So... bye.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

oh, rikki, you're so fine.

Today's paintings are in honor of Rudyard Kipling and his creations, Rikki Tikki Tavi and The White Seal. I can almost smell the 9 grains of popcorn on a brown paper towel on my desk as I settled in for a 4th grade movie. Ahhhh. The 1980's were good, and I am old.

Which brings to mind a bad joke.

Man: Do you like Kipling?
Other man: I don't know. I've never kippled.

HA HA HA HA HA. British people are funny!

So I'm brain dead, and I have a question.

I've got 10 or so paintings thus far, and I can't quite figure out what to do with them. Save them for a show next year, or start selling them in my Etsy shop? Or should I save these for the show, and do something more marketable in the same style for the Etsy shop?

Or, maybe I should first ask... would anyone want to actually buy them, and how much would you pay?

I'm not looking for commitment here, or even compliments, although I wouldn't turn 'em down. Mainly, I'm curious if they would actually sell. My last foray into "make something to sell on Etsy" was a major failure, so I clearly can't anticipate the industry. Maybe I should do some woodburnings of Edward and Bella? I don't know.

I'm good at making art, but I suck at selling it.

And now I'm either going to go bake cookies or take a bath. But not both at the same time.

That's just silly.

Monday, February 8, 2010

reel big artist

Hello, Blackberry and Keharr and nice new box of pastels. Have I ever mentioned that Watership Down was my favorite book in second grade, and that it continues to capture my imagination as an adult? Nothing like a bunch of British bunnies to warm my cold, black heart.

And I thought you might like to see little snippets of my studio, along with the paintings. I remember when I was young, and I thought that an artist's studio was upstairs and tidy and full of light and empty canvases.


Your studio is wherever you can work. Mine is almost always messy. When I'm creating, I'm not cleaning up behind myself. In fact, at my first post-college job, that was the boss's only complaint about me: When she's creating, she's messy. Ten years later, and that review still rankles. But it got me a raise-- I made a whopping $25,000 a year!

Which is more than I make now, but still... in today's market, I could make more flipping burgers. Back then, I paid $650 a month for a one-bedroom apartment next to an old drunk who knocked on my door at 3am to give me lamps and then peed on my car.

I've come a long way, but I'm still a messy artist.

But that's okay, because my boyfriend still loves me.

Oh, you didn't know I have a boyfriend?

Shh. Don't tell Dr. Krog.

He's good-looking and well-made, and he hugs me in all the right places, and I luuuuuuurve him.

That's right. My new boyfriend is a baby carrier, the Babyhawk Oh Snap! that I'm reviewing for Tomorrow is our first date. I'll let you know how it goes, probably at great length, whether you like it or not.

Because when it comes to carriers, I do kiss and tell. Not Krogs, though.

That's personal.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

some pig

Somehow, they're much more impressive in person. Wilbur is just the most lovely rose, and Charlotte is like the shadows on an October leaf, shimmering rust and umber. Wait until I get 'em coated in shiny epoxy. Then you'll be like, "She was right! That's Some Pig!"

But perhaps I should be more Humble.

I suppose that for a while, unless I have totally amazing pictures of my kids*, I'll just show you the day's paintings and then start rambling. Ramble ramble. Um, Super Bowl?

I don't know. I went on a cleaning kick today and disassembled my house, cutting my thumb nearly in half in the process. Okay, not in half. But it stings whenever I apply lotion. I changed all the sheets, tidied up the studio, cleaned out my room of Rock Band gear. Matching all the DVDs and VHS tapes** to their cases and sorting through them took nearly an hour. And Dr. Krog has apparently been collecting dry cleaning bags as part of a massive conspiracy to.... um... cover things with plastic bags.

Also, I had asparagus for supper. But that's not really important.

On that note, I'm going to go apply a facial mask, read some Ella Enchanted, and enjoy a cup of tea, because I can't seem to complete a thought. Do you ever have a day like that? If you have children, you do.

I did.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

* Because there's nothing more interesting in the entire world than pictures of my kids. Unless you'd like to see this slide show of our trip to the Recycling Plant? I have a very informative speech on the Nitrogen CyZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzz.

** Yes, we are the only people in North America who still enjoy VHS tapes. What are we supposed to do-- go buy the DVD versions of Can't Hardly Wait and Austin Powers, The Spy Who Shagged Me?***

*** Stop laughing, please. We own worse stuff. But I'm not sayin' what.

****On an unrelated footnote, have you watched Blazing Saddles lately? Wow, that is one racy but hilarious movie. They couldn't remake it now, but if they did, I think Alan Tudyk should play the Waco Kid, and Reese Witherspoon would be great as that burlesque chick who can't pronounce her R's and is so tired all the time.

Friday, February 5, 2010

this one's for charis.

And now, a confession.

Today was one of those days where I feel like a downright crappy mother, housekeeper, and human being. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was hormones, maybe it was the starlit dance of the planets spinning through the heavens, but the end result was simply that I felt like a complete failure.

Funny thing is, not a single thing has changed since yesterday, when I felt invincible and manic.

Luckily, my brain can remind my heart of this discrepancy, and my fractious 3 year old can go spend the night with her grandmother, and my teething baby can go to sleep, and I can reclaim my humanity, bit by bit, through words and paint and wisps of smoke on wooden board.




Wait. Why are you still here?

I'm out of art for the night.

Oh, you want another confession?


I really like the video for Lady Gaga's song Bad Romance.

I think it's just as pretty and weird and random as the videos of the early 1980's. I like it just as much as Total Eclipse of the Heart. I don't know a thing about that chick, but she's fascinating.

Seriously, go to bed.

Thursday, February 4, 2010


First I was an artist, and that was pretty cool. Then I went to art school, which was mostly lame. Then I worked in a gallery, then a garden, then a gallery, then a cube, then a worse cube, then a gallery.

Then I had a one-woman show while pregnant, had a baby, quit painting, got pregnant again, started painting again, had a baby, and had a one-woman art show while carrying around a baby and looking like a puffy rhino.

So that's easy to keep up with.

Then... I started writing. And I quit painting. And I wrote two books and a short story and started two more books. And as research, I started reading again, and I started falling in love with characters and creatures.

And now I'm back to painting.

And still writing. But I'm going to try to do 1 little wooden painting every day until February 2011, when I hope to have an exhibit at The Art Place - Mt. View again to celebrate Children's Book Month. I did one in 2004 and covered the back wall in an 8-foot tall mural.

It was a lot of fun. We had the librarians from next door come over to do readings, and elementary school kids walked over from class, and all the kids at the reception got to help paint a stand-up cut-out of The Library Dragon.

So, I'd love to hear everyone's favorite characters from kids' books.

But not necessarily picture books, because if I try to sell a painting of Olivia, they'll sue the pants off of me, and I like most of my pants these days.

Plans thus far include all of the rabbits from Watership Down, Bunnicula, the Jungle Book critters, characters from The Phantom Tollbooth, that sort of thing.

Ready... go!

grouchy virago speaks

I hereby proclaim myself a grouchy virago this morning.*

I'm still behind on sleep thanks to Monday's norovirus. For the record, I may never ingest baguette with ham and cheese again. Or dog food, apparently, judging by what appeared to be a lone kibble.

We mothers develop stomachs of iron. It feels perfectly natural to sit in a crowded restaurant with a baby in your lap discussing the colors of bowel movements and the smell of spit-up. It's just shop talk, like Dr. Krog discussing people he choked unconscious. It's what moms do.

I remember when I was younger, and I didn't mind getting sick. Hell, sometimes, I welcomed it. Getting sick meant sleeping in, watching TV, and having my mom bring me whatever food and drink I desired with just a ring of a bell. It was like a slightly achy vacation.

Back then, as my mom fulfilled my every request for ginger ale floats, I had no idea how horrible illness is for caretakers. Caring for the patient is like having a 7th job, and after all that, there's a 90% chance that Mom will get sick, too, because she has been bathed in gummy, germy kisses.

And when a mom is sick, there is no rest. No naps. No homemade chicken soup.** Being sick is just another job, and when you recover enough, you get to clean up the mess that accumulated while you were sick, all while on a worse sleep deficit than usual.

I sometimes want to start a website to halt teen pregnancy called, and I would post a picture of me at 4am on Monday, nursing a screaming baby while dehydrated and covered in barf, with my face covered in blotchy, burst blood vessels. I'd alternate that sort of picture with STDs and stretch marks.

And then I'd buy stock in GlaxoSmithKline and watch the dollarz roll in, yo.

* Note: This is a rant against illness, not against partners and children. In my family, Daddy works hard to take care of the family and can't stay home to watch the kids and make homemade chicken soup, and I don't expect him to do that. I'd rather he keep his job so that I can stay home and eat bonbons all day.***

** Dr. Krog brought me McDonald's when I was able to eat again. He's very fine.

*** I don't actually eat bonbons, but you know what I mean.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

aye, sorr. still womitin'.

(I know I'm doing lots of conversations lately, but... well. I just am. So there.)

me: (5pm yesterday) I had forgotten what awful indigestion I get from hot Krispy Kreme donuts. I must be getting old. Or more bilious.

me: (7pm yesterday) HERBLAUGH!

me: (9pm, 10:30pm, 12:30pm, 2:30am, 3:30am) HERBLAUGH!


t.rex: (4am) Uh... is someone stepping on the hose, because my cheeseburger machine appears to be running dry. And stinky.

me: I stink, I'm dehydrated, and I got two hours of sleep next to a pissed off baby. Now that it's 7am, I will pay one million dollars for a bottle of 7Up or any greenish beverage. Any takers?

my mom: Why, yes, I will leave my job in the dark of early morning to bring you not one, but three different greenish beverages, because I am a freakin' hero.

me: GLUG GLUG GLUG. Gee, I hope I'm not going to womit again.

the Biscuit: Mommy, I need some milk. Mommy, I need some more milk. Mommy, I have manners, so please can I have some chocolate milk and a raspberry cookie and then I can see the snail and also paint? Mommy? How about some nice oatmeal with blackberries, but don't stir it up, because really, I just want to eat the blackberries? How 'bout that? What are we doing today? Can we go buy another snail? Or a cat? Or go to the playground?

me: UGH.

t.rex: Seriously, is there some button I'm missing on the cheeseburger machine? My milk cow has apparently run dry, and these crackers aren't going to moisten themselves.

me: UGH. But now I can eat toast.

me: (1pm) UGH. But now I want some McDonald's, please.

Dr. Krog: I'm starting to feel a little UGH myself, but I will bring you McDonald's, because I am a frickin' hero. Huh. I didn't finish my cheeseburger. That's unusual.

Dr. Krog: (4pm) HERBLAUGH!

the Biscuit: WAH!

me: What's wrong, sweetheart?


me: Well, yes, people who have the stomach flu don't really want to be touched or talked to, really.

the Biscuit: BUT I WANT TO SEE IT!

me: You want to see what?


me: He's vomiting. That horrible noise that sounds like a wormhole to the zombie apocalypse is your father barfing.

the Biscuit: I WANT TO SEE IT!

me: Why on earth do you want to see Daddy's barf?


me: Um... it's a really noxious sort of brown. A pukey brown. And it reeks. I speak from experience.

the Biscuit: BUT I WANT TO SEE!

Dr. Krog: (weakly) She can come see me, if she wants to.

me: She doesn't really want to see YOU, sweetheart. She wants to see your puke.

Dr. Krog: I already flushed it. It reeked.


me: Okay, honey. You go right upstairs and smell your daddy's vomit, if it'll make you happy. But don't expect a big Christmas.


In other news, if you saw me on Monday, please go take a bath in bleach.

It's for your own good.

Monday, February 1, 2010

welcome to my brain. did you bring snacks?

Today's Grocery List:

red crap
ask about tar baby
cat fud
my apples
my yogurt
t.rex's smushy fruit

It all makes sense to me.

I misspell things on purpose, just to amuse myself.

I use the abbreviations for toilet paper and paper towels from when my parents owned a janitorial company when I was in high school.

And I needed a plecostomus, one of those hideously ugly fish that sucks gloop off the wall of the fish tank.

But they were out of those, so we got a snail instead. The Biscuit picked him out. His name is Doraville SpongeBob SquareSnail. For the next five minutes at least. This tells me that she's been hanging out with the 4 year olds.

I do not approve.

Still, I often wonder about what happens when some poor shmo picks up my fallen grocery list in the parking lot and shakes his head at the imaginative but illiterate idjit who has 'cat fud' on the list because the Gary Larson cartoon makes her smile.

Even though she doesn't own a cat.

See? Doesn't that make you smile?

Good. Now go get some bacon and put some kreamer in your mug of piping hot krogular, and let's watch some Buffy.