13 years...

of marriage.

Wow.

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary.  Well, mine and Erik's.

We're planning a trip to Zion National park this weekend.  It's where we spent our honeymoon, and where we like to return to just chill and reconnect.

The plan is to leave Saturday and return Monday, which led me to apply for a day off of work.  I can either take a personal day, no questions asked, and pay for a sub, OR I can apply for an "emergency" day which requires me to give an explanation.

I wrote, "It's my wedding anniversary and we have a special event planned."  How's that for a euphemism for, "Planning on having hotel sex"?

Spoiled Little Shit

So I was at my mom's house on Sunday going through her old Christmas decorations.  We found the old advent calendar that my Granny (dad's mom) used to send us every year.  It's a long embroidered candle with a with 24 rings.  She'd tie some kind of little wrapped gift on each ring, and we four kids would each take turns opening a present until Christmas day.

It's one of my favorite Christmas memories.

When we found it, and my mom offered to give it to me, I was thrilled and touched.  I went to the store today, and carefully selected some little gifts for Sophie and for Janzen.  I wrapped them in tissue, tied them with ribbon, and attached them on the candle.

Tonight, I unveiled the calendar, ceremoniously untied the first gift, (some lavender fizzy bath hearts) and gave it to Sophie to open. 

Her response?

"Oh crap.  I don't really like these."

So, I took the calendar down, told her I was going to give the presents to someone who would appreciate them, and sent her to bed.

So much to be thankful for

There just really is no way to express it.

The bird's in the oven.  Li'l sis Katy is chillin', catching up on old Buffy comics.  The boys are in the back playing video games (of course) and Soph and I are watching a little Kung Fu Panda on the telly.

Janz brought along his Viking helmet to wear while devouring the feast.  I guess I'll go ahead and let him wear it, as long as he also puts on a clean shirt.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Because I promised myself I would...

here is today's blog.

Blogging is the closest thing I have to a hobby (sad) so I'm determined to spend some time at it every day.

(Sits and waits for inspiration.)

(Considers feeding Sophie a Kid Cuisine for dinner.)

(Gets up and microwaves least healthy meal known to man for Sophie.)

(Returns)

(Wonders if should admit that daughter is eating dinner in front of the TV.  In her room.  No.  Don't tell them.  The frozen dinner is enough.  Combined with the tv, in the room no less, crosses the line from "keepin' it real" to "admitting defeat.")

(Casts about for something.  Anything.)

(Twilight?  Would they think I am a total middle aged teen romance reading/watching freak?  It wasn't TERRIBLE.  Fine cinema, no; cheezy, yes; vapid, at times; entertaining, well, yeah.  And I did say Cedric Diggory was super hot YEARS ago.  YEARS.  Except for those times when he looks like Pete Doherty.  But they probably wouldn't believe me.)

(Should I mention E's colon issues?  No way.  He'd shit.)

Well, apparently I have nothing to say today.  Here's hoping that tomorrow Sophie says fuck in front of her grandma or something.

Yes she can!

After I told her for the 100th time that no, she does NOT have a boyfriend, and that she and Aiden can be good friends, but not boyfriend/girlfriend, Soph answered,

"Well mom, Barack Obama is president now, so that means we have FREEDOM!"

20 minutes to myself...

and no idea what to do with them, other than waste them.

I think I need a hobby.

Does blogging count as a hobby?

I guess it might if I did it more than once every fiscal quarter.

I'm looking for the passion people, and am not exactly sure where to find it.

In less self absorbed news, (actually, not really) this year I will be cooking my first official Thanksgiving dinner.  My folks will be in Logan, and E's don't have firm plans, plus E has wanted me to cook him a turkey for 12 years now, so I guess this is the year.

I have provided everything but the turkey at many, many Thanksgiving feasts.  I make a mean pumpkin pie (my secret ingredient is real maple syrup) and can do sweet potatoes, cranberries, and whatever else with no problem.  But I've never stuffed and cooked a turkey.  Ever.

I hope I don't fuck it up.

I'll only be feeding 5, myself included, so hopefully, I'll be able to find a fairly small bird.  Li'l sis Katy will be there (thank God, as she is a very good cook and even better company) and because I'll be in my own kitchen/house and not mother or mother-in-law's, this year I can decree, "Let there be cocktails" and there will be.  Sweet.

Riveting, ain't it?

In first grade news, the saying "Easy-peasy-cotton-cheesy" (said when a request has been made that is too easy to even justify.  As in, "Soph, could you please clean up the mess you made with the frosting and peanut butter?"  "Sure Mom!  That's easy-peasy-cotton-cheesy!")has been officially replaced with "Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy,"

That is all.

The Bird

Ahhh…the bird.

Who doesn't love flipping the bird? I do. My students do. My daughter does.

That's right. Sophie Gene loves the bird.

Where she learned the bird, I can only guess, but she explained to me recently that she has become a surreptitious bird flipper.

That is to say, she knows she shouldn't do it, but it's just so fun she can't help it, so she often flips the bird…

• In her pocket.
  
• Inside her desk.
  
• Under the covers.
  
• While in the bath-tub.
  
• In the back seat where I can't see her.
  

She knows it's not NICE to flip the bird, but isn't really sure why, and doesn't seem to care. It's the actual action of poking that little middle finger up that she likes. In addition to the covert bird flipping described above, she often "accidentally" flips the bird when counting, pointing, and otherwise gesturing.

My favorite was when she shot me a kiss (you know…you kiss your pointer finger, and then make a gun and shoot the kiss to whomever) on her middle finger. When I calmly inquired, "What the hell?" she explained, "Mom, that was a love bird!"

Jump Back!

Damn it's been a long time.  Let's pretend it hasn't; shall we?

So.  Halloween.

Like all 6 year olds, Soph had been planning Halloween 08's costume since Halloween 07.  She considered Annie, Pikachu,Tinkerbell,and about a hundred other characters.  Then, as October rolled around, she had narrowed her choices to either, ahem, "Grave Yard Fairy" or "50s Librarian."

I'm pretty sure she saw the grave yard fairy in a costume magazine, but I still was pretty confounded as to how to pull it off.  As for 50s librarian, can I just offer, what the fuck?

Long story short, I came across a 50s soda fountain girl costume, bought it, and told her it would have to do.  Amazingly, she was ok with that.

Behold.
  Of course, she went to 2 parties, plus trick-or-treating, and wore a different costume to each event.   She decided to be a princess for the first one.  I broke down and let her wear a little make-up; I mean, it was Halloween, after all.
Frankly, I don't think I took a picture of the actual trick-or-treating ensemble.  I should have.  She went with "50s princess" for that one, and was wearing a baby blue princess dress up with the pink cat glasses and a pony tale.  I thought of talking her out of it for about 2 seconds, then realized that was absurd.  It's her damn costume--why should I do anything but make sure she's warm and reasonably decent?

I'll close with 5 points of interest regarding me, as, apparently, I am a bit more than "Sophie's mom."

• I'm making Thanksgiving for the first time this year.
• I just bought new walking shoes.
• I love pumpkin pie ice cream
• I just read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
• I think it might be time to look back into the anti-depressant meds.  14 hours of sleep a night might be pushing it just a tad.

Oh.  I'm on Facebook.  Mostly for the Scramble.  Which I'm surprisingly bad at, yet still enjoy playing.   So drop by and challenge me to a game, if you so desire.

What's New? What's Old?

What's new?

• A truly, truly hideous haircut.  There are no words, really.
• Watching Monarch of the Glen via Netflix.  It's lovely and benign, and if I'm being honest, it's loveliness and benignity are probably symptomatic of my current spiritual/personal/emotional rut.
• Ants.  In my house.
• Jasper Fford novels--the Tuesday Next series in particular.  Again, benign, though not perhaps lovely--brain candy though, without a doubt.

What's old?

• Fear for the planet in general, my daugher in particular.  I'm having one of those days where I'm worried that despite all my efforts, she will be kidnapped or raped or killed in a horrific freak accident or at the very least, will inherit a world with no resources or have to live through WW3.
• Cosmic brain fuck over finally deciding that there probably is no god, and no point, and living in a human body is a weird coincidence that doesn't make sense combined with guilt for not just being grateful for food, clothing, a reasonably peaceful town, and a healthy child.

Send me a mental hug, will you?

Did I mention that school started last Thursday?

Because it did.

I am officially ass deep in back-to-school shenanigans.

This year (fingers crossed) is shaping up to be a good one.  The kids seem to be fairly human.  Sophie is in 1st grade full time, so I don't have to taxi her around during my prep period.  None of my 11th graders are reading below an 8th grade level.  So--that should be swell.

Of course, I've gotten in the bad habit of checking the sheriff's office web page, and looking the jail bookings and most wanted page.  Sigh.  Two of my former students are on the most wanted page, and one or two show up at least weekly in the jail bookings.  I need to quit doing that.  It makes me feel like crap.

Time to go correct stuff.

She better have had the time of her life...

because Sophie pretty much just had her last birthday blowout.  Next year she can have a couple of friends sleep over, but the ginormous hoopla has seen its last year.

What can I say?  The girl is popular.  She's the only granddaughter in town, and most of our family lives here. 
She goes to two schools.  She knows a shit load of people.

The party was at the park, in a reserved pavilion (reserved people.  That means back the fuck off when I'm packing up with, in all reality, 2 house left on my reservation and you want to use the pavilion which you did NOT reserve for your little family function.)   We ended up with 16 kids (18 if you count the two crashers) and about as many adults.

The bounce house was fun, and no one needed stitches.  (There were two serious head bonks and 1 kid stepped on a bee.)

Katy's cupcake rainbow was oohed and aahed over, and Sophie particularly loved it, (although for some reason she decided to have all of the kids at the party blow out her candles for her and make their own wishes.)


All in all, a success.

It never fails...

You can plan a play-date.

Set up the play tent.

Outfit it with tea party stuff.

Buy new water colors.

And even glitter glue.

But ultimately, the kids will have the most fun blowing up 2 old balloons that they found under the bed, and letting them go in each other's faces, yelling "Who farted?" about fifty million times.

Snippity Snapshots

My gal pal just sent me some very sweet photos of Soph.  As I, her mother, haven't seen fit to take any pictures of her in the past 4 months, I'm sure glad someone else has.

The first two have a bit of a story behind them.  Soph's two best friends are dare devils.  She is not.  So when they thought up the awesome plan of towing one another behind the Barbie Jeep in a bike egg, she immediately said, "Woah girls.  I'm going to need my helmet for that one!"

Here the two of us are at the Montessori Mothers' Day  party.

And this last one is just a day at the park early in the spring.

In further news, I made plans for her birthday party today.  Even if I only invite kids who invited her to their birthday this year, I'm going to end up with about 15.  Plus grandmas, and great grandmas, and other genetic hangers on.  We've officially outgrown ice cream at Grandee's.  So I bit the bullet, reserved a pavilion at the city park, and ordered up a bounce house.  It's too pricey, but I'm hoping that the grandmas will contribute to the bounce house in lieu of buying her more crap.  If any of y'all are in town on August 9th, join us for some sweet, sweet, bouncy fun.

Sunshine and Butterflies

Ok, Ok.  I've been on a bit of a downer the last few posts.  Sorry.  My plan is to cowgirl the hell up and forge ahead with a spring in my step and a song in my mother effing heart.

To that end, here is a (shortish) list of things that make me glad.

1.  Budweiser "Real Men of Genius" ads.  I know.  Lame.  And it's number one on the list.  But that is some funny shit.  My particular favorite is "Mr. Cellphone Holster Wearer."  Because I totally know that guy.
2.  Avocados.
3.  My tomato plants.
4.  Thunder storms.
5.  Punctuating phrases with periods.
6.  Joe Strummer.
7.  Californication--the TV show, not the song.  Watch it.  It has tons of heart.  Well, and tons of boobs.  But an equal amount of heart and boobs.

Wonk

I've been doing better in general the last few months.  More with the exercise.  Less with the snacks.  More with the positive outlook.  Less with the self loathing.

Enter this week.

Things have been down right wonky.  I'm talking cookie dough, pizza, Maui Sweet Onion Kettle Chips, in bed half the day, not washing my hair, seeing a wookie every time I look in the mirror wonky.

And I wish I knew why.

Something tipped.  Something that was causing me to feel the need to take care of myself and be productive and positive has gone awry.
I
n my head I list possibilities.  My first day back at school is August 7th.  (There is simply no August in summer vacation anymore.)  E has switched jobs (I think I can safely say that now that he's officially told his old job.) and is working both for a short time.  The house is for sale (because not having a yard is an issue).  But really, I don't feel actively upset about any of these things.

What I feel is tired.  What I feel is apathy.  What I feel is hungry.  What I feel is afraid.

You know, it might have something to do with being taught, the whole time I was growing up, that the apocalypse, the actual end of days, was probably going to happen in my life time.  The "Second Coming" was always coming, and you had better have all your ducks in  a row.

So when the world begins to feel unbalanced, I start feeling like I should start hoarding water and gas and, shit, I don't know, cracker snacks.  Gas prices go up, and I immediately feel like the whole basis of Western society is going to fall to bits and I'm going to end up running through burning streets, clutching my daughter's hand, dodging bullets and searching for a cave or something to wait out the last great battle in.  (With cracker snacks.)

I read about the economy failing, and my stomach decides that digesting itself is a reasonable response, as we probably won't be able to afford bread soon.

Some Mormons in recovery spend a lot of time focusing on the guilt that the church built into their lives.  For me, it's the fear.  And I don't really know how to deal with it.

So if you should see me at the grocery store, buying flats of canned goods and sacks of flour, just give me a big hug, and reassure me that the end, isn't in fact, nigh.  That things get sketchy, and wonky sometimes, but that it will be OK.

A quick Soph said

I'm determined to not throw away ANY produce.  It's so damn expensive.  The nectarines were getting a little past, so I decided to make smoothies as a snack for Soph and her pal as their afternoon snack.  A little banana, nectarine, ice, milk, wizz in the blender.  I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I presented them both a nice cool, frothy, healthy treat.  Until Soph squealed.

"Jesus mom what is this?  A bubbling vomit swamp?"

(Note to self.  WAY less with the Jesus, or we're going to be ridden out of town on a rail.)

A word about yoga

Sophie has yoga camp today.  She LOVES it.  I signed her up at the studio where I used to take yoga but stopped several months ago.  Because, as I came to find out, I fucking hate yoga.

Ok.  That was a little strong.

Thing is, I used to really love it.  Sure I'd feel a little uncomfortable (read: like a beached whale) sometimes, but generally managed to push through it.  Not so much anymore.

It's a lot of little things, I guess.  The phrase that goes through my head about 80 times whenever I go to a class, "Why don't you shove it up your perfect little enlightened ass?" kind of sums it up though.

See, WAY back in the day when I was still going to church, people would sit around, talking (read: bragging) about "feeling the spirit."  It's a Mormon thing.  And I'd sit there feeling like shit on a stick, because I wasn't feeling it.

Enter the yoga folk.  And their cleansing breaths.  And their flowing energy.  And I find myself back there on the pew, wondering if they are full of sparkly, enlightened bullshit, or if I'm somehow inherently flawed because I'm not getting it.

Add being surrounded by teeny bendy bodies, while mine is neither teeny, nor bendy (I have boobs people.  Laying on my stomach and trying to raise my legs is uncomfortable and embarassing.  And don't even ask me to turn upside down until there have been some serious, serious advancements in the field of boob support, because I'm likely to be smothered by my own tits.)

Yeah, yeah, I know it's not a competition, and that I'm suppose to modify and blah, blah, blah.  Also, it hasn't escaped my attention that the root of the problem is (possibly) ME and not a centuries old practice embraced by millions.

But I still fucking hate it.

Melt Down

Sophie is currently in the middle of a full fledged melt-down.  She's on her top bunk with the covers pulled over her head wailing about how no one likes her, her mom isn't nice, she isn't nice, her life is too hard, etc.

The impetus for this Sophie melt?  I bought the wrong hair clips at Walgreens.

The real story behind the tears?

I have my theories.

The main one is that it is just too, too fucking hot.  So hot.  By 10:00, it's 90 degrees and climbing.  She wants to be outside and run around and go to the park and ride her scooter.  But 1/2 a block down the road the reality of the heat sets in.

Also, she's bored out of her mind.  There is only so much I can do.  We invite friends over.  Go swimming, bowling, do crafts--but ultimately, there are hours to be filled.  We have no yard.  She has no siblings here during the week (and Janz isn't much of a playmate when he is here on the weekends.  What 14 year old boy wants to entertain his spoiled 5 yr old sister) and even an imaginative and resourceful little mind runs out of things to do after weeks an weeks.

A sub-category to the above is that she's bored with me.  And frankly, I'm bored with her too.  Ok.  Let's tell it like it is.  She's driving me bat-shit crazy.  I'm about done meeting the wants/needs/desires/requests/ of my daughter.  Every time I hear "Mama?" "Mom?" "Mommy?" I know that it will be followed with some THING she wants/needs/desires/or is requesting of me.  And guess what?  I don't wanna.  I don't want to get anything down or put anything up or open or close or listen to or watch or do or undo.  Anything.

It's not her fault.  It's not really mine either.  It just is.

So she watches too much TV (well, movies because the satellite is out) and I read too many books (Let's see, this week I've blasted through  The Good Fairies of New York, Gossamer, Dragonbait, Good Omens, and another book of short stories that I can't remember.).  I sometimes reassure myself that back in "olden times" when people couldn't go outdoors, they would sit around and tell stores, and that we're basically just doing that, although our stories are watched and read instead of listened to.  But really I know that's bullshit.
I'd take her up the mountain, but there's always that one thing smack in the middle of the day that prevents it. 

Today it's kid's yoga at 2:30; tomorrow I'm going to work at the jewelry store.

Excuses excuses.

Sweet, sweet summertime

(This entry is also posted at www.missuzj.com, my new blog address. I'll be simul-blogging until the end of the month, and then will be posting exclusively at www.missuzj.com.)

It's so hard to post anything lately. It just seems like I have nothing to say. Tales of play dates and laundry aren't particularly engrossing.

The summer days are drifting away one at a time. Soon it will be July 4th, and then it's a quick slide down a steep hill to the school year.

Soph and I are having a really nice time together. She has swimming lessons every day at one, and while she still isn't actually swimming, she's getting close. Hopefully by the end of the summer we'll be able to go to the pool without packing the floaties. We've hosted several play dates, and I just love to spy on her and hear what she says to her friends when she thinks I'm not listening. Of course, the last time I interrupted her to tell her it was time to clean up, she was chanting "bippity bobbity boo" under her breath. When I left the room, I heard her say, "Crap. She didn't disappear."

No major mishaps so far (knock wood) other than a little run in she had with a ceiling fan. We were at a party at some friends' house, and I NEVER have much to drink when I'm being the "primary care giver," but E wasn't drinking and I was introduced to Sr. Mojito. Damn. Anyway, she climbed up on a bunk bed (unbeknowst to me) and there was a ceiling fan about 2 feet above it (!!) and she stood up and got clocked in the forehead. It could have been way worse, but I felt/feel pretty freakin' guilty for not paying better attention.

We've started reading short chapter books together at bed time. After blasting through a couple of Disney Fairies books (not as bad as you might think) we've started reading the Ramona books which she gets a pretty big kick out of. I enjoy reading them to her, so it's win-win.

I'm still Weight Watchering. Actually, I'm down 20 pounds, but have gotten pretty complacent the last few weeks. I need to step it back up. Thing is, getting skinny is a little scary. The fat is there for a reason. Not 100% sure what that reason is--that would be way to thoughtful and introspective of me--but as it started coming off, I did feel a little bit of panic.

I did notice, after a weekend of cocktails and cheese and s'mores and no exercise at the family cabin, (aside--the next time you are making s'mores, put a flat rock just close enough to the fire to warm it. While toasting your marshmallow, place a graham cracker on the rock with your chocolate on it. The chocolate will get all melty, and from there, it's just food porn. I'll let you use your imagination)that I felt tired and cranky--like I did when I first had the Epstein Barr diagnosis. So--wait--eating well and exercising makes your body feel better? Oh. Why didn't anyone ever tell me that before. ;)

Comment Whore wants to know:

How do you like your roasted marshmallows? Flaming? Golden? Do you have a technique?

Talet Show Video

(This entry is also posted at www.missuzj.com, my new blog address. I'll be simul-blogging until the end of the month, and then will be posting exclusively at www.missuzj.com.)

Remember the South Elementary Variety Show? Sophie had such high hopes for her "performance" and then some serious stage fright turned her sweet solo into a dubious duet? (Alliteration strikes again!)

I finally received the video from the PTA, and after 2 hours of trying to figure out Windows Movie Maker and YouTube, I just may just be ready to share it with you.

Tuesday Redux

(This entry is also posted at www.missuzj.com, my new blog address. I'll be simul-blogging until the end of the month, and then will be posting exclusively at www.missuzj.com.)

One of the greatest things about updating the blog has been going back through old posts. I can't believe I've been doing this for 3 years, and I'm so, so grateful to myself for recording all of those "toddler moments" from when my girl was little(r). So, I've arbitrarily chosen Tuesday as redux day. I'll just pull a post from the archives, and have a look back at what Soph and I were doing around this day 1, 2, or 3 years ago. Lazy, eh?

Today's flashback is from 3 years ago.

6/19/05
THE CANDY MAN

I have yet to see the third, sixth, whatever it is, newest Star Wars movie. I'm not a die hard Star Wars fan, but I was disappointed by numbers 1&2 or 4&5, or whatever. No Han Solo (insert purring growl in appreciation of young Harrison Ford with a blaster), shitty directing, annoying amphibious creatures. Sophie has not seen any of "new" Star Wars movies, but, because of a strange connection she's made regarding Darth Vader, she's already his number one fan.

You see, the very first Pez dispenser that she happened to receive was Darth Vader. She knew nothing about his betrayal of the Jedi, or cyborg soullessness. All she knew was that if you lifted up his head--CANDY! And better yet, you can keep lifting, and the candy KEEPS COMING! That is why Sophie refers to Vader as, "The Candy Man."

So a couple of days ago, we were all sitting around, and decided to put in Episode 4--A New Hope--or as I prefer to call it, Star Wars. When Vader made his first entrance, Sophie was beside herself--not with fear, but with joyful appreciation. "Wook Mommy! Wook! It's the Candy Man!" She sat through the rest of the movie--enjoying Chewbaca, asking about Leah--but mostly waiting with baited breath for the appearance of the man who in her mind must be cousins with Santa Clause, or at least the Easter Bunny--The Candy Man aka Darth Vader aka Annakin Skywalker.

What's kind of odd about her camaraderie with Darth Vader is that she has this funny mannerism that we've been calling "Vadering" for about a year now. When she's particularly pissed, she'll hold her arm out stiffly, with her fingers spread and pointing straight forward and say firmly, "No Daddy!" (or Mommy or whoever.) We call it Vadering (as in--"Sophie just totally Vadered you") because it's like the thing Vader does to strangle that general guy in one or another of the movies. We know that she's especially pissed when we get a "Double Vader"--both hands out.

On another Sophie/Star Wars note, the other day she opened the fridge and dragged out a nearly full gallon of milk. I must have been comatose on the couch--because I didn't notice. Janzen walked by, oblivious to both Sophie and the milk, until she screeched, "Janzen--Don't put my milk away!" This, of course, clued both Janz and I into the fact that some milk intervention was needed. After I confiscated the milk, we laughingly discussed how Sophie had totally yet inadvertently tattled on herself. I said to Janzen--"She should have said, 'Move along Janzen. This is not the milk you're looking for.'" He thought this was so hilarious, he spent the rest of the day teaching her to say, "Move along. This is not the milk you're looking for."

Today's best thing about being a mom:
I should write more about my step-son. He's a total hoot. Plus, he is the most consciencious person with a Y chromosome I've ever met. Several times a day he says, "Boo (his nick name for me since he could talk) is there anything I can do to help?" I'm dead fucking serious. He says this. Then he helps. Folks--he's 11! Plus, we've started watching Monty Python together. We'll just be sitting around, and suddenly he'll say "Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" (If you didn't get that quote, we can't be friends--unless you go rent The Holy Grail immediately and watch it tonight.) It's pretty cool to have a kid (I think I can claim him as partially mine) who is also an incredibly funny and empathetic friend. (But of course, African swallows are non-migratory.)

Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Getting a "Double Vader" just for suggesting that perhaps pulling the entire roll of toilet paper off the roll and putting it in the toilet isn't such a great idea.

What's a little wiping among friends? AND New digs!

Sophie's friend Audrey was over all day yesterday. (My favorite Audrey story--she used to pronounce her "s" as "t." So, the first thing she ever said to me was, "How do you like my Hello Titty lunchbox?")

At one point, I heard Sophie holler, "Audrey! Hurry up!" Audrey replied, "Wait! I'm going poop!" There was a pause and then Sophie offered, "Need a wipe?" Audrey said, "Ummm. Sure!"

Luckily, I intervened in time, and explained to Sophie that Audrey was perfectly capable of wiping her own butt, and that if she needed help, a grown-up would handle it.

In FURTHER and more exciting news, I'd like to invite everyone to change up their links and start visiting me at the all new (insert drum roll) www.missuzj.com!

E bought the domain name for me for Christmas, and has been working since then to set up/design/create a super sweet new blogging pad for me.

I'll be simul-blogging for a while, but plan on posting exclusively to missuzj.com by the end of the month.

Comment whore wants you to...
Visit my new blog home and tell me what you think.

A quick Soph said...

On the way out the door this morning...

"Mom. Are we real or are we in a book?"

A story I forgot to tell

I always take Sophie on our end of the year field trip to the Zion Ponderosa Ranch Resort. It's about a 2 hour drive over the mountain, and that girl LOVES the school bus. The resort itself is kind of strange. Think of that place on Dirty Dancing, subtract the dancing, and add a zip line, mini petting zoo, and mountain bike trails and you're kind of getting there.

Anyway, it has a killer pool, which is where we spend most of our time.

While swimming, Soph overheard some teachers discussing the very thick, very sad scars on the upper arms of one of my girl students. Mrs. X mentioned to Mrs. Y that the student used to be a cutter. I heard the conversation as well, but assumed Soph wasn't listening, or that it had gone way over her head.

Now I have to back track. Soph's end of the year pet peeve at school was kids cutting (read with an incredulous Sophie voice) in LINE. The injustice of said activity was almost too much for her to take. How DARE someone try to insert him/herself in a line and not go to the end. She was particularly upset that the cutting went unpunished by teachers and even worse, that SHE got in trouble for tattling about the cutting.

So, in my motherly wisdom, I taught her the scathing verbal daggers which we at Mississippi Elementary school would use to call out and shame those who dared cut in line. Ahem. "Cutter cutter peanut butter!" and "No cuts no butts no coconuts!" I explained that when someone dared cut, we would simply say one of these seemingly magical rhymes, and they would then procede, post haste, to the end of the line.

Back to the ranch. I'm sure you know where this is going.

The story ends with Sophie chanting "Cutter cutter peanut butter" at my student as she walked down the bus aisle and me not knowing whether to shit or go blind.

Yet another facet of the world that I am unwilling/unable to explain to my 5 year old. Yet another fucked up thing to add to the list of fears to postpone until my daughter is an adolescent. Yet another occasion where Soph's sharp ears and my half-assed parenting got us both in trouble.

Comment whore wants to know:
When was the last time you were on a school bus?

"My mom says bunkbeds are only for boys"...

... is what the little girl who just came over for the first time to play with Sophie said 10 seconds ago as she walked into Soph's room.

I have a feeling this isn't going to go very well.

UPDATE

The girls had a GREAT time. Great. Actually--it was a play date of 3. Sophie and 2 sisters, age 5 and 8. Playdough--sandbox--and the piece de resistance, a game apparently called "Princess Bum Bum." If you'd like to play, simply gather your friends, take turn calling each other "Princess Bum Bum" and then laugh until you're about to barf.

1st day of summer...

And I'm thrilled. And freaked out.

The entire school year, I excuse myself from tons of shit I SHOULD (a big word in my brain today) be doing, promising to do it during the summer. So here it is. The summer. And all of the shoulds are swimming around in my stomach making me feel like I'm going to barf up my two boiled eggs and a banana.

What I need to do is be grateful that I have a job that gives me this huge chunk of time. I need to look forward to days with my daughter and time to catch up. So why oh why am I feeling almost panicky?

Here's the brain dump of all the "stuff" I've been planning to do. Starting now. (It's probably boring. It won't hurt my feelings if you want to skip it.) Oh. The list is categorized for your convenience.

Cleaning:
Everything. Clean EVERYTHING.

Wipe down all:
walls
floor moldings
wood cabinets
plantation blinds

Dejunk/Organize/Donate stuff in
Closets
Drawers
Cabinets
Garage

Sophie's Room









THROW AWAY CRAP
Go through clothing and give away all sizes under 6
organize book shelf
wipe down bunk bed
put toys, etc. in new labeled bins

Sophie's craft table









Clean it--and make her keep it up, or throw it out

CLEAN MY CAR
because it is truly, truly repulsive. Don't believe me? Look.
































Health/Food
Plan menus for week
Go to the store once a week instead of 3 times a day
Establish a pantry
Increase walk from 45 min to 1 hr

School
Implement completely new filing system
Plan units for all 4 quarters
Help detention center with writing program

Misc
Start recycling. (No curbside here. Seek out options)
Go "up the mountain" at least twice a week
Limit Soph's TV to 1 hr or less every day
Grow Tomatoes
Have sex with my husband at least once a week
Help in Grandpa Cecil's garden enough to justify helping myself to produce at will
Keep toenails painted

I'm sure there are many, many more things that will come to me--but that's at least a start. In addition to the regular daily stuff, I'm tending one of Soph's friends every Tuesday and working for my brother at his jewelry store on Thursdays.

What the fuck am I doing sitting on my ass at the computer? I must begin. Now.


Comment whore wants to know...

What's your summer to-do list? And/or, click on either the picture of my trunk or Sophie's craft table to enlarge it. List everything you can see. Whoever can list the most items wins...something.

Last day of school

This is Sophie on her very first day of kindergarten.

And here she is at her kindergarten graduation program.

(I tried to include a video, but after 3 hours of Blogger trying to upload it, I gave up. p.s. Am I not an excellent French braider?)

I can't believe how the time has gone by, and how much she's changed. It's uncanny what a different little girl she is now compared to 10 months ago.

Frankly, making the adjustment from being the mom of a toddler to the mom of a big kid has been a little rocky for me.

In a lot of ways, it's great--definitely less time consuming. I can take a shower without rushing and listening with bated breath for a crash/wail. I can say, "Get your jammies on and brush your teeth" and she can do it on her own. I don't have to monitor bath time. I drop her off at school, and she walks in by herself. She can pour cereal and put on shoes and put straws in juice boxes and wipe her ass and find her crayons and pick up her messes (in theory). There are a million and five things that she used to need me for. That now she doesn't. And I love that. And I hate it.

I hate that now I'm on the outside of so many things. I don' t know what she's thinking. I can't always sooth the hurts because they are much bigger boo-boos. Kids have started their nasty kid stuff. Calling one another names. Forming clubs that leave others out. Commenting on size and shape. The world has begun to open up in scary ways for her. She's beginning to see the ugliness and meanness. Two of her great grandmas have died--and so questions about death--questions that I do not know the answers to--pop up a lot. (Although she did inform me that as Great Grandma Tee-Tee has been dead for a year now, she is up in the third level of heaven with George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Jesus now. WTF??)

She watches and listens and so many of the things that freak me about about life, the universe, and everything are beginning to freak her out. I feel guilty about this. I've tried to keep my fears to myself, so I don't know if it's me, or just life.

This is a huge topic, and swims around in my brain constantly, and I'm not articulating it very well. So I guess I'll stop trying for now.

Comment whore wants to know...

If you're a parent, how are you making adjustments mentally as your child(ren) grow(s) older? And/or, if not, what's one thing you wish your parents had done differently in your early elementary years?

Why I do what I do (plus an asshole in the peanut gallery)

SEA Graduation

I, of course, am LameTeacher. Having only 1000 characters to work with in the comments was quite a challenge, but I think that ultimately, my point was made.

Don't know why that apostrophe turned into a question mark, but it's really pissing me off.

The end of an era

Soph has been attending the local Montessori school for the past 3 years. A week from Thursday, and that chapter of our lives will be closed. It makes me sad. That little house has been such a big part of our lives, and it's been so great for her. I feel so confident in the foundation she's built there, and know the rest of her education has a very solid place to rest. She has had the same teacher--the most steady, straight forward woman I've ever met--for three years. I don't think she'll ever have that kind of educational stability again.

BUT

I will not be one bit sad to have that extra three hundred smackaroos in the bank every month.

We're also coming to the end of her first year of kindergarten. She climbed in bed with me VERY early on Sunday morning (2ish) in tears because it had really hit home with her (at 2 a.m.???) that she had only 2 more weeks with her beloved Mrs. Wood. I swear to God--this woman was genetically engineered to teach kindergarten. Soph spent literally an hour talking about how much she LOVES Mrs. Wood. I love her too, and will miss her as well, but I will NOT miss Utah's crappy half day kindergarten. Two and a half hours is just barely worth the trouble.

On the flip side, I have her 1st grade teacher all lined-up (one of the MANY benefits of having a grandma as the school secretary) and I think Miss. Bagley is going to be great. She's a little young, but seems very with it. Also, she is so kind to Soph already. In fact, she (Miss Bagley, not Soph) is getting married in a couple of weeks, and sent Soph her very own invitation--which has a special place of honor on the refrigerator.

As for me, I'd give myself a C+ at best this year. My teaching wasn't awful, but I hit a bit of a wall. I'm just ready for the summer, and a chance to go through all my shit, and start fresh next year.

Comment whore would like you to please...

recommend a nice gift for me to give Sophie's teachers at the end of the year. They have both been such a blessing to her--and to me--and I want them to know that they're appreciated.

I hope I'm just depressed.

Really. I hope it's just me. I hope the world isn't really a big shit sandwich ready to explode. And all the bees are disappearing. And I'm terrified for my daughter's future. And people do terrible things to their children. And there's just really no hope. None.

God I hope it's just me.

Koooooodie? Aaaaare you?

When Sophie was three years old, she thought my dear friend Kodi lived in our back yard. Kods lived around the corner, (alas, we have both moved) and basically, when we were in the back yard playing, she was a fixture. So much so, that when Kodi wasn't present, Soph would wander around, looking behind bushes and furniture calling out, "Kodi! [Where] are you?"

Now though, we live on opposite ends of town, and I'm lucky to see her once a month. This blows. In fact, I'm beginning to worry a bit about if she's not ok, or if maybe I inadvertently said something stupid and hurtful and don't even know that she's upset with me.

We did go through a phase when we were first neighbors when shyness got the best of us. I'd call her, wanting to hang out, but for some reason not wanting to really ask. So our conversation would go something like this….

J: Hi. What are you up to? (I hope she says nothing and that she wants to come over.)

K: Oh. Not much. Just watching a snake show on TV. (And I'm kind of bored. I hope she invites me over.)

J: Ok. Well. I was just kind of bored and thought I'd call. (Ok Kods. This is the part where you say you want to come over.)

K: Oh. I'm glad you called. (Ok Becca. Now's the part where you ask me to come over.)

J: All right. Well, I'll talk to you later. (Rats. I guess she doesn't want to come over.)

K: Ok. Bye. (Rats. I guess she doesn't want me to come over.)

I thought we were past this phase. We've even laughed about it together, making fun of how insecure we both are, and why, sometimes, it's hard for adult women to make friends.

But now—it seems like we don't even call. And that makes me sad. Why is it sometimes hard to pick up the phone, send a quick email, or whatever when time has passed between friends? Am I the only one who struggles with this? I don't want to be a pain in the ass if someone is busy, or hibernating, or whatever, but on the other hand, I don't want to be neglectful.

So, I'm going to finish this post, and call my friend Kodi. Or maybe just text her. Because I'm a weirdo.

Comment whore wants to know…

Do you ever feel insecure/shy with your friends? Do you ever wish they would sometimes call and say, "In case you were wondering, I still like you. In fact I love you. I think you're smart and funny and clever and even though we don't see each other very often, you're still my friend"?

What didn’t they have when YOU were little (or, older than dirt)

As far as Sophie is concerned, there have been four major time periods. And none of them end in "zoic." In her mind, the earth has gone through 4 major eras: dinosaur times, when Abraham Lincoln was president, when Grandma was little, and since she was born. That's it. I've tried to discuss this with her, but frankly, time is something we all pretty much take on faith. Sure, we've been TOLD that once humankind believed the world was flat and people actually PAID for their music, but for a 5 year old (five and four quarters, she tells anyone who asks her how old she is) the idea of a world that wasn't exactly the same as it is now is pretty suspect.

She has a lot of questions about this. We've had a lot of talks that start with her asking, "What didn't they have when grandma was little?" or "What didn't they have when you were little?" or, of course, "What didn't they have when Abraham Lincoln was president."

As far as what "they" didn't have when I was little, the list is huge. Sure, there are things like computers and cell phones, but I'm talking about the IMPORTANT things. The ones she is the most blown away by, however, include…

• White boards (Think about it....Did you have white boards or chalk boards in your classrooms as a kid?)
  
• Post-it notes (How did we live without the magic?)
  
• Chicken McNuggets (These came out when I was 5, I think. I still remember KFC getting their panties in a twist and all those commercials about leaving chicken to the chicken experts.)
  
• Seatbelts (I guess they were THERE, but mostly they were shoved behind the seat and covered in various car crust.)
• Water bottles
  

Of course, I've had to defend myself a little, and remind her of the things we DID have that you can't get/see now. Like…

• Jem (However, tons of episodes are on youtube, if you didn't know. Soph LOVES them. Bonus points if you can remember who Jem/Jerica's purple haired boyfriend was. Triple bonus points if you remember the name of the lead singer of the Misfits.)
  
• The Hamburglar and Grimace
  
• Shrinkydinks
  
• Keytars
  

Ok. That list isn't by any stretch exhaustive. But I'm running out of time here, and wanted to highlight the IMPORTANT things.

As far as what "they" didn't have when Grandma was little, she's most interested in the fact that there were no pants—for girls. Soph thinks this is a sweet, sweet idea. Who knows why? She loves dresses, but why does she want to wish them on everyone?

In regards to what Abraham Lincoln and his peers had to do without, I pretty much tell her--everything. No batteries. No plugs. No Walmart. No grocery store. This freaks her out, and she feels very bad for him. Often, she'll console herself by saying, out of the blue, "Well, I guess President Lincoln had lots of horses. That must have been nice."

So…Comment whore want to know…

What DIDN'T "they" have when you were little? What DID "they" have?

A quickie "Soph said..."

Last night as she was tucked in bed, about ready to fall asleep...

"Mommy--today was Sophie appreciation day, and no one appreciated me."

Cleavage Query (More with the clothes posts?)

Is it ever ok to show cleavage at work? If so, how much? Is a centimeter too much? Two centimeters?

Why do I ask? Let me back up a bit.

In my school district, teachers can only wear jeans on Friday. (Yes. It's related. Give me a minute.) BUT on the other hand, I feel like it's necessary to keep things pretty casual with my students. They (alternative high/at risk kids) already have a very negative predisposition to all things schoolish and teacherly, and I need to be able to move around, sit on a table, and help them feel comfortable by being comfortable.

Enter my 4 pairs of brown pants.

Well, they're not all the same shade of brown. One is dark brown. One is light brown. One is a kind of a fuzzy tan. The other is a kind of grayish brown. Brown pants with a button up shirt Monday through Thursday, and jeans (hallelujah) with the school t-shirt on Friday. (You know you're a teacher if wearing jeans and a t-shirt on Friday is something you look forward to all week. You also know you're a teacher if in your nightmares, your GIVING the test in the nude rather than taking it.) Yesterday I shook things up a bit. I wore Capri pants (Jump back! They were tan though.) and a pink peasant-ish shirt. Also, the shirt showed about, oh, 1.25 cm of cleavage.

Let me tell you, I haven't had so many comments on an outfit since the time I left my fly down all through second period. A couple of teachers, and several students commented on how nice I looked. And honestly, it felt really good to hear it.

Then, I got this from Kendra. "Wow! Mrs. Jay you look so different! You actually look…good!"

Hmmm.

Apparently I've been looking a bit on the "haggard-lady-who-has-totally-given-up-on-herself-and- would-rather-you-just-didn't-look" side.

Now I realize that it wasn't the cleavage only that was garnering the compliments. Just the fact that I wore something different from the brown pants/button down shirt regiment was sure to catch some attention.

This morning, I decided to try on a couple of shirts that I hadn't worn since summer. They fit (mostly) and are very cute and springy, but because I got the boob gene, each one showed a bit of cleavage. Not porno cleavage. Not even PG13 cleavage, really. But cleavage nonetheless. Long story short—I didn't wear the shirts. Today, I'm back to the brown pants and button up.

(Yes, I realize there are noncleavage/nonbutton up shirts available in the world. But—there are fewer than you think. Also, a v-neck really goes a long way in creating the illusion of an hourglass rather than a, oh, let's say tomato.)

Where is this going? I don't really know. I do know that though I pretend that I don't care how I look most of the time, I really do. I do know that since losing a little weight, I kind of want to show it off. I do know that I am afraid of caring too much about how I look, or thinking that other people think I care too much about how I look.

Physical appearance is a tricky, tricky thing. How much should it matter? How much does it matter? Does it matter that it matters so much?

So…

Comment whore has 2 questions for you.

1) Cleavage? Is it ok at work? If so—how much?

2) What's your take on appearance? Why do you wear what you do? When does just caring about your appearance become vanity?

Back in the day

My allergies are getting WAY out of had. Today I had to call in the big guns--The Claritin D. I hate this stuff. It makes me feel all hot and itchy and creepy.

So--I'm pretty much just trying to keep my shit together and not loose my composure. To that end, I was lying on my bed with a pillow on my face (ok, maybe the composure is a little lost) just letting my racing thoughts fight it out amongst themselves. Here's who won.

Jumpsuits.

That's right. Somehow, they ended up on jumpsuits. Particularly the two super sweet jumpsuits I owned, loved, and wore between 1989 and 1992.

My first jumpsuit was pink and white striped. It had silver snaps down the front, and I wore it in the eighth grade. I accessorized it with big white zig-zaggy hoop earrings and a silver banana clip (which was ultra sweet with my crimped hair). And let me tell you, I looked hot. That is not sarcasm. It is the truth. If I recall correctly, a boy fell in love with me because of that jumpsuit (well, that and my impressive rack).

Ryan Paris. Both of our families were Navy, and had been coincidentally stationed together twice. When I was 4 and he was 6, we somehow ended up in the tub together. His mom filled it with bubbles, and told us not to stand up. He kept threatening to stand up, and told me that he would unless I took a bite of soap. I did.

Several years later, he and his family came to Carmel to visit on their way to their next station--Japan. I had a party to go to, and was decked out in my fine and foxy jumpsuit. He took one look, and was besotted. Of course, he didn't say anything, but sent me a very, very intense letter from Asia declaring his undying love for me and begging me to write back. Being a self-centered bitch of a 13 year old, I don't think I did.

My next jumpsuit was bright green and laced up the front. Kind of a cross between MC Hammer pants and a renaissance bustier. I wore it in '91, as a sophomore, and totally rocked it as well. During spring break, big sis and I hit downtown St. George (Souther Utah's Spring Break mecca) and rocked that scene. My mom would shit if she knew how many Jeeps we jumped in and out of that day, or the number of complete strangers we gave our numbers to.

Sigh.

Comment whore wants to know...

What was your most fabulous '80s/early '90s outfit? Details please.

The mommies were nestled all snug in their beds...

That's right. It's 7:00. p.m. And I'm in my pajamas, in bed.

Aren't lap-tops handy?

What can I say? It's the end of the school year and I'm absolutely beat. There are teacher quality portfolios to create, end of level tests to give, mentor logs to turn in, and the list goes on. Add to that the fact that I've totally changed my eating/exercising patterns, and just started my period, and I'm lucky to have made it to 7.

(Barfing update: Nothing to report. I did "eat past satisfaction" tonight, and frankly, a good purge sounds like just the ticket--but I'll be strong. Oh. E now calls it "#3," as in, "You haven't been going number three again, have you?")

What else? Soph is fine. Big. Currently in the tub, and from what I'm overhearing, some mermaids have crossed her one to many times, and she's about to exact some retribution. I can't believe she only has six weeks of kindergarten left. Kindergarten is still little. 1st grade is big. She's taking ballet, and digs it the most. Have I mentioned that she's been on a "pants strike?" Since, like, December? She will only wear dresses. Thank god for Land's End and Hanna Anderson. Every Sunday I hang her 5 favorite dresses up, clip her leggings to them, and she's good to go for the week.

Apparently that's it for now. I'm trying to blog at least once a week, so we'll see how that goes.

Oh. Add a new blogging friend to your lists. http://dmotherof2.blogspot.com/ is a pal of mine, and has some funny shit to say.


Comment whore wants to know...

When is your bed time?

I totally barfed today

Sorry for the gross title. I'm just trying to keep it real. I have to post this, or else it's a secret. And if it's a secret, then I'm dealing with it on my own. And that, apparently, I cannot do.

I may have mentioned, that I'm doing Weight Watchers. (Skip this paragraph if you know all about Weight Watchers already.) Just the on-line thing—not meetings. Also, I'm doing the "core plan" which is way less with the counting points and way more with the whole foods. (Whole grains/no bread, whole chicken/no nuggets, whole potatoes/no fries. You get the idea.) Things have been going ok, not great.

You see my LAST diet (you know, the phentermine, cigarettes, and no food diet) worked SO GREAT! I lost like 10 pounds a day! It was sweet. My pants were literally falling off of my ass. Of course, there was that whole "losing my fucking mind" side effect, but you have to compare that with the results. So far on WW, I've only lost 7 pounds. In like 4 weeks. Sheesh. What is this?

Anyway, I'm going out of town, and Soph and I have a lunch date on Wednesdays. SHE got to choose the restaurant today, and she chose Grandees. The ice cream parlor that also serves sandwiches and soup. And white bread. And butter. And cinnamon rolls. And pie. And brownies. And a thing called a panookie. I tried to be good. I ordered a sandwich on wheat bread (note "core" but not TOO many points) with no dressing or cheese. And Soph had the chicken dumpling soup, roll, and butter. So I ate half of my sandwich, and felt like shit for having the bread and lunchmeat. Then I ate a bite of her roll. Then I had another one with butter on it. Then I thought to myself, "Self, you know, you could eat anything you want to for lunch today, and then just go home after you drop off Sophie and puke it up. You could eat ice cream. And that bag of chips. And the rest of Sophie's soup." And I listened to myself.

Damn.

Will I ever get a handle on this? Is it possible for me to try and lose weight, even in a healthy way (I've been walking DAILY and eating SPROUTED MULTI GRAIN CEREAL) without sliding down the slippery slope?

Poop.

Comment whore wants to know…

How much do you love me? Really. I need warm fuzzies today.

Last night I sang in front of 300 people

That is not a joke. Here's what happened.

Sophie Gene, as some of you may have guessed, is a bit of a drama queen. She has been BEGGING me for months to be in a "performance." Not really having many performance options available in small town Southern Utah, she has had to live without the spotlight. Then a couple of weeks ago, she came home with a flyer about the South Elementary Variety Show. She was thrilled. Enraptured. Nearly peeing herself. So—we signed her up. Her original plan was to do a "ballet dance." Said dance was to be performed, impromptu, on the night of the show. Then she changed her mind. Maybe she'd sing a song. Which again, she wanted to just make up when she found herself on stage. Eventually, I talked her around to the idea of actually KNOWING which song she was going to sing before approaching the microphone.

Now then. PLEASE know that I am not a stage mom. This was all her idea. Eventually, she settled on "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" for her "number." (Aside—I seem to be filled with quotation marks today. Aside #2—do non Mormon people know the Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree song?) She rehearsed it a few times-including a jazz hands "Yeah" at the end (again, NOT added by me) and seemed good to go. Last night we ironed her dress, curled her pony tail, and headed for the elementary school gym.

Soph was one of 2 kindergarteners who had the balls to sign up. (The other actually HAD balls—he was a little boy who played a one finger version of the James Bond theme on the piano—priceless.) I was sitting in the front row, (of course) with three grandmas (of course) and could see her off stage, breathing deeply before it was her turn. Then, her name was called, and she walked on stage.

Sweet random lady lowered the microphone for her, and Soph took a step forward. Looked out at the millions of people. Made a little squeaking sound. Covered her face with her hands. And began to shake. I gave her about 15 seconds, and then climbed onto the stage with her. What else could I have done really? I gave her a hug and asked if she wanted to be done. She said no, and wouldn't budge. So, I put my arm around her and began singing. By about half way through she had joined in, albeit very quietly, and for the last couple of lines, the audience had joined in as well.

I do have video, but E was sitting toward one side, and pretty much recorded my back. The PTA is selling DVD's for 5 bucks though, and when I get mine, I'll share.

Comment whore wants to know…

Were you ever in a talent show? If so, what did you do?

Signs you may be watching too much Food Network...

When your daughter has friends come over, she drags out her fake food and cooking stuff (and some of yours) and makes them play "Iron Chef America."

On a totally unrelated note, I just folded an ENORMOUS pair of purple panties that must be at least 14 years old. (Really enormous. I have to fold them like 4 times.)

No joke.

I remember buying the package when I was still living at home. Somehow I grabbed the wrong size, and, well, everyone knows the rules about returning panties. You just don't.

Somehow they became the back-up/back-up panties, and have survived moving, the dryer gnome, my dog and his disgusting preference for panty-snacks, and have had a place in my undies drawer for more than a decade.

So, comment whore wants to know, what is the oldest article of clothing that you own? Why do you still have it? Do you remember how you came to own it?

I need to pick my nose and fart.

No, not right NOW, but OCCASIONALLY, I DO need to do both of these things.

You see, I've been attending these SIOP conferences (Sheltered Instruction Observation Protocol. Aren't you sorry you asked?) and I go up to Provo (the Mormon capital (or is it ol?) of the WORLD—really, they have stores like "Missionary Emporium" and shit) once a month for 2 nights and stay in a hotel with another teacher. Between the room sharing at night and in the morning, sitting in a conference room all afternoon, and group dinners and shopping excursions in the evening, a girl never gets a chance to do those private things that just simply must be done from time to time! By the time I arrived home on Tuesday night, my colon was about to burst, and I had a crusty in my left nostril the size of a quarter.

On a completely unrelated note, Soph got herself stuck in the baby swing at the park last week. Bless that girl's heart she has some seriously sturdy thighs. Danish thighs. Thighs that are storing up for that next cold winter when the lutfisk barrel is getting low.

(You know the anatomy of the baby park swing—yes? It kind of looks like a plastic diaper for a mutant four legged baby? Two leg holes on both sides.)

So she climbed in, and slid forward so that her thigh chunk squeezed through the hole up to her hip, and then kind of squooshed around the outside. When I went to lift her out, she wouldn't budge. After 10 minutes screaming ("Am I going to die here?") crying, screeching, and wailing by her; and pulling, pushing and threatening by me, I realized we had a fairly serious problem on our hands. I called by brother for a rescue (E was snowboarding) and tried to calm that girl the fuck down.

Then, I had an epiphany. I knelt on all fours beneath her and told her to stand up on my back. After she did that, her leg was lengthened enough for her slid the swing down, and I stood up and shimmied her the rest of the way out. Then I held her while she sobbed, "I'm just too stout." (Remember this? She won't say fat since then, and for some reason has settled on "stout" for her euphemism.)

And that, dear reader, is fodder for my next post which will be all about my recent entry into the land of Weight Watchers.

Comment whore wants to know...

Have you ever been stuck? Not in traffic, but really, really stuck in a small space where you couldn't get out? If so, spill.

I said, "Ohh...Daddy was just blowing up balloons."

That of course, was the answer to the used condom question. What else could I say, really?

Christ.

You know, with everything I have to be grateful for, (you know, like food, clothing, shelter) I can still always find something to bitch about. Here's what's pissing me off today.

My contacts. Within 15 minutes of putting them in, they're like little shriveled tadpoles stuck onto my eyeballs. I can't see through them, and end up giving people really weird looks while trying to peer through the fuzzy spots.

My car. I know it's my fault that I look like I'm driving around the collection wagon for the DI (Salvation Army?) but it still pisses me off. If it were just my stuff, I could keep things under control, but with Sophie and all the shit she brings home between two schools, there's just no fucking way.

My dog. Enough with the licking already.

Dinner: I tried to make a little roast for dinner. But while it was cooking I ate a bag of bagel chips. So 1) I'm not hungry, and 2) the damn thing was pretty much raw. I cooked it for the alloted time, but my meat thermometer's gone missing (WFT?? It's not like a freaking screw driver that you use on whatever miscellaneous project and then promptly loose by putting in it a random drawer or cupboard. It's not like I was cooking a turkey in the garage or anything.) so I didn't really know if it was done. It wasn't, so Sophie ended up eating frozen chicken nuggets anyway, which was what I was trying to avoid by cooking the roast in the first place! I give up.

My daughter: AKA, the biggest drama queen in all the land. Her answer to any form of discipline is to break into tears and sob "Do you HATE me?" Or on the flip side, the lady at the library gives her a crappy free bookmark, and she announces, enraptured, to all present at the check out, "This is absoLUtely the BEST day of MY LIFE." It's exhausting. Lately, we're totally embattled over the cleaning of the room. She's big enough. She can do it. But she just goes in there and wanders around and makes a bigger mess and I am going to snap and go into crazy mom mode one of these days and just throw everything away. (Also, she's picked up Mrs. Hannigan's line from "Annie" and whenever she's mad at anyone, growls out "Kill...Kill...Kill!" Charming, I'm sure.)

Warning: Put down your beverage before reading

Sophie found a used condom. (Totally E's fault) She brought it to me and said:

"Mom what IS this thing? It smells like a hotel!"