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!"

…and to all a good night

That title really has nothing at all to do with this post. I was just thinking Christmassy thoughts and that popped into my head.

I recently received this little e-mail forward thingy with questions about your Christmas shtuff. You know—fake or real (trees, not boobs), to nog or not to nog (eeh. I'd rather have a rum and Coke, but will nog on occasion), etc.

One of the questions was something like: "Cards: Snail mail or email?" That was a problem, because "Not at all" was not an option.

I don't do cards. At all really. Not of the Valentine, Christmas, or even thank-you variety. I've committed many a social faux pas because of this, and am sure I have been the topic of more than one conversation about obvious breaches of social etiquette. I didn't even send thank you cards after my wedding. Shit. I was way too busy trying to figure out how to be wedded.

My mom sent out the family newsletter style Christmas card out a few times growing up, but mostly I think it kind of pissed her off. (A lot of things about Christmas seemed to piss my mom off.) We received several of those types as well, filled with glowing accomplishments and sugary sweet sentiments.

So—here's the Christmas card I would send out if I decided to tell the truth (well, mostly) about what really happened this year at the Jorgensen house.

 

Dear Friends, Family, and people who sent me a card last year so I decided I'd better add you name to my list this year so as not to be insulting,

Hi everyone! My, has this year flown by. With it being the holidays, it seems a good time to catch everyone up on the Jorgensen clan. Here goes.

Sophie started kindergarten this year, and has really been enjoying it. She's splitting her time between Montessori and public ed, and man is it ever a pain in my ass taxi-ing her from place to place in the middle of the day. Her favorite things about kindergarten are learning to read, art projects, the many new flavors of glue, and her very sweet and talented new teacher. Soph has also enjoyed the fact that her grandma happens to be the secretary, and has had a great time bragging about that to anyone who will listen. Outside of school, Soph has been making some great strides. She keeps her clothes on most of the time, has learned that for the most part, food isn't the best art medium, and has even quit trying to drink her bath water! We're very proud.

As for Janzen, that kid has grown about two feet. He's really growing into a man, and we're proud to announce that he has about 10 hairs on his chin and has started using deodorant! The 8^th grade is really agreeing with him, particularly since he's smarter than most of his teachers, and he only has to pay attention about half of the time to get good grades. In other news, I believe he's beaten about 50 video games this year, and added about 5,000 movie quotes to his repertoire. All joking aside though, Janzen is nothing but a blessing in our lives. You'd be pretty hard pressed to find a 13 year old boy who is better company than our Buddy-Sugar-Janz.

Erik is also doing well, but prefers not to have his personal life discussed at all with others!

As for me, what can I say. I've watched several TV series on DVD, including Angel and The Office. I've read several new young adult fantasy novels. I'm fatter and older and also crabbier. My car is dirtier, but my house is a little cleaner. My sex drive is slightly up, but then again, so is my chin hair count.

Happy Holidays to All!

Dear Scientists and Inventors of the World,

So, you guys have made a lot of cool stuff. I really appreciate the cars and computers and flush toilets. Thanks. You've even made some pretty impressive strides in the feminine hygiene department. Pads for absorbing menstrual flow have wings, dams, and one I saw on TV last night can even ride a mechanical bull. So, props there too.

BUT

Here's what I need y'all to do. PLEASE invent a tampon with a wrapper and applicator that won't disintegrate in the bottom of my purse. That way, then next time I start my period while teaching 2^nd period to a bunch of adolescent boys, I won't have to scurry to the bathroom, discover it's out of toilet paper, go back to class and grab my purse, fish around in it, find the remnants of a month old tampon that has come unwrapped and slid out of the applicator, pick off the Teddy Graham crumbs and gum wrappers, and then try to shove it up my chotch.

 

Thanks! J

Oooh La La!

Remember International Children's Day?

It's that thing at Montessori where on Halloween the kids don't wear their costumes, but rather, dress like a child from a foreign country? I THOUGHT last year that they were supposed to come dressed as a kid from their heritage, thus freaked out trying to put together a "Danish Girl" costume (and pulled it off quite nicely, if I do say so myself) and then showed up to a bunch of white kids dressed like they were from Hawaii, China, the Arctic, and Africa. So this year, Soph and I decided on France.

Voila!Pretty cute--huh?

Now I just have to figure out what to take for food. Soph wants to take crepes, but I don't know the first thing about crepe making, and think I'd probably fuck it up. Plus, isn't a crepe one of those things that you have to make and then eat pretty much immediately? Another idea was to make some mini quiches, but then again, I'm not sure how quiche would fly with the under 6 set. There's also croissants, which I could just grab at the store, but you know that dumb little voice in your head that urges you to be FABULOUS? It's kind of nagging at me. I hope it will shut up. What do you think?

Soph Said

"Mrs. Wood said that I have to quit tasting what the glue tastes like."

Dear Mandy

Wow. I think I've posted enough lately that I don't even need to start this post with an excuse/apology for not posting.

Now then, I love my sis, but she's not big on the calling. Frankly, neither am I. And since I need something to post today, I'm just going to write her a letter.

Dear Mandy,

Hey sugar! What's going on in the Krause House? I hope the kidletts are well. Is Zack still loving school? How's Madeline doing with the writing and homework? Is Clark-baby on the road again? Also, how is the Yoga class going?

Now then, the Jorgensen's. Well, we finally closed on the house. I can't fucking believe how much it costs to get a mortgage. Does anyone even know what title insurance is for? And mortgage insurance? They might as well call it getting fucked in the ass insurance, because that's exactly what it is. We did arrange for a little cash back, so I think we're going to put in a nice big Jacuzzi tub for me, and do a little work on the patio. In my head, I'm imagining a little Japanese garden space, but in my heart, I know we'll end up with some kind of covering and maybe a new patio set.

We got Sophie's Halloween costume, and I think she's going to be a very cute Princess Leah. E is planning on Han Solo, and Janz is going as Lando Calrisian. I don't think I really fit into the Star Wars mix, but we shall see.

School's going ok. Of course in my film class today, we were trying to write our Chicago reviews, and half the class hadn't been in class to watch the movie. I don't even know what to do with that. Tomorrow is the writing UBSCT, and I THINK most of my kids are ready. We shall see.

What else? Mom's doing better; no major philosophical breakdowns for a while. We all went to Chinese for Dad's birthday, and Jon, Katy and I went in on a digital photo frame for him. Katy is doing good—I think. Apparently she has something in the works with a guy named Giovanni, and she's picking up Soph from school for me a couple times this week.

Soph is so excited for Thanksgiving. She misses you guys like crazy. (Me too) I think the plan has become to have dinner at Mom's, and then adjourn to my place for dessert. I'm excited for you to see my new house. Where are you guys going to stay? That little house you stayed in last time worked out SO well.

 

Love you so!

Boo

Reason I’m a Petty Person, #102

Yesterday was the Montessori family picnic. They have one twice a year and it's always a potluck. I always sign up to take a main-dish, and I always take a big homemade macaroni and cheese casserole. At a function like this, everyone tries to bring something fancy and delicious. You know the drill. It's mostly rich, fabulous moms who grind their own wheat and grow organic gardens, so they bring things like spinach and goat cheese salad with fresh pair (that one was good) or vegan chocolate chip cookies (WTF?). I, on the other hand, cook up a big vat of macaroni noodles with a white sauce made with whatever cheeses happen to be left over in my fridge, and top it with crunched up stuffing mix.

Everyone always bring way too much, and there are always tons of leftovers. Except for mine. My mac 'n' cheese is always gone. Dads are always standing around scraping the sides of the casserole pan, and at least one or two moms ask me for the recipe.

This brings me a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. To see my empty ratty Corelware pan sitting next to the beautiful Pottery Barn bowl full of marinated kalamata olives or some such thing absolutely makes my day. I'm still grinning about it.

And that is reason 102 that I am a very, very petty person.

It’s alive!

It = the blog, and in all honesty, just barely.

My dears, I think this blog has jumped the shark.

As I sit here at my desk, munching my apple and pita chips with hummus (don't be impressed. Yesterday it was a teriyaki burger from Carl's Jr.) I really think I may have run out of things to say.

I've thought of blogging about school. I'm sure I could get huge chuckles over painfully bad writing that my kids sometimes turn in. Also, running a "best lie of the day" section would be easy/schmeasy. We could even do the longest/dumbest education acronym, or most asinine euphemism (how's "Student Involvement Activity" for worksheet). But I think I'd probably get fired.

Soph is just big. She's in school all day. Her daily exploits are often unbeknownst to me, her mother. Sure, at times she'll start singing "For He's the Jolly Good Butt Crack" for no apparent reason, but butt-crack songs do not a complete blog make.

So—I'm stuck. I can't blog in honesty about myself—because that would piss people off and make my life more difficult. I can't blog about my kid, because she's kind of running out of material. I can't blog about work, because that would lead to official reprimands.

I don't know what to do. Maybe some letters to inanimate objects.

Dear Work Chair,

You've been my work chair for a while now. On the outside you look reasonably nice. You adjust up and down, and tilt forward and back. You're very rolley, and spinney, and a not-to-vomitous shade of teal green. But chair, I know your game. Benign though you may be on the outside, a torture rack lurks underneath. All I have to do is sit in you for 2 minutes, and the pain begins. First a pang to the left of my lower spine. Then a pang to the right. My ass begins to fall asleep, and I start shifting around on my pelvis, my spine clicking like little mouse castanets. Well know this. Your time is almost up. Some day and soon, you'll find yourself dumpster diving. So there.

Dear Vitamin Water,

I bought you at Smiths for lunch because you were near the check-out and on sale. Apparently you are tropical citrus flavored, and are designed to give me NRG. Sweet. I could use some of that. I am noticing, however, that you contain no juice. Fine, fine, rest on your guarana content, if that's how you want to roll. If you can get me through 4^th period independent study, a play-date at my house with 2 little girls plus my own, help me actually make dinner instead of ordering take out, and keep me out of bed until at least 9:00, I don't care if your secret ingredient is dog shit. Ok. I would care. But not if it was, say iguana scale or even fish pancreas. If fish have a pancreas. I'm not sure about that. Anyway—keep on vapor distilling and reverse osmosising. Peace.

There--A post. Now then, because I am a comment whore and must go whoring around for comments, you have 3 options. 1. Tell me what you had for lunch today. Details please. 2. Tell me how much you missed me and how empty your life was without me. 3. You're on your own. Throw up a random comment like you usually do. You know, like "Wow! A teriyaki burger? I had one of those a couple of years ago and found a rat tail in the pineapple slice."

Blog Vomit

Just stream of thought today. The mind is too shot to organize anything.

First--school starts tomorrow. I'm ready for...tomorrow. That's about it. The beginning of school at my particular location is tricky--because most of my kids won't remember that school starts for another week or so. So finding things that won't waste the time of the kids who are there, but won't need to be repeated next week is kind of a bitch.

I'm also trying to decide what to wear tomorrow. Katy thinks I should go with the "Erudite MILF" look. (Precisely what that entails, I'm not entirely sure. I've lost a little weight, but I still have to deal with the rack that ate Manhattan, and you'd be surprised how short a trip it is for me over to Beth the Bounty Hunter land. I went school shopping and bought some things, but I'm not thrilled with them. Confidence + comfortable + breathable fabric is just a pipe dream, I suppose.

In Soph news, she successfully exploded a soy sauce packet all over her face and the ceiling of the car today. You can imagine how that went, what with the salt content and the eyeballs and all.

What else. Oh--the little bit of weight I've lost. Well, I've been doing this in the morning. Surprisingly, I quite like it. You wouldn't think one would need a DVD to walk in place in one's living room, but apparently, one does. I also like the stretchy band. Then, in the evening, I walk the dog up in the hills behind our house. The only way I know I've lost a little is that I don't nearly slip a disk putting on my bra (you know, with the buckle in the front and twist to the back maneuver), because I've lost enough back fat that it slides around easier. That last sentence, by the way, was brought to you by a bonafide English teacher.

So--in honor of my be-sauced-car, tell me about the interior of your ride. Mine is repulsive. We're talking toys, garbage, fast-food bags (I know. I'm bad.), and other assorted Soph stuff. E calls it the fry wagon. If I were to peek in your car windows right now, what would I see?

Internal Soundtrack

Just so you know, my internal soundtrack is NOT cool at all. It's mostly made up of silly kids songs and other shit that is just plain stupid.

For example:

Every time I pee, my brain plays "Turkey in the Straw;" really fast.

Also, when I check my blog, and no one has commented, my brain plays, "Everybody Hates Me. Nobody Loves Me. Guess I'll Go Eat Worms."

When Sophie is having a huge breakdown, which she is currently doing (She screams this high pitched scream, really, really loudly) it plays "Little Girls" from Annie. Particularly the part, "If I ring little necks, surely I would get an acquittal."


In other mind boggling news, I went back to work today. The kids don't come back until the 16th, but we get to be motivational speakered to death for a week before. Because, you know, I don't actually have any WORK to do (she said sarcastically).

So spill--what ditties does your brain play for you during the day? Or am I the only one. Also, why not tell me one thing one of your old English teachers did that was particularly cool/meaningful/useful in your real life.

More letters to inanimate objects

Dear giant empty economy size bottle of KY warming massage oil that my mom keeps in Soph's bath toys at her house,

OK, so apparently you're great for filling with water and then squirting it around the bathtub, but doood! It's just WAY too disturbing to pull out the box and find you nestled among the rubber duckies and plastic funnels. The implications of your existence are just too, too, icky. So don't take it personally if the next time I see you, I throw you in the trash where you belong. Sorry.


Dear Grout,

Fuck you.


Dear half deflated birthday balloon that was floating around my room last night,

Thanks for scaring the freaking bujesus out of me. Laying in my bed at 3:00 a.m. trying to convince myself that you weren't a ghost or other spectral being was GT. Really.


Dear Coconut Body Butter I got from my birthday,

Even though I don't know if I'd rather eat you or rub you all over my skin, either way you're truly, truly delicious.


Dear grande iced sugar free 2% vanilla latte with no whip,

I think it's time for a break. It's gotten to where I can't imagine my day without you, and I think I need to learn to stand on my own two feet again. I just need to figure out who I am before I can figure out who WE are. What I'm saying is, it's not you, it's me.

Not again!

Damn these birthdays seem to be coming around more and more quickly.

Today I'm 32.

That means that 2 days ago E turned 33, and in 10 days, Soph will be 5. Sheesh.

Because E had his wisdom teeth pulled recently, and has had some unpleasant complications, his birthday was pretty low key. I did, however, pull off a completely home made triple layer German chocolate cake that was something of a thing of beauty.

As for me, I've been having insomnia for the last several nights, and am feeling pretty zombified today. Currently I'm at work, still filing last year's crap (can't you tell) and later have a lunch date with the folks + Katy.

Frankly--I'm feeling pretty low. School starts any second, and the thought of going back is about as appealing as having a pelvic exam. So, in honor of my birthday and my shitty mood, I present to you:

32 Things I Hate

1. That horrible moment when you first get out of the shower
2. When people put empty containers back in the fridge
3. The unspoken rule that in Cedar City, the guy with the biggest truck gets the right of way at four way stops
4. Yeast infections
5. Sorting laundry
6. Having to fart really bad in public
7. When my coffee gets cold in like 4 seconds
8. Not having a good book to read
9. Filing
10. Trying to buy attractive, work casual, plus size clothing
11. Deciding what's for dinner every night
12. Lower back pain
13. Trying to get out of the car in my garage where I can only open the car door like 5 inches because it is so full of crap
14. Dog hair
15. Putting sheets back on the bed after washing them
16. Ants
17. The movie Rent
18. Chin hairs
19. Going to the post office to buy stamps
20. Angel, Season 4
21. Dusting
22. Squished worms
23. Car maintenance
24. Moldy cheese
25. Running out of things in the middle of a recipe
26. Laying in bed and not being able to sleep
27. When the copy machine prints lines on my copies
28. Pooping in a strange toilet
29. After you eat the the top layer of the movie popcorn and the rest has no salt or "butter"
30. Back fat
31. Armpit fat
32. Getting caught out in public without a tampon and having to do that toilet paper wad thing

So what do you hate? Let's focus on the petty, shall we? Y'all know I'm a comment whore, and it's my birthday, so humor me.

The End of Bacon

Don't worry. Bacon has not come to an end. I'll explain in a minute.

E had his wisdom teeth out a few days ago, and he's having a pretty rough time of it. I, as the nicest wife in the land, have been trying to cook tasty yet chewing-optional meals, and frankly, I'm running out of ideas. I've done mashed potatoes, broccoli cheese soup, chicken and dressing casserole, and tonight, we sup on baked-potato soup.

Baked potato soup is just regular potato soup, unless you garnish it with 80 gagillion calories, disguised as bacon, cheese, and sour cream.

Which leads me to (told you I'd get there) bacon.

MMmmm. Bacon.

Sophie's favorite part of bacon is the "end of bacon." That is to say, the pure fat part on the end of the bacon. When I cook bacon (not often--well ok, more so lately because I've become addicted to the BLT) Soph politely requests everyones "end of bacon" as in, "Daddy. Can I please have your end of bacon?"

Janz, likes his bacon a little on the soft side, unlike his dad who likes it crispy. Me, I really only like the good bacon from the deli--meaty and cooked until just crisp enough to hold itself upright if you hold it out horizontally.

Anyone remember Sizzelean? My mom used to buy the hell out of that stuff. My brother LOVED it. If I recall, the breakfast of his dreams, as a child, was 2 over easy eggs, mashed up, with little pieces of Sizzelean broken up in it. My mom preferred hers on a bagel, with peanut butter. I shit you not.

How about you? What's your bacon preference. What's your perfect strip? Crispy? Floppy? Any good bacon stories?

In further news, I'm going to rename my blog, and give it a huge face-lift. Now that my girl is almost 5 and going to kindergarten, motherhood has actually become a bit more like having a cat than it was back in the day. I just clean out her litter box occasionally and she's good to go. J/K. Thing is, the only way this blog is going to survive is if it moves in a new direction. It's going to be more about yours truly than the Sophinator, though she'll still have a starring roll. Suggestions as to the new title are officially solicited.

Haiku Hodge-Podge

Which one is Sophie?
The begoggled one of course.
Gotta love that grin.

The living room just
wouldn't be ours if Sophie
was wearing pants

"In our new house, we'll
have room for a bunk bed," said
Mom, and stuck to it.

Kitchen from the left
The cabinets and counter tops
had me at "hello."

Kitchen from the right
If I waited for clean-ness
You'd never see it

Sea World Baby--Yea!
This is post lost Sophie, and
pre dolphin-show soaked.

Dad and Soph and Janz
Posing 30 feet or less
from our hotel room

Now mom joins the fun
Soph provides the camouflage
For my muffin top.

Two Jorgensen kids
Breakfast at our regular
Spot at Snug Harbor.

You know when you haven't cleaned under the couch for a LONG ass time, and you think to yourself, "Self, I haven't cleaned under this couch for a LONG ass time; I'd better do that. Then again, it's been a LONG ass time since I cleaned under here, so I don't really want to." So the fact that it's been so long keeps you from doing it, and eventually you move, or buy a new couch, or things begin to evolve and crawl out from under the couch, or whatever, so you finally clean under the motherfucking couch.

What I'm trying to say, very awkwardly, is that it's been so long since I've blogged because it's been so long since I've blogged. So, I'm going to act like I've been blogging all summer, and not try to catch up all in one fail swoop. (Is that right? Is it a fail swoop? How did the swoop fail?)

The new house is lovely. It's actually kind of aggressively tasteful, so mainly I've been tacky-ing it up a bit. There are still boxes in the garage, and the living room contains 3 boxes (one for E and I each to take to work, and a huge one that Soph has cut a door in and decorated and that I am desperate to throw away but know she will freak out and so haven't yet) but for the most part, we've officially moved in. I'll post pictures some day. I don't want to be like, "Hey everyone, check out the pull out drawers in my pantry and the sweet, sweet, built ins in the dining room and living room," but, then again, I kind of do, too.

Soph is having a good summer. I MUST post pictures of her at swimming lessons. She has these lime green goggles that she won't get in the pool without, and no matter what swimming suit I buy her, it's perpetually all the way up her ass. Makes for some highly entertaining moments. We had a tricky start, and she wouldn't even put her face in the water at first, but now jumps off the edge all on her own (with her life jacket on) and lets her swimming teacher take her out and practice all her strokes.

Ok that's it for now. More later.

SAAAN DIAAAGOOO

Well,

Since Missuzj is no longer posting, I'll post some shit from our vacation. Sorry, no clever quips or any shit like that.

Maybe she'll eventually share some stuff with ya'll.

Til then...well, whatever.

Shown above: We have the lighthouse at Cabrillio National Monument, the great MissuzJ hanging onto her favorite tree, the California Cyprus. And last, but certainly not least, SG "striking a pose" at the Cabrillo tide pools.

The VaKay also included a trip to Ocean Beach where we swam with sea otters and witnessed a grown man shitting on the floor of a public bathroom not five feet from the toilet.

There was also a 6-hour excursion to Sea World that involved Sophie being equally terrified and thrilled at all times. Oh yeah, she also got lost. But we found her, so all's good.

Pretty sweet.

As a frequent vacationer to Los Angeles, I was shocked to spend time in a Southern California city that wasn't like being ass-raped with a metal pipe by a pussy-grader.

I mean, I've been to San Diego before, but, never spent any actual time that didn't involve a rowdy concert and heavy drug use.

The best moment from the vacation involved Sophie attempting to comunicate (in Spanish) to the largely Latino hotel staff that they needed to keep the resident ducks "in-check" so she could enjoy her vacation in peace.

Hopefully MJ will return.

E.

So Long

Heading out for a family vay-kay tomorrow. San Diego for 5 days. I am more nervous than excited, but then I've always been a nervous traveler. See y'all next week.

Who Whom it May Concern:

Some letters I've been composing in my head to inanimate objects...

Dear Uterus,
Really, couldn't you have waited to slough your lining for a couple of more days? Vaginal bleeding and moving just don't go well together. Please keep this in mind for next time.

Dear Epstein Barr Virus,
Look bitch, I told you not to show your face around here anymore. You just skulk around and wait until I'm tired and stressed and my guard is down, and then WHAM. Get out. Stay out. Next time I'll be asking with a baseball bat. With nails in it.

Dear New Walk in Closet,
Oh my darling, where have you been all my life? Do people really live this way? Somehow it just doesn't feel right to have shelves for all of my shoes--for there to be built in drawers for accessories--for there to be so much space. Now that I've found you, I'll never let you go.

Dear New Shower Massager,
Wow. Was it good for you too?

Dear Phone Company, Electric Company, Dish TV, and All Other Companies:
Look. Four hours is a long time. Can't you get your shit together and get here at a specific time? I don't have time to sit on my ass waiting for you. I have things to do. I've deducted $100.00 dollars from my bill, as that is what I estimate 4 hours of my time is worth. If you don't like it, you can suck it.

Los Libros

Well 12 boxes of books are packed and as of right now, I'm finished packing...books. That's it. Books.

Those boxes don't include the cookbooks, Sophie's books, Janzen's books, or the various books under beds, in the bathroom, and in other nooks and crannies, which will probably add up to at least 5 more boxes. Sheesh.

Today my mom, the world's best and most experienced packer is coming over to lend a hand. I'm grateful, but hesitant for her to see the built up detritus of the last 8 years of my life. I think I'll put her to work packing the kitchen, which should be fairly safe, and I'll start tackling Sophie's room.

I'm not even THINKING about the basement which includes Janzen/E's room and the laundry room. That would just make me mad. That is, both crazy and angry. Or the yard. My goal is to get the stuff we need to live comfortably up to the new place by Monday. That leaves me 4 days to gather miscellanea and clean before the new guy moves in.

Have I mentioned that I hate this? Plus, my period is starting any second, and I can tell from the little sores on my eyelids that the Epstein Barr is creeping up again.

So, send me prayers and love, and hopefully this time next week, I'll be posting on my awesome new kitchen, the beauty of central air, and vastness of my new master bedroom.

Today's best thing about being a mom:
I brought home a big box filled with packing peanuts that I had pilfered from my bro's store. She checked it out and announced, "How remarkable! A box filled with snow!"

Today'w worst thing about being a mom:
Picking up the packing peanuts

Facing Facts

I've been totally ignoring the fact that I'm moving in, like, 3 days. There is a pile of boxes sitting by the front door, but that's about it. Today I need to face reality, and get my ass packing!

Yesterday was Soph's first day of summer pre-school, and boy did those 4 hours go fast. I went to what I thought was going to be a one hour "gentle yoga" class. What I got instead was 2 hours of Kundalini. Kicked my ass. But I'm surprisingly not sore today. In fact, I'm feeling pretty good. The Kundalini is supposed to do tons of stuff with your nadis (sp?), the energy pathways through your body. I don't know if I buy it, but I do feel somewhat energized. I better. Some of that Kundalini stuff is bizarre. My favorite was sitting cross legged, cross-eyed, and puffing out our cheeks for like, 5 minutes. No--wait. The laying on out stomachs, humping the shit out of the floor (I think she called it "hip bouncing").

After the Kundalini was an my eye appointment, then a quick trip to the dollar store for a birthday present for my nephew (I'm cheep, what can I say. I did score a 4 foot water gun though. His mom was thrilled.) and then it was time to pick up the girls. ("The girls," for future reference, are Soph and her friend A. They are going to be a matched pair pretty much all summer.)

Needless to say, I did zero packing. And what I need to do post haste is quit playing around on the computer and START. But I don't wanna.

Today's best thing about being a mom:
This morning she was sitting by me while I was checking out the celebrity gossip. She pointed at this picture and asked, "Is that you mom?"

Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Remember those packing boxes I mentioned? I can't convince her that they're for me to pack with, not for her to make dolly cradles, trains, castles, etc. with. She's already ruined half of them.

I TOLD you I would.

And see--here I am, another day, another post.

Today has been busy. Among other things, I took Soph to get the rest of her kindergarten shots. It sucked. But not quite as bad as I thought it would. E was kind enough to meet us at the Dr.'s office, and between the two of us, we kept Soph pretty calm. She needed 3 injections, so two nurses tag teamed it--each giving her a shot in either arm in tandem, and then a quick poke in the leg. There was shrieking and tears, but they were surprisingly short lived. Including the one from her finger poke blood test, she is now sporting 4 Hello-Kitty Band-Aids, and is very proud of all of them.

After the Dr. was the dreaded trip to Wal-Mart. Soph needed a new swimming suit, and I needed a small tent to wear over my suit, as tonight is the first night of our mommy-and-me swimming lessons. This is the first in a series of 3 sets of lessons, and the only one to which I must be present. Of course, I'm going to have to tame the pit-beards and do a little up-keep in the nether region before then. Have I mentioned that I HATE shaving.

Next week is moving week, and I keep trying to get myself to start boxing books and other stuff that we don't really NEED, but the motivation just isn't there. Maybe tomorrow when Soph is at her first day of summer pre-school.

Today's best thing about being a mom:
Continuing the JC saga from last time, today I was talking to her about my spiritual beliefs, of which, I really have none. I told her, "Baby, when you get bigger YOU get to decide what YOU want to believe. There are a of ideas about life and death and Jesus and God. Just make sure that you decide for yourself what YOU want to believe." Her reply, "Can I believe that I'm a unicorn?"

Today's worst thing about being a mom:
The shots. You know, several moms who I know and respect have chosen not to have their kids immunized. It's their choice, of course, but I can't say I agree with it. I've read up on the stuff, and feel pretty sure that I know the risks, some of which are very scary, and holding her down to get poked SUCKS, but if I lost her to something I know I could have prevented, I know if I couldn't live with myself.

Wanna see something cute?

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm going to try and post at least a little something on the blog daily this summer. More time on my hands = more computer time, and I'd rather spend the time here than checking out Nicole Richie's current weight (My first cassette tape, by the way, was Lionel Richie's "Can't Slow Down.") or Brittany's current crotch shot.

Now then. I haven't posted any pictures of Soph for a while. These aren't WAY new, but they're only about 5 weeks old. Behold the cuteness:


And now...back by popular demand...

Today's best thing about being a mom:
Apparently, today is fun with straws day. First, we made sculptures using straws and pipe cleaners. Then we played straw hockey, (otherwise known as blowing a packing peanut across the table using a straw) and currently, Soph's doing some straw painting. GT.


Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Soph has this friend--EK--and her mom is a teacher at the Montessori school and they are WAY, WAY Mormon. They are more Mormon than Joseph Smith drinking a diet, caffeine free coke, and turning to his third wife to say "Oh my fetching heck! Brother Ephram needs us to take some green jello down to the ward house for the primary social." She keeps coming home talking about Heavenly Father and telling me that we're really sisters because we all lived in heaven before we were born and Jesus can make us perfect and I AM PISSED! Yesterday was the last straw, when she came home Heavenly Fathering again, and I've decided that I am going to call EKs mom. What I'd like to do is rip her a new asshole. But instead, I'm going to ask her to please preface any religious talk with the phrase "we believe" and not present this stuff to Soph as if it were the bible truth. It's a matter of respect. Ok. I could write another 3 pages of rant on this, but I'm done.

Inferiority Complex

One of my old English professors was in my yoga class today. And every time I bump into her and am forced to make small talk, I feel dumb as hell.

She asks how I am, and my brain begins this argument with itself:
Don't say you're good. Say you're well.
Are you sure?
Yes. 'Am' is a verb, so you don't use the adjective. You use the adverb.
But does it matter that 'am' is a linking verb?
Fuck if I know.

So I end up stuttering out something like, "Oh--things are going good--well. I'm ok. Really. How about you?" Then I give her the brief update about the parts of my life that she may be able to pretend to be interested in, "You know--still teaching. English. It's good. Well. It's going really great--ly. And my daughter is almost 5. And well, we're still here in Cedar--as you can see."

Some people, really nice, normal people, can turn me into an idiot in about 2 seconds. It's because I know they're smarter than I am, and they know they're smarter than I am, and so really, what's the point of me even talking, because they know more than I do anyway.

For Rob

Today's best things about being a mom:

• Successfully test-driving the homemade sidewalk paint recipe. (It was a bit runny. Next time I think I'll try a 2 to 1 corn starch to water ratio.)
• Taking Soph and A out to the new very delish Chinese restaurant in town. I think they set the record for the most sweet and sour chicken devoured by 4 year olds in one sitting.
• Watching a Wonder Woman episode with them, and making plans to fashion tin foil wrist bands next Wednesday. (We were, of course, out of tinfoil today.)
• Listening to Soph and A plan to blame the skewer in the fish tank on their imaginary friends.

Today's worst things about being a mom:

• Finding Soph, A, and B all the way around the block this morning, and as a result sending B home in tears, and giving Soph and A a 30 minute time out, as we were tending A and she could not be sent home.
• Sending B home in tears, again, when she came back 15 minutes later and I told her she still couldn't play.
• Sending B home in tears, again, 30 minutes ago when she, her brother, and her brother's friend came over and Soph just simply didn't want to play.

You see, B's mom is working graveyards this summer, and is sleeping during the day. And tell you what-- I'll be damned and double damned if I am going to entertain, feed, and otherwise care for her 3 oldest kids during the 2 weeks before I move. Had she asked me to, that would be one thing, but she hasn't. She just tells the kids she needs to sleep, and not to bug her, and they come to me.

So let it be written; so let it be done.

Well--we've decided on our middle house.

Erik's grandparents have a beautiful "luxury townhome" that they've wanted to sell us ever since they learned that we were selling our house. I didn't want to buy it for many reasons--number one being that although it has a very nice sized patio, it has no yard. Also, there is the issue of the one shared wall. But, after much searching--both in my heart and with a realtor, I've come around to it. And like I said, chances are, it will be our middle house. We'll catch our breath from the chaos of the last few years for a bit, then move on to the official long-term Jorgensen abode.

Ultimately, my decision was based on the following:
Price: They're selling it to us at a price significantly under market. We'll have tons of instant equity.
Ease: We can move in whenever we want (aka, in 2 weeks), and live rent free until our financing stuff is sorted out.
Stuff: Speaking of stuff....Did I mention that they're leaving a gorgeous brand new dining room set and bedroom set?
Quality: This place is built so, so well. I've had a builder friend of mine checking out some of the houses to be considered, and he was blown away by this one. It is solid as a rock, and brand new (well, lived in one day a week for the past year by a 70 year old man), and the cabinets, appliances, and finish work are amazing. We're talking granite counter tops, porcelain tubs, etc., etc.

Sound like I'm trying to convince myself of something? I am, a little.

Jimmy dog is a concern. Although he is an inside dog, he is used to a yard. I'm worried that in no time, the patio will smell like dog piss and shit, no matter how vigilant I am with clean up. I'm also worried about him barking and pissing off the (mostly rich and old) neighbors.

Also, even with lots of shared lawn in the development and gorgeous parks in walking distance, part of me feels like I'll be depriving Sophie of her childhood by not providing her with a swing set and grass to run on.

I'm tired of running laps in my brain over it though, and am feeling reasonably ok with my decision.

It's the first official day of summer vacation. I had hoped to pawn Soph off on someone and start getting ready to move, but instead, I have 6 kids on the premesis--5 of whom are not mine. B came by, with BOTH brothers, and then Soph's friend's mom called with some violent stomach bug and asked me to take her 2 girls. I went and bought some of that Crayola sidewalk paint, though, and they're all pretty busy painting the back patio. I've managed to accomplish a bit, and hopefully now have a couple of favors to call in when it gets closer to moving day.

p.s. I'm dispensing with the best and worst thing about being a mom. We've both kind of grown out of it.

p.s.s. Any advice anyone could give on big dogs in small spaces and/or making the most of a patio is officially solicited.

10 Random Facts

1. We have to be out of our house in 22 days.
2. We have yet to find a house we both love.
3. Yesterday was Sophie's last day of pre-school.
4. I have more split-ends than regular ends.
5. Today is the last day of school for me.
6. We looked at a house yesterday that smelled like hot dogs and pee. (I wonder if Wal-Mart can sue them for infringement on their signature smell.)
7. Yesterday we had some friends drop by, and the cupboards were so bare that all I could offer them for food and drink was a piece of cheese and a straight shot of gin. They declined.
8. I love the new purse that Mand and I bought in Flagstaff. It's certainly an upgrade from the five year old one I had been dragging around, and which probably also smelled like hot dogs and pee.
9. I may have to run home and poop later, as I cannot poop anywhere but at home, and I was in too much of a rush to go this morning.
10. Yesterday for graduation I put my hair in hot rollers, and ended up with the kind of big-bodied curls that are usually reserved for rodeo queens and porn stars.

Of Note

1. We sold the house.

2. Sophie colored with red marker between the legs of her Barbies because, "They're having their periods mom!"

Another one with this and that

13 days of school left, but who's counting?

And now I sit, trying to decide what to write.

Well--Mandy and I are meeting for our second Mother's Day retreat in Flagstaff this weekend. We missed last year because she was busy or Clark was busy or something, but this year we are locked and loaded. For some reason I'm a little more worried about the drive than I was last time. There's just an awful lot of nothin' between here and there. I'm sure all will be well, though, and am looking forward to cocktails and fondue and backgammon and catching up.

The house still hasn't sold. Now that we're officially into spring and I've had the chance to pull some back-yard patio time, suddenly I'm not as anxious. I haven't changed my mind yet, but easing back into the lounger with a beverage and a book while Soph does her thing with the sidewalk chalk or whatever definitely isn't a bad thing. There will be a new back-yard, to be sure, but mine is pretty hard to beat. This is the one I have my eye on. I know the outside is kind of butt-ugly, but the size, floor plan, location, and yard are pretty much exactly what I'm looking for. Now I just need to hope that it doesn't sell before I can make an offer on it.

Soph is happy and healthy and sassy and silly. I experimented with letting her take her bike around the block with Bianca, but they ended up across the street at the school playground, so obviously she's not quite ready for that kind of responsibility. They've been talking about nutrition in school and she now refuses to eat chicken-nuggets or uncrustable sandwiches. Because I am the worst mother in the land, this is a kind of a problem because these have been the staple of her diet. (Do PB&Js freeze well? Could I make her a bunch on "bread with whole grains" which is all she'll eat, and freeze them so that in the morning I'm not fucking around with making sandwiches and being late to work?) In fact, several times a day I try to feed her something and she says, "Mom--There's not very much nutrition in this!" Of course, ATS (according to Soph) ice cream is nutritious because it has milk, and Nerds are nutritious because they have fruit.

Me? I'm fat and in desparate need of a hair cut. Apparently, I'm also growing a beard, and for some reason, am having a gnarly bout of backne. But despite all that, I'm reasonably happy. The sun is shining, and that's a good thing. (Want to know a secret? I LOVE riding Soph's razor scooter. Lately, we ride over to the park on it together, and while she playes on the slide, I cruise around the blacktop on it. Fun stuff.) School is wrapping up, and I'm dragging a couple of seniors toward the finish.

I'm still digging the Netflix and have worked my way through Angel season 3. We've seen a couple of gems (The Secret of Rowan Innish, Smoke Signals) and it's been useful for my film class. I don't know WHY, however, the Netflix gods are desparate for me to watch Victor Victoria. Every damn time I click for recommendations or even just to log in, there's old Julie Andrews pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman. WTF?