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."