Zzzzz...Grrrr...

Two straight nights of solo parenting and no sleep. I am beyond cranky.

Amy

We haven't talked about A-Dog in a while, have we?

So what is the distinction between seeking a second opinion and diagnosis shopping? Because I have so many differing opinions on this child's ears from so many different professionals, I hear ringing in mine.

I'm on hold right now with a specialist whom we really need to see, but they are giving me an insurance hassle instead of helping my daughter. I have said that I will self-pay and worry about (or not) insurance later. What do they care as long as they get paid? Grrrr....

Do you think if I start weeping--because in addition to my frustration this elevator music is tragic--it'll help my cause?

Sick Day

We're now onto day 5 of Fifth's Disease here.

In case you were wondering--which I know you are--Fifth's Disease is this crazy-ass childhood viral infection thing that distinguishes itself because kids that get it get a rash that looks like they have "slapped cheeks."

Last Friday at baseball, Matty looked flushed, and it took me 2 innings to realize that he never gets flushed, and it was indeed a case of Fifth's. The fever came over the weekend for he and Amy, and he got to miss Monday from school.

By Tuesday, if Matty's cheeks looked slapped, Stevie's entire body looks as though it was trampled. The poor kid's rash goes from one set of cheeks to the other, and his itches to add to the misery. And mine.

He is so bored today but doesn't dare admit it lest I make him clean his room.

Or work on his Canada report.

And as an annoying Canadian aside, part of the never-ending project is to bring in a national food from the country to share with the class.

What the hell is Canadian cuisine?

If he goes to school tomorrow, he'll be bringing donuts and Labatt's.

O Canada

Canada is the second-largest country in the world. It is also the world's largest producer of low-bush blueberries. The fireweed is the official flower of the Yukon.

I know these fascinating facts as well as a million more (in the metric system equivalent, of course) because I just became one of those parents I swore I never would, and basically just completed Stevie's project on Canada...

I hope we get an A, eh?

(Or the Canadian alphabet equivalent, of course.)

My Mother's Day

I missed my flight home.

Can you believe? I am sure it had nothing to do with the 17 Mother's Day margaritas I shared with my two old pals. I am sure it had nothing to do with laughing so hard for hours about stupid old stories and people from 100 years ago that tears rolled from our eyes as we slapped the table. I am sure it had nothing to do with the fact that between the 3 of us, we have 8 children between us, and we each have lost our own mothers in the last 6 years and it felt so good to be together in that tragic kinship for a few (drunken) hours.





And so when I missed the stupid flight, my friend came back to airport, watched me pay $288 for a one-way flight middle seat back on a different airline and then we dropped another $75 on a bar tab in Detroit Metro Airport, and we laughed some more before the night ended with a long, upright nap back to Tampa.

And speaking of 100 years ago and my beautiful Mom, here are some pictures of us from 101 years ago....

Weekend fun

Well, I'm packing up for my Michigan Mother's Day Extravaganza. Well, not really, but it will be nice to visit with some sorely-missed friends and family for the 36 hours in which I will be there.

I will miss the little ones I'm leaving behind, though. Especially the one that reported to the Kindergarten class at the Mother's Day tea this morning that his Mom was 36, (which he even drew on my shirt in his artist's rendering) and that I "had brown eyes and brownish-yellowish hair, and I like to race her."

Not one word about my idiot savant knowledge of hockey or that I put smiley faces on his snack everyday.

Oh well. Happy Mother's Day.

OMG

You can find me amongst the shampoo and dog food at Wal-Mart.

Oh.

My.

God.

The Signing

I survived.

As a friend and dedicated reader of the idiocy that is this blog said quite eloquently afterward, "It's hard to put yourself out there like that. Sitting in the front of the store--you're not like that."

'Zactly.

That is why these events--although I am forever grateful for them--are so difficult. You're displayed at the door, practically daring people to buy your book. I feel like I have a giant tattoo on my forehead that reads, "Hey! Look at me! Feed the animals! Feed my ego!"

Ugh.

Luckily I have amazing friends and family who did not allow me to have those awkward moments of sitting there without anything to do except dab my increasingly shiny brow from humiliation. Not only did we sell out of B&N stock, but my diva entourage showed up in full force, even displaying signs.

And while we were in the front of the store, the little ones were in the back...



It was a good day, and I think Baby Diva has seen so many covers of that book now, that she's aiming for a children's version...

Seis de Mayo

I consumed my obligatory Corona yesterday (ok, 2 or 3) but it is such a shit beer. Any beer that requires a piece of fruit to make it palatable should not be consumed. The only garnish I need with my Miller Lite is a bottle, and that's pretty ok with me.

Muchas gracias that it is only once a year.

Cinco de Mayo

With the week I've had, it's been easy to forget about the nerve-racking event on Sunday--my book signing.

I don't know, the Keys were different--it was laid back, a small independent book store...I didn't know anyone. Here in the big, bad Barnes and Noble that I've fought so hard to get in--there's a different sort of pressure.

I just better drink a lot starting tonight (Margaritas seem apropos for Cinco de Mayo, don't you think?)

Peeking back in

I'm starting to emerge from my cloud of grief.

My Gram died this week, and while she had been ill for quite some time, I still will miss her terribly.

My progression of sadness is predictable and unchanging, in this order:

1)Cry. A lot. With abandon, often, and unapologetically.

2) Read. A lot. With abandon, often and unapologetically. (In this case I devoured a couple of novels--one of note, The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss, who gave me these beautiful memories: "Her kiss was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering." Or, "so many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past:IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon'tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglass-I'veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme...")

3) Write. A lot. With abandon, often and unapologetically.

Get some perspective and start living again.

Happy Birthday for real this time.

Can you see this?

Is the layout messed up for anyone else or just me? I can't seem to get anything right these last couple of days...

I wish it was April again

Ok, when I said "significant" I didn't mean so fucking sad.

Happy Birthday to me

I've been waiting to turn 36 my whole life.

I know that's a strange thing to say, but it is true. For some strange reason buried deep within a childhood impression from some unknown yet powerful source; I've had this premonition that 36 was going to be significant.

Perhaps my mother did something particularly wonderful that impressed me at that age (I would have been 12 when things are pretty impressionable). Perhaps I dreamt something. Perhaps it is a genetic imprint from a past life.

I have no idea what it means or what it refers to--hell, 35 was a pretty eventful year in the life of me--but somehow something all comes together at 36, and I feel it down to my hopeful toes.

Not a bad way to start a new year.

The first step is admitting you have a problem

Okay, so every birthday card I've received so far--both in the mail and online--have all revolved around drinking.

Are my friends trying to tell me something?

(Probably priming me that they can't afford to pick up my bar tab at dinner tonight, I'm sure.)

5-2

Looks like I need new talisman in my repertoire...

Let's Go Lightning

I am dusting off all of my playoff good luck talisman from '04 in honor of our game tonight in which we will be in attendance.

God willing, the "Ice Ice Baby" shirt still fits.

Turkey and Swiss on Rye, minus the swiss and rye toast

Did I ever mention that I am allergic to Swiss cheese? Difficult to believe but true. Ever since I was little, every time I eat it, the roof of my mouth itches.

Well, I must have unwittingly eaten some lately because I have that tell-tale burning sensation in my throat.

Or maybe I just talk too much.

The Final Chapter

I'm going to wrap up what Sean has dubbed, "Media Week" in Key Largo with a short little entry on our departure.

By the time Saturday morning rolled around, I was rested from my solo sleep, but a tad sore from my sunburn that I keep insisting is a tan despite its determining scarlet color. But not to worry, as of today, the top few layers of epidermis are peeling off--completely ignoring the sticky aloe that I have lathered myself with over the last 4 days.

We all met for a breakfast at a diner where I had a Keys version of eggs benedict which is still residing in my colon as a little vacation souvenir. Quick poll: how many people reading this (both of you) a) have ever ordered, consumed or heard any other human request rye toast? Or b) had 2 people at the same table order rye toast? I believe c)never is the correct response.

We did some last minute souvenir shopping for all of those sad children I left behind, and one of our stops was at a giant sporting goods store which houses Ernest Hemingway's old boat, the Pilar. What a way to end a book weekend than running my hands along the well-varnished railings that the Old Man did. It was a little surreal, actually. I bought a hat there, too, something I think that completely transforms me.



On the way back from Shell World, which I dropped a handsome price for some cheap sunglasses and shells for the boys, I noticed the tire dangerously low. I filled it with air, but after about a mile, it was as flat as my hair was under the new hat, so we pulled over to a convenience store and before we had a chance to call for some professional help, some nice gentlemen offered to change the tire for us. It only cost me a couple of twenties and 2 books. As I went back to fill the spare with air, one of the men came running up. "Hey Tracey, will you sign this book for me?"

Can you stop me?

This time I had a pen.

Chapter 2--The Signing

That night, in the big, soft hotel bed, I slept alone for the first time--well, ever. I was well worth the almost 4 bills I paid for the privilege.

The next day, I had coffee on my balcony (see chapter 1) and greeted the day island style. I took my time getting down to the pool, but really didn't see the need to wait very long to lay on a beach chair with a brand new book ("The History of Love," by Nicole Krauss) and a daquiri, (strawberry, if you must know.) My friends joined me shortly thereafter, and after I thinly and sloppily applied coat of sunscreen, we spent the afternoon much in the same position, changing only every so often to cool off in the pool or with another round of drinks.

(I would include a picture from the pool, except that the only one I have is a rather unattractive one of me and Sue with wet curly hair in these insane J-Lo diva sunglasses I was forced to buy poolside to save my retinas from spontaneous combustion.)

After hours of grilling in the sun, it was time to get ready for the signing. We primped; both our persons and our livers and all headed down to Cover to Cover books--an enchanting bookstore that would have captivated me for hours anyway--where I happily spent the next two hours signing books and generally feeling pretty damned content. The only time my true colors showed--a bright naive green--was at the very first book, I realized I had not brought a pen. What kind of author doesn't bring a freaking pen to a signing? So, like the entire weekend--Janet saved my ass again and bought me a fancy pen. Thanks, Janet.






So, we had fun. Lots.



And then we all went out to dinner at this little place on the water and between the tropical breeze, the nursed margarita, all of the expelled adrenaline, I was pretty much spent. I ended the lovely day as I began it--in that soft, expensive bed, sleeping one of the best nights of my life.

Tomorrow's entry will include the momentous ride home, including no cell phone, no tire, and gas at over 3 bucks a gallon. Yippee.