I live

This thing is kicking my ass.

On a week I cannot afford an ass-kicking.

Despite an amazing domestic takeover by the spouse extraordinaire this weekend so I could "rest," I am still fighting this thing. (That's how I refer to it now, as the "thing," because it has taken on a life of its own--my life--and has applied for residency and a social security number.) But I have to beat it this week because the Griswolds begin our Magical Mystery Tour 2007 this weekend. The tour which only contains the mystery of what the hell are we thinking by doing this. The itinerary is so bizarre and non-sensical, the timetable impossible, and we are as unprepared as we usually are for such excursions. But yet we continue year after year just adding kids.

And can you believe I am really looking forward to it?

Because despite the crazy which we pack plenty of, we do have a great time. And I'm going to see a whole lot of people that I love and miss a lot.

And you wanna know the best part? Is that the whole thing will be filmed and posted here so that you, too, can experience it with us. You'll be able to smell the gasoline at $3.50 a gallon, the rest stop bathrooms with a potty-training toddler, and all of the Cracker Barrel toys you can shake a 6.99 rain stick at. It'll almost be like you're right there in the passenger seat eating licorice and yelling at your husband on the Crackberry while driving.

I hope the thing stays home and watches the dogs and picks up the mail.

D Day

Would I be a complete baby if I admitted to being just a teensy-weensy bit nervous today? It doesn't help that I cannot have a cup of coffee or put my contacts in, either.

So, focusing on the bright side besides the obvious. I'll get an hour of solid sleep under anesthetic. I'll get some reading done in the waiting room. I don't have to cook tonight.

Here's to a fresh start next week...

Poetry

Ode to the carpet cleaners. In Haiku.

Oh wielder of steam
Cleanse my domestic failures
Saving puppy's' lives.

Return to the land

Armed with an 11th hour doctor pass, a pharmacy of drug cocktails and a bottle of vanilla vodka; we made it to our beach vacation after all. I figured if I was going to die, it might as well be on the beach where I want my ashes scattered anyway, so it would save my family a trip.

I am going to refrain from further comment on my physical condition because it depresses me. Surgery is scheduled for Friday, and I have never been so happy for something so awful in my entire life. Nothing could be worse than this. Truly. Let's hope this is the cure, because, really--I need new material.

But back to happier subjects: vacation. We all had a great time. I have determined that there is nothing more beautiful than the Gulf of Mexico. I love living near it. I love vacationing on it. And every time I get in front of a camera or cover some retarded meeting, I do so knowing it is getting me one step closer to our beach house there.

Anyway, I wrote a column with the humorous specifics which I hope to publish before Friday along with a hundred other things, but the weather was gorgeous; the water divine. My kids are officially beach babies--even Jessie in her sun dome castle. We played from early morning to late at night, but rarely did we leave the water. I got my sunburn and hangover, but both feel pretty damned good.

Here are a few pictures until I figure out my technical issue with the others I took.

Vacation

We're packing as though we're leaving in a few hours, but that still remains to be seen. But I have blinders on. Blinders that look like Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to be on that beach so badly...

So if the planets align with Doctor-Everything-Will-Be-All Right, then I'll be back Tuesday. With a hangover and a sunburn.

Happy Father's Day.

Elephants

I've been avoiding you.

It's not you, it's me, really. It's complicated. So I'll post as we both ignore that huge elephant in the blog. Sorry, those are the terms.

Instead of my obvious malady, I'm going to focus on the positive. Like, I bought a new dress for a wedding next month that I didn't hate. On sale. In a single-digit size. And it's not black.

Yes, I hear the elephant coughing in the corner. I'm sure it's fine. Really. Ignore it.

Oh, and how about my return to the freelance world last night? It was as entertaining as it always is after a 4 month maternity leave. And they didn't stone me. Well, they sort of did with their eyes when my favorite member of the board called me out and everyone turned to look at me. I just flashed them my hundred dollar smile and kept right on writing.

That elephant can't hurt you. He's lame. Or anemic.

And that today while someone else is cleaning the house, I will be buckled down writing said article and packing for summer trip #1 that I am surprisingly pretty prepared for. Complete with a new bathing suit that I don't hate. On sale. And it is black, but a little white, too.

A little hemorrhaging never hurt anything as strong as an elephant. You're being needlessly squeamish.

I'm sorry, did that sound a little like self-pity? It did, didn't it? Well, the only cure I know for self-pity is getting drunk on a beach for 5 days. Which is what I'll be doing starting tomorrow if the elephant doesn't pass out on me.

You don't even want to know

In ER, being teased threatened with a blood transfusion:

Sean: I think your doctor hates you.

After no transfusion but loaded up on even more hormones than before:

Me: No, he obviously hates you more.

Long weekend. For my family.

Time machine courtesy of Ortho Novum

This will be as close to discussing my innards as I will ever get.

I will not tell you the problem--only the "cure" as prescribed by my doctor.

*deep breath*

I have to take 4 pills of the hormone regulating variety a day for a few days.

4.

It is not to control my freakish fertility, so shut yer yaps. It remains to be seen if it will solve the problem, but the side effects are killing me. I feel like a 13 year old girl with all of these surging hormones. I want to hang Andy Gibb posters in my locker and put on some Bonne Belle bubble gum lip gloss. I have a sudden urge to write down the lyrics of Peter Gabriel songs. I have a craving for Funyons and Mountain Dew. And I am this close to donning on some leg warmers while lip syncing to "Xanadu." I think the only thing I haven't done is pick a fight with my mother.

Oddly, and whether or not related is unknown, but this week has been an odd culmination of time and opportunity domestically speaking. I have not only turned in all of my freelance assignments early and somehow managed to keep the visible house almost respectable, but today I cleaned the refrigerator and oven. I know, I know. Those nonpareil sprinkles that Amy spilled in the vegetable drawer and that turned into a solid sheet of rainbow shellac, is now gone. Hold your applause, please. Dinner is bubbling away on the stove, the kids are bathed, and I am one organized--although pre-pubescent--girl.

Excuse me while I go weep now over a particularly poignant episode of "Full House."

Can't we just be friends, doc?

I've self-diagnosed myself with regard to my heart.

My cardiologist has a crush on me.

Now that is not hubris, I assure you. Rather it is just simple math. I noticed today that I am his youngest patient by 100 years. I am his only patient that walks into his office on my own volition without any aids--human or otherwise. And since there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, I must be an easy $300 office visit.

We did the heart sonogram today. It "was normal...basically." So, this means what? "I see you again in 2 months." 2 months? There is no rhyme or reason to these follow-up appointments. Nothing significant cardiologically speaking has occurred in 2 years, and I went almost a year in between appointments, so why 2 months now?

It would be a whole lot cheaper and more convenient if we just met for coffee instead.

****

Pricey needless medical tests gave me an excuse for a day out, though. You would be very proud of my organizational efforts this week--closet is cleaned, vacation meals prepared, baby equipment purchased, 3 workouts so far, 1/2 of freelance assignments completed, and it is only freakin' Wednesday. I am so seriously impressed with myself, I can barely stand it. I almost feel like a bonafide grown-up as my kids ate homemade dinners in clean clothes. I might even bathe them tonight for a domestic Trifecta.

So I treated myself with a new bathing suit, which let me tell you at 8 weeks postpartum is not that much of a treat, and a delicious club sandwich for lunch on this special day.

T.S. Barry and Barry Manilow

I awoke to the melodious sounds of rain pattering down on the roof. It is melodious because it is sound we haven't heard around these parts in months, and it took me a few minutes to recall what one does on rainy days--bake cookies, make soup, clean closets, read, watch drippy old movies--all of which I would be more than happy to partake in until...ACK!

Barry.

As in Tropical Storm Barry. Which means this rain is no longer a good excuse for domestic pursuits, but rather for battening down hatches and finding batteries that work. So I will spend the entire morning racing around doing these stupid storm rituals because the Weather Channel will be evoking panic within me all day, only to have the storm pass well north of here leaving only a too full pool and muddy paw prints.

*****

Wedding last night: beautiful. And here is the compliment of the evening as rendered by a charming table mate #3: "You are the smartest wife of a sports executive I've ever met."

You are thinking that must be a shallow pool indeed, but I'll take it, people. I will take it with a handful of Jordan Almonds and a heaping scoop of Thanks.

Amphibious metaphors

Blessedly, I got a few shards of sleep last night. I may even be rested enough to do the Electric Slide at a wedding tonight...

Intern-nephew's presence here is a lot of fun. Not only is he a big help, but he does provide comic relief. And I think by the end of the summer, I should be able to improve his use of metaphors so he doesn't have to use some like these:

D: This house is so loud. I am just not used to...

Me: What? Being part of a family? Because I know you have one. I've met them.

D: No, it's just like getting plunged in...you're used to it. Like if we were frogs swimming in a hot pot of water. If your frog eased in and got used to it, he wouldn't die. And my frog just gets thrown into boiling water and it's such a shock, he dies.

Me: Ribbit.

I'm not even going to comment. Because really, what can one say when one is compared to a pot of boiling frogs?

But then this morning, when he didn't know I saw him, he kissed each one of those little toads before he left for work.

What a prince.

Summer So Far

Yesterday, I vlogged about summer vacation not going quite according to plan:




That isn't even the half of it.

Please, allow me to wax bitchetic for a moment if you will.

I am soooo trying to be that kind of Mom who has summer wrapped up in a Tupperware activity box with pre-cut shapes and glitter pens. I want to bake bread from the slightly overipe bananas on the counter. I want to have made 3 trips to the library already, with an organic cotton sack stuffed with interesting reads that we'll peruse together on pillows on the floor. I want to make a weekly field trip to somewhere totally locally exotic. I want a clean house. Or even just clean hair. But I am sooo failing in these wants so far.

I am fighting this stupid summer cold which just keeps lingering, an refuses to move from my throat so that I sound like I've just smoked a few dozen packs of Camels. I have been to a different doctor every day this week, and I will spare you the details because I'd rather gouge out my eyes with a speculum than discuss those things here, but suffice it to say...well, suffice it.
Hours pass without me getting much done at all except feedings and changings and more changings which only reminds me of my failing in the potty training department which is another goal on my aggressive Summer Tracey To Do List, which is getting longer by the day and more unattainable. I may have to cross off #12, which is master the perfect pitcher of Sangria and #24: Clean Closet.

But setting all of that aside, which I realize is a lot to set logistically aside so you may simply have to peer up from beneath in breathless anticipation, but somehow through all of this mess, I have had a creative breakthrough of sorts. The sort of quiet epiphany that clears its throat as it humbly suggests what should have been obvious from the get-go had I been paying attention to the get or the go.

So I leave you with that nonsensical announcement, because part of the revelation is that nonsensical announcements are pretty much what I do best.

Tupperware craft boxes notwithstanding.

Watch how I pull this althogether in the end

Little known fact about me: I've seen Niel Diamond in concert 31 times.

I've just started reading a most intriguing novel, "Loved Walked In," by Marisa De Los Santos. I am only on page 20 so I don't yet know if it will hold up to the last page, but so far I am completely hooked. It reads like the webcam in my mind. Scary. Like this: If you are not a big believer in signs, then, trust me, we have that in common. If your impatience with people who are forever telling stories containing fairly ordinary coincidence that they interpret (after a pregnant pause) as "a sign" that borders on nausea, I'm right there with you. And if you've noticed that such people almost invariably opt to take as signs only those things that point them in precisely the direction they wanted to go anyway, while ignoring plenty of other seemingly valid sign options, well, my friend, we're three for three.

But then she goes on to describe her personal compilation of signs completely contradicting herself mere seconds beforehand. Which is totally something I would say, but reason that because I admit to doing it, my criticism doesn't apply to me, in fact it makes me even more in touch with the universe because I am so honestly intuitive. I know, I am seriously messed up sometimes.

So I read this passage as I am in the waiting room for the doctor. The cardiologist, as a matter of fact. And the reasons that I see a cardiologist are unknown to me--it is a mysterious cardiac condition that gets more mysterious as the years go by, and for some unexplained reason, I allow this because...I have no valid reason as to why I don't take charge of this situation. Anyway, I haven't seen him in almost a year because in cardiac terms pregnancy equals the plague. Completely hands-off for 40 weeks. No meds. No tests. He didn't want to see me, talk to me nor even receive my co-pay in the mail until I hatched. Fine, I say. So I had honestly forgot that I had an appointment today except for the helpful reminder call I got yesterday. I honestly forgot I had a heart condition anyway as well. But I go in anyway for sport. Here's the dialoge:

Dr. P: Anything new?

Me: No. I had the baby 7 weeks ago.

Dr. P: (Quickly flipping through chart.) How did it go? Any chest pain, shortness of breath?

Me: I honestly can't recall. I think the other miserable symptoms of pregnancy masked any cardiac troubles I may have had.

Dr. P: Ok, let's do a sonogram of your heart.

Me: Why?

Dr. P: Because we haven't done one in a while.

Me: OK. How was my ekg?

Dr. P: It was...(pause) okay. I schedule you for sonogram next week.

And what do I say? Nothing, because I accept the nebulousness of it all. So I get back into the beast of a car and even though the tank wasn't empty I fill up for $78. I flip through the satellite radio which is the greatest thing ever I determine, because the soundtrack of my life plays every day spanning the decades reminding me of memories I'd forgotten. I have a particular penchant for the 70's channel, because invariably, my mother's voice will sing (badly) along to the tunes. As today when I heard Niel Diamond 3 times. She used to love the Niel Diamond. And all of her friends, too. And I could never see the attraction because by the time I was listening to music with a discerning ear, Niel had just released that stupid "Heartlight" song, which even at the sage age of 10, I realized it was a complete sell-out. But over the years, after reacquainting my adult ears with songs like "Solitary Man," I've appreciated Niel in a different light. Today I listened to "Longfellow's Serenade," and "Sweet Caroline," and thought I can see why so many middle-aged women loved him in his prime. Then I thought about what it was like being her kid, and then I thought about Niel Diamond's kid who is Dustin Diamond--"Screech" from "Saved by the Bell,"-- and how that freak has his own reality show now and that's how I sort of consider these video blogs to be in a way, and Oh My God I am Screech, and then I thought about my Mom and her "Jazz Singer" album pressed against her chest like a swooning teenager, and my chest seized a little too and I realized that I doubt if the cardiologist can ever fix my broken heart.

Festivus on Memorial Day

Well, I suppose Neighborpalooza was a relative success. More showed up than I thought, but it was clear that we all live in a bubble--no one has a clue as to whom is living next door. And of course The Grumpy Old Man (next door neighbor who doesn't even give the obligatory nod when passing) did not show, but then I think Neighborpalooza would have resembled Festivus, and we would have had the Airing of Grievances...

Of course, my mothering skills were showcased at their absolute finest as usual. Sean was a tad late to the party as he had to take Stevie to the ER for a broken wrist. 3rd time he's broken this wrist. Mrs. K was sure to point out that she makes her kids wear helmets and wrist guards. Sean said he was, and a condom too, but she didn't see the humor.

Matty fell off the roof of the Little Tikes truck and hit his head on the ground. Amy fell into the bushes and got a black eye. Jingle ran away. Twice. And then after all of this daily chaos, the guy from the corner who was sitting on my chair in my driveway drinking my beer said to me holding Jessica, "So, is this your first?"

A freaking bubble.

Neighborpalooza

I'm pausing briefly in my preparations to update, because this is just too funny not to...

Yesterday, my husband decided that after living here for over 7 years, we don't know the neighbors well enough. The only contact we have (with the exception of the daily assaults from Mrs. K.) is when they call the police on us or complain that a ball flew into their bushes. Or when we have the Stanley Cup full of champagne on our front lawn at 3 a.m. When the St. Pete Times article came out a few months back and my secret identity was revealed, I think they were a bit surprised, but somehow I don't think it helped our cause. So, in the spirit of neighborliness, Sean decided to hold driveway Happy Hour--"Neighbopalooza"--and invite everyone on the block.

I can't even imagine what this is going to be like.

Seriously.

I told him I would only make pigs in a blanket if I could write a column about this later.

1st Day of Summer

Well, I won half of the battle anyway.

I brought the camera to the last day of school ceremonies this morning. Just without adequate batteries.

So use your imagination and picture my eldest official 6th grade son wearing the last semi-clean uniform shirt with the paint stains from Christmas, and since we couldn't find his uniform pants this morning--a pair of non-regulation khaki's 3 sizes too small and too short. His brother was the one with the rock star hair, shirt untucked with a trail of starry eyed new second grade girls following behind him.

Aren't they cute?

In other news...I guess there isn't much other news. Except I am looking forward to this long weekend of nothing. I did make a rare book store run earlier today and loaded up on all of those heart-wrenching, gut-tearing foreign novels I love so much. I can now say, "Her kiss was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering" in 7 different languages. (Bonus prize if you can tell me what book that came from, and no fair if you Google it.)

So I am cracking a spine of a book and a bottle or 7, starting.....now!

No words

Okay, yesterday pretty much sucked. It started out fine, but later in the afternoon it disintegrated in a matter of minutes.

Amy opened the front door and the dog got out. That's a typical occurrence that drives me crazy daily, so it isn't unprecedented. We caught her rather quickly this time, and I took Amy and Jingle back into the house. Matty went to go tell his brother of the capture. About 10 minutes later, I change a load of laundry, and notice that Amy isn't around. Then I notice that the boys are not back yet. So I tear through the house calling Amy's name, searching every room. Nothing. I run outside. I'm calling all of them and still nothing. I find the boys at the pond's edge and my heart sinks and my stomach lunges and still no Amy.

At this moment, Mrs. Kravitz, my neighbor that can make an intolerable moment even more insufferable, comes up and tries to "help." I send her and the boys back to the house to search there because I know Amy will never respond to her outside if she calls.

The seconds crawl by as I run down the street and through back yards calling her name. Other neighbors peer outside. Sweat is pouring down my back and I realize I am shaking.

Finally, Stevie comes from the house and announces he's found her, curled up under a blanket in the baby's crib.

And as I stood there holding on to her for dear life, a thousand fears pulsing through my body, Did she not hear me when I called her? Is her hearing not working right anymore? How will I know? What if she had made it outside?, Mrs. Kravitz said, "You've got so many kids now, you can't keep track of them all."

If I hadn't been holding my precious daughter, I would have punched her in the face.

As a mother, she should have just understood intuitively that that is the absolute lowest a mother can feel. If she was trying to be funny--which I have never known her to do--comic relief at that moment of sheer panic is just plain cruel.

And supplying the 1001st fear is even crueler.

Rambling Sunday nonsense

I should probably make a personal rule not to blog while under the influence, but then I would probably never blog...Besides, it would go against my one woman campaign to bring drinking housewives back in vogue. (If Sean leaves a McPudding legacy, then this can be mine.)

That said, what a weekend, my dear, obscure friends. I am approaching that 6 week mark when the the world is supposed to suddenly right itself again, and I just spent 2 days testing the theory.

I had some big plans to complete about 30 home projects in various states of completion. That albatross of a back bathroom needed to be sanded, painted and reassembled; and our yard looks like that pollution scene from the old PSA commercial from the 70's where the Indian on the horse begins to weep. Tonto is parked at my mailbox.

Anyway, in between all of this, there is the usual feeding, changing, bathing, entertaining and caring for the kids, which takes up more time than I ever allot. But last night I broke away for a girl's night out. We went out to dinner to a restaurant at the beach, and if you think that 14 Catholic school Moms talked about anything wholesome and decent, well, you must have been drinking as much as we were. A sample of the evening's topics:

1) How I found out my best childhood friend was a lesbian.

2) Who are swingers in the neighborhood--categories for old swingers and young ones.

3) Who needs therapy for ironing their pillowcases. (And you do, btw.)

4) Where are the most exotic places you've lost your children?

5) Why phen-phen should have never been removed from the market.

The rest is just too explicit to reveal in this blog.


Sunday rolled around, and we started off so productively...Sean sanded that bathroom so that it was as smooth as Jessie's bottom and cleaned the Lanai as I worked on the front yard. I even went to the gym for the first time in a year and reacquainted myself with the treadmill. It missed me.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up dinner fixings and a bottle of wine, and the cashier said this:

Cashier: Can I see some I.D. for the wine, please?

Me: What language are you speaking?

Cashier: English. May I see some I.D. please?

Me: Of course!!! Let me find it...(Searching madly through my purse, hoping she won't change her mind for about 20 minutes under Target receipts, bubblegum wrappers, hair ties and lipstick tubes.)

I thrust that license at her so proudly, and then almost kissed her on the mouth. But instead, I ran home and we drank that bottle of wine in the hot tub for the next 6.5 hours and I actually got a sunburn in a non-maternity bathing suit where the remainder of the incision glue must have come off by now, and I swear that I almost felt human again, singular in body, mind and liver; a perfect way to celebrate my 6 week milestone.

One more for the evidence file of bad motherhood

Dudes, I'm beat.

I've spent the entire week playing catch up, and now it's caught up to me.

Sean's been out of town, and that's always an exhausting circumstance, but I'm just not able to rebound like I used to. But it's finally Friday--thank God--and at least I don't have to make a lunch at 6 am tomorrow morning...

So far Amy has done well with her new sister. She likes her well enough--as much as a 3 year old can like a sleeping, sometimes crying blob--and I was worried that her speech would regress once she was born. That has NOT happened, which is a very good thing, but last night she showed a different sort of protest/regression.

I was changing Jess' diaper on the changing table, and Amy decided she was next. That's fine, I thought, no harm in hoisting this enormous child onto the too small changing pad and making a fuss over her. I took her diaper and tried to put it on, but that wasn't good enough. Instead of her size 6, she wanted the newborn swaddler which seriously can only fit her thigh. No matter how many times I reasoned, demonstrated, refused, and tried anyway, she insisted through her tantrum that that diaper was going on.

I'm just too tired to fight, so I duct-taped it on her.

And you know what? It actually worked.

Score one for the exhausted woman who drove the kids to school in her pajamas today.

Live tomfoolery

In my never-ending pursuit to make a complete fool of myself, I've decided to do so in yet another medium.

Video blogging.

Yep, I vlog now.

Why, Trace? Why??

Actually, I've been experimenting with it for about a month now, but today I finally got properly inspired after my nephew made the astute observation at dinner last night with the dogs barking, kids talking, boys wrestling, phone ringing, baby crying, and me drinking, "This house is so loud."

Yep. It is. Life is loud. Welcome to mine.