Why I'm A Mom

The last 12 hours of parenthood have included these gems from my children:


Amy, (15 months) doing her dead-on impression of a yetti from 1-3 am last night.


Matty, age 4, after finding over-sized sunglasses in some forgotten drawer from 1974:

Me:Where did you find those sunglasses, Moo?

Matty: (Straight-faced with said sunglasses on.) Internet.


And finally, Stevie, a wise age 9, figured out this morning why the planet Uranus is so funny.


They grow up so fast.

I was wrong...

...day 3 is worse. The germs are not only comfortable, but they have begun to hang artwork on my tonsils and wallpaper my tongue.

Sick

I'm sick. The second day of a cold--the worst one because the germs start getting comfortable in your head.

Anyway, the worst symptom of this particular bug is that my eyes are all watery and stingy. But every time my eyes hurt, I'm immediately transported back to 9th grade when Lori and I used to crack each other up with our idiot humor.

One summer night, I was spending the night, and we got to sleep in their RV in their driveway. We microwaved a bunch of popcorn (that was the new rage way back then) and drank Pepsi while we played Trivial Pursuit (another mid-80's rage.)We decided to tape record our game (yet another lame rage) while we spoke in southern accents.

At the time, this was about the most humorous pursuit for two 14 year olds. Then the question: What falls out when you have phala-..phala-...phalacrosis? (Insert corny southern drawl.)

(Pause.)Your eyes, baby. Your eyes.

I guess we were not schooled in our Latin roots in 9th grade yet.

20 years later and I still get raging cases of phalacrosis.

I feel better already.

Love in an Elevator

Lately, I have been dreaming a lot about elevators. Not a recurring dream per se, but elevators or staircases are always present it seems.

So, I look to the Wisdom of the Internet for an interpretation and here is what is foretold:




Elevator
An elevator dream is a rather complex dream and you should interpret it in light of all the other symbols in your dream, for one thing, if the elevator is going up your fortunes will increase, down is the opposite. If the elevator continues to go up and down with out letting you off means you have let your emotions, or your situation, get out of control and must do something to stop it.


Elevator
To dream that you are ascending in an elevator, signifies that you will quickly rise to status and wealth. You may have risen to a higher level of consciousness and are looking at the world from an elevated viewpoint. Descending in an elevator, denotes that misfortunes will crush and discourage you. The up and down action of the elevator may represent the ups and downs of your life go emerging out of and submerging into your subconscious.
To dream that the elevator is out of order or that it is not letting you off, symbolizes that your emotions have gotten out of control.


OK. But isn’t every life a series of ups and downs?

I’ve got my own theory, but we’ll just have to wait until it stops at my floor to find out.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Some couples go to fancy restaurants for their anniversaries. Some exchange pricey gifts. So go dancing or engage in other physical activities.

We go to the SuperBowl.

That’s right, nothing says romance like a hot dog and a 32 oz draft beer. Ha! Just kidding--it is the perfect outing for us, and I’m so fortunate that we are going to be able to pull it off this year. It is also a fitting excursion since I spend the entire football season running a pool (for entertainment purposes only, of course) for several degenerates that takes an obscene amount of time. So, onto the preparations:

1) Transportation: CHECK. It is in Jacksonville--a mere 4 hour drive from this coast.

2) Tickets: CHECK. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s got ours secured. Now we just have to pay for them…

3) Childcare: CHECK. Most generous grandparents are flying down from NY to graciously watch three youngest grandchildren so we can partake in this junket.

4) Hotel Room: blank. This may prove to be the most difficult logistic of them all. I’m hoping that one of Sean’s many contacts will come through with accommodations, but I’ll sleep in the car if I have to.

And so now I just have to prep my liver and get a suitable outfit for TV camera hopping.

Lucky Number 13

Yesterday, I celebrated (OK, not really ‘celebrated’ but rather privately marked) my 2 year anniversary on Backwash. Suburban Diva for 2 years. Pretty rewarding all in all.

But today is a far more meaningful anniversary for me. It is our 13th--and I couldn’t be luckier.

Happy Anniversary, honey.

A Pain In the Back

In what only can be described as the cruelest of all jokes, I am going in tomorrow voluntarily to get another needle inserted into my back.

Gruesome details omitted due to our common boredom on the subject, but the cause of all of this tremendous pain 14 months after Amy was born can probably be traced to the botched epidural and subsequent blood patch that has rendered me a hobbit since.

I have tried for respite all of these months with different doctors and medications, but it seems permanent relief may only come from a little steroid cocktail inserted into my hip bone.

To say I am nervous on the eve of another needle would be a vast understatement. I’m terrified, in fact. Not so much for the anticipated pain of the injection (which, believe me, is not exactly soothing) but from allowing anyone with a sharp instrument in the vicinity of my spinal cord. Something I vowed never to do again.

But even a worse fate would be feeling like this for much longer.

(So be nice to me this week, I’m going to be on steroid-induced rage so I cannot be responsible for any reckless behavior.)

Picture Not-So Perfect

OK, so I’ve accepted the opportunity of book review columnist for the magazine. I know my subject, have read the book I intend to review and I even have the article half-written a month early.

There is just one teensy-weensy little detail that eludes my collective excitement for this project.

We need a headshot in the highest resolution possible.

I’m like a vampire--I don’t photograph. At least not that I care for. I don’t even know how to go about getting this particular photo. Do I go to a department store or drug chain that advertises “passport photos?” Do I go to a studio and spend an obscene amount of money for this narcissistic pursuit? Or do I ask a friend with a digital camera to snap a few when I’m not looking? (Keep in mind that I also probably need this for my current round of syndication submissions for SubD.)

And then if I have an answer for the above, how does one pose for a headshot? Smile? Pensive? Thoughtful? Carefree? Hands-on or hand-free? Or show the misery that I feel posing for pictures?

Just shoot me.

(Get it?)

New Gig?

I’m trying to justify writing sans actual cash money again.

I have very few details at this point, but it’s a book review column in a local print magazine with a surprisingly high readership. Perhaps a byline? Perhaps creative control? Perhaps intellectual reward for the many books I read anyway? (Sitting in a bubble bath with a juicy novel) Not now honey, Mommy’s working.Perhaps one of those elusive “published clips” for my resume?

Perhaps some big important publisher recognizes pure genius and decides to award me Dave Barry’s vacated spot?

It could happen.

Right? Right!?

I was working in the lab late one night

Is there anything worse than untrimming a Christmas tree? I can’t think of much.

However, I tempered this horrendous holiday chore of dismantling beauty with something that attempts to build some. (Or I hope, anyway.)

Over 2 years ago, I made a significant start on a novel. About 5 chapters of solid bones. Yesterday, I actually added a little life to that skeleton, by beginning work on it again.

I’ve been writing this thing for years in my head, but it doesn’t really count if you never breathe actual life into whispers from your dreams. The last few weeks have been especially intense with ideas rolling around like tumbleweeds up there, but for some reason, I always find an excuse not to gather them up on paper where they belong.

So last night, albeit not much, a solid page of life was granted.

It’s fighting for survival, and I am Dr. Frankenstein.

The Mind is

I have just finished an amazing read, Stone Junction, by Jim Dodge. I’ll spare you my inadequate synopsis, but suffice it to say, you should add it to your 2005 reading list.

I’ve been mulling over the finer points with friends, but I wanted to share this insight with you because I’ve quoted and misquoted this particular page several times over the last few days.

The mind is a glass floor.
The mind is the spirit’s tear.
The mind is our prior and subsequent ghost.
The mind is the Bullion Express and the blood on the tracks.
The mind is a stone door.
The silver on the backs of mirrors.
The wave that defines the coast.
It’s what the drunk grave robbers couldn’t stuff in their sacks.
The mind is the sum of all and more.
The spasm between one and zero in the Calendar of Black-Hole Years.
The contract between the lash and the whipping post.
A quilt of dreams stitched with facts.
A meaningless argument among whores.
Rain that keeps falling when the sky clears.
A masquerade party, guest and host.
A candlelit landscape of puddled wax.
The mind is what thought is for.
The parking lot at the Mall of Fears.
The fire-pit for the piggy roast.
What the soul surrendered and won’t take back.
The mind is neither either nor or.
The real center of an empty sphere.


I’m sort of partial to the argument among whores definition.

Is it wrong?

Let’s assume you are a self (but not overly) confident woman secure in her life. Let’s say that you have some very specific goals on which direction you would like your path to continue (like where you would like to write for instance.) You have worked toward this particular aspiration for quite some time (with varying degrees of success). Let’s then imagine that you have found out that someone else (not as cool as you) has made almost a mirror image declaration of your private objective.

Is it wrong if you work just a hair faster, a tad better, and almost imperceptibly more ferociously at the possible lovely satisfaction at getting there first with absolutely no intent of ever informing the competition of this unwitting race?

I hope not.

Us 

I'm hoping 2005 is heated

It has been a productive start to the year…sort of.

Despite a few delays, the bedroom got painted, the column got written (2 no less!), a novel was finished and a mental lethargy was shaken from it’s dusty ‘04 roots.

What didn’t get done was the stowing of the Christmas decorations, cleaning up after aforementioned paint job, a submission or two, about 30 errands and return phone calls.

I’m tiptoeing into 2005 until I get used to it.

Hockey, Hurricanes and Home

I’ve never been one to make resolutions--but I do find value in marking the end of one year and starting fresh another.

2004 for us was the year of Hockey, Hurricanes, and Home.

The Stanley Cup win was obviously a personal and professional achievement for Sean, but we were all lucky to go on that ride with him--which brought some pretty amazing gifts.

The traveling opportunities I was afforded during the playoffs were unsurpassed. Flying on a chartered plane to Montreal to see that series win; Calgary for games 3 and 4 of the finals, and the prime seats for every home game all season. I truly felt a part of the experience.

That night of Game 7 when we won on home ice is a blur. We had family and friends with us, and the party went on all night long. Then came the parade where we rode in our car along the parade route with the players in front of thousands. I can’t describe the euphoric novelty of that day.

The summer passed as the parties did too, and late September it was our day with Stanley. An unbelievable experience that I will never forget. 300 people were in this house all celebrating the sheer joy of having THE CUP here. The only flaw in the day? It was entirely too short.

The lockout prevented the start of the season, which has been disappointing, but the celebrations will just have to be postponed into 2005.

In between all of the hockey, we dealt with 4 major hurricanes in 6 weeks that taught us the not-so sunny side of Florida living. We didn’t suffer much damage to speak of, but the preparation and cleanup and constant monitoring of the Weather Channel was exhausting. Of course, in recent days, those hurricanes seem so insignificant and meaningless.

But both of these events also led to tremendous attention to our Home--which we made significant improvements to this year--new tile and resurfacing of the pool, new carpet, paint and exterior improvements--but the best part was that for most of the year, it was filled with friends and family and I feel truly blessed in that regard.

Here’s to 2005. *virtual clinking of glass*