Put some Windex on that, it will be fine

Our first Thirsty Thursday injury...

I really thought it was sprained. I thought when he fell out of the tree last Thursday, that an ice pack would suffice. Even at the ER, they put him in the walking boot and told him to stay off of it, I thought we were in the clear. Not exactly, said our favorite orthopedist this morning.

Fractured fibula. (Say that 5 times fast).

Hard cast. He's in heaven--it's a rite of passage for any 8 year-old boy. But I'm a little sheepish after this conversation to the Intern on the way home:

Matty: Danny, I got a cast!

(Pause.)

Matty: Yep! I fell out of a tree at Thirsty Thursdays!

I love the bar vernacular. It's my proudest moment as a mother.

Sunday tale of woe

I'm purging the house of crud. Decluttering. Summer cleaning. Deep cleaning. Organizing. Simplifying.

In other words, going out of my flipping mind.

Why did I start in Stevie's room? Why....

Alternative titles for this post:

*3 miracles occurred here: 1) I clipped coupons, 2) I remembered to bring the coupons to the grocery store, 3) I then remembered to hand over said coupons to the cashier.

*Look! I just saved enough for 2 teaspoons of gas!

*Cutting coupons is so unDiva-like, I should be cutting limes for my Mojitos instead.

*I remember when you used to be cool.

*Seriously?

Is it wise?

In my quest to visit every medical professional I can think of this summer, I've finally decided to get my last two wisdom teeth out. I only have two left because the first two over 15 years ago didn't go well.

Anyway, after waiting 1 full hour for a consultation with the oral surgeon--if I didn't want to be completely euthanized I could have skipped this formality but I want to wake up 3 days later under a cloud of Percoset and ask if it was a boy or a girl--I finally get in to meet the doctor.

Very nice, and I am immediately sheepish about being so bitchy about waiting (if only in my indignant mind) because he is so apologetic and starts telling me of all the good drugs he is going to give me before, during and after the procedure. I ask if we could just do it now?

But I tell him that while I appreciate his impassioned speech on the risks and benefits of general anesthesia, I am already dentalphobic and will be signing up for the coma option, thanks. I am scheduled for July 8.

"July 8? Is that a Tuesday? You may want to reschedule because I leave for vacation on that Thursday."

"Um, isn't that after the 8th?"

"Yes, but I would hate to leave town just two days after. It's not that your case is particularly complicated, it's just that at your age, it's going to take you longer to recover."

At my age? What the hell?

I was just about to launch into my 4 c-sections, heart trauma and misc. other surgeries in which I am chasing toddlers and dogs 15 minutes post-op when he gives me a Valium to take on the morning of the 8th before I even get there.

I smile with 2 teeth more than I will after the 8th.

Quiet

It is so dern quiet here. Unsettlingly so.

This is week 1 and only of camp. They are gone from 8:30-3 everyday. (Except to attend one of the dozens of doctor's appointments scheduled...) But this year Amy was old enough to go with her brothers.

This is strange for both of us. There are times when I feel she is still physically attached to me--more so than the others because she just has needed so much more in her short little life. There are precious few others she trusts--some good friends and our beloved Tasha, but basically it's the Mom and Amy show all day every day. And I love that, I really do.

But there are moments when I realize she needs to be away from me to do normal little girl things. And today is one of those moments.

And in a sort of related aside, Stevie--the old guy, the almost teenager texting 3600 times in one month--is still my big baby and I love it. Here's proof:



Armed with some downtime and his sister's sidewalk chalk, he made an entire NHL official ice rink in our street.

It was the sweetest thing I've seen in a long time.

What a week...

Jeesh, it's been kind of a big week around here. I'm still sort of hanging on an inhale. When I wake up from this crazy dream, I'll be more coherent. Maybe I'm still suffering the after-effects of suncreen paint fumes.

But here's some Friday blog love and contest news so you'll have something to do until I collect myself again.




I'm coining this a "Weestakes": a chance to win really great prizes just because you have a wee one...

Sign up for free on Newbaby.com today! Not only will you be instantly part of the most in-the-know parenting community with the largest expert video library for new parents on the Web, but for the next 30 days, we're giving away great prizes every single day to our new members.

So sign up today--it may be a "wee stakes," but we've got big goodies for you!

And just when you thought it couldn't get any better...


We have a new contest! In cinematic celebration of the DVD release of "Definitely, Maybe," (a film by the makers of "Love, Actually" and "Notting Hill") I'm asking for written submissions for your proposal stories! Witty, touching, tragic…anything goes. Just divamail me your story (doesn't have to be long, mind you) by Thursday, June 26th, and you can win a prize pack of all three movies. We'll post the winning entry on Suburbandiva.com.

Blognouncement

Deep breath…

Okay, so out of complete left field, I get a call from the St. Pete Times last week asking me if I’d be interested in contributing to their new parenting site Go Momma as a “celebrity guest blogger.”

After the EMS revived me, I managed, “Sure, what time?” “Can I bring the wine?” and “How do I spell your name so I can tattoo it on my ankle?”

And so coming soon to a theater near you will be my humble blog contributions a couple of times a week on parenting Diva style.

I’m thinking I’m the “before” shot for the real experts…

More Divas in the house

A friend of mine has a new blog.

So? Who doesn't? You ask youself. Blog is the new black.

This one is different for exactly that reason, blog is the new black, and at 50% off.

The Deal Divas over at the St. Pete Times are dishing out fashionable deals, but making me split my seams in laughter while doing it. Seriously, hip bloggers that not only tell you where to find discount designer shoes, but make you laugh hysterically while doing it? Not only will I read daily, I might weave them each friendship bracelets.

If it matches their outfits.

Home, reluctantly

Well. I'm home. And none too pleased about being on the mainland again.

Technically, I'm peninsula-side, but it's still not the same as island time. At all.

We had a fabulous time. Beyond fabulous, like crazy fantastublous. We spent 5 solid days on the beach collecting sand dollars and shark's teeth, playing in the waves, making sand castles, watching dolphins. We spent out nights with friends, eating great food, drinking island cocktails and watching sunsets. It was perfect. Jessie is completely blond, Amy learned to wade out pretty far in the surf, Matty is the color of hot chocolate, and Stevie put more miles on his bike than Lance Armstrong. If beachcombing was an Olympic event, I'd be a gold medalist. Sean won silver for lugging all of our equipment to the beach and back everyday.

We got home late yesterday but we'd all still be there if it weren't for that job-because-we-need-to-eat thing. Although if we could trade in all of these sand dollars for actual green ones, we could retire right now and be millionaires.



(These aren't all mine, I was just the banker for the team of diggers.)



And this is one of only 3 pictures I took the entire time. I hate bringing the camera to the beach for so many reasons, but my iPhone was handy one evening, so here you go. (If some of my more photogenic friends send me good ones, I'll post.)

Okay, let me go back into my decompression chamber so as to re-acclimate myself to land.

Sigh.

Gone Fishin'

Dear Blog:

We're on our way to the beach, thanks for minding the store while we're gone.

Please take out the trash on Friday and don't forget to feed the dog and take in the newspapers.

We'll be back on Wednesday, and the neighbors are watching, so no wild blog parties.

I know how you are.

Bon Voyage,

T.

Island Eve

It's officially Vacation Eve. And I am completely and utterly unglued.

Besides running around like a crazy woman who needs a vacation (and an eyebrow wax, but that's beside the point)last night was my monthly meeting. Oy. I know I complain of this, which begs the question, why Trace, why do you do it? Well, it's complicated. In a Machivellian sort of way. I feel like I need to pay my dues here so that my other really fun and fulfilling gigs will continue. Because I really, really like writing the other stuff.

So I was hoping this month would be easy--they'd have not a lot to say so I could just write out the article in between laundry loads and trips to the car. Not so much. It was a long, convoluted and particularly contentious 3 hours in which to write about.

So that seriously put a damper in my Olympic training for events like the beer luge, the 100 yard dash across hot sand and how many items I can pack in a Rubbermaid bin. So I am kind of scrambling tonight, but much calmer than I was this morning.

Because when Amy and I went to the grocery store, I decided to get a pedicure at this place Val told me about next door. She literally salivates when she speaks of it, and I'm thinking, I've had pedicures before, really, how good could be?

Oh. My. God. She did things that shouldn't be legal or at least require a luxury tax, a permit and a pact with the devil. There was parafin and salts and then this hot rock thing that was A.MAZ.ING. I didn't understand a word she said, but she spoke the language of love with those rocks, and I think I want to date her seriously. She had me at, "You want deluxe for $28?"

Menwhile, Amy sits next to me and they paint her nails and toes. Pink. WIth flowers. She is mesmorized and has not taken her eyes from her fingers since. It was wonderful.

So I still have an incredible amount to get done tonight, but somehow I do not care as much as I did 6 hours ago.

I cannot wait to squish my newly-beautified toes in that sand tomorrow.

T - 3 Days...

It's Monday. We leave on Thursday for the annual best trip of the year. That means 3 days until my ass is on a deserted beach with only Tom Collins and Jose Cuervo keeping me company.

I'm kidding of course. My family will be there and about 20 others. It's awesome and I seriously cannot wait.

But, preparing for a vacation on an island where there is little by the way of amenities besides your condo refridgerator, makes packing for Palm Island an art form. We womenfolk have elevated the packing experience to an entire month-long event. If you run out of something or have to leave the island for some reason, it takes about 6 hours by ferry to get a gallon of milk or more vodka. But worse, it is considered a personal failure.

So to that end I will spend the next 3 days cooking, washing, packing, shopping, writing, organizing, washing, packing and more shopping so that I can do none of those things for 5 days straight.

I have 7 people (the Intern arrives tonight) in which to pack, shop, cook, and provide for every possible meal and situation. 3 meals x 7 people x 5 days + Happy Hours, rain days and sunburns is a mind-boggling algebraic equation that equals a whole lot of sangria and sunshine.

It is such a bargain.

Off to stuff some pasta shells.

A new one on me

So Girl's weekend is going swimmingly--I'm getting a whole lot done, and we're having a fabulous time. I have a solid 1/3 of my novel complete!

So I am about to embark upon my evening eggplant parmesan project (as a recent recipient of about 20 farmer's market eggplants, an eggplant parmesan project would obviously follow) when there is a knock at the door.

Stupidly, I answer.

"So, are you interested in some furniture?"

"Excuse me?"

"Furniture. Brand new. 70% off retail. Right there in my truck."

Sure enough, there is a huge semi in the street right outside my front door.

Now I've chased away magazine salesmen. Super cleaning product salesmen. Meat and seafood vendors. Children with Christmas wreaths, candy, candles and cheese. But this is the first door-to-door furniture salesman I've come across.

"No, I think I'm all set on furniture. Thanks?"

"No problem."

He gets into his 18-wheeler and pulls next door.

I kid you not.

(I wonder if Mrs. Kravitz bought a settee or a china hutch...)

Girl's Weekend

Despite the Thursday Binge, I did complete the Thigh Manifesto.

And a lot more. I have already cleaned a bit and made some of our dinners for our trip. The boys left for a weekend doing boy things--scratching, baseball and eating poorly--so it's just us girls until Sunday. I suppose we should shop and clean, but I am planning on writing and packing for next week's pilgrimage to the beach. We leave Thursday, but I so wish it were sooner.

So that's about it for the afternoon. If you need me I'll be writing in between rented chick flicks and diaper changes.

My Writer's Group

Last night I met with my writer's group.

I don't know if I've mentioned them before, but I have one and we've been meeting the few of months. It's funny because I didn't think I would get much from this group when I first started, having never been in one before. But since we've been meeting, I've really enjoyed it, but also feel like they are elevating my work. And I hope to pulling my weight of adding helpful commentary to theirs. We've all got very different styles and projects going on, so it's pretty fascinating to be a part of something like this.

Right before leaving for said meeting, I was writing a column on my thighs being Communists. (You can read about that tomorrow if I ever finish.) Anyway, it's ridiculous of course. But then I go to the meeting and I get to bring my novel, and share this whole other side of my writing that is really gratifying, and well, grown-up. And don't get me wrong--I love talking about the political philosophy of my ass, but sometimes it's just nice to write about things a bit less...um, idiotic.

But speaking of idiocy, my rear end and margaritas (okay, so I just threw in the margarita part) it's another edition of the Thursday Quench today. I've got Teriyaki chicken wings going into the oven, and on my way to the next ho'tess' house.

(If I can finish the Thigh Manifesto in the next 2 hours, of course.)

4 out of 5 dentists recommend hippo floss

So my kids share my disdain for the dentist. So sue me. They'll go every 6 months, get a lecture (although either one still has never had a cavity) and then we'll commiserate over lunch afterward like we did today.

Me: They are a little nicer than the last dentist, right?

Matty: No, meaner.

Me: Meaner? How could they be?

Matty: She kept telling me to open my mouth wider.

Me: How is that mean?

Matty: Because I'm not a hippo! She should just do her job.

Touche.

June!

Summer showed up today.

Spring was so yesterday with its mid 80 temps and somewhat lower humidity.

But not today. Today was that 90 something day that hurts your eyes when you open the door and burns the back of your thighs when you sit in the car. It was a day complete with street mirages and flushed faces. Heat lethargy. A real need for antiperspirant.

However, we risked 3rd degree burns and loss of our retinas so that the kids and I could make our first summer field trip to the paint your own pottery store. Big fun. Made birthday gifts for my Grandmother, and the kids painted undetermined ceramic animals. It took 3 hours. And cost $110. I'm freaking exhausted. And poor.

But a couple of the other goals of the summer were also completed. I wrote 2 more pages in the novel. Boys have dentist appointments tomorrow. (I don't know if I mentioned, but we're seeing every doctor/health professional I can think of in the next 2 months to take full advantage of insurance.) And tonight I will have cooked three nights in a row!

And so the season begins on a high (tempertaure, mileage and pricetag) note.