At long last

September 15, 2008

Should you need me I will be engaging in the novel concept of putting things down the counter. Is this how normal people live? I can’t wait to move my coffee pot in from the laundryroom. Having to face my mountains of laundry every morning while I get my coffee is such a downer.

I still don’t have a working sink and dishwasher though.

Me: Do you think if I offered your husband a lap dance he could come over and hook up my sink and dishwasher right now?

Her: Maybe, but I am not sure that we could be friends anymore.

Me: Hmmmm, at this point I might like running water better you.

Her: You are just saying that. You don’t mean it.

Me: No, I think I do.

Of course I am kidding. I don’t hand out lap dances (ha- I just typed laptops by mistake) mostly because I would probably have to shower and change out of my yoga pants and t-shirt.

I really do use Tide

My older son played his game on Sunday. The weather early in the morning was horrible. By game time, the downpouring rain finally gave way to a light rain and thick fog. And mud. Lots and lots of mud.

The kids loved it. I guess boys are never too old to enjoy getting muddy.

As for me, I felt like I was in a Tide commercial.

It Is a Sports Blog Now

September 13, 2008

Youth Sports. Ahhhhh, how they make me want to tear the hair out of my head. Not because of the kids, but the parents. Parents who are deluded. Or crazy. Or drunk. Or trying to live vicariously through their children. I think if you are tailgating at your 8 or 9 yr old child’s game that maybe, just maybe, you need to get a life of your own. Just sayin’

This is one of those times when I have so much to say. Just ask people I talk to regularly. They are all, “We get it. People are crazy. Now please you are frightening me.” I am refraining from talking about it here. Until the season is over. Then whoa boy, watch out.

Just one story, so you can have some idea of what it is like. Two weeks ago at my 9 yr old’s game. One of the father’s of a boy on the team was standing near me when our team made an important tackle or something. I don’t know the proper terms for all the football stuff, though it doesn’t stop me from pretending I do. Like a normal parent at a game of 8 and 9 yr old CHILDREN I clapped.

The man next to me though, he yelled, “NICE FUCKING HIT!! YEAH! NICE FUCKING HIT!”

When did that become acceptable? It was yet another one of those moments when I thought, “Who are you people?”

Sure there are normal parents too. At least I think that there are. It is just that the crazies completely overshadow them.

Luckily my son loves to play and is pretty clueless about all the swirls around him. It is weird because he is probably one of the most empathetic children I have ever met. He never seemed like the football type to me, though what exactly the type is I have no idea. He is kind and caring. Imagine the sweetest kid and then wrap that kid in cotton candy and you have my 9yr old. But get him on the football field and suddenly a completely different side emerges. He throws down kids twice his size. He gets all intense and serious. It’s like a switch is flipped. And frankly it frightens me a little.

Little does anyone suspect what is lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky 67 pound exterior.

He grabs the ball carrier. A boy who appears to have a tattoo. I am sure it is fake, but really, you never know these days.

Then he gets by Number 71.

Ooooh there goes the quarterback.

Watch out, Number 12!

Of course there were other kids who did stuff. Good stuff. Caught balls. Ran many yards. Made a touchdown. Things worthy of clapping, cheering, and screaming the F-word. But their parents can write about them on their own blogs.

In the end our team lost the game 18-6.

But they are only 8 and 9 yrs old, by the time the reach the parking lot they are over it. And not just because the ice cream truck hangs out there.

A Smashing Dinner

September 10, 2008

Whoa, it is crowded here in the vast wasteland. I guess the shouting and mudslinging on both sides has obscured our view of each other. And the shouting and mudslinging I am referring to is by supporters of the candidates, not the candidates themselves.

Sunday I finally made a real, proper meal in my new oven. I had only used the stovetop to that point. I made a huge pan of lasagna. After it had been in the oven for about 15 minutes I pulled it out on the oven rack to cover it with tinfoil. And in what felt like slow motion it slipped off the oven rack and smashed on the ground. While I watched helplessly because I had set my potholder down way across the room.

My 7 yr old, upon viewing the carnage, said, “I wish Dad were home. He would have grabbed it with his bare hands.”

And yes, he probably would have. I was forced to tell my son that I love my appendages more than him. (Not really)

Over at Work It, Mom! I am asking what your dirty little secret recipe is. You know the food you feed your kids when life is too busy. Or you drop your dinner on the floor.

Marco…

September 9, 2008

Like everyone else in the U.S. I have politics on my mind, whether I am blogging about it or not. I have been trying to write something about it. I see people on one side getting so very excited and I think, “Meh.” I see people on the other side getting excited and I think that I am missing something.

Maybe I am cynical and jaded, but I just don’t really think it makes a difference. A career politician is a career politician.

I am tired of the Obama supporters thinking that if you aren’t voting for him you are stupid, or ill-informed, or don’t care about our country. And that you are probably racist.

I am tired of the McCain supporters thinking that if you aren’t voting for him you are stupid, ill-informed, or don’t care about our country. And that you probably hate war veterans.

I wish I could get excited. And put one of those little signs out on my front lawn. Maybe break my hard fast rule about bumper stickers on my cars. Or wear a red, white and blue t-shirt with the name of a candidate on it. In the end I will probably vote against someone.

And right now I can hear people getting their panties in a bunch. People on both sides who want to jump in and tell me how wrong I am. How could I possibly NOT agree with them, when they are so right. People who want to tell me that if I looked at the issues I couldn’t possibly vote for the other guy.

Oooooooooh, the ISSUES, why didn’t I think of that!

That’s right, it is because I am stupid, ill-informed, and don’t care about our country.

When the Obama supporters chant, “We can do it!” I can’t be the only one who thinks of Bob the Builder. Maybe that is who I should vote for. He is very handy with that backhoe.

I wrote the following two years ago after the mid-term election, and it still resonates with me:

I have made a personal decision not to blog about politics. Not because I am not interested, I am. Not because I don’t have ideas or concerns, I do. But because I don’t see everything as black and white. I see things in color, bright vivid colors that swirl around over my head. And sometimes I can see more than one color of an issue, I can see many. And I can’t reconcile that in my writing, so I don’t even try.

This year I felt like the election Grinch. I wasn’t excited to rock my vote. (Though truth be told, I have never been the age demographic for rocking my vote even back at it’s inception)

I went to the polls to vote against people. I voted not because I was excited about a candidate and the ideas and platform, but because the other candidate scared the hell out of me. Is this just because I have gotten older and more jaded? I don’t think so. Something has changed.

The first election I remember voting in was the presidential election in 1992. The energy and excitement were palpable. I remember when Clinton won being excited and feeling as though we were entering a new era. I remember sitting and watching the results come in on television and talking on the phone with friends who were equally excited.

Do you remember the debates that year? Do you remember Ross Perot?

Two years ago and again yesterday I felt myself thinking, “Where is Ross Perot when you need him?”

And by this I don’t literally mean Ross Perot. I mean a person who would stand for what he did during that election. A person who got people excited. A person who got people talking about politics again. A person who makes you believe, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that a regular person can make a difference, that our government is still elected by the people, for the people. Even though I thought he was nuttier than a fruitcake, I appreciate the life he brought to the campaign that year.

Now I feel like I stand here alone in a vast wasteland. I look to my right and think, “Who are you people?”

And I look to my left and think, “And who are you people?”

And I stand here in the vast divide, listening to the rhetoric being thrown back and forth. I keep hearing that this election is a referendum on Iraq. That voters are turning out to send a message about Iraq. As one of those voters, I feel insulted. I am not merely voting for or against Iraq. There are so many other issues.

I know that there must be others like me standing in this wasteland. It’s just that the divide has become so large and empty that we can’t see each other. Perhaps I should just start calling “Marco” and waiting to hear an answer.

Before the Crash

September 6, 2008

It’s 10:00pm at night.

My younger children are sitting next to me around the kitchen table. They have out craft foam, glue, and scissors. My daughter is sharpening her colored pencil with a tiny knife. Deep in concentration, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

Once upon a time we had proper pencil sharpeners, but they all died some sort of painful death.

My three year old is using the glue like paint. My kitchen table is the canvas with random scraps of paper floating on it. He is thrilled with himself. I don’t have the heart to tell him that it will all just dry clear leaving him with an invisible art project. You know if I waited for it to dry before cleaning it up and throwing it away.

My 7 and 9 yr olds are debating the fierceness of various creatures. Scorpions = fierce. Hydras = fierce. Bats (my suggestion) = NOT fierce. In fact why don’t I just suggest puppies for crying out loud. Vampire bats (yes, still my suggestion) = not fierce, but they humor me with an, “Ahhhh,ok then.”

It is well past any acceptable bedtime for little kids.

But they are saying things like,
“Can you give me a dab of school glue, please?”
“That is a delightful picture!”
“Duuuude, you rock.”
And “Wook, I gwoood by hand to my cheek!”

I can’t bear to send them up to bed. Not just yet. So often I feel like I am here, but not really present. That I don’t appreciate the moment until it has gone.

I know that any minute it will all come crashing down like a house of cards. Something will happen that will set off a chain reaction. There is no avoiding it. There will be crying. There will be yelling. Someone will stomp out of the room. One of the faces I kiss in bed will be wet with tears. Maybe more. Definitely more.

And in that moment I will think that it wasn’t worth it. I will wonder what I was thinking for allowing them to stay up and do crafts at what might as well be the middle of the night. I will think that maybe those stricter parents are onto something.

But for right now… this very minute… I savor it.

Signs of Fall

September 4, 2008

Acorns collected from the yard

Cool evenings that require jackets. Though oddly enough not cool enough to kill all the mosquitos.

Today I got a phone call from the building inspector. We were reported for doing work without a permit.

I told him that I didn’t think anything we were doing required a permit. I was then told that anything short of PAINTING requires a permit. Replace your sink? Permit. Install a new light switch? Permit. Hang sheetrock? Permit. Install a new stove? Permit.

So I said I was painting. Which is true. I was painting.

So tired

September 2, 2008

I have learned over the past few weeks that I am a wimp. Well, I already knew that but it has now been reinforced.

My legs are all bruised from walking into various pieces of wood and scaffolding. My arms are so tired they just hang limp at my sides. I am so tired of painting. I think at one point I may have said that I preferred the look of bare sheetrocked walls. Which I do. I have callouses on my hands and paint in my hair.

I am also going to burn all of my “painting clothes.” Really they are just clothes I ruined by painting in them. For some reason I always think that this time it will be different. This time I will be more careful. I have now embraced the inevitable and have been wearing the same few things over and over again.

The plumber is coming over today to hook up the range. I cannot wait. Everyone keeps asking what the first thing I am going to make will be. I honestly have not given it any thought. I also still don’t have a working sink, so I am not keen on making anything that requires cleaning up.

My 11 yr old son really wants to make these caramelicious brownies. We have a friend who makes them for all the kid functions and my son has loved them. We saw her this past weekend and she gave him a bag of caramels and the recipe. I think that will be the first thing our range makes. It sounds better than chicken nuggets, which is about all I have energy for today.

My son made weight on Sunday. THANK THE GOOD LORD ABOVE. We knew it was going to be close and were more than slightly worried. Rob went to the weigh-in with scissors just in case he had to start cutting more away from his clothing. Luckily my son was spared the Flashdance look. This week.

Once he made weight and walked out of the office all of his teammates applauded and clapped him on the back. It was very sweet.

When Rob walked by where all the other parents had gathered, they applauded for Rob. They know who really suffered more.