Prolly All the Time

mental gymnastics...

So far, my single biggest observation of being sans-employment is how freaking busy I am...  Seriously, there was a metric shit-ton not getting done around here on a regular basis. 

IMHO (and since this is my blog, that is pretty much all you get here...) I have been pretty pleased with my ability to address issues that heretofore have taken N.'s and my collective talents MONTHS to figure out.  The number of solutions I have created for the master bedroom cable issue ALONE is quite impressive, not to mention the organization of my new closet.

[Did I mention that in the midst of the rather abrupt decision to leave the job, casa t'pon also relocated?  I didn't.  Hmmmmm, well consider yourselves informed.] 

N. would probably interject here to offer the perspective that he is quite amazed at the number of "problems" I can imagine in just the first 10 minutes of the day that need to be solved ASAP and preferably with some kind of large expenditure.  But he is insane from inhaling paint fumes, so feel free to ignore him.

Also, finding myself with much more available time during "normal business hours," I have been enjoying the task of running a whole new world of errands, beans in tow. 

I bring this all up not to try to get someone to throw me a ticker-tape parade (although, that would be nice).  I bring it up to state the mind-achingly obvious.  This shit is... challenging.  I have a new found respect for women (and men) who go about the task of hunting and gathering in the urban landscape each day with a child (or, GASP!, children) strapped to them.

Now, I have ALWAYS thought that being a stay-at-home parent was ridiculously hard work.  N. and I have long paid someone good money to do that job at casa t'pon. But what I have never fully grasped, until now, was how much mental work is required.  Dare I say it, but there is some graduate-level problem solving going on here...  and I find myself woefully under-qualified.

Yesterday, for example, started with a real-life scenario of that old "fox, chicken, bag of grain" brainteaser when I took Banzo to the vacuum repair shop.  How, I asked myself in the parking lot, was I to get one toddler, one broken vacuum, and my other stuff out of the car and into the store without raising the concern of an overzealous "do-gooder," irking off the guy who would be fixing the vacuum, or crushing my skeletal structure trying to get everything at once. That one errand, put me back 15 minutes on my schedule.

There are the complex, multi-party negotiations; chemical compound identification and analysis; mechanical and electrical engineering; required vast knowledge and immediate recollection of 20th and 21st century Kiddie Lit; geography; economics...  the list goes on, and on, and on...

And, it has only been one week. 

I am so very tired and am really beginning to welcome the thought of going back to work.

But, I need to know...  what brainteaser did your day most resemble?

getting it right for the first time...

The past six months have been a roller coaster.  I DO NOT LIKE ROLLER COASTERS.  I do not harbor any deep appreciation for the ride, for the "thrill," or for the feeling of being snatched from the jaws of imminent splattage by a very suspect and precarious hodge podge of wood, steel beams and screws...  What can I say, mini-trains of death coasters are just not my cup of tea.

Choices I have made (both actively and passively) certainly contributed to the overall mind and heart-f&*k that I have been engaged in for the past several months.  The situation has made me someone who I do not particularly like or wish to be around.  For months, I have plodded along rather than take any action, settling on depression, anxiety, and anger as a way of life.  It has cost me my sense of humor, my joy in everyday things, and, probably the hardest to stomach, some of my bond with Banzo.  [I know!  Y'all are so pleased to have come over here to read this...  it is uplifting, isn't it...]

Today, however, I am turning over a new leaf.  I am leaving a job that has been so important to me for nearly six years that I have let it take me away from the somethings that are truly far more important.  I am making an active choice to walk away from my goal in favor of someone else. I am deciding that I can find another job that is fulfilling, engaging, AND is in the best interest of my family.  I am leaving behind colleagues that I adore to make more time for the people that I LOVE.

This is the hardest choice I have had to make [why?  it should be the easiest! a no-freaking brainer, for crisps-sake...  but I digress].

But for the first time...  in a long time, everything just feels RIGHT.

risking TMI

I recently purchased a new set of underwear.  Nothing fancy...  but the tag on the inside seam bears the brand name "it se bit se."  I read this tag every time I grab a pair for the day...   

It is like my underwear is giving me permission to eat a brownie.

joy

This morning, I decided that I am far too young to have two toddlers. If I were giving grades in family planning I would give myself a "D." [ NOTE:  I am not grading on a curve...  If, for example, one were to take into account teenagers and couples whose family planning goal appears to be fielding a Division 1-A athletic program, I would clearly get a B+.]

Per the custom at casa t'pon, this morning Bean woke up just shy of 6 AM.  I heard him come down the stairs, pitter-pat across the tile floors into our room, SLAM the freaking door, and then creep up to my side of the bed.  Now, this is usually when he climbs over me into our bed for about 30 minutes of uninterrupted Bean-time (until Banzo wakes up in earnest).  Instead, on this fine fall morning, I was assaulted -- smacked in the face with a wet and heavy diaper and informed by my eldest son that he was, in fact, "WET!"

happy freaking blue bird day...

I headed upstairs to get Banzo shortly after meeting little Mussolini's additional demands for "MILKSH!" and "TEEBEE ON! HEHWOES!" (which for those of you not versed in Bean-speak amounts to Milk and Higglyto*wn Heroes). Per the custom at casa t'pon, the smell of crap was heavy as I opened the door.  And this morning, I was greeted by a huge shit-eatin' grin... literally.  Poop on the sheets, poop on his hands, poops in his hair, and poop on his mouth.  One giant, 27-lbs poopsicle.

its a shit-shining day...

Clean everyone up, make the morning bottle, curl up in bed with my boys and start to feel the warm glow of motherhood push aside the less than stellar start to this Friday.  I roll over, and there is that familiar smell again... poop.  On my sheets. Not much, but enough.  Not from the kids... please Gahd, not from N... nope, from my left boob.  A big smear of baby shit on my shirt. C-R-A-P... hmmmm.

And then, as I am semi-silently cursing a blue streak.  I hear it...  "HAPPY OU-AY OO YOU!" with big snotty kisses and vice-like hugs.  We dance to the Bea*tles.  And it only gets better from here.

limits

I believe that I have mentioned my personal belief that misery loves MY company and as such, I must always be mindful of people trying to rope me into situations that are chiefly designed to make me crazy. I am mostly successful, but this hyper paranoia vigilance often leads to nights spent communing with a berry-pie sundae, trying to engage with whatever visual crap I have located between channels 207 and 575, while ignoring my husband's rants re: World of Borecraft guild politics.  (brief aside: I am starting to wonder if this might be a self-fulfilling prophesy.  shit.)

I am not sure what spawned a sudden resurgence of interest in casa t'pon's reproductive plans, but in the past 72 hours I have fielded no fewer than seven inquires as to the ETA of our third child.  Is it the fact that the baby-weight I chased away while on maternity leave, came back with ten of its friends and set up camp ever so sloppily in my mid-section? Is it that my friends and family continue to struggle with the will of Gahd, who has chosen to withhold the girl child to whom I had hoped to bestow all of my feminine wisdom and whiles (well at least as soon as I figured out what those were...)?  Is it because Banzo has started to walk at the tender age of nine months and the baby cuddliness is starting to give way to the purple and green shine of toddlerdom? Could it be that these well-intentioned, highly inquisitive folk think that I am the kind of parent who makes this shit look easy? 

Let me make something crystal clear here, there is no and will be no third bean. 

Why?  Because even with the wonders and convenience of modern science at my disposal and the help of a team of dedicated childcare providers...  we are barely holding this shit together.  I got a memo from my pinkie nail yesterday requesting paid disability, claiming that the burden of holding on (particularly given the return of the aforementioned fat) is causing undue stress and strain.  We have since switched responsibility for holding on to my pinkie toes, but that is dicey...  I have very squatty pinkie toes.  They are like the hobbits of the foot world -- they aren't really even whole toes, more like the top of a toe stuck directly to my foot, and the toenail is not even worth the dot of nail polish it takes to cover it.  Crap, where was I... see what I mean, driven to distraction.

At any given moment, someone is crying or shouting about something, even if they can't remember what it is they are crying/shouting about. There is a basket of clean clothes on my couch that I have been living out of for two weeks (and yesterday, I had to smell the pit of a shirt before I could decided to put it on).  In the past two days, I have very nearly impaled my foot or broken my leg as a result of stepping on legos in the dark, trains left on the stairs,  spit up on the tile,  or dogs under foot. I haven't seen the cat since Banzo tried to violate him with a purple crayon yesterday afternoon.  The other day, I caught Bean mountaineering in the pantry, helping himself to some uncooked pasta and peanut butter. I haven't had a good night sleep in three years. And I just ate a piece of Kr*ft Mac and Cheese off of the front of Banzo's onesie.

I am pretty sure that I got myself into this situation because someone told me that N. and I would have beautiful children and be great parents.  That is right, I let down my guard and I was sucked in by an ass kissing.  But fool me once...  blah blah blah.  I am not falling for that crap again.  I love my kids dearly (and they are pretty cute, if I do say so myself) but the thought of adding another to the mix and tilting the balance fully in their favor makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

The only way that I can see clear to having a third is if Gahd comes down to discuss it with me directly over a giant latte. And, I do not mean a burning bush or dove or some other shitty sign that is subject to misinterpretation.  I mean, Gahd himself... face to face at the bargaining table.  And He is going to have to be prepared for some pretty serious demands. Like it HAS to be a girl, who is guaranteed to be potty-trained from birth, will sleep through the night, and is completely void of the tantrums -- both toddler and teenager varieties.  I will also require a slamming body four days post-partum and child support through age 21. Quite frankly, I have to believe that He has bigger fish to fry, so there you have it.

No mas ninos... It is important to respect one's limits when it comes to drinking, long distance swimming, high stakes poker, and child raising. Two is mine.

breaking up is hard to do...

I have debated, as my brief break turned into one of my full-fledged sabbaticals,yet again trying to explain away a lack of posting.  My plan was to attribute it mostly to a crazy busy month of work, the exhaustion of chasing a very active toddler while taking on pounds faster than an English banker, and a long sojourn to the Outer Banks to rest my weary soul...  but really, it comes down to lazy.  which I am.  how else can you explain a 44 hour per week TV habit. alas, on to the stuff...

I have come to realize in my short, albeit active romantic lifetime, that there are really only two camps of people when it comes to break-up situations, everything else is simply a shade of grey.  When an individual begins to suspect that something is rotten in the state of Denmark, that the special someone with whom they have spent the past several hours is about to leave them, they either a) cling desperately to every last moment of togetherness in hopes that somehow, someway they can change their beloved's (or not so beloved, as the case may be) heart, or b) beat that someone to the punch, making sure that all the world knows that they, in fact, were the one's in full control of the walking out... and NOT the other way around.

Our dog, Nugget, is a perfect example of type a.  When she devined that we were having Bean, and now again with the upcoming arrival of the Banzo, she has been by my side every last minute of the day.  Following me from room to room, leaning into me, rubbing up against me, generally looking pathetic as she searches my face for any last sign of love and affection. I assure you that it is NOT that bad...  I would never dream of being neglectful to my precious pup, and you would think that she would understand this... but everything is melodrama with this dog.

Bean, as I have come to discover, is a case study in type b.  It is refreshing to know that I have surrounded myself with such diversity.

For the past several weeks, Bean has made it quite clear, to anyone who will listen that we -- me and he -- are no longer "peas in a pod" (if you will allow me to mix my legumes).  Not only are we no longer a matched set...  but it is also essential that everyone understand that HE did the unmatching.

I think that it has something to do with the ever-increasing bulge right here in front of me. Is it possible that he has sensed that I am, in fact, incubating a challenger to his inheritance, an individual with whom he will be forced to (GASP! horror of horrors) share the spoils of casa t'pon? I think so, and for this trangression, I am being brutally rebuffed.

It has been my messiest break-up, indeed.  What with the screaming, the pleading, the pulling of hair, the abject protestations... and that's just me.  This does not even begin to paint the picture of my small toddler howling as if his very being is being seared by acid and flames each and every time he comes into contact with his mother.  Or, the sheer panic that crosses his small face when N. leaves him alone with me, if only for the briefest of moments.  And let's not forget the abject disgust that Bean displays when asked to give his poor, suffering mama a kiss or a hug, you would think that we were asking him to lick the underside of the trash can lid...

None of this would be so bad if we were only ever in the company of people who know us...  but having just returned from a trip to the beach which involved travel... with strangers.  well, it was awkward to say the least.  Particularly given the aforementioned fact that Bean and I look nothing, at all, alike.  I am sure that on more than one occasion at the airport, on the beach, in the restaurants we frequented and the grocery store, someone wondered aloud if I was kidnapping Bean or at the very least why that young father kept leaving his small son in the care of a person who so clearly struck fear and loathing deep within the child's bosom.

I am slowly fighting back, through an organized program of shiney trinkets, mini-marshmallows and extended tickle battles. This kid will love me if it kills me and our bank account.

It's funny, but I never really thought of myself as a "type a" kind of person.

give a little, take a lot

N. and I discovered long ago that we are not good at making adult compromises.  I use up a shocking amount of my "ability to play well with others" in the work environment.  N. is a very stubborn individual, cut from a no-nonsense Midwestern cloth. Neither one of us were team athletes, so there goes that lesson.  Ultimately, in the past when we have tried to maturely come to a consensus... we each feel like we have lost and slink away to our respective corners of the house to suck our teeth and say snide things under our breath.  I know... tres grownup. But like I have always said, we prolly should not be raising children.

In order to maintain some semblance of happiness her at casa t'pon, we have developed two systems that aid us in the decision making process.  The first is very straight-forward -- ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS. You can not argue with its simplicity.  You can not argue with the results, it is nearly impossible (unless one party is drunk out of their mind) to get a true strategic edge, but you feel that you have more control than a simple roll of the dice.  It works nearly every single time -- flawlessly. 

In an attempt to solve another household dilemma we went to our second system, which we call "IF, THEN"... IF you want this, THEN I get this.  I like to think of this as a way for us to evaluate how much we REALLY want the thing we are fighting for...  and ultimately, everyone feels like they are winning something...  OK, not so much the way reasonable, well-adjusted adults might act, but it works for us.

So, our most recent dilemma.  Will we find out Banzo's sex?  Bean was a mystery and I loved every minute of not knowing...  as I have said before N. considered it a particular brand of torture that should be reserved only for the worst kind of person.  We had originally planned to "R-P-S"this one out...  but instead, I offered the option.  IF N. really wants to know what we are having, I can deal with it...  I guess that have had my surprise.  But THEN, I would like to have exclusive naming rights for the Banzo Bean.  That is right!  Bold move, I know. I want to be able to pick the name for this kid sans input, sans opinion. And just to make sure that I don't get evil spam... N. is more than welcome to make suggestions and turn his nose up at my short list, I just don't have to listen. Honestly, the discussion and give and take for the last round of name selection was about all I could take.  For someone who pretends to care so little about names, N. certainly had A LOT of opinions and precious little constructive to add to the discussion.

So, it looks like I will have a sex to share.  Which leaves you folks only 5 weeks to place your bets. I will tell you that if we go by heart rate, N. will be pleased to not have to pay for a wedding. Anyone got a good feeling out there...

food for thought (aka my product placement post)

I love the fries at Chi*k-Fil-A...  adore them.  I often find it hard to make it home with an order of these fries in tact...  I think that it is the waffle-cut that makes them so particularly difficult to resist.  I would venture that it is the perfect cut for a fry, maximizing both potato-y goodness and available square inches for fried surface and thus a crispy texture. (the only exception would be that yucky end piece that gets fed to the dog) It is the perfect compromise between the steak fry (way too starchy) and a McDon*ald's fry (excellent fried surface and texture, but sometimes it is all fry and no potato). 

On my ride home with the bag at my side, this mental ode to the CFA fry began a longer daydream about the perfect fast food meal.  If able to defy the limitations of time AND space (and not to mention health and overall feeling of physical fitness), and provided only $10 to craft the perfect fast food meal -- what would the elements be?  and most importantly, where would I go to get them... 

It seems to me the possibilities are endless, particularly given the rash of "fast-casual" that can be considered in this same space. And since the ride from Chi*k-Fil-A to my front door is only 15 minutes, I had to limit my postulating to your typical fast food establishments and the typical fast food meal, which for me conjures images of cheeseburgers, fries, beverage and just for good measure and to ensure the onset of heart disease AND type-2 diabetes a chocolate shake. 180 lbs here I come!!!

I have already established the fries would be from CFA...  so, lets move on to the cheeseburger, which IMHO is a no contest event.  Others might as well not even show up and for those of you who have not had the privilege of tasting one of these beefy wonders, my apologies.  I weep for you.

• In and Ou*t -- Single with Cheese.

Next, we move on to the beverage for which I have to rely on a pizza establishment, which kind of breaks the aforementioned rule. This is due mostly to one of the founding principles of my love for N. which is our complete agreement on the fact that any soda tastes better when it arrives at your table in a giant, red plastic cup (preferably with the brand name emblazoned on the side).  This selection also is somewhat flawed as I do not know of a fast food chain that serves this brand of cola, but whatever... it is my freaking fantasy.

• RC Cola in a big-ass red plastic cup.

And then finally, there is the chocolate shake to consider...  and this is by far a more difficult choice.  In my mind, there are two contenders, each strong in their own right.  First, there is We*ndy's Frosty. Some would argue (and I see the logic) that it isn't a shake since you can dunk a fry in it and it will stand at attention (and tell me that a Frosty-frosted fry is not just about the best combination of salty-sweet known to man).  They are also offering it as a mixer with cookie pieces, etc. which kind of puts it more in the category of a DQ Bli*zzard, at which point we then have to consider it side by side with a local fave called the Wallybanger. But, I digress. Back to the shake.

The other option in this category has more to do with a kind of childhood association than any real quality. When I was little and my mom was on this ridiculous health kick... my dad would sneak us out of the house and get milkshakes, snickers and york peppermint patties and we would eat them in the safety of his car.  It is one of my dearest memories of my dad, and whenever I feel just a little too far from home...  you can find my ass sitting in my car scarfing down a shake and pattie for old time's sake.

• McDon*ald's Chocolate Shake

So, that is it...  I, of course, have opinions on the best pizza, chicken nugget or strip, chicken sandwich, etc. and of course there is always the Wallybanger.  But, for the purposes of this mental exercise THAT is my dream menu.

Now, I know that professing a love of fast food in this day and age is akin to kicking baby seals and that there are mothers everywhere that have dropped their ground flax seed and soy yogurt in order to organize to save my children from all that is evil. (Ladies, please don't stop by until AFTER 4 PM. Bean will be very busy until that time, watching all manner of inappropriate TV whilst playing with scissors and eating animal lard from a plastic plate that I put in the microwave.  He gets very testy when interrupted.)

But, for those of you out there raised on happy meals...  where's YOUR beef?

Damn you, titty fairy!

Apologies to my male readers and to any who might be offended by the following post, but I need to get something off my chest, literally.

I hate that bitch!

I know that many a husband (or partner, as the case may be) has planned ticker-tape parades in the titty fairy's honor, petitioned Congress to enact a National Holiday to recognize her contributions to society, and erected small shrines in the back of the garage making offerings to ensure that the ample bosoms remain even after the suckling child reaches puberty.  I also hear (though am unable to comprehend) that some women feel the same way.  That these delusional smaller-chested sisters erect may-poles celebrating the way that they now fill out their t-shirts and bras with their newly delivered C-cups...

But, for those of us already endowed with more than our fair share of mammarian reserve... let me just say a hearty "No fucking thank you! Don't let my foot clip your wings as I show you the way out!"

Last time I was pregnant, my boobs stayed a respectable size until the last few weeks of pregnancy.  They then ballooned to comic proportions following delivery, which was a particularly bitter pill since I wasn't even able to breastfeed. I was, however, able to rest plates and bowls on my decolletage so as to remove the need for hands and/or utensils while eating. And they never really went back to their original size. What is that they say about the pregnancy boobs curse?.. big-busts stay bigger, little-busts get smaller... (lucky!)

N. was thrilled, because really how many men get to have their wives' boobs go up three cup sizes without a $5-8K investment.

I can only assume that the titty fairy has signed some kind of distribution deal with UPS to maximize her business, because her ass has been a lot more "efficient" in delivering the size this time around. In eight short weeks, I have surpassed my size two days before Bean was born...  my heart (and back and shoulders) all shudder to consider where we go from here.  I am considering moving and leaving no forwarding address. I had to go get fitted for a new set of bras, which in and of itself is a horrifying experience.* The resulting set of elastic, hooks, and ugly-ass material is enough to frighten any teenage boy into the priesthood.  And, I don't even want to talk about the fact that these monstrosities cost TWICE as much as your average over the shoulder bolder holder.

OK, I feel a little better.  But any of you who are interested in taking this boob-boosting bitch out, drop me a line.  I am formulating a plan...

*I am willing to bet that any and all among you with ample ta-tas have had to be "fitted" once in your life.  If not, you should.  A good bra will do wonders for your posture and profile.  That said, there is nothing more embarrassing and life-altering than being felt up by someone's grandma in a 10x12 ft booth.

SUCCESS!

I MADE IT ON TIME!  I MADE IT ON TIME!  and not just because my parents flight arrived 2 hours late. 

I actually had to make the loop around the airport three times before they were out and ready for pick up.  That is right, my wubbies, I ROCKED this airport pick-up.  Redemption is mine...

The plan worked, although N. only remembered one question -- which was fine, as it was enough of a trigger to get me to think of everything else.

The weekend was a blast, until yesterday when I jacked up my back.  It is in a horrible place too.  Right behind my shoulder blade, forcing me to slink around the house like some kind of evil-doer in a silent horror film (think Nosferatu).