Monday, January 26, 2009

"You have your hands full."

People, this phrase pisses me off.

Yesterday, I was on a date (ON A DATE . . . read: having fun) with my kids. We were at JoAnn and they were shopping and spending money from Great Grandma from Christmas. They made smart selections. We played and we were talking . . . doing GREAT and having a GREAT time.

We enduring the fabric cutting line and took a swing through the garden stuff. Started planning and dreaming about our summer yard.

When checkout time rolled around, we waiting patiently (all 5 of us . . in the forever long "we're-short-staffed-and-four-people-got-layed-off-line"). When our turn was up, we marched up to the register.

"How are you today?", asked the clerk.

And, before I could say, "fabulous . . this has been great . ." or "fine, thanks, how are you . . . " or "good, the sale in crayola is AMAZING!"

She said, "whoa, you're overwhelmed . . . you've got your hands full."

Eek. Ugh. My breath got stuck in my body. Big says my eye twitched at her. Middle says I gave her "stink eye".

What actually came out was, "Overwhelmed?? (bat, bat of the lashes) . . . No, this is how I like it . . . YOU must be overwhelmed. There are 30 angry quilters waiting in fabric cutting and a line of 40 waiting to check out."

She didn't say anything else to me. But I'm still left with that exasperated shut-the-hell-up attitude. Who does that?? Who makes that assumption? I wasn't scolding a kid. No one was screaming. They were all postively angelic. These kids did HAPPEN to me (in part) . . . but I was an active, willing, wanting participant. And I LOVE them . . I CHOSE this. I'm not overwhelmed. I'm good. I'm damn good.

Sometimes, my hands are full. She's right about that. In that moment, they were full of crayola products and cut fabric that's (in part) paying to put Cheerios on her table . . . so if judgement prevails . . you're right. My hands are full. So get the flippin' door for me, would ya??

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Mamma's Boys . . again . . .

Lordy, lordy, lordy.

I hope JoJo and Mindy are happy. I'm so happy he sent his mom packin'. How DO you become that mom? How do you AVOID becoming that mom? Maybe that's the better question.

And, moms are not always right . as evidenced by Lauren & Rob. Sheesh. I hope he got Camilla's number!!

I'd love to have Lorraine as a mom-in-law. I'm much more med student than penthouse . . . but I love that kind of person.

Yeah, so . . . do you think you are the person your in-laws would have chosen for their son?? I think . . HELL NO.

And, is your hubby the one your parents would have chosen for you . . . I think . . uh, probably not.

Friends.

Friends.
Do you have any? Do you WANT some?

I contemplate friends on what seems to be a semi-cyclic pattern. Friends crop up a certain times of the year . . . rather, the TOPIC of friends, and most times, I retreat (it's becoming a habit) to that deeply contemplative state.

Last week, Homestead gave me reasons why I have no friends. Okay, before you start singing my pity party . . . I DO have friends. One or two or three. But, mostly what I have is acquaintances.

Ouch. Let me say . . that Homestead is my friend. I know this because ONLY a friend could say those things to another person and be left standing.

MOTH says I have no friends because they continually disappoint me. He also says I don't have time to nurture friendships because I pour my time into children, work and growing things from seeds. Oh, and organizing. MOTH also says that when you retreat into a deeply contemplative state, it's hard for people to befriend you. (Seriously, what the hell does he know about friends? . . . Get the *&^&** away.)

Hmm-hmm. And believe it or not, in my organized mind . . there is a sub-topic of friendship that my mind is twisting around.

Imagine you have a favorite restaurant. And you have a favorite food there . . . and a favorite wine. People there know you by name. As an individual . . . . in an honest way . . . . You aren't someone's wife, or someone's friend . . or someone's mom . . or that lady that has the white dog. You're just you. And this restaurant is kind of happy place for you . . . you go there and you feel . . . calm . . . serene . . . appreciated . . . like you've escaped.

And one day, you see someone you know there . . who says, "oh, I didn't know you came here."

And the whole thing is boxed up and shipped off to HELL (probably in a handbasket.) Because . . you didn't want someone to know about your restaurant. You didn't want for ANYONE to know . . . . and now, you feel like your happy place is gone . . and that you've been discovered.

What to do? Can't disguise yourself at the restaurant . . that defeats the point. Can't not go . . . that's outright surrender. Can't avoid . . . that's just awkward. But, oh, how I'm longing for my restaurant.

Counsel me.

Seriously?

A peanut butter recall?

I lobby daily against eye rolling. But this information makes my roll my eyes, hang my head and sigh heavily.

This has a profound impact on my family.

Damnit.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Momma's Boys . . .

Oh My, Oh My, Oh My.

I love TV. One of my secrets. I love TV. I'm a fan of the season long TV drama. Like Private Practice. And Grey's Anatomy.

I also like an occasional dose of reality TV. I'm done with Survivor. A couple of seasons was plenty. I'm done with The Amazing Race. I don't like to see people bicker at each other. I'm also done with The Bachelor (and The Bachelorette.) First of all, barring Trista & Ryan . . I'm not sure it's possible. I'm a fan of committment and monogamy based in trust and honesty. Knowing that your "love interest" is macking on another girl in a hot tub . . . . nope. That's where I draw the line. Couldn't put myself out there like that. No way, no how. So, thank goodness I'm not a bachelorette.

I'm rambling . . . .

So, let me get back to point: Momma's Boys. Crikey . . . are you watching? I'm riveted. I'm dumbfounded by the shallow mindedness. I'm horrified at the heartbreak. I'm speechless at the stupidity.

In summary . . . Momma's Boys are these 3 sad, lost, ball-less babies whose mothers have coddled them and wiped their butts long into adulthood. Now, the momma's want to choose wives for their sons. And the show is about this slew of supermodel quality women who all want to be involved with these nancy-boys. I'm horrified.

Anyone who dares marry JoJo . . . . eek. I'm making that face.
I'm hoping JoJo grows a set, stands up to momma . . and had the foresight to get Misty's number.

Eek, more to come on this, surely . . . because I'm lost in thought over it. Honestly.

I retract a previous post . . .

Months ago . . .
About Socks . . .
And how they are a personal purchase . . .

I retract my comment . . .

Mother-in-law made a good purchase . . .
www.littlemissmatched.com
"A pair and a spare" . . .
They come in sets of 3 . . .
And none of them match . . .

I love them.
Good weight.
No funny strings inside.

Go get them . . everyone go buy them now.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

A little sad . . .


I'm a little sad this week . . .


Maybe it's Aunt B. Maybe it's the after-the-holidays lull. Maybe it's visiting my dad on Wednesday. Maybe it's Zeeke. See Zeeke in photo above with Tinky & Middle. This is where he always is. Always. Underline. Bold. Always snuggling up to someone. Always underfoot. Always in the middle of things.
MOTH and I adopted Zee when he was only 4 months old. He was in an unfortunate living situation with a giant Akita that wanted to eat him. He mostly hid and shook and wet himself. MOTH had a weiner dog growing up, so he was accustomed to the look of them. He had to grow on me.
It's been almost 11 years.
He has a tumor. A giant tumor. A tumor that's most likely late stage. And inoperable. And though we don't know if he has days, weeks or months . . . . the words have been spoken.
And that's kind of sad.
He's home in hospice care. I'm letting him have a few table scraps and finding time to pet him more. I'm scratching him where he can't reach . . . since he has a giant lump on his butt that's preventing him from balancing just right . . and he can't . . . . seem . . . . to . . . scratch . . that . . . . one . . spot . . behind . . . his . . .left . . (aahh) . EAR. I'm finding a way to make him moan every day. Moans of pleasure of course . . . (he's a moaner.)
And that's kind of sad, too.
How are you?


Batgirl has a Paci . . .