New Years

I need some help finding a good New Years resolution. I already walk every day, I already have a healthy "private" life, I've already vowed to become smarter with OHM, more frugal with Tiarra, more organized with Delta and now I want something exciting. What shall I do? I'm open for suggestions. Post an idea, please, something easily attainable with 3 yunguns in tow. Preferably legal. Otherwise, I'm game.

Great Dream

I had a Great Dream last night.I Was riding through war torn Chechnya in back of a cab driven by a man who may or may not have been trying to kill me. I was naked. I looked over to right and realized that Brad Pitt was riding next to me, also naked, very sad.

"What's wrong, Brad?" I asked.

"I'm ugly."

"Jesus Christ," I said, moving a little bit lot bit closer to brad, "You're gorgeous. You're as gorgeous as...I was going to say Brad Pitt but since you ARE him..."

"You really think so?" (Puts his arm around me. I realize we are married - don't ask me how I realize this. It's my stinkin dream.)

Suddenly cab driver could have ak-47 trained on my forehead and it wouldn't matter. I'm about to DO IT in the backseat of a moving vehicle with BRAD PITT!!!!!

But then someone started licking my hand and I remembered why I hate dogs so. After evicting the stupid dog from my bedroom, I desperately tried to get back to that dream, but succeeded only in riding down an escalator, losing my hat in the belt, pulling it out and having every single hat ever lost in the belt follow it. Not quite Brad Pitt.

party at brothers' house was great. love all new sisters-in-law. Reminded of the fact that 1. if can be late, will, 2. if can get lost, will. Arrived at party 3 hours late after extended tour of Nashua NH. Was invited to NY Eve party at other new brother's house. Want to go but Delta wants to stay home. Must arm wrestle to determine winner. Also, must reciprocate to new family with party at this house. Must hire home decorator.

edit: also, today is the day I must end my grace period as quasi-eldest in father's line and assume my new grown up role completely. Ah, well.

Happy, Merry

We had a wonderful Christmas, thank you very much. We stepped in sort of gingerly, and I had a few moment s like when we lit a candle for my father at Fatima and when we stayed up late Christmas eve and of course, christmas morning. But the days were nice as a whole.

I inherited a cousin when my dad died. He's 57 years old and so like my dad it's almost supernatural. I'd never known him before but now we talk every day and he came by on Christmas with his girlfriend, brought gifts for the girls, stayed and talked with Mom and Superdad. It was almost like the old days.

Today we are headed up to my new brother's house for christmas with them. It's wierd becoming a family when you are all old enough to have families of your own, but I'm convinced it can happen. All it takes is practice.

Someone stole my brand new big, heavy, Scotch Tape dispenser. Someone in this house. When I find out who that someone is....Now I have to rip little chunks off the extra rolls. Damn it.

Today was Phee Phee's big winter dance production. I cried through the whole thing. And I forgot tissue, but that's ok, the important thing is how amazing my little pumpkin was. I'm always amazed at kids. Can you imagine getting up in front of an auditorium full of fancy dressed people and dancing around in a skin tight leotard? Me neither. Come to think of it, I think me in a skin tight leotard dancing anywhere is explicitely forbidden in the Geneva Convention.

Restructuring

Man it's been a while since I last wrote. Let's see, what's happened?

When I was in fourth grade (seriously, I'm going somewhere with this) my mammie moved me from Framingham to Ashland. The move, the fifth in my life, didn't sit well with me. Actually, to this day, I loathe Ashland. There's, like, 2 good things about Ashland and that's it. And I'm getting to one of them.

So, I was in Ashland and I was in the fourth grade. I was entering elementary school at an utterly inconvenient time when everyone else was adjusted already and settled with their best friends and state fair projects and what not. I don't know what kind of impression I was going for, but it involved itching powder, thumbtacks, and one rather unhappy teacher. At any rate, it garnered lots of attention, some good, some not so good. One day I was revelling in my newfound noteriety sipping some water at the bubbler and this amazon girl came over and shoved me face first into the cold steel nozzle. I don't know what happened next, the details are hazy. I think there was some sort of scuffle, a little bit of arguing, maybe a couple weeks of reciprocal sabotage and then, voila, I had a best friend.

I've been through many best friends. Some are now like family, some have come and gone, others are rekindling and some are falling away but through it all I never forgot my first, Sabies. I realize that sounds just a bit creepy, but it wasn't like that at all. Sabies and I covered a whole lot of life together.

We started out acting out scenes from our favorite series of books. (The Black Stallion) We would argue over who got to be Black and who got to be Flame. (One freakin word - one word about me being a big black horse now is all it will take for a punch in the nose. I still have thumbtacks too) We argued over who's dad (Both Electrical Engineers) was smarter. Her dad was also a detective, but my dad had better business cards, and that was tres importante.

Back then, parents weren't as good at parenting as they are now. Sabies and I were largely unsupervised. We learned how to do things like set the woods on fire, creep out the front door while my mothers boyfriend snored on the couch at midnight (in a VERY revealing bathrobe - GAG), put ourselves to sleep with Nyquil so we could have a midweek sleepover (never worked. Should have visited Mayo Clinic) and other less innocent things as time passed. For being so naughty, we were so very naive. I don't know how we lived.I don't know how we lived so dangerously and yet so chaste at the same time. (well, sort of)

Anyway, Sabies and I lost touch around the time I went in the Marines. I don't know why or how, I guess it had something to do with me being a Marine and all gung ho about that, but I never forgot her. Years passed without us speaking. Then, just a couple of days after my dad died, Sabies called. And we picked up our conversation where we left off. How can that be? How can so many years pass, how can so much life pass and yet I feel like she's been there all along?

Someone upstairs is really looking out for me.

"One day in retrospect the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful."– Sigmund Freud

Looking back thusfar, I can buy that. The only unadorned stories I tell are those of triumphant journeys back from terrible places, snapshots seared into memory by the flashbulb of intensity. The images I rotate on my brain's screensaver are memories of times when all "we" had was each other and the sweetest moments were tucked away innocently between the bookends of obligation.

I'm kind of hungry right now, and, as Delta pointed out just now, I am not a normal AM blogger, so all I can equate it to to is a bowl of raisin bran. I love raisin bran, all of it, but it's the raisins that make me keep eating.

Lately

Whew. It feels like both a million years and a heartbeat since I last blogged. Time has ceased to define anything for the last few weeks. Here's what I've gathered so far:

1. Grief is like sitting on your feet so long that they lose feeling. As soon as you try to stand up you realize that there's no feeling at all and that perhaps the two slabs of meat attached to your ankles are not yours at all to command. Then the blood comes rushing back all at once and hits you like a curveball. You can't move. Even the smallest movement of your littlest finger reverberates through your body down to your throbbing feet. You can't concentrate on anything but the pain. You're afraid the pain might never end. But it does lessen and you're left with pins and needles, still a bit shaky but able to walk around even if it is with a limp. I'm limping now. Grief is the single worst feeling there is. You know how when something really good is about to happen like Christmas or a date with that really hot Scottish guy in the band you've worshipped for eight years? You know how you get that little twinge of anticipation every time you think of it and the twinge makes you act a little nicer to everyone and makes even balancing your checkbook tolerable? Well, grief is the exact opposite. Grief is the grand wizard of all things crappy and the little twinges make you suck just a little bit more when they come, and they do. It's like sitting back down on your pins and needles for a little while.

2. My grandfather always told me to surround myself with people better than I am. Thank God I listened. If there's anything positive about this grandiose saga of shit, it's that when I fell off the tightrope because my two little slabs of feet wouldn't hold me up, I fell into a net. There is nothing I could possibly write that could express my gratitude to those of you who caught me. There has not been one moment, since the terrible moment of truth in the "family room" at the hospital till this one right now in front of my computer that I have felt alone. So many people have reached out to us... the fact brings tears to my eyes. I am so thankful.

So, tommorow is Thanksgiving. I hope you have a wonderful day. I hope you have something to be thankful for. Safe Travels and Tryptophan for all. (BTW - I just found out that one would have to eat more than one turkey for the tryptophan to put one to sleep. The sleepy feeling is really from the gross amount of food crammed into one's stomach.)
8-4

It's been 12 days since my father died. He was my biggest motivator for writing this blog. Every day he'd check and if there was nothing new he'd rag on me. The last two entries felt alien, like I was writing to no one.

The first ten days after his death I'd realize, out of the blue, that I'd been pacing. Looking out the window, walking across the house to look out another window, wandering upstairs and down. I didn't give it much thought, but later I read in a book about grief that this type of behavior is known as searching. Though a person's intellect understands that the missing person is gone, the subconscious does not and thus searches, endlessly. When I read that, I thought how sad that sounds - searching, wandering, hoping that next time you look, the person you love so much will be there. I guess you spend so much time being, well, conscious for lack of a better word that you don't even realize there's more to your brain than just that. I guess it's like, out of consciousness out of mind.

On Death and Dying

As I think everyone knows by now, I lost my father last week to sudden cardiac death. My father's heart simply died. Certain things have gone awry since then. I can't eat or sleep or write. I can't focus on one thing for more than 20 seconds. I spend the sunlight hours wishing for a sign from my father and the darkness terrified that I'll get one. I spent the last week wrapped tightly in the anesthesia of numbing shock. My priest, who is quite fond of metaphors, once told me that the road to healing is straight through the woods, one step at a time. Last week I told him that I'm afraid of that, afraid of the amount of grief waiting just beyond the tree line and he reminded me - one step at a time. If there's one thing I can offer, the first lesson I've learned thus far it's this: don't leave anything unresolved. Don't let anyone wonder if you love them or not. Cling tightly to the people you love. The people I love have carried me for a week now. Without that, I might have been lost, wandering about in the woods. I pray we never walk alone.

...here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

(excerpt from ee cummings)

i miss you

8-4

Tonight I pronounce a new ritual for Halloween. From here on out trick-or-treating supervision is the sole responsibility of the paternal figure. For this and all other Halloween's to follow, the mother shall stay home and drink wine with her friends. So it is written, so it shall be done. Oh, and CeeBeeW or Tiarra - post your pics.

Dear Everyone:

I have fat blood. I'm done for. I'll probably have type 2 diabetes by the end of the week and a heart attack soon thereafter.

On a scale of 0 - 150, my triglycerides are 203. There is so much lard in my blood that I am probably very flammable and/or slippery. No wonder my feet are always cold: all that frosting blood can barely squeeze through my "spidery little veins".

Dear Gods, you hit 30 and it all goes to shit.

Tommorow I will start my new regime of sleeping, eating brown rice and running. And that's IT.

This Weekend

is going to be great! We have some of our favorite family members coming in from NC! And they want to be spooktified. There is NOTHING I like better than spooky stuff. Of course, Delta will be out of town next week. Where will I leap when the hair on the back of my neck stands up? I'll have to be brave. Here is a list of all the things we are going to do this weekend. Lunch here, because that's the visitor law. Then, we are going to this person's party. Then we are going to this place for dinner. My nephew was particularly pleased with that idea since he saw the place on Haunted Travel Channel. We are headed over to this place because of this legend and then off to here for a tour through a very old, very haunted... Does anyone know of any spooky restaurants out that way, preferably on the water where we can eat dinner??

Phlebotophobia

"Dear God, Didi, you're THIRTY now, it's time we check your cholesterol," said my VA doctor yesterday at my physical. "It's just a blood test!"
I'd been called out over cholesterol. I mumbled something, blamed it all on Delta, and went home to fast for twelve hours.
This morning I waited my turn in line at the lab counter.
"Oh, a veteran," said the receptionist loudly, thus ensuring that I'd have to take the needle like a Marine and not like the needle sissy that I am. "Take a seat, we'll call you when we're ready."
While I waited, I did a couple of sets of one-armed pushups to show everyone else how tough I really am.
"Didi," called the phlebotomist.
I sat in the chair and she locked me in with that padded bar you rest your arm on and rolled around the four extra long emty vials that I was doomed to fill as if taunting me.
"Make a fist. Have you had anything to eat or drink this morning?" the vampire asked sweetly.
"No. Just a cup of hot water that I pretended was coffee."
"Oh that's so cute," she said, giggling. "little pinch."
Little pinch my ass.
I'm not afraid of needles. I have a million tattoos. I have no problem with vaccinations - not even the tetanus shot I have to get from time to time, usually after over-zealous chopping in the kitchen. On that note, I'm not afraid of pain either. I delivered three babies sans drugs. It's the sucking feeling, the sharp, cold steel of the needle, the rush of corpuscles that gets me. Allowing somebody to drain your blood, for whatever useful purpose, goes against the law of self preservation.
One year, I came up with the most brilliant idea for Lent. Since you're supposed to give up something you really care about, I decided to donate blood. Genius! I could condense forty days of self-denial in one morning. I tried, honestly I did, to be brave. But that needle is big. And the red cross laughs at blood vials - they want entire bags full.
"This will take about 11 minutes," said the nurse. "You'll squeeze this little thing, then when I tell you to stop squeezing, you just lie here until the bag is full."
I could feel my heart rate speed up.
"Little prick," she said.
My bag started to fill.
"Okay, sweetie, you can stop squeezing," she said.
Only, I couldn't. It was like I had rigor mortis. Even my grimace from the initial "little prick" remained frozen to my lips.
"Sweetie, let go," she said a bit more forcefully. "Let," she pried, "go!"
My hand, though empty, stayed in it's claw shape and I filled that bag in about two minutes thirty seconds. After that, they made me lie down a little while longer and drink some of their magical elixer known as Orange Juice.
Before I left they put a little "hero" sticker on my blood doner card. I thought they were trying to make me feel good but it turns out my blood is so clean and virus-free that it can go directly from my arm into someone who needs it. That combined with my rare blood type has turned me into a stalker victim. The Red Cross calls me monthly for more blood. Doesn't that just figure? The comedy of irony.
When I come home from the lab I must keep my right arm at an obtuse angle so that no one will bump the needle site. It will remain this way for the next 24 hours. The bandage will have to wash off on it's own because I will not touch it. My father laughs at me, so does Delta. I ignore them, and make my way to the fridge for a glass of oranje juice.

I love Lost. Jin is the Asian version of Delta. I also love Mr. T and I pity the fool who doesn't.

How many best days ever is a girl allowed to have? I'm far too tired to write more than this little expression of how grateful and happy I am to have such wonderful friends and a whole new family. I always wanted a big brother, now I've got 3. Of course, it was my mom and superdad's day, but this is my blog and so I can say that when one of my new big brothers called me sis tonight, and another one called us all family and then the other one said anyone who is a friend of mine is a friend of the whole family to CeeBeeW, well, how could I be any happier?

T-30 Hours till Mom and Superdad's Wedding

To have everything go according to plan implies that one A. Has a plan B. Comes equipped with an attention span. Sadly, I have neither. But that's ok! Twelve hours of full throttle last minute planning is wonderful excercise. And you should see the setup (if I do say so myself). So we're two plates short. We've got an extra dessert fork! And as for the forgotten coffee cups/water goblets/cake plates, well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Wish us luck!

Have you ever watched the show To Catch a Predator? Delta watches it every week. The thing that baffles me, and I admit that's not a challenge, is how many pedophiles there really are out there. Doctors, lawyers, engineers, "respectable" people soliciting sex from young girls they meet online. To Catch a Predator might be the best show on TV. Never in the history of humanity has anyone done so much to air the dirty drawers of the loathful pigs who prey on little ones. Speaking of pigs, I think a cool ending for each episode would be if they corralled all the pedophiles in a little mudpit, smeared their vile genitals with kitchen scraps then unleashed a herd of underfed male boars upon them. That would both teach them a lesson and remove the risk of them forgetting what they learned. It's always good to multitask.

I read somewhere this week that "they" did a global study and found out that 70% of the world's women have been victims of domestic violence. My dad asked me tonight if I thought those sorts of people were always around or if the world was going to shit. I think they've always been here. For a long time the victims of bullies and perverts suffered in silence. My dear friend's mother has breast cancer. She didn't tell anyone because she was too embarrassed and I think that illustrates the mentality of so many women born before the seventies. What in the world could make a woman ashamed of herself for being raped, beaten or stricken by illness? God I hope I teach my girls right. If they learn nothing else from me, may they always find their voice and may they never forget what their thumbs are made for. (eyeball pluckers.)

Anniversary

I started this blog a year ago yesterday. I had just turned 29. The numbers 3-0 are just starting to sink in now. I am in a new demographic. I am in a new decade. People younger than me can no longer trust me. But that's just fine, I don't care. The thirties is where all the cool kids are.

I had such a great birthday. I was still over at CeeBee W.'s when my new year began with WiccanChick and AngryLittleBitch. Then I came home and Delta let me sleep till exactly 10:03. I haven't done that since before Ya-Ya was born! Then I got an iPod and a coupon for a facial (and now that I know the types of things you Sat Nite Jammers talk about...NOPE)and all kinds of little goodies and Tiarra made me a basket FULL of all my favorite things. We went up to the mad Greek's in-law's vineyard and we were too late to work but not too late to enjoy some homemade Grappa (anisette and almond). Then we came home and I had all KINDS of messages on the machine and even some singing and some emails and I got on AngryLittleBitch's blog AND CeeBeeW's. Then we went out to dinner with Mom and Superdad and I got all kinds of presents and they sang to me and at then I got a backrub and put German lessons on my iPod...~sigh~ this was a GREAT way to usher in the next era.

And I have to say...I met my goals for 29. Now I need NEW goals for 30. I think one of them will be to be nicer to people. And be healthier. AND finish my draft.

This officially concludes my birthday celebration and the accompanying ramble. Peace.

What, Karma?

This past weekend was the Highland Games. We wait for this event all year long. This is our Christmas, Rosh Hashanna, Halloween and Superbowl all rolled into one. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when Delta went on without me after Phee-Phee and Oscar came down with croup. After a day and a night on prednisone, the girls were given the green light to travel so we headed up to NH to join Delta. Everything seemed fine.Until I woke up to the ominous sound of a pig rutting in my blankets. Fortunately it was just Oscar. Unfortunately the rutting sound was a portent of things to follow, quite literally. Seconds after I identified the sound , buckets of meatball red vomit soaked through my fleece pajamas and onto my skin beneath. Oscar was like a fondue fountain, the puke just kept coming. And even after I'd changed our pajamas and our sheets and walked her to the bathroom to brush her little fangs, I couldn't shake the queasy feeling I'd gotten when I tried to pull my shirt over my head. I managed to fall back asleep but when I woke up I was still queasy. I thought about going home, but DElta convinced me to stay. My stomacheache grew worse as the morning progressed. The two mimosa's our friend Jay the Scott brought over did not do anything to abate the pain. A long, hot, 75 cent shower did nothing to improve my mood. Finally, I stood in the doorway of the public restroom, beseeching the heaven's to send me a sign and suddenly a great rolling wave of thunder answered me. If you were to record the sound the thunder made and play it back at a much higher speed, you would clearly hear "Didi - go home - you are sick" but I had no recording equipment so I missed the message and stayed.
"You can go," said Delta, "And bring the camper back with you."
I know what you're thinking, "Whatchou talkin bout, Delta?" right?
Me too. But so strong was the feeling that he knew something I didn't and that if I left I would miss out on that something, that I stayed despite my churning digestive tract. By the time I rolled into my driveway last night and dragged my ass into bed, kilt and all, my fever was at 102. I drifted off to sleep (After Desperate Housewives of course) promising Karma that next time I'll listen and just stay home.

My Delta's as Sneaky as They Come

Today started out a perfectly normal Monday. Ya-Ya stayed home sick from school. We met OHM at Starbucks before Oscar's ballet lesson. After ballet we headed out to Ipswich to this awesome place for my quarterly Polarity/deep tissue massage. (And by deep, I mean she stirred my bone marrow.) Everything was going just fine until Delta called me on the hour and a half drive home.
"Are you going to jujitsu?" I asked, glancing at the clock and noticing he was already 15 minutes late.
"No, I just got home."
"Just got home? It's 7:00. WHere have you been?"
"What am I on parole?"
"If by parole you mean advising Queen Mother as to your whereabouts for the last 2 unaccounted hours than yes."
- wait. I'm making things up again. Let me remember how it really went - ....
OK. Something about jujitsu, then this big, elaborate fabrication about picking earthmoving equipment with his friend The Mouth to do work on Mom and Superdad's house before the wedding. With absolutely NO prompting on my part. And if any of you don't know already, I'll tell you that when someone makes up a whopper before you can even ask what they were doing, something's up. And I KNOW you know that when said whopper is followed by a hissing through the teeth so as to mimic phone static, something's REALLY up. So, I seethed all the way down Route 128. Then I fumed across the Mass Pike. Then I ground my teeth into a fine powder through the backroads of Framingham. Then,when I finally got home and sailed through the house with my chin in the air and my eyes pointedly averted, Delta fell over onto the bed in a fit of giggles.
"What?" I demanded.
"The windows look nice," he giggled. And I have to admit, he took me aback for a moment. He noticed I washed the windows! But then I saw the blue diapers wrapped around his forearms.
"What have you done to yourself?" I cried. "Why have you wrapped yourself in surgical diapers?"
And then I realized why. My sneaky Delta Hotel went off and got himself some more tattoos today. This is the fourth time he's brought me home tattoos as surprises. Why doesn't he just tell me when he makes the appointment? That Delta and his secret tattoo-gettin' life. After the pain from my jaw grinding subsided and the migraine loosened it's grip just a hair, we had a good laugh. And he does realize that this is war. I too will find myself a secret life. I just can't figure out what.

How to Plan a Wedding in Just Three Weeks

On October 8th my mom is going to marry the man of her dreams. This is a second marriage for both of them - my mom is a divorcee and my future super-dad (my mom's alternative to the title stepdad) is a widower. Both of them have kids - my mom has me and my superdad to be has three sons and all of us are married with families of our own. Mom and Superdad are going for the ultra-low key this time around. But when my mom used the words "We're just going to have something simple, us and all the kids and grandkids," I thought that meant everything was under control. Last night she called to ask if my future supersister-in-law had been in touch with me.
"About what?" I asked.
Long, l-o-n-g, looooooooong pause.
"About the wedding plans," answered my mom in her I'm-speaking-this-softly-because-I-can-see-the-end-of-your-life-and-it's-at-hand voice.
"The wedding plans," I said.
"Keep it simple," she growled.
What I'd failed to realize, way back when when they announced their engagement, was the command prompt buried in the exciting exposition.
Do any of you have any idea how long it takes a Libra to plan a wedding with all the choices involved??? Here's an illustration. Delta and I, both Librans, spent 25 minutes at the Toyota repairs counter yesterday with "the man" looking on before we decided to let him remove the door panel of the sequoia to see why the drivers side window would not go up. Twenty five minutes, one decision. We can't even decide where to go to dinner without calling a UN Special Convention. I can't speak for all librans, but when my very limited decision making tank is overloaded, craziness ensues. That's why I sometimes wear Delta's clothes and speak in tongues. So, my mantra - no - my prayer for the next three weeks is that no one ends up sitting round the reception table eating from Pez dispensers, wearing jester hats and drinking windex. Thank God my supersister-in-law to be seems to be quite level headed.

Whoa...

So, you know how we have this cute little Scotty Highlander camper, right? And how we're some camping fools, right? Well, it wasn't always this way. When I first met Delta, I had taken a life vow of not ever camping on purpose again. Something about shelter halves and rifles in my sleeping bag and brown recluse spiders and dirt on any exposed inch of sweaty flesh just did me in. But Delta loves to camp. He's also a champion peer pressurer. So one year I relented and we went tent camping and I was reminded of how much I loathe waking up covered in dew and stuffy nosed because I invariably wallow over some previously unseen hill facedown. I'm always cold and sweaty at the same time and I must be charged with some mysterious Swifter energy because all the dirt from everywhere sticks to the worst possible places on my body. So Delta bought me a pop-up. We used it two, maybe three times, then I decided that it was too much like a tent with wheels and I hated it. So Delta bought the little Scotty. Meanwhile, the pop-up sat in our back yard all old and unloved. The roof had some weird problem and all the snow went inside during the winter so the thing was basically wrecked come spring. Delta was sad. He thought all he could do was give it away on Craigslist to be used as a trailer. So one day this guy came over talking about how he wanted to take his boys camping and showing Delta his tattoos and they got along all right. Delta liked him because he came right out and said he was stuck in the eighties, and anyone who can do that - and actually is - is freaking hilarious. That was months ago. Tonight I was reading through the blogs and I noticed that a friend wrote about the camper she'd gotten from Craigslist for free. "No way," I told myself, "Too much of a coincidence. It couldn't possibly be OUR old pop-up!" So, I went to flickr and found a picture of this girl's boyfriend.
"Delta!" I called. "Do you remember the guy you gave the camper to?"
"What about him?"
"Did he have curly black hair? Was his name Karp?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact it was Karp."
"Did he look like this?" I said, stepping aside from where I'd been blocking the monitor."
"That's him! That's Karp who took the camper! Why is he on your computer?"
How weird is that??? I'm so glad that Karp and Marla got the pop-up. I'm amazed that they actually fixed it up but glad that someone is getting some use out of it and making some memories. I really want to see how they handled that roof leak. Life is so weird. We took out an add in Craigslist and filtered a bunch of people only to give the camper to the boyfriend of a girl I've known since I was 16. Ha.

Don't think I haven't written because I don't love you. It's not you, really, it's me. And it's not that I don't have anything to write about, I do. There was Phee-Phee's luau birthday party where she cried 'cus she wanted too and, well, you know how the song goes. Then there was the camping trip in the wake of the hurricane and the ghost hunt to the top of October Mountain where an abandoned old graveyard can be found, sinking away into oblivion. And Oscar's third birthday party out in the sticks. And I'm wondering why I've heard the concept of parallel universes a total of three times this week from three seperate parties whose words echoed precisely the words of those before them. And then the other concept of serendipity repeated by two close friends who I swear have met each other but insist that they wouldn't know the other if they were "choking on her". And then, of course, the failed root canal and Tiarra's insistence that I shall succumb to brain fever before the rooster cries three times. Lucky for me I'm addicted to novocaine. School started last week in a tidal wave of melancholy. Turns out that stupid tacky homily that everyone who has ever raised a child to adulthood forces into the brain of every new parent is actually true. They do grow up too fast, and you do find yourself looking at the soggy breakfast cereal they've left behind wondering where in the hell you were when it happened. Stupid true cliche. But, one must not continue to pop out children just to fill the lonely hours in an elementary school day. Especially when one's husband has had a vasectomy. Life's full of these little winters I've come to discover. As Delta would say, does say whenever he suspects a whine is about to pass through my lips, Suck it up and something good will happen.

Six years ago, this night, in a nesting frenzy that may never again be equaled, I cut, colored, pasted and embellished sixty Christmas cards while waiting for the pains of labor to grow strong enough. At 2AM I finished the last of the cards, bent over at the waist and sweating, yanked Delta out of bed and headed for the hospital. My little Phi-Phi, two weeks late already, was on the way. She made her grand entrance at 9:27 and she didn't make a sound. Having been there before, I waited, panting, for the doctor to put her in my arms, but nobody did. A hush fell over the room. I looked forward to the doctor, wondering, and in one long, dragging, heart breaking moment I saw my tiny blue baby girl, wet and still, engulfed in the blue surgical scrubs the doctor wore. I looked over at Delta, saw a tear in his eye and wondered again why nobody moved. And then the room erupted in ordered chaos. In one continuous motion the doctor found her scissors, cut the cord and whisked my Phi-Phi over to the NIC cart brought in for high-risk babies. My eyes ceased to function. I could hear the swishing crinkle of the gowns the doctors and nurses wore, murmured instructions,sucking sounds and rubber soled shoes on hospital linoleum. I could feel Delta's hand on my forehead and on my cheek, could feel the shivery heat and emptiness that immediately follows childbirth. But I can't remember seeing a single thing. Then from the corner of the room came the tiniest, reediest little lamb-cry, slow at first but gaining confidence. I don't remember the moment my eyes worked again, but it must have been when the doctor brought Phi-Phi to me, barely wrapped in a blanket, eyes squeezed shut and mouth working overtime. Her entrance was quiet, but in true Phi-Phi style. Full of drama, with a couple of twists, and done completely her way. And that's the way it's been ever since. Happy sixth birthday little one.

I recently discovered the magical world of itunes. That fact, coupled with pounds of cut-rate CD-RW's from a brother-in-law who manages a certain store specializing in such products has turned me into a song burnin' machine. I burn so many CD's that itunes feels it necessary to remind me from time to time that I must pace myself lest I succumb to the underworld of piracy. I've spent the last 2 hours re-discovering all the songs that ever moved me. How could I have ever forgotten them? A forgotten song is truly a vehicle of time travel. Having 26 songs, all from distinctly different instances, is an overwhelming buffet of memories. I can't tell if I'm happy or sad or nostalgic or relieved. Not that I would know or anything, but I kinda feel like the eighth hour of an acid trip. Lord have mercy.

I would write but watching a clip of K-Fed's performance at the Teen Choice awards has left my brain physically and chemically incapable of forming a complete

Besides, I just found out my Phee-Phee, at 5 years old, can add double digits in her head. The Gods have smiled upon

Strange Things Happen to Me.

I was flipping through my dayplanner today, searching for the place where I wrote out the battle plan for Phee-Phee's upcoming birthday party and I noticed that between today and July 20th (Where I eventually located the SMEAC) some pretty weird things have happened.

One day in July I went on a picnic here with OHM. Phee-Phee wanted to see the inside of this chapel on the way back from the porta-potty. I accidentally broke in, set off the alarm, summoned the Framingham Police who came screeching into the parking lot, weapons at the ready, while I stood there looking both sheepish and guilty and Phee-Phee screamed "My MOMMY DID IT!" at the top of her over-competent little lungs.

Then the other day, yesterday actually while we were on our scary book buying errand (thanks ALB) Our new gecko escaped from it's box. (Our old gecko died despite our hand feeding - may he rest in reptile peace) He wedged himself inside the door frame. While I was standing outside assessing the situation (Listening to Ya-Ya wail and watching my father cower like a little girl -sorry Dad, but it's true) a well-dressed, impeccably groomed man walked by.
"Need some help?" he asked.
"Are you afraid of gecko's?" I answered.
"OOOOOOOOOH I wish you'd said that was a dog. No matter. Tell me what to do."
"Well, when I open the door you catch the gecko and put it back in it's little box." I said.
"What is that? A take-out box? Gecko's come in takeout?"
"Yeah, it's the number four lunch special at Lotus Flower."
"Ok. Wait a minute. Let me go all the way back to my car six blocks away and get the special box I use to trap reptiles and snakes."
"Okay, thanks."
***Ten minutes Later***
"Ready. Open the door," he said, positioning plastic shoe box under threshold. I opened the door, the gecko leaped into a puddle and the man captured him in the box.
"HOORAY!!!" We all cheered. (By now a crowd had gathered. Thank God I cleaned my car last week.)
But then our cheering gave way to perplexity. How to get the gecko from the upside-down box to the take out box? The man decided to lift up the box and grab the gecko.
"It is kinda cute, afterall" he said.
BUT, the gecko we bought is a gecko of alarming speed. Perhaps the speediest, shrewdest gecko of all creation. He hauled his little ass across the parking lot, the crowd erupted in shrieks.
"Oh God DAMN IT!!! Shit, shit shit shit shit DAMN!" the man cried. I ran to the next car over, where I'd last seen him go, the man ran to the other side and my father ran to the front. We had the gecko cornered. My own fear of actually having to touch the thing made me chase it with my arms over to the man who was determined not to let him get away a second time. He grabbed him, held him squiggling but triumphant over his head. The sun broke through the clouds, a chorus of angels sang hallelujahs, the crown gasped in awe. The gecko was caught. The I bought the man a tea and a cookie, thanked him, knighted him, announced him to the crowd as a hero amongst gecko's, everyone clapped and we all went on like nothing happened.

So, thanks for not shooting me FPD and thanks for rescuing the gecko, Well-Dressed Gecko Man.

I'm off to get Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark because the Angry Little Bitch said so. And it's wise to obey anything an angry little bitch says to do. I'm really excited, got a good feeling about this one. Usually I make up my stories, but this time I'm going to memorize one from the book. Ya-Ya is excited too because I told her that I'm going to scare her back to the womb. But then I thought about that. Having a nine year old of exceptional height climb back into the womb would be only slightly less comfortable than disemboweling myself with a plastic fork. Probably wouldn't help much with mine and Delta's race to lose ten lbs either. Unless she brought with her a kidney and a couple of ribs on her way back out. Or, in accordance with (K) Angry Little Bitch's comment, my liver.

We're some camping fools now. For us, the word weekend is synonymous with "sleep outside of house." We only say weekend because it's shorter. I realized that my favorite part of camping is the part where I tell a story or two that scares the living shit out of my children. I wonder if this is a character flaw on my part. My girls like what they call "scared silly" stories, the kind that are real scary but then end up with someone shooting off their big toe or finding a pink jellybean and then everyone goes "AWWWWWWWWW" and slaps their forehead. Or they would, but I always seem to forget the silly part so my people usually end up in tears with their hands over their ears. That being said, does anyone know any good campfire stories?? We're going camping this weekend.

Tonight I went on a ghosthunt with the Ghosthunter. I'd write about it, but I think I'm possessed.

Yesterday I went mountain biking for my first time ever. It is, by all outward appearances, deceptively simple. It's just riding a bike, right? Right. Riiiggghhhttttt. Perhaps if one is not towing a thirty plus pound human behind one's bike in a rickshaw built for roads over tree roots and boulders and massive lumps of earth surrounded by four foot moats of hellish sand. A small measure of cardiovascular endurance would also have come in handy. At least Tiarra found ways to amuse herself, most of which were at my expense. "Oh dear," she would lament from time to time, "Didi is in front of us again." Then she would sigh loudly and make a big show of using her brakes.

The kids did remarkably well. My Phee-Phee is supernatural. How else could I explain the cliffs she flew over, completely unseated during the soaring potion yet pedaling strong when the tires hit the rocky earth? (Also, from time to time her head spins. That's the real clincher.)And Ya-Ya? She was nowhere to be seen, off racing into the sunset with her dear friend Tee. Oscar survived too. She was by far the most encouraging person, saying things like "Slow DOWN Mommy!" completely amazed by what seemed like throttling speed to her but in reality was, well, in a word, pitiful.

Also, I am reading the BEST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ IN MY LIFE! It's this one, and I highly recomend it.

Go ahead and try to find scotty dog fabric. You won't be able to because I bought the only fabric left on the planet earth and used it to make curtains for our new camper. And you know, it had to be scotty dog fabric since we are upping the kitsch factor in our scotty highlander camper. Which is really funny since it was made in 1976, the year I was born and Delta's real name is highlander and he's a Sotsman. Kind of like, serendipity.

Inaugural Trip in the Camper

Arrive at "resort" campground. Am fooled by lush acres of waving grass, grazing horses, ripe perennials and heavy maples. Waved through gate and directed back through commune of blue tarp covered, palate decked campers to sliver of crooked land on side of mountain. Surrounded by women with snow plow asses stuck to golf carts hurtling themselves and six toddlers a piece back and forth from nylon camping chair to community toilet. Realize that all the "cool kids" have unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts over contrasting swim trunks with thirty pounds of gut between the two. Hear someone yell "Hey look at that old camper" and realize they are speaking about us. Burst hose for water hookup. Monitor children's honing of the whine and art of the complaint. Try to decipher the fifty different seventies rock songs blaring at once. Neighbor with sun-purpled rawhide skin accosts us en route to pool, tearfully reminiscing about his grandfathers old camper that was just like ours. Pass other scary neighbors who demand we stop and play Texas Holdem. We refuse and move on to community board where we decide whether or not to sign up for Thanksgiving potluck, Christmas in July, New Years in July, Texas Holdem championship or Adult after hours pool party. Arrive at "no", continue on to pool, have much fun. Return to campsite, tearful rawhide neighbor brings wife back to tour the inside of camper. Oscar eats jar of black pepper while man recalls every last detail of camper. Take Oscar to community toilet to rinse mouth out, leave rawhide and wife with Delta. Experience botulism scare while eating baked beans and trying to find date on can. Beans taste botulish. Sit around fire, eat marshmallows and scare living shit out of children for sake of tradition. Ward off ominous night call of "Texas Holdem? Anyone know how to play Texas Holdem?" from our neighbor. Realize that sleep is great campsite equalizer. Feel "in" with the "in" crowd while standing in line for community toilet. Wave goodmorning to rawhide and Texas Holdem. Spend day at pool thinking about coming back for New Years in August. Decide camping is good. Will do again.

This is a Strange Planet

But we all knew that already. We're off to go camping tommorow. Camping is a strange thing to do. At least if you also own a home. Why we willingly go off into the forest to set up a new, much smaller home with no real toilet for me to lock myself into for some bloody piece and quiet for a little while, to eat terrible food cooked over a wannabe stove and sleep on six centimeters of yellow foam that calls itself a "bed" I'll never know. Especially where, in the woods, we are looked upon by some species as dinner. And tommorow is supposed to be skin blistering weather. Inside the tin can movable make believe home away from home, there are heat strokes waiting to happen. Right now. Just waiting.

PArents are also strange. I am not strange, and I am a parent, but most other parents are strange. Mine in particular. Once you grow up and realize that they are actually humans as well, with their own thought patterns and ideas, they become even stranger. Like my dad. But, he's mine and I love him. And I probably seem strange to him, though I don't understand how that could be possible. Maybe because he doesn't think normally. But that makes him fun to be around.

PMS is also strange. I think there must be a purpose for it. But I'm afraid too wonder too deeply lest it involve maiming, fire, and possibly a scud missile.

Anyway, a great weekend.

PT Cakes told me that she saw on CNN it's time for Armageddon. My whole day has been f&^ck#d up since then. It would just figure God would wait till we got our new camper to pull this crap.

***UPDATE: 5 seconds after posting, lighting singed eyebrows still smarting**** Sorry God. Didn't mean anything by it.

Our Contest

Delta and I have a new contest. Whoever loses 10 lbs first wins. If I win, I get a no strings backrub. For more than 5 seconds. The deadline is Sept. 23, weekend of the Highland Games. I lost our last bet, whether Brophy School was on the left or right side when turning off of Temple Street, and I think I lost several before that as well. So, my time has come. Delta better start doing some hand crunches.

Two Wierd Things

Happened over the past two days. One, I saw a giant oval shaped ball of mist hovering over my deck. When I put my hand in it I couldn't feel it or any moisture from it though I could disturb the particles. I thought it was some serious humidity or some other freak meteorological episode but just in case I went to check on everyone in my family, including my dad who has been staying here since Satan invaded his own property. When I opened the door to the room where my dad is staying, I was greeted by the sight of my dad's arms and legs au natural, all bony and coltish and enough to send me into convulsions of unhappiness over my discovery.
"What the hell are you doing?" barked my dad.
"Looking for aliens," I answered then slammed the door and ran upstairs. Back out on the deck, the oval was gone.

Today I decided not to get out of bed at all until my kids were back in it. My own mild form of protest. Of course it didn't work but I did manage to finagle myself a pretty frickin horrible dream. We were at the house in Old Fort, it was wobbly as ever but huge now. Delta had invited people out the yin yang to stay at this house. So big was it (says Yoda) that I couldn't find my way around. (I must add that I do have a recurring dream about a house - I've had it since I was but a wee little Didi. It morphs into other shapes but always retains the same soul. This was my usual house but in Old Fort costume.) Anyway, the house was about to turn into hellhouse and I knew that from experience. The house was angry. I told Delta to get my kids out of there now, but he didn't believe me as usual. I followed him up this b ack staircase and the stairs beneath me crumbled. He had to grab my hand. And then he saw the man. He was about seven or eight feet tall, gray, covered with hairy spikes like those on a grasshopper and his face was plastered in a wide toothy grin. With strangely long arms outreached he came toward us and I shoved Delta down a hall.
"Get the kids out of here," I said again.
"What are you gonna do?"
"I have to find Phee Phee."
So Delta found Ya-Ya and Oscar, brought them out along with the thirty or forty people he'd invited to stay at the house and I went back in to find Phee Phee. But before I could move an inch, the man grabbed me, scraped me with his spiny hairs.
"Miss me?" he asked, still grinning.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," I said, deciding my only defense was to play along. His iris' were green rimmed with blue. "I missed you very much and we have so much to talk about. Just let me get my kid out of here so I can concentrate."
I jerked away from his grip and put my Albannach CD in this old, wall mounted 8 track player and surprisingly it worked. I tried to turn it up loud but it wouldn't go.
I looked back at the man and I saw phee Phee's legs sticking out of his mouth. His mouth had grown large, like a giant catfish mouth, to swallow my child. I yanked the legs,panicking, but they belonged to a cabbage patch doll. He laughed hysterically. Then the real Phee phee woke me up.

And the impression that I was left with was not that the dream was about my kids or even me, but some faint memory of something else.

Curse you, Brain

I just can't seem to get motivated today. Last night I dreamed that my friend Arby hated me so much that she made a collage out of pictures of loathsome things that reminded her of me and took it on the Oprah Winfrey show.

That kinda threw me out of my game today.

***The Following Post Refers to A Gynecologist***

**SO THOSE OF YOU SQUEAMISH WITH EXCESS INFORMATION BEWARE***

I try not to wear lipstick to the gynecologist. It's just one of my things. But that said, I was still mildly offended today when my obgyn did not recognize my face in the waiting room. I mean, 3 kids, come on. But then I thought about it and realized that if I had been standing on my hands in the waiting room with my panties around my neck so he could be addressing the end he's more familiar with and he STILL didn't recognize me, I could be mad. I'm glad Delta's not a gynecologist. What could you possibly do, as the wife of a gynecologist, to stand out in the crowd? I saw a woman, once, in Okinawa who could stack quarters on a coke bottle with her -ahem- you know. She could also chop bananas and shoot them across the room. Both seem like useful endeavors, but quite frankly, if that thing doesn't sing, wear a hat and play the cymbols I just don't think you'd stand a chance married to a gyn.

If you notice that my blogroll is lacking your name, please either leave your site address in the comment section or email it to me.

I hope y'all are having a good weekend. I'm going to meet the devil at the crossroads, strike a bargain perhaps. Also go on a family bikeride.

Vacation recap...

We are home. I tried to blog along the way, but for some reason I couldn't access my account. That was the BEST vacation EVER!!! Should I write about it? Will you read it? Maybe I'll just stick to a brief synopsis, day by day. K? K.

Day One: Finally left. Stop in CT at rest stop. Smell carcass. See man who looks as if his skin is bleached white leather stretched over skeleton with a corn bugle stuck underneath at the nose area. Man throws many black garbage bags into dumpster behind rest stop. Possible source of carcass smell. Stop in NJ for Pizza made by Mucho Brazillians who stop cooking our food to watch the World Cup. Luckily France kicks Brazil's asses. I think. I don't really know or care. But we eat. That's good. Oscar decides woman at counter might possibly be child eater and begins to howl. We leave. Spot Elvis driving MR2 in CT. Go to Roadside America and marvel at amount of time man who built it must have had. Did he hate wife? Take picture of big Amish people. Eat ice cream and take more pictures of the types of people who build big Amish people. Stop in Winchester VA where we always stop, to sleep in dirtbag hotel that pretended to be four AAA stars on the phone.

DAY TWO: Pull dust mites from eyeballs and continue on to NC. Marvell over how fat everyone else is. Wonder if we too are fat??? Exhaust ourselves with deep thoughts. Stop and eat pizza. Arrive in NC.

DAY THREE: Go to creek, collect crawdads, make them fight with each other then wear them as earings.

DAY FOUR: Can't remember

DAY FIVE: 4th of July. Go swimming then ride wild horse who rears up and gives me black eye when thunderstorm and fire crackers scare her. Then ride horse down street with crazy brothers in law. To those of you who have never galloped for your life, wet hair streaming out behind you, thunder and lightning crashing all around - do try it if you get a chance. Feel very exhilerated. Ride four wheeler up and down mountains with Delta.

DAY SIX: Visit Chimney Rock and write while Delta takes kids inner tubing

DAY SEVEN: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Go to Grandfather Mountain Highland Games. See Albannach. September Boyfriend gives us copy of new CD. Phee Phee finds salamander. Brother and Sister in Law takes kids home so Delta and I can stay for night concert. Drink 12 pack. Sneak stageside to watch our favorite band play hang for a little while with them.

DAY EIGHT: Go to favorite mountain creek and then to BRother and Sister in Law's for cookout.

DAY NINE: GO back to Highland Games :):):) Phee Phee tracks down salamander and puts him in Mason jar.

DAY TEN: Drive to Raleigh to see other bri=other and sister in law's house

DAY ELEVEN: Home. Stop for three hours in traffic because manure truck has flipped over. Sleep in PA then eat in NY at a town that was apparently stolen out of the Soprano's screenplay. GREAT food. I swear. Great food. I didn't see nothin eitha.

DAY TWELVE: Cricket eats salamander in vulgar display of woodland celebrity deathmatch. Glad I didn't bet on that one. Home at last.

TRAVEL ENTRY 1

See? Our vacation just started and already I'm lying! It's 8:40 AM and I'm still sitting like an exhausted lump of meat, in front of my computer. Delta had to go get 2 new tires for the boat trailer. But, I shall remain positive. The four hours late start will ENSURE that I-84 is drained of floodwater.

Grizzwalds! Mount up.

New Look

Because PTCakes said my old look offended her eyes. I thought about it and realized that the white on black offended MY eyes too.

Anyway. We are supposedly going on vacation in the morning. I say supposedly because one can never be too careful with ones words when describing a future event involving me or any of the other melodramatic souls in my family. The Grizzwalds don't have s..t on us. So far several factors are working against us: 1. My near-homicidal PMS, 2. Part of our route being underwater due to stalled weather pattern in PA, 3. Recently discovered dry-rotted boat trailer tire practically ensuring dramatic blowout in middle of gridlocked interstate in 99 degree heat, 4. Oscar waking up with a 103 degree fever.

Everyone I know is in a bad mood today. I don't know why. Maybe my PMS is so powerful it's contagious. Anyway, that's about the only thing we have going for us. Every trip that begins with a good mood ends with a family member being disowned. But trip that begin with seething eyes and gritted teeth ends in...well, I better not jinx it.

PS Niblets, GREAT FUN LAST NIGHT!!!!

I.m trying a new program of going to bed at or before midnight. This stange and new experience directly corresponds with my "decision" to start jogging which stems from the michelin man who lives around my midsection and the fact that I'm going to turn ~gasp~ t-h-i-r-t-y ~wheeze~ in four months. Since my eyeballs shit the pot, I've decided I need to at LEAST lose some weight before my metabolism goes too. When I got out of the Marine's, I took my legs out to lunch and promised each and every muscle that we would never run again. Not for fire, not for flood. Not for earthquake, typhoon, Cujo, or food poisoning. But I lied. And it's all Tiarra's fault. She goaded me, peer-pressured me GUILTED me into running by telling me things about my heart. Of course, EmEl was the one who told me about all the extra blood and arteries you have to make for every extra pound of lard you have. And that was pretty gross. Anyway, my body was all, "So, you wanna run you FREAKING LIAR? Fine. Watch this." THen my knees were like ZOWWWWWWWWWW and my calves became slabs of meat lathered in Napalm and set on fire, and my toe bones? BRUISED! But Dear Doggy likes it. So we're gonna keep on trying. Besides, I think my heart likes it too.

Let me just tell you, a million bucks couldn't have made me happier than seeing the look on Delta's face when he got his father's day gift. But Iwill tell you all about it. Just not right now. Because she is 15 and has commandeered my computer to do whatever it is 15 year old's do on MySPace. I watch "To Catch a Predator," don't worry. Anyway, it's late. Will write when physically able...Good Night

I found the very best opthamologist in the WHOLE WORLD!! He taught me all about my eyeballs and how they work and he even looked into my brain! And guess what? It's there! And then this really great guy helped me pick out my new glasses and he was so much fun! He said since I only have to wear my glasses at night and while I'm reading and writing, I could go funkier than most people. And then we tried on every single pair of glasses and the ones we liked the very best of all are mahogony with four little rubies on either side. And they are Prada, which didn't influence me at all. I swear. Now I must buy shoes to match! My glasses will be ready next week and guess what else? They speak French just like in the commercial!!! I can't WAIT to get my glasses. My eyes will stop hurting and I can even drive over 10 miles an hour at night! I'm gonna tear UP the streets of Framingham. If you see a black Sequioa doing the Tokyo Drift late at night, holla at me. You won't see me beacause Delta pimped my ride with dark tint, but that's okay, I'll see you. 14 hours till the BEST FATHERS DAY GIFT EVER!!!!

AHA Moment

My little Oscar woke up with a hundred and two fever this morning. If you know me at all, you know I tend to, well, embelish things. I don't mean to be a drama queen. Honest I don't. But I spend more time blowing things out of proportion than I care to admit. So, by the time the pediatrician's office opened at 8:30, I had already convinced myself that Oscar had either lead poisoning, west nile virus, bird flu or a deadly south american flesh eating bacteria from the spider that bit her last week. The doctor, a SUBSTITUTE since our regular pediatrician was off doing something else today despite my child's illness (don't think he didn't get a voodoo doll) said that it was just a little virus, and really too early in the illness to know anything for sure. Of course, she is not familiar with my children, so how in the hell should she know? What school did she go to anyway? The diploma on the wall said Harvard, but please. Anyone with a printer and an imagination can graduate from Harvard. So, we went to CVS to replenish our stock of Childrens Tylenol, Motrin, Pedialite, Pedialite pops, sore throat lollypops, bandaids, thermometer condoms, first aid cream, cotton swabs, cotton balls, witch hazel and bedside toys. When we left, we ran into a friend of my mom's who said I somewhat resembled a male cadaver and thus must also be ill. Sure enough, we went home and I took my temperature and it was a hundred. So, I immediately ruled out lead paint. West Nile and Bird flu were iffy too because neither one of us had any of the other symptoms. But I'll be damned if I didn't have a spider bite on my right foot. Curse you Terminex! What do I pay you for anyway? (Voodoo doll) Oscar and I went to sleep. I woke up fever-free, but she didn't wake up for hours and hours. So long, in fact, that I had begun to worry about whether or not she had slipped into a coma. Alas, my child is now fever free and wide awake. Chances are, she will not go to bed in the forseeable future. But at least her late hours and dreary frame of mind have allowed me to pass the 18,000 word mark in my story. And now for the AHA moment: Tiarra said that she has never met another person who has so much off the wall crap happen. I thought about what my mom always tells me: "Whatever you focus on, you get more of. I spend SO MUCH time researching and diagnosing off the wall crap that I have become a magnet for it. Imagine if that's a fact? From now on, I'm only thinking good things. If I think hard enough, I might just find an extra ice cream sandwich in the freezer. Yum.

Last year I took a CPR class. I already had a working idea of what to do in an emergency from what I learned in the Marine Corps, but somehow something in my pea brain reasoned that I could ward off disaster by taking a class.

Today, I was standing at the kitchen sink, minding my own business, when my little Phee-Phee barreled around the corner clutching her throat and turning purple. SHe was choking on a grape. My skin puckered. I grabbed her, turned her around, kicked her feet apart and did exactly what I learned - in the Marines. I made my hand into a beer mug fist, turned it sideways and heimliched the hell out of her. She caught her breath, screamed for water, which she then puked up and began choking again. SO I heimliched her all the way down the stairs and into the front yard in the middle of a thunderstorm in my poor stocking feet. I always run outside in an emergency. God forbid the sky is raining railroad spikes one day. So, there we were, backlit by streaks of lightning, lurching around like quasimodo until at last the grape was swallowed.

That was some scary shit.

I haven't been writing here because I have been writing there. I started out with a goal of 300 words a day and now I try to stop at a thousand. I don't know what happened to me, I'm like a crackhead over this story. I'm at about 13,000 words now and I think I'll stop around a hundred. Si, I'll talk to y'all then. Actually, probably before that because I have a FREAKING HUGE gift for Delta on Father's Day. My gift for him will make all other gifts look like PRACTICE. The only way Delta will ever be able to top my gift is if he finds me a hot 25 y/o yogi who will walk around my (freshly remodeled) home wearing only white linen drawstring pants and who will give me massages at my whim, cook me fresh food and then watch the kids while I try to contain myself at a thousand words.

Oh Boy was I smug today. Smug and self righteous. I woke up fine, took the dog for a walk, took Ya-Ya out for coffee, everything APPEARED perfect. But really I was building up this snowball of smugness and then when we went walking with Tiarra tonight my dog turned into an idiot, my kids turned into Damian from the Omen only cubed and I proved once and for all that underneath my mild mannered alter ego lies the Lord of the Underworld. (That why my kids were so naughty, get it?)

The Men In My Life

Some of y'all know that my mother's day gift last year was an eight week old Cane Corso puppy. I was never a "dog Person" before he came along. Somehow, I fell in love along the way. My dog is big and drooly and he farts, burps and snores like an old man on a bean diet. He's massive and strong and prone to chewing up anything his unhingable jaws can fit around unless he's walked/jogged on a daily basis. We were walking this morning in the deluge, I in my poncho, he in his Gorton Fisherman raincoat that he abhors, and a thought struck me. For all the complaining I do about my dog - the vet bills, the groomer bills, the work, the 50 lbs of food a month, the work, the shit mountains, the chewed up stair treads, the work etc...he has really been the catalyst for many positive changes. For one, I walk more. He's a big, strong, dominant dog who has forced me to become a strong, confidant assertive leader. (At least while he's around) My entire novel has played out on our walks, I've met more neighbors and received more stares from hot men in trucks than I would ever garner on my own. We've bonded so closely that we even turn our heads at the same time.

He's a dog, I'm a human, we both know our boundaries and we're not too touchy feely but there are times when I can just think for him to do something and he'll do it. He's more in touch with me than I am with myself. Once, he even saved my life.

We've been through some times, me and that old dog. Okay, he's only one. And I'm only just becoming the owner he needs me to be. Becoming a dog owner was similar to becoming a parent in the respect that you don't realize how life altering the change was until you look back on it.

Memorial Day

This morning we went to the Memorial Day parade in Sudbury. The parade seems to be shrinking a little every year, but neverless, I still manage to turn myself into a blubbering mess when they stop to play taps.

There weren't many people there. Not even a cupful of the turnout the 4th of July parade gathers. That breaks my heart. With the amount of troops in Iraq, Afghanistan, Horn of Africa, Philippines and wherever else we are, you'd think some more citizens would turn up to remember.

Is it the solemn nature of the day that makes everyone stay in bed? Maybe the fact that I'm a former Marine makes me biased to pomp and circumstance and the respect that a parade full of veterans deserves. I don't know. But I'll tell you what, there wouldn't be a 4th of July without Memorial Day. If there is only one grizzled old veteran hobbling down the street holding a flag on Memorial Day, there should be streets full of citizens clapping him on.

All political and personal opinion aside, we recognize Memorial Day to remember and honor those American soldiers sailors, airmen and especially Marines who gave their lives in service to this country and her people. The very least those of us still living can do is remember.

So, before I get off my soapbox, do me a favor: remember. Don't ever forget.

Sh&t Does Not Make Good Fabric Softener

I have been accused of neglecting my blog.

Actually, I have been living in a vacuum which happens from time to time and I have been immersed in writing a story.

There's not too much going on here. Oskie is finally transitioning into her own bed. That's been giving me bad dreams. She's also taking on the challenge of potty-training. She's an all or nothing kind of girl. We don't "F" around with pull-ups. It's panties all the way. Which is fine, except for the other day when I discovered that the horrific smell coming from my dryer was coming from some little turds she'd thrown in the hamper along with the panties.

TODAY

Is the annual house tour. From 12-5 I will be out snooping through 9 or 10 Framingham homes that have been deemed "interesting" by the Historical Society. This is one of the Historical Society's more stellar fundraising ideas because it appeals to, and validates, the inner snoop. And you wouldn't believe how many inner snoops just need a little coaxing by way of expensive pink tickets and a photocopied tour map. Framingham sweats nosy people who maintain a polite, non-outwardly-inquisitive demeanor every other day of the year. House Tour aficionados are cousins to those people who stretch Saran wrap across the toilet on April Fools Day.

Bright and early we meet outside the Historical Society building for a brief pep talk about respecting other people's property and not stealing the crystal which is punctuated by peals of shrill laughter because who are they to insinuate that we respectable ladies would dream of stealing a penny from the roadside nevermind Waterford from someone's home. Then a bald man who has bathed in copious amounts of cologne holds up his pistol, fires, and we're off. Hundreds of nosy women in broad hats and bright springtime dresses, kitten heels and straw purses, spread out across Framingham Centre like overturned watercolors, racing to skulk, slide, slink, slip, snake and sneak in and out of other people's closets and cabinets all the while maintaining a running commentary with our accomplices and acting under the attractive guise of permission. We paid for a ticket, we expect to be impressed but the most we steal is ideas.

Need Therapy for Therapy

*** UPDATE***
It was written in the stars!!! I no longer feel bad because my shopping spree was pre-desitined

Libra Date of Birth: 10/01 Are you experiencing a shopping hangover today? Are you worried that you really outdid yourself despite your best intentions to the contrary? Don't fret, Dawn, you'll be back on track economically in short order. Cash will begin flowing again and your lifestyle will not suffer in the least. Instead of worrying about money pay attention to a yen you may be experiencing for a creative outlet. Follow that instinct and see where it takes you!

I've been on one of those poor me kicks again where I get mad at Delta and then convert that energy into new shoes, new outfits, new Elfa shelving systems, books, CD's, Venti Non-Fat Green Tea Latte's...You know what I'm saying.

The good thing is, I've made progress. An emotional upset used to land me in a big bag of Doritoes. I guess, now that I think about it, that's more like lateral progress. But at least I'm moving, right? Anyway, I must cease retail therapy hell. We all know what happens when the bill comes.

How do you get around all these side pocket diversions without getting sucked in? After my root canal I could SO see how someone could addict themselves to prescription drugs. Just weenie old Codeine makes you feel so relaxed, so chill, that Ya-Ya and Phee-Phee would have had to tattoo Satan across Oscar's forehead before I got my ass up off the couch. Seeing a new addiction coming like a freight train, I stopped taking the codeine. But that need must demand an outlet because, as I mentioned, I've got new shoes.

So, I am led back to an earlier point. My new mission is locate, close with , and destroy that little demon that makes me do out of control things. Or at least find a positive outlet for it. And that's why I need therapy.

I Get By

With a little help from my friends...

Today was AWESOME. And I didn't even take any codeine yet. First, we went to Ya-Ya's recorder recital at the school. Before the concert, we got to go into the classroom and look at the stuff. I love Ya-Ya's teacher so much because she finds ways to be whole and caring and creative under the rigid MCAS thumb. I judge teachers by how their classroom makes me feel. Mrs. Ya-Ya-Teacher's classroom makes me feel like staying.

Then, the recital kicked ass. Those guys are so damn cute when they are all synchronized and clapping their hands and staring earnestly at their sheet music. They are so young, not yet fired in the kiln of life and their eyes reflect this innocent excitement, this sweet pride in their musical accomplishment. They are so happy, it makes you cry.

After the recital, OHM and I went out for coffee. Then I went to PTCakes house for a little while. She gave me this beautiful framed picture of some roses Delta gave me a while back. I came home and found two wonderful hand made mugs from BeeDee, then Tiara came over (and reminded me that my veins suck) and she looked over our 401K and helped me understand it. I pretended that I did. Then CeeBeeW. came over and chatted for a little bit and then SanDeeRay came over and then we played outside with JLo, then we went to ElEn's house and saw all the gorgeous things she's done, and now I'm ready for bed. I'll tell you, I am so LUCKY to be surrounded by these people. You know you've accomplished something when all your friends are beautiful, smart, talented, kind...Man. I can't even believe how lucky I am.

I LOVE MY

Dentist!
It all started a few weeks ago with a vague sense of unease. I felt like something was wrong with me. I ran the usual barrage of litmus tests: mad at Delta? check. Mad at paternal figure? check. But new "mad at's" and "Guilty of's" began creeping into the boundaries of my conscious. I thought maybe lupus or congenital heart failure. Then last week I had this dream that my bottom right row of teeth fell out. That sucked. I woke up and thought for sure they were loose. I checked my dream dictionary, which only added to my confusion. None of that made sense. Then yesterday, my tooth started to ache. Really bad. When I woke up this morning I felt like my head might, at any time, explode. I called my dentist and begged for help. He brought me in, asked me when I had chipped my tooth, (I had no idea) why I had not come in to have it fixed, (because I didn't know) and recommended a root canal. When I asked him if a root canal would hurt, he said, "You tell me, I'm halfway done." And no! It doesn't hurt! As a matter of fact, it feels great! I love novicaine! I love the dentist! I love root canals! I love Tylenol with Codeine! Hooray dentistry!

Delta Hotel is off to a funeral in New Jersey. It seems like Delta is constantly going to funerals. I worried for a little while that I might have married the Grim Reaper. But when I asked Delta he said no, it's just that he has so many people: friends, family, that it's kind of inevitable.

This funeral is different. A Marine from his old unit was hit with an IED. So, keep Delta's safe travels in your minds tonight, if you would.

PTCakes

This is for you. So you don't have to look at Voodoo anymore. THough I can't imagine why you wouldn't want to. I can't talk right now though. Lost is on and it's wierder than ever. I need to pay attention. I need to figure out what this is all about.

The Power of Voodoo

I am writing about a character who has roots in Voodoo, something I am not very experienced in. I mean aside from a battalion of little pin stabbed dolls under my bed, but who doesn't have those? (BTW, Niblets, Bavaria is wherever I SAY it is. Understand??) Anyway, I went to the library today to check out some materials. (I am allowed back in there now. And ever since I returned those apple tree books, the flaming bags of poop have stopped appearing on my doorstep.) So, I was surprised at the amount of material I found. So was the librarian at the checkout counter. After the first three books and the cassette of Negro Spirituals, her eyes crept up to my face and remained there for the rest of the transaction.

Later, Emel said that the librarian was profiling me so she could give an accurate description to Homeland Security. Then he laughed uproariously at the thought of me leading a Voodoo revolution. I dug around under my bed, found my Emel doll and said over the phone, "Pay no attention to the tingling sensation you are feeling in your legs." He stopped laughing.

Lockout

That's the opposite of a boycott. Next Monday, let's say that only people holding valid work visa's, green cards or SS cards are allowed to drive/work/buy anything in the US.

Maybe it's PMS, but I haven't been as frustrated with the war as I am today in a long time. Iran has nukes, there's a genocide in Africa and illegal immigrants have their hands wrapped around America's balls, yet there we are in Iraq. We got rid of Saddam, we learned that the only WMD involved in the "crisis" are seated in the oval office. We are "helping" a nation that pre-dates Christ Himself fix the problems we think they have. And we are still in Iraq. Our "oil crisis" has netted Exxon 8.4 BILLION dollars, enough money for every man woman and child in America to fill the tank of an SUV twice for FREE. Yet we're still in Iraq.

Genocide is a government sanctioned slaughter of man woman and child. Yet we're still in Iraq. If we really need to be somewhere doing something, it ought to be Africa. Historically speaking...That's the place for America to help.

The reading was great. It's marked off as one of the best days of my life. And I want to devote some time talking about it. However, right now I am very busy imagining what Massachusetts will be like without 900,000 citizens (That's what the illegal immigrants are proposing we do tommorow during their "Protest America" day.) And I have to say, not paying the taxes for the welfare, court fees and unpaid medical bills of 900,000 illegals sounds pretty darn good. Thanks guys.

Showtime

Well, this may be my last post. A few months ago, I wrote a story and entered it in a contest. I didn't think I'd win. I REALLY REALLY REALLY didn't think that. Because if I'd thought that, I wouldn't have entered, knowing that part of the "prize" is having to stand up on a stage in front of people and read. So, since I might die tommorow, I wanted to say, thanks for reading. And I'd really love it if you would come to the reading. Here's the info... "April 26th" is a typo. It's really April 27th.

That being said, I am sincerely grateful. Thank you Niblets (Holla)

I forgot to mention...

Tonight, still warm and damp from her bath, Phee-Phee looked deep into my eyes and said, "Your breath smells like caterpillars."

Should I admit that? What, exactly, does a caterpillar smell like? What does that say about my child, about ME? I don't eat caterpillars. I promise.

That's it. I quit. Twelve hours ago, I declared myself a lesbian, but then PTCakes pointed out that you can't just do that because you are mad at your husband. She's right. I'm just not a lesbian at heart. But I am sick of drama. What's the word for that?

MiniVein

What a weekend. We had one of those weekends that passes faster than a glass of prune juice. Today I went over to OHM's house to help her put up a new dining room chandelier. I'll tell you what I learned: electrician is not a born trait. After we managed to get the thing secured to the ceiling and outfitted with the fifty million little hallogen lights that came with it, we flipped the switch. By we, I mean OHM because the two of us flipping the light switch at the same time would be, in a word, wierd. Anyway, OHM flipped the switch and the chandalier lit up amber for just a second before a very electric and scary sounding pop came from the switch and the power went out. OHM got on the phone with my dad and I went into the living room to do some yoga when all of a sudden it hit me - dimmer switch does not mix with hallogen. I told OHM this and she decided to make the dimmer switch into a regular switch. I wasn't really sure about that being a completely viable idea which is why I hid in the front hallway when she tried to turn it on. The new chandalier did not turn on, however, the kitchen light did turn off. Which is why I am taking back my own and OHM's electrician self-certification.

Then Tiarra came over and told me I have spindly little veins. She said I should be fine as long as I don't get anything that requires extensive antibiotics intraveinously. I'm pretty sad about my underachiever veins. I think my little veins are the root of all the difficulties I've had in life.

Sorry about the Happy Easter greeting still being up. Know that it irks me more than it irks you because I'm not a post-holiday cuddler. After any major event, I like to roll over and go to sleep. Pastels, eggs, bunnies and tulips should all go away now. I've moved on to summer planning. (Don't take it personally, Easter. It's me, not you. We can still be friends. And who knows, maybe we'll get together again, say, next year.)

Happy Easter

Tonight, while we were dying eggs, Ya-Ya asked me what eggs have to do with Easter.
"Hm," I said. I had to think about it for a moment. Sometimes when my kids ask me big questions, I overshare. A couple weeks ago, Ya-Ya asked me why dogs don't see in color, and I ended up on an hour long digression of quantum physics. Which I only pretend to know about. But religious symbolism is never ever a succinct topic. Eggs, bunnies, crucifixion, lambs blood over the door, what does it all mean?

Luckily we were in the kitchen, where I do my best thinking. I tend to use cooking as a medium for deep thought, which is probably why I once cut off my own thumb. Then lost it down the garbage disposal. But again, I digress.

I picked up an egg, not yet mauled by my girls, and thought.
"An egg is a perfect symbol of potential, Ya-Ya," I said, "A perfect symbol of rebirth."
"Oh, ok."
And the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The winter is death, introspection, the spring is renewed life. Passover :death and oppression rewarded with life and freedom. Resurrection: death as the price for life.

There's a common thread here. In the Lord's prayer, we ask for this day's bread. Not to save yesterday's, or hoard tomorrow's. We were meant to die and be reborn every day, without expectation or regret. It's the rhythm of things.

One day, I'll tell Ya-Ya that.