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.