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.

On The Last Post

I really am curious what y'all think. I know some of you don't live around here, so I'll tell you, the topic du jour is the fact that some 15,000 illegal aliens live in this town. As an ardent Mitochondrial Eve subscriber, I've never really cared. I like and hate everyone based on my own obscure criteria, not on their country of origin or level/lack of melanin. Besides, I love Brazilian food and I don't think downtown has thrived since Rt. 9 was built. But none of that is the point.

There's a real big labor issue. First of all, we;ve got all these unions. Now, I don't really get unions, or what their modern purpose is, but I do know that they demand their members receive a certain wage. So here come some people on work visa's or not, certainly not union candidates, and they'll work for a third of what the union guy gets because beggars can't be choosers. Right here in Framingham there's a shopfront downtown that serves as a meat market. The handler, for lack of a better term, drives to the shopfront in the morning, picks up some guys and works them all day for crap pay that wouldn't feed a family of turtles. Everyone gets all pissed off because non-Americans are taking the labor, not paying taxes, receiving free healthcare (with added benefits if they can produce a work visa) then shacking up, 20 bodies to a house, and sending the profits home to places like Brazil, where we've been milking the oil out of for decades.

So, I kind of get all these things a little, maybe not. Whatever. All I want to know is, who is winning? It kinda seems like everyone gets screwed.

There's an organization called BRAMA. This is their mission: To organize the Brazilian community in order to build an identity in the American society. But lately, they've been bullying and lobbying amnesty for illegals. Again, I'd love your opinion here. I don't really know how I feel about that aside from slightly amused. I think it's funny (in a very much not funny sort of way) that we are in Iraq bullying the shit out of everyone else on the planet, and these guys come to Framingham and bully the shit out of us. HA!

It's been a while

Since I posted last. It's hard to type with roots growing out of your nailbeds.

I have an issue I've been wrestling with a lot lately. I wonder what would happen if you replaced the fifteen-thousand illegal Brazilians in Framingham with fifteen-thousand illegal Iranians. I haven't arrived at any sort of resolution yet.

I've seen signs held in protests stating that America was built by immigrants. Shoot, my own mother is an immigrant and my paternal grandparents were. That statement is bona fide. The country was indeed built by immigrants. But not illegals.

Are You a Slacker Mom?
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yeah right! I'm saving my pennies for their therapy bills!

Well,

I'm finally in a good mood again. But in a resigned sort of way. The last 9 months have been a boil in the flesh of my timeline. A big old red, sore, pus filled boil. And now I'm lancing it. Not pretty or painless, but at least it'll go away.

At 9:00 this morning, PTCakes delivered a package from an ET. I'm SO excited. With only a hint of hesitation, I withdraw my palm. :-) (Holla FC)

Today

Some days are just crap. Some days are crap buried under a spring snowstorm. But at least Lost is all new tonight.

Ya-Ya has a F^(&ing bullseye on her leg. I hate ticks. HATE HATE HATE ticks. Some parasites have a discernable function. Not ticks. If I ever meet a Genie, and that Genie says, "Didi, I will answer one question for you," I will ask, "Why ticks?"

OK Lost is on. I'm going to push the hibernation button on my brain and ride the alpha waves onto the shores of The Island.

I've been dirty all weekend. Not because I went to that sex toy party either. Since I have been retaining all available moisture this past week, the earth has been dry and dusty. Coating my eyeballs and nostrils and teeth, mixing with sweat and thatch and garden debris until eventually I became the Swamp Thing pushing a wheelbarrow. But boy was I glad to be a big scary monster when the tumbleweeds rolled across the path and Clint Eastwood peeked out from behind the compost pile. Not even the High Plains Drifter wants to take on Nessie the Swamp Monster. But all that is in the past now. I'm happy to announce that it is raining. Now all my hard work transplanting and regular planting and agonizing over the tender little baby grasses we planted last year will be for good reason.

LAX

That's the abbreviation for lacrosse. Tonight Ya-Ya's team played next to a team of boys, same age, same skill level. Yet, while the girls were equipped with goggles and mouth guards, the boys were OUTFITTED with full pads, gloves, guards, helmets, they looked like little storm troopers for Christ's sake. So, I watched the practice and I noticed that while the girls were running and leap frogging and standing in line waiting their turn to throw the ball into the goal, the boys were full throttle scrimmaging. While the girl's coaches were fiddling with the nets on the walls, the boys coaches were in their asses telling them to go faster, better, harder. (well, that statement could sure be misconstrued out of context)

After the practice, we hung around for a few minutes. There was a professional lacrosse player there practicing with his coach. I whispered in the ears of Ya-Ya and her friend, "If you're really on the ball, you'll watch what he does and memorize it."
"Oh we can't do that," said Ya-Ya's friend. "We're not allowed to play like the boys."
"Why not?" I asked in abject amazement.
"Because those are the rules. We're not allowed to play rough."
Mind you, this is the town sponsored, nationally recognized lacrosse league.

The girls don't get the proper equipment because they play gentler. They play gentler because they are told to do so by the adults running the game. There are literally two sets of rules, girl rules and boy rules. And I'm not really ok with that.

There are two sets of standards in the Corps as well, or at least there used to be. The argument was that men's bodies are better equipped for physical exertion than women's, so during Physical Fitness Tests, women's run time standards were slower. Women were allowed to do a flexed arm hang rather than pullups and less situps in the given time. And even though those lower standards made life easier for me, they smacked of danger because we would all go to the same battlefield and dodge the same bullets.

This whole boy/girl lacrosse thing reminds me of that double standard, made for whatever lame ass reason, but leaving girls back in the dirt. Now, you won't find me preaching feminism on anyone's soapbox. I love, no, I CELEBRATE the differences between a man and a woman. But, I believed then and I believe now that if a woman wants to be a Marine, she should be held to the same standard as a male Marine. And if my daughter wants to play lacrosse, she should be allowed to play the game, the way it was written, balls to the wall just like any of the boys. And if she can't hang, she can't hang. But she should at least be allowed to try.

Have Dirt

Will stick fingers in it. And plants too. And when I'm done, I'll write. My muscles are achin', my bones are cracklin but the whole yard is raked and ready for seed in it's manly little bald spots.

Our backyard is large for suburbia, .99 of an acre. Far back against an old stone wall that purportedly dates to the earliest settlers (But then again, Bavaria by any other name...) is the site of this years project du jour, a wildly luxurious perennial garden surrounding the weeping cherry tree I planted last fall. My mother and I were admiring the depth of my rototilling, the looseness of the soil, fluffy as chocolate cake mix, when my mother looked up and proclaimed, "Look, a pileated woodpeckerr home right in your half dead oak tree!"
And lo and behold, deep inside that narrow rectangular hole, is a family of Woody's.

Each year I plant a garden that starts out a well thought out and financed venture and ends up a tithe to our family of deer and our blubbery friend the woodchuck. Today, as I knelt down to loosen the soil, I found the tailfeather of a red-tailed hawk. A token of appreciation since it's certainly my mouth watering lettuce that draws forth his dinner most evenings.

We also found a big nest in the crook of another oak tree. It could be a squirrel nest, or an owl nest or a crow nest or even a hawk nest. I'll just have to wait and see.

I Get it Already

Everyone knows you're not supposed to be a sore loser or a boastful winner. You're supposed to find a mannered balance between the two, even if you have a secret stash of voodoo dolls hidden under your bed. But yesterday I realized the finer points of battlefield etiquette. What one must ask oneself, when engaged in a brutal campaign, is this: will I be embarrassed (after I've won of course) when he pulls out his belt only to find the band marked in pink sharpie and bearing the following, "Festering pus blister in the bowel of a syphilactic mole"? One should only write such bizarre epitaphs when one is sure she has lost the battle. And you know what they say, it ain't over till it's over. I'll tell you, when all is said and done, it really appears ungracious. So does a parade of mutilated boxer-briefs. The momentary gratification is not worth the lifetime of off-hand reminders that you are the mental equivalent of an untrained dog.

Re-Run

Today I feel like a big, fat, ripe orange and everyone else is thirsty for juice. And armed with razor sharp straws. I'm running over the same crappy crap that I thought was behind me. But there's a lesson in here somewhere, and the universe obviously thinks it's an important one.

The good news, the GREAT news, is that Lost is all new tonight WOO-HOO

Tiara the Terrible

This weekend I was supposed to get some serious writing done. I'm tired of writing essays and I wanted to work on a story. But the universe, and one wily SuperNurse, thought not.

Saturday I took Ya-Ya to lacrosse. While she practiced cradling and snaking and all the other things which require too much exertion for me to think about, I alternated between staring at my notebook and catching my head before it fell over onto the folding table. Which never looks very graceful. Not that I'm celebrated for my grace, but narcoleptic twitching isn't the image I generally promote.

Saturday night Tiarra and Ghosthunter had us over for dinner. Tiarra had this Chardonnay that tasted just like white grape juice. I happen to love wine that doesn't taste like wine. So I had a couple glasses of that and a magnificent surf and turf dinner. Tiarra is not only a supernurse, but also a sorceress in the kitchen. After dinner, she pulled out some big funky martini glasses and made us some sour apple martinis. After I drank all the sour apple stuff, she switched me to mango. And when I drank all of that she gave me three cups of coffee with Baileys. And I'm not sure, but I think I vaguely remember her cackling. Finally, well past my bedtime, Ghosthunter came home and I remembered I was supposed to go on a ghosthunt that evening. But, Tiarra said we had fun, and I'm in no position to argue. I just wish I could remember.

So naturally Sunday was not a most auspicious day for writing. It wasn't good for much, actually. But Tiarra did come roust us for an invigorating bike ride in the vast frozen tundra of the local track. Luckily she knows how to cure frostnip.

Nine Years

Delta and I kicked off a series of five big anniversaries today. Tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of our 1st date. But not really. Our 1st date was actually the first Saturday of April, only I had to kick it back a month for leverage in another one of Delta's infamous decision making debacles. He was supposed to get out of the Corps and move to Charlotte. I wanted him to stay at LeJeune and wait for me to get out. One of my big arguments was that we had been dating over six months. I think back then that seemed like an eternity. I had a very black and white system of criteria : if I knew, without any doubt, that I could spend the rest of my life on a desert island with a man, he was the one I would marry. (Don't judge me - I was just a baby) Delta's criteria, as a recently divorced man, was to never marry again. My lame six-month argument, based on a lie, landed me the man I'd go to the island of "Lost" with. (Note to fate: please don't test me) I won, though one could argue it was a win-win situation. Eventually, long after he signed my marriage license, I told Delta Hotel the truth but since he can't remember any of our anniversaries or any of the kids birthdays anyway, it doesn't really matter.

I always get a little sentimental on these days. I bought him a new pair of underwear, green, for St. Paddy's Day and patterned with little hairy kiwi fruits. (Again, this sort of underwear humor amuses me greatly. ) He, not knowing it was a day of any importance at all, bought me nothing. But when I came into the kitchen this morning riding on a rogue, out of cycle hormone, complaining that nobody likes me, he opened up his arms and said "This person loves you." And there I was, on my island, with the one person I'd want to be there with. (Besides my kids. I'm NOT tempting you, Fate.)

Et Tu Brute?

Alas, after a week with my mouth full of foot, my firstborn full of parasite, my lips full of porkchop, the ides come and go. Is Lost all new tonight? I desperately hope so. My very happiness hinges on the newness of tonight's episode.

update: RATS!!! it's a re-run.

Oh That nasty little tick gave my Ya-Ya a bacterial infection. And then guess what? I found out that people who are allergic to pennicilan are allergic even when they touch the pill. Even when they take it out of the wrapper to give to their poor parasite infested child they will erupt in hives and their lips will turn into pork chops. And then I also found out that Childrens Benadryl makes some pennicilan allergic, Jar-Jar-Binks lipped people have hallucinations.

Oh poor CeeBeeW. When she came to pick up Jay after school today I looked like Kramer with breasts. Not a good look for a babysitter.

This morning I woke up with bluebirds singing on my windowsill, coffee brewing itself in my kitchen, the very sun himself smiling in my general direction and then Ya-Ya came in with a disgusting, hairy, bloodthirsty, disease-carrying, sharp-toothed tick burrowed down beneath the flesh of her chest. Delta tried to smother it with Vaseline (don't do it. It's a wives tale) but that hungry little sucker wouldn't let go. Ghosthunter told us to stick it with a red hot pin. Ya-Ya's history of panicked flailing vetoed that idea. Finally, we had to go for the good old fashioned counter-clockwise twist. By we I mean Delta. I was busy dry-heaving in the toilet. Anyway, that tick kept a chunk of Ya-Ya with him, and she's got a bit of a rash so tomorrow morning she gets to skip school and go see the doctor.

Today was a Good Day

First, I got to sleep till 9:30! In this crazy house that's like hitting the sleep megabucks. Phrases were uttered the likes of: "Be quiet, Mommy's still sleeping," and "I'm sorry, she can't come to the phone right now, she's sleeping." So I was only half sleeping. I did my best.

Then, we went for a three mile bike ride! I know what you're thinking. three miles pshaw. I've smoked longer cigarettes than that, Didi. But I ask you this: was your three mile cigarette on gear seven the whole time? Did your three mile cigarette have a thirty pound baby in a rickshaw bolted to the back of it? I thought not.

After that we went to Whimsy for a birthday party and had so much fun because Whimsy is not only the coolest place in the world for a birthday party, it's also full of cool parents who think like me and a cool artsy owner who knows my name and food.

THEN as if that weren't enough, we finally remembered to take the propane tank out of the back of my truck. What could be better? Fresh air, exercise, friends, food and erasing the risk of spontaneously combusting in traffic. All in all, a good day.

Mercury's Retrograde

Who didn't have spring fever today? We drove with the windows down and the skin on my arms squinted in the sun after such a long time under sleeves and everyone within half a mile experienced momentary blindness by the light reflecting off their ghastly whiteness.

I'm a German/Italian hybrid. My German genes keep me near transparent for my lack of melanin, my Italian genes protect me from sunburn. I used to be so unaffected by the sun that I could sit ON it and not turn pink. Then the year Delta Hotel was deployed I spent the day at the Cape with my soul-sister. I was heluva lot of pregnant with Oscar so getting in the water was inconceivable lest I upset the tides. I sat on the beach, looking very much like this, all day long. When it was time to haul myself up and go home, everything moved the way it was supposed to except for the skin on my upper back which felt as though someone had periodically doused me with spray starch throughout the day. The next day I had blisters - BLISTERS - on my poor back. The next day the blisters cracked open and bled and the next day they supernova'd into millions of brown constellations across my shoulders. You just never know when your Italian genes are gonna quit on you I guess. Now I'm way on the SPF kick. Nothing comes between me and my sunscreen. And if that's all you ever learn from me, I am satisfied. Wear sunscreen.

I went to Jodi Picoult's booksigning tonight. I would have had a lot more fun if all of Wellesley didn't come along with me. I sat behind a row of forty-somethings in denial about the last two decades passing and who had enough hairspray between them that had I decided to lick their heads and throw them at the ceiling, they'd still be there two and a half hours later. After listening to their incessant mindless Oscar-like commentary on every person unfortunate to walk through the doors after them, I actually felt myself slipping into my old high school alter ego and I only caught myself after sticking my gum on the head in front of me. Just kidding.

I waited 45 minutes in line after the reading to get Jodi's autograph. Last time I went to one of her readings, my little Oscar was whining so Jodi called us up front and talked to us and wrote a nice little note but today since all the damn stepford wives were there sucking the life force out of the air, it was pretty much assembly line style. There was a reception afterwards, but I didn't stay for that.

Doggie's foot is almost healed. Thank you all for your concern. Now I shall go clean the kitchen. No matter how I leave the kitchen, when I come home it looks as if Delta and the girls have invited the Iron Chef's over and then let them go home without cleaning up. Sometimes that annoys me, but I just remind myself that I am OBVIOUSLY the only licensed kitchen operator in the house.

This weekend my dog ripped half his foot off, my dad turned 66, Tiarra found that halfway between a dog and a cat is a guinea pig, Delta Hotel actually let me boss him around, ElEn's house was invaded by all the turds in the neighborhood and I wrote, for 2 1/2 hours, without anyone wanting me to do anything else. And that, my friends, is BETTER than a spa vacation.

Along with Cookies

Comes Garden Fever. It's different than Jungle Fever and Yellow fever (which I misdiagnosed just today in fact) and even Spring Fever. Garden Fever leads me to the delirious purchase of expensive, glossy books about things clearly beyond my thumbs given the rogue misbehavior of my gardens for the past six years. Garden Fever inspires me to cook eggs six times a day so I can save the cartons to fill with potting soil and marigold seeds that I will then forget to water and throw away sometime in July. Garden Fever brings on hallucinations of warm, rich, freshly rotated compost bins and lush abundant borders which I plan carefully on the BHG website. My back yard is like a minefield full of all the gardens I start when the ground is like a half-thawed steak and abandon when I remember that gardening, when it comes down to the nuts and bolts of it, is a lot of work that only ends up in the stomach of a deer or a groundhog. But I don't care about all that right now because I've got the fever. We are going to be up to our eyballs in beefsteak tomatoes. We are going to see cucumbers and pole beans even when we close our eyes. Cosmos and peonies and wild roses are going to pull up their roots, walk down the street and plant themselves in my yard. That's how wonderful my garden will be this year. OOH I just can't wait.

Not as Satisfying as I Thought

Today, while on a scavenger hunt for some Delta Hotel lotion, I pulled into a parking space next to a woman who looked very familiar. So I stared for a minute, until she noticed and iced me with her sinister eyes, the very same January blue, mean-as-hell eyes that tortured me for while in high school after I dated her ex-boyfriend. At first I shrank back into my seat but then I remembered running into my Arch Nemesis a couple of weeks ago at the gas station. I shrank back and hid then too, then kicked myself for it when I realized I had missed a prime oppurtunity to unburden his cranium of it's scalp via the fire extinguisher on the wall. (Just kidding. Remember, I have PMS.) Anyway, I leaned over and looked at her real good with calculated recognition in my eyes, and made sure she got a good look at me too. The closer I looked, the more I realized that this little hot-to-trot biatch had grown up to be the most pitiful, greasy, crusty-eyed acne-scarred '90's-hair-wearing sniffling crack-head lookalike that there just was no fun left in the encounter. I was forced to pretend my phone was ringing. I guess it was like remedial nemesis confrontation for dummies. I hate it when I work up a good catty-ness only to have it smashed down by feeling sorry for someone. Curse you, conscious!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Girl Scout Cookie season.

The Girl Scout Cookie boxes always have these obscenely happy little girls and slightly deranged looking troop leaders doing the most wonderful and adventurous things like rappelling from towers and gymnastics and riding horses. For some reason, that sends me back to the bowels of my childhood. I was a latch key kid - remember those? This one time, I saved up my lunch money and used it to buy a box of Thin Mints. All the way home from the bus stop I thought about those cookies until I could hear the crinkling of the wrapper and smell their minty deliciousness. Most afternoons I alternated between after school specials, Donahue and running out of the house scared shitless that Church, the stupid cat from Pet Cemetery, was hiding in the afternoon shadows. That day, I poured a glass of milk, sat down at the dining room table, took the Thin Mints out of my bookbag and ate the entire box all the while studying the girls on the box and reading their little blurbs about how happy they were to be Girl Scouts . I remember feeling like my life was like a box of girl scout cookies (sorry, Forrest, I thought of it FIRST and I want royalties) Everyone else was out there having fun, swinging fire hoses around and whatnot and I was stuck inside, stuffing my face with the proceeds. Oh, how desperately I wanted to be a Girl Scout. Then I got sick and ate an entire bottle of multi-flavored TUMS, but that's another story.

My most favorite cousin, PTCakes (Holla) brought me over three boxes of Girl Scout Cookies today. Caramel D-Lites (formerly known as Samoas), Peanut Butter and, of course, Thin Mints. I was looking at the box and chuckling to myself, remembering that crappy feeling of being on the outside looking in that pretty much sums up my childhood. That wasn't the funny part. The funny part was, my Ya-Ya was a girl scout. One of my best friends, OHM, was her troop leader. There are lots of pictures of everyone doing fun things and smiling and laughing, and I'm even in some of them so I remember that just before the posed picture, real life was going on with all it's catfights and boredom and aggravation. (Don't get me wrong - Girl Scouts with OHM was great fun. When she was forced to give up her position by the nagging need for a job that provided benefits, Girl Scouts just wasn't the same. We quit.) I realized that there is no outside looking in, it's all a matter of perspective. And given the choice, I'd rather be where the Thin Mints are. Yum.

God Speed

Rest in peace Sweet Jayhawk

Bout That Time

You know, scientists are always discovering little tidbits of oddly disconcerting information about our bodies. For instance, did you know that the hypothetical ancient purpose of your appendix is to digest tree bark? Don't try it. Trust me. I'd like to know the hypothetical ancient purpose of PMS. I mean, there has to be a reason I envision the teeth flying out of all the mouths I'd like to smack. And there must be cause for my overwhelming sense of self-pity greater than just to increase Verizon's stock value in whiny calls to Delta Hotel. My doctor said I needed more B vitamins, exercise, water and better nutrition and less coffee. I smacked her. Her teeth fell out. Who wants to exercise when all the moisture for six counties is resting in my abdomen and ankles? Who wants anything other than a salt lick and a bar of chocolate? I don't want to cook. I don't want to match up all the stupid socks.

Poor Delta Hotel. At least he knows the drill. Sure, he's out there leaving a Hollywood Star style butt impression on the comfortable chair in front of the warm fireplace with the big stupid dog as a footrest while I slave over what seems to be the aftermath of a missile assault in the kitchen, but at least he knows by now to keep his mouth shut and smile. And I just keep telling myself, "I chose this profession. I love this profession. There is NOTHING better than this profession." And then I pop another B Vitamin. And put the kids back to bed.

What's up South Dakota?

I think it takes a special kind of arrogance to not only impose your personal viewpoint on others but to then consider your word as law and your law equivalent to Gospel.
When I went to school, I learned that The Republic of the US is different and better because it was of the people, by them and for them. Admittedly I wasn't the sharpest student in the bunch, but still I don't recall any part of the Constitution affording the government the power of moral authority. That's what the church was for. Thus, the separation of church and state.

I don't pretend to be a moral compass, but I do take responsibility for the care, education and life-skills training of my own, and I think that's the first step in restoring self-reliance and common sense. If you put my kid in a room with a gun, she wouldn't touch it. She would assume it was loaded and she would leave. I know this because I have taught her weapons safety since she was chewing on frozen teething rings. (call me, Dick) I wear my seatbelt. My kids know that if the car is on, so is the seatbelt. It's ingrained. And as for the sex thing...I'm not there yet with my girls, but the times coming and I'm studying and planning the course of action to take.

If I want to drive without a seatbelt on, let me kill myself. Women who need to have abortions will have them, law or no law. That's been proven already. And guns? Teach safety and compassion and responsibility not fear. Get to the root of the problem.

In the words of my father, "YOU CAN'T LEGISLATE MORALITY."

Our current administration claims to be God-centric. (I think I made that word up) So my question is, if God gave us free will, who is the government to take it away?

Your Inner Blood Type is Type A

You seem cool and collected, though a bit shy. You are highly driven and a perfectionist, but that's a side you keep to yourself. Creative and artistic, you are a very unique person who doesn't quite fit in. People accept you more than you realize, seeing you as trustworthy and loyal. You are most compatible with: A and AB Famous Type A's: Britney Spears and Hilter

What's Your Inner Blood Type?

The weird thing is, my real blood type is A neg. So I guess I cancel myself out. Which is good because I'm not so comfortable being in the same category as Hitler or Britney. And here are the degrees of seperation between Britney and Hitler...

Anniversary

Tonight was our third annual Nibletpalooza. The Niblets is the name of the writing group I belong to, and annual is actually a lie because we loose ourselves amongst society each time a month with an extra Thursday comes along. I guess that probably sounds weird, but what are writers if not eccentric? Tonight we celebrated the groups one year anniversary. That's a pretty big event so I celebrated by falling in love with Guinness. I am not a big drinker. The reason for this is one tequila incident, one major gin incident, one Malibu incident which incidently spoiled all rum , several brown liquor incidents and, most recently, a pinot grigio incident. Oh, and a merlot incident.

The point is, tonight was really fun. Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I have a strange genetic disorder, thanks to my dad. Most people have a filter between their brain and their mouth. I, unfortunately do not. Usually I can reign this problem in, but not tonight. Not long after my Cobb salad appeared, served on something which resembled the Riccola horn, I enlightened my fellow Niblets with a three hour marathon of my minds dribble. Sorry guys. But remember, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Unless you're a lawyer and Dick's your best friend.

I forgot...

To shamelessly plug my first essay published...

(click on non-fiction in the left menu bar, then Sandstorms and Miniskirts)

I think it will only be up till the end of February. I REALLY forgot to shamelessly plug. Oh well.

I Think They Know Something

the rest of us don't know.

By they, I mean the insurance adjusters at Toyota. After I ran over a screw the other day, I drove on a rapidly deflating tire over to our dear friend Rainman's mechanic shop so he could fix it. While I waited (which wasn't long because sweet Rainman dropped everything to plug my tire) I looked over my warranty. I've got a great warranty, and am covered against everything but nuclear warfare and Acts of God. It specifically states that. If we happen to survive both a nuclear attack and the resulting fallout, any damage done to our car just isn't covered. I get that, weird as it is to think about. But, how do they determine the Act of God? Does someone say to me, "I'm sorry Didi, we won't cover that screw in the tire because God put it there?" Imagine, all these billions of spiritual leaders and pilgrims when all along Toyota has the direct line to the Big Man.

I Don't Know What to Say

I had some great things to write about. I had a PLETHORA of great things to write about. But one of Delta Hotel's good friend's just died.

I just talked to this guy. He called for Delta, but Delta wasn't home. He had these sweet southern manners so he talked to me for a while. COme to think of it, every time I saw him he was happy. He had two little ones. You've never seen such a gentle father. I guess he had a massive heart attack, by the time he got to the hospital, there was nothing anyone could do. He was 35.

If you want my advice, I say become a mother. There is no way to understand the spectrum of available emotions otherwise. There's also no better way to stay young. Today we ate Peeps, built a volcano out of cardboard, exploded it with a mixture of baking soda, vinegar and dishsoap a total of three times, played hardcore tickle tag for an hour, stayed in our pajamas till 1:00, made a circus, had a magic show AND watched the new SpongeBob. And then when the kids got up, we REALLY had fun.

IKEA is not a store, it is an alternate universe. Have you been? I think it actually has it's own zip code. IKEA not only has escalators, but conveyor belt hills which move you AND your cart to the next floor. IKEA watches your kids for you while you shop, feeds you Swedish meatballs and is so big, it has it's own parking garage, police force and rentable car. It also has this butcher block island. I don't know what kind of life I lived before I realized that this little hunk of gorgeousness existed, but I do know I need to have it. ASAP. This island was crafted lovingly by IKEA elves specially for my kitchen. I mean, the perfectness is uncanny. Thanks for the pic CeBe W.

Let's Just Call Them "Suggestions"

Last night, after I got home from writing group, Delta Hotel informed me that I would be hosting a dinner party the following evening at 6:30.
"Just make whatever you were making anyway. And don't worry about cleaning up, it's just so-and-so from work."
WELL.
EVERYBODY knows that there are three types of guests.
1. Lysol, Mop-N-Glo, Windex guests
2. Throw it all in the bedroom and shut the door guests
3. Doesn't matter they've seen it before guests

EVERYBODY knows that persons who have not yet been into your home and are coming over in 18 hours to sample your cooking AUTOMATICALLY fall into the first group. Delta Hotel could shout from the rooftop that I don't need to clean up for so-and-so, but first impressions are everything. One day he could come over and find six bras hanging on the towel rack and four inches of cheerios under the table and a pound of coupons and junk mail on the counter and if he has the impression that we live straight out of Better Homes, he'll just assume I've been burglarized recently.

So, 7:00 this morning, I switched my dial to crisis mode. I cleaned, I grocery shopped (despite Delta's permission, I was NOT reheating leftovers for our dinner guest) I chopped sliced, sauteed baked and crimped. At 3:00 Delta Hotel called and babbled about some thing or another and then went on to inform me that the dinner plans had been bumped up. They would arrive at 4 for an hour of entertainment from me before eating. I was sitting in my car in line at the elementary school at the time. In a panic, I drove my car over the gym teacher, picked up Ya-Ya and her friend, and committed thirteen other moving violations to get home and finish cleaning, cooking and putting on my mascara.

Finally, after hours of planning and preparation, with adrenaline PUDDLING around my ankles, I sat down. I looked at my watch. 4:30. Were could Delta Hotel be? So I called him. He had decided to stop at his friends house for a visit.
"How lovely," I said. "I do hope you're having a nice visit. Now come home and eat the food I have been cooking all day in the kitchen I've cleaned 8 times at the table with the cloth that is not only fresh out of the drier, but ironed, on the seat where your ass should have been a half an hour ago, MR DINNER PARTY."
No I didn't. I'm far too passive aggressive for that. My friend Ms. Em came over to pick up her daughter. She said, "My goodness it looks just like a restaurant in here. There's such an ambiance." and she gave me an idea.

When Delta hotel still hadn't arrived at 5:30, I set out 2 plates, 2 napkins and 2 forks, lit a candle, hoped the house wouldn't burn down, and I laughed all the way to the car.

But then I came home, two hours later. Not only was Delta Hotel's guest there, but he turned out to be a corn-fed cross between Opie, Mother Theresa and Pollyana. There I was all bitchy and passive aggressive and ready to smile and make sarcastic remarks at Delta and he was all, "OOH I love your cooking your house is so great and you look like you're twenty-one." Talk about stripping a girl of all her defenses. Even my big mean dog loved him.

The events of today have forced me to redefine my boundaries. We won't call them rules, merely suggestions. Just like doctors "suggest" you don't smoke or take six vicadins at a time or walk on the train tracks while listening to your ipod.

1. I now require at least 24 but preferably 48 hours of notice before a dinner party involving guests from the first category.
2. I now require a written, signed and witnessed document stating the time dinner is to be served.
3. If this is a problem, I have two words for you: Order Out. or Doit Yourself. or Kiss myass.

Thank you and goodnight.

Yoga and the Bullfrog Effect

I had yoga tonight with Tiarra. Our yoga class is in ballet studio with a great big wall of mirrors. I wore my yoga pants (duh) and a tank top and a little tee shirt. From the front, I thought I was looking ok. I've lost three pounds. Granted, I ate enough chocolate since last night to smother a herd of water buffalo so I am retaining some water. Ahem. But I wasn't horrified by my reflection. Until we turned to the side. I looked as if I had swallowed one of the kids in the studio next door before coming to class. I tried to suck in but it just wouldn't work. I started wondering - did I swallow a kid? But then I remembered the law of precedence. Being a three time veteran of the child bearing experience, my gut knows exactly where it's boundaries are, and exactly how far it can go.

"I look like I'm five months!" I whispered to Tiarra.

Tiarra thought that was funny, maybe because it was true. She chuckled and giggled and got out of step with our leg swings and almost kicked me in the face. Then she got in trouble and had to scoot down further on the bar.

I just don't think it's fair that a person can work so hard, lose over twenty pounds and still hang on to the bullfrog effect. I might as well have stayed pregnant! Anyway, I've got the rest of a box of truffles to eat now. Why not? There's certainly room. Oh, by the way, they definitely did NOT come from Exxon. Neither did my long stemmed roses. Delta Hotel did well.

Your Candy Heart Says "First Kiss"

You're a true romantic who brings an innocent hope to each new relationship.You see the good in every person you date, and you relish each step of falling in love. Your ideal Valentine's Day date: a romantic dinner your sweetie cooks for you Your flirting style: friendly and sweet What turns you off: cynics who don't believe in romance Why you're hot: you always keep the romance alive

What Does Your Candy Heart Say?

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

People just don't seem to believe in Valentines Day. Now, I know there's no fat guy or acid trippin bunny or pardoned turkey, leprechaun, fireworks or menorah. Maybe that's why some people think that Valentines Day is a pre-fab chocolate/lingerie/stuffed gorilla day. But let me remind everyone: ALL HOLIDAYS ARE PRE-FAB. Every single one of them. All holidays serve to remind us of certain events in history or life that we are too busy to focus on the rest of the time. And that's OKAY. Holidays keep us touch with the natural rythms and cycles of the world around us. Why not inject a little charity, faith, hope, magic and love into our regular programming.

Nitroglycerin pills aren't naturally occuring either, but that's no reason for a heart patient not to take them.

A Good Day

Today was a good mommy day. I must mark it down as evidence for my daughters' future therapists.

Delta Hotel called me at 2:00 this afternoon and asked me what I wanted for Valentines Day. This is ritual, as there is a 2:00 call before every holiday/birthday/anniversary. This used to frustrate me because telling somebody what to buy for you 18 hours before the event is as romantic as a sperm bank. I said the same passive thing I always say, "Ooh, I dunno. I don't need anything." (For any guy out there, the literal translation for THAT line is - "Dumbass I've been telling you I want a F*^&ING spa vacation for SEVEN GOD DAMN YEARS so help me sweet JESUS if you come up with another lame ass cheap box of chocolates and a gas station bouquet of carnations again I will fry your freaking ass with the battery cables off your own truck" - just so you know) It's too late for this holiday, but I'm going to make a list, stick it in my wallet, or better yet his, so from now on he can be sort of like a valet service, buying me all the things I want without me having to leave the house.

Now, don't get all crazy on me here and think I'm being selfish and ungrateful and materialistic. I don't need proof that Delta Hotel loves me. If (when) I get the flowers and chocolates from Exxon, I'll be almost (not quite) as happy as I would be getting a spa vacation. Because it's the thought. Even if the thought didn't enter the brain until actually laying eyes upon the gas station. Even if it's nothing but a kiss or a shoulder rub or lucky penny, I'd rather it be an extension of what Delta Hotel thinks about.

My man's website's had a facelift

Now that you know that, maybe you'd like to know that the paranormal extravaganza of this week performed an encore today. I was on the phone with Tiarra talking about the weeks events when all of a sudden, I was talking to no one. Or no one of this realm, I should clarify, since the phone's screen said "Parallel line in use." I have no "parallel lines". I spend half my life calling my home phone from my cell phone or vice versa just so I can find the ones I have. So, I called Tiarra back, having just begun a lengthy explanation of something or another and not being in the mood for interruption, and guess what she said? After we'd become disconnected, she called me back and got a message saying my phone number was not in service. Someone, or someTHING, obviously in a parallel universe, had hijacked my phone to make a call. Talk about rude. I was taking KV's advice, hittin the road, when I heard it squawking from the kitchen window like electronic laughter. The Walkie Talkie I've dubbed Christine.

Tuesday is Valentine's Day. I hope Delta Hotel gets me a spa vacation. I got him some underwear to replace the ones I cut up when he pissed me off during "the decision era". Of course, I already replaced them. He hasn't been going underwearless for the last two months. He just didn't have any peanuts underwear with lucy & snoopy throwing softballs. I'm a sucker for a little "subtle" humor in a pair of boxer shorts.

There's Somethin Going On...

King Vitamin said my recent deluge of dreams about coyotes should make me careful. Luckily, whenever I take the dog out to poop in the back 40, I wear my flak jacket, kevlar, steel toes and carry my AK with three bandoleers wrapped around my torso. Unfortunately, I think there is a far more ominous foe than some mangy old coyotes lurking in the scrub brush.

Monday afternoon my mom stopped by for a cup of coffee. We had just settled down at the dining room table when the sound of static screamed from my bedroom with a man's voice blinking in and out, completely unintelligible. I ran to my room and found Phee Phee's missing walkie talkie. That's weird, but okay, easy to see the logical explanation. WELL, my mom plays this game with the girls, it's one of those little trot-trot games where the baby sits on your knees and you jostle her around like a human milkshake to the tune of a nursery rhyme. My mom's nursery rhyme is in German, so I won't attempt to repeat it but it roughly translates to this:
Hop hop rider
watch your step
or the pony will fall of into the ravine
and your eyes will be pecked out by ravens
Really, it loses something in translation. Anyway, my mom was just getting to the fall down into the ravine part, the most bouncy part of all, when the walkie talkie cut in again and a hyper-female voice screamed out the peck your eyeball part. Now, even that is explainable. Could have been my mom's voice riding surfer on some rogue radio waves, I don't know how all that intangible stuff works. Could have been a trick of the brain. I DID do some heavy duty experimenting back in the day'n all.
The next thing, right before we left to pick up Ya-Ya and take Phee-Phee to ballet, the walkie talkie went nuts again. A voice, so close to Ya-Ya's that I was fooled, said "Mom, MOM, come get me!" Phee-Phee picked up the walkie talkie and tried calling to Ya-Ya.
"Mom, I'm ready," followed by the man's voice cutting in and out.
Again, explainable. Could have been picking up cell phone frequency or someone else's walkie talkie. But wouldn't you know, tonight after dinner, the walkie talkie spoke again from it's little charging nest on the kitchen windowsill. And guess what it said? "Mom, MOM, come get me!" then "Mom, I'm ready," followed by the man cutting in and out.

I LOVE these things!

This meme comes courtesy of King Vitamin. Now that I've completed it, it's your turn.

Two Names You Go By
1. Big Mama in Pajamas.
2. Didi
Two Parts of Your Heritage
1. Italian
2. German
Two Things That Scare You
1. Dead boys in mirrors with long pointy fingers and black eyes
2. Flying.
Two of Your Everyday Essentials
1. coffee
2. shower
Two Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1. My favorite jeans that make my booty look less like the booty of a woman who has birthed three offspring
2. a ring of elephants
Two Things You Want in a Relationship (other than real love)1. Balance
2. Respect
Two Truths
1. A "tequila incident" is a rite of passage.
2. The universe has no center and no edges.
Two Physical Things that Appeal to You About the Opposite Sex
1. Chest, arms
2. Brain.
Two of Your Favorite Hobbies
1. Browsing in Barnes & Noble
2. writing
Two Things You Want Really Badly
1. Gerard Butler
2. an addition
Two Places You Want to Vacation
1. Scotland
2. The other side of Scotland
Two Things You Want to Do Before You Die
1. Gerard Butler.
2. Build a self-sustaining farm from the ground up with my hands and some tools
Two Ways That You are Stereotyped
1. People assume I'm a shameless hussy just because I'm a female Niblet.
2. People assume that I'm a bitch just because I happen to suffer from prolonged PMS three weeks out of the month.
Two Things You Are Thinking About Now
1. Why does my thumb hurt.
2. Why won't my kids go to bed?
Two Stores Where You Shop
1. Barnes & Noble
2. The Container Store
Two People You Haven't Talked to in a While
1. Soul-Sister
2. Rupp
Two Favorite Web Sites
1. Flylady - holla MBY -
2. Amazon
Two Pets You Had
1. Piper - quarterhorse/thoroughbred mix
2. Kitty - a feral cat
Two Favorite Sports
1. Football
2. Now that Bode Miller is around, skiing
Two People Who Will Fill This Out
1. CeBe W.
2. Pattycakes. YES YOU WILL!!!
Two Things You Did Last Night
1. Yelled at my husband because I couldn't write my essay
2. Dreamed about coyotes for the millionth time in a row
I accidentally deleted this question, but I guess it's shows I love to watch
1. Lost
2. NCIS

Delta Hotel and I are watching Dateline NBC, the third part in a series about internet sexual predators. What can I say? If I've never been in a man-hatin' frame of mind before, it's hard not to be viewing the cross section of perverts on this show. There's nothing worse than a crime against a child. It's probably a good thing that I don't run the show because I don't think I'd be so big on rehabilitating these freaks. I think I'd take away the offending body part and call it a day. I'm in the middle of a hormonal tsunami, so it's probably better that I DON"T rant right now. Besides, I'm too busy daydreaming about what I could accomplish along side these sheriffs arresting the predators, if only I had a good sharp pair of pruning shears.

I know it's not healthy or productive or really life if you live inside a little cubbyhole of fear. (Or in my case, from inside a gallon jug of Hater-ade) But you can bet your sandwich that if any of my kids feel the need to create a MySpace account, or any other "teen" chatroom account, these eyes will be watching it.

I think I need to take my dog for a walk.

YOGA

Tiarra and I went to Yoga/Pilates tonight. I had one of those brain function errors that led me to believe I am three kids and a decade younger than my back/abs/thighs think I am. The good news is I can still do a backbend. The bad news is that what must be a hundred million little puny muscles in my body feel like they've been over-boiled to the point of chewiness. It's all I can do to slither around like the grinch.

Last night I dreamed I was given the task of babysitting Britney Spears. I chased her up this hill to where a pack of lean and mangy yellow-eyed coyotes was waiting and I tried to get her to come back down but she wouldn't. So I skipped down the hill and discovered I was pregnant.

I am a connoisseur of dreams. I dream vividly every night and I even have some recurring dreams that I've had since childhood. Lately, since I became aware of the thuggish gaggle of coyotes living in the woods behind my house, they've been entering my dreams. I think I dreamed about Britney because I think K-Fed is the leechiest jackass to ever pretend to be famous and I feel really bad for her. But I don't get the pregnancy thing. I've never dreamed that before, not even when I was pregnant. Are their any Freud-heads out there willing to answer?

I Wouldn't

go on Survivor unless I was being paid at three million. Just thought you'd like to know. And there's no amount of money that could bring me on Fear Factor.

This Morning

If you happened to catch Face the Nation this morning, you saw GeeDubya slip in and out of lucidity. My mother pointed out the symptoms of early onset alzheimers, but I have a different theory, and it's a little scary. I don't have time to tell you about it because Desperate Housewives is coming on, but it involves harvesting bodies for alien reproduction while maintaining the facade of a fully functioning human.

But then again, could be flashbacks. OK gotta go watch the girls...

Definition of a Good Mother (or Father)

I inadvertently hurt my friends feelings the other day. I said something that triggered inside of her the feeling that she's not a good enough mother. I've been thinking about it, and I believe I have arrived at a good measuring tool. It's really quite simple. If you feel, at any time, like you are not a good parent, that you are setting up your offspring for years of psychological deconditioning, that s/he is not well-fed/educated/trained/prepared for life, if you ever know, deep in your heart, that someone seriously fucked up when they let you walk out of the hospital with another human's life in your hands, then you are a good parent. If you were a bad parent, you wouldn't care. You wouldn't evolve. You wouldn't ever try to do better.

Here's how to reach that elusive bar of good parenting: don't. It's not even there. There are good days and others. The good days are drops of honey melting on your tongue. Savor them. When you don't have the patience or the listening ears or the intention of scrubbing the chocolate from the corner of the mouth remember everyone's been there and will be there again. That's life. That's parenthood. I'll never forget when my Phee-Phee was born. Satan's second in charge delivered her, the nurses were mean to me, they kicked Delta Hotel out then gave me a roommate in my private room and let her husband stay and fart on the pullout chair all night while I desperately tried to get Phee-Phee to latch on/sleep. I was a thousand pounds of pissed off when our pediatrician showed up the next morning. I INVENTED the phrase "poor me" that day. I even had a window facing the Human Soup pond. But in the midst of all that drama was a profound truth (I've found that those little nuggets are usually disguised in a pile of excrement). Our pediatrician sat down, put his hand on my shoulder, recognized my state of near breakdown and said, "All you have to do is love her. Do the best you can, and all the rest will fall into place. That's it."

Can you understand the freedom in that statement? Forget about the donuts for breakfast, the SpongueBob marathon, the nap on the couch when you could have been teaching your four year old advanced calculus/French. Forget whatever punishing standard your personal bar is raised to and just love your kid and do the best you can. The rest will fall into place.

Yuck Cubed

My Soul-Sister emailed tonight to remind me of something. Remember the pond I wrote about the other day, you know, the one I call "Human Soup"? Well brave readers, this is what Soul-sister wrote:

A) who is your arch nemesis
and
B) Don't you remember dipping your naked butt in L's Pond one summer night????????? That's enough to give you nightmares!

YES SOUL SISTER!!! I DO REMEMBER!! And it was more than just my butt!! BLECHHHHHH!! I remember something else about that night. I was floating on my back, staring up at the constellations pretending I was Beethoven when something brushed up against my heel. It was hard (mind out of the gutter SUPERROB) and at the time I thought it was a turtle. But now I know it was rally a cadaver. OH LAW!

Snow Day? What??!!

I used to think that the criteria for canceling or at least delaying school was the passability of the roads and sidewalks. If you needed 4WD, snowshoes and a pack of sled dogs just to get TO your vehicle, schools closed down for the day, everyone stayed in pajamas and the shameless ingestion of high carb foods was declared mandatory. But recently we've been in a pattern of bizarre decision making. It all started back in November when one lonely little half a snowflake fell from the sky and the school stayed closed for the day. Then there was this other storm that dumped about eight feet of snow in a five minute period and the schools stayed open. And of course, there was today. I was driving sideways to the school, simultaneously avoiding other skating cars and pondering what kind of logic was at work when I realized that there is no exact science to school cancellations. What there is, is a little grey troll who lives deep below the elementary school chained to a table where dripping candles burn day and night and when the morning's weather seems iffy, like today, the superintendent visits him, the troll shakes his magic eight ball and proclaims "No, definitely not. Don't cancel school." Scoff if you want, but there's just no better explanation.

Are We Greater than our Private Parts?

SuperRob thinks perhaps not. And while maybe I should be insulted, considering I am a member of the writing group and thus a "shameless hussy", I am grateful for the distraction for two reasons.
1. I proved my embarrassing ignorance of geography in an essay I wrote and then read to my slutty writing group and the patriarch of the sluts called me on it resulting in me feeling like a big stupid slutty loser for the last two days. Now I need to enroll in a geography course so I don't prove my disgusting lack of world comprehension to the entire universe again. I guess I was just so busy thinking about sex, I couldn't focus.
2. Yesterday I was at the gas station squeezing the pump handle while it ejaculated into my big empty tank when my ARCH NEMESIS walked around the corner. As a former Marine, I should have grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and beaten him sensless with it. Instead I shrunk behind my car and hid till he was gone liked a scared little girl.

Anyway, those two things have been eating up my pornographic thought time. Glad SuperRob got me back on track. Now I can go back to thinking about love triangles and how I'd rather be having sex.

Guilty Pleasures

Our Dear SuperRob has one of those tag blogs on his site today. You are supposed to read about his guilty pleasures and then go back to your own blog and write yours down. It could be the fact that as an only child I have lingering delusions of grandeur and have never ever denied myself anything that I want, but I just don't have any guilty pleasures. If I want chocolate, I eat it. If I want to watch Golden Girls, I do. If I feel like wrapping Roy Orbison up in Saran wrap, I did. No, I didn't but I read about it on Angry Little Bitch's blog yesterday and it's still sitting in my brain, undigested, like a lump of fatty gristle.

Anyway, guilty implies hiding, and I think it's painfully obvious that I hide nothing. Maybe I need some secrets.

Oh, and before I forget, Tag, you're it

Human Soup

Tiarra the Supernurse came by today, and as usual she fascinated me with tales of the darker side of human physiology. We discussed maggots and leaches and their purpose in the promotion of healing. We talked about gangrene infested feet she's seen was hanging on by a mere thread of sinew . We touched on the regeneration of nerves after an injury - such as sledding down the hill in the back yard and landing on a harpoon of a tree stump - offends them. We threw around several variations of parasite. And then I remembered a story I heard about 15 years ago. I cannot verify the specifics, but a long, long time ago, before medical waste was considered gross and disgusting (like we ALL know it IS), back when the hospital was called Framingham Union, Learneds Pond was a pseudonym for Human Soup. It was rumored that all things eviscerated, punctured, drained and snipped ended up in the sweet little pond behind the hospital, where many townsfolk sent their children for swimming lessons. They say it's clean now, safe to swim in up until August when the geese have tipped the balance of water/shit in their gooey white favor and flagellating pin worms ripple the surface in search of warm blood. But I think any pond that can choke up an army of patchwork humans from a hundred years of careless doctors throwing discarded body parts out the window is not EVER safe to swim in. Just my two cents.

Shameless Plug Alert (title recomended by Fat Charlatan)

Guess what? Somebody accepted my essay "Sandstorms and Miniskirts" for publication! It'll be available Feb 7th, so I'll post the URL here when it is. I'm so happy because I feel validated. I feel like the universe threw me a bone. Not a gross cow shin marrow bone like I cook for Darling Dog, but a juicy chocolate bone with peanut butter filling that has no calories carbs or fat grams and won't give me another gallstone. God, I love to write so much, and now I feel a little bit good enough. Not entirely good enough, but, you know, time stamped and validated.

Also, I got highlights because I am going with Delta Hotel to a fancy dinner this weekend. It's not as good as the ball. For one thing, it's only semi-formal. For another, I can't get drunk because my actions could potentially cost Delta Hotel his job and then I would not be allowed to get pedicures anymore and my feet would turn to horns. Lastly, the ball is filled with young hot Marines. That's basically self explanatory. Despite those few things, this work dinner is pretty fun. We went last year and had a blast. Oh no, wait, we had a blast at the afterparty. And I was drunk.

The Sun WIll Come Out...Tomorrow

Q. What's worse than enough estrogen to give an entire island full of concave chested eunics boobs and a set of hips ?

A. Three daughters to share em with (the hormones, not the eunics)

Boy oh boy was today a crappy day. The only highlight was when Tiara the SuperNurse came over and told me it's a good thing my immune systems so sh*t hot.

As many of you know, I have the grace of a backwards-kneed, brain-damaged 22 hour old fruit fly. So, naturally, when I took the girls sledding the other day my left thigh found the only spear tipped tree stub for a five mile radius. My jeans were thick and tight enough to blunt the impaling, but I ended up with a bruise from my knee to my hip, and that's no exageration for once. I hobbled around the back yard for a while howling and drooling, but no one seemed to care so I stopped and kept on sledding. Anyway, it's two weeks later. I won't get into gross detail. If you really want to know what happened, you can ask, but it was HORRIBLE. Delta Hotel said, "You need to see a doctor. This is the worst thing you have ever done to yourself. This is worse than the time you cut off your thumb." Just a bruise, I thought.

Back to today. Tiarra came over for a delicious cup of afternoon coffee. I mentioned my bruise, and she insisted on seeing it. So, I rolled up my pants and showed her. That's when she said it.
"Good thing you have a healthy immune system Didi. See that? It's a horrible disgusting cord of mangled artery and guts and if you weren't so healthy you would have gotten gangrene and rotted away from the thigh on out." That's not quite verbatim, but she did send me into a hypochondrial panic attack. Then she told me that sometimes when you get gangrene body parts fall off. If you happen to be Jewish, they bury the body part in a graveyard with it's own headstone. Can anyone out there verify that one for me?

Anyway. I'm off to soothe myself with some books on how to get your kids to stop whining and talking back. Self-help and parenting books make me feel proactive and therefore, better.

Trust

One of the greatest feelings in the world is when your child shows you a great truth.

Ya-Ya has been having these horrible nightmares this last week, about stone angels with eyes that watch her. That's freakin creepy. Tonight, while I was tucking her in, she asked me why she's so afraid to be alone. "Alone alone?" I asked, "like lonely with not a friend in the world, or just of being in a place by yourself?" (A key in parenting is to always KNOW what question you are answering. Answering can rapidly become a slippery slope if not handled with oven mits. Besides, being an expert on fear, I wanted to make sure I was dealing with the correct subcategory.) "Just alone by myself. Like in my room." So, I administered my dissertion on the primeval herd instinct and the logic of banding together at night in your cave so that no one should fall prey to a saber-toothed tiger. And since the saber-toothed tigers are extinct, there's nothing to worry about. Fear is healthy, I told her, and it's also controllable. I moved into a discussion about trusting in a higher power and believing in the best possible outcome because when you don't believe in a miracle you shut the door on one. And courage is being afraid but keeping on anyway. WHen you're afraid, I told her, think about Tom Brady or how you felt on Christmas. I am paraphrasing for the sake of brevity, but it really came out of mouth splendidly. The last ting I told her was to trust me, that I would protect her. A few minutes later, the importance of what we talked about settled in. Having someone trust you is an AWESOME responsibility. I stepped onto the deck into the frosty air and I wasn't even afraid of the coyotes or sex offenders or dead boys in mirrors or the girl in The Ring. Ya-Ya had empowered me with her trust, and she reminded me to trust. It's when we isolate ourselves and take the weight of the world for our own burden that we close the door on possibility and open the door to fear. Fear takes up precious space that could be spent having fun and it gives you bad dreams about creepy stone angel eyes. And I like stone angels way too much to risk having bad dreams about them.

Up Your Gas

That title is a double edged sword. It's the name of a magic pill I used to take before formation runs in the USMC so I would be able to keep up. I am inherently slow and lazy. Up your gas kept me in the runs. It also insured that would I vomit on the calves of the person in front of me, something I could accomplish without even breaking stride. I married one of those unfortunate people. Bet you're glad to know that. It also contained ephedra in unscrupulous quantities which should make me eligible for a claim in a class action law suit, only I have no heart problems. I'm just lazy.

The other reason I chose that title for tonight's illustrious entry is that I paid my gas bill today. Up Your Gas loosely rhymes with Shove the Bill up Someone's Ass, which is what I felt like doing. I paid more for one months gas than I pay to drive my SUV in FOUR MONTHS. I also had an energy audit. The auditor became the first human being on the planet earth today to cross the magical threshold into my attic. There was no hidden treasure or skeletons or flowers or dragons up there. There was a vast breeding ground for all the horrible scurrying brown spiders that torture me when I step out, naked and unprotected from the shower. Or reach my hand into the bottom of the laundry separator. There was but one scant, lacy, flimsy little summer shawl layer of insulation. There should be eleven. Thus, I have forked out four hundred dollars to melt the snow off the roof.

Philosophy of War

That's a misleading title. As you may know, the last week and a half-ish have included many things, none of which are school. There is nothing I like better than spending quality time with my girls. Which is how I always anticipate these "breaks". What they are, in reality, is Mommy Exams. I learned something interesting between tests of patience and endurance. Let me tell you a quick story. Maybe you'll think I'm crazy, entirely plausible after as many days in the house with three other females (and a manic-depressive dog) as I've had, but I think I understand the psychology behind the war.

Ya-Ya is my oldest, and she's a big, honkin' healthy specimen of a girl. She's slender but powerful and tall and healthy and full of vim and vigor. Phee-Phee is my middle, and she's exactly the opposite. She's teensy and petite and delicate. But, like a little snake, her fire burns very very hot. (The baby is, oddly enough, a precise balance of the two.) Anyway. Ya-Ya lives right next door to Phee-Phee. One day, out of boredom or whatever, Ya-Ya decided to go into Phee-Phee's room and raise a little hell. She demanded that Phee-Phee give her either stuff or a dollar. Phee-Phee, sitting on her bed combing her new doll's hair, doing the things that she normally does all day, refused. Naturally, Ya-Ya felt put out that her little puny sister should refuse her, and she demanded again, your money or your stuff. So, Phee-Phee sprang off the bed and attacked her, feeling the need to protect her property and her money. Then Ya-Ya physically removed Phee-Phee from her own room and locked the door, essentially occupying a bedroom which was not her own. Meanwhile, the baby sat in the corner and ate play-dough, but that's another story for another day. I kept things fair, hollered at everyone, sent everyone back to her own property, seized the play-dough and continued making lunch. This sort of thing happens from time to time in my house, and I'm sure it's a universal scene in homes where there's enough estrogen to drown an ox. No big deal. But let's say Ya-Ya had nuclear weapons, and Phee-Phee had a white van full of cow manure and Tide. Who has the kind of home-owners policy to cover that?

Naturally I love all my girls, and understand that they each have their own agendas and personalities and rights. I rarely take sides, preferring to reprimand globally, let them calm their little tempers and then do something else in a neutral area like the playroom. Point being, maybe the world needs a great big mommy to give certain leaders a spanking (which I find oddly appealing) and send others to their rooms then set up a nice little game of dress up somewhere in New Zealand. The thought of Dick dressing in a purple fedora for tea has just cheered me immensely.