| Today's joke, and a little extra something |
[May. 30th, 2009|06:05 pm] |
B: "Knock knock!"
Me: "Who's there?"
B: "Chicken!"
Me: "Chicken who?
B: "Chicken't you glad I didn't say 'light saber'?"
He compensated for this in advance by singing me the following song:
"MAMA! You're the greatest! . . . MAMA! You're the greatest! MAMA! You're the greatest . . .and Daddy . . . and Eva . . . and GAWWWWWWWWDDD!"
Luckily, I am saved from death-by-cuteness by his repeated professions that he loves my belly. Because it is so squishy.
Rock out with your chickens out, kids. That is all. |
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| Limited comeuppance |
[May. 27th, 2009|07:45 am] |
Periodically, the universe seems to feel the need to remind me (us?) of the limitations of a blessed existence. In the midst of an extensively planned kitchen remodel, the fridge (one of two appliances we decided not to replace) decides to quit, during Arizona summer, when freshly loaded with fish (now stinkybad), chicken (now also stinkybad), and cream (now chunkybad), among other things. I just hope that the eggs are okay, because I need them to make Gourmet's Farmland Vegetable Pie and having to go to the grocery store for much more than flour is going to irritate me. Also, the ice cream is squishy. Meh.
My very nice dentist showed me a picture of my rearmost molar taken by a tiny oral camera, pre-cleaning. Seeing a place that is very difficult to reach with a toothbrush magnified to the size of my head was demoralizing to say the least. Boo. Why show me a place that you've just acknowledged is almost impossible to reach without professional tools? Just to make me feel bad? Especially when you're just going to tell me that I brush too hard? Which do you want? More brushing? Less brushing? Pick, already!
In other news, Benjamin has been on a knock-knock kick for months. Of course, they're of the non sequitur variety.
"Knock-knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Banana!"
"Banana Who?"
"Banana Undershirt!"
*fall on the floor in feigned hysterical laughter" |
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| *sigh* Chicago, but no fun. |
[Feb. 21st, 2009|11:48 am] |
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My grandma died on Thursday. I will be flying into Midway next Wednesday night for the funeral, flying out on Sunday. My family may or may not be able to put me up, depending on available space and the extent to which I, as the daughter of a half-sibling who is not a blood relation of aforementioned grandma, am actually seen as a member of the family. I don't know if I need a hotel room. I don't know if I need a rental car. I do expect that I will need a drink. Or five. I would really like to have the possibility of a break from the expected drama and the known sadness. Chicago people? Do any of you want to drive out to Oak Park or Riverside or Cicero or Berwyn or tell me how to get to you by train or bus and go out for dinner/drinks/movies/entertainment-not-specified? I'll buy . . . |
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| Aging (dis)gracefully |
[Jan. 31st, 2009|10:00 am] |
I am 31 years old. It's not 26 (WHICH WAS AWESOME!), and it's certainly not 19 (which was not, but I didn't fully realize it at the time), but it's mostly okay. I've taken up pretend rock-climbing in a climbing gym, and I enjoy it, and it challenges me, and I'm not killing myself with it. I try to get a bit of exercise every day and I watch my treat intake. 31 is not all that old. And yet, I can no longer escape the signs that I am getting older, and I do not like it, no thank you, it's not nice. (Look at me using my words just like the preschool taught Ben.)
When I work my cross stitch or try to thread a needle or figure out a clasp on jewelry or inspect the wound, real or imaginary, on a very small finger, I now tilt my head up so I can look under my glasses.
I have physical therapy exercises to keep my hips and knees and ankles strong and supported so I don't ruin them some more, as well as a note from said therapist that tells anyone at work who cares, essentially, "Vicki Annie Pudding Pot can wear nice supportive sneakers at work so her old bones don't become further jacked up." (By the by, Alik is the one who confirmed for me that I can end that sentence with a preposition, about 13 years ago. I have adult stories from 13 years ago. Grr. Arg.)
Yesterday, I threw out my back. "Threw out" is not the best phrase, perhaps. I slept funny, and I woke up and there was a tiny bit of soreness there, right in the small of my back. "Okay," I thought, "I'll get dressed and ready and walk the 1/4 mile from parking to office, and this will work itself out." Wrong. It got steadily worse throughout the day. I had to do a deposition at 3 p.m., with lots of exhibits, and I can't imagine what the video of me hobbling slowly up and back between State's table and witness stand looks like. By the time I was finished, I just sat on the pew-style bench outside the courtroom and waited for a friend to collect me. I had thought to drive myself home, but once I sat down in her car, I could not lean over to reach the car door to close it without shrieking. She, merciful angel that she is, drove me home, then drove Six to go pick up my car downtown. First, however, I had to change out of my work clothes. To be accurate, I should say, Sixten had to change me out of my work clothes. I tried hard to get into a reasonable position from which he could manhandle me out of my dress and sweater and into my sweatpants and SWAT shirt, but ended up just face-planting, tuchus up, onto the end of the bed. As he trailed behind me as I slowly gimped, canted 6" to the left, into the bedroom, Sixten commented, "You look like Cloris Leachman stalking her prey."
There are only two good things about this:
1) Benjamin has been very sweet. He got the idea that my leg wouldn't bend, so he told me he would make it better. He leaned over my knee, and hugged my right leg, then told me, "There. Now try to bend it!" He repeated the process with my other leg, then wrapped his arms gently around my waist and told me to bend my back. It didn't work, but I still felt better.
2) I got to make Six laugh this morning, by telling him that I was "bringing Geritol back." I couldn't help myself at that point, so added, "With my cane, I will give you a whack. You other biddies, back up off my snack."
I'm going to have to work for the rest of the song, but feel free to send your suggestions. And your muscle relaxants. I'll be here, on the couch, thinking about my investment portfolio and the benefits to my bones of weight-bearing exercise, applying wrinkle cream, and waiting to be able to stand up straight like the young person I had thought I was. |
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| Warranty wankers |
[Mar. 17th, 2008|12:36 pm] |
I have a 2005 Honda Accord LX. Her name is Bianca and she is the first (and probably last) new car I have owned. When we bought her, I opted out of the extended warranty. This means that, now that I'm going to be out of coverage in May, I've been getting all kinds of warranty extension offers from various third-party companies. I had the incredibly misfortune of calling one of them, Dealer Services, first this morning. They started me at ~$2800 for coverage. Then, after I declined, they put me on hold, and came back with $1800 for coverage, with a $100 deductible for each repair, blah blah blah. I asked if I could think about it and call back? "No." Can I put down that $87 deposit and cancel later? "Sure! You can cancel at any time!"
So, I call the other place while I'm walking to my car (Note: this is not a post about the dangers of driving while on my cell. The damn thing was on speaker, on my lap, on hold, almost the entire time I was driving) and they not only give me a better deal, but straight off, with no deductible. I get cut off in the underground parking garage, but emerge into the sunlight with a new voicemail from the second place: "This is So and So with Thus and Such and I just want to warn you that the Attorney General of Missouri is pursuing a fraud investigation into Dealer Services." Enough of this. I call my dealer, and they give me a no-deductible, even-lower-rate quote, and it's from my dealer, which has been in business for 30 years and is huge and is SO not going out of business in the next five years unless the entire economy collapses, in which case my warranty is for shit, anyway.
After all this nonsense, I call Dealer Services back. After I listen to the menu options, which includes, "If you have been referred by the State of South Carolina regarding capital structuring, press and politely explain that I would like the deposit made only this morning with my credit card refunded, and my coverage cancelled, thank you very much. I was put on hold for ten minutes each THREE TIMES. I was given the hard sell, and the cost of the exact same freaking coverage declined twice. The customer service rep had the nerve to get snippy after I had to threaten to call both the Better Business Bureau and the AG's office here in Arizona:"Have you checked out your dealer with the Better Business Bureau?" Yes, bitch, I have. I am the customer and I have received no service, so you receive no money. Cancel the coverage NOW. I did not raise my voice. I did not ask to speak to her manager. I did not reach through the phone and eviscerate here. I explained that I understood her position as a representative of the business and that she has a job to do, but that I was very convinced that I wanted to cancel.
On a day when we are time-sharing Ben at home, because he has pinkeye, and it has become unseasonably rainy and cold, she's lucky she got off the phone with her innards in place. |
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| Small mercies and other topics |
[Feb. 18th, 2008|09:15 am] |
I am glad that:
- we postponed mopping from yesterday, because Benjamin just threw up in the car, and might do so again.
-the rodeo is in town for the rest of the week, because Benjamin and I are having a kid-safe movie marathon,(because he threw up).
-I live in Tucson, where it was a cause for astonished comment during Rabbi Cohon's sermon Friday evening that the entire city had received approx. 7.25 flakes of snow.
- baths are as much of a panacea for anxious kids as they are for anxious adults. Who doesn't like a bath?
- I still have my junior-high French textbooks. I couldn't remember the word for "cupboard," so I'm now doing all the exercises in my 7th-grade book. "Il fait beau dehors. C'est printemps. Les mois de printemps sont Mars, Avril, et Aout. La jeune fille fait de la gymnastique. Ses parents la regardent."
- that my mother's scale flashed "err" before it informed me that I had gained five pounds, so I would go home and use my own scale which told me that my mom's scale is full of crap.
- for etymology. 'Nuff said. Yay etymology.
On another topic, why is that all the Republicans I know fail to remember from our conversations that they agree with me and mine on nearly everything? I just had a conversation (one of many) with a cop with whom I work about the Democrats winning the White House (his prediction, my hope) and he said, "Well, they better not take my guns, because there's gonna be a revolution." I told him, "Dave, for the most part, we don't want to take all your guns. When we say, 'gun control,' you hear, 'take the guns away,' but I just want the same kind of restrictions that you do on gun ownership. I don't want criminals to have guns. I want gun owners to use reasonable safety measures, like locks and safes and appropriate education, to keep little kids away from the guns entirely, and older kids from blowing each others' heads off when they show off with Daddy's Ruger. I want some way to track gun ownership, for a variety of reasons." Long pause. "Well, yeah, that's all reasonable."
Repeat as necessary on gay marriage, abortion rights, education for the children of illegal immigrants, health care and the economy, etc, etc. Gah. Honestly, could people listen to one another occasionally?
Finally, a survey, for the two people in the world who might read this: Sesame Street, better when we were kids, right? |
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| WTFungus? |
[Sep. 16th, 2007|08:40 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | home | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  distressed | ] |
We have had a trail of ants from the back yard, through the garage (not completely enclosed, clearly), into the front yard for about 10 days now. Insects are a constant problem in Arizona. Everyone has an exterminator/termite company on contract or on-call, and these ants were not into the trash, coming in the house, or eating up the vegetation, SO. However, as we returned home from a play date today, Six noticed a cluster of white things on the floor of the garage. "Are those eggs?"
"I think so! Yech! It's definitely time to spray!" (read: spray with the peppermint oil stuff that hurts neither toddler nor doggies, but leaves sticky film and huge pile of dead ants to handle, which is why we'd postponed.)
Six decided to follow the trail, which led behind the Mexican Bird of Paradise, which has grown like Topsy, or maybe like Audrey, if you prefer musical theater, and completely obscures a huge portion of the front of my house. Against the wall, which we had freshly painted earlier this year. TO THE GIGANTIC DISGUSTING FESTERING FUNGUS THAT HAD GROWN ONTO/INTO THE WALL OF MY HOME, REACHING THE SIZE OF A LOAF OF BREAD. This thing had also grown onto and around the extra garden hose hanging from the front wall, so that I just ended up tossing the hose. The pile of ants, the huge slab of bracken or what-have-you, the idea that some alien thing is living as a parasite off my lovely home - all grotesque. I got the barbecue tongs; Six got the big trash bin and the hand clippers. It took us half an hour to clear a path and pull all the ook out of the rocks, dirt, off the wall, and spray the ants. We can't even fully wash the stain from the fungus off the wall, because it's still rainy season here and we don't want it to grow back. We'll have to wait until Arizona returns to its usual inhospitably arid state and then just spray the sh*t out of that wall.
On a day when I wanted only to climb under the bed and wait for Spring 2017, I did not need a parasitic infestation. |
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| Career Meme - I cave. |
[Sep. 16th, 2007|08:36 pm] |
1. Lifeguard
2. Music Teacher / Instructor
3. ESL Teacher
4. Foreign Language Instructor
5. Judge
6. Criminal Lawyer
7. Civil Litigator
8. Lawyer
9.Tour Guide
10.Librarian
Hrm. No huge surprises here. I'm gratified that i got Fashion Designer, Personal Trainer, Police officer, and Craftsperson in the mix, but I'm a bit baffled by Fast Food Worker and Medical Illustrator. |
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| Happy happy 4th, everyone! |
[Jul. 4th, 2007|09:42 am] |
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Have a wonderful day, y'all. Eat grilled stuff and hug each other and drink some American beer. Not even putting aside all the flaws, I love our country for a variety of reasons: if you drive long enough, you can sunbathe and snowball fight without crossing any international borders; we are still allowed to vehemently and publicly angry at our government; most of us are really trying to make things better, even if our ideas on that differ; and this huge, loud, obnoxious country produced most of you guys. Ooh, and American beer. And Daisy Dukes! And a history of protest! *signing out before I tear up. God bless, everybody. |
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| T Party |
[Jul. 1st, 2007|04:28 pm] |
Lately, TinyMan has been very into the imaginary food. He is annoyingly uninterested in the real food, for some reason, but is quite happy to be rewarded for potty success or other types of good behavior with pretend cookies, and when he is pleased with us, he is likely to offer us imaginary cake, cupcakes, popsicles, etc. (Strangely, his magnetic building set, which is comprised of metal balls and rod-shaped magnets in primary colors, is often all of these things.)
This morning, he asks me (he is a very polite child most of the time), "Mama, would you like to drink some tea?" I thought he meant only imaginary tea and said that I would love to have some tea and attempted to hand him an imaginary cup. Wrong wrong wrong. He told me, "Hold on, I'll go get it." (no, I am not exaggerating; this is how my 2.5 year old talks to me.) Pitter pat pitter pat, and he returns holding the letter "T" magnets from the fridge. He hands me one of the magnets, and places the other one to his lips, top-side to mouth, sips air, and announces, "Mmm, that's good tea!" How can I not love this child?!? Toddler word play is the best! |
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| Friendship management survey. |
[Jul. 1st, 2007|04:18 pm] |
I'm most of the way across the country from the people I loved best in college. Many of my friends from law school moved away after graduation. Of course, tastes change, life circumstances change, careers and hobbies change, and all of these things lead to the formation of new friendships. So, Batmen, riddle me these:
- does the existence of friendship depend on your feelings for the other, or on the degree of contact with that person?
- what do you do when someone you'd considered a dear friend is suddenly just not there and you can't figure out why? Is it ever acceptable to just ask mutual friends if they know what's going on?
- what do you do when you realize that for no *good* reason, you just aren't particularly interested in continuing a non-dear friendship or acquaintanceship (the other isn't deliberately mean, or smelly, but perhaps just boring and self-centered and possibly hurts your feelings on a regular basis, but without meaning to do so)?
- how do you rate yourself at keeping in touch with friends? does keeping yourself apprised of someone's life on their blog count as keeping in touch for you or does it require phone calls and visits?
There are lots of people I really like and care about, but with whom I only communicate electronically. Do I get to count those people as friends? |
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| Survey |
[Apr. 28th, 2007|05:41 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | 6's office | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  pensive | ] |
| [ | music |
| | pirates in the next room. | ] |
Except when my mom volunteered to spring for more expanded servicing, I have always been a polish-at-home, Supercuts every 6 weeks kind of person. Truly, Mr. Me spends more to get his hair cut than I do. Not because I don't enjoy going to the salon, having someone offer me a latte, and getting primped within an inch of my life, but because, with a government job, and in a world of diapers and home improvement and saving for college, spending oodles on facials and pedicures seems not unreasonable, but guilt-inducingly extravagant. Of course, I freely admit being more than slightly neurotic about money. For the holidays, my mom gave me money that she expressly earmarked for getting a membership at one of these discount spa places. So, I went and got a facial today. It was lovely. Really. So, my question is this, where am I on the spectrum? Am I being unreasonably hair-shirty about this? What do y'all do? Cut? Color? mani/pedi? Massage? Highlights? At a beauty school or a real salon? Anyone willing to share? |
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| The little kid woes. |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|12:01 am] |
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I am in trial. I have to go to work tomorrow and deliver a closing that kills (well, imprisons) to a jury of my peers. Unfortunately, I have come down with a bout of some sort of tummy-based illness. Despite the Husband's efforts to be nice, provision of 7-Up, preparation of plain white rice, and my decision to hang out on the couch watching Harry Potter, I still feel about 7. I want the Mommy-in-my-head to set me up in the big bed with the electric blankets and the remote control and all my favorite books. What I really want is to feel better IMMEEJUTLY, so I can go close without worry. What I do NOT want is to show up in front of a judge and bailiff and that jury, and my detective and the judicial security guys, suddenly squeak in panic, and race for the ladies' room. While I wait to see what it's going to be, can anyone email me some bunny slippers? |
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| matzoh. Or, fake-mo. |
[Apr. 5th, 2007|06:31 pm] |
My adorable blond kid wants oatmeal for breakfast. It's Passover. No oatmeal, kiddo. But wait, this kid can't/won't/doesn't say "oatmeal," but "eepmo," (i.e. ma-MA, I want EEP-mo! In my BOWL!) So, I break up some matzoh in a bowl, add brown sugar, salt, milk, cook it up. Not bad. In fact, really pretty good. I like oatmeal, but this is, in many ways, yummier.
"Hey, Benjamin, do you want some fake-mo?"
Approach.
Inspection.
Quiver.
Fuss.
CRY. "maMA, I no like MATZOH!"
So, perhaps this post should be entitled, "The Perils of Breeding Up." If I'd married someone not as smart as me, there would have been a greater likelihood of regression to the mean. But NOOOO, I had to marry someone intellectually out of my league and now my kid is smarter than me, as well. Phooey. I'm still going to have fake-mo for breakfast in the morning. I've fooled myself, anyway. |
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| Who wins? |
[Apr. 5th, 2007|06:14 pm] |
If (hypothetically, in that way that's just not) someone you are forced to work with on a high-profile project is difficult and demanding and condescending and needlessly (and wrongly) accusing, and you legitimately have more than a full work-load aside from this project, is it "letting X win" to pass the project to another person who wants it and has a lighter work-load?
Let's assume for the sake of argument that someone wins in any given situation. It does not feel like winning to be stressed and cranky and snippy at home because of some person with whom I have no personal relationship. However, it also does not feel like winning to pass on a project that has the potential to generate good buzz and accolades and such. I have tried in the past to adopt the attitude that "it's enough punishment for X that he has to be him, and enough reward for me that I get to be me." I'm not sure I can be so karma-driven in this instance. It seems to me that it's enough punishment for X to have his face beaten in and enough reward for me to be the person allowed to do the beating. |
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| Weekend. Whoo. |
[Mar. 31st, 2007|09:04 am] |
| [ | Tags | | | family, house | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | determined | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Mindless Self Indulgence | ] |
I'm procrastinating. I have to measure portions of my yard for re-rocking, pick up after the dogs, and repot those plants that survived the winter on the porch. Later, we have a birthday party for a two-year-old, laundry, housecleaning, and probably carpet shampooing to accomplish. I just want to get to this evening when I get to hang with Britcoms and Six-made popcorn and maybe a glass of wine.
But first, more coffee. If only I could say, "I LIKE MY COFFEE BLACK JUST LIKE MY METAL!!" But I do enjoy the cream and sugar. On the other hand, just having that lyric in my head makes me happy. |
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| Perils of Pottytraining |
[Mar. 28th, 2007|08:23 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Big Green Chair | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  weird | ] |
| [ | music |
| | my own, apparently | ] |
Whoa. We're at that stage. I swear, I was once cool in that Totally Not Cool kind of way, but now I find myself prancing around my room singing a song I made up on the spur of the moment to my son at the top of my voice:
"It's potty time!
It's potty time!
It's put your bottom on that big old potty time!
You make a noise,
you make a smell!
What comes out?
Who can tell?
It's potty time! . . ."
I have an Ivy League education, my own home that I've fixed up significantly, a beautiful son, a fabulous husband, and work I think is really important. What does it all come down to? A really catchy poop tune. |
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| Get your fresh hot Justice! |
[Mar. 20th, 2007|09:38 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | floor. | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  optimistic | ] |
I went to court this morning expecting to try one case this week. Long and ludicrous story made short, opposing counsel on my case was sick so my case got continued, colleague from my office got sick but her case did NOT get continued, so presto chango! I'm now co-trying a case the file for which I first saw at 10 a.m. with a lovely and talented lawyer who is working up to trying her first felony and first saw the case at 9:30 a.m. (This is all part of the public record; I'm not spilling the beans.)
On the one hand, I can't believe that we're trying this case with so little advance time.
On the other hand, it's really sort of exciting! Wow, look, we're flying! No net! Really!
On the gripping hand, we had not much option since the original lawyer on this case was violently ill and looked like she'd been rode hard and put up wet. She seriously could not try this case and it wasn't going to get better with a dismissal and refiling.
Also, I love the Claire Danes GAP commmercial. Ethel Merman, cross-dressing, and dancing! Oh my! |
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| Really? Is it live? A-live? |
[Mar. 17th, 2007|03:23 pm] |
I've had this account for about a year, and just wanted to be able to check on people I care about but whom I never really talk to. (Yah, I know; I'm working on it.) That seems like a waste, since I check on several folks on a daily or weekly basis, so I may as well get off my tush and post something.
Anyway, here's the update:
- love the work, hate the job.
- love the kid, hate the tantrums.
- love the house, hate the upkeep.
- love the rights, hate the responsibilities.
- love the husband, um, love the husband (hate being a Wife when it requires the capital "W", but love being the wife.)
My house smells like corned beef, laundry, dog, and family, not necessarily in that order. I have no idea whether anyone out there in the world is ever going to read this or care, but I've never kept a diary, so even if the answer is, "No," I don't mind. Anyway, that's enough stream-of-unconsciousness. Except . . .
I must encourage any of you smart mommies (and daddies) out there to watch Between the Lions. It's got puppets, it's got reading, it's got Martha and the Vowellas, and it's got dialogue like this, "I remember when I was in a band . . . Cleo in the crowd . . . Cleo backstage . . .Cleo at the after party . . . " I tell ya, you can't get better from a lion librarian puppet. That's good stuff. |
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