I love to hate you

One box of tissue in my truck.

Another on the back of the toilet.

One more on my desk at work.

Picked up another (with cute little blue shells, actually) tonight at the supermarket.

And I use toilet paper whenever convenient.

I have grass allergies, which is so completely cruel as I worship summer and her aromotic river matted hair. She is my goddess and I am merely her pollen slave.

Tonight I thought maybe I should see what the heck is going on in the air around here as my head is a bucket of clear, running snot; so I checked pollen.com and found out that central Indiana is at a 9.6 out of 10 this week. Which means I am doomed to sneezing gluey, sticky snot into my right shoulder for the next several days (not to mention stuffing a twisted-up kleenex into my left nostril to avoid excessive leakage into my pillow tonight. Totally hot).

If I weren't a current member of the 'Freaky Toddler Nursing Club', I'd just go get some dang Benadryl already. Cripe.

Suggestions, anyone?

Stacy London, I would totally hang out with you

Should I really be feeling this excited about having a weekend to myself? I chose to not attend random folk festival camping event 3 hours away with my husband and a few other mutual friends in favor of staying home for planned pajama pizza party with some moms and their kiddies and to slowly overdose on What Not To Wear on TLC.

Tomorrow? WHO KNOWS. I may fleatique shop with Rosemary all afternoon in search of those great old beady necklaces I like. The cheap ones, because I'm all about quantity with crap jewelry. That and a new thrift shop purse. And tweeze my eyebrows.

Oh, the anticipation.

Uh, so maybe I was wrong

I had planned on posting something yesterday about how excited, and insanely nervous, I was about converting Rosemary's crib into a toddler bed with the two short side rails. I came home from work a little early and decided that maybe it was time for the switch (seeing as she climbed INTO her bed the other day by stepping up onto her kitchen that was strategically placed against the side). I did all of the preparations and exaggerated the fun of the experience.

"Look at the BIG GIRL BED!"

"It is soooo NEAT!"

"Now you can get up whenever you want!" (Oops, probably shouldn't have mentioned that one).

We read books together in her 'new' bed, she did a little jumping on it and we talked about how, now that the side was kind of open, it was going to be different, and way more fun.

Two hours later we heard a significant thud in her room. I thought, hopefully, that my husband had fallen over the dog, again, as he sometimes does; but we found our daughter lying on her back, still wrapped in her Thomas the train blanket screaming, with Elmo next to her on the floor.

After deliberating for about 0.12 seconds (and watching the milk slowly make perfectly formed circles on my shirt from all the crying), the crib rail was back in her room and we fished out the tiny Allen wrench from the Ziploc bag with the other crib accessories.

On the bright side is that no one was hurt (Elmo also received proper medical care, if you were wondering) and that my husband now is trained in the proper installation of a bumper pad with 24 ties at 11:45 at night, should I ever require that service again.

Over coffee Friday morning

"It was so nice going out with you this weekend. Hanging out and having a few drinks together, just the two of us, made it feel like old times again."

"No, if it were like old times again we would have come home smashed and had sex on the kitchen table."

Many jokes about blue dresses were heard

Former president Bill Clinton was in town this week to campaign for his wife's presidential campaign and I insisted in joining the throng of Lafayette natives who chose to go check out all the fuss.
We all had initially wanted to attend together (well, I can't speak for Rosemary as I believe that she'll be voting for Ron Paul, and my husband really needed to be persuaded with dinner and potato chips, so I guess I'll just say that maybe I was the only one who wanted to be there). I can't really explain my intense need to be physically near the event as I'm still undecided in my own personal choice for candidacy; but, nonetheless, I noted it in the calendar and off we went.

We had driven to the destination over 2 hours before the actual event and noticed that there was a rather intimidating line winding through the neighborhood of the high school and we spoke at length, and lovingly, about our options.

"There's no way in hell I'm waiting in that line to see Hillary's cheating husband talk poo about how she should get the nomination. Not gonna happen."

"I'm going. Drop me off."

So almost before I could grab my pink mittens and Jimmy John's ham sandwich from the floor of the car, I was promptly left in the cold with nearly 3000 others in the street who were lined up single file in a very slow moving line as if we were going to be duped into falling over the peak of the hill at the other side.
Once I finally got into the school, I was told (along with about another 1000 people behind me) that we'd be directed into the overflow room (so there's going to be beer? was my initial thought, but I was soon to be underwhelmed). So I stood in the junior varsity gymnasium with loads of others and listened to his speech over, what sounded like, $59 speakers.
No video.
Just audio.
Like I could have watched from home and gotten a better experience; but then I wouldn't have had the joy of observing a lovely blonde woman sitting two rows in front of me continually touching up her lipstick, fluffing her moussed hair, and repeatedly adusting her crossed legs in her very short-skirted professional business suit and I could only wonder if she had aspirations of being a white house intern.

I'll have the glazed ham with a side of sarcasm

Easter appeared in it's usual Indiana way over the weekend and brought sleet, snow and general weather unpredictability to the annual egg hunt (my daughter found 17, thank you very much) and carrot cake overindulgence. I spent the holiday with family and friends; because nothing really says happy Easter like an outing to the local gay dance club and getting to bed at 5 am smelling of booze and cigarettes with visions of transsexuals dancing in your head.

Birthday tradition

Every year I'm asked what I'd like to do for my birthday and I spend weeks searching for an acceptable event that costs loads of money and is intended to bring happiness and celebration; and every year I end up wanting to just go outside and hike. This year was no different.

Horticulture Park in West Lafayette still gives me that feeling of beauty and awe after all my years of hiking her trails.

Not half as useful as a cat

My dog is a shitty mouser.
I know this because I stepped into the kitchen yesterday morning to make a small bowl of scrambled eggs for Rosemary, watched a black mouse lumber across the wood floor with a plate of breakfast in it's hands, turn to me and request a spot of tea. Neither scared nor particularly thin, actually.

Which leads me to believe that the mounds of cheese fish and popcorn that have fallen out of the 'no-spill' bowls that we've been using for nighttime snack are being eaten by both the dog and the mouse. Probably even together under the table after we've all gone off to sleep where they both meet and share their bounty of cherry granola bars and bits of Jennie-o turkey franks and discuss how more of the rodent's family who are waiting at the back door can get in on this spectacular arrangement; with Natasha dabbing the mouse's mouth with small bits of the endless stream of kleenex that inevitably pile up behind the bathroom trash.

I will not have any part of the, shall we say, relocation of this particular mouse, as my husband is currently planning because it's becoming weirdly captivating watching this creature slink along the baseboards in the kitchen and now, boldly, the dining room. However, I may need to tidy up the high chair before dinner this evening or Rosemary may be sharing her pizza with our newest, and least picky, tenant.

All apologies to the Target Superstore for our brief rendez-vous with an alternate shopping destination

Having watched an embarassing number of hours of the Sprout channel in the last several days, a trip out into the cold was long overdue. With Macy's gift card in hand, we strolled into the department store to search for some new bedsheets. My eyes darted quickly from one display to another looking for just the right mix of modern, with a brilliant and unexpected use of pattern.

My husband was shopping for thread count.

Like the 800 series.

Like something that feels like sleeping in a box of tissue.

With aloe.

It's a good thing that our daughter was quite easily distracted by the rows of low, soft pillows and packages of lightweight fitted sheets that could be pulled out at the last minute in a toddler maneuver to trip up the parents; as our endless trips around the Martha Stewart line of sheets were nauseating. With greasy fingers from the usual stop at the pretzel shop in the mall we unzipped a few packages to compare the 200 thread count versus the 500. I'll mention that it really goes without saying that there is a definite difference, kind of like cheese cloth versus angora; however, I also used to consider a daily swim in the Wildcat Creek a bath, and I also have one pair of shoes for each season so I may not be the most qualified person to consult about this sort of thing.

Five things I need to get me through winter (besides hope for an early spring, obviously)

(note: these are merely a few material items that come to mind when I'm thinking about the endless misery of winter. An additional list might include Zoloft or a vehicle full of carbon monoxide, for example)

1. Lotions. I love them; but especially the scent of Bath and Body Works Warm Vanilla Sugar. It's so intoxicating and wintry smelling.
2. Alba coconut lip balm. There are, apparently, other flavors but the coconut one is dreamy and available at the grocery store so I can pick it up when I'm out for dog food or that dry shaved honey ham that I love; the one that's really hard to swallow and you'd need to have a glass of water on hand just in case. Yum.
3. Bencheley cherry almond tea. Enough said. It's very good at the end of the day with honey.
4. Soy candles. Just in general. They burn well and the scent is strong. Balsam, vanilla, sandalwood. Good stuff.
5. Oil of Olay facial lotion. I've used this stuff since I was sixteen; of course now there's a much larger variety to choose from. Not just for the cold cream, Christmas corsage crowd either.

Camera lesson

I received this amazing Canon camera as a Christmas gift and I still can't get the manual settings to make sense in my head.

Oh, and I got it last Christmas.

I even took a 3 week class; which, while I was in the class, I thought I had it all figured out and could take the cute little shots of the teacups all lined up and make that cool fuzzy look with the background. However, when I got home I think my brain emptied somewhere around a curve at Ninth Street as I would try out the same things in my living room and all I got were fuzzy, overexposed pictures. I think the main problem is that I want to photograph a child who doesn't know how to stay still for more than zero seconds.

On the bright side, about every sixth photo of a flower or dead, unmoving tree looks great.

New doesn't always equal bad

I must admit that I've not had a 'new' kind of haircut for a LONG time. Like maybe since Oasis or Pearl Jam had a hit record. Or maybe since I stopped eating frozen pizzas every single night or since I owned an actual telephone answering machine with the cassette tape (or even a landline phone, for that matter).

I decided yesterday at about 1 pm that I was going to cut off my bangs (maybe 15" of very thin post pregnancy hair, not the thick stuff so it wasn't too traumatic) and at 3:15 pm I was sitting in the chair of a random stylist who happened to be available to meet my whim and was texting my best friend in Chicago the play-by-play of the situation. "Bangs are cut!" and "Oh. My. God. So cute so far". The kind of stuff that men just wouldn't understand because they have to act like they don't give a shit about the way they look or their masculinity comes into question.

So, I now have short bangs that aren't too bad, actually; however, I've got to teach them to behave as they're all over the place and are in complete and total rebellious shock at the recent amputation.

In the mailbox today

This is an especially wonderful and imaginative email. Hold out until the ending as it's worth the wait.


Hello
My name is Mary Kevin am 75yrs old of age, i Live in new york city] usa.My Husband is a good merchant, He have several industrial companysand good share in various banks in the world.I spend all my life on investment and co-oporate business. all theway i lost my husband and two beautiful kids in fatal accident thatoccur in november 5th 2003.i am a very greedy woman with all cost i dont know much and care aboutpeople, since when i have an experience of my lovley ones i feltweak.i found it difficult to sleep and give rest. later in the year 2004february i was sent a letter of medical check up, as my personaldoctor testify that i have a lung cancer, which can easily take off mylife soon.i found it uneasy to survive myself, beacuse a lot of investmentcannot be run and manage by me again.i quickly call up a pastor/prophet to give me positive thinking onthis solution, as my adviser.He minister to me to share my property ,wealth, to motherlessbaby/orphanage homes/people that need money for survivor both studentthat need money/ business woman and man for their investment forfuture rising.So therfore i am writing this letter to people who are really needhelp from me both student in college, to contact me urgently. so thati can make available preparation on that.especially women of the day, who are divorced by their husband, whythey cannot survive the mist of feeding their self.please contact meto stop weeping.probably let me know what you really need the money for, and if youcan still help me to distribute money to nearest orphanages homes nearyour town.now am so much with GOD, am now born again.may the lord bless you, as you reach me,please to remind you,dontbelongs to scammers or any act of fraudulent on internet.thanks.I AM A DEAF
Mary

Fingers crossed

Now that I've so generously shared my recent case of the chicken pox with my daughter (damn you, daycare policy, for insisting on pre-paying and no refunds for a sick child), my close friend, her son and the entire handbag department at TJ Maxx (or so it seems), I have to count my blessings (there are 28, if you wondered) that all of the outbreaks were of the mild variety.

In my mind, I seem to remember the chicken pox of my childhood being a whole lot more ominous. Kind of like acquiring some disfiguring skin disorder that meant staying home from school and immediate quarantine from all species who had furless skin as if the mere act of being looked upon by someone under 8 years old would instantly infect them with the watery, scar-inducing blisters.

I mean, I'm grateful that she had no more than 5 or 6 spots and we blissfully continued on with our lives with little alteration (which, in retrospect, could have been how things spread within my inner circle to begin with, oops); but, to not know the oatmeal baths, being drowned in sticky pink calamine lotion or the facial scars that come with the chicken pox of years ago is, well, progress.

Not the way I remember seeing Pink Floyd

After a long work week, my husband and I decided to go out Friday to see a newly formed local band who play the 'entire Dark Side of the Moon album' (can you still use the word 'album'? hmm) at an all-ages venue.

My first thought was, 'Do the kids still listen to the Pink Floyd?'. I mean, I know that you can buy a 'concert' t-shirt at Target these days for about $12 (unlike the days of actually having to scour the thrift shops looking for someone's unloved Cure or Depeche Mode tee in the .49 rack at St. Vincent De Paul's shop and praying that you didn't get impetigo again because you didn't want to wash your clothes before wearing them to school); but is this album still a rite of passage? I wanted to know.

So we packed up our 5 month old baby and hit the road to the coffeeshop about 20 minutes away. We listened to the first few songs at the back of the room and I started up a conversation with a women standing next to us who also was holding a young baby.

We chit-chatted about random topics (the volume of the band was rather comfortable, considering) and I had questioned her about the earplugs that her baby was wearing. Pink and squishy, like play-doh, it appeared. She asked me if I wanted some and I momentarily flashed back to that summer day in 1994 when I saw Pink Floyd in Indianapolis and, literally, couldn't find my way out of my own vehicle because someone had asked me if I 'wanted some' and I enthusiastically nodded my head in agreement. So when I said, 'yes' to this woman and she carefully reached into her purse and pulled out a clear plastic container with about 10 pair of pill-like pink earplugs, I started laughing at the absurdity of the moment.

I then pushed the little discs onto my daughter's ears and danced with her in my arms at the small coffeeshop to a cover band playing the second side of the Dark Side of the Moon album and wondered how I could have gotten so lucky.

This is how it's done

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Bill Lester and I have your business card here and wondered if you had a minute to talk?"

"Uh, sure. What about?"

"Well, I'm contacting you because you're a business owner and I've found that entrepreneurs are an ambitious bunch. I'm looking for someone who is interested in making $250,000 this year. Do you know anyone who would be interested in an incredible opportunity such as this?"

"Um, how 'bout YOU, Mr. Bill Lester? Don't you want to make a quarter-million dollars this year so you wouldn't have to make these dumb phone calls to people you don't even know? Seems pretty simple to me."

click.

Coal in my stocking

I'm gonna spill it and say that I very much dislike Christmas and all it's dumb crap; however, being in the retail business, this sentiment doesn't sit well with the clientele. Just today I selected some holiday music (never mind that it's 55 degrees today, which I love, by the way) to lull shoppers into the buying mood. I just cannot imagine spending money for the Christmas holiday while in short-sleeved shirts and open windows.
It just ain't right.