Change Is Okay; Change Is Good!

So, feeling like something new this a.m., I didn't get my usual grandenonfatsugarfreevanillalattewithezwhip. I took the plunge, did something unexpected; dared to cast aside the normalcy of what is normal.

I ordered something completely uncharacteristic.

A grandenonfatchaitealatte.

The woman behind me in line, when it was her turn to order exclaimed: "Ditto."

SHE WAS GETTING A NONFATCHAILATTE too! What are the odds? Out of all the drinks, out of all the combinations of concoctions, out of all the Starbucks in the area she could have chosen to go to, she is in the exact same one as I am, and she ordered the darn same drink as me.

Copy cat, I figured.

I looked at her. "Are they good?" I asked excitedly.

"You'll love it," she assured.

Hmmm... it was nice, a change of pace, throwing caution to the wind. It reminded me of the Wassle (?) Christmas Punch my mom used to make on the stove -- oranges in tea with cloves kind of. But a little creamy. And without the rum my mother would add. Or was it bourbon?

Each sip stung my tongue, but not in a tangy bad way, but it did have a little 'bite' to its flavor.

I kind of liked it. I might even order it again sometime. I think they're healthier for you. Bad part (or maybe good part depending on how you look at it): no caffeine buzz. Unless there is caffeine in it; I wasn't sure.

Similarities: came in the same kind of cup I usually get, and still costs four bucks.

The Art Of Finding An Agent - What Not To Do?

So, I sent an agency a query for my novel, and then I get the dreaded REJECTION letter, which, they don't really bother me all that much, because I expect to get rejection letters - it's the nature of the business.

What I loathe though is that some agents cannot even take the time to write "Dear Stephanie" on their basic form letter that all they have to do is copy and paste onto my original email query. So, below is the correspondence I had this week with a very reputable agency:

My original query was something like this--

Dear (NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE),

yada yada yada... (I won't bore you with the actual query I sent, but it was nicely written, professional, etc.)

Heard nothing. For what I considered to be ample time to respond. I emailed back, politely reminding them who I was, what I had written, "I know you are busy, yada yada yada," and just wanted to make sure my query was received.

I got this back:

Thank you for thinking of NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE Literary Agency. Unfortunately, we must decline your request for representation. Please forgive the necessity of this form letter; we truly wish we had the time to personally contact each writer who sends us his/her material, but it's just not possible given the number of letters and manuscripts we receive each week.

We like to give all writers who submit material to NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE Literary Agency every opportunity to establish a successful partnership with us. To that end, please be assured that if the agent you originally queried decided that your work might be right for a different agent here at NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE Literary Agency, she may have passed it along to an associate. For this reason, there's no need to submit your work to multiple NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE agents. Also, please keep in mind that we welcome queries for exciting new projects from authors who have previously submitted other projects to us.

For more information on our agency, please check out our website at:
www.NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE.com. Once again, thank you for approaching NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE Literary Agency. We wish you the best of luck with your writing career.

Regards,

soandsoagentlady
www.NOTMENTIONINGANYNAMESHERE.com

She got me on a BAAADDD day so I wrote back:

Hi, thanks for the response. Out of courtesy, could you just let me know if my info was forwarded to another agent in your office for review. Just want to know, and if, as you say, I can be "assured" then please assure me if this has happened. If not, I will continue my agent search elsewhere.

I sincerely do appreciate you taking the time to review and respond to me, although I'm not a big fan of the form letter. I think aspiring authors deserve more than that, even if it's a letter saying, "Dear Stephanie, your work sucks."

Thanks.

My new agent-search goal-besides pissing off those who have already rejected me and burning possible bridges I may need to cross later-is to send out three queries a night. I did this last night, and wouldn't you know it, two of the three requested partials of my manuscript. One rejected me, but very nicely, even using my name in the email. Now, that's what I call courtesy.

Tukey Talk

"Mommy! Mommy!"

"What?"

"I'm SO glad!"

"Tukey, what are you so glad about?" Here's me thinking he's so glad that his throat's not hurting much anymore, or that he's glad he didn't cry at school, or he's glad that he found some lost toy.

He gets on the floor, sticks the palm of his hand underneath his knee, pumps his leg and out comes the noise... and then he says, "Cuz I can do the tooting thing with my leg."

People Take Things WAY Too Seriously

All I said was, "There's nothing wrong with formula."

People are cyber-stoning me. I'm getting attacked like I've said Satan Is King or I Support Child Pornography over at Conversations.

But this cool chick Nello has something to say about it!

Thanks K!

Breast vs. Bottle

Check out this whacky debate regarding Britney and her inability to breastfeed over at Conversations About Famous People here: Read the Comments Under Britney's Breast Dilemma Post from Sept. 25

What Could Be Better On A Monday?

Does it get any better than this? This morning is a bit overcast but the sun is breaking through to what promises to be a really beautiful fall day. I open my front door, see my neighbor in her car, and she yells to me:

"Do you want a coffee?"

I quick write down my order, hand her the slip of paper and my five bucks, apologizing for not having on a bra or brushing my teeth yet.

Ten minutes later, she's back with a grandenonfatsugarfreevanillalatte. And she gives me my money back, saying I can get the next round.

"I had them put EZ whip on it. You didn't write that part down."

Front door delivery service. And a neighbor friend who knows exactly what I want without me having to tell her...

Thanks Gina!

I love my neighbors.

(Okay, here's icing on the cake: another neighbor just came by and brought me a box of chocolate Pixies and a very sweet thank-you note for watching her daughters on Friday. If this is any indication of how my week is going to be... man, oh man! But this could be a bad thing between the whip and the Pixies as I was going to start counting points today... again!)

If You're Bored

Cuz obviously I am, go on over to This Blog Tracker and rate Manic Mom's Mental Myriads, and if you're so inclined, please leave a *nice* comment so others can come over and read! (Manic Mom is either on or before number 32 on this list -- or, I think you can just look on over to your right on my sidebar and see that cute little blue rectangle over there? Just click on there and look for that number on the list.)

Thanks!

Chaser

Do you coffee drinkers ever feel the need to have a cold Diet Pepsi chaser after slamming a hotgrandenonfatsugarfreevanillalattewithwhip and sugar cookies for breakfast?

I do.

In other news, I'm annoyed.

I think it's because I've felt like I'm dealing with a newborn the past few nights as Tukey is in "post-operative-recovery mode." I've slept with him every night and he tosses and turns, whimpers and cries, coughs like he's spitting up blood and saliva. It's been fun, and further convinces me that having another child is not in this chick's game plan. However...

I did have a wild dream last night that I had twin boys, named them Braden and Caden, and they actually breastfed, which had to be a dream because between my three children, I breastfed a total of eleven days between the three of them -- boy, am I good, or am I good?

So, Braden and Caden came out, no problem, didn't even hurt, and I was strolling them around and they looked like they were about three months old and we were by some quarry river thingy and Braden got lost and then we saw him at the bottom of the water and I freaked but then he started swimming like a maniac and then I thought, well, that makes sense because the kid had been swimming in a pond of amnio fluid for the past nine months so of course he would know how to swim. And then Hubby, who was the dad in the dream was at a pool party and drunk (gee, why does alcohol always surface in my dreams as well?) and I told him I had the kids but he didn't really care cuz he was drunk, but then I made him kill our rattlesnake we had as a pet because it was okay to have a rattlesnake as a pet when it was just us and Ajers and Diva and Tukey, but now that we had the twins, there were BABIES in the family, and we couldn't have a pet rattlesnake in the house with babies. So, he killed the rattlesnake.

The End.

Wow, that was cool.

Last Saturday's Debauchery

Well, "debauchery" was the word that came to mind, but when I looked it up in the dictionary, it says: extreme indulgence of one's appetites, especially for sexual pleasure, orgies.

That was not last Saturday's debauchery.

Okay, here's the word I think I meant -
Debacle: a breaking up of ice in a river, etc. or, which better fits, a stunning, ruinous collapse or failure, often ludicrously calamitous.

I don't feel like looking up Calamitous, but Debacle seems to fit the bill.

So, anyway, there was this charitable "socialite" event called The Green Tie Ball and seeing as I've never been to a Ball (I'm thinking Cinderella here), I was all hyped up to go, glass slippers, pumpkin, prince and all.

I searched and searched for an appropriate outfit, something sparkly and green, and lowcut, which I never, ever go low-cut, and if you'll notice in the picture, where do I get a blemish that weekend????



Right on the chest, glaring, mocking me, saying, "You can buy some nice costume jewelry for once in your life, but I'm going to completely sabotage you by popping out onto your chest, so no one notices the nice bauble around your neck because they're all too busy looking at that zit next to your push-up-bra enhanced boobies."

That should have been my clue to forgo the evening.

But anyway, I got the top for $19. (Didn't know not only am I witty and quirky, I am also quite the savvy shopper.)

So, even though I had the friendly blemish, I had found the 'perfect' jewelry for the event, had the right shoes, a flowy chiffon black skirt, free babysitting all night long, a Pricelined Chicago hotel room, and the gumption to PAR-TAY.

Well, I did. And hubby did. And about 4,000 other people in the city of Chicago did too. There were 50, yes, swear to you, 50 bars, all serving VOX Vodka, which I am never, never, never, ever drinking again (that brand at least!). There were three stages of live music all night long, and in this one picture, the lead singer grabbed my digital camera and took this photo of the crowd jamming:



There were 75 restaurants from Chicago represented, and I favored Morton's steak with a brown sauce over the top, Baby Lamb chops blackened with sesame seeds, and another restaurant where they were serving coconut-encrusted shrimp with a pineapple-tomato-y salsa.

This is where I went wrong. Where I always go wrong. I hadn't eaten much during that day, getting the kids ready to go to our friends' home overnight, packing my bag, doing laundry. So, yeah, I kind of forgot to eat. That's my excuse anyway, and I'm sticking to it, although the 12-15 cranberry vodkas with a splash of OJ didn't add to the situation in a very positive way.

I got my photo taken with Chicago radio personalities, Kathy and Eric from The Mix, and of course, me being me, the first thing I said to her was, "Weren't you talking about your boob job the other day?"




I met some very cool people at the event, some who's names I remember like these two classy chicks, Kerry and Kathy!



And some, I have no idea who the heck they are:





And then, we even ran into someone from college, who was fondly referred to as "The Butt" because he had a very nice tushy, and of course, I had to remind "The Butt" that he and Hubby had shared the same girlfriend at different stages in college, so technically, me and The Butt had been together if you look at it like that. Because, Nika was with The Butt, Hubby was with Nika, I was with Hubby, and by default, although never physically, I would then be associated with "The Butt." But, all I ever did was pose with him for a picture in Daytona one spring break while he was showing off "The Butt."

So, that is most of what I can recall, until Hubby reminded me we hijacked a taxi to get back to our hotel, telling the person already in the taxi that we would pay for her fair. Then Hubby reminded me (days later, when I could actually formulate a thought to match a sentence) that I had my feet sticking through the window to the front seat of the cab, and the driver had told us to "Get Out Of MY Taxi" more than once.

Then, I remember this: We're going up to our hotel room, and I feel the need to vomit. And this is really, really, really bad conduct for a thirty-six-year-old mother of three.

I projectile vomit the vodka, the shrimp, the steak, the baby lamb chops, the cranberry and OJ and more vodka...all over the wall just outside of our hotel room.
If I close my eyes hard enough, I can still see the stain seeping through the walls and down to the carpeted floor of the three-and-a-half star hotel we'd Pricelined for $132.

Somehow, inside, I manage to get out of my ball gown and toss on a jammy shirt. Then, instead of enjoying a romantic kids-free evening with my husband in a bed with 300-thread count sheets, I fight my way through the night stuck in a two-by-two bathroom. I couldn't find my way out. Seriously. Then, I gave up, and passed out.

Charming, aren't I?

I come to and find the door handle and with throbbing head, aching body, hot skin, raccooned eyes, matted hair, I make my way out to the bed. It's 8:45 a.m.

I sleep until 10 a.m. then we have to get home.

This is the very hardest thing to do. Get up. Fortunately, my Hubby, is actually Prince Charming, and although I've pulled this crap far more than my allotted share of times I should be allowed to get completely obliterated, he is a Prince forever, packing up all the stuff strewn all over the hotel room, getting out my bra and clothes, which I cannot even manage to put on and just pull on my dirty shorts to go with my puke stained jammy top. I cannot leave the room and continue to throw up.

Finally, I tell myself I have to get control. My body hurts so much, I cannot even urinate, I can't hold my head up, I can't look forward. My skin is hot, yet I'm shivering, my legs are weak, my mouth is dry, the smell of disinfectant outside our door slaps me right into retching-land and I cannot do anything.

Prince Charming gives me the plastic container from the inside of our insulated cooler and I grab a hotel towel... now I'm not only a drunk, but a thief too. We make it to the elevator door and I pray no one is there, but of course, a cute little family starts walking down the hall as I'm retching into the plastic container. I motion for Hubby to find the stairs. I sit on the stair and cry. I am pathetic. How and why would I do this to myself, to my body? I can't move.

Hubby offers to get the car and tells me to come down when I'm ready. For me, I could have curled up on that hard cement floor and slept until God knows when at that point. But I had to move. I wanted home, I wanted my bed. I wanted death. This is why it is not smart to drink like this. Nothing else is important. I wasn't thinking about my kids, my family, nothing. I was thinking death would have felt better.

In the car, which, by the way, this is a sidenote, I have thrown up in Hubby's car before, due to a similar drunken stupor, and that time, two of his employees were in the back seat. That's another story for another post... but, since I've been known to vomit in his car, he was sure as hell not going to allow me to do it in his very, very nice car that he has worked so very hard to afford and loves it so much that he doesn't even want food in it ever, and usually grimaces if the kids need to go in it. But, that's his baby, and he has a right to want to keep it nice.

So, I don't, (thank God, and this saves our marriage, I am certain) puke in the car, and we make it home, with me demanding that there is no music on, no windows open, no traffic report played). I am in the front seat, head between my legs with the cold stolen towel placed over my head to keep out the sunlight, and my face in the container. We arrive home.

Prince Charming has now evolved into a King because he sends me to bed, goes to our friends home where the kids are, and he stays there with them watching the Bears game and hanging out until 6:30 at night. I lay in bed the whole, whole day, except for a couple retching moments and a half-hour steaming hot shower at 2:30 in the afternoon. Prince Charming aka now the King calls before he comes home and I ask him to get me some McD's french fries and a milkshake, which he does, which I absolutely cannot eat even at 7 p.m. that night.

I feel sorry for the kids. I feel as I had let everyone down that day, all because of overconsumption of alcohol. I just don't know when to stop. This weekend however, is an alcohol-free weekend and I am drying out. I may need to start setting limits because more than just my body will be affected.

Now, as a post-script, my married-mom-friends tell me not to beat myself up over this; it's because I don't drink on a regular basis; it's because I am a Stay-At-Home Mom and events like this don't come around often; it's because there are so few nights just to get out and do and be and say and act however I want.

Heck, maybe I can blame this all on the kids!

Tagged; I'm It!

I was Blog-tagged by This Talented Writer so I'm going to play along:

Ten years ago: Twenty-six years old, working ...(oh my God, this is HARD to remember!)... for, I think, a trade-show management company, and doing the DINK thing (double-income, no kids). I can't even remember if we were taking vacations, having lots of sex, or what? How terrible is my memory right now... Let's see, we were living in our first owned condo, and I think we may have just gotten our very first pet, Puck, a black and white kitty who unfortunately, kicked it under the knife a few months later, leaving behind another furry pal, Buko. Since we bought Buko to keep Puck company, we had to go out and get another furry pal, Cyclops, who, as you probably surmised... had only one eye. The cutest little black kitty with pink stitches over what would have been his eye -- had a tumor in his eye removed.

Five years ago: Okay, here's how much of a nerd I am. I went looking for my journals because I was writing in them five years ago. We were living in Philadelphia at the time, and were considering getting pregnant with our third child. Since I don't have an excerpt dated September 23, 2000, I'll post the closest one, which is September 21, 2000:

AJ, you win the cute award today. You came up to me when I was in the laundry room and said, "Can I just ask you one question?"

It was in such a cute little boy voice that you have. I thought you would ask me for an icee or chocolate milk or a treat, and I said, "What is your question?"

This is what you said:

"I lub you wit my all of my heart."

To die for! You win the cutest boy award ever!

and then September 24, 2000:

You have both been sick the past week. AJ, you were puking last weekend, and this weekend it's been McK. It always ends up on me, every time. Get better munchkins. I love you, Mommy.

So, that was what I was doing almost exactly five years ago today.

One year ago: One year ago tomorrow (Because I looked at my old calendar), I flew to Chicago to find a home over the weekend. Hubby had been working in Chicago since the end of July, I was in Philly trying to get all the loose ends together for our move. We didn't have a home. This weekend it will be one year since we found the home we live in... which is the result of a 36-hour search, where we saw 35 homes. And the one we bought: Number 35! And we couldn't be happier with our choice.

Yesterday: If you read yesterday's post, you know I was not in a good frame of mind. But everyone who took the time to comment and offer words of wisdom and support and who said such nice things ... you all have given me some hope, and I know that I can't give up! So, thank you all very much!

Five songs I know all the words to:
This one is hard, does Itsy-Bitsy Spider Count?
And does it have to be five I know the words to, or five I love?
Shit. Can't do it.

Five snacks:
Cookie dough (yesterday's post)
Chips and refried beans with sour cream
Hmmm... if I could have any snack right now, what would it be?...
McDonald French Fries (Large and salted, of course!)
Nonfatsugarfreevanillalatteeasywhip or a cafevanillafrappacinowithwhip, which is what I had this a.m.
Starbucks seasonal sugar cookie

Five Things I'd Do With $100 Million:
Publish my own damn books and/or start my own literary agency with other writers
Hire a personal chef to make all meals
Hire a personal laundress (is that a word) to do all the laundry
Buy books, books, books.
Get a pair of 2-carat each diamond earring studs.

That's not being too selfish or greedy, is it?

Five places I'd run away to:
My bedroom.
Barnes & Noble.
Grand Cayman, specifically Rum Point.
That place you go when you do Shivasana in Yoga.
That place you go when you have an orgasm.

Five things I'd never wear:
Docker beige khaki pants
A shirt that says, "It's All About Me" like this snot does
Foundation or base
A frown
A bikini

Five favorite (TV shows) books:
Gonna have to go with books here, since I don’t have TV. Ditto on the books, but not because I don't have a TV, just because I don't watch it.

She's Come Undone, Wally Lamb
Lucky, Alice Sebold
All Jennifer Weiner's books
An Egg on Three Sticks, Jackie Fischer, which I just read and it is AWESOME!
Authors:
Emily Giffin, Tom Perrotta, Anne Lamott, Judy Blume, so many....

Five greatest joys:
Hubby
Ajers
Diva
Tukey
Family
Friends
Books
Yummy treats
Thank you's
Unsolicite Kisses
This Rainbow:


Favorite toys:
Books
My computer
My AlphaSmart
My Digital Camera
My Good Luck Care Bear from sophomore year in H.S. that I just 'gave' to Diva
Jewelry, specifically diamonds
A credit card not maxed out
Food

Five people to tag:
Nancy French
My Pal DD
Tommy Doc
Super Mom
This Pregnant Momma

Of course, I would LOVE if you're a regular visitor to please also copy and paste and include your answers in the comments section!

Current Reads:
Just finished An Egg On Three Sticks, which I had left in the vomit-filled hotel room the night of the Green Tie Blahh, so I had to buy another copy, which is a very, very, very small price to pay for the events that took place that night.

Now I will dive into Goodnight Nobody over the weekend.

Rejection = Depression + Worms

Why does Rejection make me want to eat? Why do I feel the need to rip open the Market Day cookie dough in the freezer and devour it all, after already finishing the baked cookies?

I received another Rejection email today, and for the first time I felt like maybe this isn't going to happen; maybe it's not supposed to happen. I felt like somebody kicked me in the gut. I feel this way right now.

But, all I want to do is to write, and if you keep getting notes from people saying "It's not for me," or "I'll have to bow out," or some other nice way of telling you your book is crap, then how do you keep believing that it's not?

Cookie dough awaits. I wish this crappy feeling would go away, but the only way for it to dissolve is to send out more letters to more agents, and get more Rejections from agents, in the hopes of finding that one trueagent love.

On another note: Never, ever, never, and may I repeat, NEVER let your daughter bring home a cute little Ziploc of acorns she discovered at G'ma and G'pa's home because inevitably, the little tiny creatures who live inside those acorns are going to want out, and when they come out, they will look like little maggoty larvae and will wriggle across the floor in your home, make you freak out that your children have some sort of worm disease, or that your pantry is infested with little larvae-like buggies, and that your whole house is completely disgusting and dirty and how can this be, and then you call Orkin who comes out right away, does some spraying, but cannot discover the source of the problem so you think, "Okay, maybe it was my imagination" but then you discover ANOTHER one of those squishy, mealy things and you tear the laundry room closet apart and discover the rotting acorns, the place of life and death of those squirmy, gross, disgusting, yucky thingies, which, by the way, the Orkin man did mention that they're just protein, and if I had been on Survivor, these worms are actually small enough that you could swallow one whole and probably not vomit it back up.

According To The Doc...

Tukey's tonsils were HUGE! He did great through it all, except for vomitting his two orange popsicles and tylenol with codeine up in the car on the way home. (Gee, must take after his mom!).

Now he's snoozing on the couch, and I'm headed there myself. We had to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. so we're tired!

Thanks for all the good thoughts sent Tukey's way. I feel like he's famous. You guys are the best! S.

Completely Unrelated To The Post Below

Today, Jen Weiner's fourth novel, Goodnight Nobody comes out. I'm soooo getting it! She is my Author Stalkee, and I don't know how I'm going to find the time to read it, but you can bet I will finish it by the weekend!

(I can probably read it while I'm couch-bound with Tukey, who is getting his tonsils removed tomorrow a.m., in yet another completely unrelated topic of conversation.)

I've met her twice, been emailing back and forth (yes, she responds, and she's really cool), have all the books signed by her, and am looking at a picture where she is hugging ME right this very minute!

She's not only My Author Stalkee, but My Author Idol.

Shout out to Jen because I know she reads my Blog daily too! Hee. Hee.

Completely Unrelated To Saturday's Events

I dreamed about the Ex again last night.

Well, really, it wasn't last night because it's like 5:26 a.m. so it just recently occurred and I couldn't fight my way back to sleep, and I promised HSPQ I would run with her this a.m. because now I'm a runner. Ha. At least I'm trying. Now to quit the alcohol consumption (which was Saturday's debacle, and I will outline it for you soon, not sure if I'm going the hilarious route or the pathetic route--still feeling pathetic over it all - in a few more days it might be funny).

So, the Ex:

It was like a Seinfeld Episode TV show and it was called something like, "Whatever Happened To Joe Byrnes." Not his real name, but for those of you who know me, you know the first name is real, and you're probably like, "Are you seriously still hung up on him? He was a jerk, he was an ass, he was a... " The list goes on and on. Why do we women (and men too?) get hung up on those that were the worst in some aspects? (Probably because they were pretty damned good in 'other' ways. Sheee-ott.)

So, this Seinfeld Episode had everyone searching for JB, and no one knew where he was, but they interviewed people who used to know him, and then at the end of the 30-minute sitcom, there was an altar, which kind of looked like something out of Survivor now that I think about it - with fire and some stones surrounding the area. There was a document on top of the altar, like a large sized excel document spreadsheet, and it listed the names of all the girls he either loved or dated, not really sure, because remember, it's an "effing" dream. But the middle half had been torn away from the list. My name, and the actual address I lived at when we were 'doing-that-not-dating-thing-but-together-anyway' was on the list.

My name was the last name on the list before it said:

Reality...
Reality...
Reality...
On which I interpreted that after he and I were through 'doing-that-not-dating-thing-but-together-anyway' he finally found what he was looking for (U2 song inserted here). True love out there somewhere who would accept all the BS about him.

Or, maybe I changed him. Remember, it's a dream. I can interpret it many ways.

And there were other girls there on the list but I had won because I was the last name listed, except for the fact that everyone there knew he had gotten married, although no one knew where he was.

What does this mean? And why am I so sure the next novel I write is completely about JB, with some fictional stuff inserted to keep it fake? Hmmm...

OK

I'll be fine for sure in the a.m. and will post about the "Green Tie Blahhhhh."

Hitting the Pinnacle

If there truly is a point in one's life where you have to step back, think of what you're doing to yourself, your family, your life, then I think I've hit that point. I have to get my thoughts together, and my act together, too.

This Blog may no longer be funny.

PS...If you were directed to this Blog from meeting me on Saturday night, I probably have a photo or two of you. Drop me a comment..

Movie Chat

So, forgot to mention this fun little pasttime I enjoyed while traveling through airports last weekend.

Hub and I would be passing by random people (mind you, I am a mother, so this joke was not shared IN FRONT OF CHILDREN!).

I would 'pretend' to be talking to Hubby and say:

"Hey, did you ever see that movie, Meet the Fuckers?"

Okay, so it has to be completely weird that it is 12:10 a.m. and I am in my office laughing out loud at the hilarity of it all...Meet the Fuckers... hahahah...

Make Believe

I played Make Believe with hubby the other night. Nooooo, it wasn't a bed-time fantasy either.

He had some shinding downtown at Millenium Park or which I now fondly call, "Bean Park." I mean, that bean thing is beautiful, but what's the point, and isn't that the same sculpture thing that Tiffany's sells as a line of jewelry?

Anyway, I had to get all dressed up, but this was AFTER a day of the usual mom stuff, plying Tukey away from my arms as I sent him off to Preschool (which, he is getting better, but it'll all be screwed up again next week when he has his tonsils removed and misses a few days of school). So, a usual day, combined with making a list for the babysitter, trying to organize the kids' schedules that afternoon since I would be gone, which is a job 'in and of' itself. (What the hell does that phrase mean anyway, "In and of itself." I don't like that - it's stupid sounding, but I felt like writing it.)

So, I quick grab the two eldest from the bus and hightail it to Tukey's prison (aka preschool) because I've got like eight minutes in between the arrival of Diva and Ajers and the dismissal of Tukey. That makes for some fun driving, let me tell you!

Rush home, fast-quick get ready, which thankfully, all my hair involves is bending at the waist, blowdrying it quick upside down, flipping back up and a little bit of hairspray, which, by the way, is the cheap stuff but it works. No other hair products -- go ahead you metrosexuals, hate me! Throw on the clothes, which is a designer skirt with fun red, black, white polka dot design print from TJ Maxx & More. I just realized I could have asked everyone "Hey, what's black and white and red all over?" and the answer would have been ME!

Next, my neighbor friend drives our girls to gymnastics while her one-year old flings milk from his sippy cup all over, including my top. No biggie, it's not like I'm wearing silk -- polyester stretch is easy to clean up! Get to the train and I feel like a grown up. There are no children there. Just adults. Getting on the train going home from work. I am totally out of my element. I mean, where do I pay for me ticket, how do I know when to get off the train? Where is the drink cart so I can get a freaking glass of wine?!?!?!?

I get to the city early, and Hubby tells me to go to the bar at Union Station and have a drink since he won't be there yet. So, I do. And it feels weird, but exhilarating at the same time. I've only gone to a bar by myself ... well, never, really, unless I was already wasted, and I probably don't remember that.

I order a glass of Pinot Grigio and sit there, trying to look... well, like I'm not alone. Because there are work people (GROWN UPS!) all around me having cocktails after work, chit-chatting about their day, what's up for the weekend, etc, and here I am wondering if the neighbor picked up Ajers for soccer yet, and how Tukey is doing with his separation anxiety.

I slam the wine. I tinker with my cell phone, pretending to look important. I think the guy next to me is probably cute, but I'm too scared to look his way, and when I do, I see he is smoking Camels so any cuteness factor just went out the door.

Hubby calls. I am saved. I leave the station, meet up with him and we go to another place, China Grill, where I get a delicious appletini, complete with cinnamon-enhanced apple slice and a stale cocktail cherry.

Later, we meet up with some of his co-workers, and I beg them to let me sit with the wife, because she is a mom who is pregnant and we have SO MUCH IN COMMON! We both have children, we both have been pregnant. I am saved.

At Millenium Park, it is truly beautiful. I've not been there since it was created, and I wish I had more time to explore the area, but heck, the bar set-up at the event was about to close because dinner was being served in these huge, I mean really huge, big tents. But before we go into our designated dining tent, we have to smile at some important people; I met a senator or two, but couldn't tell you who they were, what they supported, why they were there... I am soooo not politically-inclined.

All the time though, I kept a smile on my face, kept my shoulders back and my boobs out, laughed when I thought I was supposed to. And I felt like I was starring in a movie, and it was all a big pretend thing, and inside my head, I laugh to myself, and think, "Do these people know I enjoy playing with sticky tongues and fake poo?"

Next up, where I'm sure I'll also feel completely out of my league (because there will be twenty-somethings abound with low-cut slinky dresses and cornacopias of fake boobies) -- Chicago's ultimate event, The Green Tie Ball. Where I'm thinking, anything goes....

"Holy Crack!"

Tukey asked me if "Holy Crack" was a bad word. I said, "Depends on whose crack we're talking about."

DD's Girlfriend

I think I know who My Pal DD is smitten by! DD, could the initials be SS?
Hmmmm......?

THIS A.M.

The phone rings at 5:50 a.m. I reach for it.

"I hate you." I say.

HSPQ, equally cheerful says, "It's RAINING!"

I tell her she can just come over here and we can do the treadmill together.

Ha. Ha.

So, I guess my marathon training will have to wait.

Instead of going back to sleep, I decide to get up and use this quiet hour-and-a-half to get some writing done.

How in the heck do the kids know? Two-thirds of them are up at six a.m. today, and the littlest one is already saying, "I hate school. I don't want to go. I'm scared of school. I will miss you." This is THE SAME EXACT SCHOOL HE ATTENDED LAST YEAR, IN THE SAME CLASS ROOM, WITH THE SAME TWO EXACT TEACHERS. How has one summer changed my Tukey from a model student into a sobbing little preschooler? Was being home with me every single day for three months really all that great?

I suggest to Tukey that we go upstairs and lie down in his room, since he usually sleeps for two more hours in the a.m. We lie in his bed and he tells me he wants to pray to God. Of course, I am gushing, my little boy is so adorable. He likes to pray with his ceramic cross that is on his wall and he asks me to get it down for him.

His little fists grip the cross, his eyes are slammed shut tight, he is deep in thought, ready to converse with the Lord.

"Dear Jesus. I love you. Very, very much. And I do not want to go at school today. Amen."

Post Script: He is still telling me he is not going to school. I keep telling him he is going to go to school.

"You and Dad are not the boss of me. God is."

"And God wants you to go to school today," I say.

His reply, rolling around on the carpet and whining: "And then I am going to throw up on your face."

It's going to be a LFD, that's for sure.

This A.M.

The phone rings at 5:50 a.m. and it's my trusty walker friend, HSPQ, waking me to walk.

Me: "It's so dark out, let's go back to bed." I say this to her as if we are snoozing together!

TWF aka HSPQ: "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!"
She yells so damn loud into my ear I am sure she has just woken my three beautiful children and doting husband.

I get up. It's practically pitch dark out. I join Hubby downstairs where he is eating his requisite bowl of Cheerios and banana.

Hubby: "Know what I hate?"

Me: "What?"

Hubby: "When those fucking kids hide the remote."

Those "fucking kids" he is referring to are sleeping angelicly upstairs. I growl at him and remind them our kids are not "fucking kids."

So, we walk this a.m. and I tell Trusty Walker Friend, aka HSPQ that she should train me to run in a race, like a three mile one or something easy like that.

"That's called a Five K."

Whatever. I was never good at math. But I'm serious, so if Trusty Walker Friend wants to be now known as Trusty Marathon Trainer, then I'm up for the challenge. Now, to find a race.

So, we part ways, having an excellent power walk, great conversation coupled with laughs and gossip. It's a great way to start the morning, and the sun is now peeking over the trees.

At home, I dive into the shower, happy that none of my "fucking kids" are up yet, because I know they need their sleep. Hubby leaves for work, and minutes later, as I'm drying off from the shower and getting dressed Ajers walks in.

I decide this is a nice, quiet time where he and I can discuss his little problem with exaggerating, embellishing the truth... LYING!

This is an example I offer him: I tell him if he were ever to do something bad, like say, drugs, I would want him to tell me the truth and not lie about it. Although drugs are bad, lying is bad too, and I would be more mad at him for lying about doing drugs than for the actual drug use. (Wait?!?!? Did I just say that to a seven-year old? Of course, we all know I am referring to the light-hearted drugs so many of us adults have experimented with in like college, and not elementary school OF COURSE... okay, so maybe my choice of example was a bad one.)

But, I go on to explain to him that people will like him no matter what and that he doesn't need to lie to sound like a more interesting person, and that I don't want him doing it anymore.

His brow furrows and I know he is really considering these nuggets of wisdom I have just shared with him. After a few seconds of what I am sure is pure introspection on his part, he looks up at me, those eyes filled with the knowledge of becoming a better person and he says...

"Can you put your shirt on?"

Manic Mom On 20/20?

Okay, so I get a phone call today from a number that doesn't register on my Caller ID and I stifle the urge to not answer it, and then answer it anyway. Because, you know, I like to talk to strangers, especially strange solicitors.

Woman on Phone: "I'm sure you've gotten quite a few calls like this, but are you the Stephanie Elliot from Woodridge who was quoted in Parents magazine?"

"Yeah." (Not really. No one has called. No one is beating down my door for words of infinite wisdom. Of course, the issue is October, and it's only September.)

And already, I have a sense that it's Demi Moore on the other line, set up by Ashton to PUNK me. Ashton's always trying to get back at me for dumping him when we were in high school. The kid is out of control. Can't he just live happily with Demi and his millions now and let me be?

Turns out, the person calling is someone from ABC NEWS who read my quote in Parents, and they are doing a segment on "Striving to Be The Perfect Parent" that is slated to air in November, and she wanted to know if I'd be interested in talking with a producer and possibly have 20/20 come into my home, follow us around, see if I really do need the drugs. And she asked if I could give them the exclusive interview, as if I am expecting NBC, FOX, CBS and God knows who else to be banging down the door. But, hey, 20/20 chick, you've got the exclusive baby, and I'll tell you anything you wanna know!

So, I of course, call the number back later, just to confirm it's not Ashton and Demi and Rumor and Scout, playing a cruel joke on me, and it's not. It's really the person she said she is, and really from ABC in NYC.

A million thoughts run through my mind, and I have to laugh at the prospect of someone following me around all day long. I think they would love the fact that my seven-year-old son has to WAKE ME UP in order for him to get to school on time; that I have to make chocolate chip pancake sandwiches in order for Diva to eat; that I lounged around for an hour with Tukey watching Dora and Blues Clues (both episodes I hadn't seen!); that I had to put on Tukey's shoes four times and threaten him to keep them on before I took him to preschool; that I then had to sit in the "viewing room" at preschool for ONE-AND-A-HALF hours of my TWO HOURS OF FREE TIME torturing myself by watching Tukey cry because he didn't want to be there today; that I had to ground Ajers for exaggerating and doing something else he knows he's not supposed to do (which, in turn, turned out to be a good thing, because since he didn't go outside, he didn't get all sweaty so he didn't need his nighttime shower tonight), that I actually made something that resembled dinner tonight, but not before all three kids requested AND RECEIVED bowls of Peanut Butter Crunch (Ajers), Cinnamon Life (Tukey), and a mixture of PB Crunch and Cocoa Puffs (for Diva) before the dinner was actually served; and that Tukey is now fast asleep in his birthday outfit gear from his aunt and uncle, complete with reversible ski jacket and cargo pants instead of a simple pair of Rescue Hero jammies.

Oh yeah, if they show up on this doorstep, they might have to make it a two-hour special!

Then, I'm thinking, Oh wow, what if the Ex reads about me/sees us on television; how the hell am I going to make this house 'television-worthy' and most importantly, how the hell can I lose twenty pounds before a camera crew arrives??!?!?!? Shit--THIRTY--doesn't the camera add an extra ten. I'm screwed.

I'm sure nothing will come from this, but if it does, everyone will have to agree that it pays to be Manic Mom! (I hadn't even told the ABC person calling that my alter ego is Manic Mom!)

Keep Ya Posted.

Buffalo, NY

The Answer.

(BUFFALO)Mozzarella and (BUFFALO) chicken (WINGS) too,
and something you can see at the zoo (BUFFALO),
We're taking a trip, out to the east,
To a place probably fit for a beast (BUFFALO).

Somebody had a wedding date set,
While we're there, we may get wet (NIAGRA FALLS),
For there's sightseeing to do, if there is time
To visit this place before the wedding bells chime!


The Falls/Rainbow

The Falls on the Maid of the Mist boatride



Two Brides?

I'll Leave You With This

Tukey, touching himself *there*--
"Daddy, I always play with my balls, right here."

Happy Birthday to my Hubby, and we're off to Sea World, or the Serengeti, or somewhere equally exciting!

Have a terrific weekend!

A Little Riddle For Ya!

Mozzarella and chicken too,
and something you can see at the zoo,
We're taking a trip, out to the east,
To a place probably fit for a beast.

Somebody had a wedding date set,
While we're there, we may get wet,
For there's sightseeing to do, if there is time
To visit this place before the wedding bells chime!

Can you guess where we will be?
If you're not sure, you'll have to wait and see!
We'll return home late on Sunday,
Sans hangover, I can only pray!

P.S.--If you're a friend who ALREADY knows where we're going, please don't comment and spoil the fun! Thanks! Mighty clever, if I do say so myself!

Have a fabulous weekend! I'm still trying to figure out how to lose ten pounds before Saturday's wedding festivities!

I've Got To Join The Ranks Now Too...

Okay, I've had it. I've put up with it for too long; the acne emails, the electronic devices, weight loss plans. I can handle a few anonymous spam comments, but when the penile implantation ones arrive, it's time to turn on the Word Verification feature that I loathe. But I loathe it less than the pornographic anonymous spam comments.

Sorry, I hate to do that, and I hope it won't stop you fine legitimate people from commenting.

On a-completely-nother (isn't that just the strangest formation of words? It should be on another completely) different subject...

Christa and I are trying to figure out how to spell the word that sounds like this:

FAH-SEE-SHUS, or also a term used to show sarcasm. I thought it began with a PH; Christa thought it began with an F.

Whoever can enlighten me will be awarded a signed copy of 40 Weeks. (Yes, I know. It would be a whole helluva lot more appealing if the book was agented, contracted, published, but hey, at least it's written!)

Phacecious
Phoecicious
Facescious
Fecesious... okay, this is just now reminding me of my fake poo pictures.

Silly Stuff Part Two (or Too Much Time on My Hands...)

Because life is just too darned short to be serious all the time. And you know, everyone deep down wants to play with sticky tongues and fake poo, right?

Silly Stuff

Hey - Remember the fake poo I bought Tukey for his fourth birthday?




Well, sometimes you just have to take the time to play and laugh. And that's what we did on Monday --

Transit Blogging

Get This And Blog Whenever You Feel Like It: Neo Alphasmart
(Excuse the typos--too tired to go back in and correct. See, I told you I weren't perfekt!)

I've resorted to transit blogging and am typing this entry on a swing at the elementary school while Tukey is playing at the playground and Ajers is across the field playing soccer. Diva is on her way home from Gymnastics with a neighbor and Hubby is out of town. It might seem like this is frivolous for me to spending the onlly free time of my day practically typing away sharing what I've done with all of you. But I don't consider you strangers. You are my friends, you listen to me bitch about the trivial things that happen in my life, and you don't judge me (and if you do, then I just removed your comments anyway! ha). So, it's nice to know that every day I can shut down for a few minutes and just talk to you.

So, what a day. I have been inand out of the car countless times, in fact, I'm going to try to figure out just how many times I opened my minivan door, got in, closed it, drove somewhere, got out and repeated those same actions. Let's see:
9:30--in car to take Tuke to Parent's Open House at his Parents Day Out program, where really I felt bummed out because not too many of the moms were very friendly, and I tried to engage their children in play, putting a puppet on my hand and talking to them, doing a puzzle with a little guy, while all the moms just gossipped and caught up on summer. I felt left out. Also, many of them had little ones, littler than Tuke and while I should be thrilled to be the seasoned mom, the one who gets actual time alone a few days a week, I still felt sad. I don't want another baby; I definitely do not feel lacking in that department; it's just sad to see my kids growing up and needing me less, while the whole time they were hanging on my ankles, I was wishing for moments like this, moments where I could pee in peace, have a latte (go ahead, say it with me: a grandenonfatsugarfreevanillalattehalfwhip), and possibly browse the bookstore in the section I want to be in, not the Dr. Seuss section!

So, after feeling gloomy at the first stop at Tuke's Parents Day Out program, we did spend some time in the playground and Tuke was so happy to be able to do the monkey bars which were just the right size and height for him. He was cheeping and chirping like a monkey, squawking and saying, "I'm a monkey". I was a proud momma.

So, in the car once, out of the car once: 2

Next, we climb back in the trusty Windstar and get Tuke's haircut

In and out once more: 4 times

To the Hallmark store and then to the grocery store for a slice of pizza for lunch.

six times in and out of the car.

Off to Tuke's first day of preschool, which he handled fine as he has the same teacher and same classroom as last year. My heart broke for those mommies who had little girls crying and screaming, begging to go back home.

Then, I did smile to myself a little bit, happy that I didn't have a snivelling, crying growth attached to me, and I bolted. To the mall.

Back in the car, and out again. The count is now at 8.

Frenzied returns at the mall--nothing glamorous, but I do have to say if you're a Victoria Secret's bra wearer, you might be interested in the JCPenney's Delicate brand which are soooo comfy and I bought two, got one free, for HALF the price of two Vicky bras. Hence, I returned the Vicky purchase, but not without buying some new undies, nothing sexy I assure you (Bird Girl!). So, for the same amount of two bras at Vicky's I ended up getting three bras at JCP AND ten new pairs of undies. How's that for smart shopping.

Gee, this post didn't start with me detailing my undergarment purchase. Sorry.

Done at the mall, rush home to the bus--in and out once more totalling 10. Greet the moms at the bus, who are the sweetest nicest group of girlfriends! I used to see Bus Moms all bounded together, drinking their morning coffee, walking their four-legged pets and it seemed so surreal. Such a thing I would never fit into. I pull up to the stop and announce to the ladies, "It's so hot I have my bra unhooked," (one of my new ones by the way.). I hate the leather seats in my car and would not have ever gotten them if it wasn't the only available minivan on the lot.

Grab Ajers and Diva (who has to pee) and we rush to the preschool to get Tuke.

12 are we up to now?

My neighbor is picking up her son and says she's going to Starbucks and did we want to go. I had been figuring out how to sneak in a grandenonfatsugarfreevanillalatte at some point in the day and took this 18 minutes of free time to do so.

14.

Back home, I am yelling to Diva to get her gymnastics outfit on; Ajers is upstairs pooping; Luke is 'banging a squirt in the powder room, standing up because he can finally do it without spraying everywhere. Then he announces that he pooped.

"You have to go poop?"

"No, I already did."

As he was standing peeing, it just sort of came out. Ugh. So now I am already ten minutes away from missing gymnastics, I have to pick up the neighbor kids who also go to gymnastics, Diva is screaming that she too has to poop now, and I have to clean up shit.

And believe it or not, I have yet to take a Xanax today. You're proud of me, I just know it!

Back in the car, and out again at gymnastics, to drop Diva and her friends off. 16.

Need gas next, and am so very proud to have found it for under $3.00. Barely. And it was only $70.44 to fill the tank. 18 in and outs.

Library to return overdue videos. What? You actually thought I'd take out BOOKS? That would involve READING to the kids. Videos are much more entertaining. 19 and 20 in and outs of the car.

Home, for 20 minutes to check emails, where I read one from my BZ boss, asking if I would like to take on more duties for the newsletter. I promptly email her back, telling her yes, but that I also think freelance editors are making more per hour than I am. I hope I didn't bite the hand that feeds me.

And I read some very nice comments about my WHY post, and I truly appreciate all your thoughts. I didn't really feel I should post about it because what happened did happen to a close friend of mine who reads this blog, but I wanted her to know how sorry I was. She did lose her baby. At 25 weeks. I could blog for days about babies born still, as another very close friend of mine lost her daughter at 38-1/2 weeks, and I took her to the hospital and was there next to her when the resident OB did the ultrasound, and his Adam's Apple just plummetted, and I knew. It's tragic, and I pray for those angel babies, and know that although it's completely uncomprehensible to know why it happens, there is a higher meaning for all of this. And someday, we will all understand, and think back, "Oh, so that's what it was all about down there on Earth."

That's my feeling anyway.

So, thanks kind friends and readers, for taking the time to read my thoughts, for making me feel better by your comments, for being understanding and non-judgmental. For just listening. For however many people thing blogging is a huge time-waster, I have to disagree. It makes me feel better. It's cheaper than therapy, and I like to think I've made some friends this way.

Number 21-22, pick up neighbor to take to soccer with Ajers.

And I am still not done. I have Parent Orientation for Diva and Ajers tonight, one of which I will miss most of by driving home after soccer, but oh well. One can only do so much.

I feel better. I could write forever, thinking that I have some people out there that listen, that want to know what I'm thinking about, that care. I do think it's better than therapy, and as I sit here with my Tukey on this playset, while he whispers in my ear that he loves me "four", I know for as much griping, complaining, bitching I do, I am in a good place. A safe place. A place filled with love, and yes, a little bit of stress, but nothing like what others experience. I feel lucky. I even feel lucky to be able to feel the slight headache that is starting in my head.

Thanks for listening. Sorry for rambling. And feel free to turn the channel whenever you get bored. M4 (Total times in and out of the car today--stopped counting at TWENTY-SIX!)

TRAIN 2003

(Fiction, per C's request)

Have you ever considered, seriously wondered, what it would be like to lie down on railroad tracks, to place your life in instant danger? For eventually a train would tear through the tracks, and change the lives of everyone who knew you. Maybe appreciate you more.

The morning was one like I had never experienced, spiritually, or visually. The sky was the color of the purest blue that bounces off a prism in a kitchen window on a sparkling day. The cotton clouds were three-dimensional and blinding white, like the kind of snow that makes you shut your eyes and hope for a fast melt. They gave you a feeling of wanting to sleep, to never wake, to just climb up on one of those clouds and drown in it.

It was the kind of day that makes you contemplate life, death and all the shitty stuff in between.

I'd always believed in God, and respected and feared something greater than what I'd known. I attended church, semi-regularly, where I'd almost always put something into the brass pan during the offering, at least when Daniel attended with me. When he wasn't there, I'd pretend to drop in my envelope, when really, it was empty, no name on the front, no amount written in under the line My Offering. I figured God knew my predicaments, after all, He was partly to blame, wasn't he? So surely, He, being all-knowing, all-forgiving, wouldn't condemn.

I had a God-touching moment that day, the day I went near the tracks. It wasn't as if He was speaking directly to me. It was more like He was with me, guiding me in the direction of the railroad, to a place I wouldn't have gone on my own. I could sense a higher being in the windless atmosphere, almost a whispering but with no leaves brushing against the branches.

His planet stretched out ahead of me, this quiet midwestern countryside dotted with farms - some working and smelling of cow manure, and some wrecked, torn apart from the years of wind and rain and snow pounding upon the roofs. I imagined these were fine dwellings for families of stray cats.

The trees were bare and twigs stretched outward, arms in mocking prayer. Autumn winds had stripped them of their leaves, these branches raised, asking for something. Patch-quilt snow covered the land. Everything was so lonely. Me included.

I felt I had been walking that long stretch of road for days, just walking and thinking, being unhappy, feeling as if the naked trees were better off than I. Was, or would ever be.

Just when I was about to turn around and head back to the cause of my unhappiness, I reached the top of the hill and saw the familiar criss-cross yellow and black warning sign of the tracks.

"I'll walk to the tracks, cross, and then turn around for home." Then, another thought rumbled through my mind, much like a train tearing through a quiet empty town, "What if I didn't turn around?"

The desire struck me much like the impact of the train would. How would it feel to lie on the wood that stretched past the horizon, to feel the steel of the tracks jab into my spine, to grab fistfuls of rock and gravel, to focus on the spectacular prism of the sky, to hear the nothingness as a still wind eased through the naked trees. I imagine the hard crushing wheels of the train, runnig over my body, splurting blood and organs across miles. Ending my tired and worthless thoughts, useless dreams and pointless wishes.

I reach the gravelly surface, and look to the horizon, for an answer, I'm not sure, and the stray dog I see in the distance certainly doesn't have the answers I need. I take a step forward, and am sturdy on the tracks, just about ready to lie down, when I hear it. The low, dull moan of a train's whistle in the distance beyond the bare trees taunts me, challenges me. The sound is far enough away that I can still think, but the sharp jangle of the cross rails start clanging, and they begin to lower, encasing me between ahead and behind, right smack in the here-and-now. I'm plummeted back into my worthless reality, am once again defeated, and I stumble backwards off the tracks.

The sound is deafening, even to my dull ears, so tired of listening to the words my head keeps saying, over and over, and over again. For some reason, the warning signals blaring, the whistle shrilling, and the rush of the wind as the train cars pass, whip me into the here and now, the place I'm never comfortable.

Seven train cars rush by, each one saying, "you've failed, you've failed, you've failed." Over and over. It's deafening.

The last train shuttles past, and the conductor, thinking I was only out for an afternoon walk, on a beautiful fall day, waves and tips his hat.

I don't wave back, but I know I will one day be on the other side, the side where he will have to crank the brakes of the train instead of tipping his hat in my direction.

why

When fate steps in
and takes your gift
The question of why
on the edge of your lips.

To put you through
excitement
joy
wonderment

Replacing it with
agony
sadness
loss

Why?

And how am I better off?
What will I learn from this?

Mother's Little Helper - Anti-Depressants

Cyber Friend Erin asked me if I was the same Stephanie Elliot that is quoted in Parents magazine this month (I think it's the October issue). I am.

I haven't seen it yet but the article is about anti-depressants and mothers who use them.

I do take Effexor, and it has helped me through some rough spots when the kids were younger and when some close family members and a very close friend were going through some cancer treatments and I feared that every day I would find a lump in my breast. The anxiety I felt at that point in my life, coupled with taking care of three children ages four and under was enough to almost put me over the edge. I would scream over a spill, flip my lid over some crumbs and be frantic all the time, worrying about death, crying over the littlest things.

No more. And while I'm still on Effexor, and while I do joke about Xanax a lot, I am not dependant on drugs. Tom Cruise knows nothing about anything on the subject either. He has not been a mother trying to raise young children; he has not gone through the emotional, hormonal and physical stress of pregnancy, childbirth, delivery. Hell, he hasn't even raised babies--his children came into this life well after they were able to verbalize, use the toilet, dress themselves. So I don't want to hear anything from that guy!

Anyway, I've yet to check out the article; if you get a chance, take a look. It may help some of you other moms on the fence who are looking for a bit of sanity, or just to not feel so alone.

Thanks Erin, for letting me know about the article!

Forgot The Zoo

My Pal DD recently posted some beautiful pictures from his visit to the lovely San Diego Zoo, I think it was.

When he read that I too, had been to a zoo, he asked if I might share some of my photographic finds from my trip.

So, without further adieu, here is the one picture I feel most compelled to share:


"Is That All Ya Got There Big Guy?"

Is It Wrong?

How bad is it that you run out of beer at your four-year-old's birthday party at like 10:00?

And that EVERYBODY loved playing with the Fake Poo?

Fake Poo

The Balloon Fairy visits each of my kids the evening before their birthdays, so they wake up to a room full of balloons. Tukey and I spent an hour in his room this a.m. having a balloon fight. He was in Heaven with how fun it was.


And then...
Hands down, the best birthday gift for a four-year old--




Except for when I stuck the fake tongue in my mouth and pretended it was coming off, then Tukey seriously did gag and rush to the bathroom because he almost had to throw up!

Richard. And Then Something Else

Rather than two posts, I am combining two completely non-related items of discussion.

Number one: I am mad at him. We are in a fight, but he does not know it.

Number two: I recalled that today is another special anniversary for me. (Check out the post on July 29 for another one)...

Twenty-two years ago TODAY, in the bathroom at The Academy of the Holy Names All Girls Catholic School, Tampa, Florida, (IN NINTH FREAKING GRADE, which was horrible back then to have had to wait so long, but looking back, I had a few good untainted years more than my sisters in the hood.)...I rejoiced in menstruating for the first time. I had finally become a woman! I was going to be worldly, sophisticated, knowledgable of all secrets womanlike.

I was going to get pissy and crampy and moody and bitchy. Not necessarily in that order, but yes, each and every one of those emotions would surface, all within a period (PUN INTENDED!) of one week. For each and every GD month of the rest of my menstruating lifetime.

And today, to commemorate the twenty-second anniversary of the day I first bled into womanhood, what happens?

I bleed. Therefore I am.

Hahahahahahahahahahaah.

Thursday

It started out like an ordinary Thursday, Ajers whispering into my ear at 7:20 a.m. to please get up so I can send him off to the school bus. Hubby was still home and had made the kids breakfast.

We sent the kids off to the bus, and Tukey and I waved them goodbye.

"Have a nice day! We love you!"

Things were just grand in the old Seven Bridges Estates. I chatted with the five other Bus Moms and scratched the ears of those dogs leashed to their owners. Then, I invited the rest of the moms who I hadn't seen the day before to my "Off-To-School Bagel Party."

A power walk with my good pal R--shout out to my 'dearest dear, silven foxed friend!'--and back home to prepare my little gathering of women.

Six moms came over, some with kids, some lucky enough (?) to have them all in school, and we laughed and joked about "if the dads could see us now," drinking Starbucks, sipping lemon iced tea, applying a neat spread of Honey Almond cream cheese onto our fresh Einstein bagels, swatting at the occasional curious bee. Oh, would they think our lives were so glamorous.

And, for those few, precious minutes, it did seem pretty glamorous. Until that damned yellow bus rolled in hours later.

(Mind you, I did manage to do three-quarters of two loads of laundry, clean the kitchen, make my bed, take a shower, return some phone calls, clean up the family room, so it wasn't as if I had been lounging langourously--and, interestingly enough, Hubby just yelled from the laundry room: "What's the status of the laundry in here!?!?")

The bus comes home. Chaos errupts. And I know that there is more chaos west of me that I could ever imagine, and that I pray to God I never am faced with a natural disaster, and now, as I'm typing this, I am thinking, "Oh God, Stephanie, you are sooo pathetic (and I mean me, not Stephanie Klein, although she's quite pathetic too, but at least she has a book deal!) to be frustrated at the mundane mundaneness of your simplistic and blessed life."

And wow, just two glasses of Chardonnay into this and I have all the worldy knowledge I could possibly ever hope to exceed!

Bus home, kids fly out, soaring like mindless gulls, searching, scavenging for that last fry on the beach, that open clam shell, to grasp and pull at its meat, to feed itself, to satiate.

Yep, they come home hungry.

And ornery.

And grouchy.

And yet, they are still raring to go, to fly out into the streets onto their skateboards, their bikes, their scooters. They deposit their wares: papers that need to be signed, coloring pages they are so proud of, assignment sheets I must read, all over the kitchen counter, they scarf the snack I have dutifully created for them. Then, one is off swimming; the other is seeking neighborhood friends, the other, my Tukey, is asking me to help him open his birthday gift.

The Ninja Turtle stuff.

The Ninja Turtle stuff that has two million and one of those plastic twisty-ties and black anchors and strong tape to keep the toy from falling apart in transit to Target.

God, I loathe the engineer who came up with that invention. I can imagine him in his lab, thinking, "Hmmm. I've got an idea to secure this toy into the box. And it's such an idea that will royally piss off every parent that spends the money on this toy, that will then have to pull and prod and twist and retwist and hurt their fingers, all for the sake of opening one toy, of making their child happy. And at that immediate instant.

I sure wish I kept each and every one of those damned ties since I've had children. I could do something really creative with it.

So, I'm rambling, and it's because this is really good wine, and I think I just told someone the other day, Christa perhaps, that "I never drink during the week. Just not into it." Well, after this afternoon, I'm into it.

And it hasn't been a terrible afternoon, just a little more stressful than the average, un-wine-needed Thursday.

It's time for gymnastics. I tell AJers we have to go. He defies me. "I'm not going!"

I'm not good at discipline, and am all set to just leave ...

(SIDENOTE: Hubby just comes downstairs after getting kids into the bath, and yells, "NOW WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"I'm VENTING!"

"I thought you were a GRANDE." Smartass. Then he says, I would have yelled at him had he been on the computer this close to kids' bedtime. (Now I just hear him tell AJers that "Mom is 'blogging' about her hard day." F-er!)) I can't even tell where these damn parenthesis start and end anymore.

So, we're all set to leave for gymnastics, and someone yells, "Luke is peeing on the tree!"

Great. What will the Desperate Housewives think of this?

And it's not just any tree. It's THE tree, right in front, right in front of our driveway, right in front of the cul-de-sac of homes right across the street from us. Right where practically every freaking neighbor can view my cute little Tukey, on his very last day of his third year of life, urinating on the tree.

OK, there is too much more of my 'saga' to continue, and I hope you all know I'm joking, it's not a saga, just another day in the life of...the Manic Mom, who has a prescription of 30 Xanax waiting for me at the pharmacy as I type (anyone want to buy some.... KIDDING! JOKE! I KNOW THAT IS TOTALLY ILLEGAL --but email me offlist--ha, kidding again!)

I've had two glasses of wine, have eaten my way through a box of Club Cracker Stix, have had bagels with cream cheese, soup, bread, salad with fruit, 1/2 of Tukey's leftover grilled cheese, and a bowl and a half of Tortellini filled with chicken plus fresh parmesan cheese grated on top.

And now I could use a big old fat chocolate bar. Ummm... doesn't that sound good? Oh, I forgot, my 'friend' arrived today to. Do you think that has anything to do with the frame of mind I'm in tonight?

Out.

Conversations With Tuke

Tukey: "Mom is apple a bad word?"

Me: "No, why would you think it's a bad word?"

Tuke: "What if I do this?" (Holds tongue between his fingers) "And thay athull?" (Removes fingers from tongue) "Then is it a bad word?"

((Ha--Did I get you to try it!??!!? Do you remember holding your tongue and thaying: I work in a ship yard cleaning the ships... how did that one go? Remember any other ones?))
~~~~~~~~~~~
THIS IS HIS 'ROCK STAR' FACE AND POSE:


Tuke: "Is this a bad word?" And he holds up his ring finger.

Me: "No."

Tuke: "What about this?" Holds up middle finger.

Me: "That is not an appropriate thing to do."

Tuke: "I know. It's swearing to God."
~~~~~~~~~~
Tuke to Hub: "Dad, do you think Mom is hot?"
WTF? Where did this one come from?

Hub to Tuke: "Do you mean 'hot' as in temperature, or 'hot' as in good looking?"

Tuke to Hub: "Like good looking."

Hub to Tuke: "Well, you wouldn't be here if I didn't think she was."

Between this and the Smushy Kissing, this is certainly the end of my innocent young not-quite-yet-four-year-old baby!

I am begging him not to show his preschool teacher the hold-the-tongue-trick and say apple when he starts next week, or flip anyone off at an opportune moment. Or refer to any of the moms as being 'hot.' Next he'll start using the term MILF when he sees some hot preschool mom.

Who the hell is teaching my innocent BABY this stuff and can't we just stick to the freaking ABCs and 123s for crying out loud!?


Happy Fourth Birthday Baby Boy!