Ever the professional

I was walking with a group of my inmates today, coming back from the library. One woman wanted to show me "this great book I found!" So she pulls out a small book with the title "Love Your Body: Meditations to improve self-image" (or something like that). She was really excited about it, so I took it and opened it to see what it was about. Y'all. The page I opened started with this, verbatim. "I love my fingers. My fingers give me pleasure." I couldn't even help it. I giggled like a 14 year old and said "Seriously?" And then? She didn't get it, so ANOTHER inmate had to say "It looks like it's saying that you love to touch yourself." The passage went on to wax poetic about the "gift of touch" and how our fingers allow us to experience the world, yada yada yada. It didn't matter, the damage was done. I fumbled around to reframe or at least recover, but I don't think it worked very well. She took her book back and walked to the front of the line. And they're supposed to take me seriously? I'm going to call it "being genuine."

It was bound to happen

C and I were laying in bed this morning, squeezing out those last few precious minutes before you have to choose between dragging yourself out of bed or being negligent to the two unkempt heathens currently running amok in your bedroom. Eli and Syd had found their way into our bathroom and were playing nicely, so we weren't too eager to interrupt and remind them of their need for breakfast/cartoons/"that lego guy I had that one time that has suddenly become the only toy that will satisfy me!" As we were laying there we realized that it had gotten very quiet. Too quiet. So C calmly calls out "Eli? What are you guys doing in there?" "I'm reading a book to Sydney!" "Oh, that's great Bud! What a nice thing to do! What are you reading her?" "Puh, puh, Playboy?" Yep. That got our attention. Apparently the kid can read better than we thought. So C went in to find more "appropriate" reading material and Eli got upset that his magazine was being taken away. And I swear, he yelled at C, "But Daddy! I was reading the article!"

A story about a girl

Once upon a time there was a girl. A very beautiful and smart, and humble, girl who occasionally got all obsessed with stuff until it was all she could think of and all she could see and she couldn'tstopthinkingaboutitfortheloveofGoddon'tyouseehowimportantthisiswe'reallgoingtodie!

She had a handy husband. Handy husband had a very special watch that ran so much sloooowwwer than the rest of the world.

Girl and Handy Husband had a sink. The sink had a drip. Drip drip drip. Girl asked Handy Husband, who worked at a huge Handy store, to please fix the drippy sink.

A week later she asked again.

A week later she asked again.

Two weeks after that Girl went crazy from the drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. So she decided to show Handy Husband.

Girl went to Handy Husband's place of work and procured from his coworker the small, little, 1.09 piece that would change her world and restore peace in the land.

Girl went home with simple instructions on how to fix the sink.

Girl found vise grips. Girl googled "vise grips how to use." Girl went crazy with the vise grips. Girl felt powerful.

Girl snapped a mysterious pipe with her superhuman strength.

Girl returned to Handy Store to get a new mysterious pipe. Boy announces to anyone who will listen "Mama broke our sink and we're just borrowing our house so now we have to fix it or she's going to be in so much trouble!"

Girl looks at pipe options. Realizes mysterious pipe was actually part of the faucet.

Girl leaves store with huge, awkward, $70 box, two pipes, and complicated instructions on how to fix the Drip. Drip. PSSHHHESSSS spray water all over the kitchen. Handy Husband smirks and announces to the store "I'll be home at 10:00! Please don't flood the house!"

*Edited to add that I fixed that mo-fo like a red-headed step-child. My faucet looks downright high class now. Also, I found two rib cages under my sink and I may be a teensy bit traumatized. But I fixed the fucking sink. By myself. Except for the nut I let C tighten when he got home because I'm all about the team. BooYah!

What a day

• I woke up this morning, on time, and contrary to the previous several mornings did not feel like I had been hit by a truck. A Vespa maybe, but not a truck.


• The kids got up with me and were absolute joys. I got ready with the sounds of them playing together in the background.


• Another partial lockdown, so I caught up at work and even had time to finally rearrange my office. Now I can actually see out of my window! I had to sacrifice my phone, which now lives in a drawer, but I feel completely rejuvenated. I wish I could take a picture to show it.


• Decided to give myself one more pass on the gym to "heal" so ran a couple of errands, alone, before I picked up the kids.


• Came home to find that the housekeepers had completely raised the bar. The house looked A.MAZ.ING.


• Got my first thredup box in the mail, and it did not suck. Yay!


• Made leftovers for dinner. Which Syd then projectile vomited everywhere.


• Stripped her and took her outside to test drive her new swing. She LOVES it. She giggled the whole time.


• Came in to start bedtime. Gave Syd a bottle. Which she projectile vomited everywhere.


• Everyone in the tub. Eli and Syd are laughing like lunatics. No one cried when I washed their hair.


• Bedtime. No tears, no fights, just stories and giggles and snuggles. Also, no vomit.


• Candy bars with C, he's playing video games while I read blogs.

I love a day when projectile vomit does not merit top billing.

I owe the last eleven years to a ferret named Bianca

I read this article today and it reminded me of the guy I was dating when I met C. Towards the end of our courtship this guy acquired two ferrets, Bianca and George. He invited me over to meet the critters, who lived in an elaborate cage in his bedroom closet. I sat down on his bed, trying to be all cute and cool, rocking some very tight bell bottom jeans (it was 1999, in my defense) and my favorite knee-high boots. I was so excited to show him that I wasn't some silly girly-girl, that I could hang with his exotic, stinky pets. As soon as he opened the cage Bianca ran right up to me, sniffed my boot, and scurried up my pant leg. I repeat. The little rat imposter ran up my pants. And stopped at my knee. Where she got stuck. At this point we were both at a loss, since I sure as shit wasn't taking my pants off and he was opposed to my hitting her in the head until she backed out. It seriously took him about ten minutes to coax her out, during which time I had decided that I would not be going anywhere near Bianca and George ever again. Never ever ever.

A week later I met C, who didn't have a ferret. And the rest is history.

Know what's awesome?

I had big plans for today. I've been putting off grocery shopping for so long that we literally were down to peanut butter, bananas, a half a head of cauliflower, and a huge decaying leek. So the kids and I were going to hit Costco and the grocery store hard. I sat down and for the first time in months wrote out a meal plan and coordinating shopping list. I even broke out the cookbooks so we could shake out of the spaghetti-tacos-chicken-porkchop-meatloaf rut we've been stuck in for.ever. Two hours later, after remembering the consequences of shopping hungry, eating lunch, putting clothes on the kids (in that order, please tell me I'm not the only one who's weekends look like this) we set off. I even remembered, at the last minute, to grab the diaper bag and my phone.The three of us were in great moods, none of the kids were crying or whining, and traffic was even good. Pulled into Costco braced for the clusterfuck that is their parking lot, only to find a spot, on my first pass, right in front. Seriously, there was one car between us and the door. I would've paid money for this spot. Smiling to myself because the gods were obviously smiling down on me, I started unloading my still lovely, happy, behaving children. Because I am SO organized and SO together, I thought to put my membership card and debit card in my pocket o I wouldn't have to worry about a bag in Costco. On Saurday. Three guesses where my wallet was. Yup, in my bag. My work bag. My work bag that I'd thoughtfully put away Friday night as part of my effort to keep my house looking a little less sty-ish, and so did not have to step over to leave. Which means I didn't have the visual reminder to switch out my stuff. Son of a bitch. See what I get?

Our parking spot was significantly less awesome the second time around.

What not to wear

I'm totally cheating by back dating this post. We color outside the lines around here.

So the test. Tuesday night I managed to completely paralyze myself and convince myself I was going to fail the test. And have to wait six months to retake it. And lose my job. And die of shame and ignorance. (Dramatic? Me?) Wednesday I woke up feeling slightly more optimistic, but not much, which I'm assuming is why my superstition kicked in so strongly. Suddenly it was extremely, life or death important that I find the perfect test-ass kicking outfit to wear. And I did. Dark wash flare jeans, black grandpa cardigan, black cami, black wedge boots, and my dog tags with the kids' names on them. Casual but pulled together. Comfortable. And I felt confident. In short, the perfect ensemble. The only snag was that I couldn't find my favorite tank top (the one that hides my "two kids, the last of who was over ten pounds" belly and makes the girls look awesome) in the Kilamanjaro of laundry and had to settle for the way too clingy, low-cut, and a bit too shiny one. No matter, I buttoned the sweater and moved on.

I pulled up to the testing center, a run down office complex in a run down part of town, to find an ambulance parked in front. Never a good sign. Walked in to find no emergency, breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down. Two women were in front of me, so I waited. Finally, after what felt like hours but was really about twenty minutes, it was my turn. The proctor took my ID, handed me my scratch paper, and assigned me Terminal 13. Seriously Then she asked me to empty my pockets. I dumped my keys and wallet into the file folder and turned out my pockets. Then she asked if my sweater had pockets. So I showed her inside the teeny-weeny, totally decorative little patch pockets on my sweater. And she told me I couldn't wear it in. Apologetically, but still. She said it was plenty warm, but didnt mention that the fan would be pointed right at me. I didn't point out that I was more concerned about showing my back fat than being warm enough. I was going to point out that my pants had pockets but didn't want to press my luck. So I took my test, in essentially my underwear, at Terminal 13. And passed. It's totally my lucky shirt now.

Pumping PSA

When you're in a rush to pump and eat lunch and you think "Oh shoot! Did I lock the door?" do not, repeat do NOT then think, "Ah, it's fine! It's been months and everyone knows to check for the sign. You're good! Mmmm fries." I guarantee, the office tech will open your door in front of inmates and a group of interns touring the building as you frantically yell "One minute! One minute! ONE MINUTE!!!!" And then you'll all stammer nervously and avoid eye contact for the rest of the day.