Cousin Oliver

Remember that classic episode of The Brady Bunch when Cindy overhears a conversation in which it is stated that the Bradys are going to have "an addition to the family" and she assumes that means Carol is pregnant, but it's really just that annoying little dipshit Cousin Oliver? 

I hope this doesn't mean my blog has jumped the shark. 

No, I'm not pregnant.  Meet our new addition - LUIGI!
Doesn't he look sweet?



See that striped chair on the left side of the picture?



Sigh...

Has it really been since May 14th? Seriously? Ugh, I'm sorry I haven't written anything for so long.  It's that lethal combination of having too much to write and no time to write it, and then when I do have time I'm too tired to make my fingers move.

I'm going to have to start with the story of how Luigi came to our house from Stray Rescue. You can read about him if you click HERE.

There's also his Rescue Story which might warm your heart, so click HERE for that.

A few weeks ago the Karmas went to a Stray Rescue Benefit Event at Speed Racer's church. I'd told my mom that we were going, and her advice was "Don't get sucked in!" I was on my guard, knowing I'd probably meet some adorable dog that I'd love and want to take home on the spot, and the kids would beg and beg, but I would stand firm.

And then we met this puppy. 







His name was Aang.  He had an adorable little cleft palate.  The kids spent hours playing with him, holding him, and walking him.  But they knew how I felt about having a dog.  I was the one who would be home with it all day every day, and I kinda value the freedom I've only recently started to enjoy after 8 long years as a stay-home mom.  And there is no WAY I'm potty training a dog.  I'm just not in the mood.  So when it was time to go, the kids bid goodbye to Aang, and we went home.  No tears, no "Why can't WE have a dog??"  They knew why. 

But then, for the next day or two, I couldn't stop thinking about little Aang.  I knew he'd have no problem being adopted because he was so freakin cute.  And I knew I didn't want a puppy.  But it was so nice to hold him and cuddle him and pet him, I thought, just maybe, I might be persuaded to change my stance.  So I sneaked little peeks at the Stray Rescue website to see if there were any older (read:  already housetrained) dogs that looked interesting.

My favorite was a really cute one named Oliver, but he was on a home visit when I called Stray Rescue.  So was Kerby, the Great Pyrenees.  The Stray Rescue volunteer suggested I look through the website and come up with a list of 3 or 4 that we might like to meet.  Luigi was on that list, and the volunteer told me that of the ones we were interested in, she thought he'd be the best fit for us.  He would do well with a family with kids, and a fenced yard.  I'm smart enough to know that this translates into HIGH ENERGY.

I really didn't want a high energy dog.   And I didn't want a big dog.  I wanted one that I could cuddle.  I'm thinking Pug, Boston Terrier, something like that.  Luigi's ad said he was 60 pounds.  It's hard to visualize what 60 pounds looks like in a dog you've never seen.  Tito weighs about 60 pounds, and he's quite cuddly, so maybe 60 pounds would be all right.

July 3rd, we were supposed to go out to Chez Inlaw for the 4th of July Weekend party with the fireworks and whatnot.  (Remember last year when Aldidog pooped on FIL's white carpet?)  Stray Rescue called to see if we wanted to meet Luigi that morning, and since all of our top choices had been snatched up so quickly, we thought we'd better jump at the chance to meet a dog that was on our list. 

We waited in the Stray Rescue courtyard for Luigi to come out and meet us.  My first reaction, when he bolted out the door was Holy CRAP, He's Too Big.  And then one volunteer told the other that on their way outside, Luigi had stopped at the bin where they keep all the dogs' toys, pulled the bin off the shelf, rummaged through the toys to find the one he wanted, and gotten it out all by himself. 

The most significant moment in my entire life that found me in a similar spot - in which I had to make an instantaneous choice as to whether a particular thing I had just learned about someone should be considered  A) adorable and endearing or B) a huuuuuuge red flag - was on my first date with R.  We were going to dinner at pub I'd never been to, and literally as soon as we walked through the door, the bartender yelled "Hey, R!  Pour you a Guinness?"  It's such a fine line between hella cool and fuckin creepy.  Obviously, I went with Cool, but I mentally filed it away thinking it would be a funny story to tell our kids someday, and the rest is history. 

And, standing there in the courtyard, hearing that this dog had helped himself to something spoke more to his above-average intelligence and playful impishness than to a sense of entitlement or the kind of independence that might present a problem.  He already sounded like one of my brilliantly impish children.  An evil genius, like Pie.  Evil geniuses are kinda fun to be around.  He'd fit right in.

The volunteer suggested the five of us take him for a walk.  R took the leash.  Tito was cranky and pouting because he wanted to walk Luigi.  We tried to tell Tito that it wasn't a good idea.  Luigi was pulling hard.  Luigi was strong.  Tito said he was stronger than a dog.  And he kept looking at the ground and shuffling his feet and telling me how unfair it was that he couldn't walk Luigi.  I turned to R, and said, fine, show him.  You may or may not agree with this style of parenting, but the only way that kid will quit bitching is if you show him exactly why things need to be the way the grownups say they need to be. 

Tito had to run to keep up, and Luigi thought he was being chased, so he ran faster and faster.  Luigi flew Tito like a kite.

Tito, to his credit, never let go of the leash, despite falling on the sidewalk and being dragged until R could get a hold of Luigi.  I was slightly concerned that the Stray Rescue people would see Tito's scraped leg and think I was a shitty mom for allowing my child to learn something the hard, painful way, but they didn't appear to be questioning my parenting skills.  We made arrangements to try Luigi out, as part of their Rent-A-Pet program which allows you to bring a dog home and see how things go.

As soon as we got him in the van the next day, I started to freak out.  It began with a quickening heartbeat and the faintly cold sweaty sense of panic.  And the sense of panic grew and grew to the level of that full-on fetal position anxiety that totally immobilizes me.  I wanted to puke and cry and scream, but I felt like I was paralyzed.  At this point, I knew it was only a trial basis, but I really wanted it to work out.  I didn't want to be the asshole who returns a dog.  And I especially didn't want to tell my mom that I should have listened to her and not gotten sucked in.

But as Luigi tore through my house, jumping on everyone and everything, I thought, Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?  The kids are going out of town and I have to work all day Thursday.  I can't leave this dog home alone.  What am I going to do??  This is insane.  I can't take him back; that's so tacky.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Mother.  Fucking.  FUCK.  I was beside myself, sick with anxiety. 

The next day, I made R call the Stray Rescue lady and tell her it wasn't going to work out.  I felt like such a douche, I couldn't tell her myself.  The lady asked if we'd be willing to have the behaviorist come over and give us some ideas.  Sure, I'd be willing.  I really didn't want to give up.  I'm not a giver upper (so says my Inspirational Tampon, anyway).  I wanted to give Luigi a fair chance.  But inside, I was deeply conflicted.   

He'd shown us many moments of sweetness.  Many.  He let everyone pet him, he played in the yard with squeaky toys.  He laid on the floor at our feet and let us rub his belly.  He really was, and is, an extremely sweet dog.  95% of the time, he's mellow - just chilin on the floor, gnawing on his nylabone. 


















And we all decided we liked him.  Even Tito, after a little encouragement, was on board.   

Within the hour, the volunteer we'd been working with and the behaviorist were at my house with a large dog crate and a harness.  He hated the crate (the behaviorist speculated a past traumatic experience could be a factor), but the harness made a huge difference in helping me and the kids feel as though we could handle him, and I felt a great deal less anxious.  I actually felt really good. Over the next couple of days, he did very well when he gave him pretty much free reign of the downstairs.  I let him stay out of the crate while I was at work all day Thursday, and I came home to no messes.  I was thrilled.  R was over the moon. 

R and I even took him to get sno cones. 





He sat in Tito's car seat,






and he let everyone at Tropical Sno pet him. 






He's brought R out of his shell, too.  R's just giddy when he talks about Luigi.  Everybody asks what kind of dog he is, and R proudly says that he's an Akita mix, and that we got him from Stray Rescue.  He's more excited than he was when any of the Apes were born.  In R's defense, each Ape was born into a swirling vortex of unique drama.

Luigi's a great addition to our family.  Most of the time.  





But then there's this.
















Yeeeeeah.  Wasn't Cousin Oliver a jinx? 

On the plus side, I am discovering that there is an endless amount of entertainment value at pet stores.

Cellularus Mortus Est.

It's been a while, hasn't it?   I've got no blogging mojo. I don't know if I can bring BMB back to its former glory. I want to, I just... I don't know. Sure, there's stuff to talk about. And most of it's funny. Even the stuff that's kinda sad becomes at least a little bit funny on here. And the stuff that's already funny becomes fucking hysterical.

I haven't forgotten that my last post gave the teaser of Dumpster Diving With The Inlaws. There was a bit of concern about whether or not I'd be able to do the post justice. Which brings me to a sad tangent.

My red LG Shine - my constant companion for the last two and a half years, the always-dependable little snark buddy I carried in my pocket who snagged such classic PK photos as these:

Has gone to Cell Phone Heaven. Just up and died. I can't tell if it makes me feel better or worse to know I didn't do anything wrong, like put it in the washer (which I did with my Nokia, twice). Just one day, right after I hung up with R, the display screen went all wonky, and then blank.

And she took a whole lot of my pics with her, because, like a dummy, I didn't think to put them all on the memory card. I was devastated. R tried to fix her, and it was a valiant effort, but ultimately unsuccessful. I literally wept as she was unceremoniously tossed into the trash. Even now, it's sitting in a trash bag in my bedroom because I didn't have the heart to put it out by the curb today.

I'm not ready to let go. I haven't bonded with my new phone, the Samsung Mythic, yet. It's technologically superior in every way (including a WAY better camera), and I'll get used to it, but my Shine, well, it was like my favorite pair of jeans. Scuffed, stained, beat up, not the most fashion-forward, but a perfect fit.

I feel the same sense of loss as I did when I wrecked the Mazda a few years ago. You really should click the link to that story. It was mangled, the driver's side window didn't roll down and the kids were getting way too big to cram in the back seat, but we'd been through so much together. I hated leaving it in the parking lot to die.  Part of me wanted to say a few words, perhaps sing a hymn or two, and then bury it in the backyard.

But that's just silly.

The action, I mean; not the feeling. The feeling's not at all silly to me, because when pictures are gone and you can't get them back, it's sad, isn't it? Pictures of Tito's first day of kindergarten, my dream date with Cam Janssen, vacations, random moments of deliciously evil humor, gone forever. I know the best pictures are here on the blog and on Facebook, and it wasn't like I scrolled through the pictures on my phone very often, but I knew they were there, and now they're not.

I'm in mourning.

And there's an added dimension to why I was so upset by this. We're coming up on Pie's last day of Second Grade. I don't remember if I wrote about it at the beginning of the school year or not, but I know I felt it then as I do now. Pie is now the age that our beloved and dearly missed friend Jack was when he died. From this point on, every milestone in Pie's life will be something that Jack never got to experience. And the last day Beeb and I saw Jack? The last day of Second Grade.

What if I was Jack's mom and all of those pictures on my phone were suddenly gone? What if something happened to one of my kids, or my friends, or my parents, or R tomorrow? I would be absolutely destroyed. Like a picture of a house ripped off of its foundation and torn to matchsticks by a tornado. That'd be me.

I've spent this whole school year with a constant awareness of the last year of Jack's life - the year that we were lucky enough to know him. Beeb's turning thirteen in July. It breaks my heart that Jack never got to be thirteen. Or even ten. It kills me to think of all the things that he never got to do. God, I miss that kid. So yeah, that's a big part of why the loss of a bunch of pictures was so devastating to me.

But, my friends, like the little boy who survived the crash that killed every other passenger on the plane, there is a small bit of good news amidst the devastation. Somehow, I had the uncharacteristic presence of mind to forward the pictures of Dumpster Diving With The Inlaws to myself so I could upload them for this post. So the pictures you are about to see are among the last ever taken with my LG Shine.

Easter Sunday we went out to the Inlaws, as we usually do. But this time it was Large Trash Disposal week in their little town, which means people could take their old furniture and appliances and stuff to the end of a gravel road and drop it off, leaving a giant parking lot full of crap, free for the taking. The Aldis were in Hog muthahfuggin Heaven.

So after a yummy lunch and a bit of quality entertainment when Aldigirl (age 11) intentionally bit her younger brother (age 5), and the Reverend scolded her by saying she was going to be "labeled" as a biter, and did she reeeally want that (shit, she's probably already labeled as a buck-toothed, slack-jawed, skinny-as-a-rail, whiney-ass brat - why not throw Biter in the mix?), we went Dumpster Diving.  With my Inlaws.

The guy in the purple shirt is The Reverend. They ended up with a headboard for Aldiboy's room and I think a bed frame and some other random crap.






We got some director's chairs, a carpet steamer, and...

A KEGERATOR.




That's it from the bottom. I thought I had a pic of it from the front, but I guess I don't.

Anyway, we took it home to see if it worked, and it turned on, but didn't cool properly. R looked up the model number on it to see if he could find a manual on it and he discovered that at the time it was new, this thing was state of the art. Even now, a few years old, it retails for over a thousand dollars.

We figured that we'd get it checked out, see what it would cost to fix, and weigh out whether or not we wanted to make the investment. R has a friend whose dad is a retired refrigerator repairman, and he offered to take a look at it.

He got it to work! Total out of pocket? FIFTY BUCKS.
Now we have to figure out where to put it in our basement.

And just think, if I hadn't wrecked the Mazda, we wouldn't have been able to take it home because it wouldn't fit in the trunk.  

Isn't Serendipity beautiful?

As Promised - Spring Break!

So I told you guys I'd write about our Spring Break next. We've been back for a few weeks, but I haven't been able to sit down and dedicate ample time to write about it. I suppose that in some ways that's good, because the stuff I'll remember enough to write about is the highlights; the most important and interesting stuff. The wheat, if you will.

But sometimes the chaff packs some high entertainment value, ya know? If you've been around this blog a while, some of my best stories come from NOTHING. Like if Seinfeld had begun as a blog.

Ok, so we left Thursday evening after dinner, and drove as far into Oklahoma as we could before we felt like stopping. We got to Oklahoma City and stayed at THE GROSSEST motel room I've ever been in - even the hourly ones.

I actually took this pic of the uberscuzzy Motel 6 on the way home, from across the highway. It was as close as I wanted to get.



We asked for a non-smoking room. Well, apparently Motel 6's definition of Non-Smoking is "not currently on fire". It wasn't just a little bit non-smoking. It was hideous. But I was too tired to complain and change rooms, plus I doubted there was a single room in the entire place that didn't reek of smoke.

We asked for two double beds, and we got two double beds - both with mattresses that sunk in the middle, and one of the beds was against the wall. I HATE it when the side of a bed touches the wall. I just can't have it.

And don't even get me started on the bathroom.

We finally got everyone to lay down and sleep, and Tito started wailing pitifully that his ear hurt. Honey, I love you and it breaks my heart to see you in pain, but we're in the middle of Oklafuckinghoma and it's 2:00 in the morning... it's been a long day; could ya please, please, please cut your mom a break?

It was a nightmare. We should have just kept driving.

We got up the next day and continued through Oklahoma, thinking we'd have a super-early breakfast at the Taco Cabana in Norman. I really thought I'd done my research, but apparently not all Taco Cabanas are open 24 hours. Dammit!!! We'd have to wait until Texas.


















Fuckin Oklahoma...


We had steak fajitas for brunch-ish, and carried on toward San Antonio.



We also made the traditional stop at the Dr Pepper Museum in Waco.



We got the Oreo Shake made with the Dr Pepper syrup, which I'd been craving for a whole year. The vastness of the English language does not contain words that can sufficiently describe how awesome it is.

Om. Nom. NOMMANOMMANOM.



















So a few hours later, we got to my parents' house. That night Tito barfed all over the world. He even threw up in his sleep. It was hideous cuz he rolled over in it and ugghhhh. And then Pie started barfing too. Pie had eaten two whole pounds of red licorice that day, so it had a lovely pink tint and a fragrant sweet aroma.


The next day, R and I spent hours at the laundromat washing barfy bedding.



I worked on the hat I made for Wes. That's Malabrigo Twist in Stone Chat, for the yarnies.  Came out gorgeous.




Then Beeb got sick the next day. That's not makeup.



Despite each Ape getting sick, we managed to have a good trip. The boys did pretty much what they do at home.



My mom and I spent hours putting together Playmobil sets that she'd gotten for the boys at a garage sale. I thought the boys would be super excited to play with the castle, the cars, the Native American settlement, the jail, and all the other sets, but they weren't into it, so if you're interested in some really cool Playmobil stuff, Mom's looking to sell it. I can give you more details about them if you're a hard core collector.



I added to my Horrible Christmas Music collection. Have we talked about this collection? Oh, it's quite something.



I checked out the local Squish shop. Only they call it something else.



The boys found a book at Half Price Books that they wanted to buy. I said no, but I giggled a little first.



We walked along the newest branch of the Riverwalk, down by the Pearl Brewery. It's beautiful - kinda artsy and waaaay less touristy.



Since we had all of these sickies, we didn't do a few of the things we usually do, like Fredricksburg and Enchanted Rock and Luckenbach and Gruene. But we did do one thing we hadn't done before - Aquarena Springs in San Marcos. It's a nature preserve or something now, but it used to be a kooky tourist attraction with a diving pig. You can ride around in glass bottom boats, and the water is clear and serene. Everybody loved that, so we'll probably do that again. Highly recommended.





We also went back to another of our favorite places - Landa Park in New Braunfels. I think of my friend Bobby, the Gentle Evil Baritone, my very first actual FAN, whenever we go there. I love riding the train, and inhaling the smell of Mountain Laurel and barbecue. I so wish I could bottle that scent. There's something beautiful and calming about it.



Completely unrelated and inexplicable, but for some reason I got really into wearing pigtails on this trip.



Maybe I like them because they make my shadow look cute.  Ya gotta have a cute shadow.



Maybe it's midlife crisis. Perhaps I'll explore that later. I still have my big sexy hat, and it's all ready for Grant's Farm this weekend!



So, the next day we headed home, and I usually post a picture of the kids crying, but this time there were very few tears because the kids are going back later this summer, so they know they'll see Nana and PopPop soon.

I was really determined to stay in a less-scuzzy hotel this time, so we went to Norman and found the Econolodge, which was actually right across the street from the Taco Cabana that had screwed me on the way down there. I knew we were going to want to be up and on the road before it opened at 9 (remember??), but I wasn't upset because I figured we should be in Tulsa (the closest TC location to St. Louis) around 9, and then we'd savor our last taste of TC until next year.

As we were putting our pajamas on, in our non-smoking room inside an entirely non-smoking motel (yay!!!!)



with two queen beds, a hair dryer, clean soft towels, glasses, an ice bucket, two bars of soap and shampoo bottles, we saw the forecast for the next day.



We got up and enjoyed a free Continental Breakfast



Hey look, they even throw an extra W in the Sweet N Low!



and scraped the ice off the van. We didn't bring coats.



But it was cool, because our bellies would soon be warm with Steak Fajita Tacos and Breakfast Burritos.

We searched for the address in the GPS and found the last TC we'd come to on the trip. I was bouncing so excitedly in the seat! As we pulled into the parking lot we could smell the Carne Guisada. We could TASTE it. Our mouths were watering.

The parking lot was surprisingly empty, but hey, if that's the only one in Tulsa, maybe the good people of Tulsa just haven't yet caught on to its awesomeness, right?

No. They wouldn't open for another HOUR.



DAMN YOU, OKLAHOMA!!! YOU'VE FUCKED ME YET AGAIN!!!!!!

Seriously, can you even believe that???? I was so pissed. Those who follow me on Facebook saw my angst in real time.

We took a wrong turn which wasn't a big deal, and ended up coming home a different way than we'd planned - through Arkansas.



It was really quite lovely. It was the prettiest part of the drive. Well, not THAT part in the picture, but trust me, we were very pleasantly surprised by the Arkansas leg of the trip. It was a nice, leisurely ride home, and we got home with time to decompress before having to go back to reality on Monday morning.

Ok, I know this post is not my best work, and I'm sorry to make you wait so long for it, but I wanted to crank it out so I could move on to the next post...

DUMPSTER DIVING WITH THE INLAWS.

You heard me.

DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK!

She's back, y'all!

Have I really only posted twice since Christmas? How big an asshole am I? I'm sorry. I haven't had time to read anybody's blogs, either, so if you dropped some huge bombshell on your followers in the last couple of months and you're wondering why I haven't chimed in, I haven't seen it. It's not that I don't care; I only work a couple of days a week, but those days mean less time I have to run errands and whatever, and I rarely if ever blog in the evenings, so it cuts into my blogging time more than I expected.

Speaking of work, I've had a job for five months now! SQUISH is such an ideal fit for me. It's the job of my dreams - a great combination of routine elements and endless potential for spontaneous creativity. My unique range of talents is appreciated. I've never had a job I liked so much.

So here's what you've missed, in no particular order.

1. Check out what R made for me for Valentine's Day:



It's my very own Penny necklace!
So creative! I love it.


2. My birthday was January 13th. I'm 39 now. I'm going to go ahead and call myself 40, and then when I actually turn 40, I'll have mentally prepared myself for a whole year and it'll be no big deal. I don't really fear turning 40. I don't really have any concept of how old I am, until I turn on the Kids' Choice Awards and don't recognize any of the presenters (except Los Hermanos Jonas, por supuesto!). I don't feel any age. I definitely don't feel like I look 39.

I'm really more freaked out about Beeb turning 13 this summer than I am about turning 40. More on that in a future post.


3. During a bit of downtime, I finally watched Grey Gardens. I'd been wanting to see it for a while. It had been recommended to me by several friends, and who doesn't love spying on crazy rich people? Last week R and I bought a Netflix-enabled BluRay player for our bedroom, so I would be able watch it instantly.

Anyway, I grabbed a Diet Coke and some pretzel sticks, got under Beeb's Snuggie and pressed Play. See, you can do that with a Snuggie, cuz it has sleeves. I hate myself for loving that stupid thing. But I digress.

I enjoyed Grey Gardens. Really, I did. I love the Direct Cinema genre. It's so real and raw and the people speak freely and unfiltered, from the overflow of their hearts. I love wondering what's going on in the characters' heads; or, at least, I love hearing the subtext of their words and trying to imagine the layers of emotions and the complex personal history behind them.

But it messed me up. Here's why.

I manage it (with varying degress of success) day-to-day, but I live in, quite literally, a CONSTANT state of anxiety when it comes to my children. Their health, safety and well-being are always at the front of my mind. I question almost every single thing I do in the role of my children's mother. I question what I'm going to do in a certain situation before it even happens, I question it in the moment, and I question it long afterwards, imagining my child tearfully recounting the story of whatever stupid thing I did on some psychiatrist's couch.

As I saw Little Edie's wistful reminiscence of the life she believes she could have had, had her overbearing mother not insisted she leave New York City, followed by her sorrowful acceptance of the way things are and the unlikelihood that it will ever change, I thought about how awful I would feel if one of my children missed out on their life's dream because of me. I would never forgive myself if my child didn't become whatever it is s/he wanted to become because of me and my own selfishness. NEVER.

It made me replay in my mind all the hurtful things I've ever said to my kids (Beebie, in particular) in a moment of stress, frustration or anger. It also made me replay all the hurtful things - many of which probably weren't meant to be hurtful things - said to me that I've internalized; filed away and absorbed, but never forgotten. It made me wonder which of those things said to me had a hand in changing my life's trajectory. Would I be a different person if I hadn't been picked on mercilessly in junior high? Even if someone didn't meant to be hurtful (and even if they apologized afterwards), many times the hurt leaves scars that never quite fade all the way.

It made me hyperconscious of the potential to change my children's lives with the things I do and say, and it totally freaked me out. It made me question my parental aptitude.

I've apologized for things that I've said, and I try really hard to be careful in selecting the words and actions I use in response to the childish things they do, but I have this constant sense that everything I do, every syllable I utter, every day, is going to factor into their future and determine whether they become productive members of society or the sort of people who walk into an office and just start firing away, and then, when interviewed by the media, answer, "I just got sick of my mom constantly asking me if I was born in a barn. NO, MOM. I WASN'T."

(You know that phrase, were ya born in a barn? It means, Will ya quit leaving the front door open, for cryin out loud? Do other people say that, or just me?)

I'm trying to remind myself, in moments of doubt, that there are a lot of things I should pat myself on the back about, too, but that's a topic for another post. I will sing my own praises soon. I'm actually doing pretty well, now. Expanding my social circle to include a happy lot of positive influences is helping.


4. Speaking of influences, I have recently purchased and begun reading my very first Fantasy Genre novel. Go ahead and give me shit. I can't believe it either. It's A Game Of Thrones, written by George R. R. Martin and recommended to me by a lovely new friend we're going to call Wes. We'll be talking more about Wes.

My tiptoe-ing into full-on Geekdom has been well-documented on this blog, from my first Pirate Fest, to my first Ren Faire, and of course, the now-legendary Star Wars Trivia Night. My resistance to this conversion from "muggle who mocks the geeks" to "geek who mocks the bigger geeks" has also been well-documented.

The fact that I just used the word Muggle to mean "outsider" is further evidence of my descent into worlds I never dreamed I'd enter. Sigh... the things I do for the people I like.

To wit, I've never read a book with a fake map of some non-existent place on the first two pages. Fantasy's not really my thing. I like reality. I love reality shows, as you know (Ooooh, have you seen my new favorite show, Undercover Boss??). I read a lot of autobiographies, when I have time to read.

I read Kathy Griffin's book Official Book Club Selection, which was mighty entertaining, and if you should ever doubt your parenting skills, I highly recommend Mackenzie Phillips' High On Arrival. You'll feel like Parent of the Year, I promise you. It brought me out of my Grey Gardens funk, that's for damn sure.


That's plenty for you all to gnaw on while I construct my annual Spring Break post! Again, we drove the Odyssexy to San Antonio and stayed with my parents for a week. And, as most Karma Family Events are, the highlights are blogworthy. Stay tuned.

Talk To The Bunny!

It was Speed Racer's birthday last week. In order to explain what I got for him I have to give a bit of backstory. Heh, don't most of my posts start out like this? As you may know, I lived in San Antonio with my family for a few years after I graduated from college. My mom was transferred there in 1993-ish, I think. While I lived there, I dated a guy named Fred.

Look, I know I'm kinda kooky and quirky and whatnot, but I have to say that Fred had more neuroses than any human being I have ever encountered in my life.

Sometimes a wee bit o' neurotic is kinda charming (case in point - me, the goddess Neurotica), which might explain why I stayed with him for about two years, and sometimes it's just plain FUCKED UP.

If I were to introduce you to Fred back then (and it may or may not still be true, I have no idea), the first thing you would notice is his sweaty armpits. Fred never used anti-perspirant/deodorant because he believed a) it causes cancer, and b) sweat is our body's natural means of maintaining homeostasis. I'm sorry, but when you see a guy with pit stains, do you think to yourself There's a guy whose body is at homeostasis, or Dude, that's fuckin naaaaaasty?

The story that really captures the essence of Fred is the first time he and I went to see a movie together. He bought the tickets and I bought the snacks, and I even sprang for the big ass 50-gallon drum of popcorn so we could share it, cuz that's the just kind of classy chick I am.

We went and found our seats, I set the giant vat of popcorn on the floor for maybe two seconds while I took off my jacket, sat down, picked the popcorn bucket up off the floor, placed said popcorn bucket in my lap and offered some to Fred.

I don't want any, he says.

What???

I'm not going to eat that.

NONE of it? Are you kidding me? You wanted it a minute and a half ago when I bought it! What's the problem?

You put it on the floor.

So?

SO???? Don't you know what people DO in movie theaters??

Um, watch movies while eating massive amounts of popcorn?

Oh my GOD, Sarah! You seriously don't know???

Enlighten me.

People piss on the floors.

WHAAAAT??? Who does?

People do it all the time. Think about it. They don't want to miss the movie.

People piss on the floors in movie theaters. You're serious.

THINK ABOUT IT.

No, YOU think about it! Have you ever been sitting in a movie theater and heard the sound of pee hitting the floor? Or seen someone stand up and whip it out? OR SMELL URINE, like EVER???

Well, the smell of popcorn would mask the smell of urine, and that's how they get away with it...

Bullshit it would! The smell of fresh urine would totally override the smell of... Ican'tfuckingbelieveI'mactuallyhavingthisconversation.

They sit in the back where no one will see them, and with the slope of the theather, it all rolls down toward the front. It's disgusting.

Hang on, let me make sure I understand. So these people - and there are clearly enough of them in the world that there is, according to you, urine on the floor of every single movie theater everywhere on the planet - have the foresight to habitually sit in the back of the theater because they see nothing wrong with peeing on the floor of a movie theater full of people and they want to have that option to pee on the floor surreptitiously, but these same people lack the presence of mind to relieve themselves PRIOR to the start of the movie? What's to keep them from taking a dump? Or do they do that, too? Do they smuggle in a bag of M&Ms AND a roll of toilet paper??

Jesus, Sarah, calm down. You're making a scene. People are staring.

YOU fuckin started it! And second of all, it's not like I threw the individual popcorn kernels on the ground, picked them up and handed them to you; there's about two inches between the lower lip of the bucket and the place where the popcorn actually touches the bottom of it. I'm not disputing that these floors are filthy, but COME ON! What, the germs can just climb up the side and dive in and swim around?

And people jerk off, too.

Jesus Christ, what kinds of movies are you watching???

Well, I'm sorry I don't live in your little fantasy world full of rainbows and unicorns where nothing bad ever happens!

Rainbows and unicorns??


There are more stories than just that one, but that should give you a sense of what I was dealing with. How could I have stayed with such a freak, you ask? Well, there were things that I really loved about him, too.

He valued the silly little things I do. That's a big deal to me. Don't make me feel like a jackass when I write you a silly love poem or something like that. He was really cool about those things; appreicated the time and effort and creativity that went into them. He understood my love language (and if you haven't read The Five Love Languages, you really need to) before I even understood how important that is.

I should interject that Loving My Silliness is one of the countless qualities that I love about my husband R, and the Most Excellent friends with whom I surround myself.

I used to make Fred goofy little animals out of felt all the time. One of the animals I made was a little blue bunny. I made up an annoying voice and obnoxious personality for the bunny, and I'd get Fred to engage in ridiculous conversations with it. The bunny would ask Fred how his day was and give details about his own day, which was pretty much always the same - the bunny had been sitting in the drawer full of stuff I'd made for Fred, which he referred to as The Sarah Drawer.

If you have ever had the catastrophic misfortune of being subjected to The Big Purple Dinosaur Who Must Not Be Named, you may be familiar with the ungodly sound of Baby Bop's voice. The little blue bunny's voice was kinda like that, but mixed with Gir from Invader Zim. Imagine me putting this goofy little blue felt bunny in poor Fred's face and read the italicized lines in that voice, in your mind.

Hey, hey Fred!

(groan) Yeah, Bunny.

Hey Fred! Hey Fred! Hey Fred, howya doin?

Fine.

Hey Fred, guess what! Guess what guess what guess what?

(sigh) What.

I'm a lil bunny, but when I grow up, I'm gonna be a BIG bunny!

Yeah, that's really great.

Hey, can we hang out tomorrow?

Hmmm, I don't know, Bunny. I have to go to work.

Will you talk to me when you get home, then?

Sure, Bunny.

Ok, bye!!!

Look, I'm not saying the shit's normal and I'm not defending my actions, I'm just telling the story.

The best thing about Fred was that I could get him to watch anything I wanted to watch - figure skating, gymnastics, diving competitions, dog shows, the Miss USA pageant, ANYTHING - and he went along with it because I'd watch Cowboys football with him back in the Troy Aikman/Michael Irvin/Deion Sanders/Emmit Smith days. I hate the Cowboys, but I LOVE Michael Irvin. And, for the record, I loved the cerebral sports humor Dennis Miller brought to Monday Night Football, too. But I digress.

One day Fred was in an extrordinarily shitty mood and when I asked him why, he didn't want to tell me. I was genuinely concerned.

Fred, seriously, what's wrong?

(Long pause)

YOU GOT ME TALKIN TO THAT DAMN BUNNY.

I nearly wet myself laughing. But I figured I should hold it for the next time Fred took me to a movie.


Fast forward to the Speed Racer era. My buddy Speed has been subjected to some atrocities himself, such as The Jonas Brothers Concert Experience in 3-D.




And during the Winter Olympics two weeks ago, I got Speed to watch Men's - that's MEN'S, mind you, I'm talking Johnny Fuckin Weir - Figure Skating with me. He wasn't happy about it, but he did it.

So I told him the story about Fred and that Damn Bunny.
And here's what I got Speed Racer for his birthday.




Her name is D. B. for Damn Bunny.
You can't see it, but she's wearing ice skates.
And, AND... (Regis Philbin voice) are ya ready for this???
If you press her hand, you can hear a recording of my actual voice saying "Hey, hey Speed... Hey Speeeed.... come taaalk to meeeeee!"

It's horrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrible.

Kind of a miracle that I have any friends at all, isn't it?

More Post-Holiday Stuff

So, to recap, Christmas Eve we ate the traditional Baby Jesus Dogs -



And then Tito spent Christmas Morning throwing up Baby Jesus.


Yeah, my bathroom's gross. Shut up.

Tito's birthday was the 29th, thus signaling the beginning of the six-week period out of every year when both of my sons are the same age, since Pie was born in February of 2002 and Tito was December 2002. We took the kids to Evil Mouse Pizza



where we saw games like this one:



And Pie threw down with some funky dance moves



and I nearly wet myself laughing.

Pie, just as an aside, has apparently reached the age when he's way too cool to be seen with me. I took the Apes to my kickass dentist last week, and when it was Pie's turn to go in, I tried to be all hip and I put my hand out for a high five as he walked past me.

He paused, shook his head ever so slightly and said, "Nnnnoooo."

Anyway, next, my parents came to stay with us for New Years', and it was fun. It was the stress that I couldn't write about because it was going to be a surprise for the Apes, and I know Beeb occasionally reads my blog, so I didn't want to chance it.

Really, my parents are wonderful, fun and laid-back, and the complete antithesis of my Inlaws. My kids adore them the way kids should adore their grandparents, and I don't have to worry about demands of perfection being placed upon me or about my parenting skills being publicly scrutinized.

However.

Sometimes it's harder to make plans when everyone is flexible, you know? When I make a few suggestions and "anything's fine" with everyone, then I feel like I have to make the ultimate decision for the group and it makes me really nervous. Why, I don't know. I get that, in all likelihood, it's totally in my head. Nobody's going to be mad at me, I don't think, but trying to make plans for the Apes and my parents - and keeping track of everyone - is extremely stressful for me.

Anyway, one of the mornings we all (minus R and Tito) went to the mall to see The Blind Side. We stopped at Panera (which around here is called St. Louis Bread Company) to buy a baker's dozen bagels. Our order went something like this:

Ok, can we get ... um ... four, five? Five. Five Cinnamon Crunch bagels, three of those cut in the bread slicer and put into individual bags. Then we need threeeeeee, three Asiago sliced the regular way, no wait, one of them in the bread slicer. How many is that? Seven? Eight? Ok, then, just five more of the Cinnamon Crunch sliced regular. Is that right? Yeah. Yeah, that's good.

The cashier didn't roll her eyes or sigh audibly. Why? Because they deal with people ordering shit like that ALL THE TIME.

She did, however, ring up each bagel individually, which would have come out to a price slightly higher than the Baker's Dozen price listed on the menu. Then she walked over to the bread slicer (still well within earshot, mind you) to slice three Cinnamon Crunch and one Asiago bagel and place them into separate bags.

Mom began to freak out a bit. If you've hung around me for any period of time, you may have seen me in one of these little mini anxiety attacks. Apple doesn't fall far, folks.

Sarah. Sarah, she's overcharging me. She charged me for each bagel.

Mom, chill, she knows what he's doing. There's probably a discount key she hasn't pressed yet, or something.

No, Sarah, she's charging me for each bagel. Should I tell her she's overcharging me? I'm going to tell her she's overcharging me.

Mom, you can't possibly be the first person in the history of Bread Company who's ever ordered a total of thirteen bagels. I'm sure there's a system in place for these situations.

She's going to overcharge me. She's not doing it right. I know she's not doing it right.

Mom, her nametag says ASSISTANT MANAGER. She's been trained. Calm down. Seriously.

Sure enough, she adjusted the price before giving Mom the total, so it was cool, but still, I'm tempted to rent the DVD of Rain Man and check the Deleted Scenes to see if there's one called "The Bagel Incident" that was juuuust barely not Rain Man enough to make the Director's Cut. Wouldn't surprise me one bit.

Another thing my parents do that drives me mental is combine small amounts of different kinds of cereal into one box. I poured myself a bowl of Fruit Loops and got this -



Honey Loop Flakes. GAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!

Back me up, readers. If all cereal was the same, they wouldn't make 200 different kinds, right? Come on. Some days you're feeling Honeycomb, other days you're feeling Frosted Flakes. It takes a lot out of me to determine what Cereal Mood I'm in at 6:45 in the a.m., so when I commit to a cereal, I want it to commit to ME. In other words, when I pour a bowl of Raisin Bran, I better not find no damn Cheerios in it. These things should NOT be tampered with. Can I get an Amen??

Ok, so other than The Bagel Incident and Honey Loop Flakes, my parents' visit was great. The next major event in my life was my 39th birthday, last Wednesday. It really didn't hit me until a few days later, on Dr. King's birthday. He's always looked older to me in pictures, but he was 39 when he died. Of course, not everyone is born to change the world as he did, but it made me think Shit, what have I contributed to the world in the same amount of time on this planet?

Well, I'm working on it.

Meanwhile, I am LOVING my job at Squish. My bathroom looks like a Squish shop. Hey, I need to be able to talk about our products from my personal experience, right?

I even hennaed my hair with Squish hair color.



PLUS, as part of my job, I got to come up with some awesome party ideas for February (finally, I'm getting paid to plan parties!!!) and I'm going to need the local branch of my fan club to help me out because there's a contest involved, and you all know how competitive I get.

(ADD moment - What the fuck is this Karen Walker I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Turn The Tub Around bullshit???)

I was nervous for a while because I was hired as Seasonal and there was some question about which Seasonal folks would get to stay on after Holiday, but I must have charmed them with my wit and the Je Ne Sais Quoi you know and love.

That said, I haven't fully unleashed Penny Karma on them yet. In fact, I am hesitant to let the coworkers in on Behold My Brilliance because it would mean that I couldn't rant freely about work-related drama, should I perhaps want to, someday. I'm still enough of a noob to not have any idea what goes on between the full-timers, and I don't care, but if any fun shit comes up that I think you all might appreciate, I'd like to be able to share it, so I'm kinda torn.

Remember how I struggled with joining my high school alumni on Facebook? It's like that. Somehow I've managed to keep it clean on FB and so far nobody's outed me as a liberal-minded pottymouth blogger, but Jesus Christ, there are days when I'd love to drop an F-bomb and watch the Sh** storm that would undoubtedly ensue. You bitches know how much I hate censoring myself.

I've let the coolest of my co-workers read my previous post because for some reason Inlaws came up as a conversational topic, and Lord knows I've got plenty to contribute to THAT conversation. She dug it.

I've let a different co-worker know that my friends call me Penny, because I realized out loud that it feels weird to me to see Sarah on my name tag. I forget my own name, sometimes, because I'm always addressed Mom or Mrs. Karma or Parent of (insert name of Ape). And I think of myself more as Penny than as Sarah. At least I want to be more Penny than Sarah, especially in social situations. Penny's the one you want to hang out with, trust me. Sarah has interpersonal awkwardness and occasional gut-wrenching social anxiety.

My First Post-Holiday Post

Christmas is over. But the stress isn't.

Christmas morning Tito barfed in my bed. Sure, it was gross and a minor inconvenience, but since it meant I could stay home with a sick kid instead of spending the day you-know-where, I'd say I got the better end of the deal.

Well, scratch that. I missed the fantastic meal MIL made. And I kinda did want to see the reaction to the gifts I put together for the Aldikids.

Remember the not-so-subtle gifting feud I've continued for years? Basically, the Aldis have a history of shitty gift-giving. When I say shitty, I mean their gifts are clearly bought on Super Duper going-out-of-business clearance and are either ridiculously age-inappropriate, discontinued and therefore impossible to find the accessories necessary to make them fun, defective and almost always unreturnable. They've done this to us for years. I've only been paying attention to it since 2001. It's so obnoxious.

When Beeb turned 4, they gave her a train engine that blew bubbles that, according to the box, was for 18 months and up. She's not a two year old boy, geniuses. So we tried to return/exchange it - at every store in the greater metropolitan area. NOBODY had this stupid thing.

Then we remembered that Mrs. Aldi's creepy dumpster-diver brother and his creepy toothless midget wife used to work at a store called Grandpa Pidgeon's that went out of business years ago. They bought up a buttload of 99% off crappy toys on Clearance and stuffed them in a closet, pulling them out as needed to give as gifts. Mystery solved, Scooby.

This comes from a 2005 post, in which I reference the following email I sent to my friend Renee back in 2002:

Well, I'm sure you remember Mr and Mrs Aldi who are notorious for giving us re-gifted, crappy, age-inappropriate and incorrectly sized gifts (remember my Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt from the Juniors department and the Bubble Train for ages 18 months+ for Beeb's 4th birthday?) that were purchased on clearance and put away for a gift-giving occasion that could be months away, rendering the shitty gift unreturnable and worth about 33 cents in store credit if you can even determine which store it was purchased from? And forget a gift receipt since you'd only get what they paid for it back, which probably isn't much more anyway. We end up giving the gifts they give us to Toys for Tots, which means I have to figure out a place to store it for 6 months.

And I'm sure you remember how we attempted to rise above this gift-giving inequity and continued to buy cool gifts for their daughter (Aldigirl), such as a really cute wooden dollhouse and a Rainbow Princess Barbie, both of which were met with Mrs Aldi muttering "oh greeeeeeeeeeeeaaat, more little pieces for me to pick up..."

Well, we decided we're going to beat them at their own game. We look for toys with lots of parts that are completely annoying on clearance and put them away to give to Aldigirl. It's like a sport, and hubby and I are great at it. In fact, it's brought us closer together as a couple. At one point we found the Baskin Robbins mini ice cream maker on clearance at Target, but then we found it at WalMart for 20 bucks, so we returned it to WalMart (hee hee) and made money on the deal.

Then we found Cootie Jitterbug - a battery-operated, noisy and annoying version of the original, and put it away for nearly a year until Aldigirl's birthday. Thank GOD they didn't have a party for her again this year. Every year they try to cram like 12 grownups and 7 kids in their house. No, Reverend Aldi had a conference in LA, so they actually purchased a plane ticket and took Aldigirl to Disneyland for her 4th birthday. Whatever.

Anyway, we presented Aldigirl with her gift at Easter (in a non-reusable slightly torn gift bag, as I had covered every detail) and to my delight, she shrieked "I ALREADY HAVE THIS GAME!!!" Gleefully I imagined the scenario that we had endured so many times before - standing in line at the return counter "um, yeah, I got this as a gift and I need to return it..." "yeah, RIGHT! we haven't had those on the shelves for 6 months! You can have a dollar in store credit, if ya want it..." "no, thanks..."

Well, apparently Mrs. Aldi knew exactly what it was worth since she probably bought it at the same time we did, and her reaction was "oh...you love that game...now you can have one upstairs and one downstairs..." Hilarious! And the best part was that I was in the bathroom at the time, where I could hear everything and yet freely snicker without fear of an embarrassing social faux pas. I was so tickled by my triumphant victory, I don't even care if she's onto us. I suspect she is.


Over the years they've presented the Apes with some pretty kooky shit. One year they gave Beeb an uncharacteristically cool gift - an MP3 Player called the Juice Box which played little cartridges with videos and music on them. When we went to look for more cartridges for it, we found it at KMart in a clearance bin, discontinued, and we soon came to the realization that it would be a major pain in the ass to find the cartridges and accessories necessary to do anything with it. Thanks, douchebags.

And then last year, they hit a new low. From my 1-6-09 entry:

I didn't think there was anything lower than giving a kid a shitty gift, but there is. It's giving a kid a really awesome gift that doesn't work. They got the boys cool AirHog helicopters and threw in, as a bonus, these cool-looking guns that shoot nerfball-like things.

At least, that's what they're supposed to do. They don't do shit but collect dust. They don't WORK. The boys were so bummed, it was sad. Who wants to see a sad kid on Christmas?

The Aldis included batteries, which was surprisingly generous. So when we got home (of course I couldn't let the boys open them at Chez Inlaw because they'd shoot them all over and I'd be the worst parent in the world) we put them in, and couldn't get either gun to work. R thought perhaps we should get some NEW batteries, as we wouldn't put it past the Aldis to include some mostly-dead batteries that they'd taken out of one of their kids' toys. New batteries didn't work either.

R did a quick internet search, and found these items on Super Duper Clearance at Target.com. We kicked ourselves for not opening them at Chez Inlaw so the Aldis could be exposed as the crappy giftgivers they are.

Anyway, finding out what discontinued tchotkes the Aldis gave the kids for Christmas is one of my favorite things to look forward to during the Holidays. And, because I like to make the magic last all through the year, I am constantly on the lookout for shitty clearance rack gifts to give to the Aldibrats. I don't care if I have to hide it in my closet for eleven months, fuck it, I'll smile every time I see it in there.

This year I totally outdid myself.

About four or five years ago I found a huge Thomas the Tank Engine set with miles and miles of blue track. I really don't know why I bought it, other than that it was a really great deal I found at a toy store called Zany Brainy that was going out of business, and Tito already had a million train sets, so I put it away in the garage at the old house (the one we moved out of three years ago), and then when we moved to our new house I once again hid it in the basement inside a garbage bag.

Maybe a year or so later, I found a Whistle and Go Thomas toy on Uberclearance at WalMart, thinking it would make a deliciously annoying gift for Aldiboy, should we be invited to Aldiboy's birthday party. We weren't. Boo fucking hoo.

This year was considerably leaner than last year when R was making phat commission and Santa brought my Dyson, a bigass TV and an Xbox 360, so this year I raided the gift stash (and the yarn stash too, come to think of it - I knitted crappy garter-stitch scarves for the kids' teachers).

Bottom line: Aldiboy got a gift with a whistle in it AND another with a million little parts. Oh, and if the fact that the train set was in a visibly discolored box doesn't clue them in to its age, just wait till they try to find additional parts for it.

Noisy, check. Little pieces, check. Impossible to return, check.

It gave me the same physical sensation of the shamelessly indulgent bliss that you get when you eat too much on Thanksgiving. So totally satisfying you almost feel guilty, but you don't. It was almost like a food coma, except it was more of a Screw You, Asshole coma. I rode that high for days.

And the best part? Out-of-pocket cost? ZERO. It was a muthahfuckin Hat Trick (for those who don't understand sports terminology, it's when a hockey player scores three goals in a game), muthahfuckers!!!

But there's more - I got a $10 gift card in the mail from Kohl's so I thought I'd see if I could find something for Aldigirl. I found a Ralph Lauren purse for $3.74, a wallet for $6.00, and a set of three little rings with pink stones in them for $2.00. I had to spend at least $10 to get the $10 off, so I ended up spending less than $2.00 out of pocket.

But then the purse looked a little bare, so I got a SnowFairy perfume solid from Squish and, the piece de resistance (yeah, I know it's supposed to have accents cuz it's French) - a cute little case from Claire's with four hideous colors of eyeshadow, three lipglosses, and MASCARA. Hee hee!!! I'll bet you anything she puts it on her eyebrows.

I was so bummed that I didn't get to witness Mrs. Aldi's reaction to the makeup, but R said she rolled her eyes or something.

I don't know if it's irony or coincidence, but the Aldis gave Beeb a purse for Christmas too. It's huge. It's zebra print vinyl with a giant pink bedazzled peace symbol on it. It's CRAZY. Beeb loves it.

But because I was home with sick Tito I missed our semi-annual church pilgrimage and the trip to Chez Inlaw, Christmas didn't really feel like Christmas to me. It was just like any other Saturday. I sat in bed next to Tito all day, which, in a way, was a gift to me.

More Post-holiday posts to follow...