4/7/2007

Flinger Flight 666

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Welcome aboard Flinger Flight 666. Next destination: Hell.
We’re proud to serve you goldfish and fruitsnacks for your inflight meal. Your movie will be “Elmo’s Potty Time” on a loop. You’re aboard a special flight filled with a scientific experiment where your children have been sleep deprived and starved and are needing your attention.
In case of an emergency, there are no exists.
Thank you for choosing Flinger Airlines.

We were going along just splendidly, or rather as splendidly as one with a new baby could possibly be going along, when BLAMO! The ‘flux hit the house. LB had the flux. We weren’t aware that’s what was going on until well in to my “I hate being a mom OHMYHELL what did we do?!” phase. Once she got on Zantac, life became bearable. A few months later, she started sleeping and a few months after that I uttered the words “Number Two.” And now, here we are. History has a way of repeating itself. Continue...

Poltergeist, exorcism, and that damn ghost kitty

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I’ve talked openly about my child’s refusal to nap and its subsequent effect on me.  We’ve been battling the “Nap Issue” for some time now. Eons ago, Oma said “perhaps she’s just giving it up?” to which I threw tomatoes at her and booed very loudly.  I may have even hissed, I’m not sure. Either way, I know that even if SHE thinks she does not need a nap, *I* know she does. She claims she wants to go play because “my eyes aren’t tired, Mommy!” but I see this:

image Continue...

4/2/2007

Oprah and Bon-Bons (or, why I suck at being a WAHM)

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Anyone else feel like you’re treading under water? Grey’s Anatomy aside here, we’re all drowning in snot and a megga slow server. I swear I’ve tried to update only to get a “page loading” message for, oh, more than the .2 nanoseconds that I have patience to wait so I close my browser and decide my site hates me. No, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s the snot. It’s the fever. It’s the holy-hell-sinus-pressure-that-I-can-only-take-farking-saline-spray-for (!?) and the other things the Internet was telling me you don’t need to hear about.

Being sick is boring as hell, y’all. Continue...

1/8/2007

A letter of resignation

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Look, I’ve had some hard jobs. I’ve worked technical support for a school district with over 100,000 users and only TWELVE support specialist. I’ve answered, “I don’t know my email password” and “How do I change my desktop picture?” more times than I care to confess. It took patience. Not as much patience as the time I worked in a daycare with a class of eight two year olds and only ONE of me all stuffed in a twelve-by-twelve room for nine hours a day. I thought that was really hard at the time. But this job? This parenting gig? It’s so. much. harder.

I don’t want to be the mom with the crazy hair and the furrowed brow and the flames shooting out her nose. I don’t want to be the women with the premature gray hairs, the lines etching on her eyes, the drool and glazed over wistful look during the four minutes of quiet each day. I want to be happy. I want to enjoy my children’s youth. I want to be able to honestly say “It’s hard, sure, but…” Right now? All I can say is “it’s hard.” There is no but. Continue...

Conversations from the backseat

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Today, as we were driving home from playing at the park with Paige, I decided to go through town so LB could go on a bridge over water and see the big buildings. We drove by Mr. Flinger’s Alumni and I pointed out that is where Daddy went to school. LB was quiet, and I repeated, “See? That is Daddy’s college. Daddy went to school there.”

We drove a bit more and she could see it better so I told her again, “That’s where daddy went to school.” And again after we rounded a corner and could see a different view. Continue...

11/5/2006

I will never be your Great Aunt Marcy

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My Grandfather’s sister, Marcella, lives in San Antonio. I grew up in Houston so we’d go there every so often and Uncle Charles would tell us about the pecan trees in his backyard and Aunt Marcy would make us pecan pie and we’d eat brisket and mash potatoes. It was always cooler in San Antonio than when we left Houston and the adults would talk about humidity while my sister and I did cartwheel and handstands in the yard. I have this memory etched in my brain from a variety of visits spanning years and years. It was always the same.

After we moved to the North West, Aunt Marcy still sent us birthday cards, promptly, starting in 1989. There are a few things you can count on in life. Death, Taxes, and your birthday card from Aunt Marcy. She is timely, she never ever forgets, and there is never any money or a gift card in it. It’s a card. That’s it. Every year. And I love it. Continue...

Internet Explorer and my two year old: a toss up

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I can’t decided which I am more frustrated with today. IE or LB. They both throw tantrums when asked to behave. They both push my buttons until I’m ready to yell. Neither of them plays nicely at times and neither of them gives a rats ass about web design.

Look, let me come right out and say it here. I gosh-darn strongly dislike Internet Explorer. (LB threw out the word crap the other day followed closely by damnit. I am now speaking only in “rated LB” terms around the house and it gets so. bleeping. irritating. But really, do I need my two year old saying fuck? I obviously hit my fuck quota for the year.) Ok, it goes like this….. I get frustrated and unsettled at life in general. Perhaps it’s a mom who is prettier and not gagging hours a day over her sink that makes me wish I wasn’t me. Or maybe it’s the car’s “check engine” light that appears on a random basis having nothing what-so-ever to do with getting gas or a gas cap like one would hope. Or maybe it’s the two year old being very two-sie and me being very preg-sie and we just collide a little too long. It is times like this that I really want to escape to my happy place. You’d never guess where that is? (No, it’s not partying in the bathroom while the 6 month old sleep in the hotel room, but that was a fun memory…) My happy place is my blog. It’s the escape I get when things just are too .... real.. in real life. Continue...