brain dump

new job mixed feelings lots of reading more than reading reading as much as i did in college no not just college the really hard advanced literature classes with the sadistic professors but i should be happy because at least this job cares about reading and training and education what am i complaining about anyway oh yeah then there's the traffic the everloving traffic how will i handle this every day i was so spoiled with a ten minute drive home for two years and also no more leaving early every friday for me nope none of that now i work for a professional company that cares about professionalism and timeliness and appearance and availability not just the company but specifically my department a very visible department but i like that because it means good opportunities but man oh man am i going to miss leaving early every friday and having those luxurious long weekends sigh i'll feel better in six months when everything isn't crowding into my brain at once and forcing out all other previous knowledge knowledge that was second nature to me knowledge that was fun and easy for me to access such as grammar punctuation sentence structure style and any semblance of giving a crap about what i was writing maybe i should let bryce take over for a while speaking of bryce today when his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up he told her he wanted to do lots of things but mostly he wanted to be a banana picker

Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges.

The kids spent the night with my mom last night so John and I could see this movie (and then talk about how depressed it made me feel, what with the crappy way Smith leaves Pocahontas high and dry after she loses her entire identity and way of life to be with him, and the way Smith admits his imperialistic way of life and intentions towards a peaceful and giving culture are harmful and wrong, but then doesn't really do much about it, except go off to find more of the world to invade. I have no idea how much of this was embellished for the sake of ticket sales, but it depressed me nonetheless. We were going to see the new Woody Allen movie instead, but we didn't want to drive the extra three miles to the theater where it was showing. Laziness. It gets me every time.). When we got to my mom's this morning to pick the boys up, we found them enjoying her latest contribution to their appreciation for life: high quality red cardboard-felt cowboy hats and stationary horses from the store I loathe that they could "ride" while watching hours of TV.

"Dad! Mom! Look what we got! Can we take them home??!" John and I looked at my mom the way we always do when she buys them new toys (which is EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. SHE SEES THEM.), silently shouting with our eyes, "what are you doing to us, woman?!" And she met our glares with the very logical reason she'd been prepared to give us all morning: "Well, we couldn't resist, they were just so cute! And they were on clearance for $17.00, I mean, COME ON!" Well, obviously, people. $17.00 x 2 horses, plus a few dollars for the hats, plus tax - what are we talking? $50.00 for a fun-filled outing to Low Price Land and cheap, child-labor derived objects that will entertain them for a whole day?! Who would be able to resist that? And let me just say, that money definitely wouldn't have been better spent on educational savings for them. SCREW THAT! College is a whole 15 years away - we don't need to think about it now, worry-warts! We have to teach them the value of BUYING THINGS, right? Because when Bryce got into my mom's car yesterday and demanded to know if she had bought any new toys for him, he didn't say it with quite enough aggression and pushiness in his voice -- we obviously need to work on that. My mom is just fighting the good fight, god bless her. A $17.00 horse today, an additional five dozen matchbox cars to join the other dust-covered ones under couches tomorrow: she'll turn them into rampant, ad-driven consumers in no time! Well, someone's gotta do it. John and I, with all our talk of "savings" and "education" have probably set the kids' Consumer Mentality Status back by at least a decade.

I will admit that that kids spent the entire afternoon playing with the horses and wearing their new hats. For some reason, they decided it would be completely appropriate and not at all dangerous to put themselves and the horses into the skull-shattering tile shower. I never got an explanation for this, but despite all my helpful verbal warnings to Quinn not to fall, he did. Head first, still on the horse, which caused and also broke the fall, out of the shower onto the bathroom floor. But not before he and Bryce had the chance to gleefully defy my repeated commands to come out. Look how much fun they had in their defiance:



Aww, who cares about the college fund anyway? It's just so cute. Maybe they'll find a way to make a career out of manipulating loved ones into buying them whatever they need or want, thus eliminating any need for college in the first place! It's brilliant! Consumerism, manipulation, greed, and hedonistic pursuits; who needs a college fund when you can teach them all this?!

I think we have trust issues.

Did you know that, in addition to florals, Georgia O'Keeffe also painted animal skulls? I didn't until yesterday, when my four-year-old told me. But I didn't believe him; I thought he was just saying something as a "joke," like when he tells me at 4:30 p.m. that he already ate his dinner and so he's sure it would be fine if he had a brownie (yes, this is his version of a "joke" but when I mistakenly tell him we're out of juice and then correct myself when I find it at the back of the fridge later, that's "lying.")

I had received his school newsletter earlier that day and I knew that they had been studying an artist, but I couldn't remember which one, so I asked him: "which artist did you study at school this week?" He looked perplexed, head forward, eyes darting up, eyebrows crinkled: "I can't remember her name. But she paints really big, pretty flowers, and she doesn't like it when people remove the paintings from the gallery!" When he said the part about the gallery, he used a big sweeping motion with both of his hands in sync with the movement of his eyeballs, like he really wanted to emphasize this part of the story. I remembered who it was, so I said, "Oh! Was it Georgia O'Keeffe?" He jumped up and down in excitement and some sort of hyper relief, if that exists: "Oh yeah! Hooray, I remembered, it's Georgia O'Keeffe! Georgia O'Keeffe! Georgia O'Keeffe!" By now he was walking in repeated circles around Quinn's round bedroom rug - around and around and around and around, chanting Georgia O'Keeffe's name as he went. Usually when he's this physically hyper, the entire interaction degenerates into yelling and jumping, so I assumed we were done discussing Ms. O'Keeffe. But then, in the middle of one of his seven-step laps, he said, "and you know what else she paints? She paints skulls." I wasn't sure if he knew what a skull was, and four-year-olds, even anal ones like mine, don't have perfect pronunciation, so I said, "Schools?" He stopped his rug lap and looked at me with disgust and an intense desire to clarify: "No! Skulls! I SAID SKULLS." I obviously never learn, and he got his persistent, annoying qualities from me, so I said, "You mean like a skeleton head? That kind of skull?" Bryce gave me a look that suggested he was beginning to believe he'd already surpassed my intellectual level, and was concerned about how he would survive the next few years with such an incompetent parent in charge of him: "Yes, that's what a skull is. A skeleton head. She paints them." Confirming Bryce's belief in my stupidity, I shook my head, confident in my superior adult intelligence: "No, I don't think so, Bryce. She just paints flowers, I'm pretty...sure...hmm." I realized as I was talking that Bryce has never actually told me something like this and ended up being wrong. Kind of like when he was adamant about the number of moons Neptune has, and I kept disagreeing, then had to go back and concede. To a FOUR-YEAR-OLD, people. This time when Bryce said, "YES SHE DOES PAINT SKULLS! I SAW THEM! I'm not even lying!" I thought I should quit while I was ahead. I said, "wow, Bryce, I didn't even know that. Thanks for telling me."

Then I promptly went downstairs and looked it up on Google. He's right. I'm wrong. And I'm starting to think maybe he should be concerned about the level of incompetence in his mother. I mean, the poor kid thinks I assume he's lying if he tells me something I don't already know...AND I went to fact check my four-year-old so I could keep arguing with him if he was wrong! I'm sick. I'm very, very sick.

The answer is d.

Tonight I was hunched over my laptop when John walked into the bedroom, an intently focused, serious look on my squinting face, my hand poised over the mouse buttons and the pg dn key as my eyes darted back and forth across the screen. Was I...

a.) Catching up on all the work I have to finish at my current job before starting my new one next week?

b.) Reading an electronic version of a literary classic and thus expanding my mind?

c.) Updating myself on current world events?

d.) Being blogged*?

I am and always have been a "high achieving" individual. I wouldn't have identified myself as such in my childhood or early adulthood. But the more experiences I have, the more I am able to admit this about myself, and appreciate the good and bad qualities and results of this fact. When I set out to do something, I accomplish it with a flourish. I graduated from a prestigious university in three years (and I wasn't one of those who took a bunch of college credits with her from high school classes, either), simply because I figured out that I could, and then decided to do it. I married someone 17 years my senior and took on his kids, who were essentially abandoned by their mother and have multiple resulting major emotional problems, and while I don't take full credit for the survival and strength of our relationship, I recognize that I am an integral part of that success (at least half, right??). I knew the company I wanted to work for after I graduated from college and moved back here, and persisted until they hired me, then lived through the emotional beating that is a layoff after three years of employment there. I gave birth to fire and a gibbon swallower and have lived to tell the tales. I persisted for three and a half years to get back to the company that laid me off, and succeeded against all odds (they'll never get rid of me now, bwahahahaha). I baffled doctors by gaining 65 pounds during pregnancy, then lost it all by quite literally working my ass off. I am woman, hear me roar! I accomplish anything I set my mind to!

But here's the thing. I think my undoing is going to be blogging. OH MY GOD, people. How do you do it? How do you so faithfully find the time to comment on all these clever sites, hundreds and thousands and millions of them, and still write coherently on your own sites? I am going to hire an assistant because I clearly can't manage to live my life responsibly AND simultaneously meet all of my blogging requirements. Those of you who blog regularly while working a full time job outside the house, and those of you who have, say, SEVEN homeschooled kids, or who have time to read AND blog (and blog about reading and other intelligent things) and always take the time to include graphics or music on every post...I just want to know this: do you not like sleep? Because I'm thinking maybe that's my problem. I am a big lazy sleep-lover.

A few nights ago, John walked in on me in a harried, hunched-over-the-laptop position similar to what I described earlier, and he said, "what's wrong?!" My exasperated, fist-shaking reply was, "I can't keep up with all these blogs!" He started laughing, and he told me the image in his mind was of me in a big open field with a tiny tennis-racket sized defense instrument, swinging my arms like I'm swatting at flies while dodging huge, bouncing globs (coincidence that "glob" is merely an anagram of "blog"? I think not.) of amorphous material. When he told me this, I pictured myself in a lightning storm with the small tennis racket, and the globs were about the size of houses. This is just the first thought that popped into my head, so clearly my subconscious view of this situation is a tiny bit fraught with angst at this point.

On the days I manage to write something of my own, I don't seem to have any leftover time to comment on other blogs. On the days I comment and read the growing list of blogs I want to keep up with, I am rudely reminded that there are only 24 hours in a day, and I'm lazy enough that I really want at least 7 of them for sleep, which means no time for post-writing. Because the remaining 17 hours are taken up with commenting, eating, and, what else? - oh yeah, living the life I'm trying to write about. But I'm determined not to be blogged* to death, even if that means I end up on the fringe of the blogging community the way we are on the fringe of American Suburbia. I wish I could pay the bills and raise my kids and still tap away on my laptop 8-9 hours a day just maintaining my blogging requirements. Some people are talented enough to have accomplished this. However, until that unlikely day comes for me, go ahead and take this down for the record: I can't keep up. I've tried and failed, and so now I'm just going to do my best to write and comment when I can and not because I picture a glob-blog gun held to my head. So...I guess what I'm saying is, bear with me while I teach myself to under-achieve. It's for my health; that and all the alcohol are for my long-term health.

*This will be my new method of discussing any activity relating to posting on my own or someone else's blog (no matter how much I may enjoy and respect said blog). While it is very close to the accepted phrase "blogging," I want to emphasize that in MY experience, there are aspects to blogging that begin to feel more, oh, let's see... inflicted than a basic old gerund can really properly connote. "Blogging" sounds so pleasant and controlled, like "going shopping" or "picking out a new book." But with MY method, you can "be blogged" the way you can "be tarred and feathered", you know? It's grossly overexaggerated and unnecessary, but kind of fun for observers in a sick, twisted way, too.

Experiencing a Moment

Right this minute, as I type, I am experiencing a moment. A very unique moment. A happy, peaceful, sipping a good cup coffee at the kitchen table while my two youngest children are engaged in a, get ready for this, co-operative play moment. And they are outside. In the back yard. No yelling, no hitting, no using the little brother as a pinata. The snippets of conversation that I hear are ones that are rarely seen or heard on the Fringe. Soft voices, questions and answers, explanations, co-operation, innocent laughter.

I want to savor this moment - make it last. I want to know what forces of the universe came together to make this happen so I might be able to witness it again - sooner rather than later. This moment is the one I want to recall later in my life when I think back to their childhood, the type of memory that brings an internal smile to your soul, one that erases a hundred fold of not so nice moments.

My coffee cup is almost empty. I know the moment won't last much longer, but I am grateful for its presence.

I always forego those extended warranties. I'm re-thinking that.

The more I say about the kids, the more obvious it becomes that we are doing something drastically wrong. If the kids were store-bought appliances, I would have taken them back to Sears today, righteously waving my receipt in the air and demanding an immediate refund. I might return in a couple of days to pick out a replacement, but I'm not sure about that yet. I mean, considering the fact that I purchased TWO, and that both of them are severely malfunctioning, it would be a pretty risky proposition, even if the store guaranteed the results.

Besides, my kids aren't microwaves, and I'm pretty sure their malfunctions are a direct result of my own stupidity over time - a classic case of "operator error" - so even if they were, the haughty Sears clerk would undoubtedly quote to me the part of the manufacturer's warranty that explains if you do something really stupid, like try to dry off a small pet in the microwave despite all the warnings in great big letters all over the appliance, the merchant is not responsible for any resulting damage.

DAMN. So, all those times we took the lazy way out and gave Quinn whatever he wanted despite the fact that he originally said "no" to what he was being offered just to avoid the screams - this was our version of putting the wet poodle into the microwave like it was one of those beauty shop heat dryers. All those times we lost our patience and engaged in a negotation with Bryce rather than sticking to whatever consequence we originally stated - our version of sticking leftover casserole in and pushing "1000 minutes on high" just to see what would happen. And now what are we left with? Poodle remnants and black, crusty former noodles plastered chaotically on the smooth painted metal like a Jackson Pollack painting on canvas, fried circuitry and flashing Zs where the digital clock used to be.

John and I have ongoing disagreements about various aspects of the kids' upbringing. We try to communicate and compromise, to agree to disagree about the less important things, and to respect the other one's wishes on the more important things, but always to appear consistent in front of the kids. The thing is, our "united front" means nothing to them. We may have a united front, but we're LOSING, so it really doesn't matter. They are so far ahead of us that they don't even have to worry about dividing and conquering; they can conquer our united front in their sleep. But, how is this possible? THIS is what I consider to be the real malfunction here, and this is the part that I would cling to in my warranty fight with the haughty Sears clerk. In our minds, we always thought we'd made the same basic mistakes that all parents make - we thought our mistakes were minor and wouldn't cause any significant damage (to us or to them) - like leaving popcorn in the microwave for so long that it burns and leaves a small smoke smear for a few weeks, or like letting a bowl of soup boil over and stain part of the rotating glass component. We read the owner's manual; in fact, I read lots and lots and lots of such literature, and I still do. I know all the tips and tricks, even for dealing with quirky kids like Bryce, and siblings of quirky kids like Quinn. I don't understand how we've ended up in the situation we're in, but something has gone haywire.

John was working today and won't return until late tonight. The kids and I were cooped up all day, so I decided after getting groceries, I'd take them to a local Italian place they like for dinner. I used all the good parenting tips - calmly telling them what the evening would consist of, presenting it as a treat, telling them I hoped they chose to cooperate in the grocery store so we'd all be able to enjoy a nice dinner together at one of their favorite places, blah blah blah freaking blah. Quinn loudly demanded macaroni and cheese, so that's what I ordered for him. Bryce ordered the usual chicken strips and waffle fries, and I even double checked with Quinn about his order: "Do you want macaroni? You don't want chicken and french fries?" When the food came, Quinn acted like somebody took his hand and shoved it into a vat of boiling water, he was THAT shocked and offended by the macaroni and cheese. He actually PUSHED IT BACK AT THE WAITER. WHILE. SCREAMING. AT. HIM: "That's NOT my lackaloney cheese! IT'S NOOOOOOTTTTT!!!!!" Bryce was contentedly munching on his food and I felt like I couldn't get up and leave the establishment since we'd actually ordered and received everything, so I asked if they would bring another plate of chicken. Quinn cried and yelled until it got there. Then, after Quinn took one bite, Bryce had to go to the bathroom. He's four. I couldn't send him by himself, I couldn't leave Quinn at the table. I saw busboys waiting like vultures and descending on tables within milliseconds of patrons barely scooting back their chairs, so I had to ask someone to make sure no one took our food away while we were in the bathroom. When we got back, Quinn, who had taken one bite, said he was done and proceeded to stand in his chair for the ten minutes it took me to get the check and bag up his uneaten food.

When we got home, they wanted to play in their rooms and we had a little time before they needed a bath, so I attempted to leave them alone for 10 minutes while I put the rest of the groceries away. Crashing. Banging. Screaming. Lots of "HEY! Don't do that! I'm telling mom! You're mean!" They were fighting over blocks. There are only five MILLION of them. And they were fighting over the surface space they each wanted to use for whatever blocks they'd commandeered. There are only SIX distinct eye-level surfaces they could have used, not to mention the 500 SQUARE FEET of FLOOR. But they have to fight. They have to yell. They have to push. my. buttons.

During their bath, Quinn started splashing. I asked him not to and said that I didn't want my clothes to get wet. Bryce acted like he dropped a toy, conveniently causing a big enough splash that it soaked my legs. They started squealing with delight, both of them splashing and kicking and swooshing from side to side. Brotherly love, I should be glad they're not fighting. I got Bryce out to dry him off and he tried to dive back in, while Quinn was still making tidal waves. I did my best to dry him off without screaming over his maniacal laughter (I am actually not exaggerating. He was laughing like a mad scientist, with the deep "a ha ha ha HA" and standing on his tiptoes for full exertion). By the time I got Quinn out, it looked like the bathroom had been flooded. After it was clean, I asked Bryce to get the blocks he'd left downstairs and bring them up, and then I accompanied him to make sure he didn't get sidetracked, since it was getting late. There was a start to a castle or robot made out of blocks, and rather than just putting the stacked legos directly into the big block bucket in one move, he insisted on taking them apart ONE BY ONE before he could place them into the bucket and go back upstairs. He might as well have been plucking my eyelashes out one by one. I told him to just get the blocks upstairs or I would do it for him and he would lose his chance. He tried to get them all apart faster, completely ignoring my request. I counted to three, then calmly took the bucket upstairs, which caused him to shriek and cry about the injustice I was doling out to him. The thing is, I don't even think he was trying to be manipulative - he truly believes that he is justified in taking apart those damned blocks JUST BECAUSE his logic rules over that of anyone else. It doesn't matter what I told him to do; he "just wanted to take those blocks apart!" He will argue this for hours if you let him. H-O-U-R-S.

Just a few minutes ago, after they had been asleep for about an hour, I heard Quinn start to cry over his monitor. It's actually pretty rare for that to happen, so I went up to check on him. He was saying, "No, not this one! I don't want THIS one! NOOOO!!" He was half asleep and kept pointing to one of the two life-size fluffy dogs he uses for pillows. One was under his head, one was right next to his body. I said, "you don't want what one? This dog?" He said, "Yeah." and then plopped back down and went to sleep (I think he thought I'd switched the dogs). Good LORD! Even in their sleep. Come up here so I can whine at you and you can do something to make my life more comfortable than a king's. And you better LIKE it, wench. Now, off with you.

Macaroni, chicken strips, restaurant outings, life size dogs, millions of blocks, hundreds of square feet of play space, a mom who rushes in after one minute of nit-picky whining - maybe that Sears clerk is right after all. Operator error. Big, huge operator error.

How do you repair the damage caused by the operator? I need technical support. Is this situation even salvageable? Or should I just go back to using the toaster oven to heat up my food?

Petrification: The Spanking of the 21st Century

Tonight's dinner dialogue between Bryce, John, and me:

J: Bryce, tell mom about what happened at school this afternoon!

B: Oh yeah! We had VISITORS!

J: But what kind of visitors?

B: Scientists!

J: And what did they tell you about?

B: They had this [flailing arms in some semblance of a circle] stuff from a tree [more flailing].

Me: I don't know what that means.

B: It was part of the branch, but the middle, big part!

Me: You mean the trunk of the tree?

B: Yeah, the trunk!

Me: Or the bark?

B: Yeah, the bark of the trunk of the tree. It looked like this [more flailing, I can only assume he was trying to "draw" the tree rings in the air].

J: I think maybe it was petrified wood, right Bryce? Was it petrified?

B: [Alarmed, confused, eyes wide, wheels turning] NO, I HOPE NOT!!

Mouth pain or not, I busted out laughing at that one. Who knows what this kid thinks "petrified" means. Maybe he thinks people can be petrified. He looked like he was envisioning some evil force harshly punishing this innocent tree bark, when all it was doing was growing quietly in the forest. The look on his face could have been saying, "geez, if someone does that to an innocent old tree, what the HELL is going to happen to me? I purposely push these people to the brink of insanity every day. Crap. What have I done?! And why did no one tell me of this 'petrified' consequence before?"

Fringe Facts

The following Fringe Facts are offered as enertainment only, and are without warranties, implied or explicit. No animals were mistreated in the making or observation of these Facts. All Facts were true and correct at the time of posting, unless otherwise noted, or unless they were made up. These Facts are an equal opportunity offender in regards to race, creed, color, national origin, religion (or lack thereof), sex (or lack thereof), or gender (or confusion thereof).

Fringe Facts:

177 - Average dollars spent per month on electricity.

96 - Combined age of all Home on the Fringe occupants.

56 - Teeth in the household that have received braces.

27 - Trips up the stairs so far today (it's only noon after all).

18 - Months there were two children simultaneously wearing diapers.

16 - Times the mortgage has been paid via unemployment benefits following layoffs.

10 - Eggs that need to be consumed in the next 24 hours before passing the expiration date.

9 - Jobs held by Fringe adults since marriage 6 1/2 years ago.

8 - Unfinished books on Fringe adult night stands.

5 - Conventional mainstream churches attended (when looking for a spiritual home).

4 - Cans of green beans Fringe dog consumes in a week.

3 - Layoffs survived by Fringe adults.

2 - Hangnails clipped in the last 24 hours.

0 - Spiritual homes found attending conventional mainstream churches.

Houston, we have a problem.

After weeks of interviewing, negotiating salary, comparing benefits, weighing pros and cons, and finally slapping my forehead in the realization that there was NOTHING TO THINK ABOUT, I accepted the new job and gave my notice at work this week. While it seems like this act would result in a big sigh of relief, it's actually set off a chain of events that I predict can only end in my blood pressure reaching fatal levels. This is because I have this thing known as a conscience. If I didn't have a conscience, I wouldn't care that my bigwig boss is trying to make a statement by dumping unrealistic deadlines on me; I'd just pack up my things and walk out. My new company would be thrilled if I showed up early, so what's stopping me? Well, to be honest, I don't want to end up in the witness protection program when Mr. Bigwig makes it his personal goal in life to bring me down. As one of my co-worker friends put it, "he knows a lot of people, and he's scary"....which, now that I think about it, begs the question, "why the hell am I writing about this on the internet?" So I'll stop there. Suffice it to say that I'm stuck finishing out the two weeks at work, no matter how much I pre-maturely age in the process.

Here's the really crappy thing about this, though: All this damned work is cutting into my blog time! And I bet my new job will expect a whole eight hours a day out of me as well, so even though I come home after work every day with boundless! energy levels (I always do a cartwheel when I come in the front door, you know) and creativity oozing out of my pores (like when I roll the matchbox cars around with Quinn - what a genius game, how could I ever come up with this after working all day, I am amazing!), I am afraid that my posts may become less frequent for a while. I'm not sure what my new routine will be, or if my head will be so full of exciting new job training tidbits that I won't have anything left to give to the ever-needy, omnipresent internet. We'll just have to wait and see. It's a mystery!

For now, I will have to leave you with an agonizing tale of hardship and grief, a sheer epic saga of tragedy and adventure, a creative flourish, a dramatic masterpiece: When Kristen Got Her Braces.

She began to suspect something was a little "off" when the orthodonist's technician asked her for the second time if she was excited about this day. Mustering up the friendliest answer she could, she replied, "Uh, no! No, I'm not excited about today. In fact, I've been wondering how I can possibly get out of it - any ideas??" The cheery technician didn't even flinch. "She must be used to this type of response," the suspicious patient thought to herself. A few minutes later, as she lay in the reclining death chair looking at ceiling tiles while the cheery technician explained the "indirect bonding method" of putting sharp metal objects on an exposed patient's teeth, she thought to herself that maybe this wouldn't be such a big deal. "Obviously these people have a system, they like to explain things, and that's encouraging. Wait a minute WHAT IS THAT THING WHAT IS THAT HUGE PLASTIC THING TWICE THE SIZE OF MY MOUTH OH MY GOD IS SHE PUTTING THAT IN MY MOUTH WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!!!" She realized the cheery technician was still talking to her: "This is called a cheek retractor! See? And I'm just going to put this into your mouth to hold your cheeks away from your teeth, mmkay?" Once her cheeks were as unnaturally far away from her teeth as possible without the use of a knife, the patient thought the hard part was over. Then, she saw another plastic instrument coming towards her face and she started talking in all caps in her mind again. The cheery technician said, "and so this is to hold your tongue back, so I have to push it back as far as it will go, and also? It suctions? So that your mouth will stay dry.. okay? It'll be kind of loud! Mmmmhmmm, heheh." After the patient fought back the initial gag reflex and convinced her brain that her throat was not fully blocked by her dry, scratchy tongue, she thought, "Now. Now the worst is over. The dryness and the gagging and the huge plastic hands pulling my face inside out has to be the very worst part, and hey! I'm used to that now. Mind over matter." The cheery technician was acting happy as she non-chalantly told the patient she was "just going to polish your teeth first." "WHAT? POLISH MY TEETH, LET'S GET THE GOD-FORSAKEN BRACES ON ALREADY!" She was thinking this, but you see, the contraptions of torture and death kept her from being able to speak. After the polishing, the trays of wax containing her braces were put on, and a futuristic light instrument (kind of like a laser gun, let's call it a laser gun) was used to "activate the glue." She thought since these people were really into technology and futuristic phraseology, that the laser gun would work instantly, perhaps even transporting her forward in time and allowing her to skip all this pesky pain and torture, hell, maybe it would even fast-forward 12 months to the day she was having the metal taken OFF of her teeth! But alas, the special little laser gun didn't work quickly, and actually took repeated applications before the braces stuck to her teeth. Then the wax trays had to be pulled out, and the cheery technician had nothing futuristic to use for this part, so she used a good old-fashioned dentist hook to get the wax trays pulled away from the brackets. But the brackets had just been futuristically melded for all eternity to the patient's stupid mouth, and those wax trays were attached. The cheery technician said, "I bet you're as dry as the desert by now, huh? Gosh, these wax trays just aren't wanting to come out...they kind of like you!" as she puuuullllleeeddd and puuullllleeed on the patient's jaw, making the patient wonder if her teeth were going to come shattering out in fountains of blood, all over the futuristic laser guns and indirect bonding instruments, bloody teeth with braces forever attached to them all over this lovely state-of-the-art office. After the wax trays were out and the patient's jaw was astonishingly only slightly fractured, the cheery technician said, "now we can turn off the suction and take out the cheek retractors - your braces are on and they WILL FEEL WEIRD, but go ahead and go rinse." The patient wasn't ready to look in the mirror and accept her new face, especially since her mouth felt like it was full of forks, can openers, and a pocket knife. But at the sink there was a big mirror and OH MY GOD IT'S AS BAD AS I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE! GET THEM OFF! SOMEONE WAKE ME FROM THIS NIGHTMARE! STOP THE MADNESS! I'M HIDEOUS! LOOK AWAY! She choked back her tears of humiliation and sulked back to the chair thinking, "let's get this over with so I can go home and figure out how to avoid society for a year." Then the orthodontist came to talk: "You did great! These look perfect! Are you excited?" The patient held back her anger and just shook her head in a controlled, slow fashion, with a look that said, "kill me now." The orthodonist chuckled and said, "you'll hate me for a couple of weeks, but I promise you'll get used to them. Now let's take a look - open wide... okay, bite down. Okay, open wide, okay bite down." The patient saw some looks pass between the orthodontist and the cheery technician. She wondered, "why all the biting and opening?" Then the orthodonist explained that her bite was screwed up enough that her top teeth were scraping her bottom braces, which OF COURSE meant that something had to be done to ensure proper progress. The patient wondered what that something was, but she was still pretty happy to have the torture devices out of her mouth, so she assumed nothing too dreadful was coming her way. "Hon, we need to put a little glue on your back teeth to create a different bite, so your braces have room to move your teeth." That didn't sound so bad to the patient, and as the glue was applied, she was starting to calm down about the braces and the ugliness. Once the glue dried, the orthodontist and the cheery technician had the patient bite down again, but the patient discovered TO HER HORROR that she couldn't bite down at all. When she closed her mouth fully, she could still speak completely articulate sentences! Her brain started screaming again: "What have they done to me?! I can't even bite down! I thought I looked like a freak before but now I can't even fully close my mouth I'LL LOOK LIKE SUCH AN IDIOT AT MY NEW JOB, THEY'LL PROBABLY FIRE ME AND THEN I'LL NEVER GET ANOTHER JOB BECAUSE OF MY FREAK MOUTH! I'M A TOTAL PARIAH!" After the cheery technician gave the patient her goody bag of water pics and t-shirts advertising the orthodontist's office, the patient pulled herself together and went back to work. Her co-workers didn't laugh directly at her and were courteous enough to ridicule her only behind her back, saving her the outright embarrassment of it all. She felt some discomfort from the sharp forks stabbing the inside of her stretched out cheeks and her gums, but she was beginning to accept her situation. Then she went to lunch with her husband, and ordered a harmless bowl of rice and beans - soft, mushy food that wouldn't require too much in the way of chewing. And then she discovered it. The worst part hadn't been the laser gun, or the indirect bonding, or the visions of bloody bracket-covered teeth, or the cheek retractor torture chamber. The worst part, the very worst part of this entire experience, the thing that would haunt her from now until she got her real mouth back in a year, was trying to chew the most basic soft, mushy food, the easiest food to start with, the food that will determine how well eating will go for the next few weeks, WHILE HER BACK TEETH ARE FILLED UP WITH A HARDENED, SMOOTH, TOFFEE-LIKE SUBSTANCE. She is an animal, shoveling a bite in, throwing her head back and knocking it around in a futile attempt to break her food into digestible pieces. She is in hell. Pure, utter, indescribable, humiliating HELL.

If it's on Google, then it must be true.

Type in "loudness yelling" on Google and see what happens. Go ahead. See. Now, I am not specifically familiar with such a phrase, but if it really does exist, then whatever it represents undoubtedly dwells in this house - and now the whole world knows it.

Should I feel guilty that Home on the Fringe doesn't show up under a "decent parents" search or even a "mildly acceptable decibel level in a single household" search? Is it a problem that the accurate written representation of our lives contains no actual references to patience, laughter, or good behavior, or at least not nearly enough of these references to show up as the NUMBER ONE LINK IN A GOOGLE SEARCH?

No. Despite my mom's (admittedly accurate) stance that I don't point out enough of the positive (I hear "blah blah, positive happy good, blah blah"), I don't think so. It's Home on the Fringe, people. The FRINGE. Fringes are tattered edges, boundaries, outskirts, peripheral or secondary to the norm. Not preferred. Not mainstream. Not even always socially acceptable. Now, this is not to say that patience, laughter, and good behavior don't exist here. We have some of those, too. For instance, last night, John and I took the kids to a local pizza place and waited 45 minutes to get some cold, soggy-crusted pizza and scalding hot chicken nuggets. During our 45-minute wait, Quinn and Bryce colored about 852 coloring sheets and Bryce didn't start flinging silverware until right before the food came. SCORE! Once he had his pizza, Bryce would cry out between bites with a pained look on his face, saying something about the spicy tomato sauce burning his chapped lips, then he'd swallow and take another bite and the process would start over. Quinn had a hangnail and the salt from the chips he was eating would rub in with every single crunch, so every time Bryce would munch happily, Quinn would sob, "MY FINGER HURTS!!" We'd wipe the salt off Quinn's finger, and then Bryce would be wailing about his lips again. It was hilarious, and we weren't even drinking: Munchcrunchaaaaaaamyfinger. okay it's better. Chewchewaaaaaaaaaamylips. okay it's better. Munchcrunchaaaaaaamyfinger! okay it's better. Chewchewaaaaaaaaaamylips! okay it's better.

After dinner, being the conscientious and attentive parents that we are, John and I decided we should finally GET the lotion we've been talking about, the one Quinn's doctor recommended we always keep on-hand, before going home and putting his already irritated, dried out winter skin through the bathtime wringer for the 15th night in a row that we've been noticing all the red, bumpy patches on his hips and thighs (isn't our care of him admirable? it's a real question in my mind why we don't show up under a search for "award-winning parents"). At Wal-Mart, picking up the lotion, 20 minutes before the kids' bedtime, there were - you'll never believe it - NO PUBLIC MELTDOWNS. I have recorded the date, because I'm pretty sure it was the first time we haven't been escorted out and/or blacklisted.

So there you go: patience (because no one imploded while waiting for the food), laughter (an extension of patience with the kids, even though our entertainment was at their expense), and good behavior (I mean, not getting stared at by the other patrons? Priceless!). I know, I know. You're saying, "but...normal people would consider this merely meeting basic expectations - this is nothing spectacular." And I'm saying this: HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING?

It's the Fringe. When we approach normal, that IS spectacular. Apparently, "loudness yelling" is our norm. Meeting basic social expectations is the rare but celebration-worthy event in this establishment. A fringe benefit, if you will.

I was going to guess a calf on its way to veal slaughter, but judging from the high pitch, I'm thinking it's something smaller.

Quinn, let me ask you something. You know that part of Frosty the Snowman where the crossing guard is so shocked at seeing a living snowman follwed by a parade of faithful elementary school-aged minions that he swallows his whistle, and then the only thing he can manage to vocalize are hundreds of little black whistle music notes floating up into the cartoon winter sky?

Well, here's what I'm wondering: Did you swallow a shrieking gibbon? Because even though I know you have a spectacular grasp of the English language, and that you understand every word coming out of my mouth, and EVEN that you have the will power to quietly endure an hour and a half worth of your dad's attempts to update his website while you dump all the toys I hid in Bryce's closet out ALL OVER THE FORMERLY CLEAN ROOM, you seem to have formed this new eardrum-bursting habit of screeching like a torture victim when you disapprove of something. Items and events which meet with your disapproval are not always predictable. You see my dilemma.

Tonight after dinner, Bryce tried a peppermint patty, so you wanted to try one. Even though you've never liked anything sugary or sweet in your entire life, we gave in, fearing more hearing loss if we refused. You ate one tiny bite and then refused to eat any more, but you didn't want to let go of that damned peppermint patty, did you, despite the cheap melting chocolate all over your fingers? And you didn't want to explain WHY or have a conversation about it, did you? NO. Why explain when you can break windows with the deafening vibration of your freakishly strong gibbon vocal chords?

Quinn, the Silvery Gibbon is an endangered species. You have to send it back to the wild where it belongs. If you must ingest something in the vein of the Frosty the Snowman Crossing Guard, why not try a lovely, gurgling fish? You could have those cool *plop* *bloop* *splop* bubbles around your head when you're objecting to something.

That sounds good to me. What do you think? Quinn? Oh no. Nonononononono, please not the shriek. NOT THE SHRIEK FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!

Return of the Cheeto Gang

I’m getting braces.

My world is crashing down on me. Life as I know it will change FOREVER next week. What was I thinking? How could I have agreed to this? Will I be forced to face the daily agony of being taunted and ridiculed, have I voluntarily submitted to being the butt of my peers’ petty jokes? Because we ARE still in junior high, right? My every nerd-move and physical trait is being observed by the “cheerleaders” and “jocks,” to be humiliatingly twisted and thrown in my face while they gather together as one indiscernible, Guess jean-clad, confidence-shattering mob. Right?

Oh. Maybe you had a different junior high experience. Mine sucked. S-U-C-K-E-D. Actually, to be fair, it wasn’t even the cheerleaders who ridiculed me in junior high (and I apologize for stereotyping any former cheerleaders out there who have since seen the light on treating the quiet, nerdy kids like pond scum – no hard feelings, eh?); I wasn’t even on their radar screen. Some catty group decided I was no longer worthy of joining their oh-so-cool after school gatherings consisting of Little Debbie snacks and convenience store slurpees; after that, my wardrobe, face, hair, or anything externally visible was fair game. One day after they had ostracized me (during which event they told me I could no longer be a part of their group because “my family was too perfect” – nice, especially considering the dysfunctional hellhole I was living in at the time), I was walking in the halls between classes when one of them saw me and yelled out, “hey, Cheeto!” and started giggling uncontrollably with her (formerly my) friend. I’m sure I looked confused, because I had no clue what image the word “Cheeto” actually was supposed to conjure up for me. Had I eaten Cheetos with lunch and did I still have that neon powder on my sleeve? Was it a clever play on words involving “Chester the Cheetah” from the commercials? If so, exactly what was said play? Was it some sly comment on my CHEST? Was it a sarcastic jab at my academic abilities, like, “you must think you’re some kind of intellectual CHEETAH”? How deeply should I have analyzed this clearly genius inside joke? As it turns out, I didn’t have to analyze it at all; the lovely (and witty! Oh so witty!) girls saw my confusion and said, “your eye shadow, DUH! It looks ORANGE!! Like the Cheeto cheese!!” And with that, they cackled off to class. This went on for months.

I’m pretty sure they both wait tables for a living now. Not by choice. They were going to be married to rich men who would obviously shower them with such swank gifts as the highest quality eye shadow ever created. Karma’s a bitch.

For those of you wondering why I launched into a depressing discussion of the WORST YEARS OF MY LIFE and also asking yourself what IN THE NAME OF GOD any of this has to do with getting braces as an adult, well, I’ll tell you: I thought I was just fine with the whole braces thing (except for the $5400 price tag, which will forever haunt my dreams) until I literally woke up in the middle of the night feeling ill and imagining people at my new job not taking me seriously. Or not being able to focus on anything coming out of my mouth because of these shiny metal objects reflecting the canned fluorescent lighting with Every. Single. Syllable.

In my adult brain, I know this is crazy. Plenty of adults have braces; I see adults with braces all the time and I don’t think twice about it. Besides, it’s only a year. It’ll go by in a snap. But I had braces once before, you see, during that time in my life when everything associated with my physical presence was suspect – will this attract too much attention? Am I going to be ridiculed over this? And that little Junior High Humiliation Victim part of me hasn’t died yet. I’m going to beat her to a bloody pulp, though, because if I don’t get these braces, a portion of my gums will have most likely completely receded by the time I’m 50. I’m pretty sure I’m going to live past 50, and I think I’ll still want gums, teeth, and also a jawbone at that time.

So all I can say is this: The first person at my new job who makes a witty comment to me about the braces is going to have a bloody, gnarled stump in place of what used to be their arm. Cheeto Gang, you’d better warn them about that whole karmic retribution thing.

I think our model is defective. (Not the garage door model.)

Yesterday was one of those days where I never actually fully lost my temper, but I'm not sure that means I was actually being very patient or human-like, either. First of all, after six and a half years of accepting the mediocre quality of our garage door opener, John couldn't take it anymore. "Enough is enough!" he thought, as he sped towards the nearest Home Depot no less than FOUR TIMES (I can't remember all the reasons - once because he forgot something, once to buy a new saw, once to exchange it for one that was actually complete in its package...have I mentioned that I'm beginning to hate Home Depot?) on an entirely selfless mission to repair the faulty piece of equipment once and for all. I say "selfless" because I JUST KNOW there was no correlation between John's neverending garage door project and Bryce's behavior.

Apparently, someone had flipped Bryce's switch to "obnoxious overdrive" and he confirmed my suspicions that he's in a particularly challenging phase by making very purposeful moves to throw Quinn into nuclear meltdown mode. I'll grant you that it doesn't take much to accomplish this with a 2 1/2-year-old, but Bryce is such an expert at it that I will need to install a radiation meter pretty soon in order to avoid a fatal catastrophe. Here's how all the interactions looked: Quinn would peacefully be stacking up whatever flashcards he's currently obsessed with, and Bryce would come over and pick one up. Quinn would wail and gnash his teeth, and I would intervene, and tell Bryce to leave him alone. Two minutes later, Bryce would become passionately interested in a toy that Quinn wasn't actually touching, but was conveniently located in Quinn's line of vision. Quinn would see Bryce enjoying his toy. Quinn would wail and gnash his teeth, and I would intervene, and tell Quinn that Bryce technically wasn't doing anything wrong, even though we all knew exactly what was going on. All except for Quinn, the poor sap.

When Bryce wasn't torturing his brother, he was really into climbing! And jumping! And talking! And yelling! And singing! And all at once! And all with exclamation points! It was a little like a sharp pin prick! In the same sensitive spot! On the inside of your forearm! Over and over! And over!

Luckily, at bath time, John gave up for the day on his garage door project and we split the kids up for the nightly game of Fear Factor: Naked Soapy Pre-Schoolers Running In All Directions At Once. After I put Quinn to bed and apologized for all the times Bryce TOTALLY manipulated him and set him up (and, more importantly, all the times I TOTALLY fell for it), I walked into Bryce's room to find John in the middle of a story. He wasn't reading a story, he was listening to Bryce make up a story. Have you LOST YOUR MIND, man!? Do you realize what horrors you'll unleash on us all? You've given the universe's youngest dictator the power to decide when his story is over. There's no way out! God help us all.

The part of Bryce's story that I heard went something like this:

After the mouse played his harmonica on Hanukkah, the scientists discovered a 10th planet, and they called it The Nut Planet because it was shaped like an acorn and had a stem like an acorn. The solar system necklace [John asked who wore the solar system necklace and Bryce explained that no one could wear it, because OBVIOUSLY the sun would burn them if they did, DUH!] went on a trip to big, fun festival that was like a fair. Oh, and by the way, when the mouse woke up on Hanukkah morning, there were Christmas stockings from Santa, isn't that FUNNY? Anyway, so the solar system necklace was flying so high over all the buildings while the mouse was at this festival. [John interrupted to point out that he'd already been warned that it was time to end this fascinating story. Heh heh.] The solar system was way up in the sky over all the buildings, you know, and the mouse was at the festival which was really, really fun, and [John interrupted again to give him his last warning, and since we were both about to leave the room, I guess Bryce realized he was losing his audience.] And so, the solar system decided to land at the festival. The End!!

As we walked back downstairs, weary and shellshocked from our surrealistic day, John looked at me, shook his head, eyes wild, and said, "Where's the off switch?"

Kristen, sorry this took so long to get to you...

Things my hands have touched today:

20 matchbox cars
40 pieces of broken plastic piece of crap toy parking garage
6 bouncy balls
4 blankets
2 toddler-sized stuffed dogs
3 coats
7 socks
9 pillows
1 bruised hip (my own)
6 dirty sippy cups
4 dirty regular cups
9 dirty plates
5 dirty gladware containers and lids
2 sautee pans
1 sauce pan
3 full laundry baskets (3 times each)
4 lint balls
3 full grocery sacks
2 soiled diapers
1 muddy, dog saliva-covered rubber ball (20-30 times)
7 bloody napkins
1 bloody sweatshirt (size 4T)
1 blood and booger-covered miniature knight's lance
0 glasses of wine

Consequences of a Split Second Decision

At 3 a.m., I am awakened suddenly but not frighteningly. I have an immediate, pre-awake knowledge that someone is standing next to my head. Someone short. Holding a blanket. Trying really hard not to scare me, and somehow miraculously succeeding. Then I hear a whisper. A "mom?" stated with a tentative innocence. He touches my face so gently I'm not even sure he actually makes contact, and when I ask him what's wrong, he says, "well, I just wanted to sleep down here with you guys." In less than one second, here is what goes through my mind:

Oh, Bryce is up. Don't act frustrated, he's probably still half asleep. But god, he made it all the way downstairs holding his long, stretched out blanket - what if he had tripped? Did something wake him up? I hope he didn't wet the bed and that's what woke him up. What does he mean he wants to sleep with us? That's weird, we're not a co-sleeping kind of family, although there was that one night a few weeks ago - maybe he's thinking of that. Oh man, I'm so comfortable right now, and he's so peaceful and soft. What would it hurt to just scoop him up and let him sleep right beside me for the next three hours? Look at him with his little blanket in his little red stripe pajamas, with his mussed hair and his half-closed eyelids. Go on, just scoop him up, there's plenty of room. Plenty.

Oh yeah, and then what? He starts writhing and he can't get comfortable and he needs a drink and he forgot his lamb and he doesn't feel like sleeping now, and I lose three hours of sleep as opposed to the five minutes it takes to walk him back up the stairs to his bed. Or worse, he sleeps in perfect peace and then considers it torture to be sequestered to his own bed the next night, creating a hideous back-and-forth, lose-my-temper scenario every night for a week, followed by two years of guilt for my idiotic handling of a simple situation. Nope, I can't give in, as much as I would like to believe a cozy little fantasy that my son can be flexible and one night of a special, unasked-for privelege won't blow up in all of our faces (mainly his).

Feeling a little sad, but mainly confident in my knowledge of this child and his nature, I take him back up to his room. He goes peacefully, and half yawns, half speaks his request for me to turn his music on when I leave. He needs his music to remind his body how to sleep at night. It's the least invasive sleep crutch that works for him. If he were in my bed, he wouldn't have this, and the troubles would begin. On my way back downstairs, I hear the jingling of the dog's collar and the scratch of his claws on the wood floor, and wonder what woke these two creatures at the same strange time in the same night. I climb back into bed, and I hear Quinn briefly stir on the monitor, the one where Bryce's acoustic guitar CD isn't wafting over the special baby monitor air waves into our bedroom, reminding me that he's safely and routinely back in his bed.

I hear Bryce's door open a few minutes later, but no lights come on. I hear small footsteps heading toward the upstairs bathroom, then a flush, then Bryce's door closing again. He'd had to go to the bathroom, that's why he'd been up, but he'd been disoriented and had looked to me for guidance and comfort when he was alone in the dark. He doesn't bother coming downstairs to me for comfort that second time. Just takes care of business and returns to his bed on his own, his music conveniently still playing.

I never really get back to sleep after that. I toss and turn and feel that somehow, no matter how much I question, analyze, re-think, do what I know is right, do what I think is right, do what I hope to god won't damage or alienate him, I can't win this never-ending battle with myself. I hope some day he realizes that whatever negativity he feels my mistakes cause him, it is a mere fraction of the agony I feel over every miniscule decision involving our interactions, even the ones made with unimaginable amounts of emotional analysis in less than one single second in the dead of night.

I love it when I can legitimately place a Seinfeld quote into my day

John had an appointment for a wedding consultation tonight, and we had a big, late lunch consisting of huge platters of Mexican food, so we had decided to wait until after his appointment was over and the kids were quietly in bed, and then split some take-out Pei Wei Pad Thai. For those of you who know me, you'll realize that this brilliant dinner solution also allowed me to get out of the nightly dinner time craziness that usually sends me into an obsessive, masochistic guilt trip wherein I berate myself for my pathetic parenting skills. Tonight, the kids ate at the kitchen table while we focused on tag-teaming to deal with their behavior, as opposed to our own futile attempts to eat in the same room during one of their meals. Paradise. Well, except for the part where Quinn screamed "MORE RICE MORE RICE MORERICEMORERICEMORERICE!" and spewed molten lava in his refusal to eat, literally, ONE GREEN BEAN before eating his second pan full of Lipton Side Dish, Broccoli & Cheddar Rice. But, I won that game of chicken with the trusty time-out. After that, he ate the cursed green bean. Oh yes, he did. And then I gave him a huge pile of that god-forsaken rice, spoon after spoon after spoon, until his plate overflowed with it. That'll show him. (Uh, but he ate it all.)

Anyway, after John's clients stayed an hour longer than we'd anticipated, he was finally able to get our dinner. Since I had to wait so long for it, I was a lot hungrier than I'd expected to be. I finished off my plate right after John had walked out of our room with the container (I'm a bum, and I was eating on our bed while watching TV, reading a magazine, and reading blogs). "Hmm," I thought, "I could use another few bites of those yummy seared noodles." I called for John. "Did you have any noodles left?" He paused for a second, then said, "there were a few. Are you still hungry?" I said nevermind, but about two minutes later he came back into the room holding the closed takeout container. He opened it and showed me the contents. There were a good five bites of perfectly seasoned pad thai noodles just waiting to complete my meal. I took the container from him. He turned around and walked toward the door.

"Wait a minute."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Was this in the trash?!!!"

His face went pale, his shoulders slumped. He had been so close to escaping. "The box was closed! And it was right on the top, for about three seconds!"

"SON OF A...!!! John! Adjacent to refuse IS REFUSE."

letter from a supportive ex-customer

Dear Home Depot Window Contractor,

I have a few tidbits of advice for you. First, as a general rule, when you come to someone's house to give an estimate on new windows, it's probably best not to walk in and say, "why am I here?" because the customer might be someone whose limited work time without kids in the house really shouldn't be wasted explaining your job to you. Second, considering the fact that YOU are the one with the expertise about window types, window prices, window options, and window alternatives, maybe you shouldn't ask the customer what specific type of window he wants to purchase until after you've taken measurements and have some suggestions for him. Otherwise, you will only get blank stares and questions from the customer, which you apparently are loath to answer. This brings me to the third tidbit: VOLUNTEER SOME INFORMATION ALREADY. It's really not professional to make the customer pull information out of you in a conversational tug-of-war, and frankly, it's a little creepy. Fourth - and I am actually still amazed that I have to tell you this - don't refuse to leave a quote because the customer's wife can't rush home from work mid-morning to placate your scheduling needs. The customer is actually capable of this thing called "communication" and he has what is known as "pen and paper," a lovely set of inventions on which he can record the information you provide to him and later pass on to his wife while they make a decision.

You can ignore my advice if you like, but I think you'll find that you'll garner more business if you give the customers information and actually try to SELL THEM SOMETHING.

All heard in my house within the past 24 hours

--"Good morning!"
--"No! I'm singing to my brother and I don't want anyone repeating me!"
***********************************************************

--"Quinn, give the blanket back to your brother."
--"It's for Bryce's?"
--"Uh, I think you mean, 'it's for Bryce' or 'it's Bryce's.'"
--"Oh. It's for Bryce's??"
--"Whatever. Yes. It's for Bryce's."
***********************************************************

--"Mom, next year I want to celebrate Hannukah at Christmas time."
--"We're not Jewish. To celebrate Hannukah, we would have to be Jewish."
--"Well, let's just become Jewish."
--"You can't just become Jewish. First you have to learn and embrace Jewish beliefs."
-- Pause, followed by a flourishing nod: "Well, I'm already doing that! So that means we can celebrate Hannukah next year, then, right?"
***********************************************************

--"When I ask you a question about whether you're going to do something, and you respond with all the reasons why I kept you from doing it, I don't see how that's productive."
--"Yeah. Why do I do that? Sorry."
-- Silence.
--"Sorry."
-- Silence.
--"So-rrrrry!"
--"What are you, twelve? That's your apology?"
-- Laughter.

meme

Remove the top blog from the following list and bump everyone up one place.
Then add your blog to the bottom.
Childsplayx2
The Weirdgirl
It's Not All Mary Poppins
Grumppopotamus
Home on the Fringe

Select five people to play (sorry to those of you who kind of hate these new versions of a chain letter)...
Allison
Laura
Lucinda
Anne
Chris

What were you doing ten years ago?
Trying to keep from freezing to death or dying of depression in the sunless, gray universe that is a Chicago winter. I was starting the second half of my first year in college, taking classes that ranged from Astrophysics (lowest grade I ever got in a class, all those damned formulas killed me!) to French (never got to go to France, though...crap!) to Calculus (those science and math TAs really got sick of me, let me tell you.) to Humanities (hello, Plato, meet Flaubert). My school was known for having the highest suicide rate among students, and also for being #300 on the list of the top 300 party schools. You decide if there's a connection between those two facts.

What were you doing one year ago?

• Starting my new diet and exercise routine that ultimately resulted in a loss of 25 pounds, woohoo!
• Coming out of a major home improvement stint which included outside paint, new wood flooring in two large rooms, new carpet upstairs and in the master bedroom, new dining room furniture and paint, new entertainment center for the living room. Yes, we did too much at once. WAY, WAY too much.
• One year into being back at work after staying home for a year and a half with the kids. I was, and still am, questioning myself on my decision to go back. I can never be pleased, apparently, since I questioned myself the whole time I was at home, too.

Five snacks you enjoy.
See if you notice a theme...

1. Bananas with peanut butter.
2. Graham crackers with peanut butter.
3. Pretzels with peanut butter.
4. Apples with peanut butter.
5. Chocolate.

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics.
Okay, this one has made me realize how long its been since I've listened to anything but music my kids like. Observe:

1. I'm On My Way by the Proclaimers (on the Shrek soundtrack, naturally).
2. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (sung at gunpoint to Quinn every night before he will sleep).
3. Learning to Fly by Tom Petty (aka "the birdy song" - yes, it's another one of my kids' demands - better than Barney songs, I guess).
4. Uh, I guess I listen to too much NPR these days in my precious time alone in the car, because I can't even think of any other songs. Crap.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire.
I'm sure everyone has the same top two or three...

1. Pay off the house (actually, tear down my current house and build a new one in the same glorious location - you know what they say about real estate).
2. Pay off other debt and establish savings accounts and IRAs for all the family members.
3. Travel.
4. Consider a move to Canada (I'd consider it while basking in the glory of my new house in my enviable location).
5. Go back to school (be a professional student? maybe).

Five bad habits.
1. Being easily frustrated.
2. Worrying about things before they happen.
3. Over-analyzing.
4. Stress eating.
5. Becoming too involved, too soon in new things - relationships, jobs, diets, activities. I always burn myself out and get, uh... see #1.

Five things you like doing.
1. Going out to dinner and a movie.
2. Browsing at bookstores (I rarely get to do this anymore, though).
3. Getting a massage.
4. Watching Bryce or Quinn in their classrooms when they don't know I'm there.
5. Realizing my kids really are trying, like when I walk into the room and Bryce says, "Mom, I need to THANK YOU for all of those presents," even though we didn't get him the train set he wanted (actually, this one might need to go on a "things that make you feel guilty and also like a crappy parent" list).

Five things you would never wear or buy again.
1. Maternity underwear.
2. Any type of hat (sorry, people. I'm just not a hat person - you either ARE or you AREN'T, and I just can't pull it off without looking like an idiot).
3. Reebok high-tops (the white ones with the shiny silver Reebok logo - I've owned at least two pairs of those in my life, ugh).
4. Cowboy boots (see #2).
5. Flip flops. (I like them but they hurt my feet. I think having something between my toes feels a little bit like torture.)

Five favorite toys.
1. Bottle opener.
2. Netflix.
3. My new digital camera.
4. Laptop.
5. I can't think of another one...this meme is killing me. Oh look! I'm all done! Okay, I thought of one...the DVD player in our Honda.

That shuffle just kills me.

This morning, Bryce woke up in a great mood, but as soon as I reminded him that he was going back to school today, things turned sour. John made the fatal mistake of throwing Bryce's blanket in the washer with a load of clothes without warning Bryce first. Let the regression begin. There was whining, pleading, and oh so much pouting of lips and furrowing of eyebrows. "But I wanted to watch TV with Noir on the couch! That's what I do every morning." Sniffle, sniff. "She'll be waiting for you when you get back from school, and she'll be all clean," we cheerfully told him. No good. "I want her now! I don't want her in the washer! I don't want to go to school." I seized the opportunity to try to distract him. "Why don't you want to go back to school today?" His mind visibly raced as he tried to come up with a good reason. Here are two of them:

1.) He doesn't like it when "other people like each other." Oh, god, me too, Bryce. What a pain in the butt it is to see people being NICE and polite all over the place. Geez, who would want to go to school and have to witness THAT crap?

2.) He doesn't "like the paint color on the outside of the school building. It looks like something black got it dirty and it will have to be painted all over again." HUH? The school looks like a freaking art museum. It's surrounded by a beautiful college campus and is a nicer building than most office buildings. He was really reaching with this one.

Once we were in the car, Bryce was over the whining about his blanket and coming up with completely nonsensical reasons to stay home, but I noticed that he got quieter and quieter as we approached the school. When we drove up, I let him out of the car and told him goodbye, and he pulled up the hood of his bright yellow coat, put his backpack on his shoulders, and walked away slowly. I yelled in the happiest voice I could, "Have a great day, buddy! I'll see you later!" but he just kept walking, didn't turn around, and halfheartedly lifted one hand in a wave that said, "I'll acknowledge you, but I don't have to be happy about this."

As I drove home, all I could see was that little yellow hood shuffling away with the tentative steps you'd expect from someone who knew they were about to undergo torture or execution, and had already exhausted every opportunity to escape. To Bryce, who thrives on routine and order, I think Christmas Break might have been too much. He loves his teachers and his school, and we know it's the best place for him, but to return there means a change in his routine of the last few weeks, or a return to a real routine as opposed to the free-for-all of presents and TV he's been living in for the past three weeks. A year ago, such a change would have meant screaming, horrible tantrums and hours of cajoling and negotiations. Today, all we saw was a little whining and a random collection of excuses and reasons to stay home. I'd say that's major progress.

But, really. Whining and excuses on a day one is returning to daily pressures after a long break? That seems almost adult-like to me. In fact, it's not unlike my own sentiments regarding, well, a lot of things lately. Waaa, I don't want to do work after being bored in my job for two months. Waaa, I don't want to get back into my exercise routine and healthy diet after being lazy and eating crap for a month. Waaa, I don't want to go out and help John clean the garage that I've been bitching about. Waaaa. If I feel this way, imagine what my quirky, intense, sometimes inflexible son felt this morning as his mom not only trapped him in a locked car and transported him against his will, but chatted and tried to spread her moronic, forced cheer all over him in the process.

No wonder he wouldn't turn around to wave goodbye. He was probably thinking, "don't look her in the eye or you might encourage her. Just. Keep. Walking."