Sunday morning brain freeze

Image by quinn.anya via Flickr

I can't write anymore.

Don't you hate it when you wake up before your brain does?

Brump Brump Brump Brump.

Perhaps I will look at some Avon stuff. I am almost out of bubble bath for the kids.

Brump Brump Brump. 

Maybe I should crochet some granny squares and sew them into the shape of underwear and market them as granny panties. But with all those holes they would hardly be practical. Or stretchy. Nobody wants to see a woman with granny panties around her ankles by the water cooler at work.

*Suckles pinky finger*

Or I could eat.

Oh no, I hear Dennis in the other room firmly asking Joe to, "Give me that!" I wonder what he's got? Sharpie? Disposable razor? Blow torch? Hmmm...

*Inspects fingernails*

I really need to clip them. Why do fingernails grow at different paces? The nail on my ring finger is shorter than the nail on my middle finger. I wonder if it's designed that way for a reason?

*Stretches and almost locks up back*

I want that Touch N Brush. That's a good idea. But it's $19.99 and I can expect to wait 2-6 weeks for delivery. Two to SIX weeks? Quite a spread. What's that all about? I wish I could say, "Your dinner will be ready in two to six hours."

*Picks at lip*

Perhaps I will hang some pictures today. I keep putting it off because I can't locate a laser picture hanging helper device like ever. Where do they go? We only have like fifty of them.

*Publishes post*

Skidmarks and Stupidity

I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.

Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.

First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.

Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?

Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.

Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?

He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.

Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle),  I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.

On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".

Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?

I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.

After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"

This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.

I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.

I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.

In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.

After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."

I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.

Is it just me?

The Internet

Image by seizethedave via Flickr

What's it like to be a normal person on the internet?
To break away from your goings-on and make the occasional comment?

To not like it as much as I do?

I distinctly remember my first computer.
I was well over 30.
And trapped.
And silent and zombiefied and submissive.
I remember pressing that button.
I remember feeling something new. Something BIG.
I didn't know what it was but I was as sure as my next breath that it was going to change my life.
I can still SEE it. A big swirl.
And it did. It changed everything.

It exposed me to the outside world.
People were there. Kind people.
And they had dreams. They were poetic.
It didn't compute.
Until it did.
One poem by one friend not even meant for or inspired by me reminded me of kindness and life and love and everything that didn't exist.
Until it did.

I'm not casual about the internet.

Dear Blogger Dashboard

Image via Wikipedia

I'm staring at my white box wondering if I'll ever be able to fill it again.

It's been a week. I've been out. I've breathed. I've sniffed. I've hugged. I've sucked salt. And I didn't... well, I didn't think of you once.

Not because I don't need you, Blogger Dashboard. I knew you'd be here waiting. Why? Because you don't have a choice. I control you after all. Ostensibly. In any case, you know I love you deeply.

Get this. I had a productive dream. Yes, it involved the Mac guy from the Mac/IBM ridiculous stupid pointless intellectually insulting battle commercials. And no, I have no idea why. Dreams are just effed up sometimes. BUT I did get some good stuff out of it. For once. Quite unlike those dreams filled with horrible, nasty images that couldn't possibly be written about. By me. I had a dream with promise. After one of the worst nights in recent memory.

WHICH leads me to think that I'm right. It's not possible to be happy and healthy and normal and creative.

In any case, just know that I wasn't thinking about you.

Goodnight.

This post irritates me

Am I the only one who spends too much time thinking about irritating people and being irritated by it? I don't mean people worthy of being hated — deeply mean people, abusers, etc. Just irritating people.

What irritates us about others is supposed to teach us something about ourselves. What's more irritating than that?

Case in point....

1. Image by sokaris73 via Flickr

   
   Penélope "How you say...?" Cruz. The "Spanish enchantress" exudes a certain, "I'm a little girl and I need you to help me. *pout*" quality that makes my skin crawl. She also apparently inspires me to overuse quotation marks. Unforgivable! Yeah, yeah I can see she's gorgeous but that's beside the point.
   
   Sub-category: Feist's "1234" bugs me for the same reason.
   
2. Agenda Thumpers. People who aren't just passionate about a cause, but consumed by it to the point where it's all they can talk about. They're past the point of listening and reason. Everything is black and white.
   
3. Pompous Elitist Asses. They're better than you and consider it their responsibility to make sure you know it. Get uppity and they'll give you a public lashing so fierce you'll wish you were in diapers.
   
4. People Who See Right Through You. You know these people. They could be the cashier at the supermarket who completely ignores you and talks to the bagger, or the workmate who looks away and hurries past you when you meet him with a direct question.
   
   Sub-category: People who like you in private, but ignore you in public.
   

5. Image via Wikipedia

   
   John Basedow. What is his deal? It's okay to be small, John. You don't need to work out to within one inch of your life, spray-tan and highlight yourself shamelessly.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
6. The kids need me. I reserve the right to add to this list at a later time.
   

I realize you have your own opinions about my irritators. I don't claim to be right or rational. What is simply is and I can't will it not to be so. What am I supposed to learn from all this? Am I like these people? The mere thought of that irritates me to no end.

Want it.

Image by julkastro via Flickr

We watched The Answer Man last night. It was a cute but not fabulous romantic comedy in the spirit of As Good as it Gets. A little overacted by Jeff Daniels, but I digress...

A conversation took place that went loosely along these lines:

Kris: I have all this potential but I never do anything with it. How can I get past the crap and do what I want to be doing?

Arlen: At any given moment we are doing exactly what we want to be doing. There is always a choice. Everything is a choice.

This got me thinking. In order to change our lives for the better and live up to our potential, could it not be a matter of actively changing our wants? Maybe we really do want to be lazy. Maybe we want to remain in the shadows because it's safer there. Maybe we want to be ignored. Unfulfilled. Misunderstood.

Because if we really put ourselves out there and give it a shot — and I mean the shot, the one golden bullet we were all blessed with, and are met with failure or rejection, we will have to let go of the notion that sustains us — and I mean the notion, "If only I had done it, I would have been great".

Hunger Pangs

Image via Wikipedia

It happened again. I saw my words on another blogger's blog. For half an instant, before I could catch myself, my face twisted into a bitter scowl and an actual "Ugh!" escaped my lips. This is the first time I've actually heard one, having previously thought words like "Ugh!" only existed on paper.

In that very same half an instant (granted, it was a long half an instant), I thought to myself how these Heather word/idea sightings always meet certain conditions:

1. The blogger is well-established with a much bitter (whoops) bigger "following" than me.
2. The blogger is a contact of mine, but never offers me any direct feedback.

Yes I realize it's not only possible but quite likely that I'm a self-absorbed harpy with a good imagination and an inflated sense of word-worth. It's possible that these are all just coincidences. After all, I don't own ideas. And we all live in the same world so it's possible that we could have had the very same idea at the exact same moment and that we may have even used the exact same words to describe a particular feeling. It's possible.

It's also possible that the idea I offered you so freely out of a sincere want for you to succeed—that you decided to employ three days later and said as much on your blog—that I never expected you to thank me for but was miffed upon noticing that you not only did not thank me but thanked a third unrelated person in what I can only assume is another social-climbing strategy of yours—could have been forgotten and honestly re-dreamed up by you three days later. It's possible.

To have one's brain material and one's creative ideas borrowed without credit feels like a violation. That much is true. But these situations also offer us an opportunity for personal growth. What do we really want? Consideration? Kudos? Respect? Self-respect? Is public drama the best way to achieve that? It might be for some, but for me it just doesn't feel right. Calling out another blogger for things like these, unless it's so blatant that a calling-out is no longer a viable option but required in order to make sure some other blogger isn't similarly violated, is something I will never do. And no, that's not an open invitation to steal my stuff.

I've decided to take the advice of centuries of people who clearly have never had their mental babies taken to the park by another and twirled and displayed and presented as though they were their own. I've decided to feel flattered. If respected bloggers are borrowing or stealing from me it must mean that I'm doing something right.

It also makes me realize that I'm most likely not the only blogger whose idea shelf has been raided. It's quite possible that the ones doing the raiding don't have creative coffers of their own and borrow and steal to survive. As one who knows how painful it can be when the creativity refuses to flow, this just makes me feel sad. When all is said and done, I know that I was blessed with an endless spring, that the ideas will return and continue to flow through me until my heart stops beating. For that I will be eternally grateful.

Hopefully someday I will actually do something with my words and ideas so my family and I can reap the benefits before I'm old(er) and gray(er). I keep picturing us in a little cabin by the sea surrounded by books and an old typewriter and vintage board games. I need to write more often so I can improve. I realized a mere two weeks ago that I actually like writing. That it's not just a compulsion. Writing is accessible to all of us and not just the sport of Queens, PBS intellectuals and pompous elitists. I need to take writing seriously. And myself seriously for that matter. I can't control others, but I can stop shooting myself in the foot as soon as I get a tiny bit of steam rolling. I can stop being my own worst enemy.

If I were a better writer things like this would not happen to me. People wouldn't dare tread heavily on my personal writing space. Would they?

It's time for another self-reminder. It's the journey and not the destination. Never be fat and happy. Always be hungry. Someday, with a little bit of dreaming and a lot of hard work, my family will be doing the reminding for me in our cabin by the sea.

Hunger
by Emily Dickinson

I had been hungry all the years ;
My noon had come, to dine ;
I, trembling, drew the table near,
And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shard
In Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, —
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.

Nor was I hungry ; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.

Do you Write or are you Written?

I know I don't post as often as I should. I don't do anything as often as I should. I do things I shouldn't do more often than I should. It's not my fault. You see, I don't write. The reasonably good posts that is. I am written. I sit here sometimes for five minutes staring blankly at the monitor. Eventually my mind goes numb and my fingers spring into action and words appear on the screen. When I look back on some of these posts I chuckle to myself and think... If I had sat down with the intent to write that the words would not have come. I could not have done it. The words have nothing and everything to do with me. They are entities in and of themselves.

Sometimes I wonder if a little person exists inside my head driving me like that little alien in Men in Black drove Vincent D'onofrio. Now see I stopped to find a picture of said little alien and I lost my train of thought. Then again I didn't so much lose it as it turned into an ant of thought.

[ETA my husband just encouraged me by saying 1) "Your blog was good baby, but it wasn't Vincent D'onofrio being driven by the little alien, it was the old man. He got driven into the morgue and they pulled his ear and his face opened up.", and 2) "Don't let the facts get in the way of your creativity!".]

Affirmation Danger!

Image via Wikipedia

You know those rare moments of comprehension that creep into your consciousness when you're least expecting them and slap you in the face? I was white-gloved by one yesterday after reading an article called "Words of Wisdom: Positive thinking's negative results".

The article basically states that if you are trying to self-improve by making positive affirmations about qualities you do not possess or qualities that are false or overstated that the affirmations will be met with resistance and doubt by your subconscious thereby reinforcing your negative self-image.

I'm not sure if this is entirely true, but I think I might test it out in the next few weeks. I've always been a strong believer in dressing for the job you want not the job you have. One might extrapolate that affirmations are similar in nature. Couldn't repeating to ourselves that we possess qualities that we in fact do not train our subconscious to believe that we do in fact possess said qualities and in turn cause an active shift in our behavior thereby reinforcing the desired quality until the lie becomes the truth? That's what I've always thought. But according to the article, I may be doing more harm than good.

Where does it all lead? Where can I take this? Should I stop wearing a track suit in hopes or morphing into a runner? Or a rapper? Does it now make no sense to wear my hair like Sarah Palin on Sundays in hopes of becoming a strong-willed firm-belifed power-suit harboring force of nature?

I want to alter my eating behavior. Perhaps I will no longer say things to myself like, "I have willpower. I have discipline. I have thin yet creamy thighs." Apparently even my subconscious knows that's a crock of sh*t. However, I may instead mentally utter phrases like, "I have a strong desire to eat less. I feel vigorous and alert when I eat raw vegetables. My thighs are big but they're smaller than those of that mean lady at the DMV."

It seems to me that the key here is to do a little Easter egg hunt for my positive qualities, even if they don't burn brightly, instead of focusing on my negative or nonexistant ones. Find them and fan them until they do.

Either that or stop obsessing on myself, do a little freaking good for humanity, and become a happier person out of positive action rather than simply willing it to be so.

One for My Guy

My husband married a fun, spontaneous, one might even argue sexy on a good day party girl and ended up with... wait for it... Mommy.

It's true. I almost feel sorry for the guy. It all happened so quickly. We met in 2003, married in 2005, and by the time I had Joe Joe in 2006 I'd gained 70+ pounds from pregnancy-induced hypothyroidism and had stopped doing my roots. I was so tired all the time. It was a huge effort just to do one load of laundry. I cried daily. I was fearful to take my son to the store lest a car should swipe him in the parking lot. I hovered like a bear. I eyed our dogs with steely suspicion. I felt immense pressure to make every moment magical. I thought I should be cataloging his every breath with photographs, baby book entries and emails. I felt guilty for staying at home and racked my brain 24/7 for a way I could be at home with my boy, my heart, and still contribute to our household. Yes, I thought that being a stay at home Mom meant that I wasn't contributing. I had to find a way to justify my very existence. I tried lots of things only to find that it was my son of the thing. The thing always lost out. I failed. Miserably. And often.

Hypothyroidism slows down your body functions, including your metabolism and thought processes, and basically slowly drives you insane. For real. I could barely hold my son up at six months, or walk twenty feet down the street without panting for breath. I was fearful all the time. When asked my middle name I sometimes could not remember. To make matters worse I turned to food for comfort and to quell the anxiety I was feeling.

Then, when Joe was nine months old, I was able to become pregnant with Lily. That was the plan. I We wanted anther child, and at the age of 37 the advice was to start trying when your baby is nine months old. What can I say, we got lucky or blessed or both. Standard pregnancy blood tests ensued, and miracle of miracles one day my doctor sat across from me wide-eyed with disbelief as he read me a three digit TSH number. Vindication was mine! I'd been complaining for months that I was dieting but still gaining weight and he always gave me the "Uh-huh, sneak another cookie while you're at it" look. Shortly thereafter Levothyroid became my new best friend.

It's been a long process but I'm slowly becoming me again. I want the time back with my son. I want to run with him and play and sing to him without a voice tinged with love but also sadness and desperation. We don't always get what we want.

I've decided to stop beating myself up for having been sick and tired and to start living with vitality. I tossed out a hook and snagged myself and started reeling me in. For a long time I thought that any time spent on myself was time stolen from my children. I'm beginning to realize that time spent on myself is a gift to my children. I'm taking morning walks and eating better. I'm wearing makeup. I'm brushing my hair.

Time spent on me is a gift to my husband as well. What? I have a husband? Oh, that's right! When I became a Mom I grew so focused on my children that I forgot to be fun. I was a good Mom, but a lackluster wife and partner. You see, any time spend on my husband was time stolen from my children. Little did I know that time spent on my husband was one of the greatest gifts I could give my children.

It has been said that the greatest gift you can give your children is to love their mother. Isn't the same true of ne'er oft thought of dear old Dad?

Last night Mom watched the kiddos while my husband Dennis and I went out for margaritas and tacos. We talked. About the kids. And then a miracle happened. We started talking about him. As he began to share with me his hopes for the future I saw him come to life. It was like watching a train huff and puff and rattle and screech, eventually working up to a smooth and proud glide. It was beautiful.

We finished our food and checked his watch and determined that if we were to head home right then and there we would arrive just as Mom was putting the kids down. That's a big no-no. The distraction would have them in a frenzy and they wouldn't be able to go down for hours. So we did what any couple would do. We went to Target and picked up a t-ball stand and a twelve pack of beer. As we got back in the car and realized that we had failed to kill enough time for an uneventful re-entry we decided to stop by the driving range just down the street from our house and have a beer. Dare we? We dared. I asked Dennis what might happen if a policeman discovered our folly. He said, "You're right, officer. You got us. Two middle-aged people sitting in a parking lot at a driving range on a date night having a beer." I giggled. We hadn't done this since we were teenagers. He began detailing some teenage exploits of yore. A friend had scaled a fence and stolen a keg. Another had punched his cousin in the face. I asked if these friends were on Facebook so I could tease them. We smiled and laughed. And it was good.

As Father's Day approaches, I'm going to make a point to remember my husband more often. Not as a partner in parenting, we've got that one nailed, but as a partner in his dreams and in fun.

I love you Mr. Snugglepants.


Photo credit: hhttp://www.retroland.com/retrotalk/userfiles/10081561_gal.jpg

Social Media ADD

If you're like me you suffer from Social Media Attention Deficit Disorder. It's gotten to the point where I'm almost mentally paralyzed. My IQ is dialing down as I type this. At any given moment on any given day I am thinking all of these thoughts at once and I'm not kidding:

1. What should I blog about today? Should I even blog today? If I blog two days at once will I be setting a precident and thereby assuring that people will think less of me if I let two or even three or even four days pass between blog entries in the future?
   
   
2. I need to check Facebook. I never get the chance to actually look at everybody's page and get the full scoop on the haps. I should go through my entire friends list and organize people into groups so I can catch up with different groups on different days. Friends, family, bloggers, Avon Reps. But what if people fit into more than one group? What do I do then? Forget it, it's too complicated.
   
   
3. I need to updated my status on Twitter. "Good morning Tweeple! It's me Heather! How are you'z today?". Ugh. "Check out the Avon deliciousness at my funky and fabulous eStore! You KNOW you want to look GUUUD, girl!" He-hl no. "Wacka wacka wacka! Why look so down in the twace when you should be twiling? It's a tweautiful tway twotay!"
   
   
4. I need to find one of those tools that lets me put my Tweeple into groups so I can Tweet more effectively.
   a) SEO Rock Gods!!!!! - All that awesomeness should be contained for safety reasons
   b) Life Coaches - Good resource for affirmations and eastern philosophy quotes
   c) Mommy Bloggers - I can commiserate and follow their @'s to find new mommy blogger followers
   d) "Real" Bloggers - People without kids are the only bloggers to be taken seriously in case you didn't know
   e) Teenagers - Anyone who makes me feel that old needs to be approached with care
   f) Funny people who may or may not be insane for real but I don't care - Nuff said
   g) Other Avon Reps - So I can steal all their good ideas
   h) MC Hammer - His fabulousness needs its own category
   i) Friends and Family - Wait, do I have any on Twitter? Oh crap, I do! Are they reading what I say? Oh no. I'm going to hear about it at Thanksgiving. "Shouldn't you be with your kids instead of talking with all those questionable characters in the internet? I think you even said 'poop' in public. I'm going to speak to your Mother about this."
   
   
5. I need to get some eHow articles up so I can start bringing in some money. Why didn't I think of this back in the day when I actually knew how to do anything? Now all I know how to do is talk about how I don't know how to do anything. Hmm... would that work for an eHow article? How to write an eHow article when you don't know how to do anything?
   
   
6. I need to get caught up on Google Reader. These days actually curling up with a good blog and immersing myself in it seems like a luxury. Oh God, am I doomed to become one of those drive-by phoning-it-in blog networkers? The kind that don't actually read your posts and say things like, "Right on!" and "I always enjoy your posts.", but don't really mean it in a thinly-veiled selfish attempt to get reciprocal comments on their own blog?
   
   
7. I should be creating and promoting a Facebook page for my Avon eStore. But is that even allowed? Will I get it going only to look like a complete ass when Avon comes and cyber-spanks me and makes me take it down?
   
   
8. Should I be working on the blog over at my Avon eStore? Will anyone actually check that? Isn't that sort of like typing up a story and tossing it into the fire? And why did I put a link to my store in this post? Will that look desperate or make me look like a savvy businesswoman? AM I a savvy businesswoman? Am I even a businesswoman or just a cosmetics-schlepping schmuck?
   

There's more, but my brain just froze over. You know that feeling. The numbness starts by your ears and slowly paints the top of your head until it reaches your eyebrows. I can only imagine what I look like to the unsuspecting observer.

Mom Bloggers Caste System

I've been reading a lot of articles lately about Mom Bloggers gone bad. No names are ever mentioned, but the sentiment is always the same.

You think you're too good for us now.

Self-satisfaction is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. Never discussed, but always presumed is the hierarchy of Mom Bloggers that is becoming more entrenched as I finger this article. Never discussed until now that is! I present to you my...

Mom Bloggers Caste System

Ubertop

• Celebrity Mom Bloggers. They may have a book deal and make celebrity appearances on morning shows. One day one of them may be a guest host on "So you think you can dance". You can comment all you want on their blogs, but there ain't no chance in Hades that the favor will be returned. Don't take it personally, they're just too busy.
  

• Mom Bloggers with a Google Page Rank of five or higher. I mean, how did she do that anyway? Her material is not even that good. Certainly not as compelling as my article on removing teeth marks from the cat's tail. She probably took a limo ride with Mr. Google and doodled his schnoodle. These bloggers may allow you to become their Facebook friend. They may even concede to comment on your blog if you guilt them into it by supporting them in a comment thread when the chips are down.
  

• Mom Bloggers who have lots and lots of followers and/or feed subscribers. How do we know this? Because it's published right there on their blog. Take that, plebian! These bloggers are routinely interviewed and courted by other bloggers, their egos stroked in hopes that some of their magic will rub off on us.
  

• Mom Bloggers who have a Google Page Rank of three or higher and are routinely able to procure obscene amounts of comments. Where do these people come from? People who comment on blogs? We could write a condensed version of Das Boot and our own Dads wouldn't even take the time to comment. We know people are reading our blogs. At least nineteen people. Because Clicky tells us that. But they don't comment. Why? Because they secretly hate us and want us to look like prom-dateless fools. It gives them a certain schadenfreudian pleasure to collectively doom our words to cyberspace limbo; forever moving outward, never hitting that mountain and echoing back to us deeper and louder and with more impact.

• Mom Bloggers with a Google Page Rank of two or higher and a massive amount of followers on Twitter. Hey, at least they're popular somewhere. More popular than us, with more potential for being heard. Clearly they know something that we don't know. People like them. Or at least their Tweets. Maybe it's time to change out our Twavatars again.

• Mom Bloggers. At least they've got a horse in the race.
  

• Moms without a blog. Why even get up in the morning?
  

Uberbottom

Let's all respect one another and not take another blogger's lack of interest in us personally. Let's not chase busy people down and chide them publicly for not having time for us. If you like her, support her. If you don't like her, why not cease to focus on her? Certainly do not express nasty thoughts and allow her success to expand with the help of your passion and your albeit creative negativity.

Her success may not be my success, but it certainly isn't my failure. It isn't her or me. Let's do our own thangs and back in the glow of our positivity and our love of expression. Let's ruminate on our joy and the fact that we're d*mn lucky to be Moms in the first place and to have a platform for bonding and expressing our thoughts, good and bad. Our Moms were infinately more shuttered. Can you imagine how frightened and alone they felt at times? Yes, we are the fortunate ones.

Sisterhood is the new catty. Ain't it cool?

Does Google AdSense Make Sense?

Do any of my fellow bloggers or webmasters find that you've been able to procure a respectable amount of cash flow using Google AdSense? By respectable I mean have any of you ever hit the $100 threshold required for payout?

I slapped some ads on this blog just under the header and last time I checked I saw one for "Father Day". Yes, that's "Father Day" and not "Father's Day". Is AdSense programmed to mirror the grammatical acuity of the blogger? If so, my prognosis is bleak.

I find myself wondering if AdSense serves a purpose beyond cluttering Happymaking, making me look estupido and thrusting Engrish text links in your gentle faces not like Andy Gibb thrust his camel toe at an unsuspecting public circa 1977.

Brick Walls

I was drop-kicked into yesterday morning by a bad dream. After tossing and turning for a bit, when it became irkfully apparent that I would not be falling back to sleep, it dawned on me that if I were to get out of bed that very moment I could expect to have roughly ONE hour to myself. ONE hour! I could network. I could blog uninterrupted. I could think deep thoughts. I could lounge on the toilet and read Better Homes & Gardens. High on life, I ripped off the covers and flung myself across the room and into the hallway.

On my way to my computer I noticed that Joe had opened his door and turned on his light in the middle of the night. Giggling at the rhyme of it all (remember, I was still high on life) I crept over to his room, turned off his light, and closed his door as gingerly as any human can hope to gingerly close a door. Not quite two seconds later Joe exploded into a highly vocal crying frenzy so fierce I expected to find him literally caught by the toe by a tiger.

Just then, my bowels churned and threatened to erupt, and left me with no choice other than to dash into the bathroom. After a few very unpleasant moments, I made my way back to Joe's room to save him from the tiger. My bowels churned again, and so it was back to the bathroom. (Bad chicken???!? Damn that chicken!) From the bathroom I heard Lily working herself up to a crying frenzy as well. Is it possible there were two toe-grabbing tigers? As I sat there on the toilet I almost began to cry myself. One uninterrupted hour had been so close I could almost taste it! Alas, it was not meant to be.

My bowels behaved long enough to allow me to make it to Lily and Joe's rooms, save them from those blasted tigers, and hoist them by the teardrops onto the living room rug. Bleary, I decided I was not ready to be entertaining and thus went searching for the remote. I pressed 8 for PBS only to be greeted with the Spanish version of "A Place of Our Own". I tried to explain to Joe that they were speaking a language called Spanish, and that we spoke English, but that someday hopefully he could speak both English and Spanish, but he just stared at me, his face devoid of any hint of future bilingual prowess.

I flicked the channel button up one notch and was greeted with some seminar footage. A man named Randy Pausch, may he rest in peace, was sharing childhood photos of himself at Disneyland. He went on to detail his efforts to secure a position as a Disneyland Imagineer after having obtained his PhD. He read to us from one of many rejection letters he received from The Land of Disney. He had, in fact, hit a brick wall.

And then he said it!

"The brick walls aren't built to keep you out. The brick walls are built to keep out the people who don't want it badly enough. They're built to keep other people out."

Wow. If only that notion had dawned upon me years ago! I've always been painfully apologetic of my existence in the world. As though my mere presence was an irritation to the people who really deserved to be existing. And loving. And laughing. And succeeding. Every now and then I'd poke my little chipmunk nose around the corner and give something a try. Expecting rejection, I was never surprised when I hit a brick wall. I was overstepping my bounds, after all. I would apologize to the brick wall and scurry back into the safety of the shadows that were meant to be my home.

It never occurred to me for one moment that brick walls were golden opportunities! If they were keeping me out, isn't it possible they were keeping other people out as well? That I could net myself an advantage simply by deciding not to be discouraged—to give it another try? And maybe even another? Dare I? Who do I think I am, anyway? In the past all this uppity thinking would have had me scuttling back under a rock. But not today. And not ever again. I've got brick walls to climb!

Fighting the hair curling demon!

I don't know when it happened. One day after my first child was born, as I stood in front of the mirror yanking my curls into submission, it hit me.

Hey! My hair is curly now!

And I was not happy about it.

Now don't you curly-haired goddesses go writing me any nasty letters. I think curls are beautiful. On y'all, not on me.

I took an unofficial poll on Facebook last week and it seems as though I'm far from alone. Our hair gets curlier after we have kids. Why this happens is a mystery to me. But you can rest assured that I will be doing everything in my power to fight the hair curling demon that has taken up residence inside my head.

I will be sure to post pictures so you can laugh at me and feel folliclarly superior because I know you like that.

And this is the Twilight of my life

I watched Twilight last night. I am currently reading the book, a page at a time at night before I pass out between the pages. I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I knew I should wait on the film, but I couldn't help myself. I was sitting, popcorn on lap, scrolling through Movies on Demand and about to rent Hamlet 2 when I saw it. Twilight. At first I didn't even make the connection. I clicked on "more info" and saw the name Bella. My mind belatedly clicked into gear and I went cold. Twilight! Since I've only just begun the book, I wasn't sure if I should spoil it by watching the film. I asked my husband Dennis for advice. "Watch it." he said. Who am I to disobey?

It was wonderful. The casting was perfect. I felt as though I was going to leap out of my skin through 98% of it. Did I mention I'm 39 years old?

Still, when it was said and done I was left with a sense of melancholy. There's something to being reasonably young and reasonably beautiful. It allows you to watch a film like Twilight and imagine yourself as Bella. That you too just might be able to inspire the same sort of passion and desire in a handsome young vampire. Mind you, I found and am quite content with my soulmate and handsome middle-aged vampire Dennis and don't plan to be out chasing handsome young vampires any time this century. But that's hardly the point. There's something in the knowing that you could if you wanted to. There's something to living in a world of infinite possibilities and open doors.

In the world of movies and quite possibly the world at large, beauty = good, and good = beauty. As our beauty dissipates, does our goodness dissipate as well? Surely not. Still, I've been struggling with my relationship to the mirror these days. Just when exactly did I fade away and this mean old lady appear? The kind of woman you might expect to yell at you to eat your vegetables from the other end of the cafeteria? Where did my external Bella go? I know she's still there on the inside. How is it possible that no trace of her should remain on the outside?

I know why women my age are just as fond of Twilight as our teen counterparts. Edward Cullen is passionate and steadfast. He's more beautiful than Claudia Schiffer, and is the embodiment of restrained and tormented superpower. He only has eyes for Bella, even though or perhaps because she is the source of his torment. Bella doesn't have to compete for him, she simply has to be. She was quite literally made for him. Edward breathlessly says things like, "You are my world now". When he said she'd be better off in Jacksonville because he couldn't hurt her anymore and she panicked and asked him to stay he said, "Where on Earth would I go".

In a world where men leave, Edward does not.

(Mind you, I haven't yet read the other three books in the series so please don't spoil it for me!)

I can't wait to finish Twilight so I can move on to the next in the series. I'm not getting any younger, you know.

In and Out

Yesterday my husband Dennis and I decided to bite the bullet and drive up to our old rental and clean. We'd planned to do it on Wednesday, but the bullet presented itself and invited us to bite.

The initial 10 minutes of the drive were like a death march. What's worse than returning to a former home to clean? Our dread was epic. Slumped and defeated, we made sidelong glances at each other that said we were blaming the other for our current predicament. And then we saw it. Aaaaaaaaaaa!! The In and Out burger sign on the corner of 1-10 and Ramon Road. Suddenly the van was careening off to the right and Dennis was yelling at a truck, "Are you going to turn or what, jackass?!?!?!?". And we were happy again.

Sitting in the drive-thru line behind fifteen or so cars, we settled in and tuned our attention to the radio which was unabashedly playing "Unskinny Bop".



In case you've never heard of said tune, "Unskinny Bop" is a Poison song, and probably the worst one (which is saying a lot). I realize that Poison has legions of rabid fans, none of which are Dennis or myself. After a long turn of groaning and making gag faces and feeling musically superior, we settled down to the business of analyzing the song. "But what does it mean?", I inquired. Eyebrows furled. We both leaned in a bit closer. If it weren't for the crooning and big hair smacking sounds you could have heard a pin drop. Then he said it. "Is it about having sex with fat girls?". And then it's quiet and he looks over at me. I said, "Why are you looking at me?!?". Nervous laughter ensued.

Then we pulled up to the window and it was clear it was time to pay the piper. Dennis wasn't sure if he brought his wallet so I said, "I have it if you don't have it", meaning atm card, to which he rightfully countered, "You have my wallet??". He found it and paid, and suddenly we are being told, "Here are some lap mats for you", and a smiling woman hands them to Dennis, who puts them both on my lap. I said, "Why did you do that? Is my lap so big it needs two lap mats?". He's been around long enough to know when there's not right answer and said, "I'm saying nothing".

The burgers were good. I think I still have onion breath, so watch out!

Crazy Train

I just realized that Lily is asleep and my Mom has Joe Joe over at her studio and I'm having fun over at Facebook instead of blogging. Now that I'm here I don't know what to say. Sort of like standing dumb-faced in a record store (yes, they're coming back, folks!) just staring at the pretty colors and bright, shiny objects, gravitating towards the top 10 rack and thinking "people sure are listening to crap these days".

Then again, maybe people always did listen to crap. Have people always listened to crap? And if I think people listen to crap does that make me a member of the lunatic fringe?

Yipes, Crazy Train ended and now I'm listening to an Ace Hardware commercial on the radio and my brain is blank again. Didn't Charo used to be in those Ace Hardware commercials in the 1970's? Tongue rolls, "Get yourself an escrew driver here, this man is so niiice!". I just love that woman. I remember how shocked I was to learn that she is quite an accomplished Spanish guitarist, having been under the impression that she was a ditzy blonde with no noteworthy talents outside of booby-shaking and hip gyrating. I won a Charo impersonation contest once at my friend Mandy's house.

Why can't I remember much about my childhood? I remember landscapes of moments in time. They are imprinted upon my brain like a Cassat or a Matisse. They are feeling, magic, tingliness, hope, wonder and a lot of looking up. Maybe that's my problem. I've been spending too much time looking down these days. The Bible says it's time to put away childish things. It doesn't say it's time to throw them away.

Obstacles <- If you stare at that word it starts to look really weird

Moves can be good as well as supremely irritating. They offer us a fresh start and force us to confront the debris and schmutz in our surroundings. I've been wanting to change some habits and shatter my daily annoyances, and what better time than now?

I have decided to confront obstacles head-on, having been tiptoeing around them for years. Literally. A feng shui disaster. If a vase was in my way I'd been sidling around it. Why? I don't know. I'm thinking it may have something to do with mental clarity and not being present in the moment. Head in the clouds. Baby brain. But these obstacles, no matter how minor, can snowball during the course of the day and turn me into a fussypooh crankypants. Just ask Dennis. Or my Mom. Or the kids. Or the lady at the store. Or... ooh boy.

Had to step five feet out of the way to dry my hands? No more! Hung up a towel ring.

Have to climb a hill and wade through a river of crocodiles to take out the trash? Uh-uh. No mo. Putting the can right outside the garage door.

Moving the skid-prone couch every day to get the blinds open? Forget it. Putting the couch on a non-skid rug.

Obstacles be danged! Rowr.

All this back-patting got me to thinking. I wonder if obstacles are also getting in the way of my spiritual growth? I actually put down my "on the john" Newsweek in order to contemplate this for a couple of very heavy moments. I'll bet they are! But what if a person is an obstacle? I can't just toss a person aside. Hmm... perhaps I might re-frame my environment so the person can be allowed to exist, but so that I may walk around her with ease. Yes, maybe. (And no, I'm not talking about you.)

What if a bag of chips is an obstacle? I can simply chuck that. It's easier to toss out a bag of chips than a person. Unless I'm pee em essing.

I'm going to keep thinking about what I want to accomplish right here and right now, and what obstacles may be hindering my progress. Then I just may have a toss out the obstacles/drink a bottle of cold beer night. And I'll be sure to have a bottle opener on hand.

Humor is no joke

People have been asking me why I'm not writing humor too often these days. Here are my thoughts on the eschew. (Get it? Ahahaaa!) *ahem*

1) Why should I be writing humor? I never claimed to be funny. In fact, I'm not.

2) It's hard to write funny stuff when you're happy. Happy people just aren't all that funny. In fact, sometimes they're rather irritating and you just want to slap them. Left to my own devices I'd come in here every morning dressed in a Tinkerbell outfit and write an Ode to Joy. In fact, I may still do that.

3) I'm not funny.

4) The only possibility of being funny for me resides in banter. I need to play off of you. But you're not here. You're selfishly doing your own thing while I'm struggling here to come up with a somewhat amusing post just to appease you. God, the unfairness of that just makes me want to spit.

5) I could try to write funny stuff about my life, but then I'd feel like a jerk. Whenever I write about the kids I see comments here and there about how it's mean to write about your kids because some day like 15 years from now somebody they know may see that post about Joe holding a piece of poop in his fist and he won't be able to find a date to the prom. I don't need more reasons to feel Mommy Guilt. I've got them by the truckload. Why should I go out of my way to manufacture more? And isn't it kind of mean to write about The Bitter Half and leave him open to public humiliation like that? Isn't being married to me enough of a cross to bear?

6) I was in the shower this morning and my cat flung open the bathroom door somehow and thrust his fuzzy little face in there and started just meowing like a freaking maniac cat. I asked him if he was planning to be irritating all day long. His eyes told me he was.

And so I sit here writing about my hopes and fears and eccentricities and you sit there wrapping a noose around your neck, just daring me to write one more painfully boring word so you can fling yourself out the window just to spite me. Oh great, now it's more Blogger Guilt as well.

And just who do you think you are anyway to expect me to be funny? I don't need that kind of pressure. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be funny? To open yourself up to that kind of rejection? It's easy for me to talk honestly about things of which other people would never dare to speak. But it's hard to cast a joke out into the river and wait for a fish to leap out of the water and jump on my joke hook. In this scenario, you would be the fish. And I would be vulnerable.

So there you have it. And don't you dare succomb to pathos and say nice things in your comment like, "But you are funny.", or worse yet, "I like you just the way you are.".