Browsing Posts published in April, 2010


Greg came home while we were in the middle of a kitchen craft table cleanup. I was looking harried and harrier than ever, probably not the picture perfect wife he was hoping to return home to. We managed to smear the glitter glue around the tabletop making dinner placements out of the glue and sparkles. Spagetti night and everyone was happy to have Daddy home from his meetings, until Hanna began to shake the parmesan cheese container and angrily said that it was clogged. Greg, without hesitation, took my used fork out of my spaghetti bowl and prong side down, covered in meat sauce, proceeded to shove it down the slit in the parmesan shaker and jab through the obstruction. I looked for the hidden camera in the dangling light fixture. Are you kidding me? At the very least, he could have used the handle of the fork to shake the powder loose, it still wouldn’t have made it okay but it wouldn’t have been quite so offensive.


 Today, the girls and I discussed fire safety. In retrospect, I thought my approach was solid until they continued to repeat the fact  they should smash through the window and not to worry about wearing shoes outside if there was a fire in the house. I now have absolutely no doubt in my mind that if someone so much as lights a candle on a birthday cake, any one of my windows is vulnerable to the girls throwing a baseball through it before diving head first through the hole in the broken glass… stocking feet.

 Ellie came to me this morning with a very small, pink, polly pocket shoe and asked, “is this a chokeable?” I told her that it was in fact, a ‘chokeable.’ She scurried away and returned with a rogue bead that had fallen off of one of her homemade necklaces and asked again, “is this a chokeable?” It was. She left the room. I followed her into her bedroom where she showed me a box of all of the ‘chokeable’ items she had collected from around the house. At first, I thought this was a really sweet gesture to her new baby sister, trying to keep her away from danger. I then wondered if maybe she was gathering a box of sure fire ways to choke Chloe and finally get my undivided attention. Hmmmm.

 I have been hearing a lot about sex addiction in the news as of late and I have a few concerns. Let me go on record as stating I do not believe there is such a thing as sexual addiction. I can’t accept an invented addiction that has been around less time than this blog and applies only to celebrities, politicians, great looking and/or married people. I have a hard time  labelling something an illness only when the man (and it always seems to be a man) is caught cheating on his wife.

Why can’t a single person be considered a sex addict? Why can’t a sex addict have sex with just his spouse? Why can’t said “addict” pleasure themselves instead of going outside of their marriage? Why does someone have to be CAUGHT in order to admit they have a problem?  I’m not suggesting that those individuals who have had sex with thirty people behind their wives backs can’t be addicted to something; the risk and thrill of potentially being caught like a gambling addict, the alcohol they consume before engaging in such extramarital affairs,or  the crack they are most likely smoking before trying to convince their wives that in fact it was an illness that drove them to become the weasels they have and not just being an all around sleaze ball. So, to re-iterate, to be a “sexual addict” you must be: good looking, male, married, famous, get caught and love having sex.

Yep, sounds like an illness to me.

Hanna’s grade one math problem this week asked her to figure out how many eyes were in her classroom.

We determined there were eighteen people in her class, each with two eyes, so we would need to find the answer to 18 x 2.

Ellie (age 4): is it 35 Mommy?

I had almost finished dialing the local news to let them know I had a genius on my hands when I said, “not quite Ellie but very close.”

Ellie: 4?



 Now in addition to writing a book, I have to come up with a tightly written, non-cheeky letter (the literary agents all stress  they aren’t interested in cutesie gimmicks which just so happen to be the only way I know how to write).I want to talk to them about the fact I was my high school volleyball co-captain. “Co”, because the girl with the athletic ability wore the “C” on her jersey but I had a unique ability to communicate with my peers through a series of jokes while riding the pine, keeping things light during some intense matches. 

 I want to write about my former co-workers at my first job selling advertising. Paul, who had some form of tourette’s syndrome when after every sentence he would utter the words, “please, okay? please.” A conversation with him would go something like this.

 “Good morning Paul.”

 “Good morning. Please…okay? please.”

 I would write about Karl, who rather than saying it wasn’t his “cup of tea” would say it wasn’t his “cup of meat.”

I would write about Jeff who brought in a tray of four extra large, triple-triple coffees for himself every morning and have them drunk by 10am. He also thought that everyone over the age of twenty-five was automatically grandfathered free automobile insurance and learned that wasn’t the case when at twenty-six, he smashed his girlfriend’s fathers car into a pole. Of course, I would have to mention Raj and the pods……Raj and his sex club and the scandal that ensued.

I am considering sending a query letter to a literary agent to ask how I would go about becoming published. There is no shortage of information about how to write a well executed query letter—a term, I had never heard of until recently. Each agent that is accepting a letter has their own set of rules. The bones of the letter seem to require that you tell the agent what your book is about. Not sure yet. What genre are you planning to write about? Again, stumped. Is diaper changing a genre? Have you completed your work? Absolutely not, in fact, I’m not sure I’ve even started. Why are you an authority on this topic? I have the scars and swollen perineum to prove it.  Okay, so I have some work to do.

 Ellie who is now napping woke up this morning wanting to play make-believe. The game was to go as follows. There is a mommy and two daughters. The mommy does everything for one of the daughters and nothing for the other daughter. Ouch. Point taken, I am spending way too much time with the baby and not enough time with Ellie. I better put writing on the back burner for another day at least and yet, I made a promise to myself to write something every day. I found myself becoming impatient with Ellie’s guilt trip. She spent the morning testing me to see if I would try to squeeze in a moment at the computer so she did everything she could to keep me away. Even wiping herself after peeing took thirty seconds too long. She stood up from the toilet and asked me, “How many squares again Mommy, three?” I told her that three squares was a good amount so as not to clog the toilet. She detached one slow square after the other making sure she didn’t fray from the perforations in the seams. I looked on with the baby in one arm while burning myself with my metal walk-around tea cup. I feel as though I have no patience for anything these days. I took the two girls to Starbucks this morning to pick up a donation for the preschool dance and walking back to our vehicle made me almost lose whatever marbles I have remaining. I was armed with Chloe in her car seat dangling from my locked, right elbow, two, tall, tazo chai lattes with soy stacked one on top of the other in my right hand, chin resting on top of those, my enormous purse stocked with a spare diaper, wipes, wallet, hundreds of rogue receipts, chapstick, and a corkscrew over my left shoulder and the Starbucks donation in my left hand. I’m not sure how I fished out the car keys and had enough strength in one of my fingers to press the unlock symbol but the lights flashed in victory and I knew the doors could be opened. Now wedged in between a dirty silver mini-van and our even dirtier, silver mini-van, I requested that Ellie pull on the lever and the door would slide open. She stood sniffing the box that housed her chocolate cupcake that I treated her to and I’m sure reached for the door when she processed my instructions but it was never going to be fast enough for me. I politely asked her a second time to try to open the door. The lattes were swaying, the baby started to kick rocking her chair and I could see all of the pyramids I had built collapsing around me in a parking lot of onlookers. “Ellie, try again, just pull the handle out.” Again, she sniffed her cupcake. “Ellie, pull the lever towards you.” She pulled it towards the back of the van rendering the handle useless. “Ellie, try pulling the handle out and then back.” She pulled it back, brown icing dipped nose and all. “Try again SWEETHEART,” this time, my voice shaking. I was looking less human and more like the waiter on Sesame Street who always dropped everything he was trying to balance, crashing to the ground. She pulled it back, as hard as she could, almost enjoying the feeling of being able to swing her entire body from the handle and have nothing happen. The door remained closed. I squatted down and back trying to steady the coffees but to no avail. The cups tipped, the donation fell and onlookers did nothing to even pretend to help. They just scurried ahead, one step closer to their double, decaf, mocha madness while I stood sighing and slid open the van door with nothing but my coffee breath. Later that evening, my six year old stepped into the bathtub and yelled, “Mommy, that’s freakin’ hot!” Where the fuck would she have heard that? The wheels seem to be falling off.

 The baby is now fussing. I think the wasabi I mistakenly ate last night on the sushi Greg made has made its’ way into my breast milk. Greg makes sushi about once a year within a week of getting together with our Korean friends. He spends the better part of our visit having them explain to him how to make the best sushi possible and adds all of the ingredients to my grocery list for that week. He prepared the sushi while I was at my second swimming lesson of the day yesterday and in typical Greg fashion, slopped the hottest tube of wasabi onto his finger and smeared 1000 times too much across the rice which burned into the shrimp that lay nervously on top. I shoved an entire piece into my mouth before looking anything over with my usual, careful eye. Before I chewed, I knew I was in trouble as the back of my throat began to burn. I made my way over to the sink and knew that water couldn’t possibly put out the fire that had engulfed my brain. I grabbed some nearly dehydrated cucumber slices that had returned in Hanna’s school lunch bag uneaten that were supposed to be in the composter and crammed them down my throat.

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