I'm a Weiner!

Hey!!! I won something!!! Thank you to The Semi-Desperate Housewife!!!! She sent me the most loverly package of chocolates, a paper and pencil set, face mask, and fancy-schmancy tea! Observe!



She mentioned that it took longer than usual to get the package out b/c she kept eating the candies - don't feel bad! If these babies make it through the night, it'll be a freakin' miracle. They're YUMMY!

SO.... this means I have to start my own contest! This will be my very first one, so be gentle with me. Hmmm, what to do....?

I know! I made a compilation CD the other day out of things I downloaded from iTunes. It has 20 songs on it, and they, for the most part, are pretty embarrassing. For instance, I have Mmmm-bop by Hanson, If You Change Your Mind by ABBA, Candy by Iggy Pop and that redhead chick from the B-52s, and Stayin' Alive by the Bee-Gees. Embarrassing, no? But I love them, every one. They're happy, peppy songs that make me feel awake. There's one song on there, however, that is SO BAD that DH actually turned to me in the car and said, 'You have THIS on there?!' Anyone who guesses what song it is, wins! If no one gets it right, I'll pick a person at random and we'll still have a list of funny songs. You have until Friday! Go! (Hint: It's an early 90's thing.)

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In other news, we went to a picnic at our chuch last night in honor of a visit from the head of the orphanage our congregation runs in Zimbabwe. It is one of several orphanages sponsored by various countries that together make basically a town of their own, with a school, medical care, etc. Most of the kids there are AIDS orphans, and are elementary school age, although there are a few infants and kids as old as their early twenties. It was wonderful to listen to him talk, both because of his beautiful accent and because he had wonderful information on the program, which is going exceedingly well. I have read a lot about Sudan, Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone in the past few years, and have been wanting to get involved in the orphanage project for a long time. I don't know why I didn't, really, other than my own lack of initiative in finding out who I needed to talk to to do so. Last night at the picnic, there was a table there explaining exactly what I needed to do, with friendly people sitting behind it, so over I went, and I am now the proud sponsor of a little girl named Miriam! Miriam's mother drowned while trying to take her children across a river to avoid fighting, and Miriam and her sister were taken in by her grandmother, who soon passed away. The girls were then taken in by another grandmother, who had several other grandchildren she was trying to care for as a result of the AIDS epidemic. That grandmother passed away as well, and the children were taken in by an aunt, who couldn't care for them all, so she contacted the orphan's village, which took in Miriam and her younger sister.

I can't begin to imagine this kind of life, or the terror that these girls must have felt, or the abandonment they have suffered repeatedly, but I'm thrilled that I can help her from now on. Even children who aren't individually sponsored are cared for in the same way that the sponsored children are, just out of a general fund, which also provides them with letters and holiday gifts that the sponsored children will be getting from their sponsors, so none of the children see a difference.

I know this is a small thing I'm doing, comparitively, but it still makes me happy. So, I win here, too. :)

Your WHAT?!

This morning I was getting ready in the bathroom, doing my hair (which basically consists of throwing in some little hair clips and getting it off of my face), when in busts Patrick, who was, of course, butt naked. He wanted to use the toilet, thank you very much. Whatever.

Let me interject here that Naked Boy Summer Buns are the cutest things in the world. He's tan all over, really, really tan (yes, I use sunscreen, but there's only so much a mama can do - hell, at least neither of my kids have had any burns, unlike the constant state of peeling I was in at their ages), except his buns are snow white. They almost glow in the dark. It's so funny! When he runs down the hall they look like little jiggling moons!

Anyway, the boy sat down, because it was Poop Time, don't you know. I was still standing in there, with my back to him, but I could see him some in the mirror, and he was saying something to me, so I turned off the blow dryer and asked him what he said.

Me: 'What?'
Him: 'I have to go poop AND pee, I said!!!'

We have never, ever said 'pee'. We are a 'tinkle' family. Mommy Tinkle, Daddy Tinkle, and the Two Little Tinkles.

Me: 'Pee?!'
Him, speaking slowly like I'm a idiot: 'Yeah, you know, TINKLE, like what's on my BALLS, see?!'

!!!!!!!! Balls !!!!!!!!

We are not a 'balls' family. We are a 'little ballies', 'package', or MAYBE 'faucet' family. My baby does NOT have balls! Balls are gross, hairy, messy things that my sweet, sweet baby does not even come CLOSE to having!!!!! EEEEUUUUWWWWWW!!! Who on earth taught my baby to say BALLS?! Gak!

I realize that all sorts of things are going to be coming out of his mouth now that he'll be going to big kid school and being with lots of other kids, who have lots of older siblings. In fact, I'm sure he probably got that little phrase from one of the older neighborhood kids. HOWEVER, until school starts, I want to float along on de Nile river and pretend that my baby will be unsullied by bad language or rude gestures. Or, talk about his BALLS. Even the idea makes me giggle, and then throw up in my mouth a little. Eeeuuuw.

For Pete's sake...

We have had nothing but trouble since we moved into this freakin' neighborhood.

Two days ago, our dogs managed to open the screen door on our front porch and dash outside to jump all around these two older people, who I would say were in their early sixties, walking their huskies. People frequently bring their dogs over to play with ours, since there are no dog parks in the area and we all have to basically have playdates with our neighbors instead. There are about ten dogs in a four-block radius that stop by whenever we're all outside to play, or vice versa. Unfortunately, these dogs weren't two of them, and the owners FREAKED when our dogs came running out and started jumping all around their dogs.

By FREAKED, I mean started screaming at the top of their lungs that they were being attacked, swearing VERY loudly, and kicking my dogs, who stopped what they were doing and stood nearby like they had been hit by a car. I had been sitting on the front porch with Patrick, who I think had probably not latched the door when he came out, which is what probably started the whole thing. Anyway, I was right behind the dogs, trying to grab them as the people kicked at them, and asking them to stop swearing and yelling so I could get things under control. The man then started yelling at me that his wife was frightened, and they would swear if they wanted to, to which I replied that I understood that they were upset, but could they please stop yelling 'goddamnit' in front of my 5 year old?! The guy stopped yelling at me then, but as I walked my dogs into the house, they continued on down the road yelling to everyone they saw that they had been attacked. They wouldn't talk to me, nothing.

I know they were upset, and since they were a little older, I would say in their sixties, I knew they were probably scared when strange dogs came running over. I would be uncomfortable in the same situation, probably. My first response, however, would NOT be to kick an animal that wasn't growling, snapping, or acting violent, and simply was jumping around, especially if the owner was right there. Dog fights make a certain, distinct, LOUD sound, which involves yelping, snarling, and snapping of teeth, which I know first-hand because our dogs were attacked by another one last year and Tyler received such an injury to his ear that his entire ear flap had to be cut open and quilted back together. There were none of those sounds going on; therefore, there was play, not fighting. I would also talk to the owner rather than scream obscenities at her. Needless to say, it was totally our fault that the dogs got out, and it turned out that the batteries had died in Baci's electronic fence collar, so what can I say other than it was a total failure on our part. I pretty nearly started crying as they went down the road telling everyone that they had been attacked, because 1) it wasn't true and 2) I felt mildly assaulted, myself. Plus, of course, I felt very horrified and embarrassed that it had happened at all, because I'm a good pet owner. But, no one had been hurt, so I started to feel better after awhile (and after a beer or two), and figured, well, I've never seen those people before, so hopefully I'll never see them again.

Today, when we came home from my nephew's birthday party, there was a yellow paper on our door. It was from the county, and was citing us for having 1)unrestrained animals, 2) viscious or dangerous animals, and 3)unlicensed animals. Of course, animal control was closed when I called, so I'm going to have to wait until Monday to talk to anyone there. I have 20 days to prove that they've had their rabies shots, and get them licensed in the city (apparently they need both county AND city licenses, which we didn't know b/c we only moved into town two months ago- our old house was technically outside city limits, but still in the same county, and it's not like there's a sign or notice sent to people about it).

We went to a neighborhood BBQ tonight soon after we got home, and as the neighborhood children played with the dogs in our yard, plus another dog who frequently visits, our neighbors were appropriately shocked as we tried to figure out who the hell these people are. No one has ever seen them before, although one person did mention that there's a husky breeder a few streets away, so maybe they were the people. I, however, can't bring myself to laugh at it, not yet. I mean, not to be an idiot, but my dogs are like my kids, and what they do reflects on me, so now I feel like I have been publicly trashed by these strangers. Also, anyone who has ever actually met our dogs, which includes everyone who allows their small children to come over here to play, knows that they are certainly NOT viscious. I mean, has anyone ever met a nasty labrador (that hadn't been abused or something)? I don't know if such a thing even exists.

I think I'm upset about more than that, though. I think it's a power thing that must go back to my childhood, a feeling of helplessness as something bad happens that I can't do anything about. There are people out there badmouthing me, and I don't even know who they are. Some invisible person from the county came while we were away and dropped off hate mail, basically, like some Orwellian Big Brother. To make it worse, now I can have the fun of calling the county and discussing this whole thing with someone who probably isn't going to listen, believe me, or care. I find this all immensely stressful and upsetting. Like I said, I take fully responsiblity for the dogs getting out, and for the upset that occured, but seriously, taking the step of calling the county and filing a complaint about viscious animals without even talking to me seems way, way overboard and very, very hateful. I don't wish we had never moved here, because the kids have made a lot of friends, and I have a good friend up the road, but there is definitely a LOT about not having nearby neighbors that I miss. I would rather be alone than be just BESIDE myself.

Yea and Verily, How The Mighty Have Once Again Bit The Big One

I know that the olympics are starting tonight, and initially I thought I was excited about them, but now that the moment is here, I'm just kind of ... eeh. In years past, I've had total Olympic fever, but this year it seems to be more of a flush.

I think it's partly the bad press surrounding the entire thing, what with smog, the government opening and closing places to reporters like revolving doors, the country's civil rights crisis, doping, and so on and so on. The games always seemed so Magical when I was a kid. Mary Lou Retton, my God, she was HUGE to me, and the entire thing was encased in a golden halo. Now it seems almost dirty to me, now that I'm old enough to understand all the back story stuff.

And, speaking of dirty, WTF is up with John Edwards?!?!!?! I feel like an idiot, AGAIN, for defending a politician I really believed in against allegations that couldn't POSSIBLY be true, and boom! There's the bumpin'-ugly truth, right there, in the ENQUIRER, for chrissakes! When CNN tells you that a story was broken by the Enquirer, I think it may seriously be a sign of the freakin' apocalypse. What's next, Obama's going to turn out to be a pre-op trannie and McCain will be hooked on four-day Viagrathons? Cripes. We're going to my sister-in-law's house tomorrow for my younger neice and nephew's bday parties, and they're raging republicans, so NOW I'm going to have to endure being made fun of AGAIN over 'my guy' turning out to be a total dillhole (or dillhole driller, as the case apparently is). His poor wife, losing a child, having cancer twice, and now her Sir Lancelot turns out to be Sir Cheatsalot. Yuck.

Curmudgeon

This morning a rumpled woman showed up on my doorstep in her pajamas and satin eye-cover thing to tell me that she works nights and my dogs were bothering her, so could I keep them inside until around 11am each day?

From this request, you would think that a) I might actually know who this woman was, b) that we've had conversations before, and c) that it was probably pretty early in the morning. You might also think that they had been barking constantly for quite a time, and on many occasions, and that this person was, um, old.

In fact, it was 9am, I had no idea who she was until she told me that her bedroom window is near our back porch, making her our next-door neighbor (which makes her window probably at least five yards away), and I've never had a conversation with her in my life! The dogs had been out maybe fifteen minutes, and one had just started whining to come in a few minutes before she came over. I *never* allow them to bark for long periods of time. I hate people who do that, and I'm anal about not allowing it.

I tried to have a relationship with this woman and her husband, who I'm guessing are in their mid-twenties, when we first moved in, introducing myself from my backyard when they were in their yard, calling 'hello' occasionally. No dice - they treated me like a leper. So, I stopped talking to them, but it's been a comfortable silence, I think. Our kids stay our of their yard, we all keep our lawns mowed, and time passes.

So, this morning when this rumpled, annoyed creature showed up on my doorstep, I honestly thought at first that it was some teenager who had gotten locked out of her house! Once I finally figured out who it was, I started to get mad. I mean, really. There was no 'hello', no 'sorry to bother you', no introduction, nothing. I was shocked, first of all, that she was complaining, since it was well past the 'too-early-for-noise' time, and all the normal neighborhood noises were also going on, like trash collection, kids on bikes, etc. Also, who does she think she is? Dogs cannot stay inside until 11am!!! I mean, can she hold HER pee until 11am? I don't think so.

It's not that I don't understand people who need to sleep during the day; my mother always has worked nights, and she was also unreasonable about her expectations of people in regards to noise (she expected to be able to sleep at any time of day with the windows open and not be disturbed - this never happened because we lived in an apartment complex, so she was mad a lot, but it was her own fault). Life cannot stop just because some people may or may not be working a different shift. I'm sure there are probably several people in the neighborhood who work nights, and there hasn't been a riot yet over daytime noise. I would not have minded had she approached me in a nice way, and maybe told me who she was before starting to complain! She used the rudest tone of voice, like it is totally unreasonable of me to allow the dogs outside. (They have dogs themselves, these yappy little pomeranians that are only allowed outside once in a blue moon, and no kids.)

So, I told her that no, I can't not let them out until 11am, and that I couldn't even let them in right then because I had a child over to play who was allergic to them (the truth), but that I could go out and sit with them and they probably wouldn't bark if I did that. To be honest, I have no plans to alter my habits at all. We've been in the process of training Baci not to bark when he wants to come in, actually, but part of that is not letting him in if he barks, since that teaches him to bark more if he's not let in when he wants in (which is anytime I'm not with him, really). So, she's going to have to put up with it for a little while, and maybe buy some damn earplugs! No, I didn't actually SAY that part, although I DID slam the door when she turned to leave. Am I proud of that? No, but... it sure felt great!

Like I said, had she come over and been nice about it, or had I been behaving in a completely unreasonable manner, then I wouldn't be stewing over it. As it stands, though, I want to get up extra-early tomorrow morning, get the dogs all riled up, and start mowing the lawn. The last thing I want is a bad relationship with neighbors, but I also don't want to set a precident of her tromping over here whenever she wants and making demands. So, I will continue to work on training the dogs not to bark at the door, and she can get herself some damn earplugs. Or, alternatively, I can smack her really hard upside her head the next time she stomps over, and maybe she'll go deaf.

Random Doodads

Today, I went on the mother of all grocery trips. Since August is a 5-week month, DH gets three paychecks, meaning there's an extra check, since I budget all the bills to be paid out of two per month. Also, our local grocery store is having a gas-booster price knockoff of $.40 per gallon for every hundred dollars you spend (usually it's half that) in one trip. Knowing this holy bifecta (is that a word?)was coming, I let the cupboards go EMPTY. I sh*t you not, there was nothing in the fridge but four gogurts, some condiments, and half a carton of milk. Plus, some moldy lettuce in the forget-you-bought-this crisper, but I don't count that. I was supposed to go on Sunday, but since DH had his kidney stone that day (yes, he's feeling a lot better, thank you all for your concern, darlings) I couldn't go until today, when I was sure he wouldn't either a)barf on the kids or b)piss a boulder.

SO, with two weeks' worth of coupons and bonus card in hand, off I went to the local market. And I saved (drumroll, please)... over $100!!!!! The original price was almost $450, and I spent $336!!! (Yes, you may throw confetti, because I AM!!) This beats my old record, because the last time I saved anythink like this it was with a special coupon from the store I used to shop at that gave me 20% off an entire trip. I don't usually spend this much money, but since the gas thing was on, and I had so many coupons, AND this was an extra check, I used the opportunity to stock up on nonperishables like dog food (I got two coupons from this woman in the pet aisle who wasn't going to use them - one for $5 and one for $6 off of Iams, which was already on sale!!! I nearly had an orgasm!), snacks, and cereals. Also, I still have another $10 to save from this trip, because I have a rebate form from Kelloggs that gives me $10 if I bought ten items from Kelloggs, Sunshine, or Keebler's in one trip, cut out the UPC codes, circle the items on the receipt, and send a partridge in a pear tree. I know they make it so hard because they think that no one will do it, or we'll all mess it up and then not bother. Well, guess what, boys? I have a LOT of time on my hands, and I don't care WHAT it takes, I want my $10 because I think you screw me every week on those damn cereal bars. Thank you, my envelope will be in the mail tomorrow. Nanny-nanny-boo-boo.

I like grocery shopping. I like the challenge of seeing how much I can save. I like knowing that there are going to be yummy foods in my pantry for awhile. I like fantasizing that I will cook even yummier foods using the things in the basket. Never mind that I will probably not have the time or the inclination to do so; when I'm at the store, ANYTHING's possible. It's like college - when you're there, there are endless opportunities and you really think you're going to do every single one. Then you go outside, wake up, and make tacos for dinner.

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I have been reading up a storm lately. Most notably, I've read two books by Gail Tsukiyama, Women of the Silk and it's sequel, The Language of Threads, and both were wonderful. They tell the story of a girl named Pei, who is given by her parents into the silk factories because they can't afford to keep her in the home, from the time she's a child until, by the end of the second novel, she's in middle age. Tsukiyama is an amazing author who writes with descriptive clarity that provides a full image of her characters and their world without being gratuitous or heavy. One thing that I particularly like is the history lesson that seeps into my mind almost through osmisis while I read. These novels span southeastern China's 1920s through 1950s, which was a hugely tumultous time period with the invasion by the Japanese, the ending of the emperor system and the beginnings of Mao and the cultural revoloution. Another thing that I found particularly interesting was that the other novel of hers that I loved, Street of a Thousand Blossoms, took place in Japan during the same time period, so it was like reading one of those books where you read one side and then flip it over to get the other person's point of view.

I have also devoured Stephanie Meyers' books Eclipse and Breaking Dawn, the third and fourth books in the Twilight series. Actually, in the last three weeks I've read all four. I have to say, books 1 and 3 were good, while books 2 and 4 were not so much. In particular Breaking Dawn was a big disappointment. All the problems of the first three books are basically resolved in the first few chapters, and instead of using that opportunity to move forward, Meyers simply recycles old problems, dusts them off, and thrusts them forward like they're shiny new issues. Maybe her teen audience won't mind, but I thought it was cheap. She said in an interview (which I only read because I was at the gym trapped on an elliptical machine with a choice of Entertainment Weekly and Men's Bodybuilding Weekly, I swear) that her publisher had basically forced her to put out two books in a year and she would never do it again because it was too much pressure. It showed, because obviously she didn't have time to think up anything interesting to write about for OVER FOUR HUNDRED PAGES. I admit it, by the end, I was skimming. Boo, hiss.

Copycat

Over the last ten years, I have noticed that when I get an idea, DH typically decided he wants to do it, too. For instance, I began grad school (although b/c I got laid off I was never able to finish), then he decided he should go, too. I went to chiropractors, he went too. I had a baby, he had a hernia.

Now, apparently, he is dissatisfied with my impending surgery on some level. I have gallstones, so Senor Copycat now has a kidney stone. But of COURSE he does.

I mean, the poor thing, I know it hurts like hell, because my gallstones do, and because he quite nearly passed out yesterday before I got him to the ER. It all started when we were at church yesterday. We had sat through the sermon, sung the songs, and gotten our snacks for coffee hour before going to join our parenting class. After about fifteen minutes in class, DH got up to go to the bathroom. I didn't think anything of it - he's on medication that makes him pee a lot. Five minutes later, though, he came back into the room pale as death and said, 'please, take me home'. We have a CNP in our class, who took one look at him and said, 'you've got a kidney stone'.

So, we came home, and some good friends brought our kids home when Sunday School was over. About ten minutes later, poor DH called from the bathroom that it was time to go to the ER. We sat in the waiting room for about three hours, maybe a little more, and of course in that time his pain abated, but the CAT scan he finally got seven hours after we arrived showed that he had a stone that had moved out of his kidney (thus the abating of the intense pain) and was on its way to his bladder. So, when he finally came home last evening, it was with a script for percoset and a ridiculous paper strainer that he's supposed to pee through to try and catch the stone as it comes out. Apparently there are several different kinds of stones, and if he can catch it the urologist, who he was instructed to see in the next day or so, will find it easier to diagnose what his problem is. I guess when I'm at the store tonight I'll see if I can find him a better strainer that we can keep in a little bowl of bleach or something in the bathroom, and then throw away when the ... um... deed is done. YUCK.

Of course, the urologist can't see him for two weeks. No surprise there, really, I suppose, but I thought doctors were supposed to leave appointments open for people who are actually in the throes of something rather than booking solid with scheduled appointments. Sigh. Anyway, I suppose I should be glad he got in at all before the end of time.

DH stayed home today, of course, and is in varying stages of discomfort. The stone is supposed to pass within 24 - 48 hours, so he should be good by this time tomorrow, I imagine. It's a small one, so it's not supposed to really hurt when he pees it out, just while it's making its way to his bladder. Isn't it amazing how much something so tiny (1-2mm) can completely screw you over?! I mean, if you stepped on something that small, you wouldn't even notice it. He won't feel it when he pees it out, supposedly. But, in these few locations, hew, boy! You would think the human body would be more... elastic than this. I mean, we're made to bend, twist, and, stretch, and women can accomodate entire watermelons in their abdomens, but one seed-sized doohicky in the wrong spot, and we're totally undone.