Insomnia Fails

Every night, while my husband blissfully slumbers, I lay awake.

I won't bore you with the details. Instead, I will bore you with my coping strategies.

Coping Strategy #1: Extreme Home Makeover

When sleep alludes me, I pretend that I have an unlimited amount of money and resources, and mentally remodel my home.

Step one is always knocking out this wall. I picture myself swinging the sledgehammer, like a pint-size John Henry. I hear the crack of the drywall, and my imaginary self barely breaks a sweat.

But then it derails. Where would I put the blue Hoosier cabinet? It simply doesn't work in a living room! Perhaps we would need to tear out ALL of the cabinetry! And add a garage...and a sunroom....and a walk-in pantry!

We would have to get new carpet---or better yet---hardwood! We would have to rewire....where would we put the furniture? And we would have to paint! God, what color should we paint? Do we need a chair rail? Crown molding?

And what the hell would we put on the walls? How do people know how to do this? Bunch of show-offs, if you ask me.

And why do we live in a 1200 square foot house anyway? How the hell are two teenage boys going to live here someday? Why can't we have nice things? And where is my VERN YIP, damnit!

Somehow, this is all my husband's fault. I am wide awake, heart pounding, furious that he is wasting valuable painting time by sleeping...at three in the morning.

Coping Strategy #2: I Become Pretty

When you're tired, you're not at the best place emotionally. Therefore, what better time to imagine unlimited money and resources for a full plastic surgery Mommy Makeover?

I think of this:

And this:

And just like that...the woman who believes that that there is nothing lovelier than a face with character imagines carving herself into something like this:

There's no sleeping after that.

Coping Strategy #3: I Think About the Blog
This is dangerous territory indeed. I imagine possible posts. At the time, they seem brilliant. Surely, THIS POST will be the breakthrough which will lead me  to the book deal and the booking on Fresh Air with Terry Gross.

Sometimes, I actually get up and write them. This results in nonsense like Magic Juice and Dibs and Drabs.

At othertimes, I writes notes to myself. I stumble out of bed the next day to see snippets like "Talking Sex Toy" or "Big Lebowski Sweater" scribbled on the backs of grocery lists.

Rarely is the reality as good as the idea seemed the night before.

Occasionally, in these wee hours of the morning, I imagine that I got a comment right at that moment. The idea nibbles at my craninum. I attempt to ignore it until, finally, I hoist myself up to feed the beast.

Usually, I'm right. There's a comment. You would think such validation would lull me to dreamland.

Instead, I sit in my bed and think, "Maybe I got another comment."

Clearly, I need help.

I am running into doorjams and forgetting to turn on the microwave.

So, Internet, how do you go to sleep? My strategies are big fat fails, and if this keeps up, I really will look like Gary Busey.

My Clean Slate

Owen finally started preschool today. It was about a week later than everybody else. It makes sense, since it's a Catholic school.

They're always a bit behind the times.

I kid.

It's a wonderful place, with caring teachers, big jars of tempura paint, and kid-size nooks and crannies. For three days a week, Owen gets to live in a larger world, one that belongs solely to him.

I wasn't prepared to feel any emotion about this. It's the same school, with most of the same friends as last year. It's preschool, for Pete's sake. 

But--My God--where is my baby?

He already looks like the man he will be someday. The soft cheeks, the dimpled elbows--they belong to the son of my memories.

I thought he was so big when he was two---the age Joel is right now.

I didn't know that he could be so protective. 

Or such a caring, trusted friend.

I watch my inquisitive first-born discover his world, and kiss him goodbye.

When I pick him up three hours later, I ask, "Which friend did you like seeing the most?"

He replies, "You, Mommy."

When Owen was just a distant hope, I taped this poem to the wall by my desk at work.

Every time I read it, I dreamed of being a mother:

You’re

by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,   

Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,   

Gilled like a fish. A common-sense   

Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.   

Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,   

Trawling your dark as owls do.   

Mute as a turnip from the Fourth   

Of July to All Fools’ Day,

O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.   

Farther off than Australia.

Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.   

Snug as a bud and at home   

Like a sprat in a pickle jug.   

A creel of eels, all ripples.   

Jumpy as a Mexican bean.   

Right, like a well-done sum.   

A clean slate, with your own face on.

My Owen. My son.  My beautiful clean slate.

I'm Guest Posting Today!

You meet a lot of special people through the blog world. One of the most special is my friend Erin at The Mother Load.


She's funny. Caring. Sensitive. Honest.

She's also a powerful writer.

When she asked me to do a guest post about my "blogging philosophy" I was honored. Please click over to read my thoughts, and then stick around to learn more about Erin. You'll be glad you did.


Clickity. Clickity.

*Comments Off*

The Ron to My Barcardi

I opened my mailbox today, and got a letter from my friend, Jamie. Inside was a picture of our two sons, hiding under a slide. She wrote, "I'm pretty sure they were up to something..."

If anybody would know, it would be her.

I've known Jamie for almost five years now. I wouldn't say she's my BFF, because I don't say things like "BFF."  If I started talking like that, I think she would cut me.

Instead, I will simply say this: She is the chip to my queso, the Ron to my Barcardi, and the George to my Wheezy. I am my funniest, my kindest, and my most real self when we're together.

Jamie is from Pittsburgh, and is thus bilingual: "Hey, yinz jags goin' dahn a' Mon n'at? Jeet jet? Wanna ahrn and sum chip chop ham?"  I have no idea what the hell that means, but if I ever make it to Pittsburgh, she's coming with me. The place is clearly bursting with Steelers fans and lunatics. Perhaps that's redundant. 

Jamie has used her natural charms and talent for years. Before I knew her, she traveled extensively. She sang "Danny Boy" on stage in Galloway, Ireland. The patrons threw garbage at her. While living in Hawaii, she swallowed an entire squid whole to prove that white girls can swallow disgusting things, too. (Wait--that came out wrong.)

When she inexplicably took piano as an elective in college, she could never figure out how to read music. So, she did not turn on her electric piano during class. Thus, an always flawless performance. On the days of performance tests, she would go to class early and make small marks on the teacher's piano so she would know where to put her fingers.

My dear friend is working on becoming the Angelina Jolie of our local county. She is (so far)  the mother of three. Their most recent edition is a five-year old boy adopted from China. He has some serious bowel issues, and presently has a ileostomy bag. She is considering getting family T-shirts that say "Shit happens." Or, if that doesn't work, she may just pawn off their incontinent, fifteen year old dog as his "Service Animal." This puts all the poop issues in one place---the public schools, of course. 

Actually, Jamie is a dedicated public school employee. After teaching elementary special education for years, she has recently moved to high school. She explained, "One difference between teaching elementary school & high school... I now have to monitor my words in vain attempts to avoid the retort: "That's what she said..." 

Jamie's life is crazy busy--three kids, full-time work, the incontinent dog, soccer practice, volunteer work, and oh yes, the training for her first 5K. Her long-time friend, upon hearing that Jamie had decided to take this on, stated "I would expect you to say you were going to a Plushie convention before hearing you would do a 5K." 

Despite all that is on her plate, she still invites me to her table. Quite literally. The girl is always feeding me. I've shared Easter dinners and Christmas Eve suppers with her family. She is the one that organizes brunch, cookouts, and picnics. There is always room for more. She even makes her special jug-wine and fruit cocktail sangria. Just for me.

My friend is not a huggy, let's-talk-about-our feelings kinda gal. But I know, as I know that I am sitting at my table right now, that she loves me and I love her. I know that in this life, there are few people that make you a better person. 

And she is one of them. That I know for sure. 

This is an entry for the World's Greatest BFF Contest hosted by Friends You Love. 

MAH Boy

Joel has discovered the word "mine." This is right on target for a two year old, and especially unsurprising for a second born.

He has had items of great importance--bottles, pointy sharp tacks, pharmaceuticals---ripped out of his hands with no regard to his own desires to drink, electrocute himself, or trip the light fantastic.

I imagine him in bed, late and night, stroking his chin and mumbling, "There will be a reckoning for this. Oh, yes!" 

Thus far, his nefarious revenge plot mostly involves the redneck battle cry of "MAH TRUCK!!" It doesn't matter if it is toy or real, it is MAH TRUCK and one best recognize, bi-otch.

Sometimes he mistakes the "T" in truck for "F." Hilarity ensues.

When he is not claiming the trucks in the world, he is getting fabulous. Owen was never one for dress-up. In fact, any attempts to do so were met with wailing and finger-pointing.

As you can imagine, Halloween is awesome.

Joel, on the other hand, changes his clothing two or more times a day. I watch him, feeling like a duck who hatched a flamingo: "I don't know what to do with you, but aren't you fun to watch?"

Here's typical Joel couture. Part of him "making it work" is to have Lightening McQueen be the classic staple of all outfits.  I can't explain the pose, however.

Another treasured item is the apron, which he always dons when playing at his toy kitchen.

And then, there's this. My sweet boy, emerging from his baby cocoon with gusto, but with quiet moments of grace as well.

He sits at the table for sometimes a half hour at a time, drawing.

He talks to himself as he creates, saying, "Momma, Dadda, Ow-Woo!" He points to the scribble which represents each person, and smiles to himself. Even when in his own world, he is still firmly in ours.

Red Writing Hood: Slumber Party

This week's Red Writing Hood Challenge is to write from the perspective of a broken inanimate object.

I welcome your thoughts and comments. FYI, this post has adult content. You've been warned.

Slumber Party 
 
As soon as I saw her, I knew I needed to take her home. I think it was her eyes--a cloudy, tide-pool green. I wanted to probe deeply, and discover her secrets.

This is what I do. 

I've been working the Slumber Party circuit for awhile. You know the scene, right? It's an oh-so-daring alternative to a Tupperware party. The yentas drink their Green Appletinis, tee-hee their way through party games, and buy toys like yours truly.

Yes, technically, I am a toy. But I'm definitely not for the kiddos.

With six levels of power, twirling shaft beads, and a remote control, I am the Long Distance Dolphin. Perhaps you've heard of me.

I saw her approach the table. Her face was flushed from her second drink. She wore black yoga pants, and her work badge hung limply on a lanyard around her neck. She needed to reapply her lipstick.

She picked up a Pocket Rocket, smiled to herself, and placed it back down. She scanned the edible underwear and the hot-and-cold massage oil. She picked up a best-seller, the butt plug with the magnetic attachment. Supposedly, it works quite well during the spin cycle. "Oh my GOD!" she shrieked, nudging her friend. "Holy Shit!"

She picked me up, "Look, Suzanne!" she said, reading from my package,  "108 patterns of erotic enjoyment...all at my fingertips! And...wait, " she laughed out loud, a spontaneous spasm of mirth, "It has a REMOTE CONTROL!" Her laughter heightened, wave after wave, until she bent forward, unable to speak. Unable to do anything but enjoy the sensation.  She wiped her tears, her shaking slowly giving way to slow, steady breaths.

I wanted to light up a cigarette. If I only had arms.

"Buy it!" her friend said, "You need this! Just think of the possibilities...church, Girl Scout Meetings," the two shrieked together, doubled over once again.

I love it when they do it twice.

My green-eyed friend tipped back her drink, swallowed hard, and placed me in her bag. "Tonight, I'm riding the dolphin."

My pleasure, I thought.

The house was dark as she walked inside. She strutted into the kitchen, flipped her hair, and cooed, "Hey Derek."

He didn't look up from the glow of the computer, "Hold on, honey, I'm almost done with this post."

She sat down at the kitchen table. "What are you writing about?"

He sighed, "I'm trying to write a review of Guitar Hero: Primus Edition, if you must know."  He looked her up and down, "How was your candle party?"

"Well," she said, licking her lips, "It actually wasn't a---"

He shut the laptop with a thump, "Whatever, honey. Just don't spend too much money on crap we don't need." He scratched his ear, then sat up. "Oh, Barbara, I got something for you!"

"What that?" she asked. She walked behind him, rubbed his shoulders.

He brushed her off, and handed her a magazine. "You know how you've said you wanted to lose some weight? I brought you some inspiration." He handed her the Victoria's Secret catalog. She said nothing.

He grinned, "You can thank me later." He grunted, stood up, and headed to the bathroom. "Gotta make some turtle soup." He turned around, "On second thought, could you hand me that catalog?"

"Charming," she muttered to herself, as his footsteps echoed down the hallway. She slumped into a chair. "God, I'm so stupid. So, so, stupid."

She sat for a moment, her face a flat, watery stone. Then, she walked to her bedroom and placed me in her nightstand drawer.

I rest here today. Unused. My batteries drain.  Her light slowly dims to nothing.

Bringing out the Fun in Fascism

I caught this shot of Joel the other day.

Because I blog, I'm always looking for cheap gags witty observations to share.

Flipping though my camera phone,  I said to Paul, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"No," he replied. "Whatever it is, I am not."

I barrelled on, "You don't think he looks like Kim Jong Il in this picture?"

My husband shook his head. "Really, Nancy? You're comparing our son to a dictator?"

"Yes really! I shall call him Joel Jong Il. That's comedy, right there!" I smiled to myself, imagining the comments pouring, like a bubbling stream of validation. 

We sat together in amiable silence for a moment. "Paul?"

He looked up from his phone, "Yes, dear?"  

"Would it be in bad taste to dress Owen up like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?"

He half smiled. "And how would you plan on doing that?"

I knew the answer to this one. "Button up shirt. Coffee ground beard." 

"Nancy," he said, as kindly as he could, "Dressing our children up as dictators? As bad, bad men?  That's just really, really weird."

I pictured Owen with that coffee ground beard. "You don't think it would be funny?"


"No. Would it be funny to dress the boys up like Hitler or Mussolini?" 


I frowned, "That's totally different."  

He stood up, placed his dirty plate in the sink, and said, "No, honey. It's not different at all." 


Well. So much for comedy gold.

Have you ever mistaken a clump of poop for comedy gold?