Matt just had a great lesson in Home Ec. And when I say great lesson in Home Ec, I mean I made him mop my bathroom floor. So when all of those homeschoolers tell you homeschooling is fabulous, this is what they mean. You make your kids do housework and call it Home Ec. When someone clogs the toilet, you make your homeschool kid unclog it and call it Introduction to Plumbing.
Of course, when I said I "made" him mop the floor, I didn't actually make him. He ASKED to do it. THUD!, right? Whose kid does that?!
Mine does.
And now we're going to pretend his awesomeness is all due to my fantastic parenting skills. Disclaimer: Jamie's dirty clothes piled MILES HIGH on his floor do not reflect my parenting skills. Neither does his current annoying cocky attitude. I'm going to blame that on public schools.
Immediately following mopping, Matt wants to discuss whether endangered insects would be protected under the Endangered Species Act, even if they are harmful to crops. Would people be motivated to save a living species if it doesn't benefit them to do so? If no, is that fair. What if the insect has a benefit to our environment we aren't aware of. The circle of life, after all!
I'm telling you, the learning never stops around here. Never. Stops. Never. Ever. OMFG.
Next lesson up - Bartending 101.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Important Announcement!
Stop what you're doing, I have an important announcement to make.
I laughed today!
Shut up. It's a big deal, okay? Especially since I laughed over something trivial and ridiculous, meaning it didn't take a GINORMOUS amount of humor to affect me.
Now, this laughter happened about 30 minutes after my first extra-strength apple martini. That may not be coincidental. Maybe that's what I've been missing for almost five months - alcohol! (Hindsight says, "duh!") I don't care what those AA maniacs say, sobriety isn't that great. It turns out I am a complete unimaginative bore when sober.
Of course, this laughter also occurred 30 minutes after I ate chips and salsa after weeks of a 1200 calorie/day diet. And losing NO FUCKING WEIGHT. So I can be a size 10 and happy or a size 8 and depressed. It's a good thing I realized this since pot pie is apparently the dish du jour with celebrities right now. Finally I'm ready to have Mick Jagger over for dinner.
Do you know what the great thing is about ignoring all of the rules of how to switch over your blog domain and going about it all the wrong way instead? That I can have writer's block, write a bunch of awful, meaningless shit and only seven of you know about it. Welcome to the inner sanctum of my mind! I hope you feel special.
I laughed today!
Shut up. It's a big deal, okay? Especially since I laughed over something trivial and ridiculous, meaning it didn't take a GINORMOUS amount of humor to affect me.
Now, this laughter happened about 30 minutes after my first extra-strength apple martini. That may not be coincidental. Maybe that's what I've been missing for almost five months - alcohol! (Hindsight says, "duh!") I don't care what those AA maniacs say, sobriety isn't that great. It turns out I am a complete unimaginative bore when sober.
Of course, this laughter also occurred 30 minutes after I ate chips and salsa after weeks of a 1200 calorie/day diet. And losing NO FUCKING WEIGHT. So I can be a size 10 and happy or a size 8 and depressed. It's a good thing I realized this since pot pie is apparently the dish du jour with celebrities right now. Finally I'm ready to have Mick Jagger over for dinner.
Do you know what the great thing is about ignoring all of the rules of how to switch over your blog domain and going about it all the wrong way instead? That I can have writer's block, write a bunch of awful, meaningless shit and only seven of you know about it. Welcome to the inner sanctum of my mind! I hope you feel special.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
10 Things I've Learned About Blogging in 4 Years
1. You have to comment on other posts to get yours noticed.
2. You don't owe anyone comments.
3. Success is about content.
4. Success is not about content, it's about context.
5. Twitter is key to connecting with others.
6. Don't waste a good blog post on 140 characters in Twitter.
7. Blogging conferences are a great way to expand your blog.
8. Blogging conferences are a waste of money since they all repeat the same information.
9. Be authentic and human. Readers dig that shit.
10. But don't be too authentic or too human. Readers hate that shit and will vilify you.
To sum it up, blogging has reached the mainstream masses. We know whenever the masses get their hands in something it becomes all fucked up.
2. You don't owe anyone comments.
3. Success is about content.
4. Success is not about content, it's about context.
5. Twitter is key to connecting with others.
6. Don't waste a good blog post on 140 characters in Twitter.
7. Blogging conferences are a great way to expand your blog.
8. Blogging conferences are a waste of money since they all repeat the same information.
9. Be authentic and human. Readers dig that shit.
10. But don't be too authentic or too human. Readers hate that shit and will vilify you.
To sum it up, blogging has reached the mainstream masses. We know whenever the masses get their hands in something it becomes all fucked up.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Nerds and Birds (ad infinitum)
6:30 am. The questions start. Birds.
8:00 am. More questions. Birds.
9:30 am. Math time. More questions. About birds.
9:32 am. Birds!
9: 37 am. Still math time. Still more questions. About birds.
11:00 am. It's history, but can we talk about birds? Yes, of course we can. Because I can't get enough of birds. 100 million questions a week about birds is not enough. Homing pigeons were used in WWI? Awesome. Let's research and study that for two years!
12:00-1:00 pm. No questions about birds because we're watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
This one hour that could be my down time, my time to decompress and de-mom, is spent sitting and monitoring television content, ready to turn it off if Stephen starts talking about porn yet AGAIN. When they mention kinky sex monikers in passing and I get asked what they are talking about, I play dumb. "Anal pounding? Wha? I have NO IDEA what they are talking about. Sometimes they combine words which have no meaning just to sound funny." I'm getting so good at playing dumb about sex that I'll be nominated for an Oscar soon.
I probably shouldn't let him watch these shows at all. But I do. I do because I have this child that is not like a child. A child that I sometimes have to explain (and reexplain again and again) the simplest social formality to, yet also completely understands the political satire of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, who laughs in all the right places - without explanation. Unless they talk about porn. Then I play dumb and turn it off until the segment is over.
1:00 pm Birds! Love to ask a zillion question about birds! And our weird Mexican neighbor who doesn't speak English but has pigeons and chickens and turkeys - let's go visit him! Never mind the viscous German shepherd - he has a DOVE COTE, OMG WET MY PANTS!
1:07 pm. Can I have a pet bird?
1:15 pm. Pet birds are great. Don't you want one? Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
2:00 pm. Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:00 pm. Time to go pick up your brother! Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:15 pm After school snack. Sibling warfare commences.
3:30 pm birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
4:00 pm. (Do I even need to write it?)
5:00 pm. Wally calls. "Honey, I'm working late tonight!" Motherfucker. My 6-8 pm bird deflector shield has abandoned me.
5:05 pm. Birds, birds.......I'm sick of typing it.
6:00 pm Birds ad infinitum
6: 30 pm. And again.
7:00 pm. OOOH! NOVA night on PBS! Sweet baby Jesus, there is a God after all!
7:00 - 9:00 pm. No birds.
9:00 pm. Bed time. I DON'T dream about birds.
6:30 am the next day. Repeat previous day.
8:00 am. More questions. Birds.
9:30 am. Math time. More questions. About birds.
9:32 am. Birds!
9: 37 am. Still math time. Still more questions. About birds.
11:00 am. It's history, but can we talk about birds? Yes, of course we can. Because I can't get enough of birds. 100 million questions a week about birds is not enough. Homing pigeons were used in WWI? Awesome. Let's research and study that for two years!
12:00-1:00 pm. No questions about birds because we're watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
This one hour that could be my down time, my time to decompress and de-mom, is spent sitting and monitoring television content, ready to turn it off if Stephen starts talking about porn yet AGAIN. When they mention kinky sex monikers in passing and I get asked what they are talking about, I play dumb. "Anal pounding? Wha? I have NO IDEA what they are talking about. Sometimes they combine words which have no meaning just to sound funny." I'm getting so good at playing dumb about sex that I'll be nominated for an Oscar soon.
I probably shouldn't let him watch these shows at all. But I do. I do because I have this child that is not like a child. A child that I sometimes have to explain (and reexplain again and again) the simplest social formality to, yet also completely understands the political satire of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, who laughs in all the right places - without explanation. Unless they talk about porn. Then I play dumb and turn it off until the segment is over.
1:00 pm Birds! Love to ask a zillion question about birds! And our weird Mexican neighbor who doesn't speak English but has pigeons and chickens and turkeys - let's go visit him! Never mind the viscous German shepherd - he has a DOVE COTE, OMG WET MY PANTS!
1:07 pm. Can I have a pet bird?
1:15 pm. Pet birds are great. Don't you want one? Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
2:00 pm. Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:00 pm. Time to go pick up your brother! Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:15 pm After school snack. Sibling warfare commences.
3:30 pm birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
4:00 pm. (Do I even need to write it?)
5:00 pm. Wally calls. "Honey, I'm working late tonight!" Motherfucker. My 6-8 pm bird deflector shield has abandoned me.
5:05 pm. Birds, birds.......I'm sick of typing it.
6:00 pm Birds ad infinitum
6: 30 pm. And again.
7:00 pm. OOOH! NOVA night on PBS! Sweet baby Jesus, there is a God after all!
7:00 - 9:00 pm. No birds.
9:00 pm. Bed time. I DON'T dream about birds.
6:30 am the next day. Repeat previous day.
Monday, February 21, 2011
I'm So Sexy It's Funny
The other week I went out to dinner with two friends and left Wally at home with the boys. During the middle of the week. AND! I didn't even have a dinner planned for the boys. I know, how cruel and selfish can I get? Never mind you, fellas, mommy's going out with friends for fancy appetizers and cocktails and has no time to think of your nutrition.
It's so rare now that I can get out and away from children and get to be with adults ONLY that when the opportunity finally arises once every blue quarter moon, I become so obsessed with the surreality that I forget I have children to feed. This forgetfulness may also be slightly influenced by repressed passive-aggressive feelings that Wally gets to spend HOURS upon HOURS with adults, speaking of things other than birds, birds, birds, and Nintendo. Now he too can spend time fielding 155,000 questions and observations about birds while coordinating hot pans, boiling water, and sharp knives with Super Mario blaring in the background!
Okay, who the fuck am I kidding? He took the boys to Chick-Fil-A. But what do I care? I'm out with friends, talking over cocktails and shrimp and Spanish olives! Or maybe it was Greek olives, I don't know. All I know is I DIDN'T COOK IT and I LOVE FANCY OLIVES. And then my brain short circuits from the utter adult-ness of the evening.
Then something odd happened at this dinner and I couldn't wait to tell Wally about it when I got home.
Boy, when I tell him about this it will remind him that I'm still a woman and more than just a stay-at-home mom and cook!
Heather drives home later that evening.
Me: Guess what happened tonight!?
Wally: What?
Me: A guy hit tried to hit on me tonight! He came up to us and said he particularly liked women with black hair.
Wally laughs. This is not the reaction I expected.
Wally: Was he old?
Me: Well, yeah, he was a little older.
Wally laughs harder.
The fuck? This is not Wally remembering I'm more than a mom and cook and that other men might still find me attractive. In fact, the idea is so absurd to him that HE'S LAUGHING AT ME. This can't be tolerated.
Me: That's not all! When he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with us, he said he HAD to go to the bathroom and Susan figured he was going to to the bathroom to beat off.
Wally almost falls out of bed, he's laughing so hard now. This is one of those moments when you wish you didn't have moral objections to throwing hard objects at your spouse, because I was standing in our dressing area with the hair dryer in reach and I have damn good aim.
It's so rare now that I can get out and away from children and get to be with adults ONLY that when the opportunity finally arises once every blue quarter moon, I become so obsessed with the surreality that I forget I have children to feed. This forgetfulness may also be slightly influenced by repressed passive-aggressive feelings that Wally gets to spend HOURS upon HOURS with adults, speaking of things other than birds, birds, birds, and Nintendo. Now he too can spend time fielding 155,000 questions and observations about birds while coordinating hot pans, boiling water, and sharp knives with Super Mario blaring in the background!
Okay, who the fuck am I kidding? He took the boys to Chick-Fil-A. But what do I care? I'm out with friends, talking over cocktails and shrimp and Spanish olives! Or maybe it was Greek olives, I don't know. All I know is I DIDN'T COOK IT and I LOVE FANCY OLIVES. And then my brain short circuits from the utter adult-ness of the evening.
Then something odd happened at this dinner and I couldn't wait to tell Wally about it when I got home.
Boy, when I tell him about this it will remind him that I'm still a woman and more than just a stay-at-home mom and cook!
Heather drives home later that evening.
Me: Guess what happened tonight!?
Wally: What?
Me: A guy hit tried to hit on me tonight! He came up to us and said he particularly liked women with black hair.
Wally laughs. This is not the reaction I expected.
Wally: Was he old?
Me: Well, yeah, he was a little older.
Wally laughs harder.
The fuck? This is not Wally remembering I'm more than a mom and cook and that other men might still find me attractive. In fact, the idea is so absurd to him that HE'S LAUGHING AT ME. This can't be tolerated.
Me: That's not all! When he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with us, he said he HAD to go to the bathroom and Susan figured he was going to to the bathroom to beat off.
Wally almost falls out of bed, he's laughing so hard now. This is one of those moments when you wish you didn't have moral objections to throwing hard objects at your spouse, because I was standing in our dressing area with the hair dryer in reach and I have damn good aim.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Complicit
People are kind.
Sometimes I forget this.
There are many kind people who have contacted me one way or another - through mutual acquaintance, through Twitter, Facebook, or the Mouthy Housewives, wanting to know when I'm going to blog again. They miss me, they say. They miss my writing.
All very kind people.
If they only knew.
The writer they miss - I don't know where she is. Or if she'll ever be back. She is so far gone that I've sat here for 20 minutes, trying to find the next words.
It's now been 30 minutes.
There is no elegant way to say this. There is certainly no humorous or irreverent way to write it, which is what I knew. Humor and irreverent writing is what I honed and sharpened. Perhaps too much so. It's quite possible I embraced irreverence just far enough to lose sight of compassion at the exact wrong time.
Three months ago my father shot himself in his backyard.
He put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
I feel I'm complicit in a self murder. People will automatically say I'm not complicit. Of course they will say that.
But they don't know.
They don't know of the slow disintegration of our family; the loss of respect, the unkindness witnessed, the ever-growing resentment - the poison between parents that seeped and spread until it tainted everyone close to it.
They don't know of the last conversations I had with my dad. Jesus, those two conversations haunt me. I can barely tell anyone of the things I said to my father those two nights. Those conversations are nightmares I can't wake up from, words I can't unspeak.
Maybe that's why I can't write anymore - I'm now terrified of words.
Sometimes I forget this.
There are many kind people who have contacted me one way or another - through mutual acquaintance, through Twitter, Facebook, or the Mouthy Housewives, wanting to know when I'm going to blog again. They miss me, they say. They miss my writing.
All very kind people.
If they only knew.
The writer they miss - I don't know where she is. Or if she'll ever be back. She is so far gone that I've sat here for 20 minutes, trying to find the next words.
It's now been 30 minutes.
There is no elegant way to say this. There is certainly no humorous or irreverent way to write it, which is what I knew. Humor and irreverent writing is what I honed and sharpened. Perhaps too much so. It's quite possible I embraced irreverence just far enough to lose sight of compassion at the exact wrong time.
Three months ago my father shot himself in his backyard.
He put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
I feel I'm complicit in a self murder. People will automatically say I'm not complicit. Of course they will say that.
But they don't know.
They don't know of the slow disintegration of our family; the loss of respect, the unkindness witnessed, the ever-growing resentment - the poison between parents that seeped and spread until it tainted everyone close to it.
They don't know of the last conversations I had with my dad. Jesus, those two conversations haunt me. I can barely tell anyone of the things I said to my father those two nights. Those conversations are nightmares I can't wake up from, words I can't unspeak.
Maybe that's why I can't write anymore - I'm now terrified of words.
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