Jamie uses a tea infuser to catch tiny pretend butterflies. Cute except for the part where he keeps opening the door to release the butterflies and the dog runs out to chase the rabbits on the lawn. Apparently we have a lot of invisible butterflies in this house. That and the constant Monster infestation we always have, while little tea balls may be good for catching butterflies it takes a big yoga ball to take out a monster. The 32 inch sphere is supposed to be my computer chair to help me build core muscles, but instead it flies around the house taking out gremlins and other suspicious creatures hiding behind the couch.
Charlie (although not on crack, or alcohol or any other known substance other than copious amounts of yogurt) is...well odd. He spins round and round before collapsing on the floor in laughter before he gets up and does it again. He also boogies everywhere, all the time, and eats like he's a starting linebacker for a Texas highschool. His pediatrician however is worried because he's so scrawny he doesn't even register on the growth chart. Considering I was the smallest person in every sunday school class until I was 16 makes me think it's more genetic than malnourishment, but I'm still spiking all his food with whole fat yogurt or olive oil. Jamie and I (as firstborns) want to know though, is it normal for second-borns to be an emotional comedian from sunup to sundown? We're quite dubious. We just want to know that wearing underwear on your head while climbing a dresser, falling down in giggles and climbing back up it, is expected behavior.
I'm so far in over this whole book writing thing, it's not even funny. I'm totally and completely stuck and I'd throw the whole thing in the trash if Jim wouldn't growl at me. I've read so much good stuff lately and so much bad stuff that uncomfortably resembles my own writing that it's left me more blocked than processed-carb-fed-human (dont think about that one too long). I cant give up though, and as much as I'd like to throw in the towel, it's just a matter of "when" rather than "if". I'd appreciate any techniques or help if anyone has them. Right now my characters are boring me to tears. Someone please rescue them.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Rubber Rooms and Hill Fairies
There are few things I dislike more than pizza which puts me somewhere in between a person with no soul and a person with no taste. Or maybe both. I'm eating it now and it actually tastes good, which proves what kind of day I've had; It may or may not be the first thing I've eaten all day. (and should also reassure anyone that I can and will eat pizza happily if you serve it to me at your house).
Sometimes I'm convinced I was born with the missing genetics to be a mom. You know how they tell you your own baby's wails in the middle of the night will wake you up? Wrong. As evidenced by my parents once coming into Jamie's room in the wee hours of the morning to find his newborn self screaming bloody murder while Jim and I were passed out on the floor. Sleep deprivation does have its limits.
The pediatrician happens to agree I'm a horrible mother. They called today at 4pm "Mrs Ramsey, were you going to bring Charles in for his TB check?" Crap. They are seriously the only practitioner/therapist/doctor we have or ever have had that didn't give reminder calls (our dentist will even text you a reminder). I survive on reminder calls. I know I shouldn't, but the truth of the matter is I can hardly remember to take eat breakfast most days let alone remember that Charlie's vaccines on Tues included a TB shot that needed to be checked in 2-3 days. The stone-cold lady at the front desk had no mercy on me, and I am dutifully repentant.
I was already having a bad day, but by the time I spent over an hour in rush hour traffic for a ten second confirmation my son doesn't have tuberculosis, I literally got home and wanted to scream into a pillow...until I heard Jamie screaming outside. I rushed to see what the problem was, only to find it was a happy conversation between him and "my friend in the hill", because yes Jamie discovered his echo today.
We laid down on a rock and yelled at the echoes till Jim got home with beer and pizza. Good man.
Sometimes I'm convinced I was born with the missing genetics to be a mom. You know how they tell you your own baby's wails in the middle of the night will wake you up? Wrong. As evidenced by my parents once coming into Jamie's room in the wee hours of the morning to find his newborn self screaming bloody murder while Jim and I were passed out on the floor. Sleep deprivation does have its limits.
The pediatrician happens to agree I'm a horrible mother. They called today at 4pm "Mrs Ramsey, were you going to bring Charles in for his TB check?" Crap. They are seriously the only practitioner/therapist/doctor we have or ever have had that didn't give reminder calls (our dentist will even text you a reminder). I survive on reminder calls. I know I shouldn't, but the truth of the matter is I can hardly remember to take eat breakfast most days let alone remember that Charlie's vaccines on Tues included a TB shot that needed to be checked in 2-3 days. The stone-cold lady at the front desk had no mercy on me, and I am dutifully repentant.
I was already having a bad day, but by the time I spent over an hour in rush hour traffic for a ten second confirmation my son doesn't have tuberculosis, I literally got home and wanted to scream into a pillow...until I heard Jamie screaming outside. I rushed to see what the problem was, only to find it was a happy conversation between him and "my friend in the hill", because yes Jamie discovered his echo today.
We laid down on a rock and yelled at the echoes till Jim got home with beer and pizza. Good man.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Don't Ask
Jim shaved his head four years ago. It looked awful, but I love him and I love who he is, and if he wants to rock the shaved head look, then far be it from me to disagree.
...Until he shaved it the second time. I really thought the first time was also the last (got it out of his system), but for someone who has a disgustingly thick head of hair, he sure isn't suitably fond of it. The second time he shaved it, we were supposed to go out on a double date, with friends who were in from out of town. I came home from work, having dropped off the kids on the way home, and when I walked through the door there was some axe murderer in my bathroom. I shrieked a little. It was Jim of course, totally springing the badass look on me unexpectedly. Several years went by before I recovered sufficiently to not start sputtering every time he mentioned doing it again.
And it's not that I don't like the shaved look, but rather just Jim with a shaved head. He looks kind of scary. The kids however disagree with me, or at least Jamie does. He's been begging me all day if he can have hair like daddy, because yes, Jim shaved his head again. Although this time he's sporting a mohawk for a few days before it all disappears.
Somehow (don't ask me how) a few months ago, we both decided it would be cool to shave our heads together. For him it would just be more of the kind of change he loves to embrace, for me it would have shaken my world, rocked my vanity and pretty much left me wondering who I was. I wanted to do it, I really did. And maybe someday I'll work up the nerve to find out who the curly-less side of me is, but this time I chickened out. :-( As a compromise I got it cut short and dyed dark red. Jim loves it. I'm still trying to figure out if I like it or not.
...Until he shaved it the second time. I really thought the first time was also the last (got it out of his system), but for someone who has a disgustingly thick head of hair, he sure isn't suitably fond of it. The second time he shaved it, we were supposed to go out on a double date, with friends who were in from out of town. I came home from work, having dropped off the kids on the way home, and when I walked through the door there was some axe murderer in my bathroom. I shrieked a little. It was Jim of course, totally springing the badass look on me unexpectedly. Several years went by before I recovered sufficiently to not start sputtering every time he mentioned doing it again.
And it's not that I don't like the shaved look, but rather just Jim with a shaved head. He looks kind of scary. The kids however disagree with me, or at least Jamie does. He's been begging me all day if he can have hair like daddy, because yes, Jim shaved his head again. Although this time he's sporting a mohawk for a few days before it all disappears.
Somehow (don't ask me how) a few months ago, we both decided it would be cool to shave our heads together. For him it would just be more of the kind of change he loves to embrace, for me it would have shaken my world, rocked my vanity and pretty much left me wondering who I was. I wanted to do it, I really did. And maybe someday I'll work up the nerve to find out who the curly-less side of me is, but this time I chickened out. :-( As a compromise I got it cut short and dyed dark red. Jim loves it. I'm still trying to figure out if I like it or not.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Lonesome Leper
Jamie got bit by some sort of bug on Friday, we put the heal all miracle salve on it, kissed it with magical kissing powers and told him not to itch it. By Sunday it became apparent bugs had nothing to do with it; his arm had erupted into a full scale attack of poison oak. Where he got himself an armful of poison oak was the mystery of the century, but we do have a dog that likes to chase rabbits so we used our super powerful deduction skills and blamed it on the dog (besides, the dog can't talk to defend himself). Even a Dr agreed it was poison oak or contact dermatitis of some kind. Fast forward through a few play dates, a half a dozen errands, and a large swath of people through San Diego who have been the recipient of Jamie's hugs (or whacks) and when Tuesday evening found him incapacitated from the pain on his arm, I knew we were in trouble.
This morning I called the Pediatrician and they said to bring him in asap, but to sit in the hall till we were called. You know it can't be a good sign when you aren't even allowed in the sick room. 30 min in the hallway, 10 min getting vitals, 20 seconds for the doctor to pronounce judgment: Shingles. How my four year old baby got an old persons disease like shingles is beyond all comprehension. I didn't even know kids could get it. But apparently it's fairly common these days because of the chicken pox vaccination. Something about kids carrying just enough antibodies to never get the chicken pox, but not enough antibodies to resist shingles. You don't even have to have a compromised immune system or a high stress job. Who-da-thunk?
To add insult upon injury, I specifically told them not to give my kids the chicken pox vaccination. Somewhere, somehow, the MA didn't get the memo and she accidentally gave it to him anyway. Short of demanding she suck the poison from my son's veins, there was nothing I could do but throw a fit. Now, three years later my son is writhing around in misery because of it and I'd rather he just had the damn chicken pox. Instead he got a dubious vaccination for a non threatening virus that didn't even successfully prevent it. Brilliant.
Of course this is all my fault according to the doctor. If I had been a good mother, I'd have forgiven the medical community its faux pas and brought him in for extra shots to booster up his system's antibodies. Which, forgive my cynicism and ignorance, I didn't. I'm also guilty of numerous crimes for successfully skipping it with Charlie. They're insisting I bring him in tomorrow for the chickenpox vax. It must be their attempt at clever humor-- surely I must be missing something. I'm already in this mess because of that stupid vaccination. Must I clarify again? I'd rather Charlie just have the chickenpox.
So if you or your child has come in contact with mine in the last few days be warned: They might get the chicken pox. Or if they've been vaccinated: They might get shingles.
Nobody wants to be around him anymore and he's got his Dad and Aunt Liz running scared every time he gets close. So I asked Jamie to give me his best zombie face. This is what I got. Very scary don't you think?
Charlie on the other hand could care less.
This morning I called the Pediatrician and they said to bring him in asap, but to sit in the hall till we were called. You know it can't be a good sign when you aren't even allowed in the sick room. 30 min in the hallway, 10 min getting vitals, 20 seconds for the doctor to pronounce judgment: Shingles. How my four year old baby got an old persons disease like shingles is beyond all comprehension. I didn't even know kids could get it. But apparently it's fairly common these days because of the chicken pox vaccination. Something about kids carrying just enough antibodies to never get the chicken pox, but not enough antibodies to resist shingles. You don't even have to have a compromised immune system or a high stress job. Who-da-thunk?
To add insult upon injury, I specifically told them not to give my kids the chicken pox vaccination. Somewhere, somehow, the MA didn't get the memo and she accidentally gave it to him anyway. Short of demanding she suck the poison from my son's veins, there was nothing I could do but throw a fit. Now, three years later my son is writhing around in misery because of it and I'd rather he just had the damn chicken pox. Instead he got a dubious vaccination for a non threatening virus that didn't even successfully prevent it. Brilliant.
Of course this is all my fault according to the doctor. If I had been a good mother, I'd have forgiven the medical community its faux pas and brought him in for extra shots to booster up his system's antibodies. Which, forgive my cynicism and ignorance, I didn't. I'm also guilty of numerous crimes for successfully skipping it with Charlie. They're insisting I bring him in tomorrow for the chickenpox vax. It must be their attempt at clever humor-- surely I must be missing something. I'm already in this mess because of that stupid vaccination. Must I clarify again? I'd rather Charlie just have the chickenpox.
So if you or your child has come in contact with mine in the last few days be warned: They might get the chicken pox. Or if they've been vaccinated: They might get shingles.
Nobody wants to be around him anymore and he's got his Dad and Aunt Liz running scared every time he gets close. So I asked Jamie to give me his best zombie face. This is what I got. Very scary don't you think?
Charlie on the other hand could care less.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I'm too sexy for my salad
You know your homemade beauty attempt was not a wholly successful endeavor when your husband sniffs your hair and declares you smell like salad. However, in exchange for hours of endless puns regarding the chunks of avocado and olive oil in my hair, I now have smooth, shiny, soft locks. Try it and tell me if you think sexy hair is worth smelling like guacamole for awhile.
1 avocado mashed
1 egg
1 t. olive oil
Mix, massage in hair. Wait thirty minutes, rinse and shampoo.
1 avocado mashed
1 egg
1 t. olive oil
Mix, massage in hair. Wait thirty minutes, rinse and shampoo.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Patience is a tired mare but she jogs on.
Is writing a learned art or a God given ability? My 18 year old self hopes it's the former. I can count on one hand the number of papers I actually finished while being homeschooled--they typically turned into stubborn showdowns with my parents. Consequently the first week of college I found myself clutching a one paged, in class essay on Great Danes vs Chihuahuas, it was covered with corrections and I was in a mandatory meeting with the instructor bawling my eyes out. Those were the days where every cool homeschool chick worth her salt carried a 4 inch folding knife in her pocket. After looking between me, the knife in my hands, and my tear splotched paper, you can't blame the worried instructor for threatening to take my easiest means of suicide away... or maybe he was concerned for his own safety. I'm not sure.
Hopefully I've come a long way since then. Although anything involving the alphabet and a thirty min timer is still doomed for disaster, because I am anything but a fast writer and the best I can do is aim for persistance. I'm not a wordy writer either. People who can whip out four pages without even pausing are geniuses in my eyes. Nanowrimo last year was possibly one of the most painful things I've ever done. To this day I have to resist the urge to check my word count on blog entries and mentally congratulate myself when I hit 800 words.
I've managed to squeeze out 12,000 words in my novel so far. That's 12,000 words I currently despise, but that Jim has forbidden me to erase. 12,000 words that roll over and over in the back of my head and haunt my dreams with what the next 12,000 words will contain. Everything I read says to write the first draft then edit, edit, edit. I think that must apply to people who like to write 150,000 word epic beasts. In my case it will have to be "revise", "rewrite", "revise". Because really, I'll be doing good if I can hit 60,000. The first Harry Potter book was 80,000 words.
Oh and I'm begging... somebody go sign up for Nanowrimo this year, because I can't, what with the rule about not starting till Nov 1st coupled with my inability to do two things at once has sadly disqualified me from participating this year. But I want to live vicariously through someone and cheer them on!
Hopefully I've come a long way since then. Although anything involving the alphabet and a thirty min timer is still doomed for disaster, because I am anything but a fast writer and the best I can do is aim for persistance. I'm not a wordy writer either. People who can whip out four pages without even pausing are geniuses in my eyes. Nanowrimo last year was possibly one of the most painful things I've ever done. To this day I have to resist the urge to check my word count on blog entries and mentally congratulate myself when I hit 800 words.
I've managed to squeeze out 12,000 words in my novel so far. That's 12,000 words I currently despise, but that Jim has forbidden me to erase. 12,000 words that roll over and over in the back of my head and haunt my dreams with what the next 12,000 words will contain. Everything I read says to write the first draft then edit, edit, edit. I think that must apply to people who like to write 150,000 word epic beasts. In my case it will have to be "revise", "rewrite", "revise". Because really, I'll be doing good if I can hit 60,000. The first Harry Potter book was 80,000 words.
Oh and I'm begging... somebody go sign up for Nanowrimo this year, because I can't, what with the rule about not starting till Nov 1st coupled with my inability to do two things at once has sadly disqualified me from participating this year. But I want to live vicariously through someone and cheer them on!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
There was this one time...
I have a friend who has the worst girlfriend I have ever met. Seriously. She's one of those people who you want to like. you try really hard to like...mostly because you you really want to be a part of your friends life and you know your friendship with him won't be the same if you hate his wife. But It's horribly horribly depressing. And I've tried, I really have. But what are you supposed to do when you find out she's cheating on him? Do you tell him? I did. He doesn't care. He loves her anyway. And so for his sake I try again. We went out for a girls night one time, shared martinis, gossiped about our favorite books and generally had fun. I was shocked. I couldn't even believe this was the same woman who days earlier had borrowed my car without asking and gave it a dent she insisted was there before. The same woman who flirted with my husband and the had the audacity to tell her boyfriend it was Jim not her. The same women who thinks it's hysterical to send me obnoxious texts around the clock. And yet, despite our becoming "friends" the other night, I find out she told everyone I whine too much and that she really has to bite her tongue to keep from callig CPS because my kids are "emotionally abused and physically neglected." Seriously.
I give up. She's a crazy person and it's a hopeless case.
And yet I can't. Because "She" is the church, and I am her too.
And really, although I know the above is a bit of an exaggeration for me, it isn't for some people; and it is quite the bugger. It would be much easier if I could be one of those people who believe it's only about "your relationship with Jesus" and church doesn't matter. Which yeah, is partly true: your relationship is with Christ, but the church is clearly the bride of Christ. Try being best friends with someone while refusing to acknowledge their spouse. Conversations are awkward and dinner parties are a bitch.
Not that I'm condoning abusive relationships on a person-to-person level. People have shitty things happen to them-- alcoholic husbands, creepy step-fathers, bi-polar mothers, teenagers who are hell-bent on destruction.
But in the case of the church you already know the ending. You already know that no matter how many times she flat-lines, the defibrillator is always going to work. Yes, she's been diagnosed with cancer, but we already know the chemo works.
Clearly we can't give up when we know the end of the story. It isn't a hopeless case. Even though I live in a place where every gosh darn church is either filled with pretty people congratulating themselves on how cool they are, or some watered down, old fashioned service filled with old old or creepy people. In my own beloved circle of reformed churches here in San Diego, it seems like everyone either hates everyone or has some ancient grudge that they refuse to let go. It gets quite depressing to be around people who refuse to let go over things that happened before I was even out of elementary school.
And yet I love my church, I really do. I just suck at trying to figure out how to help.
I give up. She's a crazy person and it's a hopeless case.
And yet I can't. Because "She" is the church, and I am her too.
And really, although I know the above is a bit of an exaggeration for me, it isn't for some people; and it is quite the bugger. It would be much easier if I could be one of those people who believe it's only about "your relationship with Jesus" and church doesn't matter. Which yeah, is partly true: your relationship is with Christ, but the church is clearly the bride of Christ. Try being best friends with someone while refusing to acknowledge their spouse. Conversations are awkward and dinner parties are a bitch.
Not that I'm condoning abusive relationships on a person-to-person level. People have shitty things happen to them-- alcoholic husbands, creepy step-fathers, bi-polar mothers, teenagers who are hell-bent on destruction.
But in the case of the church you already know the ending. You already know that no matter how many times she flat-lines, the defibrillator is always going to work. Yes, she's been diagnosed with cancer, but we already know the chemo works.
Clearly we can't give up when we know the end of the story. It isn't a hopeless case. Even though I live in a place where every gosh darn church is either filled with pretty people congratulating themselves on how cool they are, or some watered down, old fashioned service filled with old old or creepy people. In my own beloved circle of reformed churches here in San Diego, it seems like everyone either hates everyone or has some ancient grudge that they refuse to let go. It gets quite depressing to be around people who refuse to let go over things that happened before I was even out of elementary school.
And yet I love my church, I really do. I just suck at trying to figure out how to help.
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