With an actual main idea and supporting ideas that dovetail nicely through the course of brilliantly written prose. And sometimes I just start typing and find out right along with you where I end up. I stop writing when I get bored or hungry and wonder why people actually come back to read future posts. This is one of those days. You’ve had your fair warning. I do not know what this post will include, but it may or may not reference chocolate and Lady Gaga and the debate on whether private foundations are truly striving toward becoming learning organizations and embracing failure while learning from their investment strategy mistakes or whether that all sounds good in their annual reports, but really, not so much.
Let’s see what the grab bag that is my head on a Friday afternoon yields:
1) Jay, last night: “Mama, I want a hot dog. But I don’t want any sourcrotch on it. Just ketchup.”
I’ve spent the day trying to drop “sourcrotch” casually in my conversations to my staff and officemates. It’s harder than you might think.
2) Jay, a few weeks ago: “Daddy, I know that half of the baby’s genes come from you, and half of the baby’s genes come from Mama. But how do the genes GET together?”
I have become an expert in question evasion. It won’t work for long, but it worked the other day when he asked another delicate question: “Mama, why do you and Daddy share a bed?”
For that situation I employed a reasonable and responsible response. I invoked self-inflicted violence. Me: “Ouch! Oh, I just stubbed my toe. Oh, that really, really hurt.”
And done.
Isn’t there a book or something that I can give him? When does it become appropriate for me to put my hands over my ears and shout "What?! I can't hear you!”?
This is so awkward.
3) Michael Jackson totally rocks. Still. Even more than in the 80’s. Pandora. Just do it. Just beware that they’ll try to slip some Kenny G in there and you’ll have to slap that shit down quick or you’ll find yourself on a musical tangent listening to contemporary smooth jazz artists that make you think of creepy dentists.
4) Or maybe that’s just me.
5) Ella has taken a liking to wearing sunglasses. At night, to bed, in her footy pajamas. It’s pretty cute, so I don’t intervene. She may also be trying to fake out the boogey monster. Since we haven’t had a single boogey monster attack us while we sleep, I’d say her strategy is working.
6) Luther Vandross is dangerously close to Kenny G. Dislike, dislike, dislike.
7) Facebook. Time sink or not? Discuss.
8) It is sleeting outside right now. What the hell?
9) The first U.S. dog guide was a German Shepherd named “Buddy,” who was presented to Morris Frank in 1927. Check out this and other fine facts at: Mental Floss Random Fact Generator: http://www.mentalfloss.com/amazingfactgenerator/?p=827#scroll
10) Sourcrotch.
11) And I am spent...
Showing posts with label Duh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Duh. Show all posts
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Today’s dilemmas
Sorry, folks, it's late in the day, my brain is frazzled and my creative energy is tapped out. This is the best of what's left. (Have I sufficiently lowered your expectations? Good. Let's begin.)
Today’s dilemmas
Go to the gym over the lunch hour (No.)
OR
Stuff potato chips into my mouth while I read over grant reports and obsess over how we are going to make payroll at the end of the year? (Yes.)
Leave the office at a reasonable time (No.)
OR
Get sucked into sending out that one last email, no wait, one more, gahhhh, I have to reply to this person before I leave, and… wait. How is it dark outside? (Yes.)
Buy myself a cup of coffee from across the street and enjoy much needed fresh air on the way there (Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.)
OR
Sit at my desk, desperately NEEDING a cup of coffee but not allowing myself to get up until every last thing on my to-do list is done, meanwhile becoming increasingly pissy about the fact that I am too swamped to get a cup of coffee, and stewing about it for a while before realizing that I could have just gotten up and bought the damn cup of coffee in the time it took me to worry/seethe about my workload. (Why, yes, actually.)
Take a deep breath (Ha! No. What are your crazy? I don't have time for that crap.)
OR
Become so absorbed in my thoughts and work that I forget to breathe for long stretches of time until my head hurts and I am generally ornery? (Yes indeedy.)
O.k. you get it. I am a little crazed at the moment. Wish I could say I did any of the first options on the above list today. Instead I am wiping potato chip grease off of my keyboard and reaching for the Tylenol.
In an attempt to end on a positive note, I will list five things that made me happy today:
1) The baby is kicking
2) Chris is making dinner
3) Potato chip grease comes off relatively easy (from the keyboard, not my waist)
4) I didn’t inhale my weight in chocolate this afternoon. (Only because I didn’t have any chocolate at my desk and getting hold of any would have involved actually, like, getting up and stuff.)
5) I do not have a number five yet. Wait, did I just say that NO chocolate was something that made me HAPPY? Now you see that stress makes people hallucinate. Bring on the chocolate.
Today’s dilemmas
Go to the gym over the lunch hour (No.)
OR
Stuff potato chips into my mouth while I read over grant reports and obsess over how we are going to make payroll at the end of the year? (Yes.)
Leave the office at a reasonable time (No.)
OR
Get sucked into sending out that one last email, no wait, one more, gahhhh, I have to reply to this person before I leave, and… wait. How is it dark outside? (Yes.)
Buy myself a cup of coffee from across the street and enjoy much needed fresh air on the way there (Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.)
OR
Sit at my desk, desperately NEEDING a cup of coffee but not allowing myself to get up until every last thing on my to-do list is done, meanwhile becoming increasingly pissy about the fact that I am too swamped to get a cup of coffee, and stewing about it for a while before realizing that I could have just gotten up and bought the damn cup of coffee in the time it took me to worry/seethe about my workload. (Why, yes, actually.)
Take a deep breath (Ha! No. What are your crazy? I don't have time for that crap.)
OR
Become so absorbed in my thoughts and work that I forget to breathe for long stretches of time until my head hurts and I am generally ornery? (Yes indeedy.)
O.k. you get it. I am a little crazed at the moment. Wish I could say I did any of the first options on the above list today. Instead I am wiping potato chip grease off of my keyboard and reaching for the Tylenol.
In an attempt to end on a positive note, I will list five things that made me happy today:
1) The baby is kicking
2) Chris is making dinner
3) Potato chip grease comes off relatively easy (from the keyboard, not my waist)
4) I didn’t inhale my weight in chocolate this afternoon. (Only because I didn’t have any chocolate at my desk and getting hold of any would have involved actually, like, getting up and stuff.)
5) I do not have a number five yet. Wait, did I just say that NO chocolate was something that made me HAPPY? Now you see that stress makes people hallucinate. Bring on the chocolate.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Confessions of a Real Life Slob
Something occurred to me the other day, which will be no surprise to those who know me. In an BFO (Blinding Flash of Obviousness), I realized this: I am a slob.
For years I have had this nasty, creeping feeling, but I was too repulsed to acknowledge it. Instead, I have simply been “too busy” to clean up after myself. Too busy to put away my coffee mugs, to make my bed, to put away the clothes that I shed at the foot of my bed at the end of each day. I told myself that between work, school and the kids, life was just too hectic to stay neat and organized. Later, when I graduated, it was the garden and work and the kids. Then the holidays, then taking on the survival of my organization.
I would love to put the blame at someone else’s feet. I would desperately, dearly love to do this. I could try to reach back and put it on my parents, or on the unattainable standards set by the media, or some other farcical explanation, but what it really comes down to is this: I left that dirty plate on the table, sprayed like scatter shot with jelly and toast crumbs. I made that pile of half clean/ but also somewhat dirty clothes at the foot of the bed that is now threatening to take over the bed and push us all out. I have strewn half-full coffee mugs throughout the condo and it was me who left a pile of shoe castoffs by the front door.
This realization came into even sharper focus recently when I announced to Jay that he MUST clean his room. His toys were everywhere, veritable trip hazards interspersed with little sharp and pointy things just waiting to get implanted in the bottom of our feet. His clothes were in big piles near his dresser, castoffs from indecision and three year old capriciousness. His books were in large piles and spilling over. As I surveyed the mess and shook my head disapprovingly, I said, “Jay, you need to clean this room right now.” Jay looked me squarely in the eye and said, “And then we’ll clean YOUR room, Mama?”
It was a moment a truth.
I reeled and sputtered as I tried to figure out how to respond. I am sure whatever I said it came out as defensive and lame. Then I did what any closeted slob would do: I told him my room was not his concern and that he needed work on his room, thank you VERY much.
...Then I skulked off to clean my room.
I have a long way to go, and probably a few more moments of truth lay ahead, but I guess acknowledgement is the first step on this road to less slobbishness. The next step is not leaving a trail of socks, wet towels and apple cores behind me.
For years I have had this nasty, creeping feeling, but I was too repulsed to acknowledge it. Instead, I have simply been “too busy” to clean up after myself. Too busy to put away my coffee mugs, to make my bed, to put away the clothes that I shed at the foot of my bed at the end of each day. I told myself that between work, school and the kids, life was just too hectic to stay neat and organized. Later, when I graduated, it was the garden and work and the kids. Then the holidays, then taking on the survival of my organization.
I would love to put the blame at someone else’s feet. I would desperately, dearly love to do this. I could try to reach back and put it on my parents, or on the unattainable standards set by the media, or some other farcical explanation, but what it really comes down to is this: I left that dirty plate on the table, sprayed like scatter shot with jelly and toast crumbs. I made that pile of half clean/ but also somewhat dirty clothes at the foot of the bed that is now threatening to take over the bed and push us all out. I have strewn half-full coffee mugs throughout the condo and it was me who left a pile of shoe castoffs by the front door.
This realization came into even sharper focus recently when I announced to Jay that he MUST clean his room. His toys were everywhere, veritable trip hazards interspersed with little sharp and pointy things just waiting to get implanted in the bottom of our feet. His clothes were in big piles near his dresser, castoffs from indecision and three year old capriciousness. His books were in large piles and spilling over. As I surveyed the mess and shook my head disapprovingly, I said, “Jay, you need to clean this room right now.” Jay looked me squarely in the eye and said, “And then we’ll clean YOUR room, Mama?”
It was a moment a truth.
I reeled and sputtered as I tried to figure out how to respond. I am sure whatever I said it came out as defensive and lame. Then I did what any closeted slob would do: I told him my room was not his concern and that he needed work on his room, thank you VERY much.
...Then I skulked off to clean my room.
I have a long way to go, and probably a few more moments of truth lay ahead, but I guess acknowledgement is the first step on this road to less slobbishness. The next step is not leaving a trail of socks, wet towels and apple cores behind me.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
It ain't what you don't know...
It’s been a rough day and I am finally sitting down with a glass of wine and basking in the quiet. First, I have been wrong about nearly everything today. So whatever it is I end up posting tonight, assume it is not true. Second, we have been without email and internet at work for over 24 hours now and it’s making my right eye a little twitchy.
Well. I think you know where this is going. At least I managed to wear pants this morning and came home with two kids (both mine!) from the library. The library that, as it turns out, has a train table. (It must be new.)
Episode of Wrong, exhibit A:
Lawyer who rents office space from us: Uh, Melissa, the internet seems to be down.
Me: Oh, we’ll just restart the modem and router. That’ll do it.
[skips down the hall to perform my magic, because, of course I can handle this]
Eight hours later, two visits from tech support people and a new modem later, no internet. No email. No FaceBook. This sucks.
Episode of Wrong, exhibit B:
Staff person: Melissa, are the phones on night mode? Because we’re expecting a call…
Me: (Dismisses this as the most ridiculous idea ever) No. I never put the phones on night mode. It doesn’t make sense to put them on night mode blah, blah, blah…One missed phone call later (from our tech support people) I sheepishly take the phones off night mode.
Episode of Wrong, Exhibit C:
Jay: Mama, can we go to the library tonight?
Me: Sure. We’ll go to such and such branch.
Jay: Yay! That’s a good one because it has a train table!
Me: No, honey. They don’t have a train table.
Jay: Yes they do, Mama.
Me: No, they don’t, buddy.
Jay: Yes, Mama. Come to the kid’s section with me and I’ll show you.
Me: Jay. They. Don’t. Have. A. Train. Table.
Well. I think you know where this is going. At least I managed to wear pants this morning and came home with two kids (both mine!) from the library. The library that, as it turns out, has a train table. (It must be new.)
Monday, November 02, 2009
If the car is a rockin'...
Sometimes, when I am feeling a little down, I read some of my old blog posts. They always cheer me up. Not because I am funny, but because I can fool myself into thinking that those posts were written soooooo long ago, back before I really knew anything about anything, back before I became the wise and astute person I am today. I nod sagely as I read the accounts of my foibles and commend myself. Surely, I am not such a jackass now.
But, yep, I am.
We ran out of gas on the way home from Clintonville this afternoon. As the car ceased to move forward and we coasted over to the shoulder of the highway, Chris and I were puzzled. We used all of our car mechanic terminology. Transmission? Uh… Battery? Mechanical gear-do-whoppy thing? Aha! It’s got no gas!
Well, shit.
Why’d we even BUY this car if it was just going to run out of gas?
Oh.
Right. We didn’t buy this car. Chris’ parents gave it to us.
Well, Christ, is NOTHING built to last these days? God damned planned obsolescence. What do you mean we’re supposed to keep putting gas into it? What the heck for? Didn’t we just do that, like three hundred miles ago? What did it do with all of THAT gas? If the car is just going to burn it up, why the hell should we keep buying gas for it?
This presented a difficult situation. The next exit was approximately way the hell away. It was forty degrees and we had two sleeping kids, no stroller and no idea where, exactly, we where. Chris walked a few minutes to the houses nearby and knocked. No answer. No luck. No gas. After weighing our options (actually, there weren’t any. I am putting that in here because I feel like there should be some option weighing in most stories) we called Chris’ parents.
We whiled the hour or so away by telling stories, eating Jay’s Halloween candy while he slept (to keep up our energy in case a freak snow storm should bury the car and we would need to use our bare hands to free the tires) and trying to find bushes big enough to cover us while we peed in them. We remarked on how, when we were dating, we never in a million years could have simply pulled off to the shoulder of the highway to make out. Had we tried, entire squads of police along with the tri-county air patrol would have caught the whiff of our hormones, threw on their sirens and used their spotlights to light up our foggy windows like Wrigley Field. Troops of boy scouts would have paraded by. The New York Marathon would have spontaneously rerouted itself to encircle our car. Legions of truck drivers would have pulled over to see if we were o.k.
But as a legitimately married couple with kids and dogs, no one even looked twice at our stranded car. In fact, a police car passed us without so much as slowing down. I suggested we get down to business in the back of the station wagon if we wanted to get someone to pull over, but Jay stirred and we shelved the idea.
Steve and Jean drove an hour to get to us and brought a can of gas. We did not mention that it was the car that THEY gave us that ran out of gas (seriously, WTF?). We figured they must have felt bad enough, but did make sure to give them plenty of disapproving looks. We pulled into the next gas station we saw and filled up. The rest of the trip home was uneventful. Also, we have finally figured out what that annoying bright orange gas pump-like icon on our dash board is. It’s a reminder to have plenty of candy and a fully charged cell phone ready.
But, yep, I am.
We ran out of gas on the way home from Clintonville this afternoon. As the car ceased to move forward and we coasted over to the shoulder of the highway, Chris and I were puzzled. We used all of our car mechanic terminology. Transmission? Uh… Battery? Mechanical gear-do-whoppy thing? Aha! It’s got no gas!
Well, shit.
Why’d we even BUY this car if it was just going to run out of gas?
Oh.
Right. We didn’t buy this car. Chris’ parents gave it to us.
Well, Christ, is NOTHING built to last these days? God damned planned obsolescence. What do you mean we’re supposed to keep putting gas into it? What the heck for? Didn’t we just do that, like three hundred miles ago? What did it do with all of THAT gas? If the car is just going to burn it up, why the hell should we keep buying gas for it?
This presented a difficult situation. The next exit was approximately way the hell away. It was forty degrees and we had two sleeping kids, no stroller and no idea where, exactly, we where. Chris walked a few minutes to the houses nearby and knocked. No answer. No luck. No gas. After weighing our options (actually, there weren’t any. I am putting that in here because I feel like there should be some option weighing in most stories) we called Chris’ parents.
We whiled the hour or so away by telling stories, eating Jay’s Halloween candy while he slept (to keep up our energy in case a freak snow storm should bury the car and we would need to use our bare hands to free the tires) and trying to find bushes big enough to cover us while we peed in them. We remarked on how, when we were dating, we never in a million years could have simply pulled off to the shoulder of the highway to make out. Had we tried, entire squads of police along with the tri-county air patrol would have caught the whiff of our hormones, threw on their sirens and used their spotlights to light up our foggy windows like Wrigley Field. Troops of boy scouts would have paraded by. The New York Marathon would have spontaneously rerouted itself to encircle our car. Legions of truck drivers would have pulled over to see if we were o.k.
But as a legitimately married couple with kids and dogs, no one even looked twice at our stranded car. In fact, a police car passed us without so much as slowing down. I suggested we get down to business in the back of the station wagon if we wanted to get someone to pull over, but Jay stirred and we shelved the idea.
Steve and Jean drove an hour to get to us and brought a can of gas. We did not mention that it was the car that THEY gave us that ran out of gas (seriously, WTF?). We figured they must have felt bad enough, but did make sure to give them plenty of disapproving looks. We pulled into the next gas station we saw and filled up. The rest of the trip home was uneventful. Also, we have finally figured out what that annoying bright orange gas pump-like icon on our dash board is. It’s a reminder to have plenty of candy and a fully charged cell phone ready.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Last week I became a grown up.
After years of carrying around my driver’s license in my back pocket, streaking the laundry red because I forgot to remove the tube of lipstick from my front pocket and losing my keys and sunglasses everywhere, I finally bought a purse. I tried for years to go without one. They were too girly. Targets for theft. Too conventional. Too easy to forget in a bathroom.
But after losing my wallet twice in one month, and having it returned to me sheerly through the kindness of strangers, I decided the world might not be such a bad place after all, and it was high time I get a real wallet instead shoving my receipts and ID into my tattered neoprene eyeglass holder. It was time to grow up.
Real women wear purses.
Also, I thought, what a great time to learn to simplify! Take only what fits in the purse! It’s streamlined! It’s little! It’s cute!
I packed it with my new wallet, my keys, my makeup bag, my comb, my iPod, my checkbook, my sunglasses, my…. Hmmmm… there’s no more room in here. O.k. I’ll use my key ring to attach my keys to the outside, hook my water bottle to my purse strap, hang my running shoes off of the purse handles, strap my lunch bag to other purse handle… and viola! A vomiting suitcase.
I formally surrendered this morning when I put my purse inside of my huge orange “Running Away From Home” Bag. Along with my running gear and shoes, lunch, knitting project, book for the bus ride, magazine for the bus ride (in case I finish reading my book and need reading material for the final six minutes of the bus ride, because dear GOD what if I have nothing to read for six whole minutes?!) cell phone and second knitting project (see reason for packing magazine). For the record, I spent the entire bus ride staring blankly out of the window, taking in the quiet calm of the morning ride and remembering that I forgot to both eat breakfast and brush my teeth.
I guess I am not quite a grown up after all.
But after losing my wallet twice in one month, and having it returned to me sheerly through the kindness of strangers, I decided the world might not be such a bad place after all, and it was high time I get a real wallet instead shoving my receipts and ID into my tattered neoprene eyeglass holder. It was time to grow up.
Real women wear purses.
Also, I thought, what a great time to learn to simplify! Take only what fits in the purse! It’s streamlined! It’s little! It’s cute!
I packed it with my new wallet, my keys, my makeup bag, my comb, my iPod, my checkbook, my sunglasses, my…. Hmmmm… there’s no more room in here. O.k. I’ll use my key ring to attach my keys to the outside, hook my water bottle to my purse strap, hang my running shoes off of the purse handles, strap my lunch bag to other purse handle… and viola! A vomiting suitcase.
I formally surrendered this morning when I put my purse inside of my huge orange “Running Away From Home” Bag. Along with my running gear and shoes, lunch, knitting project, book for the bus ride, magazine for the bus ride (in case I finish reading my book and need reading material for the final six minutes of the bus ride, because dear GOD what if I have nothing to read for six whole minutes?!) cell phone and second knitting project (see reason for packing magazine). For the record, I spent the entire bus ride staring blankly out of the window, taking in the quiet calm of the morning ride and remembering that I forgot to both eat breakfast and brush my teeth.
I guess I am not quite a grown up after all.
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