May I Pee in Peece Peelease?

We've all had that moment in the lew, when things were getting "complicated" and suddenly matters, that haven't quit been worked out yet, get more complicated by interruptions and people, and animals. And things, well they just don't go right. It's the classic Poo Pot Stage Fright Syndrome (PPSFS). You've all heard of it.

At some point when my son was an infant, I started leaving the door open during poo pot time, for a whole list of obsessively, overprotective, parenting reasons. I'll just call this choice an "error in judgement" for now. Of course, this error became a habit. Well bad habits have a way of inviting company, so my open access bathroom breaks made everyone, and everything, feel entitled to be in on the whole dang show.

But before this error in judgment milestone. I did shut the door. Now, trying to shut the door for five minutes of peace, is futile when you have a house full of heathens. It results in the entire household population melting down into a chorus of barking, meowing, scratching, and bawling. The paws, the long slobbery tongues, the baby patty cakes, all simultaneously, contortionistcally and acrobatically trying to squeeze through the 1 inch gap under the door during the poorly orchestrated out of tune violin concert of crazy on the other side of the door.

But then. They evolved. Into just learning how to open the door. So. Simple. I don't know when! I don't know how! Maybe they did some sort of canine, feline, human pyramid thing that should have been caught on video and gone viral. I'm not sure. But nevertheless. They were in. And so, as I said: resistance is futile. So the door stays open. Locking is not an option because of all the crazy concert acrobatic stuff I mentioned earlier oh, and helicopter parenting techniques. Besides, It's not like listening to all this racket and hoping and praying babies don't get trampled on by dogs, and dogs don't get smacked around by babies, is peaceful, or helpful to the situation, anyway!

But now. I have a neeeeew, seemingly, more complicated problem.

Company. With no - buffer - zone.

Enter Ruthie. The great dane. Okay. Seriously. I don't need to say anymore. Do I? Except to maybe mention that this is all going on in a guest bath. Yeah. Guests get the crappy little, bathrooms that you can barely turn around in remember. Oh, and maybe I should also mention that Ruthie is a puppy, so that's awesome, and that she can already look down on me, when I'm, on this particular seat. So. Ruthie. In the bathroom. And here we are. Awesome.

Enter Blue: K. Blue is one of those manipulative, co-dependent, little giant dogs who tries to be somewhat superhero-ish by being somewhat invisible-ish and also by controlling your mind and making you think that he is in fact, hated by you unless you're holding him, even though he weighs 100 pounds. He does all this with his sad, not blue but x-ray eyes, and slinky almost invisible sideling. He sits at the door, then, okay she's not yelling at me to get out, so, inch. Okay, sweet! I made it in a whole inch! She didn't yell at me again! So, inch, inch, inch. And then suddenly, his nose and giant head are where no dog nose and giant head should ever be when you're doing what I am doing. But I didn't realize what was happening because of the invisibleness. Get it?

Then the cat comes in and winds around and around and around and around, my legs while I'm sitting there. And, oh! What the heck! Just jump up in my lap too. No worries. And then. After I won't pet him because, well, I'm BUSY!, He just sits there. On the side of the sink, and stares at me with his judgmental, yellow eyes. Making me all, uncomfortable, and stuff.

In comes baby daddy. "Where's the keys to the car? And the What's There Names are coming over for dinner, so what do we have to eat? Did you get the mail? Are you almost done? " Say Whaaaaa? What was I in here for again? Why am I pants less with all these animals and people? I don't recall.

Then, in comes kid number 1. With a big sheet of stickers. "Where'd you get those stickers?" "In my playroom!" Crap. I forgot they were in there, now they are going to be everywhere!

"Here mommy, let me help you!" Oh. Thank you! Thank you so much for the thumb size piece of toilet paper, that will be an enormous help. "Momma! You're doing such a great job! Here's a sticker."  Oh right. We give out stickers for potty training. Oh, but wait, um, where are you sticking that? Oh, I get more than one? Um, thank you? Wait, where are you sticking that? Why?

Kid number 2. Tearing up toilet paper and yelling "POOOOOOP!" at the top of her lungs over, and over, and over, and over, when someone is in the bathroom are her favorite things. So....that's how all that goes. And, no, I don't need help wiping. But thanks for offering. I'll just go ahead and use this little pin head size piece of paper you ripped off for me. I can do it all by myself with this. Oh, and thanks for courtesy flushing for me 80 times. That was awesome! Now I want a bidet.

I mean seriously. I want to have more kids, and maybe more animals too, like chickens, and maybe some goats and stuff, but like, logistically, we won't all fit in this bathroom at one time, so, I guess that's all outta the question. Rats.

No big deal. I can poop when I'm dead right? Isn't that what they say?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go remove all these adhesive smiley faces from my REAR!

The Perfect Stranger

I planned to write about salad dressing today, but this was weighing on me.

So, after my run on Saturday, I took the kids to the park. We arrived, bright and early, to avoid all the people. I mean, to avoid all the heat. We were there for about 10 minutes, and while I was basking in the euphoria of my gloriously fast four miler, with my kids in the sand box, I was caught off guard by, "CAN I PLAY WITH YOU GUYS?!", being shouted in my ear. What? I didn't quite catch that? And where did you come from, little kid?! Of course you can play. But where's your mother? Oh. There she is, trudging down the sidewalk toward us. Great. I have to talk to someone now. Sigh. There goes my perfectly, peaceful, isolated day.

She got closer. And I got catty. She was an oddly shaped woman, sort of like a slowly, deflating, marshmallow stuck on top of toothpicks for legs. Or something. More and more tattoos of Winnie the Pooh were coming into focus. Counting them all would require some extended stare time, and that's just rude, so I just tried to count really fast. She wasn't from our hood, so, of course, I really needed to scope her out. Hmmmm....I can't see how old she is, behind those Foster Grants. Really? Why do I care what this lady looks like, really? I don't know. Because I'm a recovering snot nose, and I'm judgmental. Mmmkaaay?

Our kids played together in the sand box and she stayed away a bit, on a park bench. I was up to my butt cheeks in sand. I always love that sand in my butt feeling, so to try and ignore it, I made microscopic talk with her. I couldn't seem too rude, right? After all, our kids were playing together. I had no intention of striking up anything significant with her, conversation wise, so don't get any ideas. Besides, she started talking about great deals at Wal-Mart, and that's just a party foul, in my book. I have "special" feelings harbored just for Wal-Mart, but that's another post.

And then. She made the 10 foot migration to the sand box with the rest of us. And then. She started talking about running. Evidently, my rancid body odor, and running shoes, gave away that I might be remotely interested in a talk about running. Great. She brought up a local race, and how she was a runner. And then, my evil thoughts tuned her out, "She's a runner? No way. Those spindly, little legs can't hold her up for a run!? Say Whaaaa?! Man I am so rude! Why am I so rude like this. So Mean! God, help me with this attitude, just let me see what she has to say."

Anyway, when I tuned back in to this AM radio mom lady at the park, her name was Carol, and the kid (Joe), wasn't hers. But he called her mom. Joe's real mom was a drug addict, and Carol was dating Joe's dad. They were going to get married. They all live with Joe's grandma, down the street. Carol gets along great with grandma, they are almost the same age. Yeah, I know. I'm starting to get confused too, better start taking notes. Because. There is more. K?

Joe has lived with them for about six months. He is four years old. Joe just learned his ABC's and 1-2-3's. He didn’t know them six months ago. Carol is thirteen years older than Joe's dad, (don't know dad’s name, so I named him Clark (goes good with Carol)) and they get along great, except for the times when Clark is an idiot, and when they fight all the time. Sometimes Carol feels she needs to stay in the relationship for Joe. But Carol loves Clark and so they will get married. Unless Clark’s ex wife is really, truly, pregnant with Clark’s baby again, and then she might not marry him after all. Joe's real mom would only give up Joe to Clark if Clark slept with her, and that is why she might be pregnant again with another little Joe. Holy. Cow.

You gettin all this? What? I thought the ex wife was an addict? What? Who is pregnant with who‘s baby? I'm so confused. Okay, no questions, just listen. Just listen. I can do this! What?!

Joe has had a rough four years of life. Carol had a rough life too. She wants to take care of him. Maybe make his life less painful than it has been. Joe's dad was in the hospital, for 5 weeks. But, no. Wait, she just tells Joe that his dad is in the hospital. Joe's dad is really in jail, for a parole violation. Oh. My.

She home schools Joe. Carol is not custodial, so, she can't put him in school right now, or afford preschool for that matter. At least not while dad is wearing all neon orange and stuff. She doesn't want Joe in the foster system. She was there. It's the worst place in the world. She got Joe's preschool curriculum at the dollar store. She moved from the west side. Away from her grown kids, grandkids, her friends, her job. So she could take care of Joe full time, while dad is, um, away. She's trying to get a part job at the dollar store down the street, in the evening, to help support Joe.

Carol runs two miles a day. Early in the morning before grandma goes to work. I still can't get over this part. I kind of want to race her. Just so God can prove to my bratty, arrogant, self, that anyone can run, and run faster than me. She will probably smoke me. Anyway, Carol runs with a knife. Yeah, that's right. It's dark out when she runs, so she feels safer. Carol wanted to know what time I go out and run. I had a quick, paranoid debate about not telling her, lest she, the girlfriend of a convict, be out there waiting to stab me at 4:00 a.m. But I told her anyway. Besides, I can box a marshmallow on toothpicks right? Logistically, I think I can take her. Bah! There I go again, all mean and stuff!

Carol is a biker chick. She has a, something or other, kind of bike. It's a 2007 year model. It's an awesome bike, and she has all the biker gear. Her family is a biker family. Okay, I take back what I said, I can't, and won't, try to box her now. I'll just take my 4:00 a.m. chances that I can run faster than her.

All this. In 30 minutes or less. From a total. Stranger.

I could have scurried my kids all up and herded them away like a frightened quail, when I heard, Wal-Mart, or convict, or parole, or KNIFE! But I didn't. We made a very odd couple indeed. Up to our butts in sand, digging around aimlessly with little kid toys, two complete strangers, who needed something from each other.

She needed to talk. And I needed to listen. And listen good.

Listening. Something I'm pretty terrible at with those I love. I'm too much of a bossy know-it-all to be a good listener. Maybe God sent this stranger so I could practice being an engaged, non judgmental, listener. Or maybe I was to be her, stranger than fiction friend, for thirty minutes, because that's what she needed. I think both.

It was time for them to go. So. I said, "Maybe I'll see you out there on the trail!" I wasn't ready to be her besty. Not just yet. I was far more likely to fake number her, if it came down to it. Well, maybe not. That would be lying, and surely get me stabbed and rolled into the canal, if that's what that knife is really for! But it's not. So I wished her the best, and told her she was doing a great job with Joe.

I watched them walk away. Kind of sad that they were going, but I was glad for the chat. Better than anything I’ve seen on TV lately, that’s for sure. She stopped with Joe to look at everything he wanted to look at along the way. Dog poop, bugs on the ground, things four yearolds like. Enabling learning. It was pleasant to see. And then. I realized, the most unlikely people can be pretty amazing. She was an unlikely lady, from whom I learned an unlikely lesson. Mom-hood is tough sometimes. Especially alone. All moms need friends. All kinds of friends, in all different places, at all different times. I wasn’t too good for her, or for anyone. Ever. For that matter, shame on me for being so isolated and independent in my ivory tower.  Who am I? I am no one in particular. I was just where I was supposed to be. To learn something. About me.

We mothers. We all have a common goal. To raise our future. The best we can. So let’s be friends, shall we? Even with biker chicks. Who run. In the dark. With knives.

Am I a Cranial Couch Potato?

I wonder what would happen if I just went old school right now. This very minute. Cold Turkey. Zero technology.

Would my head spin around and explode like the Fembots in Austin Powers? Probably.
I want to make a phone call, but I can't because I don't have the number. Why don't I have the number? Read on.

Is even making a phone call considered technology these days? I guess I'll send an email then. Oh, can't do that either! Maybe I'll send out a Tweet? Nope. Maybe I can put a post on Facebook about this? That's not old school. Pen and paper is the way to go I guess. Do I even have a pen?

Seriously? I'm at the mercy of technology. Everything I need and everyone I know and how to reach them is in an electronic device, backed up on the Internet, stored on a hard drive, or a remote server. Everything about my life, including photos and videos is on an electronic device, backed up on the Internet, yadda yadda...

I'm first in line for building the bomb shelter under the house if it was feasible to do. But, apparently, I'm having some identity crises'. My shopping lists are on my phone. Notes about my kids for their baby books - on my phone. Pictures and videos of our lives everyday, on my phone. Email, on my phone. I logged on to Facebook the other day from my computer and didn't know how to work it, because of my phone. My random thoughts about things I need to remember, on my phone. Appointments, on my phone. Birthdays, on my phone. Recipes, on my phone. Last Christmas Eve was almost a crises because I couldn't access the Internet to get the recipe for our traditional meal. No wonder it's so easy to cyber stalk people now...so I've heard....

I felt at one time that this technology thing was clearly the best way to go! In case of a fire or, a natural disaster, nuclear bomb, or something I've never thought of, I could still get to my memories because they would be "out there", and not in a pile of ashes.

But just when I think I'm super techno girl with all my cool, latest gadgets, a software update comes out and erases everyone I know. Ya, I can put the pieces back together. In a slow pre-school, paper mache project sort of way. But it's a mess, and I'm a mess because I realize this ridiculous state of affairs is really ridiculous! And really! I just want to call my dad!

Did I learn a lesson? Do I really get it that I am being held prisoner by an iPhone of all things? Will I do anything to change it?

Maybe this is why God made us with our very complex brains. So we could exercise them by memorizing important things like, how to reach important people, our PARENTS, for example!

Me? I have used up the storage space in my brain with every line of every episode of Seinfeld. Just on the off chance I would ever be on a game show and a Seinfeld question was asked, I would know the answer. YES! I have a one in 15 million and eighty chance of winning 20 thousand dollars! It has come in very useful today.

I can't even tell someone how to get to my house because I don't know all the street names! My instant reply with directions is, "Do you have Google maps on your phone?" I mean seriously, why are you asking me how to get here, you moron?! I just live here! Use your phone to figure it out, STUPID! 

So honestly, I think all this "make my life easier" stuff, has actually started a new epidemic of the cranial couch potato.

All this from just wanting to call my dad.

And now I have to delete this blog, and throw this computer in the trash.....and find a pen....

The Christmas Card Fire

What do you do with the Christmas cards you receive once Christmas is over?

Do you keep them for a few months in a stack on the counter, where they get hidden under magazines you keep because you just swear you'll read them when you have a minute. Do they get stacked under the instructions for how to work the iPad you got for Christmas that your two year old is already surfing YouTube, purchasing Elmo videos from iTunes, and Skyping, but you haven't used it once....?

Are you one of those that puts them with the boxed up Christmas decorations where they are unpacked next year and you're like, What the *bleep* did I keep these for? And who are these people? Why did they send me a card? This one's not even signed...,or, HAHA!That one is a good one! I wonder if they will notice if I copy it for this year...

Are you the infamous, I love to hate you, SCRAPBOOKER? Who tediously cuts out all the little sections of each card, including quotes, to keep them perfectly filed away in your collection of perfectly fabulous photo embellishments? Yeah? well....

Or, are you the obsessive compulsive dissociative disorder person, that in a moment of "clarity, zen, and organization", you burn them to the ground with gasoline??!! All while deep breathing to center your Chakra, which is no ONE I KNOW!

Do you keep them forever because you think the persons who sent them might be hurt if you trashed them? Do you keep some and trash the rest? And then what do you do with them if you do keep them?

Well if you're a creative genius with lots of time on your hands, you'll come up with something. Or, if you're a Hoarder, which seems to be a growing trend these days according to television, then you will keep them with the righteous intent of doing something with them SOME day. But instead, eventually be evicted by the Fire Marshall because, you have so many boxes of crappy Christmas cards, you can't use your toilet because you can't FIND the bathroom! Then in order to try to throw some cards away so you can get a general idea of which direction the bathroom is even in, you need to loose weight so you can fit through the 4 inch opening that only the front door will allow you to squeeze out of!  Okay, that was extreme and slightly off topic, and made little sense, but it could happen to some people I know....

It would be kinda nice to have a non-time consuming way to recycle Christmas cards since I'm totally into the green thing. And I'm sure I could find one, if I wasn't writing this, but instead scouring the Internet for some Crafty Cathy's idea about how great old Christmas cards look when you make an origami city out them....

So! If you have a good and useful idea for Christmas cards, let's hear it! Because, mine? Well, mine are in a stack on the counter, and I keep looking at them, thinking, if I leave them out to be in the way, I will eventually remember to think of something awesome to do with them.

As much as I love opening cards when they come, and seeing every ones face once a year, and showing them to everyone on the mantle, the longer they sit there in that glittery little pile on the counter, the more I think of what a pretty, glittery, post Christmas, toasty, warm fire they would make!