Facepalms-n-Eye Rolls All 'Round

One of the many reasons Hubs and I decided to move from Charleston, SC to Nashville, TN was that the, ummm... accepted social practices of the, ummm... older established communities were, ummm... antiquated.  Parts of that state haven't seen the light of anything since 1842 and we weren't all that comfortable exposing our children to that sort of thinking.
That being said, there are parts of Charleston that will live in my heart forever as wonderful happy places. We met fantastic folks, ate mind-blowing food, and were toasted brown by the time we left (not to mention just toasted).  But I digress...
Now, Hubs and I realize that Stupid (with a capital "S") is not regional.  It knows no geographic boundaries, which is why I was not so much surprised as saddened by the hot-load that showed up on the news last night...  

Retired Professor Running For VP on Controversial Platform - NewsChannel5.com | Nashville News, Weather & Sports

Meet Virginia Abernethy... hey ya... meet Virginia.  I can wait to....

Seriously?  There are so many facepalms-n-eye rolls on this for me I don't even know where to start.  In fact, my eyes may actually get stuck in the back of my head and I know my nose will be hella bruised... but I have to do this...

1.  In this day and age.... really?
2.  Way to make Nashville look racist and backwards... again.
3.  "European American" - You wanna dance with words, lady?  Okay, well, hows about the fact that all those white people you are trying to try up in a neat little word package may not have originated from Europe?  Apparently Russia (you know, the GIANT COUNTRY TO EUROPE'S RIGHT ON THE MAP THAT IS FULL OF WHITE PEOPLE) doesn't count.  Try calling a Russian a European and see what happens....
4.  Most "European Americans" are not "pure-blooded" anything thanks to a convoluted and sometimes ugly history.  
5.  What are you again?  A professor... of what?  Oh, Anthropology?  Then you should be well aware of the fact that we all came from Africa (unless you cotton to the Multiregional Hypothesis, in which case, migration and early interbreeding have us all as a mixed bag anyway). 
6.  Since the first permanent  "European American"  settlement didn't happen until 1565 (The Spanish at St. Augustine), we could still be considered an Exotic Invasive, and therefore a Non-Native species.  You know, like Kudzu.
7.  Gah!  Why must you make it suck for those of us who ARE really proud of our heritage that just happens to be mostly from Northern Europe?  And NOT because most of my ancestors were melanin-deficient... it's because there were castles, and sword fights, and dragons (there were TOTALLY dragons).  It just makes me want to go all Viking on ya....
8.  Nut up or shut up, woman, and call a spade a spade.... or a white supremacist a white supremacist   "Ethnic Separatist" (insert disgusted noise that involves a raspberry) ... Coward!  We all know you've got a white hood in your closet!  Quit being weak and own your stupidity   This is America... you are allowed to have an opinion... allbit a bad one.  It happens all the time.  I mean, just take a look at the Tea Party.  A walking, taking bunch 'o' warmongering silly.  (to any buddies I have who are members or supporters of aforementioned party please remember... I love you for reasons other than your political affiliations and I am totally for your believing what you believe.  But I am still going to give you a facepalm.  Feel free to give me one in return.)
9.  She says she is "speaking" (I call it mouth-diarrhea) for those who are too afraid to speak up.  Like, all those old white dudes busy making money by standing on the backs of the minimum wage earners?  They must be too busy making money to give their opinions.  Yeah... soooo busy.  (And btw, go look in the back of your favorite restaurant and tell me what you see.  Not at the front of the back, where the servers and the hostesses hang out, but in the hot, sweaty back. Yeah... Oh. )
10.  I am so mad at this point, all I can do is spit expletives, but you get the picture.

As you know, a rant may be finished.... but it is never over.  :)  I am starting to think Natural Selection may have slipped up on this one...

Biological Attacks

     Yay!  Monday vacation!  I can sit, drink my coffee, and think my work thoughts… completely uninterrupted.  And pee by myself…  THAT is such a luxury now that Sprinks is mobile and has an agenda.  Time to wind down after the weekend mayhem of pumpkin pancakes, fall festivals, apple eating, jack-o-lantern carving, and general not-still-ness…  We had fun, mind you, tons of it.  The kind of fun that gets you good and dirty and has you asleep before you hit the bed… which is why I am happy to just sit here and pow-wow with Mr. Dunkin.  J

     But the weekend wouldn't have been complete without SOMEONE getting sick, right?  Enter Sass…. in grand style.  One minute we were in the Wal-marts buying groceries and begging for an Angry Birds tee-shirt (Really?  You have played that game, like, 5 times on my phone.  Total.  Ever.) the next he was sitting quietly (warning bells!!!) with dark circles under his eyes in the middle of the toiletries aisle.  He went from 98.6 to the-surface-of-the-sun in about 2 minutes.  While we checked out, he wandered around the nearby Halloween department in my green Pashmina knock-off, all hollow eyed and miserable, still trying to pull all the costumes off their displays.  It was like the virus had taken over and, in a desperate attempt to infect the greater population, was instructing him to cough/sneeze/drool on all the masks the kids would be putting directly on their faces this Halloween.  Soooo Michael Crichton of them.  (Eeek!  They can read!)  We quick scooped him up, got him in the car, and began to drive home.  Poor little man...he just laid in his car seat all silent and slack jawed…  and we knew it was REALLY bad when he refused the offer of freshly baked chickey nuggets and tater tots…  It was time to worry.  He must be near death.

      Straight into bed he went with a large dose of grape flavored Ibuprofen for his 103.9 degree fever.  Go Buddy, go!… when he does it he does it right.  He didn't move for the rest of the day.  At all.  It was very unnerving.  From the bed to the couch for some movie time and that was it.  He wasn't even this still when he had Salmonella… and THAT was ugly. (Sass has always been hard core.  He doesn't get a chest cold, he gets croup.  He doesn't get a stomach bug, he gets Salmonella…) Coaxed out of his stupor with a bowl of chocolate ice cream around dinner, he then began to perk up.  Once his fever began to respond to the medicine we all began to feel better… except for Sprinks who saw this as an excellent opportunity to “pay it forward” if you will, and harass and harangue her strangely still older brother as much as possible.

Stillness and quiet is always so disturbing with children…..

Whoa!  Look at the size of that Rod!

Diplomatic Reverberations or "Why I am the Ambassador of Awkward"

     Let me start by saying that I work for a government organization.  I won't go into more detail because, truthfully, it would be terribly dull and you wouldn't be interested anyway.  Suffice it to say that we help people.  I work in an old and ugly building, with old and ugly cubicles, and bathrooms that should be investigated by the CDC.  But we help people so it’s okay.  And it helps to build the immune system, right?  (At this point I should be immune to 7 different kinds of Dysentery, Smallpox, and the Bubonic Plague.)  Right.  So anyhoo, I have set the scene for you.  There I sit, typing away in my little Hell Hole… er… officable (or awficable) when one of my cohorts receives a call from Security downstairs.  There are people here who want to speak with someone.  Just that… people.  Said cohort and I ride the elevator down discussing the best escape techniques in case these are crazy people… which is TOTALLY possible.  Turns out they aren't crazy… just French.  Cool.  They all work for a comparable program in France and want to talk to us about our program.  Even cooler.  I am all about sharing some information.  Globalization and all that.  Time to practice what I preach and bring down some walls, people! 

     Oh, I was feeling puffed up and important all throughout our meeting.  I pulled out and dusted off my best “Love me and Despair” routine which I developed specifically for the stickler customers when I worked as a server for so many, MANY years.  I could even get old people to tip me if I whipped this act out.  Un-freakin-heard of, I know.  (There was also the “I Have A Ring On My Finger But It DOES Come Off” for tables of dudes/lesbians, the “Non-Threatening, Slightly Awkward But Endearing Younger Sister” for tables of women in their 30’s and 40’s, and the “I Think Your Kids Are Adorable Even Though They Are Throwing Food And Smearing Boogers On My Booth” for families.”)  Needless to say, I was helpful, capable, and confident.  Ooooo, I gots my mojo back!  Work it GIIIIRRRLLLL! 

    We are talking (sort of) and exchanging e-mail addresses and then it is time for them to leave.  I am all smiles and gentle (but firm!) handshakes...  but I begin notice that, when they shake my hand, they will move forward as if to kiss my cheek, and then stop.  Always one to want everyone to feel comfortable (and to help dispel the stupid/uncultured American rumors) I decide to go in for the kill.  As I am shaking the last gentleman’s hand (who I suspect is the leader and doesn't speak a lick of English), I go in for the big double kiss-kiss… *SMOOCH*  *SMOOCH*

     I hear “OOoooo” and “Ahhhh” and even a little giggle.  I pull back and this guy has a smile plastered on his face like the one Sprinkles gets when she finally unloads a turd she’s been wrangling for 20 minutes or so…. complete joy and not a little pleasure.  My brain starts to scream a little.  Wait, they don't normally double kiss, do they?  Did I… Did I just proposition this guy?  This guy who turned out to be the PRESIDENT of his Organization… with a capital “O”?  Yeah… I think I did. 

     The interpreter then gave me a big hug and an open invite to stay in the apartment complex he owns… in New Orleans... anytime I want.    What they hell did I just say to these people?

Well, I made an impression….. I’m not sure which one… but it was an impression.  

Exactly....

My life among the Banshee Garden Slugs

Why is it that when the wigglers get sick they are down for, like, a day… tops… and then, when Hubs and I get it, we need IV fluids and enough cold medicine to drop an African Elephant?  Their noses ooze green goo but our lungs stop working, crammed full of contagion, and both of us walk around the house gasping like carp in a cow pond.  We can barely muster the energy to shower while they are still launching themselves off the furniture with a 103 degree fever.  They become hot, cranky little fireballs comprised only of unnamable green substances and viruses, they whirl around the house leaving snot trails on the walls.  Oversized banshee garden slugs … woe to those who cross their paths!

Not that I don't get why they are cranky.  Being sick and unable to take the “fun” drugs has GOT to suck.  Daddy and I get Supa-Happy-Cold-And-Flu and they get… Ibuprofen.  *crickets*  They totally get gypped on that one.   Cause it is BAD for them… right?  *Sigh*  The only downside to being able to take said happy pills is that afterwards, all I want to do is lay on the couch in nothing but my fluffiest bathrobe and a thick blanket of my own misery, moaning and crying… but I can't… because I'm an adult… damnit.  I feel bad for them, I really do, but a small (but very loud) voice in the back of my head keeps shrieking “You did this to me!  You brought it in!  We are all DOOOOMED!”. 

But is it really their fault?  Nah.  Like rats off a plague ship, someone else’s kids snuck into town overnight and infected us all.  And now down we go, oozing buboes and all, completely blindsided and praying for it all to be over.  We all weather the storm and the kids start to feel better.  They eat like starving men and are ready for a snuggle while Hubs and I are still downing decongestants like they are candy and have noses like leaky faucets… for the next two weeks…  Of course.  Because that’s what makes it fun.  Now, where’s my Mucinex?

Da widdle owls make me feewl better...

Daycare update...

I would like to report that both children are doing very well at the new daycare. Sass comes home filthy and exhausted.  Sprinkles let strangers touch her without beginning the Countdown... ah-mazing and miraculous to be sure.  She barely screams when we drop her off these days...
The wigglers are doing so well in fact, they have managed to bring home ANOTHER lung clogging, mucus dripping, fever inducing virus.  How nice.  Ma and Pa are both going to the Non-Drowsy party today.  So this post will be short but don't despair!  I have this..

This pleases me on so many levels...

By the by, you know what might help me feel even better?  You "Like"-ing me on Facebook...  :)

Your Board becomes you...

DISCLAIMER:  If you like uncomfortable furniture, skinny jeans, or are a hippy and love everybody for reals.... stop reading now.

     Let me start by saying that I LOVE PINTEREST!  It was instrumental in helping hubby and I choose and entire house’s worth of paint colors IN 5 DAYS, some of the recipes are halfway decent, and I have found some things that I desperately want…

It just makes me laugh....

In short, it’s faboo.  In long, well, you know when you get on, and someone with an obscure, dark, and artsy moniker has posted photos like this….

Wha?  Why...? Huh?

And this…

Just... no.  No!

And on and on and on… (make it stop)

Well, I know we could never be friends, and that is judgy buuuuut I’m cool with it.  They get the *Mom sigh* and I wonder who raised them.  I am pretty sure they would think I was raised in a barn by redneck coyotes, my only companions a bale of hay and some cranky field mice, with a rusty nail for a pacifier.  They would be wrong.  I never had a pacifier.  Maybe I'm wrong about them too?  Nah.  And besides, if you put yer snooty sh*t out fer all us mouth breathers to peruse, you hafta expect to have us pass a little judgment, eh?

Judgment 1:   Picture after picture of dudes in skinny jeans.  

     Having spent some time in the deep south I have developed an extreme aversion to clothing that clings and doesn't breathe.  This just CAN'T be healthy for their boys and it makes me despair for the next generation’s fertility rate.  I know, I know.  Ya'll can make new cowboys but honey, you put a tarp over crabgrass and it’s still gonna die eventually… and grow fungus.

You can almost hear them screaming from here... 

Judgement 2:   Pictures of furniture you are trying to pass off as art.

     I know… poor me.  I just don't get it.  But, some of those “couches” look about as comfortable as a bed of nails.  Not cool.  It's supposed to eventually be for your butt.  If I wanted to sit on something hard and scratchy I would go to the bus station and sit on a hobo.  At least then I might get some interesting conversation.

That looks "pap smear" comfortable AND it's ugly.

Jugement 3:   This.  

     What the?  I mean, c’mon!  Nothing says tasteful like a fake, grey, pressboard deer head mounted over your bed.  Or anywhere, for that matter.

This is what you get AFTER the screaming in your skinny jeans stops.

Judgment 4:   DIY ideas that seem like good ideas but are really bad ones.

     Note the kids boots on there.  Do you really think 2 cookie sheets full of colorful stones would remain unmolested (or digested) in any space occupied by anyone under the age of 18 for any length of time?  Me neither.  It's cute, right?  Cute like an ER bill.....

DIY Choking Hazard.

     So, I judge.  A lot.  And I expect to be judged by my pins in return.  It's nature and it's natural, I suppose.  Chimpanzees judge other chimpanzees by their actions, looks, and I'm sure they would judge each others Boards if they had wi-fi in the jungle. The difference is they either drive away or eliminate those who are deemed different, weak, or unsatisfactory.  We have to let them be, free to reproduce (if their skinny jeans will let them), and call them "hipsters".  :)

BFFs and Tasmanian Devils

     There is nothing sweeter than watching your baby grow up and make friends.  No one will ever quite get you (or fight with you) like a childhood buddy.  I know this, because I met mine my sophomore year in high school and she was infinitely cooler than I was.  Tall, dark haired, and ragin’ against that machine with all the camo, doc martins, and teenage sneer-power she could muster.  She.  Was.  Awesome.  She gave me a Tolkien Calendar for Christmas that year and I knew we would be friends forever.  Not only had she braved the nerdy side of the bookstore to find said calendar but she hung out there as much as I did!  We liked the same music, hated the same cheerleaders, and were (mostly) blissfully unaware of exactly HOW awkward we both really were.  I had never met anyone like her.  She accepted me in all my painfully dorky glory… and would walk beside me down the hall even when I wore my Jurassic Park tee-shirt.  Do you remember typing class?  We don't either (I still can't type without looking at the keyboard) because we spent it writing snarky poems (that’s right, I said poems) back and forth to each other for the entire class period.  She had class before me and would leave a disk (yeek!) hidden away under the desk for me to find the next class period.  We never used our real names, of course.  We even had symbols to go along with our carefully thought out pseudonyms.  She was a safe place in a world that didn't always seem so safe.

     We roomed together our Freshman year of college.  Bad.  Idea.  The masking tape line that ended up on the floor will live in infamy and, for the record, that funk we found under the mini-fridge… totally not my fault.  I followed the beer and the boys and she got way better grades than I did and then we changed schools…  Life took over and we had no choice but to ride the wave to stay afloat.  As time went on and we went our separate ways, I worried that we would forget each other.  Silly me.  I have always worried too much.  Even though hundreds of miles separate us and we are both now “adults”, (note the quotation marks.  I REFUSE to own up to being a grown-up) anytime we are on the phone or we get a quick face-to-face during the cluster that is the holidays, it is just like old times.  There we are, the same girls who wrote those terrible, TERRIBLE poems so, so long ago.  (Gawd, we are old.)  She is still a safe place.

      As I watched Sass ride his bike in the backyard with his BFF over the weekend, both of them wearing nothing by Spiderman tee-shirts, underwear, and shoes (Spiderman, of course), I wondered if he had found his safe place.  Now, I know he is only three, but the budding bromance between these two boys is wonderful and powerful and completely unstoppable.  Just like Spiderman.  They have a Superhero friendship that would blow your mind.  It certainly amazes the Mommies and has a ferocity that, at times, leaves me breathless.  There is even a little brother for Sprinkles to harass.  One day they will fall in love and our families will be joined…!!!!  *Ahem*  I am getting ahead of myself here…

     Anyhoo… here’s to childhood friendships.  Complete with whispered secrets and fights that would make a Tasmanian devil blanch in fear…  Here’s to the bond.  And a safe place….

"No!  It's my turn to ride the bike/ kick the ball/ wear the boots!"  ... really it could be anything 

Huns 'n Linebackers

     Sass is teaching Sprinks how to tackle.  Not the sweet, fall into your arms, snuggle tackle.  The berserker, scream-like-you-mean-it, head first, no-blood no-foul kind of tackle.  Sass has always been a physical being.  He doesn't want a hug, he wants a full body smash with his legs wrapped around you and his arms firmly locked around your neck.  Breathing for you is optional, in his opinion.  Even when he was just a tiny baby, he wanted to put his face in your face.  He would press his knobby little forehead into yours as hard as he possibly could and then, nose to nose, he would just look at you and smile.  It was an all out face hug. 

     Knowing that he was brutally affectionate, hubby and I were very sure to keep a close eye on him when he was lovin’ on da Sprinks after she was born.  She was so fragile and tiny.  For about 6 minutes.  Now my baby girl and my big boy roll around on the carpet squealing, pounding, smooshing, and laughing.  Sprinkles loves nothing better than being put in a good head lock or smashing her brother to the floor with her considerable bulk.  Now that she is fully mobile and upright, her true training has begun… and Sensei Sass is a ready and willing teacher. 

     Fast-forward to last night as a shrieking, drooling, pink pj wearing Sprinkles launched herself at me as I lay helpless on the floor.  There was fire in her eyes and purpose in her heart.  Mommy was going down.  Add some Sass to the onslaught and it’s all I can do to protect my vitals and shield my face as a hurricane of giggling linebackers descend upon me and show no mercy.   It is powerful and full of pointy little elbows and slimy kisses… and joyous squealing.  Then it is Daddy’s turn.  He fairs no better than I do and is completely overrun by mini-Huns.

     As I watch them cream their father I realize that I will never have quiet, sweet, obedient children.  It’s just not in our genetics… which is probably for the better as I wouldn't know what to do with one anyway.  The wigglers complement each other in their ferocity… and size.  Never a dull moment, you know?

Oh Gawd… just wait until they're teenagers… *shiver*

And so, I will leave you this Friday with Fairy Kitten.  Because I can.  I need one of these...

WARNING: Rant-tastic-ly Delicious

     If one more person over the age of 40 gives me that “You can't possible know what you are talking about, little girl” sneer... well, I cannot be held responsible for how massively huge I brake stupid on them. 

Yes, I am a full cup of adorable today in my cowboy boots and my little pink satin dress.  I DO have a forehead like a Precious Moments figurine, big blue eyes and I am roughly the height of your average garden gnome but I HAVE A BRAIN AND I LIKE TO USE IT!  Sorry I can't say the same for you.  Pink does not make me clueless.  Short does not make me weak.  Young does not make me inexperienced.  Blonde does not make me stupid.  Cowboy boots make me DEAD sexy.  Girly does not make me allergic to technology.  Come ON, people.

     It’s like I need to develop a nervous tick, wear Star Trek tee-shirts, and stop bathing to get taken seriously.  Never underestimate someone who can see your nose hair.  And trim that sh*t, fool.  I keep saying “ I'm sorry, can you repeat that?” because all I can think about is the nearest escape route in case that crusty little Tribble in your left nostril decides to jump ship and begin the invasion.  And grow some social skills.  When I have politely suggested that you are full of sh*t several times, and you soldier on like Sherman through Atlanta and then really screw things up… do NOT act surprised when I not-so-politely suggest you go take a long walk off a short pier.  I have to fix enough of my screw ups that I DO NOT have time to fix yours.    I did not give birth to you.  I am not wiping your butt.

Moral of this rant:  People should be on their knees, thanking whoever, that I cannot shoot lasers out of my eyes or spit fire.

Lock and Load, B*tches...

Dr. Mom and Mrs. Hyde....

   Before Sass was born, I had this very defined image of what a Mommy should be.  This completely unattainable goal of nurturing perfection.  Soft words, hot meals, intellectually stimulating discovery play (that just sounds bad, doesn't it? *snicker*) … Everything was going to be Martha Stewart, Baby Einstein, and Organic.  Then, Sass was born.  Yikes.  “It’s a good thing” takes talent and time, neither of which I had,  Baby Einstein was “boring”, and Organic is freaking expensive.  Most days, it seemed like I couldn't do anything the way (I thought) I was supposed to.  Fast forward a bit and we added Sprinkles to the mix (you like what I did there?) and I was even less like the Goddess of Motherly Everything-ness that I thought I should be.  Why wasn't I perfect?  Why couldn't I be perfect?  I MUST be a bad mother! Begin the tearing out of hair and the gnashing of teeth!

Oh wait… I’m human.  Crap.  We are all screwed. 

     

     I had forgotten that our imperfections are what make us perfection.  And that I have sides.   I have my Mommy side that likes to snuggle and read books and tickle and make pie, but that isn't all of me.  When I ignore what I like to think of as my “Primordial Sides” my Mommy side suffers… a lot.  And when Momma ain’t happy, well, you know the rest.  As I emerged from my second round of baby-fog I realized (like Hotweels after playtime) I had left bits of me behind and it was time to go pick them back up.  (It was really more like a bomb had gone off and I was searching for survivors in the wreckage)   Self-evaluation time (insert obnoxious eye roll)!  So far the sides I have rediscovered are:

Vanity Smurf – This side likes to wear tights with boots and paint my nails “Teal-of-Fortune”.  Vanity likes to wear loud colors and show cleavage.  Mommies don't have cleavage, do they?  Wrong!  Everything is still there… it may just need a little extra scaffolding.

Roller B*tch – Roller Derby rocks my socks.  A group of fantastic ladies, gettin’ rink skills, beating the crap out of themselves and others, and we all leave smelling like anti-roses.  Take that b*tch and please ma'am  may I have another!

Nerdy Birdy – I started reading again.  A luxury that anyone with small children will know is hard won or non-existent.  But, you see, it feeds my brain and makes it all sparky and then I get to have ideas that don't involve the best choice for a sippy cup or bed time freak-out strategies.  I get to think the thoughts… and the thoughts feel gooooooood.

    

     There are more, I'm sure (and I am also pretty sure my hubby would add one or two “scarier” sides…) but I think I am doing pretty good so far.  The best part was realizing that my family likes to see these sides too.  Sass has been begging for roller skates, Sprinks appreciates a dark nail polish, and hubby doesn't mind my wardrobe choices.  J  I wonder what is next….