Mama is Losing it. Ruthlessly.

My Wish Came True. Now WTF do I do?

2010-04-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

The first order of business in Whoozyerhousehold is for Whoozyermama to raise her hand to be counted in the 2010 US Census Bureau. Uh... if I could just find the questionairre under the mounds of neglected papers in Whoozyeroffice. I know it's here somewhere--lodged between the turkey baster (it's not what you are thinking AT ALL), labels, light bulbs and a Kaiser Permanente Health "Are you happy with your physician?" survey. Having not yet reviewed the documentation I'm unsure as to whether I am considered a homemaker or unemployed. Both will do. For now.

Let me just say, I have no clue what I am doing. Also---the picture below is the most intimate moment I have experienced with Whoozyerdaddy in weeks. Don't worry, it is G-rated.

From easter egg hunt

It seems that once I left Whoozyerformeremployer--Whoozyerdaddy made a mad dash to his office door to complete THE PROJECT THAT STOLE MY HUSBAND. I think he is here but he is a shell of his former self and I fear that the Zombies ATE HIM. Are we insured against a zombie attack now that he is the SOLE BREADWINNER? Must contact Whoozyercompanythatstolewhoozyerhusband benefits department. Pronto.

From easter egg hunt

Whoozyerkid#2 has also noticed her father's absence of late. "Hey, Whoozyergrandpa," queried Whoozyer2ndkid. "Did this HORSE eat my Daddy?"
"No Whoozyerkid" he laughed in answer. "Silly child! It was a flock of ZOMBIES."

HERE'S ONE OF THEM!!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE WHOOZYER2nd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From easter egg hunt

Stay tuned for the next installment of "Mama is Losing it". Do the zombies eat my family? Or do I? Subscribe to my blog to find out. Also to get your free Ovaltine decoder ring. Can you tell? Can you? Just how tired I am?

Green Smoothie Redemption

2009-09-06T22:14:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerbaby has a thing for Spinach Smoothies. I am hoping that this penchant for pureed fruits and veggies cancels out the occasional jaunt under the golden arches and not the other way around.

Whoozyerkid won't go anywhere near a green smoothie but Whoozyerbaby insists on her OWN cup and uses it--apparently--as a prop and (efficiently) as costuming in her choreographed dance through our 50's retro kitchen.

Meet Whoozyerkid's lovely assistant, Whoozyerdog, who tolerates his forced participation in the act:

Blech Pooey. Literally.

2009-09-02T09:24:00.000-07:00

Why did I do it? Why? Two little bags---with crafts and activities, filled with fries and chock full of chicken (?) nuggets. I was pressed for time and HUNGRY and all I could think about was a quick meal. I was good. I ate half of my shit burger and saved the other half for WhoozyerDaddy. I then proceeded to wolf down half of Whoozyerbaby's chicken McFillerNuggets. I was on a roll. Or the rolls were on me. Still.

Today I gave Whoozyerkid "lunch money". Against my better judgement. Conceptually I know that the school lunch is crap. Most of the time I am a walking nutrition lecture. Today I am a hypocrite. But tomorrow is a new day and dinner is a new meal. Mama is gonna hide some spinach somehow and get Whoozyerkid to eat it. More on that later...

The GYM

2009-08-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would write this but probably my favorite place to hang out on Planet Earth right now (besides in my bed under the covers--I NEED TO thank my mother in law AGAIN for the 1000 thread count cotton sheets and for spoiling me for almost any other bed) is--dare I say it? The GYM The gym is not a smelly bastion of sweat, foot fungus,clinking weights and roving eyes. It is a lovely parental Disneyland where you can drop your kids off for three hours a day and do whatever your little heart desires. I have managed at least 8 adult conversations at the gym this week alone. I've checked email and had my brows waxed.
The gym sports showers with never-ending hot water, free toiletries and clean towels. And yes, believe it or not, I work out. Almost every visit.

How I'm Losing it

2009-08-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

My new way of eating is as follows:
1) Whole, non-processed foods to include avoidance of refined sugars, flours, etc.
2) Daily intake of fish oil and a multi-vitamin.
3) Caffeine reduction.
4) Limited alcohol consumption.
5) Increased water intake.

With limited time we've started using a few appliances regularly and frankly, I think I would be eating rocks or licking the walls without my Blendtec Total blender which can pulverize an iPod, make soup, ice cream, almond butter and whole fruit smoothies. We also rely heavily on our Sanyo Fuzzy Logic rice cooker/steamer and the George Foreman Grill with removable plates. With all three products clean up and food prep are a snap. I have also removed WhoozyerDaddy from kitchen duty because you can't cook (and dodge food poisoning) in a cesspool of filth.

This may look disgusting but it's actually quite good (and filling). 1 banana, 5 strawberries, 1 clementine, 1 apple, 1 plum, 4 T vanilla whey protein powder, 1 tsp. filtered fish oil, vanilla, 1.5 cups fresh spinach leaves, 1/3 cup frozen blueberries. It all went into the blendtec and down my gullet. Yum!

Lunch was: 1 chicken boob (George Foremanned), 1 yellow squash peeled with a potato peeler into paparadelle, 1 matchsticked carrot, 1 lipstick red pepper, raw almonds, green onions, romaine lettuce and cilantro dressed with rice wine vinegar, homemade peanut butter,sesame oil, ginger and local honey. Awesome. Who needs Paul Newman salad dressing and asian lettuce mix?

Whoozyermama's Weighty Issues

2009-08-26T08:53:00.000-07:00

Folks; I have been gone a long time. I've been making some major lifestyle adjustments and they've deserved all the attention I can muster. But here I am, back and improved to my blog. I have a lot more to say---and it's not all about Whoozyerkids anymore. You see, I'd been avoiding the camera like the plague. You'll have observed lots of photos of Whoozyerdaddy and Whoozyerkids but at some point I decided that I didn't matter, that no one was looking at me, that, if I dressed my kids in stunning matching Hanna Anderson dresses all eyes would be diverted from yours truly. But that's not how life works.
You see, there's this social networking site called "Facebook". I'm sure you've heard of it. Once you're on there anyone who is your "friend" (And what friend would do this to me, I mean, really? Snort.)can post a picture of you and "tag" it. That means anyone who is your "friend" can see a picture of you that someone ELSE posted. Sure, you can remove the tag but in this day and age you just can't do it fast enough. At least fifty of your "closest" friends (and ex-boyfriends)are gonna see you at that birthday party with a mouth full of guacamole thinking you're invisible in your Lane Bryant ("Women's" aka Fatty McFat)jeans. You see, there's nowhere to hide when you are 5'5 and over 190 lbs. There, I said it. I was 194 lbs. on a good day and a crappy photo (my pride won't let me post it---I still have some pride left)made it's way to Facebook and I decided to look, I mean really LOOK at it. It was time to open my eyes and move my ass.
Since April I have lost over 20 lbs. and have gone down 3 dress sizes. I've adjusted to the changes and I've realized that this tome can be a tool and hopefully an inspiration too. So---this blog isn't just about my family anymore. It's about me and how I'm changing our lives; removing the sugar, pureeing the broccoli and shaking it up in Zumba. Girls, pay attention. Whoozyermama is setting an example so you can grow up without Weighty Issues. Mama loves you, but most important, she loves herself too. At least, enough to drink a green smoothie.

Obligatory Whoozyerbrood photo:

Girl that Goes "Bump" in the Night

2009-03-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

"Mama, really, I AM FINE. I JUST WANT TO GO HOME" Whoozyerkid (pictured above trying to look pitiful) exclaimed as I attempted to spoon her on the gurney in the ER hallway.

And really, she was fine, with just a little forehead bump threatening to get downright goose-eggy. It's just that earlier that night she thudded out of bed resulting in a red bump and an "only Mommy can soothe me" cry and that whole Natasha Richardson thing just put me on high alert. She was beautiful, in the prime of her life and said she was "fine", even laughing her fall off. She refused medical attention for at least an hour and then... well, we all know the story.

So--two weeks ago it would have been an ice pack and a kiss and back to bed with her. But Friday night it was a paranoid trip to the E.R. "We're definitely seeing an increase" in hand-wringing moms bringing their head-injured kids to the Walnut Creek Kaiser ER the admitting nurse told me.

Would this episode qualify me as a Munchausen by Proxy case?

No. Thank God I came to my senses. Two hours after the incident at 1:15 AM my child was fine and I was quickly working through my basement stash of bribery toys sans birthday presents. With the threat of a restocking expedition looming it was time to bail. Compliment Whoozyerkid on her new Barbie purse next time you see her.

This should cure my Gymboree addiction...

2009-01-08T12:50:00.000-08:00

I give up. It's not worth it. I figure letting Whoozyerkid wear whatever the heck she wants is the perfect pre-emptive defense againt facial piercings, tattoos and purple mohawks.

Good thing Mr. Blackwell is no longer with us...

One thing I hate about New Year's...

2008-12-29T23:06:00.000-08:00

Lists. There are too many lists out there and not enough REAL NEWS!!!

Also---making the front page of Yahoo News and at the top of some pink car-lover's list (did I mention I LOATHE top-ten lists?) was this Hubba Bubba Bugglegum-colored Bentley. Not that this has anything to do with New Year's but did Mary Kay cock her head just so as she emerged from her Pink Cadilac? Or is Paris Hilton just a complete freak of (un)nature?

I am hungry for REAL NEWS, people. And I bet more people read about Paris today than Hamas, rocket bombs, and the calling up of members of the Israeli National Guard to form a swelling of groundtroops on the Gaza strip. I pray for the safety of my high school friend, John Morgenstern in Israel for 2009 and beyond. John, who donned his yamaka and prayer shawl and hit the local Food for Less so we could get buzzed off of Manishevitz in my Dad's skiboat parked in our dusty driveway. John who tried a couple of times to get to even first base with no luck. My daily companion from the bus stop home. A good looking boy with unfortunate heft. The years have changed him in so many good ways. I bet he's not into these lists either.

Merry Effing Christmas from the Whoozyers!

2008-12-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

What did Whoozyermama get for Christmas? Cuz she's been good, oh-so-good, dontcha know?
Surely not tufts of pure, cold clean snow?

Big crusty eye boogies and trails of yellow snot
fleeing the young nose of her perfect little tot.

A visit to Kaiser and amoxicillin where her sweet little baby was confirmed to be illin'.

And who over yonder makes the ground swell? None other than our own little Jezebel.

Oh yes and just when it couldn't get any better, the illness, it got her and vetted to bed her.

"But why Whoozyermama are you in such a snit?"

T'was the flu that got me and not that Brad Pitt.

Santa's ways...

2008-12-23T22:59:00.000-08:00

"Whoozyerkid...?" I ask.

"Yes, mama?" she answers after a long exhortation of what she wants for Christmas.

"You don't need to bother with telling me what you want for Christmas because the shopping is DONE."

"What about Santa?" she quips.

"Crrrraa---imey." I answer. "He is done too. And if he is not, he can go through our house and find things that you might like and GIVE them to YOU in your stocking.

"Like chocolate soap?"

"That's right. Exactly like chocolate soap. Santa knows what you want in our house and he knows he has Mommy and Daddy's permission to give it to you so he may put something like chocolate soap in your stocking."

"That's great, Mom."

"Isn't it though?"

Sorry, sorry sorry

2008-12-22T22:14:00.000-08:00

In case you were beginning to wonder if I had abandoned this blog and ultimately--you--you were wrong. I love you. How could I? You are in the back of my mind like the whisper that night breezes whooshingly caress. I have been busy making soap--and lots of it and I am NOT posting photos lest some of you get a sneak peak and get all in a lather about Christmas. I have also been wiping noses and doling doses of bubblegum medicine to a certain 4-year-old-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless.

Ace Hardware sells lye. I had to say it. I know it has absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph above (directly) but I am so incredibly happy about it. Because most hardware stores have pulled it off the shelf as those tweakers and meth makers have ruined it FOR EVERYONE (Sudafed, anyone?). And on Pacheco Avenue--in the ghetto of Tweakertown, no less. No more certifiedlye.com and $30 hazmat shipping fees--WTF? But buy all your lye before spring or be prepared to duke it out with olive tree owners said the store manager. I guess they're more dangerous than the tweakers...

She's good company...

2008-12-04T23:26:00.000-08:00

My kid is a total crackup; in the line at Kohl's imagine being a total stranger and hearing from the mouth of a 4-year-old babe, no less-- "I work for Charles Schwab". The same surprisingly well-employed tot pumps her arms self-importantly while proudly bearing a musical Christmas tie she handpicked for Whoozyerdaddy's birthday. Time to start wearing musical ties with Christmas balls on them, Whoozyerdaddy. Happy, Happy Birthday, my Old Man!

And today we went to see the Nutcracker--she was relieved when the ballerinas dressed like Confucious dancing in the Orient didn't kill the Nutcracker. So relieved that afterwards we celebrated at Skipolini's with her school friend Andrew, who gave my firstborn a tattoo. Nice, huh?

If only you could smell it...

2008-12-03T12:56:00.000-08:00

"Smell what?" you may ask...

My soap, naturally.

From left to right:

Jasmine (made with fragrance oil)
Pina Colada/ lemongrass (made with a fruit-based all natural fragrance oil and essential oil)
Mint Mojito (made at a soaplab at The Nova Studio using Lori Nova's recipe and essential oils)
Sweet Orange and Cranberry Seed (using essential oil)
Cedarwood, Fir and Rosemary (using essential oil)

My house smells like a hippy grocery store. The soap should be ready in time for Christmas. In the coming week I'll be experimenting with hot process soapmaking which should speed up the cure time. Next on the agenda---shaving soap, shampoo bars and at Whoozyerdaddy's request "something that smells like marzipan". I'll also be making some salt scrubs, some belly butter (for my preggo friends), something to ease my MIL's arthritis, some wrinkle balm,whipped body butter and lip balm. If anyone wants me to make some gifts on their behalf please let me know at allsoapedup@gmail.com and we can work on something for you.

Also---I just made a kick-ass bolognese using a hybrid of a Mario Batali recipe and what I had in the pantry. Why do I always make meatsauce the same way? Foodie lesson of the day---don't get caught in a rut--EXPERIMENT! To my preggo friend Shaken Mama--Call me, you'll want some of this:

Holy Crap, People!

2008-11-26T21:56:00.000-08:00

All I can say is you better like your Christmas presents. I'm MAKING them this year...

And boy am I tired.

Ethical Shopping versus Financial Survival

2008-11-25T12:06:00.000-08:00

I think you guys have known this about me; I have had my proverbial panties in a wad for years now. Corporate America is evil and money-grubbing and has undermined the foundation that We the People have built--small business, the mommas and the poppas of retail, the American Gothic-esque farms. As a result, I have tried to support the little guy. I have tried to put things on or in my body and the bodies of my dear family that are healthy, organic and natural.

But--IT IS KICKING MY ASS!!!! And I am falling for Walmart. Cheap, cheap Walmart. Mason jars and bamboo paper towel holders are there just for the inexpensive taking. Friends, please talk me down. And China---people are losing their jobs in China, too. It's a GLOBAL economy, right? Right? I should care about the jobless in China too. Or perhaps we no longer vote with our wallets.

A Mermaid and a Sock Monkey Walk into a bar...

2008-11-02T23:38:00.000-08:00

I mean obviously--NOT, right? Mermaids have fins, no? One doesn't walk with fins. OK---so the sock monkey and the mermaid are not of age--a minor (no pun intended) detail in this age of advanced technology.

I do want to touch upon one SMALL detail. Check out Whoozyerkid's fantabulous handmade costume that I got on Etsy. The skin-colored leotard DID NOT come with it. And the child model on the Etsy product page sported her own bikini top sans bodysuit.The back of the top cinches like a corset. What mom dresses her four-year-old as a hoochie-mermaid on All-Hallow's Eve? Not I.

A Little Tidbit.

2008-10-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

It was family reunion time at the Coloma Country Inn last weekend. The fall leaves were out and my aunts and uncles and a couple of cousins were there--mostly from Central and Southern California soaking in the colors of a Northern Californian October. Whoozyerdaddy and I also got out for a rare date to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary during which I got to remember in the midst of all of the choas that is our lives right now that I love that man, he makes me laugh.

My mom and Aunt C don't remember exactly which bed it was but apparently in a moment of desperation whilst touring Hearst Castle their guide gave them the nod to slip off silently and change my diaper on one. They left the group, a blowout requiring my mom's immediate attention while Aunt C went along for support (I'm thinking, more, the lookout!). Really, my bare little (at the time) booty touched rich brocade draped on a bed transported from Versailles where perhaps even King Louis XIV once snoozed---or upon where maybe, just maybe Marie Antoinette uttered "Let them eat cake."

Incredible Cuteness

2008-10-16T17:04:00.001-07:00

S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G

2008-10-15T20:12:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerdaddy and I had a conversation almost entirely in spelling this evening. Whoozyerkid, who isn't even 4 yet, having heard and sponged the whole conversation said "Mom, you guys are being C-R-A-P-P-Y".

Time for pig Latin...

This may seem odd to some of you but I'm shouting out to the universe for my techie-homie.

2008-10-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

My friend "R" reads my blog and I don't want to call him at work seeing as he works for one of those stressed out agencies bailed out recently. I don't seem to have his email anywhere. He's just somewhere in the cyberworld and I need him. My computer is pulling some crazy stunts and he can tell me WTF it won't restart or download new programs or do Windows update or make me a martini. "R" --call me babe. Mama needs you.

Whoozyermama's First Soap...

2008-10-13T21:57:00.000-07:00

This was a quick photo taken at night of MY FIRST SOAP because--dammit---that's the only time I have right now.

Well folks, so far I have made three batches of soap and I haven't burned my face off!!!! Thank God. I really love having a face. It works for me. I am enjoying my newfound role as Whoozyersoapmistress---lurking down to the basement, donning goggles, gloves, sweatshirt and pants, calf-length Costco shearling boots and respect for the "VIP". Lori Nova, my teacher and soap sensei likens lye to a Very Important Person (I imagine a volatile pimp)at a dating party. You handle the VIP with kid-gloves, you make sure there is a surplus of interesting and attractive dates for him at the party (more oil than the lye can saponify). You combine the oil and lye and you stir with a stick blender until the mixture resembles a light custard. You then mix in any scent and color and oh-so-carefully-because-you-like-having-a-face pour the fragrant mixture into a lined mold. You wrap your raw soap in old blankets "putting the party to bed" to mingle and synergize and then harden. 24 hours later you loosen the block of soap from the mold and cut it into bars. In a couple of days you can trim it up and make it pretty. About 5 weeks later you have a lathering bar, a keepsake from the party in the basement. Which beats a battered lampshade any day.

Hey Whoozyerbaby!!!!!

2008-10-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

"Are you coming after Mama?" I asked.

"Yeah." said Whoozyerbaby.

And I have a witness. Whoozyerbabysitter II heard the same thing. She is equally amazed and astounded. "No effing way! Did she really say that?" I asked. "Uh huh" affirmed the sitter, eyes wide.

In other news check out Whoozyerbaby's fabulous, adorable, cute new tooth that has already more than grazed my nipple.

The key to brilliant babies. Our Marpac Sleepmate 980 A

2008-09-30T01:26:00.000-07:00

So you have ascertained by now that the Sleepmate I am referring to above is not my handsome husband. No---the "our" is Whoozyerbaby and I. One night in a fit of madness triggered by Whoozyerkid's 2 AM summer cough and her close proximity to my bed I decided that my world would be a better place with the best white noise machine Amazon.com reviews could assess and recommend. The Sleepmate 980-A looked a little outdated but I figured over 200 cumulative Amazon reviews couldn't go wrong--4.5 Amazon stars.

I never expected to see this machine---which looks like factory surplus from the 80's--in another home--but--lo and behold while at Shaken Mama's abode keeping an eye on baby G for a spell I spotted that antiquity on Jeege's nursery floor. I set Whoozyerbaby on the floor to change Jeege's diaper and Whoozyerbaby crawled over, flipped the switch and turned it off. And if you read Shaken Mama's fabulous blog you'll know how stinking smart Jeege is.

Yes folks. I think that's the link. The Marpac Sleepmate 980 A helps little brains grow and develop at an accelerated pace. If you can get over the design (it's the aesthetic cousin to the Commodore 500 personal computer) it's a cognitive coup.

It's not cheese...

2008-09-28T00:46:00.000-07:00

It's beautiful slippery, lathery soap. The feel of it on my skin; it's like the difference between Potato Buds and Yukon Gold Mashed Potatoes made with Strauss Family Creamery heavy cream and butter, roasted garlic and Fleur de Sel; the quality is felt gliding across my body as it would over my taste buds.

And the scents; from lavender to anise--to petitgrain and orange, bay and rosemary--I know that inside of me is a person who can mix scents and textures to make soap in my basement the way I make dinner in my kitchen. Watching Lori Nova of The Nova Studio deftly creating soap today confirmed the instinct that sudsy bars for me may just be the thing. People---do you see the soap she made? Shower with it and you'll see why I am practically giddy. Watch Lori make soap and you'll see why I am feeling so high.

I'm great at flavors and good at timing in the kitchen and I know without thinking just what to do to make a perfect risotto. Why haven't I made a career out of cooking? The product is fleeting, I'm a little picky when it comes to food, cooking is hard on the body and restaurant hours are brutal. The inventory is extremely perishable.

But here, I get to mix and experiment and play and still get a scent and my oh my. Soap, people just might be my thing...who would've thunk?

Immersed in ounces at the self-serve Coco Swirl

2008-09-24T23:11:00.000-07:00

Words can't express how much Whoozyerkid and I just want to pull up a wheeled chair, stick our heads under the spigots at Coco Swirl; mouths agape, wanting, wanting, propelling ourselves left and right and left again like baby birds being fed by multiple mamabirds. Oh. It. Is. So. Good. The homemade mochi, the tart and plain yogurt, the fresh fruit, the CHOCOLATE creaminess. For lunch, dinner, dessert breakfast--whatever. We are lost, hopelessly lost in the swirl.

And it is a certain purgatory we find ourselves in when our cups house just air and our spoons seek cold resistance only to return to our trembling lips empty. Empty. Empty.

"Guess What, Whoozyermama?"

2008-09-23T23:38:00.000-07:00

"What?" I answered.

"Clay Aiken is gay." said Whoozyerdaddy.

"No Shit, Sherlock." said I.

"No shit..."

No,it can't be...

2008-09-22T23:31:00.000-07:00

But it is. Surprise of all surprises the strange rhythmn of a tractor pull in heaven is in actuality Whoozyerdaddy snoring UPSTAIRS. I have yet to confirm that he's in a liplock with the floor but I can claim with confidence that this is not the first time he is asleep on it ; it's happening again and---in a possible honing of his sleep skill-set could be advancing to stomach-on-hardwood sleeping. A remarkable accomplishment and one which we should take a moment to honor in amazed reverance and (my) fear. For it is an awesome sound and most people would believe that my place as his wife is next to him in bed. Not always. Not tonight. And not even on the same floor, my friends. It's sad, but neccessary for my health, sanity and overall effectiveness as a human being.

Good Complaint.

2008-09-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

I'm hungry. So hungry. But guess why I can't go downstairs to eat?

My pregnant housecleaner is scouring my kitchen. On her hands and knees. I should feel guilty, very, very guilty. But she cleaned before letting the little darling take over her tiny body and doctors say if you exercised before your pregnancy you can keep on truckin' all throughout gestation.

I think I'll give her some lotion to assuage the guilt. Nice cooling leg lotion. That's what I'll do... See, I'm not such a bad, lazy /employer/lady of the house after all. Right? But I'm still hungry.

Apparently it was just a quick nap...

2008-09-17T01:02:00.000-07:00

My beautiful children were tucked into their crib and bed at 9 PM. And just when I endeavored to sleep a turn of events ensued. Yes folks--It's 1 AM in the Whoozyerhouse and the party has just started. God help me:

Could it be this? My child is trying to save me from what happens when I snooze? "When you sleep you look funky and weird after you put things on your face." said Whoozyerkid tonight. Thanks kid. Thanks for that. I also have a "big nose". I guess I should have had that nose job when I had the chance...

Catch-up

2008-09-16T00:24:00.000-07:00

News, news, news; update, update update.

There's part of my brain that believes that you believe you already know everything that's going on in my life. I'm a mother of 2 small children. How exciting could Whoozyermama's life get? Here's what's going on. I am:

Living vicariously through my friend's escrow. She managed to sell her home in less than a week. She's on ZipRealty.com shopping for houses, analyzing school districts and finding that there's way too much to obsess over. What a great problem to have. I want to hate you, dear J, but I can't.
Thinking about relisting Whoozyerhouse. Will it sell?Is it worth the emotional turmoil? Who do we list it with? Can we get it on the market in time for the historical homes tour next month which our neighbor and former realtor is a part of? Do I want to do this with a crawling baby and Whoozyertasmaniandevilchild underfoot?
Wondering what the HELL is going on with the economy? Will I have to learn how to can vegetables and plant a victory garden? Will I have a yard in which to plant said victory garden? Will everyone lose everything except the people they love most and the Made in China shirts on their backs? Will I still have my beloved internet? A comforting thought-- for the meltdown of the world could be that people would stop texting me on my cell phone (folks, I don't have a qwerty pad and I don't plan to get a crackberry.).
Wondering when my job will go to Phoenix and how to prepare the inevitable "no thanks, Whoozyerlongtimeemployer, I'm a lily white girl who should never venture in your standard sun--let alone the hot Arizona desert sun" speech--which should go over fantastically with HR. This planning coincides with the logistics of how to get a soapmaking business launched in my laughable spare time and still manage to be a good mother with a good social life. I need to work from home. I need to be accessible to my family. And I like things that smell pretty.
Thinking about how I feel awful about hanging up on my sister the other day but still feeling too upset to do anything about it. The mother in me hopes that things will be easier for Whoozyerbaby and Whoozyerkid in their endeavors to stay connected since they have the same WhoozyerBabyDaddy and are closer in age. But, want as you may for your own children you can never control the outcome in your own family. How can we when we can't predict our own relationships? We can only hope.
Get back onto http://www.clix-contests.com/ and vote for Whoozyerkids---they made it into the semi semi semi (?) finals thanks to you and their cuteness, of course.
We have a new whoozyerbabysitter. But I'm not going to jinx it. So far, so good (knocking on wood). Another Craigslist find. And all woman (although I didn't check).
I have a weird cold. The cold that hopefully never becomes full blown but still makes you feel shitty. That's the cold I am hoping for.
We have a housecleaner every other Thursday. And she is pregnant. WTF? I didn't clean house when I was pregnant. Why should she? Should I not hire her out of principle? She's cleaning with nontoxics though. That should assuage my guilt. Just a little.
Whoozyerkid is flourishing at preschool. She can (sort of) write her name and is telling me all about apples and their different names--Galas, Fujis and Gravensteins. This evening she told me she wants to be a doctor when she grows up "because they have band-aids and they make you feel better." Does WhoozyerMontessori also touch upon HMOs, PPO's and deductibles for their pre-K "Explorers"? It sure would be helpful when open enrollment comes around every year. And as a doctor-hopeful she should become familiar with the system now--kind of like a second language, no? Learn it now and you will become fluent...

My career as a stage-mom

2008-09-08T15:45:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I did this.

Yes, I entered my children in a cute kid photo contest. How freaking annoying.

Even worse I am am going to ask you, Dear Reader to register and vote for my progeny:

http://www.clix-contests.com/

In the little searchy-do-hickey type "Concord"

If I need to tell you who the cutest kids ARE--Whoozyerchildren are in photos M35 and M79.

Thanks, and now I must hustle the children off for acting classes, sequin John Benet-gown fittings and baton twirling for babies 101. (NOT!!!!!)

Whoozyerstagemama

Whoozyerdaddy needs a babysitter to watch him while watching the kids.

2008-09-04T00:45:00.000-07:00

So I have started to interview nannies to watch the kids while I take some weekend classes in soapmaking.

Today I had the pleasure of a phone interview with "Giselle". Giselle's voice seems awfully deep for a woman and she's (???) "been through a lot" but is in a "very happy place right now." And children make her (?) very happy right now. She (?) did hair and makeup but there was "too much drama" at the Clinique (?) counter. The youngest of 8 she (?) has watched her nieces and nephews "a lot".

OK---so being in a happy place is good, right? I like happy people in happy places. But Dear God, Woman (?) I don't want to hear about it. Tell me you know CPR and all of the songs from "the Sound of Music"--that you know how to give a baby a bath and clean the fold where her head meets her neck and where the drool collects. Tell me you know how to subdue an out-of-control pitbull at the park and all of the words to "Where is Thumbkin?". Tell me that you love cloth diapers and that it doesn't freak you out that I nurse my babies until they are ready to wean. I want you to know how to draw an elephant and boil pasta al dente. That's all...

So Giselle was getting lunch and we didn't really get into any details. I asked her (?)to call me back after she (?) was done. My parents showed up unexpectedly and I my day was thrown completely out of balance. "I called" said Whoozyergrandma. She had called 60 seconds before their arrival. It doesn't matter...it was nice to see them and they know that I like a pleasant surprise. So I didn't answer my cell when Giselle did call. She(?) called 3 times. I listened to her (?)2 messages, the second of which she (?)used to convey her hope that nothing bad had happened to me. I called her (?) back to reassure her that I hadn't been flushed down the toilet. And she (?) said "Oh good, I worry. I have a problem with worrying. I'm just sure something bad is going to happen to someone I know." 'Oh---well, uh, I'm fine, thanks for your concern. ' I said, warily. "We don't have to talk now---we can talk tomorrow, if you want. I'll call you---or do you want to call me?" she asked. 'I'll...call...you" I answered.

Yeah...

Don't get me wrong. I'd hire a SANE transgendered person; Miss Mary Poppins with electrolosis and gladly accept "A Spoonfull of Sugar"sung cheerily in a lower octave. But maybe I shouldn't call people off of Craigslist:

Hello, my name is Giselle, I have been babysitting since my teens, mostly for
family. A little bit about me( I am fun, loving, caring, energetic, committed,
loyal and a social person). I live in Pleasant Hill by DVC. I am looking for a
good and loving family that could use my help part-time or full-time. I do not
take jobs from overseas, there will be no agreement reached until a formal
interview is had. Online scammers, please don't waste your time;)

Here's one plus about her (?)--if I hired her (?) at least I wouldn't have to worry about my husband falling for the college-aged babysitter...

The two peas in my filthy pod...

2008-08-31T00:42:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerdaddy is the grand master diddy Daddy of sleeping just about anywhere and any time the spirit of rest enters his weary body.

So it is uncanny that housed in Whoozyerkid's little body, of course is this very same amazing ability. Or this is the most boring book ever, or the attempt to decipher words on those pages just short-circuited her big little girl brain.

Poor Whoozyerbaby. She inherited my need for quiet and white noise. She's a light sleeper like her mama. Maybe I should have purchased the horrific baby sleep mask.

It's hot and I'm lazy.

2008-08-30T00:43:00.000-07:00

Today it was a hundred and freaking five in Martinez. And we don't have air conditioning. "Well, it's this hot only a few days a year." I say nonchalantly when the weather is perfect. "We can deal with the heat. What did people do before air conditioning? They DEALT with it. THAT'S what they did." Oh yeah. Our home was built in 1928 and I am thinking perhaps we have the original heating system. With lovely asbestos-wrapped ducts, which, apparently are safe unless you happen to be oh, say, the HVAC guy who gets to replace the system for the lucky people who get air conditioning in this house. Then, as the luckiest HVAC guy in the world you would wear a suit remarkably similar to the suits that the evil NASA scientists wear in ET (one of the shittiest, sappiest films of all time, I might add).
Speaking of Hazmat suits, I'm going to need one to clean Wherzyourhouse. It's been too hot to clean so basically we pretend it's not filthy and cluttered and go about our daily business which--in the heat-- constitutes a playdate in an artifically cool home, a drawn out stroll through Tar-jay, a saunter through Scum Valley Mall and/or a leisurely meal at the self-serve fro-yo joint. Tomorrow it will be in the 80's, or so they say.There is a glimmer of hope beneath the oil slick that is my home. In the meantime I have provided for you an exhibit of Wherzyourpigsty so you can do a little self-congratulatory jig and revel in the cleanliness of your home. You are guaranteed to be much closer to Godliness than the Whoozyerfamily, which resides in the hot underbelly of hell. I need to call a cleaner. Stat:

What were they thinking? Part I

2008-08-26T00:32:00.000-07:00

Somebody had too much downtime or maybe not enough when they thought of this mask--perfect for the baby who is on death row digesting his or her last smooshed sweet potatoes and a perfect pull from a big Mother of a keg. Sheesh. Poor, posh babies...

What kind of Mother intends for her darling Baby to emulate a cartoon corpse with X's for eyes while asleep AND a four-eyed monster when awake?

I don't know any baby that enjoys wearing a hat--let alone one that is pulled over his sweet little sleepy peepers. And imagine the future horror of a baby book perusal with a significant other. "Honey, I can prove, without a doubt that my mother is clinically INSANE. Look at what she made me wear. The "crazy" gene is in my blood. Say you still want to marry me, Lovemuffin. We can adopt..."

The scariest thing is---this atrocity sold out today on http://www.babysteals.com/ .

Preschool, the place where wishes come true.

2008-08-22T00:25:00.001-07:00

My wish is for silent home--save for the whir of the ceiling fan. Not even that; just a few minutes where I can hear myself think, that is what I wish for.

So, tomorrow Whoozyerkid and I are headed for a fountain or a wishing well with handfuls of pennies and hearts filled with longing. Because preschool is out for the week and I am not sure what else I can plan with a napping baby and playdates galore. But a wishing well, we can do. So much for promises of the zoo or the beach. I'm not doing it alone. Things are getting harder as Whoozyerbaby grows ever more mobile.

I honestly don't know what I would do without preschool. Or how other moms have survived without it, with all due respect.

We mostly have stayed at home just because it is easier. At dusk Whoozyerkid hid in the hand-me-down playhouse in the backyard and demanded "Call Daddy, Mom." It was urgent--she and Whoozyerdaddy have a thing; she always hides when we hear his car and he acts surprised when she darts out from her spot. I debated not telling him we were in the backyard because I wanted him to get on with it and hurry up with the whole "settling in process" but she was so into their game and I relented. He came out and I said I was going to the store "Alone." "Just let me get settled in and a little relaxed after I find Whoozyerkid" he said. Oh my. This is why some SAHM's lose it. I have been home all day and unsettled. Does my child only view me as some sort of glorified waitress? I am not exaggerating when I say she wanted food/drink at least ten times today. I was unsettled until my excursion to Safeway, in pursuit of something low-cal and chocolate that doesn't taste like a plastic doll factory; to peruse the trashy magazines in the check-out line and look at photos of other people's children who have "stylists". Is that the antidote to kid-concocted outfits? For good measure I also gawked at heroin-wasted, crack-ho-ified Amy Winehouse and her before/after addiction mock-up and felt instantly better. And then I went home and said to Whoozyerhubby "I. Am. DONE. For. Today."

Thank God for preschool. Preschool, I don't think I have ever expressed how I feel about you. I don't think I can convey what is inside of me but I swoon as I fantasize about you and only you, baby. You make life worth living. You make me a better woman. I wish for your return every morning. With you around, I can do anything. Smooches...

"The Best Deodorant" sucks a$$!!!!!

2008-08-14T23:23:00.000-07:00

If you're one of my mama friends you probably are well aware that I'm on a (as my friend J puts it) all Nate-ur-al rampage---purging mainstream personal care items and going more chemical-free where practical. So one day in the midst of this bodycare lifestyle change I visited our local hippy-yuppie drugstore and asked the clerk for "the most effective natural deodorant you've got" 'and make it snappy, Bub', I didn't add--but thought. I was in a big hurry to go all-natural. He pointed to a deodorant with breeze-kissed lavender fields pictured on the bottle and I was sold. Boy, do I love lavender. It also said "The Best Deodorant" right there on the bottle. How could I go wrong?

I hustled my prize home in my fabulous fuschia ChicoBag , washed the pits and sprayed the beautifully bottled deodorant under my arms. It smelled like pure heaven, strongly lavender-y and...it...stung.

The next day I nicked myself whilst shaving and I developed a little irritation. In the manufacturer's defense, it did say "do not apply after shaving". Really? How long am I supposed to go without my lavender "fix" after shaving? I mean seriously, folks; go without deodorant? For ANY length of time? Is THIS what happens to everyone who doesn't heed the warning? Who applies deodorant "gasp" after SHAVING?

Two weeks later I'm beginning to wonder if I should relocate myself to Molokai . There is a BOIL right in the fold of my armpit. I can't shave there. I dare not apply any deodorant--hippie or non. Hailing a cab--which I never have the opportunity to do these days--is a no-no. And reaching for the last 4-pack of of toothbrushes at Costco is verboten. I also apologize in advance if I smell. I'm wearing a different all-natural deodorant on the left side. I figure, what the hell, why not infect the other pit while I'm at it and make it even?

J is also pretty into the whole natural thing and even uses vinegar and baking soda to clean SANS the essential oils. She recommends the crystal rock roll-on which I'm trying and so far so good on the "good" pit. J is also a nurse; she examined the "area" and handed me a tube of Neosporin and advised, "Honey. sometimes you just have to go for the pharmaceuticals." Point well taken...

I was rendered blogless...

2008-08-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

So---this whole awful fiasco with Whoozyerbabysitter has taken over my mind and my itch to write for the past week and as it's not a very good idea to blog about this---not now---or maybe even ever I can't sit here and discuss every aspect of the situation like I'm dying to. I did get a confession and that's all will say here. Now---catch me with a bottle of wine and a warm summer night and I will spill it--the story--and maybe even the wine (probably on my shirt).

Too good to be true...

2008-08-07T22:46:00.000-07:00

To all of you mamas who thought I was so smug about Whoozyerbabysitter. Rubbing her fabulous-ness in your weary faces; I was wrong. And it could have been a very costly mistake. I'm not going to write much about it right here or right now. I don't think it's appropriate. I'm only gonna say this---do not let Whoozyerbabysitter anywhere near your checkbook.

No, you cannot have her phone number. You don't want it. Trust me.

So if you see me looking at you sideways in real life it's because I'm a horrible judge of character and I'm second-guessing my opinion of almost every one I know. Nothing personal, I'm just gullible and I need to replace my mettle detector as hearts of fool's gold trip it.

Another masterpiece...

2008-08-02T23:13:00.001-07:00

Who sez I've gotta go to Clix? I'm a damned good photographer if I do say so myself...

And-- with this subject matter, how could anyone take a "bad" shot?

Whoozyerbaby should be very grateful that she is not at all processed and ready to devour.

2008-07-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

From her round cheeks to her eyes as deep and blue as the North Shore she is a delicacy intended for only one of my internal organs. It is my heart that wants to envelope her and I couldn't stomach life without her. Ever.

Because there are endless other reasons why I would want to eat every last chunk of her plump, pink perfection:

As her birth approached the message was sent from my brain cells to my blood cells and through the placenta "Put the brakes on it, kid. You are not ready. To join. The world. I am not ready to share you with the world." She came almost 2 weeks early in blatant disregard of Mama's missive; didn't heed my message, "Oh shit, Mom, sorry, I didn't get that email. are you sure you sent it? I looked everywhere..." She's not one to stop. Once she joined us it was game over. She was no longer the hidden vintage in my dark, damp cellar. No time for snuggling. Whoozyerbaby is Action Baby. But that doesn't mean there's no warmth to her. She is light transmuted to human form. This face has L-O-V-E written ALL OVER IT.

Agony of her feet...

2008-07-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

It's official, I can no longer claim with any measure of confidence that Whoozyerkid is still a mere baby. Her feet smell like ass. They really, really do.

I'll make a wager that Mario Batali doesn't use one of these in HIS kitchen...

2008-07-28T01:27:00.000-07:00

This is seriously the most useful thingamajiggy you'll bring home from the hospital next to the nasal aspirator a.k.a. baby snot-sucker-outter. It's a perineal rinse bottle. Snag a couple the next time you, say, push a person with a head the size of your mother-in-law's regulation-sized swirly purple BOWLING BALL out of your hoo-haw. It has many uses, this magical squirt bottle. Clean it REALLY, REALLY well, fill it with raspberry sauce and make pretty little whirls on a dessert plate to impress your dinner party guests. Or, drizzle a dressing zig-zag on tender romaine hearts. You are Tom Keller. No, you are GREATER than Chef Keller because you have the squirt bottle to end all squirt bottles and he does not have ovaries or a uterus like you, you saucy little saucier.

Picky Eater or Grandma's Revenge pas deux

2008-07-26T15:28:00.000-07:00

This should come as no surprise; Whoozyerkid looooovvveeesss Mac and Cheese. But not just ANY Mac 'N' Cheese will do. Oh no...
Will I feed my kid Kraft in a box? You know the answer to that question. I know you do. Hell, no! So...this particular exclusion is self-imposed.
Let's try another brand---in every single form known to connoisseurs of boxed mac 'n' crack--including hippy peace sign and floppy-eared semolina shapes; Annie's Naturals boxed noodles with every conceivable color of cheese and pasta type. Will the taste buds of Whoozyerkid succumb to the relatively inexpensive and all-natural elbows and cheese nestled in recyclable cardboard? No. In fact this brand earns the prestigious award of 5 Whoozyerdaddy garbage disposals. For a product to earn this award Whoozyerkid must refuse to even try the candidate and daddy must perform pasta digestion detail.
Next up; the dreadful Kid Cuisine. It looks better than Kraft and Whoozyerkid begged and she caught me on a quasi mainstream kind of day. So I caved. Thank God she won't eat that crap. 2 Whoozyerdaddy garbage disposals. Whoozyerkid will eat 3 bites to earn the chocolate portion of the faux meal. I need to feed this to Whoozyerbabysitter so it doesn't go to waste.
Not even worth a mention are homemade versions of mac and cheese, and any mac and cheese in a restaurant other than Red Robin, which I can't stand but we'll go to say--if we're shopping and Whoozyermommy needs a margarita.
But, my friends, the 5 goldenforks award goes to Trader Joe's Mac and Cheese---at almost $4 a pop. The deep freezer is stocked...and I'm not happy about it. I will keep slogging away in my quest to find a good, earth-friendly value and to please my discerning little baby bird. One day I'll duplicate this masterpiece of a mac 'n' cheese. I'll hide a TJ's box and leave it on the counter and I'll serve the home-made stuff. If any mom can do it, I can. Whoozyerkid will be none-the-wiser.
Many of you are thinking---"just serve her what you eat" or "she's going about it all wrong" but Whoozyerkid regularly eschews arugula, risotto, chicken and sun dried tomatoes and she's a skinny little sprite. I myself had food issues as a child and I did not eat anything green until I hit my 23rd birthday out of spite towards a vegetarian ex-boyfriend.

And also, I remember uncles on each side of my family who had a thing for making me eat beans (what is it with uncles and beans?) and oh, it was miserable. I'm not about to force a child to eat something she doesn't like and I'm not about to starve my child; she's supposed to be learning at such a tender age and a girl can't think straight when she's hungry. And yes, I'm sometimes a pushover. We're working on table manners and not food struggles. Our list of excuses is a million miles long as to why I'm a short order cook.
I dread having two picky palates to feed. I know I created a monster and I have to change my current approach. Which is why Whoozyerbaby is going boobmilk all the way until I figure out how the HELL not to raise two picky eaters. And I wonder, it's not too late for Whoozyerkid, is it? Is one doomed to being a picky eater always?

Whoozyerbrood before Whoozyerkid's latest refusal of non-Trader Joe's Mac 'n' Cheese and Whoozyerdeprivedbaby's subsequent liquid diet.

Crap!

2008-07-23T23:54:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerkid has a fever (I suppose, from the trip to Walmart) and I forgot my sister's birthday.

My Confession...

2008-07-23T22:59:00.000-07:00

I went to Walmart today.

BUT---

it was to buy spray bottles---heavy duty ones made in the good ol' USA.

Why? You ask. I am going to MAKE my own cleaning products. And the author of this book
Clean House, Clean Planet

recommends a very specific spraybottle made by handicapped people from plastic (Walmart) bags and suggested that it can be purchased at Walmart. I call it a ringing endorsement. Plus---Target is 2 miles farther and I am trying to save fossil fuels. Don't get me wrong. I HATE going to Walmart, but it is close and time is valuable and sometimes a girl has to go to Walmart.

So in the cart went--

1 box of borax

2 shakers of Kraft Parmesan cheese --because apparently these containers are superb for shaking homemade powdery substances. Does anyone want some Kraft? Comment and I'll save it for you. It will never go bad. Not ever.

3 Sprayco spray bottles

4 boxes of Whoppers (they were on sale).

Assorted hair clippies to announce to the world that yes, Whoozyerkid IS A GIRL despite her rescue-from-a-mullet short hair.

9 microfiber towels for kitchen spills/cleanups. No more paper towels, Whoozyerfamily, are you ready?

Get ready... The unpaper towels are on their way. They're ordered. There's no turning back Your buttery toast will no longer ooze onto paper but terry-backed flannel.

And...apparently you can make cleaning products out of borax, baking soda, lemon juice, olive oil, vinegar and essential oil. I'm going to give it a whirl. I mean, what did we do before we humans decided we needed all of this CRAP? Our lives are eaten at by our quest to spend money. A trip to the store takes more time, effort and money than to mix vinegar, water and essential oil into a spray bottle. A piece of cloth is softer and more absorbent than a paper towel. Arts are lost--instead of playing the piano, knitting or whittling wooden figuruines we go to Walmart.

We have forgotten so many valuable skills. And hey--if Julia Childs learned how to cook at forty-something imagine what I could learn at thirty-something?

Co-Sleeper Stupidity

2008-07-22T10:54:00.000-07:00

Can I just say that only 1 in 5 people are capable of folding this stupid-assed thing (which by the way, babies DO NOT SLEEP IN!!!!) into its case?

Whoozyermama: 0
Whoozyerdaddy: 0
Whoozyerfriend who borrowed it: 0
Whoozyerfriend's husband: 0
Whoozyerbabysitter: 1

And no, you can not have Whoozyerbabysitter's phone #...

The Lithuanians

2008-07-18T21:30:00.000-07:00

If you know me more than just a little you would know that I rarely talk to my biological father. Those who are close to me know him as "BFD". Figure out what "F" stands for. Despite this alienation it doesn't mean that I'm not at all curious about half of the blood coursing through my veins and a fourth of my daughters'. It's just that my emotions are somehow like a hanging cauldron in the 19th century---I have the hope of hosting this rich rabbit and root vegetable stew but instead my water within gets a little lye and some stinky ploughman's clothing and a sweaty hausfrau stirring and stirring...dirty socks. That is my relationship with the WhoTheHellAreYou family. Dirty, sweaty socks that I just can't seem to throw away even though I should. I have a really really good, sweet Dad who loves me and who is there for me--who coached me through Whoozyerkid's birth, dealt with my wicked stepkid antics, gave me away at my wedding and ate my green soup on St. Patrick's day... He is Dad. He always will be. BFD, he offers the words "I Love You" and they are so easily given and yet they ring false. Dad, he is so sparing with those--or any--words. But when he says them he means them. There is no mistaking that. It's funny. I was afraid to love him for fear of being disloyal to BFD. Now--if I were to throw any love to BFD I would feel I was being disloyal to Dad. Funny how that works...

Here's what I know about this part of me, the blood part; the part of me that I have tried to disassociate myself with:
My grandmother walked out on her seven children. No one really speaks to anyone else. It's as if my father and most of his siblings have some sort of attachment disorder. My father and at least one of his brothers are Vietnam vets who repeatedly relive this part of their pasts. BFD is bipolar. When I do speak with him he has a hard time with give and take. There is no cohesive family amongst these siblings. They all seem to drift in and out of one an other's lives. My uncle murdered my aunt, his wife. He's a cold-blooded killer and he's still in a state prison to this day. Honestly. It goes on and on and some of it is so private I'm just leaving it alone.

Anyhow, there was a little hope today. I am not the only WhoTheHellAreYou in the Bay Area. There's another one in San Francisco. She and I connected on Facebook and her father is another one of my uncles who she said was on the threshold of tears when she told him that we exchanged emails. So we'll see. I have hope that at least one member of that family (other than me--and some of you would even question that) is connected to reality. We should be. According to BFD we were bodyguards to the Czar, our Lithuanian surname means "bodyguard". And we have intelligence and longevity on our side. Too bad we're all crazier than a field of running march hares in springtime.

On a side note, I called BFD tonight to ask if it was OK to give his phone number to his brother and he was drunker than a bee buzzing in a beer bottle. Sheesh.

If only it were that easy

2008-07-16T00:14:00.001-07:00

Apparently you can acquire superpowers by following this routine:

Place sticker that says "Great Job!" upside-down on forehead.
Do not remove or forfeit said superpowers.
Do not remove necklace. It was a gift from the very generous heart of internationally-reknowned superfriend Chebbles. Note: wearing this multicolored adornment bandolier-style a la "Annie Get Your Gun" makes you a real bad-ass.

Up next: What daring feats does Whoozyersuperkid perform? Whoozyersuperbaby dares Whoozyersuperkid to a death-defying body fold during which an ENTIRE FOOT will be placed in her mouth. Stay tuned while evilgenius Whoozyermama cowers under a dining room chair and considers the germ-killing properties of all-natural, non-toxic mouthwash for kids. Will Whoozyersuperkid swish and spit or will she swallow?

Mom Shoes.

2008-07-13T23:17:00.000-07:00

Stillettos and kitten heels are for idiots. For the most part high heel lovers are idiots who like pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny. Or--as a high heel fan you have a high pain threshold and you're really short. Or, you're passive/agressive and married to Tom Cruise who is very, very short.

High heels at one time made a woman stand out by adding a few inches to her stature. Now, I think short is the new tall. Everybody---repeat after me---short is the new tall. It's hot. It's in limited supply. Think about it. Ruminate on the fact that there's no accessory that will make you shorter. Short people have something that no tall person can achieve; a view from the ground. A lot goes on down here. Not that I'm short. But I'm not tall. As a mom I spend a lot of time on the ground. I know what goes on there. It can be fascinating.

OK, OK. I like how heels look on me. But having children ruined me for heels. Ruined. Me. My arches are as flat (and as stinky) as a slice of cheese.

These are my favorite shoes:

Let me tell you that I panicked and searched high and low when those shoes went AWOL and---after weeks of looking and having almost resolved myself to purchasing another pair found that I had left them at my folks'. Two hours away.

Need I say more? Go ahead. Tell me... pull from that place in your heart for shoes--you know, that spot that in some way is connected to a nerve ending in your foot per the ancient art of relexology. And yes--the girl whose feet hurt after a jaunt anywhere---just anywhere for any length of time in heels. Find that girl inside of you and tell me; what shoes would she wear every day if she could get away with it and still be a maven of style?

Still cute...

2008-07-09T16:52:00.001-07:00

And then there's always a hat:

More than a bad hair day

2008-07-09T09:43:00.000-07:00

There's only one word to describe the haircut that Whoozyerkid gave herself and that is "mullet".

"How did this happen?", you may ask. Things that Whoozyerkid can damage herself with are generally kept out of her reach so there are times when she's in another room. Whoozyerbabysitter and I were putting away groceries (she stayed late to let me go to Trader Joe's while Whoozyerbaby napped, bless her.) and it was strangely quiet, which is ALWAYS A BAD SIGN.
Today I am in mourning for those beautiful brown curls. So hard-won, so long in the making. And now Whoozyerkid will have to wear a clippy to identify her gender and people will still think she's a boy...even when she's wearing pink.

Heavy sigh.

The Evil Pharm-ASS-ist

2008-07-06T13:28:00.001-07:00

My children are white. Very white. Just like me. Go figure. In the summertime I am attracted to large displays that claim to protect your lily white skin from one of the 7 horsemen of the apocalypse--the depletion of sun-blocking ozone. I know, I know, the whole ozone thing is just, like, so nineties! It's all about global warming and sustainable living these days--but hey--there's no big "all clear, everybody run naked and worship Ra, the sun god" announcement in the media, is there?
So there I am, just hanging out in the aisle putting inordinate mental power into my purchasing decision regarding sunscreen(did I mention that this trip was a luxurious, sans children jaunt?) and this crazed electronic bellow (it sounds like one of those voice scramblers that ex-mafia drug kingpin informants are masked with on shows like "Prime-time live" or "Maury Povich") from this technologically adept pervert--breathing down my neck, tinnily demands "Can I help you find something?" Yeah, a gun and not your misplaced luuuuuuuv, you stupid mothertrucker! I turn to kick this man-- who is an obvious prison escapee, in the groin---I got some roundhouse-esque moves I'm antsy to try from a recent viewing of "Kung-Fu Panda." My head whips round to fix a hard stare at my would-be assailant. He is clearly on something and that something is an LCD screen smartly sequestered behind unbreakable glass. It leers. And it stalks. And I shudder with the exceedingly unpleasant memory of the whole event.

So Drugstore.com, you sure are looking good today, honey! Why don't you parade a little for Whoozyermama. OK--sashay to the left. Can we go back to your domain? I'm really sick of that Long's fellow. He's a little creepy. But You. Are. Magnificent. Oh yeah, baby, you have promise, drugstore.com! I'm getting weak in the knees just thinking about you, you're so malleable and passive and non-verbal.

So go ahead, Dear Brick and Mortar Drugstore Shopper. Get in your car and waste some gas. But you've been forewarned; a drugstore near you probably employs the Evil PharmAssist. As if friendly in-the-flesh salespeople weren't annoying enough...

No Drooling in the Spinach Dip, Please!

2008-07-05T00:29:00.000-07:00

You know when you go to a party and you don't know anyone but the person you're with knows at least a few people and you're afraid that Halitosis Hank --over there--in the corner sizing up someone's cleavage is going to single you out for a conversation regarding his shotgun shell collection and his last trip to Burning Man (in an air-conditioned RV)? Hank speaks always 6 inches too close to others' olefactories-- so you cling to the only person you know like a burr to cashmere. You know--without a doubt--that the person who dragged you kicking and screaming to this shindig has run with this crowd long enough to perfect her avoidance technique and that Hank is merely a relative who doesn't fit in anywhere else and that the party's hostess is merely being kind and merciful to her cousin--who always had "a rough time with the opposite sex..." And not the kind of rough time he has in mind, probably.That was Whoozyerbaby today; the nervous newcomer Her blood-curdling cries could be heard a hundred yards away--behind a closed door when she realized I hit the buffet without her. But I still managed to hand her off--just a little bit--so her teething self could drool on someone else for a change:

Hank sporting the ol' trademark "like bees to honey" beard. Notice the leer and the popeye. I wish J-the-hostess would get a clue about that person. Did I mention Hank's Napoleonic complex? Don't tell Hank that Hank is "little" or you'll be in for a real treat. Hank is all grown up and "super-big". Also, (and this is just my own observation) Hank needs to stop hitting (the hershey's) bottle so hard. Maybe the next party can double as an intervention:

A lighthearted sandwich...

2008-07-02T12:03:00.000-07:00

Apparently, saving the earth is gay. Let me preface this by saying that gay is OK by me and I am in no way homophobic but most straight men I know live with the constant niggling fear that someone, somewhere will surmise that they like other men "that way".

"Honey---look what I got for you."

Hubby: "WTF is that?"

Me: "You take your sandwich and instead of plastic you wrap it like this" I demonstrate the wrapping of an imaginary sandwich. "You'll be saving Mother Earth."

Hubby: "I don't think a little plastic is really a big deal."

Me: "It is a big deal, it's a really big deal. And look---it makes a nice placemat for you."

My mom: "The placemat thing is kind of gay. You could use Tupperware. Tupperware's not gay. And could you actually fit the sandwich in there? What's keeping the sandwich fresh?"

Me: "It wraps around the sandwich."

My mom: "I don't think it will fit around a thick sandwich."

It does fit. The sandwich is wrapped above. Densely packed with turkey, sundried tomatoes, arugula, avocadoes and honey mustard.

It's happy. It's a happy, cheerful sandwich (though admittedly I think the arugula is what makes it gay) on a happy, cheerful placemat. And eating from the Wrap 'n Mat will not make you run underground at Powell to emerge at Castro station. Okay?

You can buy hair on HSN, yes you can!

2008-06-29T23:31:00.000-07:00

Nothing I can write about this subject can top Shakenmama's recent blog entry regarding our brilliant daughters' imaginative play . You know where this is going. Needless to say my little darling is sporting a combover and we won't be putting it up in a high ponytail anytime soon. My mom offered the correct answer immediately when I asked her "guess what WK and her friend Chebbles played last night?" "Barbershop" answered Whoozyergrandma, without skipping a beat, "every kid plays that game." I guess not just the high-IQ'ed ones. Damn, that woman always hits the nail right on the head. Speaking of which, if you are in need of hair, Chebbles, Jessica Simpson has the answer just for you...in 3 easy flexpay installments of $29.17. You have options. Just thought you should know.

Happiness is...

2008-06-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

When someone else folds your laundry.... while you are sitting on your ass doing nothing.
And no, you can't have Whoozyerbabysitter's phone #. It's mine, all mine---mwha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

OK---maybe, just maybe. If you are suffering I will take pity on your tired, disheveled self. But you have to be wearing mismatched socks and a tomato-sauce stained tee to qualify. But I have first dibs...
Ooooooo---Whoozyerbaby is awake. and here she is.

And I didn't have to go and get her. I'm still sitting on my baby-fat butt. But I am back to work--doing some QC testing. Oh the drudgery...

Oh---and I forgot to mention---Whoozyerbabysitter reminded me to drive with my wallet to make sure I had my driver's license. And she is packing the diaper bag today for tomorrow when I have to take Whoozyercar to get rear back-up sensors installed. They're going to hang out at the mall while I go into the office. This is a creature who says she folds her blanket into diamond shapes "just for fun". What did I do to deserve her?

Angels and Demons...

2008-06-23T00:37:00.000-07:00

My kids clearly already adore one another. I hope. This festive background is the carpeting at "Pump it up"---a bouncy-house extravaganza for young and old; Whoozyerkid was invited to a birthday party for Little Miss R.

In the midst of all of this excitement Whoozyerkid decided to love up Whoozyerbaby. Either this was genuine love or:
Whoozyerkid overheard a conversation I had with another mom in which she noted that ALL of her kids get RINGWORM EVERY TIME they go to "Pump it Up" and so Whoozyerbigsister decided that she would make Whoozyerbaby suffer at all costs ( I highly doubt this but one never knows...).

My firstborn is super-affectionate. When parents at Whoozyer Montessori School pick up their own progeny Whoozyerkid is the first one to greet that parent---with a big hug. Whoozyerkid told some random lady at Trader Joe's that she loved her and asked ever so sweetly if she could give her a kiss. Her hugs are ferocious and fervent. Her declarations of love and like are heard by those who are close to her throughout every day. My kid loves hard.

My first born is usually a sweet little angel OR a little demon. On the same day as the "Pump it Up" party we were invited to the "after party" at the birthday girl's house. I was pushing it on the whole bedtime thing and Whoozyerkid had that wired, tired energy. I took her kicking and screaming to the Odyssey and she was jostling to bite me the whole way so we were playing some kind of mid-air Twister. I got her in the carseat and once I had her restraint harness buckled I told her "don't even THINK about biting me." With a crazed "Bride of Chucky" growl she demanded "Give me your arm mom, I am GOING to BITE YOU!!!"

So---let's hope that Whoozyerkid's love for her sister stays fervent and and beautiful and innocent and the magical stuff of bosom buddies--and that Whoozyerbaby keeps her sweet disposition and her high physical energy (so that she can run when she sees Miss. Hyde).

Baby bar (not of the soap variety)

2008-06-19T00:36:00.000-07:00

So basically after you have kids you make well-intentioned dates with your mom friends via phone. Sometimes all you can muster is a phone call. Sometimes you just don't care and you need to get out. It usually goes down like this:

Kid takes nap---call friend. At least one end of the conversation is usually peaceful in this scenario. Exception; child wakes up prematurely (translation: before you are ready to deal with reality). Loudness ensues on both ends of call until it escalates to the point where a mom simply cries "Uncle" and ends the call. Kind of like the game "chicken" where the first party who bails loses. Except in this situation little Noisemaker wins. Every time.

Kid is driving you INSANE--call friend. Lock self in bathroom. Hope to self that it doesn't occur to child that she can bang on bathroom door and scream at the top of her lungs to great effect. Although the nice thing about that at least is I can be in another room and still know that she is safe. It's the "sound" part that doesn't jibe with Momma's master plan.

During either of these two scenarios both moms are wistful. They crave adult conversation, commiseration and something to ease the pain of a nerve-wracking day. They crave cocktails. In each case they make a date. Eighty per cent of the time one of them flakes and the other is slightly relieved because she didn't want to face the mirror, get out the crusty old MAC and apply it to her wan and tired face. But when things work out it's never long enough that we can simply coexist with a person who "gets" us.

Whoozyerfriend and I lucked out tonight. We were able to slip away for a cocktail with one caveat; Whoozyerbaby came with. I wasn't about to subject Whoozyerbaby to a tired Daddy who can crash on any surface and in any temperature-- despite umpteen decibels-strength auditory assault from any conceivable direction or other discomfort that would wake a mortal man.

Yes, my friends, Whoozyerbaby was delightful company as I had my rum punch and Whoozyerfriend sipped her lemon drop. She was stunning in her strapless black top which, she confessed, was the only thing that was clean. Whoozyerbaby smiled a wide, knowing smile as if she too undertood the difficulty of finding a clean and flattering outfit--she's witnessed the Great Hunt For Clean Clothing. Her momma conducts the search on an almost daily basis. This all-knowing happy little Buddha is welcome most anywhere. Must be 21 to enter? Pshaw... Were we desperate? Probably. But who isn't? For a mama-- empathy is the most intoxicating potion of all.

Don't say "never"

2008-06-16T23:56:00.000-07:00

When I was a wee little tween there were many things on my list of verboten acts experienced only by adults. I didn't ever want to go there and I couldn't ever imagine that this would change at any point in my life.The reasons were:

They sounded painful and included: surgery, having a baby, having wisdom teeth pulled, wearing contact lenses, piercing something that isn't an ear, going to the chiropractor, smoking anything.
They involved the exchange of bodily fluids via: french kissing, sexual intercourse, giving oral pleasure, getting a spit bath, and I'm gonna stop there because I can think of some things that will make your ears blush and I'm thinking about them right now.
They were things I myself had recently experienced the recieving end of and they were unpleasant. Spanking, telling a kid "no", setting boundaries with children, giving adults preferential treatment (e.g. booting the kid out of her own bed for adult guests). Making my kids go to school when they don't want to; saying "just one bite and you can get up from the table." Having adult conversations about things like work around kids (what a bore...).

If the kid me were here I am sure she would have some choice words (not allowed near adults but perhaps in the privacy of her room in a conversation between a blonde Barbie and a Brunette Barbie). I am doing most of the stuff on my list and I feel like I have betrayed my inner tween. I have become the person I didn't understand; I'm a grown-up who does things her own kids can't fathom yet. I have to be the Sen-Say. I have to understand that sometimes there are just no words to explain just exactly how life is going to go down; our experiences are different and yet woven with same splendid string. We understand when we begin to unravel more and more and take a new shape.

Independence Day

2008-06-16T00:28:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is a glorious day. One that will live in infamy in my mommy-microcosm. 3 things are happening that make me want to burst out into celebratory freedom songs.

Whoozyerkid's status at preschool is FULL TIME. No more Barney-the-babysitter. I can drop her off as early as 7 AM EVERY MORNING M-F. Not that I would, or anything. We don't get up that early. I've got my children trained that way. (Oh God, I hope I didn't ruin it for myself just now.) I will spare you the You Tube video of a chorus of angels. Because "Hallelujah" is running through my auditory memory---and I'm a heathen.
Whoozyerhighschoolbabysitter--"C" for short starts tomorrow at 8:30. Which means I'll have glorious stretches of time between breastfeeding-- in which I can focus solely on work--and maybe squeeze in a workout--or--GET THIS---SHOWER ALONE!!!!! Maybe I can even organize my closet...
A few minutes ago Whoozyerkid awoke from a sound sleep to pee-in the toilet!!!! She's been going commando at night (sans pull-up) and hasn't sullied her sheets once. Unlike me this child has a bladder of steel. I inherited my grandmother's bladder--which holds roughly the equivalent of a Nyquil dosing cup. When pregnant I should have a catheter and an attendant--with a six pack (not of beer, apparently) who forgets to wear a shirt to work and is at my beck and call. But I digress. Hurray for awesome horse-like bladders! Hurray for Whoozyerkid for having one! And hurray for not having to buy pull-ups! (For now.)

Bon Voyage, Miss I !

2008-06-12T23:02:00.000-07:00

The Hunter is on full blast and the poo is taking flight at my place of employment. Which totally sucks because I like it there. People I have seen--really--as family are either jumping ship, relocating or feeling ambivalent about their employer as a result of being left hanging yet again after several rounds of layoffs a few years ago. There are a few of us who would like to stay but we've also made amends with the fact that things will never be the same again. Tomorrow a former manager of mine, a confidante, friend, big sister and mentor all rolled into one is leaving the company and she's got a great new job. I hope she never looks back. Today she would have gotten the option handed to her---go & stay or go & go. She's leaving on her own terms and tomorrow we're gonna drink a few to the beautiful, intelligent, kind, down-to-earth and very soon-to-be missed Miss I and a few other souls who are getting the package or literally, moving to the desert; then, now and tomorrow.

And to my friend K who is moving to the desert; WTF?

Wii like it. Grandpa would've too...

2008-06-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

Here is my Dad--Wii boxing with my sister. He is sounding more and more like Grandpa by the minute. Grandpa should have been a radio sound effect man with his orchesta of strange sounds. We'd sit on the couch and Grandpa would just make random noises for no apparent reason. Man, I wish I'd video'ed him. But not to worry, Dad channeled Grandpa just for your viewing pleasure.

On a Wii break...

2008-06-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

This modern marvel is as addicting as Coca Cola before the 2oth century and Whoozyerbaby won't sleep so I have one hand with which to write this. And I won't share with you what the fit said about mii...

Can't you ask it to go easy on you after analyzing your BMI and calculating your "wii age" because an almost 8 pound watermelon just sprang forth from your loins and also your hormones are as wacky as Mario Kart? Where is the nice, understanding icon that says "don't be so hard on youself dear, you JUST had a baby"...?

Candyland Burnout

2008-06-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

Today Whoozyerkid thought it would be a great idea to get up at 5 AM. There was a big Candyland birthday party at the home of one of her classmates. I won't get into what an insane amount of sugar there was at this party--but I think this picture should speak for itself. Whoozyermama is off to get a glass of wine with Whoozyerdaddy and go to bed early. I'm going to be one of those NERDS who waits in line for electronics tomorrow. Toys R US is having a grand reopening and I was told to arrive 2 hours before opening for my big break. So I have to get up at 7AM and get my un-fit booty in gear. And I am NOT a morning person. Oh, the insanity! WTF is wrong with me?

Wii (are not) Fit

2008-06-07T00:52:00.001-07:00

I really want to get the game that will say---when I get on the balance board "you're fat"; because I won't take it personally from a machine. I don't think the game will say "get off your fat ass and exercise" nor will it follow me around the house with a pair of Nikes and my Oprah-approved exercise bra. It doesn't do that. If it did I'd own it already. What this game does do is measure your weight and senses your form in a series of home workouts.

I am obsessed, have signed up for the email alerts of in-stock Wii's and I have become one of THOSE PEOPLE who are (guiltily, mind you) stalking the web for a piece of plastic that will become obsolete in 5 years.

I've had some measure of success. The Fit game and balance board are on the way to us. My friend C said that ordering the Fit without the Wii reminds her of the time she bought a whole TV series in VHS 2 years before she bought the VCR. But C doesn't quite understand that Whoozyermama gets what she wants and I also want this to aid Whoozyerbaby in acquiring her first laughter-induced side-stitch (I wonder how many times the Mom in the video accidentally hit the baby in the head. Note to self, buy baby helmet.)Nothing is better than the sound of your childrens' laughter.

So for Father's Day and my birthday Whoozyerdaddy and I are gifting ourselves with a Wii. We can't wait! We envision family bowling and pizza nights, inviting friends over to play and have vowed to only buy active games that are designed to improve the body and/or mind. Maybe this is the thing that will help me to get back my pre-Whoozyerkid body and mind. (Wishful thinking, that).

Stay tuned as I stalk the stocking. Retail is $249 for the console and we will not pay a penny more. This is the first time I have engaged in this type of market-driven frenzy and I will NOT meet Mr X in the Best Buy parking lot to make an extra-inflated purchase--nor will I camp out or call stores at opening. Or will I? Freaking Nintendo...

Earthquakes

2008-06-06T02:08:00.000-07:00

http://quake.wr.usgs.gov/recenteqs/Quakes/nc51203888.htm

Am I being punished for the non-green chicken bags, Mother Earth?

My Rapture

2008-06-06T01:19:00.001-07:00

Costco was good to me tonight. First, the greeter nodded with nary a glance at my membership card and then, spotting a cart in my path--she parted the way for me to enter. On the many screens right of the entrance choruses of crystal clear,close-up seraphim sang. But here's the highlight: In all my years of shopping at Costco---from scrounging up membership funds just to scarf free samples and pizza slices to two-carted "runs" I never, ever imagined that you could get a CARRY-OUT AT COSTCO!!!!!!! How many freaking times have I saved the excursion for the weekend--SATURDAY, or even SUNDAY AT COSTCO just to have my husband help me? And now---taking 2 kids to this horn o' plenty---even with the help of Whoozyerdaddy is like doing the breaststroke in the La Brea Tar Pits.

It was heaven to go this evening to Costco with just the baby. No Saturday crowds, no Whoozyerkid, no Whoozyerhusband (who, by the way has to have a shot of vodka to assuage his nerves prior to THE TREK) muttering hopefully "OK, let's go noooooow" every five minutes. No Whoozyerkid whining because I won't buy polyester princess pajamas.

And---was this a normal night or was I in the Kingdom of the Omnipotent when they loaded my wares onto the conveyor belt for me and INSISTED that I get a carryout?
And when, piece, by piece, item by item the orange-vested cart-duty guy loaded WhoozyerOdyssey I started to plot his kidnap so that when we arrived home-- item by item, piece by piece-- he would be THE GUY to unload the double-pack of Optifree and the 2lb bag of sundried tomatoes. He would oh-so gingerly-- wrap the organic chicken breasts, careful to ensure no air touched the baby pink flesh nestled in the Ziplog Freezer bags (of which I can say, I own 1000--note to self--there has GOT to be a greener way to wrap meat). Ev-er-y perishable would be hustled to the refrigerator in record time to inhibit any bacteria growth while I could linger at the lounger to feed and glance lovingly at my infant. But alas, with a brace-laced grin and a wave Manuel returned my cart, that sacred vessel of my blessed journey, to the clouds of the Costco Kingdom and I was left to my descent to Earth. A mortal mom, in a mortal world. Where I must toil.

A New Mommy!

2008-06-05T00:30:00.003-07:00

What is it with my family and deep conversations in the car? On the way to preschool this morning Whoozyer kid states oh-so-matter-of-factly, "Mom, if you die, I won't have a mama. I'll have to get a new mama."

And on the way to school you and Daddy can stop at Mom Depot and this time you can find someone who cleans and sends Christmas cards. Great. Now would be a good time, Whoozyerkid, to stop emulating Cinderella! Apparently pretending your mother is dead in the playhouse is the make believe scenario du jour at preschool according to one of Whoozyerkid's teachers--who also happens to be a student's mom; who also would not like to be dead. Kids...REALLY. Can't it be the dog? Time to get out Old Yeller.

Parkin' it.

2008-06-04T14:00:00.000-07:00

Now the city is parked in my neighbor's new flowerbed. AND they won't move. Nice...

Stop means "Stop", Dumbass.

2008-06-04T01:01:00.000-07:00

The law requires you to stop at the corner by my house. The law will not change even if you crash into the sign and it bends to your car's will-- rendering it a cool sign to have next to a kegerator in a basement over Aunt Flora's brown velour couch--the designated "manplace" of the guy who steals it.

Moreover---after you lost your bumper and fled the scene--it probably wasn't a good idea to come back for it.

I love a good police chase at midnight.I guess it's hard to "stop" when you're a tweaker.

Throwing Romas at Helen of Troy.

2008-06-04T00:47:00.001-07:00

That stealthy little bug...he knows how to hide.

First it was chicken. Then came the eggs. Up next? Spinach. Poor Popeye. And don't deign to undercook Porky. He's got it too.

What about... hey---surely cereal is safe? Think again, your childhood favorite (NOT!), Malt 'O Meal can claim it's caused it.

Today raw tomatoes have been tossed into the fray. Can someone please tell Helen to keep her wooden nag out of the tomato vines? He's pooping on my palate. Craprese anyone?

Sneaky, sneaky Salmonella. Good stuff, Maynard.

Thanks Mom, I was getting kind of bored...

2008-06-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

Happiness is using all of your baby crap the second time around. Man, I love the basement.It's like going to the store but better. No lines, no van ride, no bank account drain, no new deplorable acts against Planet Earth. We just got out Whoozyerkid's old exersaucer, hosed and wiped it down--it's ready for Whoozyerbaby and Whoozyerbaby is ready for it! The poor child is worn out now. That's the way Mama likes it! Take a loooong nap, Whoozyerbaby...

Nap, not pictured as the flash of the bulb could ruin it all for me and this blog isn't worth the loss of naptime. Nothing is as valuable as a nap in our household. Naps keep Mommy and Daddy from drinking...(OK, OK maybe that's not entirely the truth...)

Whoozyerbaby-- and the neighborhood (teething) ring...

2008-06-01T20:59:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerbaby's a born leader; I ask you--would you mess with this?

The neighborhood children are plotting against their innocent, hapless parents, Whoozyermama, Whoozyerdaddy and Whoozyernextdoorneighbors. Whoozyerkid knows something I don't know. I just know it...that kid sure has moxie--but not enough to stand up to the indomitable Whoozyerbaby!

Wouldn't you know it, Whoozyerbaby is the ringleader. I knew she was up to no good...she really has a vision and she knows how to get her point across.

Watch out kids, you don't want to see Whoozyerbaby lose her temper. It's gonna get ugly. She's gonna blow! Hand over the goods...

Road-trippin'

2008-05-31T23:40:00.001-07:00

Today we all got gussied up (except Mr. Whoozyer, who wore shorts and a blue and tan Hawaiian shirt), piled in the minivan and drove to The City for a graduation party (where each of our children managed to have at least 1 meltdown).

On the way Whoozyerhusband and I managed to score a mini-date. The kids were asleep and we pondered them on the way. Graduations tend to make you think about the inevitability of your own children growing up and fleeing the nest.

We were talking about having children, enjoying one another and growing old together. We were talking about somehow, having this 2nd child doesn't seem to strain our relationship the way having the first one did. That passage into parenthood is difficult and trying even in the strongest of relationships. But Whoozyerbaby is a peach and Whoozyerdaddy seems to relish fatherhood more than he expected to. He calmed and soothed Whoozyerkid today at the party when her car-nap was curtailed--when I couldn't. Whoozyerdaddy wants to find some way to slow it all down. Life is moving disconcertingly fast. How do we do it? How do we slow down our sweet lives so that we can savor them, bottle the scent of our babies' heads, remember those long glances and the eager click of their jaws synchronized with the bob of their heads while latched at my breast? Or when, Whoozyerbaby swallows, pulls off and grins at me---as if nursing is getting in the way of her joy at discovering her mother is there smiling at her? Whoozyerkid did that--and I had forgotten. Does it take one more baby to make it stick forever in my memory? How can we imprint the feel of tiny fingers tightening around ours and actually stroking our hands? Could we please remember every cute, funny and brilliant thing that they do or say? Freeze dry the first "I love you"? How is it done? How can I make that last hug last...?

Dear Asshat Neighbor:

2008-05-30T23:45:00.000-07:00

You're new to the 'hood. I believe it was your mommy, a locally well-known real estate agent, who got a "sweetheart" deal on your house--at the height of the real estate bubble. She is your "Mommy" and not your "Mom" because she bought you a house.

I tolerated your Harley. And your friends on Harleys. Coming to your house. At ALL HOURS. But now it's 11:48. The party is over. Turn off the music. I hate loud music from other people. That's where you have crossed the line. Turn. Off. The. Music. Or I am calling the cops.

The welcome wagon is rolling by and it's not stopping. By the way, your immediate neighbor doesn't like barking dogs, either. Interestingly enough, I think you have a little yappy one. Which. Is. Awesome! I can't stand your neighbor. And I love dogs. Did you know your next door neighbor sells sex toys? And she used to be a "life coach" dabbling in "abundance". And she also dubbed herself as "America's Sensuality Coach." After googling her I found she was involved in a Ponzi scheme via a channel 2 news article. WTF?

I may start liking you if you annoy her enough. But not enough to bake cookies.

Dairy Queen

2008-05-30T00:13:00.001-07:00

It is starting to dawn on me. Maybe I haven't yet found my true calling because it's an outdated, medieval one?

I mean, some people are just born knowing from the pit of their appendix that they, the Kennedys are going to be wealthy politicians, FOR SURE.

Sure, maybe our calling is due to a life event; Rosa Parks ripped seams, she cross-stitched and hemmed and I don't think she was ever compelled to be a sock darner or had any idea in her early bus-riding career that she would be a national catalyst for change; a veritable institution. And I bet you--she was one HELL of a sock darner. It was a life event, the refusal to give up her seat on a bus that made her a civil rights activist.

Sometimes it takes a cataclysmic event to discover our true selves.

I am a born nursemaid. The pump-in-style sucked out the knowledge that Oh My God--I am a human Dairy Queen. When angered I don't give the "cold shoulder"; instead--I serve a soft blizzard with the "extra" in a steel cup on the side. I love to nurse and I would do it forever if I could. I've had visions of renting out my nursing size H's to celebrities and dignitaries and the wealthy. But then the harsh reality of the situation sets in. A job so intimate exposes a mom to the same working conditions the assistants of the entitled endure; being oncall 24x7 and untimately not being there for your own family. Depriving your own child of the milk made just for her --for financial gain would launch your very soul into a shadowy and sad world--the world where bad parents go--to stay. One that most of us need not enter for that particular misdeed in this age of Advanced Similac.
But maybe what it is--this "calling" to breastfeed is just a marker of my genetic predisposition to bearing and caring for children. That feeling of birthing Whoozyerbaby , no drugs--from deep within was so satisfying that I don't need another calling. It calmed me and elevated me, made me a better mother--one that visited the underworld through pain and dragged her daughter up and did what a divine entity--the goddess Demeter-- could not for Persephone--I brought my daughters home to stay---winter to winter, year after year. It is my greatest hope that my daughters outlive me and that I grow wizened with age and experience.

Demeter has NOTHING on us mortal moms...

This woman did what I think any mortal mom would do. She nursed the babies that needed her. Perhaps that's all any displaced modern nursemaid could hope to provide; sustanence for a hungry baby if ever one needs her.

Selling out to "The Man"

2008-05-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

I started to write about "The Man" and discovered I was boring myself to tears discussing the fact that I have "sold out" to that man. I don't even know who "the man" is. Because I work for "the man" and have stock in "the man" does that make me "the man"? Because last time I checked I was a woman. I will spare you any posts of the "Rosie the Riveter" picture and a tome about "girl power".

But dammit, I AM the mother of girls and I am scared that one day "the man" is gonna get them too. Cuz he's mostly got everyone else. I'm reading (yeah, in my spare time) "The Host" another Bodysnatcher-type novel and it got me to thinking(dangerous stuff, that thinking---I think SMOKE is coming out of my new-mom ears); But really---aren't all of those stories regarding the posession of body and mind an allegory for something bigger? Are we a species designed really to "lease" ourselves out to others of our kind--those who are stronger, smarter, wealthier, better-looking, more unscrupulous or just "lucky"?

Are we pimping ourselves out for Mickey-D's french fries (made via DESIGN and not NATURE, Lost and Tar-jay?

I was just thinking that maybe I need to break free, break my daughter free (see TV-watching Zombie post) and garden or something. Quick---hand me a shovel. And then tell me what to do (because that's the only way we proles know how to roll).

For all of my friends without kids---this one is for you.

2008-05-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

Whoozyerdog is a troublemaker It's not the kid who has me cursing this time. "This is the face of innocence," you say. But I say this is the dirty rascal that has Whoozyermama, a self-proclaimed slob, making friends with the broom. The damned dog is shedding again. And I can't tolerate tumbleweeds of fur. But this face, it begs for forgiveness (and sausage), doesn't it?

Good Intentions...

2008-05-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

So... the babysitter's son was sick with a fever this morning--which makes me glad that Whoozyerkid stayed home. BUT

I'm still a crappy mom because the TV is on and I HAVE NO CHOICE. Plus---Whoozyerkid fell on her nose last night. That child has been TRYING to break her nose...

Is there a T.A. (Television Anonymous) for kids? And Tel-Anon for parents?

2008-05-28T00:04:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lukeroberts/1355846096/

Time to send Whoozyerkid...my little creature from the digital LAGOON to find her non-TV watching, non-sugar-eating, non-sleeping-in-her-clothes sponsor. AAAAACCCKKK!

I also must remember to tell Whoozyerkid's preschool director (and expert nit-picker) that the little itty bitty bits of white substance that are sticking to her hair strands are NOT nits, in fact, as she may mistakenly surmise-- but melted marshmallows from our endeavor to make S'mores on the Chambers stove AFTER bathtime. I will have to remember this as I hurriedly drop my child off at the weirdest time ever for a kid to go to preschool--11:50 AM.

Some of you are probably aware of my weird preschool arrangement in which she can't go to preschool until almost noon Tues-Thurs--thanks SO VERY VERY MUCH to the SHARKS who tried to bleed our equity for their CRAZY REPORT which they ignored we refuted TWICE(I mean--what do you expect--the house was built in 1928! Earthquake retrofitting my bitten ass!) The sale of our house fell through and I was left to scramble for quality childcare. Because it's always Whoozyermamma who gets stuck with this kind of task. And thus, this crazy compromise.

Thankfully this arrangement will end in mid-June as I WAS PROBABLY THE FIRST ONE to sign up for summer and fall session and foist my deposit into the Director's freshly finger paint-splattered hands. Whoozyermama elbowed some other kids out of the program. Momma was jostling HARD!

This wonderful schedule--which I had been assured would be temporary until someone dropped out (wouldn't you know it?--since September not one of 30 kids dropped out!!!) effs up a number of things, one of which is uninterrupted WORK time (and probably my kid too--see story on BITING MY ASS). So, who has been my savior, my knight in plastic armour? Not just one, mind you---it's a bevy of caretakers; no one other than Curious George and Clifford followed by SuperWhy, Dragon Tales, Sesame Street, Raggs and then exactly one half of every one's favorite dinosaur, Barney! Yay!

We tried to have someone over to take care of both kids--she brought 2 of her kids--alright,I thought--playmates for Whoozyerkid! But I couldn't get any work done for fear that somekid would swing off a chandelier or break the original--circa 1928-- leaded glass in the built-in buffet by some Roomba-flinging contest. It was easier this morning to enlist the help of my friends at PBS. Whoozyerkid said she just wanted to stay home with Mommy and her "shows" and her eyes---those soulful hound dog eyes pierced me to my very vapid soul.

It's all my fault. I am crap for Mom. And a sleep-deprived pushover to boot. And on weekends Whoozyerdaddy lets me catch up on sleep so that I don't MELT DOWN so it's Callou, Little Bear, Wow, Wow Wubzy. You get the idea. We need an intervention.

Whoozyerkid's getting dropped off tomorrow. Somewhere. Where. The...TV ISN'T ON!!!!! and where the Mom isn't CRAPPY!!!!!!!!!!

Yesterday--illustrated--as promised.

2008-05-26T14:28:00.000-07:00

This should have been a portent of what was to come...

Self-infliction:

Mom, I am so, so sorry --or--Grandma's Revenge part 2 or something (I lost track)

2008-05-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

Before Whoozyerbaby made HER VERY GRAND ENTRANCE into our family-- therein was this intense exclusive maternal bond which focused itself on just Whoozyerkid and me. Ardorous, fierce, protective, enveloping...I thought there was no way I could love another child the way I loved Whoozyerkid---with her sweet face, her Daddy's eyes and lashes, her perfect little mouth; so feisty, stubborn and smart and yet so tender...

I was dragging my feet about the birth of Whoozyerbaby... to the point where I think I almost pretended that labor wasn't around the corner even when small contractions came with more frequency and I remember thinking hours before--when Whoozyerdaddy and I were curled up in the bed watching The Soup that I felt just a wee bit strange. But no...it was something I ate. I wasn't ready, I thought, to spread my love a little thinner across a larger surface. So...any small contractions or stomach-ache were poo-pooed and I slipped into sleep.

Yes, Whoozyerkid and I had an exclusive relationship. The world stopped for us. It. Took. A. Lot. to get her to accept that Whoozyerdaddy was her "go-to" person for just about everything---from a cup of milk to the nighttime bath he was her guy. He had to be. I had coddled her--had selfishly stolen so many precious moments under the cloak of maternal duty. Whoozyerdaddy is one of those men who needs a lot of alone time--programming is his passion-- so I used that to keep my daughter close to me. But those last months before the baby I let go little by little to pave the way for our new arrival.

So--to honor that old relationship, to make my daughter feel special and to maintain that bond I like to carve out time just for Whoozyerkid and me. This time (and last time)--we got our nails done. Today, she had the works, the granddaddy of all kid mani/pedis---the Princess pedicure--during which she was the recipient of a crown and painted daisies with glitter and rhinestones on the thumb and big toe nails.

After this ten fingered and toed hoopla we trekked in the Odyssey to Chow to pick up some dinner to take home. I stood at the counter to pay for dinner (and a well-deserved bottle of chardonnay for Whoozyerdaddy and I) while keeping an eye on Whoozyerkid---she's too far away so I beckoned her back to me--I turned to sign for my food when...

I felt a jabbing pain under my jeans-- on my behind.

Whoozyerkid thanked me for a very nice afternoon by biting me in the ass. CHOMP! I kept my cool, avoiding becoming one of those parents who swat their kids publicly--especially in the affluenza-infected town of Lafayette (no one ever tells you that the instinct to smack someone who HURTS you at the very moment you are VIOLATED is so very strong --couple that with the fact that your children are the ones who 9.9 times out of 10 hurt and violate you the oh-so-generous giver and sustainer of precious life itself--which really, really sucks, the little ingrates!)
Of some comfort is this: The Child knew I was angry by the way she was ushered to the car. I kept my cool but SHE DID NOT. She DID NOT LIKE being lifted to her carseat. She scrambled down to the cheezit-littered carpet in a rage of FURY and pounced back up the carseat like a rabid mountain cat. THE DEMON SHE WAS POSSESSED BY saw to it that she BIT HERSELF leaving little red toothmarks on her soft baby skin.

Later, for your amusement (and mine) I will post a photo of the toothmarks she left (on herself, I will spare you my ass). Getting bit by you hurts, doesn't it, Kid?

And by the way, I am also truly, madly and deeply in love with Whoozyerbaby...sigh...they're extra-wonderful when they don't have teeth...

Another baby item for the out-of-touch parent...

2008-05-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

This is a baby timer for your little egg; If, for some reason, you can't figure out what your baby's cries and/or body language are telling you, you can't feel or smell a dirty diaper or you don't understand why your newborn is mewling and rooting--(aren't babies just oral?--you ask).

Somebody told you that you needed to CHART your baby's daily activities so that when you do start getting sleep you have a lovely reminder of the period in which you lived on frozen burritos, catnaps and twice-weekly showers. That person--who seemed well-intentioned was just messing with your head, my friend.

If you are--by any chance considering purchasing the Itzbeen baby care timer let me just tell you this. Newborns have just a few basic needs:

Sustanence.
The diaper change and cleaning of girl parts/boy parts.
To sleep.
Close physical proximity to parent/caregiver.
Time to master the basics like rolling over, laughing and batting at objects.
To Bathe when dirty.

Heres how to tell when baby needs above items

To eat---baby starts sucking on everything in sight.
Change diaper---baby feels wet or smells bad. Diaper feels full.
To sleep---baby yawns, tugs on ear or seems fussy/overstimulated.
Close proximity to parent/caregiver---baby cries when put down.
Time to master the basics---baby cries when you pick him/her up. Is happy when put down.
To bathe when dirty. Check folds of skin for dirt. Wash baby if dirt is evident.

Supposedly this contraption also tells you what breast was last feasted upon if you so choose to breastfeed. Here's a tip; Use the hardest breast after you feel yourself up.

Really folks---babies are easy. Wait 'til your kid starts talking smack and sassing you. No timer is going to shut Junior up.

I am not sure what this look means (but it's pretty darned cute).

2008-05-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

I mean...she's ecstatic. She's riding a carousel horse for godsakes! Is she formulating the recipe for the next economically and scientifically feasible generation of biofuel? Or considering who gets to come to her birthday party (in November)?
Your interpretations are greatly appreciated.

The other Whoozyerdaughter.

2008-05-24T15:34:00.001-07:00

Just in case you think I've been playing favorites...

A first lesson in womanly arts...

2008-05-24T15:15:00.000-07:00

Lesson 1: Grooming.

Oh lovely daughter of mine... you are a child. You are naturally beautiful, endowed with the dewy skin of a newly minted cherub.

You, so like that naked creature who came down to earth freshly nursed from the rainy breast of a mother cloud.

YOU DO NOT NEED MAKEUP. Not now, not for a very long time. And I don't need a makeover (at least, not from you.)

But, my darling, let's carve out some time. Just for us. Where a Vietnamese Mary Magdalene (minus the ho-ing) washes our feet. And adorns them...

Sang applies the color to your toes with the deftness and precision of a micro-surgeon. For you, little one, there's a flower painted expertly on your bunionless big toe.

Stay tuned, my heart. Our next lesson is regarding your hair...

Sibling rivalry

2008-05-24T15:07:00.001-07:00

And so it begins...

Whoozyerdaddy has amazing talents...

2008-05-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

He can sleep literally anywhere. The Daddy of our house is very, very tired at the end of the day after commuting to the city and back for his J-O-B. Notice the shoe...

That's my man.

He is so sexy because he does dishes... Here's some homegrown kitchen porn:

Notice the shirt tucked in in the front to emphasize the belly and untucked in the back for no good reason at all...

And he is a pancake-making virtuoso--replete with family recipe (torn out of a 1970's Sunset magazine article). Note to self: must school Mr. Whoozyer in the art of scraping carbon particles off of breakfast food before serving. Or the art of martyrdom--as the martyr, he eats the crappy pancake.

If you are a new mom I want to help you--part I

2008-05-23T17:06:00.000-07:00

I can't help myself.

I feel sooooo sorry for you. When you pop your little soybean out of its salty, wet shell you will be in shock for months.

You are shopping solo at Whole Foods--serenely rubbing your belly with one manicured hand and ever so slowly and carefully examining local organic apples with the other. Because you are not feeding your baby pesticide-ridden, bruised apples from New Zealand.

You are the same mama who --without fail---every 2 weeks schedules massages with a hunky Swiss emigre with eyes as dark as soot; the same mama who made a plastered impression of your hennaed belly.

You are the mama who has never missed one prenatal yoga class in the 8-week series you purchased as a gift to yourself. Ommmmmmmmmmm

OMIGOD. Darling, you are in for a very rude, insistent and literal awakening. We're not talking about a demure Victorian awakening from the fainting couch. We're talking "The Mummy" here. For the next few years you will be one of the Walking Dead.

I was you. I arched my perfect brow at mamas like me, in the ill-fitting sweats with the enormous milk-filled orbs (good God, woman, find a bra that FITS--you may think).

You are going to make a mental note to self, you are never going to look like the woman over there. NEVER, ever... but see... looks aren't everything and if they really are to you, everything--I do look a little like Yoda. So you might want to heed my words.

Lesson #1: Vans are sexy, iight?

Without one you just may never get lucky. One day you will see me singing in my minivan like I just got laid. My husband looks hot in a minivan--what can I say? Scrunched with knees in chin is never sexy on a man. Legroom = an increase in your almost non-existent mama-baby nursing libido. Should you get the urge on "date night" (which is HIGHLY unlikey, by the way) the seats flatten behind the tinted windows. When you see me singing your mini-cooper is going to feel like a hyperbaric chamber. Go ahead honey---live large in a minivan. You'll thank me later. And so will your husband. But vacuum first or you may find cheddar bunnies in places you never thought possible. Trust me.

Lesson #2: You're going to look like shit, no matter what you do...

so just accept it and accessorize. You can get a baby carrier, diaperbag, stroller, and cloth diapers that are so cute no one will look at you. Ever. This is a good thing as strange things will happen to your appearance after your little lovemuffin makes his grand entrance. First, casual observers focus on the baby (unless you are a fool and accessorize with a puppy--then they'll look at the puppy(or kitten) and quite possibly overlook the baby entirely. More on your pet later...) After they look at the baby they gaze in wonder and amazement at all of the gadgetry available to 21st century mamas. Most likely you'll hear something like "I wish they had that when Edwin Jr. was a baby..." Bonus points: If no one offers little wisdom nuggets like "that baby looks cold" or "have you given her sugar water yet, you should really TRY that" or asks "is she sleeping through the night?" the stunning diaperbag, your whimsical baby carrier and your baby's very strange clothing (baby leg warmers are 'da bomb!) and cloth-diapered bubble butt will have fulfilled their purpose. You've stunned them like a common housefly with your tennis-racquet-shaped sharper image battery-operated zapping fly swatter. It's Mama's arsenal and you are going to want as many hand grenades as you can gather for yourself. And of course, for the baby...

Lesson #3: Your dog is not your baby.

People push their dogs in strollers.

I hope you are not one of them. If you are---or if you have thought of purchasing a Peg Perego-knockoff dog stroller get over it. Right now. Because one day you might get really annoyed that you have one more creature to nurture and another useless item to store and then sell on Craigslist (to other freaks that push an animal that has FOUR perfectly good legs and a NEED to exercise---do you really want those people on your doorstep?) around in a PRAM like a wannabe mommy. Wean the dog off of your proverbial teat. Or you'll be sorry.

Lesson 4: Don't buy this:

Holy Crap! It's a $300 diaper pail

This is to collect the little nuggets of gold that celebrity children named "Peanut" or "Irish Spring Rose" are known to express into their g-diapers. The pail comes already deodorized with their parent's signature fragrance (that they, personally have spent many lab-coated hours developing themselves .) You are not a celebrity. You won't get this gratis. UsWeekly is not coming to take pictures of your nursery. 'Nuff said.

Moo

2008-05-23T02:14:00.001-07:00

again...

Moo

2008-05-23T02:11:00.001-07:00

I expressed myself today...

Bedtime routine.

2008-05-23T01:50:00.000-07:00

Nurse #2 for the last time before retiring. On the left side; which is a feat in and of itself (try latching on to something larger than your entire skull and the thing that you latch onto plays peekaboo--try doing that for 10 minutes at a time... my child has fortitude in spades. )

Put child in swing to ensure consectutive hours of sleep.

Gaze upon child #1 and resolve to call doctor. She snores louder than husband.

Use the loo. Notice milk dripping onto floor...

Say "Crap!".

Leave milk on floor for cleaning lady.

Take handful of pills.

Take out contacts.

Brush teeth.

Wash, tone and moisturize face using expensive product--the only thing that keeps me from getting teenage acne. Notice gray pallor. Notice waning skin tone. Sigh. Nice. I will be 80 and still get pimples.

Say "crap" again.

Stand over sink.

Hand express dripping milk.

Say "moo"

Go to bed--kamikaze-style without pads.

Who needs them?

Say "moo" again...

An introduction to my "poo"...

2008-05-22T00:40:00.000-07:00

I am not an artist...my first renderings were not caught on film or saved for future gawking or twilight shows that serve free wine and light brie to black-clad college students looking to bolster their "I'm cultured" cred and get a free buzz. There was no wealthy patron, no Bill Gates endowment. If I look behind me there is no modern-day Medici.

No, because of my chosen (and only available) medium at the time and because it was the 70's-- some super-squeaky clean body part of mine was soundly spanked by the sauce-spoon (after the big decontamination hose-down and loofah scrub).

Attention daughters of mine: Don't ask me to draw a piggy in front of a big red barn walking single file with other piggies to only God knows where (we can talk about "where" later.)Here's your first lesson in the series I like to call "Mommy is not your perfect robot". Lesson 1: Mommy can only draw stick mommies, stick babies and box houses. And a daisy.
My hypothesis is-- the reason I can't draw is because I got a whooping after pooping and painting. And adding to the spectacular mural Mom made me. You see, my mother has infinite talent in the art deparment. Which corroborates my theory. Talent is genetic and it did not skip my generation.

I blame it on my mother. (because we always blame our parents for our deficiencies) Mom, I can't draw because of you. I was scarred. For life.

DISCLAIMER: this event may or may not have happened . Certain facts have been altered for your amusement (and probably not my mother's---sorry Mom--you know I love you and I know you probably didn't spank me with a wooden spoon until I was bigger and more ornery.)

Children are resourceful. And if not encouraged they will not unfurl their buds of talent. I could have been founder of a movement. My movement, the "Silent Spring" of the 70's.. Just think--if we all wrote in poo it would put bic out of business. We'd be so desensitized to bad smells that glade would glide away.

If we harnessed the energy that is baby poo we could perhaps save planet Earth. That's all I was trying to say, Mom. I wanted to write this message, to solve a modern dilemna and now it is hidden under blue 80's butterflies (how dare anyone wallpaper over that bucolic meadow mural?) and 14 assorted coats of Benjamin Moore.
I am sure I will be blamed for many of the deficiencies my daughters will claim. And that's OK because I would throw myself under a bus to save them (and displaced blame-placing is but a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. )But I would rather take the heat for somebody not being a very good tuba player or yard-raker. Or artist.