NYE

It's New Year's Eve, and I have a babysitter.

Therefore, I am going to spend the rest of 2009 behaving like a teenager.

Cheers!

Wheezing & Whining

I HAVE PNEUMONIA!

FEEL BAD FOR ME!


Despite some pathetic attempts to promote the news that I have PNEUMONIA, it seems like nobody really cares. I'm using exclamation marks! I'm whining! I'm putting it on Facebook! I'm making phone calls! I'm expending energy that I can't afford to lose!


Gene, my fiance, wouldn't even take me to Urgent Care when I woke up with wheezing and coughing and hysteria. I drove myself there, and when I got home, he went snowboarding.

I know that modern medicine has made it almost certain that I won't die from this condition, but I still want to know: What the fuck happened to pneumonia's alarming edge?

If you need me, I'll be in my bed, feeling sorry for myself.

Portraits

My future bro-in-law and friend, Ray Conway, is an excellent photographer. The best thing about having one of those in the family? Access to inexpensive Christmas presents.

Here are a few pictures he took for us this month:

Hey Laundry, Eat Sh*t.

WHY LAUNDRY IS RUINING MY LIFE: Reason #1389

So I'm in the basement this morning, sorting some laundry, when I hear, "HAVE A POOP! GONNA CLEAN IT UP??"

This, of course, is James, my 2 year old son, calling out to me, his buttwiping minion.

I think, No biggie... the kid can wait a minute while I sort his jammies. (Once I'm in the Laundry Groove, I have to ride it out or it will never get done, as the Groove only strikes a few times a year.)

Well, because I'm blogging about this, you can probably assume that I was hella wrong.

I take my sweet time coming upstairs and see that James has thrown his soiled (aka shitty) diaper on the floor. Also, I see that the diaper is open, and its contents have rolled onto the rug, in dangerous proximity to my ever-curious 10 month old daughter, Cece.

Cece is looking at the diaper. James is looking at Cece. I'm looking at my newly shampooed rug.

I collect the diaper and the small round poop balls from the rug. As I'm flushing the little turds down the toilet, it hits me: Cece probably touched it.

I run (ok, walk) back to the living room and direct my question to James, as if he's the babysitter: "Did Cece touch it? DID SHE?"

Silence.

I try Cece: "DID YOU TOUCH THE POOP?"

Again, nothing.

I uncurl her clenched fist, revealing three tiny turd treasures. Oh, and then I notice that she's chewing something.

I'll bet you know what that something is, don't you?

I stick my (unwashed) finger into her mouth, and to both my relief and horror, I can't find anything. That means one of two things happened: one) she was fake chewing to scare me, or two) she swallowed her brother's poop before I could get it out.

Because I'm negligent enough to need it a great mom, I have the poison control phone number stuck to the back of my cordless phone. I called, and the guy who answered (who sounded exactly like the guy I talked to last time) assured me
told me, in monotone, that she's probably fine. The lack of urgency in this man's voice tells me that he does not have, or know, any kids worth worrying about.

Moral of the story? This is Laundry's fault, so for the welfare of my children, I should never sort, wash, dry, fold, or put away laundry ever again!

Don't worry...

... I'm still here.

Dearest Readers,

I know all three of you probably miss me right now. Don't worry, I'm coming back to you. Because I love you. And really, it's not you that drove me away, I've just been really busy lately. I've been preoccupied with final projects and exams, but guess what!

MY SEMESTER IS OVER, BABY!

And miraculously, (as always) I came out of another semester ON TOP.

And now I'll be on top of YOU, dear reader, for the rest of my winter break.

As for the laundry piles growing mold in my basement?
Well, I wouldn't say I'm on top of those right now. I'd say it's more like I'm taking it in the ass. And, for the record, that isn't my kind of thing.

For Moms of Thomas Freaks

Despite the show's unusual language and less-than-climactic plots, my shorties looove Thomas and Friends. Naturally, they also love the wooden toy trains from the show. Cece likes throwing the trains around, and James never puts his down. I mean that literally. He sleeps with a train in his hand almost every night. The only times a train is not in his hand is when he has lost it somewhere, which happens more often than both of us like. I'm not even going to describe the panic I have when we can't find his trains. So for Christmas, James will be getting a bunch of new trains to ease my grief and warm his heart.

For those of us who need Thomas crap PRONTO but can't manage to ever get out of the house, there's a great site that should be bookmarked: www.trainsgalore.com

The selection is huge and their prices are better than Target's. I've done lots of price comparisons online (like I said, I never leave the house) and found that I've saved a few bucks on everything I've bought from them. The shipping is $6 (flat rate) and free for orders over $55.

This wisdom is my Christmas gift to frantic mothers of train-loving toddlers everywhere.

Tree Shit

We bought our first real Christmas tree this weekend! I now feel incredibly wholesome and maternal, especially because it's already decorated. It's literally dripping in red and gold bling.

Because this is the first time I've ever been responsible for a tree, I'm just now realizing that Christmas trees kind of fucking suck. I believe this is why we usually find trees outside and not in our homes.

First of all, it takes up approximately 1/3 of our house's 800 total square feet.

Secondly, my newly crawling daughter keeps eating and choking on tree shit.

Lastly, I am living in constant fear that our bulldog is going to a) piss on it or b) hump it, knock it over, and c)kill someone or d) just make a giant mess. Any of these scenarios would really piss me off.

Happy F*cking Holidays

Why I Think My Son Might Be Latino

Ever since he first uttered the word "Mama," I've been suspecting that my son might be latino. Here's why:

He calls them pantalones!

He sometimes uses a "rolling R".

As an infant, he favored maracas to rattles.

His statements usually sound like questions.

Homeboy can dance.

Common language errors include "I have wet!" and "I don't want it this show!"

He sometimes calls me "Me-kai-AY-la" rather than "Michaela" or just "Mom"

His dad wears a tight ponytail.

He's impassioned.

One eyebrow spans the width of his forehead.

He once smiled when I called him Jamesito.

He likes quesadillas more than sandwiches.

Adolescent Angst

Aside from laundry piles and baby poop disasters, the formal essay is the most frequently reoccuring challenge in my life. I obviously like to write. I obviously have things to say. Why do I have so much trouble starting an essay? I have a 6-page paper due on Monday for my Adolescent Lit class. Blegggh. I've procrastinated for an entire week, and I'm now forcing myself to acknowledge the impending deadline.

I've decided to procrastinate further by blogging about my angst. I'm hoping that this will get the creative juices a-flowing.

What is this terrible essay assignment anyway? Well, dear reader, it's not a terrible essay assignment. I am just a terrible essay-starter. I make a really big deal out of getting started on my papers. I work myself up, I talk to people in a whiny, impatient tone (especially if someone actually needs something from me), my skin gets itchy, I pace, I have uncontrollable gas, I go on killing sprees... you get the idea. (I'm kidding about the gas!) Anyhmm, my professor is asking us to discuss the themes of alienation and identity in any four novels we've read this semester.

Tit, right?

So why am I making this so hard?

:-(

I need an opener. Like a quote. Or a WOW thing. I can't get started without one.

I'm really open to any suggestions you've got. Actually, you probably shouldn't even talk to me unless you've got something good. I'm on edge, and I really don't have time for your shit.

See what I mean?

'Tude

 

"Mom, you are so fucking gay." - Cecilia, age 10 months.

Wedding Creepers

Mom and I went to a bridal show yesterday and had some good girl day fun. I met the florist of my dreams, Jay from Golden Gate Studio. My friend Erin used to work for him, but I would hire him even if that weren't the case. I also met some potential photographers. I also spent some time dodging some really creepy DJs and tuxedo rental guys. For some reason, some tuxedo rental salesmen are also self-proclaimed wedding planners, and assure you that they can help you with finding invitations and planning your honeymoon. Really? I mean, some of these guys wouldn't make the guest list if they were my relatives. Why on earth would I pick them to boss me around when I pick out my invites? One guy was standing in the hotel ballroom shouting in capital letters, "WHO'S GETTIN MARRIED! COME GET YOUR FREE STUFF! HEY, YOU, COME OVER HERE! THAT FREE CAKE ISN'T AS GOOD AS THE FREE STUFF I GOT!" Gross.

I was being stalked by a DJ once. I e-mailed his company JUST for pricing info, and wound up on their e-mail blast and calling lists. The worst part was that this retarded DJ wouldn't give me pricing info in an e-mail or over the phone. HE WANTED TO MEET IN PERSON FIRST. That's fucking creepy.

I know what he looks like from his website and I've seen him lurking around dark corners at bridal shows. I ignored him yesterday when I spotted him standing near a really cool photobooth. I wanted to talk with the photobooth guy longer, but when I realized he was part of the DJ's network, I scrammed.

Would you really pay this guy to hang around your wedding? I'm just sayin'...

A Quiet Grace

We had TG (Thanksgiving) dinner at my future sister-in-law's condo today. She just moved in and it already looks great. We drank lots of wine and ate awesome food, and I didn't even eat too much of it. No holiday over-eating guilt here!

Maybe it's the wine talking, but I am actually feeling a little guilty tonight because I never verbally stated the things for which I'm most thankful. I guess I was waiting for some sort of "Grace" ritual before TG dinner, but it never happened. Everyone started eating, and I just sat there peevishly waiting for someone to speak up. (Peevish! HA!) After like, five full minutes, I picked up my fork as if I hadn't been waiting for anything. I just really like some good old Grace before a holiday meal, but I didn't want to interrupt everyone. I just didn't want to be that guy. Not with my fiance's family, anyway.

So here I am, alone at my own dining table. Beside my laptop is an unopened can of Diet Coke. Before I crack it open, I'll Grace it up real nice.

This year, I am thankful for the intangibles in my life: the people, the love, the health, etc. Like most folks, we haven't had a fortunate financial year. We do the best we can with what we have, and our lives are full and happy despite tough times. James and Cece make each day meaningful and important. I am most thankful for my two wonderful, exhausting, impossibly cute kids. This is Cece's first TG, and I'm thankful that it was such a nice one. She had a great day. I'm glad she has a loving family that gave her such a nice first Thanksgiving. I waited my whole life for Cece, my daughter, my beloved, and she is everything I always hoped I'd have. I am also incredibly thankful for my James. OMG I love him like no mother has ever loved a son. To borrow a quote from the pudgy, intense woman from The Real Housewives of New Jersey, "we're thick as thieves!" That's me and James. Real thick. I love the shit out of him.

And also, and of course, and obviously... I am thankful for Gene, and my parents, and family and friends, and Gene's family, and the Kircanskis, and the good health this year has brought us. Gene's pepere was really sick this year, but he made some miraculous comebacks. He tricked us! I love him so much. I hope he has another eighty-eight years of good health, because I really like it when he's around. He's old, and sometimes he's wobbly, but he always plays with James and Cece, no matter how sick he feels. He's always so nice to them. He's so nice to everyone. He's probably been nice to every person he's met in the last eighty-eight years. My god, I'm crying. I am going to open my Diet Coke.

MMM that first sip feels so good!!

Ok, well, lastly, I'm thankful for you, for reading my blog. So far, I think that's just Erin... so Erin, if you're reading this, thanks. And have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

50-something and Fabulous

Before the day is officially over, I'd like to publicly wish my mother a happy birthday.

I love you, Ma.

The Imperfectionist

I've been considering joining my town's chapter of The MOMS Club International.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I went to their open house last week, and felt really nervous about it before I arrived. Here are some reasons for my nervousness:

1. I'm young(ish)
2. The technical term for my socioeconomic status is "broke-ass"
3. I don't have a college degree
4. I'm unmarried
5. My kids sometimes wear dirty socks

I pictured the members of the MOMS Club to be older, wealthier, and, well, classier than me. Need a visual? I shamelessly wear un-hooded sweatshirts that used to belong to my dad. Need another? I let my son look at the poop in his diapers because he always asks to see it. Whatever, it's fine with me.

I guess my point is that I'm an imperfectionist, and this even applies to my parenting style. I love my kids probably more than any other parent in the world, but I really believe that kids (and moms) need some slack.

Thankfully, there are apparently tons of other moms adopting a similar perspective. They're calling it Free Range Parenting. Although I wouldn't use that term to describe my specific (or unspecific) parenting style, I think it's back-to-basics approach is fresh, sensible, and ironically progressive.  It's liberating to know that I'm not the only mom who thinks that baby leashes are kind of fucking lame.

I mailed my application to the MOMS Club today. If I'm accepted, I hope the other moms will give me an opportunity that I did not give them: I hope they get to know me before they make assumptions. I have a lot to learn.

Little Black Book

While I was watching TV the other day, I reached into the end table's drawer to find the remote control. The remote, of course, was not there. I was surprised to instead find a small black book bound in textured leather with a gold emblem on its cover. I instantly knew the book looked familiar. I remember seeing it in my mom's desk drawer when I was a kid. I remember thinking it looked magical.

I didn't have the same sentiment when I saw it in my own drawer the other day. I was a little pissed. My mom just moved and made me take back the hundreds of books she was storing for me for the last few years.  My house is small, so I'd been frusturated about the space I had to give up to accomodate all those books. To be honest, finding the book she'd stashed in my drawer was a little annoying. Until I read it. Then I decided to shut the hell up.

The book: The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
Who is this guy and how does he know so much about me?
Of course, I'd seen his name before, listed after one of his quotes on a greeting card or maybe on some weird inspirational thing (can't think of a good example?)  Out of context, his quotes are kind of vague and don't pack much punch. In the book, they're beautiful and insightful.

This is one of my favorite passages:

"Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgement wage war against your passion and your appetite. . . . Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul. If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas."

Ummm... how did he know that about me?
Also, why am I being so self-centered about it?
More on K.G. later.
I'm looking forward to an early night.

Privates

I was reading my friend Erin's blog a moment ago, and it got me thinking about my blog vs. my life and if it will affect my privacy.

I seriously believe that my mind stopped maturing around age 17. I have been a teenager for eleven years, and possibly forever. I therefore have total disregard for my own privacy.

But, thanks to Erin, it has occured to me that maybe I should approach this blog thing with some caution.

I'm going to a wine tasting tonight (location omitted!) and I will think about it over a few sips of vino and --hopefully-- some free food.

Will report later.

Performing Art

James was about 22 months when this video was taken.

Thanks, Ed.

Headline art credit: Edgar Degas, my favorite painter.

Measures of Central Tendency

For the first time in my life, I’m taking a math class that I really like. It’s Math 139: Contemporary Topics in Mathematics. Contrary to my inital assumption, we do not sit in a circle discussing new mathematical breakthroughs. It’s actually just like any other math class, except it includes relevant applications to its lessons.

Today’s lesson was in Statistics, and it dealt with a term that intrigued me: Measures of Central Tendency. I’m no mathie, but I thought the term was enticing. It actually refers to finding the mean, median, and mode of a set of data. I remember mean, median, and mode from early math classes, maybe in elementary or middle school. To recap: mean is just the average of the numbers, median is the number in the middle of the set, and mode is the number that occurs most frequently. I remember thinking as a kid, Who cares about median and mode?!? The mean is the only important number, anyway. And, in most cases, it really is.

Today I learned a different perspective. Say, for example, a class scored a bunch of different grades on an exam, mostly in the 70’s and 80’s. What if one student scored a 22? If the class was small in size, that stupid 22 would throw off the class’ average score, therefore largely misrepresenting the data. A better way to represent the class’ performance would be to find the median, which would likely be in the mid-70’s.

That phenomenon got me thinking about what interested me in the term Measures of Central Tendency, and how it applies to life.

In math, the median is useful because it is resistant to extremities in data: for example, that stupid 22 doesn’t really matter if you look at the median grade. Therefore, calculating the mean is sometimes a waste of time, when you could just find the median. Finding the median is always easy because you just look at the data’s center, and pick the number in the middle. And life should always be that easy.

If we applied mathematical reasoning to our lives, we might find that sometimes analyzing and calulating is unnecessary because the middle is oftentimes more telling. All too often, we think about our lives in terms of extremities: the breakups, the deaths, the mistakes, the births, the big wins, etc. If we focus on what happens in the middle of these events, the small daily stuff, we’ll find where life is lived. That is the data which should be measured because it tells us about our central tendencies. Look to the middle to find the answers. Make sure the small days in your lives are well-lived and well-remembered.

Starting Point

Hello! Welcome to my blog.

I have been undecided about which blog site I like better: blogspot or wordpress?
I think this site is much more user-friendly. We'll see. For now, I'll have dueling blogs until I figure it out. My other blog is http://www.michaelamae.wordpress.com/

Thanks for visiting my site.

Cheers,
Michaela