daily humiliation


You know it’s been a really long damn time since you blogged when you can’t even remember your login password.  I tried logging in four times before giving up and resetting my password altogether.  Sad.  Just one more thing to reinforce my feelings of inadequacy and LOSER-ish-ness for neglecting my dear Kitty!  Well enough is enough dammit.  If I can’t manage to get my act together enough to at least check in every day or so, then I should just well, I don’t know, stick my fingers in the garbage disposal or something.  (While it’s on, I mean.)  Fortunately however, I don’t have a garbage disposal–and interestingly, this is the first time since I’ve lived here that I’ve felt that is a good thing.  Friggin septic system.  Now I have to scrape my plates in the trash can.  Woe is me.  But hey, at least I won’t accidentally (or on purpose) grind up my fingers in the Insinkerator.  Yay me!

What was I saying now?  Oh yeah.  Write more.  Avoid less.  I’m working on it!

Stay tuned…December may yet be a Nablopomo month for the Daily Nuzz.  I’m sure my two fans can hardly contain themselves.

 

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We went to Sunday Mass with my in-laws this morning.  It’s been awhile (model Catholics we’re not) so we went over our rules and expectations with the kids:  no talking being the main one.  We settled in our pew, and Sophia, being 5, was good for the first 4 minutes.  She then spend the next 45 in various stages of wiggling, whining and whimpering.  During the final 10 minutes or so, I’d had enough of her constant motion and badgering me with “Is it almost overrrrrr?”  So, like any good Catholic mom, I tried to put the fear of God in her.  Our exchange went like this:

“Mom!  Is it almost over?”  (at least she was remembering the “Be quiet” rule, as she kept her voice to a stage whisper.)

“Sophia, I told you no talking in mass!”

“But mom, is it almost over?”

I make the “ZIP IT!” sign.

(whispering LOUDER) “But MOOOOOMMM…”

“Sophia, you need to have good manners in church.  You don’t want to be rude to Jesus in His house.  He can see you, you know.  And God is watching you too.”

(Sophia finally shows a glimmer of understanding.)  “Yes mommy.  And Santa is too.”

As I stand there telling my friends about the time I once fed Emma wasabi thinking it was avocado, I turn around to see Sophia taking a big swig from my Cherry Coke.  With Rum.

Please don’t call the authorities.  I’ve already turned myself in.

So how did the cookout go?  It can be summed up in one little word:

RAIN.

More tomorrow.  I’m tired.

Today I am speaking on behalf of weary homesellers everywhere, particularly those of us who work from home, stay at home by choice, and/or have young children and pets in the home.  This is intended for home buyers and their real estate agents:

Yes I have my home on the market.  Yes, I wish like hell you would come inside and love it and make an offer on the spot.  Yes, I understand that in order to sell my home it must appeal to as wide a demographic as possible, and must meet at least the minimum standard of cleanliness.  I do watch HGTV (although, I must ask, is my choice of bedding really going to be a dealbreaker?).  I have even gone as far as buying cd’s of music I personally hate, just so I can provide “ambiance” for those of you entering my home.  HOWEVER, as I have taken great care to make my home as lovely and inviting as possible, I must ask in turn that you provide some courtesy as well.

Do NOT call my house and leave a MESSAGE saying that you are coming in an hour, and assume that I got that message after having left my house with my bras air-drying on the chair in my bedroom.  That is why I gave you people 2 other phone numbers to call.  I also have 2 dogs.  One is very large and territorial.  I will not be held responsible if you come inside unannounced and he eats you.

Do NOT call my house at 9:47 am and tell me someone wants to show my house at 10:00 am.  Yes, I want my house shown.  However, it is summer vacation.  I do not achieve caffeinated functionality until at least 10.  I am single parenting.  Even with my older child’s help (and by “help”, I am lucky if it’s done without eye-rolling, huffing attitude, and then it’s still half-assed), I canNOT make the beds, vacuum the floors, wipe the toothpaste out of the sink, windex the dog slobber off the windows, put the dirty dishes back in the cabinets because the dishwasher is full and clean, shove the toys under the beds, swiffer the dog hair off the hardwoods, and hustle the dogs and kids out the door in 13 FRICKIN MINUTES.

It takes at LEAST that long just to finish screaming at the kids to “Get dressed!”  “Pick up your damn toys!”  “Turn off the tv and close the cabinets”  “NO you may not have cookies and milk right now!”  “STOP touching the window glass I just cleaned!”  “Who spit all over the bathroom mirror??!”  “GET OUTSIDE and don’t touch anything!!”

Especially do NOT call my house from the driveway and ask if it would be okay to come inside.  Dammit people, we LIVE here.  With kids.  And dogs.  Do you honestly think we are sitting around in our space suits, on our plastic covered furniture, not moving, or eating potato chips straight from the bag in front of the tv?  Sure! come on in!  Just be sure to leave your shoes ON, so you can help grind in those chip crumbs.  They’ll be less noticeable that way.  Oh, and just ignore the lovely lingering smell of cooked bacon.   Do you want some while you’re here?  Just help yourself–it’s still in the pan on the stove.  Maybe when you step outside to check out the deck you could let my dogs back in to lick up the orange juice that someone still didn’t clean off the kitchen floor.  Oh and would you mind handing me a towel…I forgot to grab one when I stepped in the shower a minute ago.

 

 

 

 

Another idyllic afternoon on the cul-de-sac…lovely weather (anything below 90 and sunny is lovely these days), the girls are happily playing with the neighbor’s twins, I’m chatting with their parents.  Being that the twins are of the busy toddler variety, there are 3 adults and 2 older children alternately conversing, playing and chasing/searching for them.  The twins are also of the  “so-cute-you-could-eat-them-up” variety, so I get a real kick out them hanging out in my driveway looking for trouble.  Their smiles can almost make me forget that my 5 year old is actually helping one of them toward certain blunt head trauma as she swiftly pushes her down the driveway on the tricycle.  The kids are blissfully unaware of any potential danger however.  They are giggling with glee as they experiment with the variety of wheeled toys we have in the garage.  They don’t mind the big kid helping them climb on and off, and on and off (and on and off) the plasma car.  They wordlessly ask us to play catch, and engage my girls with nothing more than a giant, runny-nose riddled grin.  I happily bent down time and again to pick up the ball, just to keep the cuties smiling.  Every toddle, every near misstep and stumble, I would sprout another grey hair as I bent over to throw out the “mommy hands”–you know, the ones they give out at the hospital the moment you give birth.  They are similar to the “mommy arm”, which as you know, when thrown outstretched in a vehicle that has come to a sudden, unexpected stop, has the power to do what no seat belt can do alone.   And even though the twins real mommy was there doing it too, it’s just in every mommy’s DNA.

It’s amazing how much time mommies spend crouching down, I realized.  My creaky, pained knees are now telling the story of every dropped toy, every runny nose wipe, every mommy save when someone stumbled.  Soon it was time for everyone to go inside however.  Time to scoop up our respective kiddoes and head off to bedtime.  But not before I had to bend down one more time to help my daughter pick up her toys…

“Hey mom, I can totally see your butt crack.”