"The Democrats are waving the white flag of surrender in Iraq. As President, I will never surrender."
John McCain, today
Saturday, February 2, 2008
More On The High End Offspring I'm Producing
Merrick came tearing into the kitchen, bursting with pride. Pop! Pop!
"Look at what I can do!"
Before the Matron can exhale or encourage, his pants and Batman underwear are on the floor and he hangs a rubber band on his penis, where it stays, wobbling.
"Look at what I can do!"
Before the Matron can exhale or encourage, his pants and Batman underwear are on the floor and he hangs a rubber band on his penis, where it stays, wobbling.
Sorry, Sweetie
A gifted singer and songwriter, my husband plans to enter a talent show during an upcoming real estate convention.
Talent show? Real estate convention? Perhaps they'll serve special grape Kool-Aid during the dirge.
Before you start sending us wool socks and new underwear - John's business is going great. Turns out those progressive, populist,left-leaning Buddhist values make him a gem among the nebulous. There's always a good guy or two in the maligned professions and who better to turn to when the going's rough?
Back to the talent show. John's plan? "I'm going to write the epic realtor song."
Let's see how that's working for me---epic and realtor.
Nope.
Talent show? Real estate convention? Perhaps they'll serve special grape Kool-Aid during the dirge.
Before you start sending us wool socks and new underwear - John's business is going great. Turns out those progressive, populist,left-leaning Buddhist values make him a gem among the nebulous. There's always a good guy or two in the maligned professions and who better to turn to when the going's rough?
Back to the talent show. John's plan? "I'm going to write the epic realtor song."
Let's see how that's working for me---epic and realtor.
Nope.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Near Miss
Remember Scarlett of the polymorphous tummy, the organ that Freud built?
Well, she suddenly sprouted eczema: angry, itchy, bloody. I play the allopathic-naturopathic Russian Roulette and this time landed the homeopath, who strongly suspected a wheat allergy.
See this? Bread is Scarlett's Secret Boyfriend Number 1 through Infinity.
For the past few weeks, she goes maybe ten minutes without some kind of wheat product and considers that mission accomplished. But then the eczema rendered her knuckles red weepy welts at the same time the tummy aches became unbearable.
Scarlett: "I'm not going to eat wheat. Ever. Stop me if I want some."
Me (truthfully): "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I can't help it."
Scarlett: "I won't beg and cry. I really really want to try to make this go away."
Me: "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I'm your mother."
The mother is also not totally convinced of the wheat-eczema-tummy connection, given the daughter's histrionic history. If you ever feel worried about your child's mental health, just click the label Scarlett and know she is aptly named.
Ever meet a three-year-old whose decision to stop pooping had real follow through? For like a month. And then did it all over again?
Now you have.
And that drama finally ended when a very wise parenting teacher advised me to ask Scarlett who was in charge of her poop, mom or Scarlett. Well. We had that all mixed up.
So . . . Scarlett went two complete days without wheat. No tummy aches! The eczema faded pale pink. Once again, homeopathy triumphed over reason (complicated, dubious, but enduring relationship with homeopathy exists here).
Then we made the mistake of going to a brothel called Bread and Chocolate for hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls.
Should an alcoholic own a liquor store? Just popped into my mind.
Scarlett sulked and pouted over her hot cocoa. The whipped cream was unsightly and the chocolate sprinkles stunk. She scowled. When Stryker bit into his cinnamon roll--steamy, soft and dripping with icing--her moan was audible.
But no crying or begging! I had thrown down that flag and was waiting its arrival.
Damn, that girl is good. She took a more passive, darker path of small puppy whimpers, inability to make eye contact and refusal of cocoa, cream and milk.
Finally, me: "Do you really want a cinnamon roll? Even if it means a tummy ache and eczema?"
Scarlett: "YES! I DON'T CARE."
Stryker (licking icing off his plate with utter lack of irony): "Scarlett, you have no self-control."
Me: "Honey, I'll be so disappointed. You've done so well!" (Freud snickers)
A short time passes while the storm clouds quicken and swell.
Finally, me: "Scarlett?"
Daughter: "I can't have a cinnamon roll because you'll be disappointed. Maybe even angry at me."
CLANG CLANG CLANG GO THE THERAPY BELLS.
Me: "I will have no emotion whatsoever connected with what you eat. Nothing. You are 100% in charge of what goes in and out of your body and that is not related to me. I bet you can make your own good decisions by listening to your body."
Cinnamon rolls were had by all. Make mine a double.
Well, she suddenly sprouted eczema: angry, itchy, bloody. I play the allopathic-naturopathic Russian Roulette and this time landed the homeopath, who strongly suspected a wheat allergy.
See this? Bread is Scarlett's Secret Boyfriend Number 1 through Infinity.
For the past few weeks, she goes maybe ten minutes without some kind of wheat product and considers that mission accomplished. But then the eczema rendered her knuckles red weepy welts at the same time the tummy aches became unbearable.
Scarlett: "I'm not going to eat wheat. Ever. Stop me if I want some."
Me (truthfully): "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I can't help it."
Scarlett: "I won't beg and cry. I really really want to try to make this go away."
Me: "If you beg and cry for food, I'll give you some. I'm your mother."
The mother is also not totally convinced of the wheat-eczema-tummy connection, given the daughter's histrionic history. If you ever feel worried about your child's mental health, just click the label Scarlett and know she is aptly named.
Ever meet a three-year-old whose decision to stop pooping had real follow through? For like a month. And then did it all over again?
Now you have.
And that drama finally ended when a very wise parenting teacher advised me to ask Scarlett who was in charge of her poop, mom or Scarlett. Well. We had that all mixed up.
So . . . Scarlett went two complete days without wheat. No tummy aches! The eczema faded pale pink. Once again, homeopathy triumphed over reason (complicated, dubious, but enduring relationship with homeopathy exists here).
Then we made the mistake of going to a brothel called Bread and Chocolate for hot cocoa and cinnamon rolls.
Should an alcoholic own a liquor store? Just popped into my mind.
Scarlett sulked and pouted over her hot cocoa. The whipped cream was unsightly and the chocolate sprinkles stunk. She scowled. When Stryker bit into his cinnamon roll--steamy, soft and dripping with icing--her moan was audible.
But no crying or begging! I had thrown down that flag and was waiting its arrival.
Damn, that girl is good. She took a more passive, darker path of small puppy whimpers, inability to make eye contact and refusal of cocoa, cream and milk.
Finally, me: "Do you really want a cinnamon roll? Even if it means a tummy ache and eczema?"
Scarlett: "YES! I DON'T CARE."
Stryker (licking icing off his plate with utter lack of irony): "Scarlett, you have no self-control."
Me: "Honey, I'll be so disappointed. You've done so well!" (Freud snickers)
A short time passes while the storm clouds quicken and swell.
Finally, me: "Scarlett?"
Daughter: "I can't have a cinnamon roll because you'll be disappointed. Maybe even angry at me."
CLANG CLANG CLANG GO THE THERAPY BELLS.
Me: "I will have no emotion whatsoever connected with what you eat. Nothing. You are 100% in charge of what goes in and out of your body and that is not related to me. I bet you can make your own good decisions by listening to your body."
Cinnamon rolls were had by all. Make mine a double.
The Matron Likes Bling
Because it makes her feel, well, less matronly. Thanks, Green Girl, for words that make this fair cheek shift red. Not so bad over there across the fence, yourself.These shall find a permanent place on the blog, sorta like Oscars.
Sure, exactly like Oscars!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Good Art Keeps the Matron Fighting
You know how that pimply guy bagging your groceries might be writing the next great American novel? How he might actually be amazing, the real deal and all that - and waaaaay richer than you someday?
Well.
Once a week, Raw Creative Power walks into our house and gives two of our children voice and piano lessons, as if she is ordinary flesh.
And her skin is crystal clear. Some people get all the cards.
About four times a week, I click and listen to the song Falling. And cry -- because I remember and Liz captures. Falling is like the third song down on the list. Not like I'm directing.
Now for the moment the Matron nails her argument! Liz recorded this using the mic on her laptop!! Jewell has technology but Liz . . . she's that bagger, only better.
Well.
Once a week, Raw Creative Power walks into our house and gives two of our children voice and piano lessons, as if she is ordinary flesh.
And her skin is crystal clear. Some people get all the cards.
About four times a week, I click and listen to the song Falling. And cry -- because I remember and Liz captures. Falling is like the third song down on the list. Not like I'm directing.
Now for the moment the Matron nails her argument! Liz recorded this using the mic on her laptop!! Jewell has technology but Liz . . . she's that bagger, only better.
You Know Where This is Going, Girlfriend
Five years and three months ago, we bought and moved into the house we live in now.
Bonus! Even though the digs were nearly 100 years old, they included a kick-ass closet off the master bedroom ( we think it might've been a small nursery) with an amazing shoe rack--space for bountiful Shoe.
John and I very fairly divided the rack in two: half for Him and half for Her.
Today, John asked me: "How come your shoes have now taken over the entire shoe rack and my three pair are under the dresser?"
Me: "When you tell me why you, Stryker and Merrick are physically incapable of touching a toilet seat and gently moving it in a downward direction to rest on its match, I'll let you know."
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