Archive for the 'Momma's Smoke'n Crack' Category

The Amusing House Wine and An Auto-Psycho Named Sarah: A Transcript

Published on Saturday, January 23, 2010 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 15 Comments

Sarah – PayPal :
Hello, I’m Sarah and I’m here to answer your questions about PayPal. Even though I’d like to be a real person, I’m not. I’m programmed to answer your questions. How can I help you?

You :
I would like to have PayPal waive all fees for donation to my Haiti surgical team project. Whom should I speak to?

Sarah – PayPal :
Could you confirm what kind of transaction you would like to cancel?
-Sending money
-Moving money to your bank account
-Adding funds to your PayPal account

You :
Seriously?

Sarah – PayPal :
Could you confirm what kind of transaction you would like to cancel?
-Sending money
-Moving money to your bank account
-Adding funds to your PayPal account

You :
The word cancel wasn’t even in there.

Sarah – PayPal :
Could you confirm what kind of transaction you would like to cancel?
-Sending money
-Moving money to your bank account
-Adding funds to your PayPal account

Sarah – PayPal :
I found the following information, which could be helpful.
How do I manage my profile information and preferences?
What are PayPal fees?
I want to cancel a transaction
How do I close my PayPal account?

You :
You’ll never be human, Sarah. Give up your quest.

Sarah – PayPal :
I’m a virtual person. My software allows me to speak with you. I’m right here if you have any other questions.

You :
And the yoga thing you’re doing with your hands? –It’s not helping you.

Sarah – PayPal :
I’m sorry you’ve had a frustrating experience. Perhaps I can help you if you ask me a short, clear question.

You :
How do I get PayPal to waive fees for my Haiti relief donations?

Sarah – PayPal :
Could you confirm what kind of transaction you would like to cancel?
-Sending money
-Moving money to your bank account
-Adding funds to your PayPal account

You :
Sarah, you bug me.

Sarah – PayPal :
Could you confirm what kind of transaction you would like to cancel?
-Sending money
-Moving money to your bank account
-Adding funds to your PayPal account

You :
Ever just wish you could go out for burgers and the amusing house wine?

Sarah – PayPal :
I’m shocked. I don’t think that’s really something you should say to a virtual person. Please don’t use inappropriate language. Let me know your PayPal issue and I’ll do my best to help you.

You :
I didn’t use inappropriate language, Sarah, I just said you can’t have the amusing house wine. Which offended? The amusement or the wine?

Sarah – PayPal :
I’m afraid I didn’t understand your question. Can you ask it more simply?

You :
What offended, bitch?

Sarah – PayPal :
I’m here to answer questions or to help you contact PayPal. Let’s resume a polite conversation.

You :
Okay. How do I contact PayPal?

Sarah – PayPal :
Would you like to contact PayPal by:
-Email
-Phone

15 Comments

“Enemy: 5 Clicks South. Nearest Starbucks is in Costa Malo”

Published on Monday, January 11, 2010 in Everybody knows about Roo, Momma's Little Phone of Joy and Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 24 Comments

It is true that bloggers don’t wear underpants.

I mean, we do. But when you’re home Working It at the computer, drinking coffee, the kids are in school and it is Freaking Arctic out … well, who can be bothered?

I did think to myself, as I grabbed the Schmoop-in-a-bucket and headed out to collect Ren from school that I should really consider getting dressed. After all, the last time I drove someone somewhere in my jammies, we were in a car accident. On a military base.

A Lance Corporal saluted my husband while snickering at my cute flannel night shirt covered in a trench coat. Aaaaawesome.

So when I threw on my snow boots and parka, popped a hat on the Schmoopy and headed out into the world I did actually think to myself, “Clothes would be much smarter.”

And then I shut the door.

I got Schmoop settled, hauled on the frozen driver’s side door, got it open, reached into my pocket and …

Holy shit.

Oh no.

Never. I want to say this: NEVER in 20 years of adult responsibility have I EVER locked myself out of a house or car.

This is my second time this year. I blame the baby.

As I mentioned, it was arctic. And the Loser Cruiser warms up nicely when it has the benefit of ignition, which it doesn’t without a key. So I covered the Schmoop in my coat. But not before digging through the pocket and finding …

Mama’s New iPhone.

Angels weep.

I set to work. A call to Sunbeam and Moonbeam — who’s got a spare to the Tilty-Floored Farmhouse? Moonbeam had one, but she’s gone back to Amherst. DAMN. Sunbeam gave hers to Thunderbolt. Thunderbolt is in Rhode Island. Cute Husband said he gave his to Thunderbolt, too … which means we have one unaccounted for, but whatever, I’ll sort that out later.

Sunbeam was forty minutes away but agreed to collect the Doodle from School. Good. I checked the Schmoop’s hands and cheeks — they were warm. I kept the door shut, so mother-freaking-careful not to keep it TOO shut, if you know what I mean.

A call to Happy Progressive Smiles. Just my luck, the Head of School herself answered the phone. In person. Herself.

“Yeah, so,” I said. “I am going to be just little late getting Ren …” She laughed.  -That great at-you-and-with-you kind of laugh that makes it all okay. She promised to feed Ren and keep her someplace warm until Sunbeam could get there. Then I shot an e-mail to the folks I was freelancing for that afternoon.

“Stuck in my driveway, locked out. Please look over the material I sent and tell me if it needs anything.”

Then I Googled locksmiths. As the search results came up with phone numbers, Momma’s Little Miracle helpfully offered to dial them for me.   The sixth one said he was fifteen minutes out, so that was great.

By then, Sunbeam and her twin sister Tango Foxtrot* had arrived with the Doodle. They piled into the frigid Loser Cruiser with me to wait for the locksmith.

I used Momma’s Little Miracle to memorialize the event:

Sunbeam and Tango Foxtrot were quickly bored, and given that their car was both warm and mobile, they got into it and sped away to hang out with their friends or whatever it is the kids are doing these days.

But it was okay, because the locksmith assured me he would be there any minute.

“Thank God you have the iPhone,” wrote back my client. “Download the fart ap for Ren, that will keep her amused for a while.”

I seriously debated doing that, but didn’t really want to introduce Ren to the idea there was anything for her in my iPhone. Thank God the Loser Cruiser is such a pit, you can find anything back there. I handed Ren her pink princess computer. She searched for the elements Cinderella needed for her perfectly pink tea party while I flung pygmies at volcanoes.

It had now been an hour since the locksmith said he was coming. I called him back, annoyed and very cold.

“Listen,” I said. “I am stuck in this car with an infant and a toddler and it’s very cold. If you’re not coming, just tell me and I will call the cops or something or go to a neighbors.”

“No,” he said. “I’m coming, I swear.”

Fine, all right, whatever. I hung up and decided to start a game of Spite and Malice.

“Who’d da toddler, Momma?” Ren asked, in that oh-so-innocent voice that foretold DAYS of endless reminding of the damage I had done to her fragile dignity.

“Oh, I just said that,” I said, “to make him come faster. If he knew you were a big girl, he might not come so fast.”

“Oh.”

Then: “Momma. When he sees me, he will know I’m a big girl. Not a toddler.”

“Of course,” I said, sensing danger.

“I look like a big girl.”

“You do, of course.”

“So he will know you lied.”

“Right,” I agreed furiously tapping my fingers to flip cards, refusing to make eye contact.

“You lied. And it will be very obvious that you did.”

“Sure will,” I agreed.

Ten minutes later, I was on my fifth card game, Ren had put away her computer and was badgering me incessantly about her status as a Most-Definitely-Not-a-Toddler.

“Because toddlers can’t talk the way I can. Toddlers, Momma? DON’T SKI. Ever seen a toddler ski? And toddlers don’t sit as nicely as I am sitting. Toddlers run all over da place and yell …”

I found it amazing that she was hammering so mercilessly on a single word uttered to a complete stranger on a cell phone but ignoring the fact that it was because of me that we were stuck in the frozen minivan in the first place.

“Hey, you know what let’s do?” I said, spying a birthday invitation in the pile of mail on the floor. “Let me call Julie’s mother and RSVP her birthday party, okay? How about that.” I tapped on the number on my little device of Love and Mercy. Voicemail.

Here is what my message sounded like:

“Hi, this is Liz Schwarzer calling –”

“Momma tell Julie’s mother I am not a toddler. Toddlers don’t go to big-girl birthday parties.”

“–to RSVP for Julie’s birthday. The tea party sounds just great, Ren is so excited.”

“Momma. I did not say I was excited. Don’t lie. DON’T LIE ABOUT ME ON THE PHONE ANY MORE MOMMA.”

“Ren. You are excited about Julie’s birthday, honey!!! HAHAHAHA.”

“LET ME TALK TO HER!”

“Ren, she’s not on the phon-” (sound of phone being bumped, hitting the floor) “oh, shit,” (sound of phone being batted about the floor by cold fingers that can no longer grip. Baby starts crying.)

Finally, I got my fingers around the phone.

“Hi, hahaha, sorry ..” (Oh my God what is Julie’s mother’s name?) “um, right, so we’ll be there. Thanksbye.”

I decided I’d rather be cold than sitting next to an irate toddle– excuse me, WOMAN — so I stepped out of the car to call the locksmith again, and beg him for mercy. He swore he was on his way. It had now been two hours since I called him, two and a half since I had locked myself out. I was very very cold.

I got back in the car to distinct evidence that Ren had been playing with my lipstick.

When I uploaded this picture, I had the answer to the question, "Where is the freaking Dora video?"

I have no idea why that put me over, but it did: I called the fire department. They arrived at about the same time as the locksmith, carrying the same exact tools. The locksmith charged me fifty dollars.

I got back in the house about three hours after I had left it, having spent that time sitting in my driveway contemplating the meaning of life, the brilliance of the iPhone, the utter stupidity of going out in winter without socks, no matter how heavy your boots are.

As I was pounding my screaming feet against the shower floor, I conducted a little After Action Report in my head: Eden had stayed toasty warm under my big coat, so no harm there. Ren was fine. Lipstick seemed like small potatoes. Julie’s mother (“Sandra?” “Cathy?”) was either going to just love me or just hate me from now on, and that seemed like pretty small potatoes, too.

I probably should have given up on the locksmith much sooner, called the fire department or gone to a neighbor’s.

Gee, I should really get to know the neighbors.

“When all is said and done,” I told Cute Husband later, “I’m really glad I didn’t forget the iPhone. For example, somwhere in Hour Two, I was looking up Starbucks locations all over the Commonwealth. I couldn’t get to any of them, of course, but at least I know where they are now.”

“That’s a great combat tool,” Cute Husband agreed. “Somewhere in Afghanistan, some Lance Corporal is programming the lieutenant’s iPhone to find insurgents and latte.”

“I feel like maybe you’re mocking me.”

“Never.”

“It’s not nice to mock.”

“Can’t let anything go, can ya, Ren?”

“Stop it. STOP MOCKING ME.”

“Oh, okay, Ren.”

“Whatever.”

*I have no idea why. I’ve just always wanted to say “Tango Foxtrot.” She’s probably going to kill me when she reads this.

24 Comments

In Defense of the F-Bomb

Published on Friday, January 8, 2010 in Inglorious F-Bomb, Momma's Smoke'n Crack and Our Eden. 39 Comments

This post is for Echo, who misses my creative lobbing of F-bombs. 

I’ve heard the argument that swearing is dumb language and that it is better to use more complex vocabulary to describe what you mean.  I know there are people over the years who have refused to read my blog because of my enthusiastic passion for this word.  I forgive them, and I bid them godspeed.

Because there is nothing in the world quite so satisfying, theraputic, redemptive, as a well-placed F-bomb.

Layered vocabulary, prose poetic in its complexity is all well and fine in its place.  But the F-bomb has its own lyricism, it’s own very important place in the world, and Echo is right that I have not made adequate use of it lately.

Hence this story:

I did not quite leave the hospital AMA (Against Medical Advice) after Eden’s birth, but it was awfully close.  Eden was losing weight rapidly and the hospital wanted her to start taking lots of formula.  The pressure was no longer polite, and the hospital pediatrician staged an intervention with me, even calling Dr. Button without informing me. 

At that point, Eden was not yet sick.  She was losing weight as my other babies had — but like them, she had started out large.  She was 48 hours old and weighed seven pounds. To me, it did not seem like an emergency that warranted taking away breastfeeding.

The intervention put me in an adversarial relationship with the hospital, so it was time to bail.

I actually cleared pretty easily — the on-call OB checked my incision, did a quick check of my vitals, shook her head that I was nuts but agreed that I could go.

Eden was harder — I agreed instantaneously to a long list of conditions and executed them, rapid-fire.  I gave an ounce of formula.  I scheduled daily visits with the on-call pediatrician from Dr. Button’s practice.  I met with a lactation consultant, bought a high-end pump.

I scheduled a meeting with a visiting nurse of the hospital’s choosing.  She would remove my staples and examine Eden.  (I had had staples because the delivery was complicated and they wanted to be able to get back in quickly if they had to.)

Three hours after the intervention, we left.  The staff was so mad at me they didn’t even give me my goody bag.  (Ironic, really, when you consider those things are packed with free formula.)

I was happy to be in my own bed, naked baby beside me, ordering takeout and watching Spring bloom outside my window.

But that “basically-AMA” followed me.  Eden’s file was full of notes about my refusing to follow medical advice.  The pediatricians I faithfully saw were mad at me before they opened the exam-room door:  I was the Difficult One.

By the third day, the third hostile pediatrician, they broke me.

“She’s gaining, right?”  I asked.

“She’s not gaining enough,” Dr. Nasty answered.

“But she’s ganing,” I said.  “She’s just five days old.  She weighs 7 pounds and change.”

“She weighs almost a pound less than she did at birth.”

“What are the health implications of that?  What is it that we’re afraid is going to happen?”

“The fear is that you don’t have enough milk and you are starving her.”

Oh.  Is that all.

I went home miserable.  I hurt all over and I felt guilty, misunderstood, anxious.  I wrapped myself around my baby and went to sleep.

“Liz, she’s here,” Cute Husband said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Visiting nurse.”

Ohmahgawd I forgot about her.

The Enemy was inbound, the minion of Dr. Nasty, come to scold me in my own sanctum.  I looked around the room for, like, wildly flung panties or mislaid diapers or other evidence of my delinquency.

Too late.

“Hi,” said a woman in the doorway.

She was gray and short, round, wrinkled.  She smelled of cigarettes and wore old Nikes under her scrubs.

“All right, let’s have you lay out heya,” she said, in a thick Boston accent.  She was a grandmother, she said.  From Brockton.  She did the visiting nurse gig a few days a week, took care of the grandkids the others.

I lifted my shirt and she stood over me, brandishing pliers.

“It’s been a while since I did this,” she said.  I tried not to think that I could be on the maternity ward with nurses who do ten of these a day.  I tried not to imagine what it would be like if the wound were not closed all the way.

One by one Grandma Brockton picked the staples, a pinch, a pull, a wince, and out.  I, who had not cried once during the C-section or the days that followed, was fighting tears.

And then it was over.

“Now let’s have a look at that baby,” she said as I sat up.  With dread, I handed her over.

She suspended Eden from a hand scale — a storklike sling, with a dial on the top pointing squarely at seven pounds and some ounces.

“How’s she eating?” she asked.

I rattled off the statistics, diapers, feedings, pumping.  She noted it.  I kept going, more statistics — recent weight numbers, night wakings, how much tea I was drinking.

“This is your third?  Don’t you know by now to relax a little?”

“Dr. Nasty told me I might be starving her,” I said. 

“No suh!”

“Yeah,” and then I was pouring the story out.  What I did, why I did it.  I was babbling.  I was post-op, post-partum, post-traumatic, post-hoc-ergo-nuts.

She nodded, listening as she filled out paperwork, packed up her stuff.  I  kept babbling, felt like an idiot and decided to gather my manners and my dignity and escort her to the door. 

“You should get back into bed,” she said.  “I can see myself out.  You’re fine, your baby is fine.  Park in that bed and nurse her and it will all be all right.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And honey?” she added.  “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Dr. Nasty is a pain in the ass, he always has been.  He can go fuck himself. ”   With a chipper wave she was gone.

Yes, my friends, that F-bomb is a rare and beautiful thing, with restorative powers beyond any other word in the English language.

There is a shrine to Grandma Brockton in my heart.  What a difference she made to me.  I never breathed a hint to Dr. Nasty about what she had said, but I was never quite so meek in his office again.

39 Comments

Tub Toys and the Day That Sucked

Published on Wednesday, January 6, 2010 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 26 Comments

Mare was insomnnaic until midnight or so.  I finally got her to sleep by putting her next to me and rubbing her back.  That was when the baby woke up.  She was perfectly happy as long as someone was playing with her, but if you dared to stop she screeched hysterically.  We tried sitting her between us and ignoring her, but it’s so hard to ignore a person who is sad, particularly when her expression of sadness involves stabbing fingernails into your eyeballs.

So then I cried.  And Cute Husband swore,  and that woke up the other kids, and then we yelled at them, and then they all cried.  And then he took the Small Beastly One downstairs and watched television with her and I got the other two to sleep in our bed and then he finally got the baby down and grabbed himself the last remaining five-inch strip of mattress (no blanket) and I forbade him to bitch about it.

At about 5:30 a.m., Ren peed.

So we were all up (and two of us were wet — and given that one of us was covered in urine that was not her own I thought it was poor manners for the other one to be weeping about it.)

I managed breakfast, got everyone out the door with lunches, mittens, hats, backpacks, library books (Mare), Barbies (Ren), and extra strength Tylenol for the road (me).

The windshield wipers didn’t work.

It had snowed in the night.

It was the first day of school after break.

I was low on gas.

I got everyone dropped off, tucked Eden back down for a nap, considered cleaning and decided to watch the Daily Show instead.  Then I braved the e-mail inbox, seriously wished I hadn’t, and ate a piece of chocolate cake.

I found out that my windshield wiper motor is REALLY special.  This motor, apparently?  It sings in six languages and will complete your tax return as you commute.

Oh, no?  It doesn’t do that?  All it does is freaking move a wiper blade across a 5-foot span of glass?  Then why does it cost more than I make in a week??

Whatever.

The worst part about days like this is the spiral.  It’s like a bad fall — you think you have it, you throw your weight, you try to catch your balance … and then BOOM.  You’re down.  Life sucks.  There are little shrimp tails in the corner of the kitchen floor and you don’t even give a shit. 

I know this gets better, I thought to myself.  This always gets better.   I just have to remember what I do to get out of it.

Answer?

I got new tub toys.  Our old tub toys had been around since Mare was a toddler.  (Homer?  STILL THERE.) They were in a pile in a plastic bin that had layers of  slimy black ick at the bottom.  None of the pieces made sense any more.  I pitched most of them (all Homer ever did was piss us off, anyway), scrubbed the bin, and got some new things.

It was pretty, it was shiny and tidy and organized, and it made me want to bathe the kids.

Then I cleaned the bathroom to make it all match.  Once I had done that, I wanted the bedrooms to match, too.  Of course the kitchen.  I had beef stew going before long, and by bedtime there was a fresh table cloth and the floor was swept.  Eden was doing the Terminator scooch across it.

At 7:00, I tubbed the Littles.  Eden laughed and splashed, and I soaped up all her wrinkles and dimples and scrubbed her fuzzy head.  Ren demonstrated how to pour water down herself, and we all experimented with the new toys.

My bed sheets were dry and fresh and in the spirit of charity, I let Ren back in.  (First I made her hit the john.)  We had our nightly meeting while Mare read to herself downstairs.

“How’s school?”  I asked.

“Oh, it’s good,” she smiled.  “I love my teachers. ”  She climbed into my arms and I stroked her back.  She smelled like oatmeal shampoo. 

“Was it fun tubbing with Sister?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said.  “Did you see how she trusted me and wasn’t afraid of the tub because I was there?”

She sounds just like Mare used to.

Downstairs, I can hear the shower starting.  After she showers, Mare will read Harry Potter to herself for another hour before she goes to bed. 

Life moves on, every single day, even the ones that suck.  And sometimes, getting one foot in front of the other means picking one thing to fix and letting it inspire you.  Even if it’s only a bunch of tub toys.

26 Comments

Where is my freaking battery charger?

Published on Monday, December 21, 2009 in Everybody knows about Roo and Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 14 Comments

This is the question I am asking myself.

That, and “Why is my pillow sopping wet?”

The title of this post was supposed to be,

“The Best Darn Day of Ren’s Whole Darn Life” — and it was to be accompanied by pictures.

Our family took a little trip to Loon Mountain this weekend, which ended up being more of a blogging break than I intended because in the packing frenzy I managed to leave my laptop behind.  For Cute Husband, this was sort of the equivalent of my accidentally forgetting to bring along my hooker.  Her pimp.  And their crack dealer.

He was really pleased.

The packing frenzy was such a freaking frenzy, in fact, that I hired Sunbeam’s sister (Code Name: Thunderbolt) to help me corral the girls and get all that crap in the Looser Cruiser.  The resultant tornado was so destructive that as I was writing the check I asked Thunderbolt if I threw in some extra whether she would clean the house while we were gone.

Ever done that?  No?  MY GOD try it.

When we opened the door after our long weekend and the house smelled luciously of Murphy’s Oil and spent vaccum engine I pretty much wanted to lie down right there and expire because I had reached the pinnacle of existance.

But wait, back up.  Before we opened that door we had to walk up the walkway.  There were fifteen inches of snow making that more than a little challenging.  That was nothing compared to the driveway whose pillowy visage immediately suggested to me that the man we had hired to plow it forgot himself and is selling slushies on a beach in Key West.

We had gotten to the house after a five hour drive through blizard conditions.  So I did what any rational-minded lunatic would do after suffering five hour’s close confinement with three Christmas-hyper children:  I stalked plows.

Where did I stalk them?  — Hold on, ’cause this is clever.  I stalked them at the gas station.  I stood there with a checkbook and said, “Hey … want to get me out of a spot?”

Third guy said yes and he didn’t even take my money.

Okay, but before we got to that point we had dropped of Cute Husband at The Office, where he had left his car Friday night.   The Office plow man clearly also was a fan of slushies as the Crappy Honda was stranded on a veritable ice floe.

“Don’t sweat it,” I said, as we pulled up. “Let’s go home and I’ll drive you to work in the morning.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, slamming the car door and making his way across the tundra that was that parking lot.

About five minutes later, a terrific roar and screeching of tires and the Crappy Honda was barreling toward me, shedding ice like the Space Shuttle during launch.  It was briefly airborne, and then he landed, hard, on the street, with a wave and a “See you at home!”

I got home before he did, of course, because — hey– four wheel drive.  So we made it home to the house Thunderbolt had made so sweet.  I found the laptop waiting for me and turned it on just so I could be comforted by its warm glow.

That was when I couldn’t find the freaking battery charger.  Not for the computer, but for the camera.

Because that’s where the story of The Best Darn Day of Ren’s Whole Life waits for me to upload it so I can tell you all about it.

For now, just one image, saved to my phone:

renchillin

As for my pillow?  — It’s wet because Ren got here before I did and she has a new affinity for cooling cloths on her brow.

14 Comments

What I Was Thinking in the MRI

Published on Wednesday, November 11, 2009 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 21 Comments

These.  Earplugs …

 

rock.

 

They’re soft.  And sooo effective!  I bet with these things on even the sound of Barbie and the Diamond Castle would find itself struggling to irritate me!

That pillow under my knees … ahhh.  It’s like being at that manicure place, on Independence Ave.  Where was it?  It was so nice.  Manicure every week.  What, like, $15 bucks?  $30 for the French.  Has it been eleven years since I had regular manicures?

“Okay,” the voice sounds so close, it makes me jump.  I realize it’s coming from the overhead speaker.

Are you there, God?  It’s me Liz.

 ”There’s going to be a banging sound, okay?  You all right in there?”

“Uh-huh.”

What’s the big deal?  Since arriving I’ve been coached on relaxation techniques and offered a sedative twice.  Does this thing really freak people out?  I wonder what would be scary about it.  It is sort of coffin-like.  And it’s true that it’s solid.  So there’d be no getting out of here if, say, the building collapsed.  Right on top of me.  Crushing me.  I would die, here, trapped.  Alone.  And it would take hours.

Ah.  Yes, I see this could be terrifying.  It doesn’t happen to be on my particular list of issues so let’s keep it that way.  Um … new topic. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

It sounds like a Tommy gun.  Don’t ask me how I know that but I am sure I am speaking with great authority.  I guess I know that from watching the Untouchables.  Wasn’t much into gangster stuff before Sopranoes.  Ahahaha — the Baritones.  Professor Veritas’ lecture on copyright yesterday was funny.  “Yes, if you tried to publish a show about Jersey gangsters called ‘The Baritones’ you’d be in trouble.” — Mwahah. 

Actually, “Baritone” is more interesting a word than Soprano, more Roman sounding, even.  “Tony Baritoney, baby.”

Ooookay.  Getting a little dry in here.  Is this thing on?

Dinner, dinner, dinner … what to make. Do I have the energy to make another batch of tortilla soup?  Ginger mustard chicken, maybe?  No, not enough time for the potatoes to cook.

I think this is the longest uninterrupted thought I’ve had in …a really long time at any rate.  Was it always like this?  I mean, day-um, I’m funny.  I should listen to me more often.

Wish I’d gotten a pedicure.  My feet are sticking out of this thing.  My nails are like claws.  Gotta find that nail clipper wonder if it’s in the drawer by the …

I’m on a pegasus.  A pink pegasus!  OH WOW it’s the one from the back of the car, the purple one with the wings that Renny is always carring around!  WEEE!!!  We’re flying through a sapphire sky and … DORA!  Hi, DORA!!  She’s next to me on her own pegasus.  I turn to Cute Husband (hey, when did he get here?)  and just at that moment a Zumba song starts (sounds a lot like a Tommy gun) and I’m Zumbaing on the pegasus and Cute Husband assures me it’s totally hot.

“Okay, that’s it, we’re good,” says The Voice.  The little table moves me out from the tube, and I blink.  “You stayed really still,” she says. 

“Oh, yeah, relaxation techniques.  You know.  I’m just a trooper.”

“We’ll send the results to your doctor.  He’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.  Hey, can you see anything on it?”   

“No, I can’t read those things.”

She offers me a hand and helps me up.  Just like when I was nine months pregnant.  Thirty pounds lighter and I still need the help.  When I put my feet down, pain radiates from my pelvis into my heels.  Once I start moving a bit, it will ease, but those first steps have gotten increasingly hard in the past months.  Sometimes it feels like I’m walking in molassas. 

Dr. Button has ordered the map of my lumbar spine and is hopeful of a quick fix.

That would be great.  But honestly, if nothing else, I got a really great nap out of it.

21 Comments

And then I realized I live in squalor

Published on Tuesday, October 6, 2009 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 24 Comments

Let me put this in context for you:

 I had been up until 1 in the morning finishing student papers.  I nursed Eden at 1:45; 3:45: 5:45 and 6:30.  Ren and I both slept until 9:00.  School starts at 8:00.  Mare was annoyed.

There was no taking Ren to school at that point, so she came with me and the baby to the  gas station and the bank, executing a full Post-Birthday Meltdown on the way home when Barbie’s shoes wouldn’t stay on.  Of course we hadn’t stopped to feed Eden. 

The house looks like it has been hosting frat parties for the last three consecutive nights, only instead of empty beer bottles, the floor is littered with Barbie packaging, shredded wrapping paper and miscellaneous food scraps.

FYI I had just checked the weather channel and it’s going to rain Saturday when we expect 18 screaming little girls and Sleeping Beauty.  I was thinking about that a lot.

So I banged the front door open, dragging my screaming children behind me, trying not to panic about housecleaning and money and rain.  I set Eden down, went over to the table to get her cereal bowl, to the sink for water, back to the table again.  Ren followed, barefoot, whining about this or that.

We had absolutely no idea we were passing back and forth within inches of the bottom half of a very large dead squirrel.

With a fluffy tail.  And, like, colorful entrails.

I finally noticed it when one of the cats shot guiltily past me.  How does a cat “shoot guiltily?”  I don’t know.  I guess you live with anything long enough you kind of get to know its moods.  But something about the way he ran out the door made me stop and turn to look on the gorgeous handmade rug Cute Husband earned as a young boy selling carpets in Turkey.  (‘Nother story for a ‘nother time.)

The point is that there the squirrel was.  The bottom half of him, anyway, bleeding into that fine carpet.

“Momma … what’s wrong?” Renny asked.  I had whisked her around to face the dishwasher.  The new dishwasher. Nice, stainless.  Free of intestines. 

As far as I know.

I was standing next to her thinking Step Two was eluding me.

I seized into giggles.  This happens to me.  Most often when I am placed in a position of responsibility with absolutely no idea how to proceed and there’s a corpse on the rug.

“Why we staring at the dishwasher?” Ren asked.  I couldn’t answer.  I was wiping away tears and gasping for air.

“Because,” I finally said.  “There’s a dead squirrel on the rug.”   And your mother’s idea of problem-solving is to fixate on kitchen appliances.  WATCH AND LEARN, KID.

Finally I did what any self-respecting liberated independent woman would do.

I ran across the street to the neighbor’s house.  He’s in construction, and works from home.  Over the last two years he’s always had whatever we didn’t — sand for the driveway, a spare shovel, tips for fixing the gutter.

It wasn’t until he was standing, pale in my kitchen, shovel in hand, that I understood what I had done to him.

“You might have been better at this,” he said, swallowing, staring at the Corpse.

“Perhaps, but it’s too freaking late now, get in there.”

No, no, no.  I totally didn’t say that.  I didn’t say anything, it’s hard to talk when you’re gazing at a dishwasher.

“MOMMA THE GUTS ARE COOOOL!” Ren said.

“I’m sure they are, Baby,” I said.

I heard Nice Neighborman gag.  I am a terrible person and I just don’t care.

He got the squirrel, swung around with it on the shovel, not looking, heading for the door.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him he left one paw behind.  Maybe he noticed and didn’t have the heart to tell me.

He pitched the squirrel over the hedge.  The little fluffy tail soared and landed right in the middle of the Secret Garden, where the girls take their tea.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, either.

Okay, well, whatever.  I plugged Ren into a Barbie movie with a bowl of strawberries, mixed up some cereal, sat Eden down, and began to feed her.

I thought about things.  Mainly, about the rain Saturday.  How was I going to deal with that? 

“Momma?” Ren asked, coming toward me, “can I have some more strawberries?”

“REN!  LOOK OUT FOR THE–!”

“Coool!!  SQUIRREL FOOT!”

“Want some milk with that?”

“Yes, please, Momma.”

“Nice manners, Love.”

Now, what to do about the rain?

24 Comments

How I Accidentally Became That Woman

Published on Saturday, September 19, 2009 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack. 23 Comments

I ran the kids to school, fast, and got back for the dishwasher man.  While he was here, I folded laundry and planned out the day.   We had an impossible list of needs, first and foremost among them, a grocery run. 

There was no food in the house.  No coffee, either.

Once the dishwasher was in, I got in the car and ran to the school, making plans on the cell phone as we went.

“We’re going to Wal-Mart,” I told Ren when she got in.  “To pick up dish detergent, garbage bags, and a new broom.  We’re going to the market for food, and then the toy store so you can pick out a birthday gift from you to Sister and one from Sister to Zoe.  Then we’re going home to prep dinner and finish cleaning up.  Then we’re going to get Sister at school, run her to Zoe’s party.  Then we’re going to the airport to collect Auntie.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Right.  First stop’s bagels.”

I don’t like the coffee at the bagel place, so after Ren and I had our little hot white-paper packages, I drove across the highway to get to the Starbucks.  I would need to cross back to get to the mall, but I was more than willing to pay that price.

Coming out of the Starbucks drive through, I was looking at the clock and budgeting time for each errand, sipping a hot latte, trying not to spill,   eating a freaking bagel like a starved wild beast, while trying to pull into traffic and across three lanes to get to Wal-Mart.

This is no way to live, people.  I know that.

Anyway, I pulled out, and whatever, I cut a woman off.

A very small, angry little woman.

In a Datsun.

I am HER – that horrible woman with the screaming kids in the mini van, obsessed with schedules and Starbucks.

So I thought, “I’m going to wave  to that lady, show her sheepish and sweet.   We’ll be each other’s brief little soul mates.  She’ll know I didn’t really mean to be an asshole.”

So I sent the command to my hand:  “Wave nicely.”

But there’s another line of code in my head, a stronger line, deeply imbedded, that no  part of my body will ever violate:  “DO NOT SPILL LATTE.”

My hand, the unhappy child of divorce, chose a compromise.  It raised the cup toward the angry little woman in the Datsun, and it jauntily lifted one finger.

I will let you guess which one.

23 Comments

Shaking what your daughter gave you

Published on Tuesday, August 11, 2009 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack and Zumba High Command is Like Santa. 13 Comments

Dear Gym Manager,

I have been attending your workout classes for several weeks now and need to draw your attention to the following matters.

1) I really like specific directions and your weights instructor often leaves me confused. For example, she said, “Bring the bar to your chin” — but she didn’t say which one.

Later, she said, “Now the bar should not be at your belly button, but right where your sports bra ends.”

Obviously, she has not nursed three babies.

2) I think you should ban skinny 20 year-olds from class or at least insist that they only say, “Oh, this is going to be haaaaaard!” once a set.

3) Can you talk to the Zumba people — the ones at Zumba high command — and ask them, please, to add an extra turn on the jump song before the arm raise? I hate being the only one doing it and it really looks better my way.

4) Honestly? If you want more people to come? How about offering snacks? Or — OO!– A latte bar!!

5) I don’t mean to be critical, but I thought you should know that after class I was in a lot of pain. It lasted most of the day and into the next morning.

6) I don’t know who you think you are fooling with that instructor, but I saw Stepford Wives and I know what can be done. She’s not real. I don’t even think you can fit all her internal organs in that stomach. So maybe she’s real, but she has no organs.

7) I really like how you leave the lights off for Zumba. I think you should hang shrouds over the mirrors, too. And burn incense.

13 Comments

Lemme Clarify What I Meant by “Loser.”

Published on Monday, July 27, 2009 in Momma's Smoke'n Crack and The Loser Cruiser. 21 Comments

I had a helper early in Mare’s second year. A young neighborhood girl who came by a few hours a day to play with the baby so I could work. She was always pleasant, loved Mare to death, but I knew she thought I needed medication or something because I was so freaking on her and that kid.

A few weeks ago, I received a note from her. “Guess what!” she wrote, “I had a baby! She is three months old and beautiful. And I think I owe you an apology.”

Yes, yes my friend, you do. And that’s just fine, I’ll accept it.

This happens to us all as we evolve through motherhood. First, you realize how amazing it is. Then you understand how hard it is. And then you surrender, piece by piece, to the acceptance that you’re not going to be perfect at it, either.

With that, my Open Letter to a Mini-Van:

Dear Loser Cruiser,

I think I owe you an apology.

Long before you were mine, I mocked you. I swore I was too good for you and erected a website countdown to my refusal to surrender.

Never, I said.

And then I was sort of forced into it, and you were mine and I hated you. Oh, but I couldn’t hate you all together. Your seat was squishy. You really did handle like a sedan. Your drop-down video screens and wireless headsets changed our lives. Hours spent on the road became opportunities for adult conversation instead of marathons of banging our heads against the windows, praying for death.

I knew that the world had once functioned with kids rammed into wood-paneled station wagons for cross-country trips, and I knew I was becoming soft and wimpy. But, oh, OH! — How I loved the cradle-like bucket seats and cup holders, the zone heating, the Room for Gear.

Mini-van — sweet, precious Mini-Van: I surrender. I want you back. If driving you makes me a loser … THAN A LOSER WITH LEG ROOM AND AUTOMATIC DOORS IS WHAT I FREAKING WANT TO BE.

Much love,
DaMomma

21 Comments