viewer discretion

Okay I'm taking a major risk by even mentioning this, but as a parent, I am compelled to share a little landmark occasion in the life and consciousness of my first born.

I'm certain 99% of you will storm my house, torches ablaze, but sometimes I let my kids stay up and watch a little grown-up prime time tv with me. Our favorite shows in syndication are Will & Grace and Frasier, the latter being the drier and more cerebral of the two. I have very specific reasons for allowing my kids to view these programs, and I always love to hear them chuckling over the subtleties and soaking in whatever cultural/social diversity they can.

We have this rule in our house, though I LOATHE television in the daytime, as well as most other times, especially Disney Channel propaganda bullshit, but we have this rule that if for some reason I oversleep, my kids can watch tv until I wake up. This rarely happens, as I am a serious early bird. But this morning, as well as a couple weeks ago, I did oversleep, and Quinn was watching the tube. As I fumbled around for my coffee, I noticed he was watching Frasier, as opposed to the various "children's" channels. This morning, in fact, he was suffering through ten minutes of the Golden Girls just waiting for Frasier to start. Strike me down, but it warmed my heart. I still hate tv, but it signifies that his sensibilities are becoming more sophisticated, and frankly, I think the "kid" channels are more damaging for them than anything aimed at adults. The way in which these children speak to adults, and to each other, as well as their obsession with drama, fashion, and status, makes me want to bomb the networks, whereas the well-scripted, adult debauchery seems better suited to its cast(s), and of course, its audience.

It's not so much that I'm proud of my son watching adult programming, it's that his preference is showing some refinement, and exquisite taste I might add. I know most of you will disagree with me on principle, and I can take it, mostly because there's a Frasier marathon on...

pombardment!

Todd is inexplicably drawn to Grocery Outlet, a fact which I find to be a bit scandalous, given his high standards where food is concerned. Me, I'm just a snob, and can't quite bring myself to buy diet TAB, which are placed next to the garden rakes, which draws one's eye straight to the pyramid of off-brand Pepto Bismal. It's just too damned higgeldy piggeldy in there for me. I don't think the cereal and fertilizer should share a display, and I must reveal the true retail beast within me and confess that such a vast array of non-brands makes me feel like I'm in a foreign country. Crapland.

Anyway, every so often, if a person is crazy enough to go in several times a week, a person can find good deals. It's like the lottery. After all, that coconut chocolate bar from my previous blog post was found at Grocery Outlet. We've also gotten Amy's frozen entrees, and lots and lots and lots of candy. (Proof of G.O.'s spell, for Todd doesn't even like candy, yet he comes home with wheelbarrows full of chocolate [gag!] every few days.)

I never know how to react to the disgustingly yellow bags he brings in by the dozen because whatever he has found, he has bought 75 of them. Could be Kit Kats, could be a deep-dish mushroom souffle with spelt crust and tartar sauce topping. But if it is a delicious chicken, broccoli, cheese casserole, there will never be another one again. Ever.

"I thought it looked interesting." He'll say. Frequently, after baking some rank concoction, he'll catch me the next time I head out the door and say, pleadingly, "Please offer these (74 packages of) souffles to (whomever)."

Okay let me get to my point. Todd has gone completely mad over those P♥M juices, in their tall sleek glasses. He is so taken with them that he buys 20 at a time, and we can scarcely fit milk in the refrigerator, for all the P♥M. Oh, and we don't really even like it that much. Sure the first few seconds elicit a Hawaiian Punch-like response in your mouth, but then the furious bitter receptor taste buds rise up and let you know just how wrong you were. Blech. I have long said that while one hard-earned pomegranate seed is delicious, a bowl of them is bitter as hell, and the juice is no different. Since nothing else will fit the refrigerator, we have no orange juice or anything, so we drink P♥M. So he keeps buying it. The problem here is that the glasses are glasses, not plastic. In other words, not disposable. So we have them all. ALL. They're lined up in our cupboard like shiny soldiers, they adorn our counter tops, they have permanent residence in at least one half of our sink, and if you were thinking about putting a cup on the top rack of the dishwasher, fuggedaboudit.

So what do we do? Should I start smuggling four glasses into every house I visit and leave them in the cupboards like some weird reverse bandit? I felt less overrun by our four mice, who produced approximately 97 babies each day. Todd suggested the glasses might make a nice vase, but A) Our yard is gravel, so not a lot of pretty things waiting to be picked, and B) The glasses aren't nice enough to give as a vase. You know? Like, "Here Megan, in honour of your birth I brought these beautiful rocks, in this totally frou-frou P♥M vase. Happy trashmoon, er, babymoon." Also, I can't move them fast enough doling them out one at a time.

Fortunately, our entire set of cobalt blue chunky glasses broke over the course of the past month, all 12 of them. They were a wedding gift so after 13 years I was ready for a change, plus it made room for our P♥Mware. Ooh lah lah.

What, you know you're jealous.





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same song, second verse

No, if I have to go to the (beeping) coast AGAIN, then you you have to read about it AGAIN. Seriously. I've never been one for stoicism. I'm dragging all your asses down with me.

Todd has taken the kids to the beach for several weekends in a row, with the big build-up being that on the 4th of July, Mama was coming too. While I did manage to get one corner of my mouth to lift a little, I noticed my kids were wearing pretty thin with this routine. I hate to say this, because Todd busts his ass to show us a good time, and if I do say so, forks out a pretty penny as well, but there are only so many things we can do there. We lived there for ten years, so the otters and sea lions on the bayfront aren't exactly evoking shrieks of delight, and we're surely not reducing ourselves to some touristy bullshit like Ripleys or a whale watching boat, whereupon one learns just how fucking stinky those lurky, terrifying creatures are. For $60. So we mostly hang at the beach until I whine that I'm getting emaciated and when is lunch? Then we trudge up this monstrous hill, which I'm almost certain was crafted by satan himself, and after I'm artificially revived, we head to Grand Central, where my kids are now convinced that I will be shat upon by another bird. (They know about my luck, as do some of you.) After lunch we hit Ray's Food Place and gather those goodies that are only permissible because A)someone else is paying and B) that person is not looking. Then we rent a movie at Chuck's, and go BACK down the devil hill, costing me what precious little meniscal tissue I have left in my knees. I sit on my ass pretending that the fire builds itself, and that I deserve bonus points for, well, being there, and making a good show. At one point I lay on my stomach to read, in my make-shift bedroom, and a furious gust of sand blew right down my back and deep (DEEP!) into my underwear. In case you're wondering, there is no discreet way to dislodge? scrape? remove? a sandstorm from your crack. So you just nod to yourself "I'm roughing it," and feel thankful that if anyone can distract your from your gritty dilemma, it's David Sedaris. The s'mores weren't as good this time, and I was reminded that I hate chocolate. Back up at the "bungalow." (read: 30-ft. travel trailer from the 60's, in all its original splendor, er, putrescence) After settling in for a movie, I became tired and went to bed on the only big, regular bed. This is no mystery. I'm fat and as such, have weak joints and a whole mess of shit that entitles me to the bed. But, entitled though I may have felt, I was appropriately chagrined to wake up alone and find out that no one wanted to sleep with my snoring. As it was they shut all the doors leading to the bedroom and slept together in a heap, in hopes of insulating themselves from the offensive guttural gasping.

I meant to take a picture of the shower in this place. It was torn out of a dollhouse and moved into this trailer. Anyway, yesterday morning, while T walked on the beach, I wanted there to be no doubt about our imminent departure so I rather shittily packed everything. I then decided to skip a shower (a first for me, ever in my life), and speed home. I must say that for all my incessant whining, my kids were so glad to be there with me, and we did capture some smiles, even mine, though I apologize now for the barnacles embedded in my teeth. Smiling kids is what it's all about...well, that and hitting Starbucks on the way out, even if they only had reduced fat cinnamon crumble cake.

My bedroom, with a well-stocked bedside stand:

Pyro-Papa:

Proof that I can crack a smile even when the nearest Old Navy is 100 miles away:

Mama's beach beauty:

Quinn, intent on starting the bonfire:

Some people look radiant on the beach. I look like a beached manatee. And this is Quinn's new "I-don't-want-my-picture-taken face:"

Possibly the only moment in which Reilly has been still her entire life. My sweet girl:

surviving by a hair

Suffice it to say the single most traumatic aspect of parenting Quinn is forcing him to get his haircut. Yes I know all my friends think I am the devil for continuing to keep him shorn when he so desires his locks flowing in the wind, but this is not the point of my post.

Today was Black Wednesday, which means a pall was cast over the sky as we drove to Supercuts to do the unthinkable. Needless to say Quinn became emotional and crossed the threshold of acceptable opposition. I stuck to my guns though, and we emerged with one short-haired pissed-off boy, and a guilt-riddled pissed-off mother. His reaction escalated during our car ride, enough so that he knew he was in for some consequences.

Interjection: While at the "salon" we saw a woman who was mentally and physically impared getting a trim. My kids were naturally curious, and very solemn about it. They talked later about how sad it was that she was confined to a wheelchair, and had clearly never walked, and how she seemed to have no choice about her haircut.

So after flipping through all the appropriate (and inappropriate) responses to Quinn's meltdown, wherein he claimed his very life had been cheapened beyond recognition, and that he would obviously amount to nothing in life, I decided once we were home and he was exhausted from listing the ways in which I had rendered him at a tragic and permanent disadvantage, not to mention all the imperfections about the haircut, that he was going to write me a list of things for which he was grateful. While I ran out on some errands, this is what he came up with:



Perhaps, just perhaps, he's going to make it after all.

(Spare me the emails advocating for his Rapunzel rights.)

pool sharks

I come from a swimming family, and it makes me giddy, down to my cells, to see Quinn and Reilly gliding effortlessly from one end of the pool to the other, putting those long-ass (Quinn), muscular (Rei) bodies to use. After last week's scare, I am just so happy to have healthy happy children splashing about...that is, until someone gets my phone wet. Then there's hell to pay!

Feel free to join us!

l'ete accoutrements

These are some of the things that signify summer's commencement to me, and things upon which I rely and/or abuse until that last ray of summer sunshine fades into a fabulous new fall, and all its addictions. :)

Friends, I am in crisis with this stuff. I am joining L.A. (limeade anonymous) immediately. I've been known to drink a gallon a day. :(

Old Navy flip flops. I mean, come on, they come in my size AND rainbow colors!

OPI nail polish. The perfect complement to the flip flops:

I suppose C.E.A. is in order as well (circle earrings anonymous):

The uber-essential hair claw:

Mine is much much cuter, all Frenchy with polka dots, but a fatsuit nonetheless:

Duh:

Starbucks iced tea (or coffee, really). Sometimes four times a day. Always unsweetened:

Better than any dessert known to man...unless it's sour or pithy or otherwise shitty:

Breakfast lunch and dinner:


And of course, just when summer bliss peaks, I have another fucking birthday, and whine and cry and start telling everyone I'm 40.

But if you can grit your teeth through my aging process and all the tears and irrational outbursts, have a great summer!

middlesucks

Seriously. I must keep this brief because A) Let's face it, it's about time, and B) I'd be a hypocrite to malign Middlesex's 529 pages, in my typically loquacious fashion now wouldn't I?

But I hated this book. It sucked the marrow from my life for like five months. Don't get me wrong, I read as fast as y'all, but I have been a prisoner of this unending yarn for so long I was sort of hoping to develop Stockholm Syndrome, just never got that lucky. I really could only take five pages at a time before a strand of hair on the carpet would catch my eye and off I'd go. I'd see the book on the nightstand sneering at me, daring me to resume the epic trek through the quagmire, and I'd grab it, determined to find/contrive a fresh outlook. But it was no use. For all her notable experiences, I just didn't five a shit about Desdemona, and cared even less for Lefty. There was absolutely nothing about them that gave me a foothold for pathos, and I was thusly dragged through their disappointing, beige, lives.

Even the crocus failed to engage me. (Ew.) Eugenides' use of humor was appallingly sparse, and his back story practically predated Genesis. The characters were bland like hospital food, and the author (finally) ended the book right where the story would have gotten interesting.

But don't let my critique fool you, he lost me at the mushroomy smell and for that I make no apologies.

buy the book

This time I just really wish you all could have been there. It's damned near indescribable. So surreal words won't do it justice, but I'll take a crack at it. The setting for this unfathomable occurrence was Costco, yesterday. The kids and I were hustling through the warehouse, and its $9,000 patio sets, in search of humbler things like Goldfish crackers and of course, my psych meds du jour. As we sped past the books, I made a note to myself to check back on the way around to look for David Sedaris' new book, which has received much acclaim by Adam and B. In fact they've taken to reading me excerpts sometimes as long as 35 pages. I wasn't sure Costco would sell a Sedaris book, and if they did, I was going to buy a copy when I get my allowance Friday. Oh God, I'm afraid a little background on my allowance is in order. It's a very touchy subject but it works something like this: Todd makes a respectable chunk of change and gives me a comfortable allowance each week. This particular week I had not only lost, for the first time in history, $20, which miraculously did not trigger a heart attack, but I had also been a little free with my spending and as such, didn't have the cash on me to buy the book yesterday.

So we're weaving in and out of the aisles in search of primo samples, but my kids got the shaft with chipotle spread and some succotash or something creepy. We loaded up on the staples, and all the while I kept seeing a woman I recognized, shopping with her mom, but I couldn't place her, which is rare for me. Grabbed flax cereal, there was the woman. Hoisted a 90 pound flat of bottled water onto the cart, she was there to see my grunting and wiping away the sweat. Damn, how do I know her? Finally we're nestled cozily in the pharmacy, my home away from home, my kids know just where to go to wait out the line. I get Maggie, who absolutely delights in my self-deprecating jokes, which is the surest way to keep me standing there until armageddon, but finally we make our way to the register. After schlepping so many boxes onto he conveyor, I felt like an honorary Egyptian, I stood up and realized that behind me were the mother and daughter duo of unknown origin. The daughter ran back for something, and as I rudely surveyed their cart, I noticed, perched atop the heap, was the David Sedaris book! Crap! I must have been fairly obvious in my exasperation, because Mom inquired as to my histrionics. I explained that I had come in looking specifically for that book, but had forgotten to go back. Dear God I had unwittingly unleashed the good samaritan from hell. First she offered to stand with my kids while I ran to fetch the book. "Oh no I couldn't, our things are on the conveyor." (Read: I don't have the coin to buy the book today.) Next she offered to ask the checker to wait, to which I sort of coughed and shook my head, smiling. As it became my turn, the daughter came back, and I continued to search my failing memory with a fine tooth comb in hopes of recognizing her. My concentration was lost however when the Mom said, "Honey, this woman came in to get this book and then forgot it. You have to go back." Again I stated that that was not necessary, and smiled, though I had long been faking it. I'm not exactly a doormat, but I definitely lack the cajones to shout out, "Listen lady, my (ex) husband buys the groceries and I live on an allowance, which I blew through already, and I can't actually afford the book until Friday, thankyouverymuch." Finally, as my purchase was complete, and I was holding four receipts (long story), Todd's debit card, my Costco card, and the cart, this precious do-gooding warrior did the unthinkable. She handed her copy of the book to the cashier, who didn't even look up for my approval, and just scanned it right through. "That's $14.89 ma'am." This is pretty much when time came to a crawl and I started hearing cacophonous music, and everything began to rotate. The truth was, I wasn't putting my fag-o-rama book on Todd's debit card, nor was I canceling the purchase, nor was I in a position to do anything but fake a seizure. I took the only money I possessed, my $20 for gas, and handed it to the man. What's worse, I had to make lovebird eyes at these wretchedly well-intended women, and thank them no less than 15 times for ruining my entire week. And I mean ruined. Thanks to them, I had to cancel an appointment, due to insufficient petrol, and my kids and I folded laundry that day and watched a very haggard, and as Quinn observed, "trans-gendered" Carly Simon on the Ellen show.

If you're wondering why I didn't just go and return it, it's because there was a very serious Japanese man returning a really large computer, but each piece was in a Ziploc baggie. If you're wondering why I didn't grow some stones and just refuse once and for all, it's because I was weak. What I'm wondering, as I'm sure are you, is how much I will love this book having already heard 89% of it. The answer to that is, hell yes, once I finish Middlesex. (Long stream of expletives!)

I hope, on those women's next shopping voyage, that some "kind" and/or deranged person loudly and fiercely insists on handing over her 1,000 pack of feminine itch relief products. Sweeter still would be if the clerk had to ask for the price over the intercom...

take my breath away. please.

OMG you guys, I live for these golden moments in parenthood:

While toiling away on the computer this morning, my Reilly appeared with a tin of Altoids and offered me some. I took one, and she put a few more on my desk before flitting away in her sunglasses.

A little while later she was back, picking up one of the mints she had left, trying to put it in my mouth.

"That's okay honey," I said. "I was going to have breakfast, and don't want the mints to make it taste funny."

To which she replied:

"Trust me mom, you need to." I feigned hurt feelings, sticking my lip out, and she was immediately sorry and said, in the most tender voice you've ever heard, "Mom, it's just that...I don't want someone else to tell you..."

(Picture me laughing, with my hand over my mouth of course!)

rose to the occasion

It is widely known that the depth of my nature appreciation extends to B's 20'x20' garden, whose occupants I am only just starting to remember. At last I can distinguish peas from swiss chard, which I insist on being proud of, even though peas are the least mysterious of all the plants, being that they grow in multitudes right before your eyes. My affection for this garden is rooted (no pun intended) solely in the delight it holds for B. I love, on her behalf, that all her roses have bloomed in the front yard, and I can definitely see the fruits of her labor (pun intended). Aside from this, and my occasional surprise twinge of happiness at seeing my mom's lovely little garden, I don't really give a shit about nature. Not photosynthesis, not the ozone layer, hell not even the weather. (B and Todd would have me beheaded for this.)

Imagine, will you, my excitement when Todd said all he wanted for Fathers Day was a long walk in the Oregon Garden, followed by lunch. Okay well we all know perfectly well that I am a faithful champion of lunch, but the garden part was reeeeaaaaallly a stretch. I didn't so much smile as not frown, for I was determined to grant T this one wish. I woke up in considerable pain, the source of which I think you all know, so I dutifully popped 95 Excedrin and off we went. En route, my apprehension enveloped me, with thoughts of tour guide teaching us to pronounce the latin names for the flowers, and asking us if we knew what coniferous meant. As we parked, I shot Todd a fraudulent smile and we headed for the gate. I was immediately impacted by the serenity of the garden. It was quiet in the perfect sense, the displays were bountiful but not obnoxious, there were no tour guides in sight, and best of all, the refreshment stand was mere feet ahead!

As a first-timer, I followed T and the kids, who knew just where to go, which winding paths to follow, and exactly where all the slug-shaped drinking fountains were. We ambled through luscious rose gardens, which even excited my inner garden grinch, as well as poppy fields, water falls, koi ponds, and a giant hill perfect for rolling down. (Note: Only those weighing under one ton were permitted to roll, so I took pictures.)

Ordinarily I would have seized up in such a place, so anxious to leave I might go so far as to "trip and fall" or try to hit my head on something. But this place is gorgeous, so lush and tranquil, and all the usual nature-loving clichees. I truly derived pleasure from the ambiance, and we were able to give T the experience he sought.

A fetching yellow (rose?):

My favorite rose, because it looks like it's made out of icing:

Happy Fathers Day:

Quinn and Rei on a waterfall:

The whole gang:

Quinn of the cacti: