Friday, June 20, 2008
This morning Angus is home sick. The walking pneumonia has given her a terrible headache, cough and diarrhea. But my friend's kids are also here and Youngest loves my friend's daughter. So this morning I'm trying to drop Oldest and Youngest to camp. Usually they love to go but today they are both malingering. They want to stay and hang out with the other kids, of course. Youngest being very resourceful keeps complaining of many different types of ailments.
"My head hurts, my tummy hurts, I have diarrhea, my eye hurts, I can't walk!" Youngest cries.
"You're going to camp, that's final!" I say.
"I have to go to the doctor, I'm sick, I need a shot!" (Unlike the older two, the girl is not afraid of shots!)
"You are not sick and you are going to camp!"
"I am sick and you don't care about me anymore!"
"Don't say that, honey."
"I'm going to run away and never come home!"
"No you can't"
"Yes I can!
"No you can't."
"Yes I can!"
"No you can't because you are sick."
"No I'm not!"
"Good, then you can go to camp."
"I mean I am!"
"I want Daddy!"
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
There'd be a cool Book Roast badge right about here but for some reason I couldn't snatch the $%*&*##@!!! badge off their blog so I compromised.
See, how clever I can be?
Today, I was reading Lisa' Kenny's post on Green Porno and decided to call Da Man. So I asked Oldest to go get me the porn.
"Huh?" she says.
"The porn, the porn! Get me the porn!" I repeated several times before realizing exactly what I was saying and substituing the right request. Luckily she didn't know what I was talking about.
Yesterday, at the office while working on a document for nearly 2 hours I closed out of it, not realizing that I had downloaded the document from my email because I had emailed it to myself to work on at the office, and I had not saved it in a new word document. I lost all 2 hours worth of changes.
I pulled a soda out of the fridge and dropped it on the floor. Since it was the last soda, I decided to put it back in the fridge so it would settle down before I opened it. Not even five minutes pass when I realize I am thirsty and open the fridge, relieved to see there is one soda left. I open it, forgetting it was the one I dropped just a few minutes earlier. Now me and the open fridge are covered in soda.
The other day I pulled out my wallet to empty out the garbage I have collected in my bag. I made two piles - things to keep and things to throw away. When I'm done, I put all two piles back in my bag and throw my wallet away.
I swear I'm certifiably going mad with stupidity. If anyone knows of a cure, please let me know.
Monday, June 16, 2008
"Take it easy on him, he's only 5!" he says to me.
"Five is old enough to know better!" I reply as I head out the door.
"Hey Opie!" I yell out. "Who dressed you this morning?"
Opie beams and admits proudly to dressing himself.
"But honey," I ask sweetly, "Why are you wearing that shirt with your lovely hat?"
"Cause the Boston Red Sox rules!" he shouts out at me.
I swallow the bile that comes up into my throat at such sacrilege.
"But you shouldn't wear that shirt with that hat!" I say.
"But you gave me this hat," he says.
"Yes, I know, but not to wear with that shirt. That's a dangerous thing you are doing little guy. It could get you badly injured if you were to show up in a NY or Boston street like that. I mean if you can't handle the awesome responsibility that comes with the wearing of this hat, maybe I need to take it away from you!"
Opie blinks and then laughs and says "Aw you're just kidding!"
Since Opie's Mom has now come out to join us, I smile and laugh and agree that I am just kidding. But I ask him not to wear the hat with the shirt as it would be disrespectful to both teams. Ok he says, with a big grin covering his adorable little face. He runs into the house. A minute later he comes back out wearing a Boston Red Sox cap with the Boston Red Sox t-shirt. Little traitor. I'm taking my hat back.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Listen, if you are on the market for window coverings and you have small children NEVER BUY VENETIAN BLINDS. Why do you ask? Because children like to look out the window. And if the blinds happen to be closed when they look out the window, well then they will pull the blinds to the side, or stick their faces in between the slats and pull them as wide apart as they can. Or perform puppet shows with the blinds. Or sometimes, they just like to grab the cord and pull it up and down and up and down for hours of amusement. Our blinds are broken, bent, have missing pieces and completely torn off ends. I've seen abandoned buildings with nicer windows than ours.
To make matters worse, we have the most pathetic straggly bushes lining our driveway, droopy flowers that you can see were never planted correctly and a big dead spot in our teeny front lawn from where everyone pulling out of our driveway runs over the grass. The condo board has wanted to kick us out for years for our pathetic front yard. But neither of us are gardeners and in fact I happen to be a bona fide plant murderer. Yes, it is true, I admit it. These hands are covered in plant blood. My sister-in-law, who is a Virgo and a Kiwi, which means she is a nature loving extremely organized insane person, keeps buying me plants that she swears I can't kill. But there in lies the problem. If you swear it can't be killed, those words become the plant's death sentence. I have killed a cactus, a feat even Da Man is shocked by. But my sister-in-law is so sweet and so determined that I have a lovely flower presence, she makes me a few pots of artificial flowers to put out in lieu of the real things which I can't seem to grow. She even goes to the trouble of giving me seasonal pots to put out at different times of the year. (Told you she is insane!) But for some reason she doesn't like that I don't bring the pots in during the winter. I don't know what the big deal is. So I've got spring flowers with some snow on them. They still look pretty.
My parents have wonderful green thumbs. All my friends would admire the amazing plants that my mom and dad could grow in their NYC apartment. They have this money tree (I don't know why it is called a money tree, maybe wishful thinking on their part) that they have been growing since I was 12 years old. The thing is so tall it is curled over on the top where it hits the ceiling. Whenever my parents come to visit, they drag me to home depot where they spend lots of money on things called potting soil and fertilizer and then buy lots and lots of pretty flowers that will die the week after they leave me. My father doesn't approve of my black thumb of death.
"Aigo!" (a Korean term of disgust usually used by old people- in this case it means "WTF is wrong with you?") "How can you be my daughter?"
"Hey, don't blame me! You and Mom are the ones that failed to pass on the green gene. I say the blame lies completely with the both of you!"
My dad just shakes his head in disgust and points at a corner of our tiny rock garden and orders me to dig. After I dig out bricks and rocks and red clay until my arms shake uncontrollably, my dad orders me to stop and proceeds to continue with the planting, giving me a gardening lesson in the process. But my hearing is completely impaired.
"You have to blah blah blah and then blah blah blah every day," he says. "Don't forget! It is really important to blah blah blah, ok?" I just nod my head until he stops staring at me.
"Aigo," he says again, this time it means "you retard." He knows and I know that they will all die before the week is out. But perhaps this is all part of some greater lesson that he would like to impart on me. Perhaps he hopes by pushing me to work hard for something, part of the gardening gene may actually blossom within me.
Or maybe he just likes seeing me perform hard manual labor all the while sweating like a pig.
Friday, June 13, 2008
I loved it at first. A great way to stay on top of my blog reading, I thought. Oh look! What a good little reader you are! It counts how many new posts have popped up! Good reader. Good good reader.
The first time I used it, I relished marking the new posts off as read. It gave me a sense of accomplishment seeing the number of new posts click down from 50 to 0. I was so proud of myself. But then the next morning, the counter would be back up to 50 again and I would feverishly be trying to catch up. A few hours later, it was as if I had read nothing. I was making no headway. At one point, I was off my computer for a whole day and that night after class, I came back to a counter that read 124 new posts! No longer is Google Reader my friend. No - we are now sworn enemies. We do battle daily and nightly, and it always wins.
But how can I let an inanimate computer program get the better of me? Because I am weak and it is technologically advanced. And it kicks my ass every single day. I feverishly click through all my posts and read as much as I can, trying to desperately keep that counter at (0), but to no avail! When I get it to (0), it lasts about 15 minutes before someone is posting again and ruining my nothingness. And I'm beginning to resent prolific posters. Some blogs seem to post every few minutes. And I think to myself, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!!!!!!!!! HOW MUCH DO YOU ACTUALLY REALLY HAVE TO SAY OF INTEREST?!!! But they are interesting and I must read the posts, of course. Can't not read the posts. Have to read the posts. I'm like a clicking junkie fiend. Give me another hit baby, just another hit...
Perhaps I have too many blogs to read. It's true I have added more than I used to read in the past, but they are all so good! And then everytime someone new visits my blog, I have to follow them home. Like Mary's little lamb, following it home. And there it is... another interesting blog to read. The junkie wants more. Give me more! Find me more! But I can't handle more!!!! I think I need an intervention, or a good ass whooping.
I live in terror of Google Reader. I get nervous, my hands shake and my palms start to sweat as I wait for my homepage to load up in the morning. The question isn't will it be high, the question is how high. And I am scared. Very scared. I now have nightmares. I dream I am in a padded room of all white. The walls around me are covered with gigantice Google Reader pages. The counter keeps clicking ever higher. Past 100, then 500, up and up until the zeros overrun the pages and I shriek in hysteria as the numbers start spinning faster and faster, higher and higher. And I wake up in a cold sweat and slap Da Man in the head to orient myself. He gets up and screams at me, "WTF is wrong with you!" This immediately makes me feel better and I can go back to sleep. But I can't keep slapping him in the head every night even though it hurts my hand more than it hurts his head. He keeps threatening to have me arrested for spousal abuse. My defense would be that Google Reader made me do it.
Perhaps someone can explain what it is I am doing wrong. Perhaps someone can tell me their method of keeping Reader in check. Perhaps someone will get me a prescription of Xanax and a couple of beers and sing me some Marley. Or perhaps Google Reader and me are just not meant to be.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
There was also an attractive woman in a very revealing black bikini. She was standing on the steps into the pool with her back to Youngest as she paddled by. Youngest stops right behind her and calls out to her.
"Excuse me lady! You have a rock on your butt!" Youngest says in her loud cute carrying voice.
"What?" Bikini lady asks.
"YOU HAVE A ROCK ON YOUR BUTT!" Youngest shrieks.
By this time I have grabbed Youngest and am trying to pull her away from the scene she is causing as little boys start gathering to look at this lady's butt. Bikini lady finally figures out what Youngest is going on about.
"Oh that!" she says with a strained smile. "That's just a mole."
"A MOLE?!!" Youngest shrieks. "It looks like a nimple. A nimple on her butt!"
She turns to me and says again, "Mommy, she has a nimple on her butt!"
I am trying to cover her mouth as the little boys start chanting nimple, nimple, nimple, butt, butt, butt! Poor woman. Luckily, Youngest then farted in the pool, leaving a trail of bubbles as she promptly announced "I farted in the pool and felt bubbles come out of my butt!"
All the boys forgot all about nipple butt lady trying to turn the pool into a jacuzzi.
I decided to get out before a real accident occurred.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Legally, the bus driver is not allowed to leave kids at a bus stop alone, especially since there are kindergartners in this mix. So when I pulled up and saw ten little kids, including my own two, with no parents anywhere around, I got mad. I asked the kids if there had been any parents at the bus stop when the bus arrived. They said yes, there had been a few parents who had picked up their kids and left in their cars and one who lived in the apartment building behind the stop. I was astounded. It explained why the bus driver left. He saw parents there so he left to keep his schedule. But it doesn't explain why the other parents would have left too. I parked my car and waited 15 minutes for their parents to show up because the thought of leaving little kids unattended is unthinkable to me. This is a particularly busy corner with alot of traffic. I never leave the bus stop until I see that all the kids have been accounted for and I would hope that someone would do the same for my own kids. To see that a bunch of parents had not done this simple and important courtesy makes my blood boil over. I am grateful that I happened to arrive when I did but I wonder what would have happened if yesterday had been one of those days I decided to pick the girls up from school instead of the bus stop? When I showed up, the 6 and 7 year olds had already thrown down there backpacks and were running around wild in the grass and into the parking lot below. I shudder to think what might have happened if they had run unattended into the street.
So I am going to have some choice words to say to the parents of the kids that left. One of them is a nanny, but that is no excuse. All adults have a responsibility to keep children from harm. This could have been a dangerous situation and for the adults to abandon the children was irresponsible and selfish. I can only imagine their thoughts. Hey I was here early to pick up my kid, they should have been too. That's just wrong. Maybe they didn't think that, maybe they were too engrossed in their own schedules to even look around to see or care about someone else. Honestly I think that is just as bad. I am disappointed. I am mad. They should have known better.
Monday, June 2, 2008
I say this because especially at the library, I have been the unfortunate victim of the Lingering Odors phenomenon. There I sit, earnestly typing away or reading for research, breathing, like I normally do, the clean and pleasant odors of books and paper, occassionally interspersed with the slightly unpleasant very old book smell that occurs when someone is perusing the stacks and opens an oldie.
And then it happens. Without fail. Someone will either burp, fart, take off their shoes or just have failed to use their deodorant on an unusually hot day and I begin to suffer.
Listen I'm not trying to be mean about this, I just happen to have a very sensitive nose. It is really more of a curse. I spend most of my life breathing through my mouth to avoid unpleasant smells. I am cursed by sympathetic vomiting not because of the visual but because of the odor. Taking the NYC subways all my life was the bane of my existence because nothing smells funkier than the subway tracks. I am paralyzed by port-o-potties and would rather crap my pants than go into one. But I would rather jump in front of a Mac Truck rather than crap my pants. At least I would be dead.
So the other day a pungent offender came to sit next to me. The acrid BO smell had high notes of gamey meat and low notes of garlic and middle notes of IthinkI'mgoingtovomit. On top of the complexity of his STINK, he had compounded his offense by spraying himself heavily in some expensive I'mgoingclubbingtonightandhopingtogetlucky cologne. Holy crap are you kidding me? Let me explain something to you, showering in cologne does not actually make you smell better if you don't actually clean yourself first. And to make matters worse. Oh yes there is a worse. Everytime he shifted in his seat, you could smell nasty butt stink. That actually made me angry and in a huff of gagging fury, I packed up my laptop and books and ran away to another available spot across the room from Stinky butt man.
I thought I was safe, I really did. This time I was seated next to a woman. Women usually smell better then men. But not this woman. Perhaps she had a glandular problem. Perhaps she ate a particularly pungent meal that day. Perhaps she was related to Stinky butt man. I don't know what it was, but it was nearly as bad. Nearly. At least next to her, it wasn't a lingering in your face odor. Hers came in waves. I'd be typing along at a fast clip and suddenly a wave of sweaty dirty sneaker odor would hit me and make my eyes water. Then it would pass and I would be fine and then a few minutes later I would smell sweaty musky underarm odor. And then someone in my area burped and I swear they must have been eating hot dogs and onions. You could almost smell mustard in the air.
Not the type to pretend and ignore such a stink, I waved my hands frantically in the air and glared at all three people sitting in their separate cubicles next to and in front of me. The two guys in front of me wouldn't even look up but funky woman next to me had the audacity to sit there holding her nose and glaring at me! Can you believe the nerve? Her stinky ass giving me the evil eye?
Indignant, I had to defend myself.
"That was not me!" I whispered at her.
I could tell from her facial expression that she did not believe me.
"I'm telling you that was not me! I did not have hot dogs or onions for lunch!" In a louder whisper.
All of a sudden another wave of odor hit us, making my eyes cross. We turned to stare at the men sitting in front of us, both studiously avoiding eye contact. I looked at her and stuck out my hand at the men, as if to say "See! Told you!" She nodded her head and then turned an evil eye at the both of them. By this time, I am nearly hyperventilating because I'm trying not to breathe through my nose and I'm mad and I think it is the old guy right in front of me and I have a sneaking suspicion he is deliberately blowing them my way but I can still smell musky woman next to me and when the next wave of onions hits me I have had it!
"That's it! I can't take it anymore!" I muttered as I angrily packed up my stuff and glared at both men. This time they looked up at me. The younger man seemed a bit bewildered to see me glaring while the older man was indifferent. Musky woman eyed me sympathetically and glared at the men again. But it is too late, the odors have done me in and I left the library and headed home where at least I knew I would be safe from unpleasant odors.
At least until the kids and Da man get home.
I think I need to invest in a gas mask.