Ask me anything

No really. Anything at all. It's the lamest trick in the book o' blogging but I need something to write about. It's been a month, so I'd say that qualifies for the "desperate times" department. Me asking you to help falls squarely in the "desperate measures" category. It's like it was meant to be.

Of course, this will totally backfire if there's no one out there reading but that's my own damn fault. Wouldn't you say?

I could write a clever title or I could watch my cat stalk a chipmunk. Guess which one I picked?

Hiya.

Yep, I'm still here. Not writing but still... Here.

If I don't write, does that still make me a blogger? Probably not, huh? I'm going to a blogging conference in a couple of weeks, does that make me a blogger? Not exactly, right?

I love what blogging did for me in the past - the free therapy, the friendships, the support, I am much in debt to this space and to all who drop by. But being a blogger sometimes means sharing pieces of ourselves with friends and strangers we might not otherwise share and let's face it - I am not usually a sharer. As much as I hate the word, but use it I must even at the risk of sounding cryptic, there are issues I need to work out that most days take center stage in this rattled brain of mine and are making it impossible to write something breezy or silly, or even heartfelt and memory capturing.

It's like a big old yellow road block complete with flashing lights and sirens. Annoying sirens. Really annoying sirens that sound like a Ke$ha song on constant repeat. Yes, that bad.

When faced with that it's nearly impossible to write something coherent and coherent writing is kind of the name of the game in blog land. Otherwise, it would all be "Lollipops molecule sod halitosis Squirrel!" It's already kind of like that around here.

I could also go on about the ways blogging and bloggers, specifically Mommy Bloggers, have changed since I started writing in 2005. Five years may not seem like a lot of time but it is light years away from where we started. But I'm not going to go on about it. It's been done, let's move on.

Maybe I need to quit or maybe I need to change my blog name or maybe I need a new scene. Maybe I need Prozac or Xanax or Wellbutrin or Red Bull or whatever else all the kids today are taking. Maybe I need a writing class to get the juices flowing... Okay clearly I need a writing class because, Juices Flowing? Ew.

Maybe I need to grow a set, stop being afraid, admit how I feel. Maybe I need to find my voice again.

Yeah, that's it. I need to find my voice again. It was here a minute ago. I'll go check the dryer lint trap and see if it's in there.

*Insert voice of an adult in a Peanuts cartoon here*

Okay, I need to address the elephant in the room - Why I'm not writing anymore.

What? You don't see an elephant? It's right there. It's soiling the rug as we speak. It's an abomination! You just see a lumpy, smelly couch in need of replacing? Elephant, old couch. Toe-may-toe, Toe-mah-toe.

Yeah, I'm busy. The kids are kicking my ass. They take up so many more hours than I was prepared to give up and most days I just don't have the time to give to my own creative outlets. Blah, blah, blah.

Honestly, I just don't have the words. I use so many words every day - words to admonish, to soothe, to share, to order, to read countless board books and sing even more songs - but mostly my words seem to bounce back at me, refusing to stick to the intended receiver. It's maddening. So when I sit down to write I find that I have no more left in me to give.

When I started this blog my tagline was something like, Why am I always repeating myself? Or, Doomed to repeat myself. I forget exactly but that's the basic gist. It was a joke and a play on the title of the blog but I could never see how true it would become. As a dog trainer I had taught many people one of the cardinal rules of having a well trained dog was to not repeat things over and over. Give a command, mean it, and follow up if the command is not followed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Now as the mother of a four year old, an almost 17 month old, and wife of a man with a taxing job who travels frequently and always seems to be rushing out the door, I'm constantly repeating myself. Just further proof that I'm better with animals. My dogs listen to me but my family? Not so much.

These days I seem to be talking at my family more than I'm talking to them and some days - okay, most days - it gets to the point where I want to throw up my hands and say, What's the point? Usually followed by more than a few expletives but always to myself. Who's listening anyway?

I don't like this feeling of not being heard. As a stay at home mom I'm already in a position of not feeling like a respected member of society, no matter how many times Oprah tells the world how wonderful and necessary we are, so the compounded frustration of talking to people only to be ignored is not sitting well with me. Now I find myself reserving my words and saving them for when I really need them. I could have a great discussion with friends or chat up new people in the checkout line at the grocery store... Or I could save my strength for when I need to get two little people dressed and out the door, buckled in the car seats, sing Wheels on the Bus fifteen times and bark order to Don't Kick the Seat and Stop Annoying Your Sister and I Said No Snacks and NO WE'RE NOT THERE YET for the hundredth time. Lather, rinse, repeat x infinity.

And that's just when we're in the car.

I guess I should take my own advice from the dog world and tweak it just a bit for those of the two-legged variety. Maybe.

These days I feel my words bear no weight and honestly, seeing them here next to the blink, blink of the cursor is not really helping. Do they mean anything? Do they matter?

Come to find out, yes. I guess they do matter.

I took some time to go through my archives and I was surprised by what I found there. Moments I had forgotten, absolutely, and I was so grateful to my earlier self for having the foresight to write them down, but there also were actual pieces that I was proud of. There were posts that made me go, Damn, woman, you hit that one out of the park. Good for you! I was a little pissed off that I don't write like that anymore but still pleased that those words, at least for a period of time, came from me. Proof that I could string to sentences together! I'd like to say I was struck by inspiration and the words flowed like a mighty river from then on... But they didn't. More like a trickle from a leaky faucet, calcified and sort of stagnant, but I'll take what I can get at this point.

I may bitch and moan, it may be repetitive and dull, but they are my words and someday they'll all add up to something. To that point, someday my words will start sinking in with my kids too (Dear sweet Jesus, someday they will, right?) and my husband may look away from his work long enough to acknowledge my pleas for help (That's actually already working - Huzzah!). And my words here on this blog, no matter how trivial, will become precious to me when I look back on them.

And in the meantime, I'll start talking to the dogs more. They're great listeners.

Shit, I just realized this post sounds a lot like the whining from this post. Sorry, I suck. Um... Who wants to teach their dog to balance a treat on their nose?!

[No Title]

I think I may have lost the ability to write.

No, really. It's lost. I swear I just had it but then I went to pour myself a glass of water and now I can't figure out where I put it... A month ago.

Who am I kidding*? Maybe it's been longer than that. A year? More? It's probably with that red sweater I've been looking for forever.

It could be that I'm lacking in inspiration. It's hard to get inspired when all I do is go from preschool drop-off to playgroups to gymnastics class to Mom and Tots music class and back home so my spawn can get rest. Me? I get laundry.

I'm not complaining necessarily - I signed up for all this stuff. Hell, I signed up for this parenting gig. No one forced me into it, no one tricked me, but I'd be lying if I said the redundancy, the mind-numbing monotony wasn't starting to get to me.

(And for the record, I wrote "MOM-otony" before spell check caught it. True story.)

(Uh Tania, there's someone on the phone for you. A Mr. Freud? Oh sorry, Doctor Freud. He'd like to talk to you about your lingerie? Sorry again, your slip.)

Okay maybe I'm complaining a little. I really don't want to be one of those "What About ME???" people but Christ on a cracker... What about ME?????

(It's safe, I'm done. You can come back now.)

The thing about this here blog o' mine is it's supposed to be a true and honest account of my life, both with and without children (and by that I mean, my life beyond children. I always have them because, well, they won't go away.), so if I were following with that theme I would be honest about the fact that life is kicking my heiny these days. So here goes - Life? Is kicking my ass with its size 12 boot. There's tread marks back there that no amount of miracle creams will remove. And by tread marks, I mean cellulite.

So that's why I'm not writing - I'm waiting for inspiration to come back. In the meantime, I will tackle Mount St. Laundry and play chauffeur and be the seemingly happy-go-lucky, iced coffee swilling, kids-overscheduling, yoga pant-wearing, Uber-mom. But without the closet meth habit. And I will write again when inspiration decides to come out of her hiding place among the lost socks and misplaced grocery store cards and single earrings and random My Pretty Ponies. Which at this rate should be right around 2011.



*Really, who am I kidding? It was gin. Water? Pssh.

What's next, life? Kicking kittens?

Hi, internet people. I've missed you.

I wrote a post - really, I did! And then Blogger ate it. Gluttonous bastard.

Two weeks with no posting - TWO WEEKS - and when I finally sit down to write something... Poof! It's gone. Off to the great internet junkyard in the sky. Or something like that. I can't even think of a decent metaphor, that's how ticked off I am.

It was brilliant! And pithy! With lovely descriptive images that would have made Hemingway weep! As far as you know, the damn thing is lost now so I can talk it up if I want to.

I give up. I think I'm going to go eat another leftover birthday cupcake and wallow. Peanut butter frosting is equally good for celebrating 37th birthdays and for wallowing.

Not dead yet...

... Just busy. Very busy. And lacking inspiration to write anything in this blog. Which is great right before a blogging conference.

But the sun came out finally. So there's that.

So we've been taking advantage of the nice weather. For instance, we've been spending many, MANY hours in the car so we can drive all over the state to visit relatives. Yep, that's some prime quality outdoor time right there.

There has been some actual outdoor-not-in-a-metal-box-on-wheels time, though. Working on our tans. Playing in sandboxes. Oh and bike riding. Lots of bike riding.


I'm sure inspiration will hit soon. Until then, I'll be the one pushing my almost walking 13 month old around on a tiny scooter and then applying Icy/Hot to my poor, tired muscles in the evening. Well worth the pain, if you ask me.

I Spy - mornings

I think I've figured out why writer's block is kicking my ass. My life? It is boring, hopelessly mundane and not inter....

zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whoops, sorry about that. I fell asleep there.

So instead of fighting it, I'm going to embrace it (Viva la Boring Ass Life!) with a little thing I call "I Spy".

What's that? There's already a game called "I Spy"? I didn't say I was original, I said I was boring. Catch up, will ya?

Every Friday I'll post a picture of something I see, a snippet out of my life. You should do it too. It'll be super duper fun! Really!

What?

Oh don't even pretend you don't like to see into people's lives. I know you look into darkened windows at night while driving through your neighborhood. You probably even sit in your bedroom at night with your camera pointed at your next door neighbor's windows. Or maybe that's just me?

Um, moving on.

The point of the project, lambs, is to make the mundane interesting. Play along. Take a picture of something, anything, that you see and describe it, then leave a comment here with a link to your "I Spy" post. Give us a glimpse of your life. It will be fun. I promise. Pinky swear. At the very least, it will give you an excuse to post something. Some might call it phoning it in, but I call it "desperate times/desperate measures".

So go ahead, grab your camera and take a picture of something. I'll wait.

C'mon, it's not brain surgery. Just take a pictures. Any picture.

Or I could do it for you. I have a long lens. Ahem.

-----------------

Mornings at Casa de Chicky:


French press, coffee mug, blueberry/lemon muffin I baked yesterday next to used tissues because CC and I are sick. Phlegm and baked goods, two great tastes that go great together.

Twitter open on my laptop. I'm the only one in the world who still uses the actual Twitter platform.

Baby bib, Cheerios, a bowl of fruit.

This is what my mornings look like when we have nothing better to do. Muy exciting, no?

Empty

My head is full.

My head is full of phlegm and to-do lists and firing synapses of lightning and thunder. But right now, mostly phlegm.

My head is full of memories I try to beat back with metaphorical witch brooms and fabulous high heeled shoes I wish I owned.

My head is full of "There's no place like home".

My head is full of home.

My head is full of things I need to teach my children - be kind, be respectful, be courteous, be yourself. Just be.

My head is full of "Just Be's". Busy, busy, busy Be's.

My head is full of random trivia. Trivial nothings and sweet trivia's and whispered chocolate covered, candy coated, misty water colored trivia.

My head is full of need. The need for speed. Also, the need for chocolate. I wish my head was full of chocolate.

My head is full of nonsense, nonsensical non sequiturs.

But my head is not full of words to make sentences. Words to string together in coherent ways in which to convey messages. My head is full of words that float around my head, like someone shook a dictionary into my open skull and the words are now suspended in the gelatinous mass of my brain. Like pineapple chunks in a Jell-O mold. But more delicate. And more beautiful.

My head is full of beautiful Jell-O/word dessert.

Anyone got a spoon?

Cookie Puss - the only slightly less edible kind

The writer's block is lifting. I know, you're thrilled. Try to contain yourself.

So why am I not writing? Uh... I actually have quite a bit to blog about now but there are big things brewing (Big, people. BIG) and I just don't have the time to write anything of any substance.

So instead - BABY PICTURES!

(Otherwise known as, Jesus, this woman has enough time to take pictures of her kids but not enough time to write? And to you I say, Yeah.)

Have you met my baby? I call her Cookie Puss.

Heavy emphasis on the cookie...


... Not that the rest of her isn't delicious too, because I have never known a baby to be this yummy.

Tell me you don't have the urge to stick your face into that roll between her cheeks and her neck and live there for awhile and I'll call you a puppy kicking/grandma slapping/baby hating fascist. And then I'll demand that you smell her because she smells like cookies too.

Believe me, one whiff and you'll be turned into a powerless puddle of goo in her little hand. I'm relieved this blog isn't scratch and sniff because I don't want to be included in the downfall of the American economy. Bailouts, bad loans, greedy corporations and cookie scented baby cheeks. Come to think of it, never mind. She doesn't really smell that good. Nothing to see here. Move along...

(More baby cheeks for me. Nom nom nom.)

(Also, am shameless Mommyblogger type shamelessly using cute baby as a shameless ploy to get out of writing anything of substance. Shameless. And I could really give a damn.)

(Big things, people. BIG.)

I've got it, and I've got it bad

Writer's block sucks. It sucks hairy monkey butt. It sucks sweaty bull testicles. It sucks four day old dirty toddler diaper.

Okay, it's not that bad. And? I just threw up in my mouth a little.

This happens once in a while (the writer's block, not the throwing up) and I've found that's it helps to just write... Anything.

The post I almost published?

"Ican'tthinkIcan'tthinkIcan'tthinkIsuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. The End."

It resonates with you, doesn't it? Hits you right here. (pointing to chest) And here. (never mind where I'm pointing right now.)

Instead of going with that post I decided to take my inspiration from you guys. Every now and then I get a comment that cries out to be addressed, but more times than not I don't have the commenter's email. As much as that vexes me it has given me some decent material.

Here are the answers to some of the questions left in my comments over the past couple of weeks.


Bon said on this interview post: "A fine grilling, but i think the thing what left me most fascinated of all was...you have friends in Bouctouche?!?"

Sort of!!!

The town I grew up in is predominantly made up of Canadian immigrants and their offspring (and the Polish too but, ssshhhhh, they don't know that*). It took me years to learn that "Trow me down da stairs my keys" was not a proper sentence.

Even though my own great grandparents came to this country by way of Canada it was my friends' families who really gave me a taste of the true North Country. Usually in the form of bastardized English, but they threw in some geography lessons, too. Every summer my friends and their parents would make their yearly pilgrimage to their favorite vacation spot - Bouctouche. I've never been there myself (I've always been bad with geography) but I hear it's horribly dull.

But that's from the point of view of a 13 year old. I could be wrong.

(If you're from the Bouchtouche Board of Tourism don't blame me. I'm just going on what some chick with the last name Leblanc told me.)


Dodo said on this post in response to my quest to start a business: "Can i reciprocate with some puppy related questions?"

i may be misinterpreting this comment but it's my blog and i'm going to use it to serve my own purpose. like not capitalizing if i don't feel like it.

Many of you know that I am a dog trainer. Occasionally I get an email from a reader with a frantic question on how to get their dog to stop (or start) doing something. I'll let you all know right now that I welcome your questions. I really do enjoy helping dog owners. And I really love being a know-it-all.

When waiting for my response please give me a few days to get back to you with an answer (especially for the really tough questions - Hi Southern Mom!) and realize that you're getting free advice. So if I send you a reply with just a link to a particular book to read or a website to check out - or a simple "Get thee to a professional dog trainer. STAT." it's not because I'm blowing you off. It's probably because your problem requires a lot more than what I can write in an email. And again, the advice is free. Take what you can get from it. I can assure you my recommendations are sound. And, if I failed to mention, free.


Mr. Big Dubya responded about what he and Mrs. Big Dubya gave up on this post about giving up coffee for Lent: "Ice cream for me and the missus - and fries. No Ben and Jerry's; no Edy's; no Friendly's; no Cold Stone. And what's worse? DQ opened one week after Ash Wednesday! Who's freakin' idea was that?"

The Devil's. He wants your soul. Why else would he make Ben and Jerry's Creme Brule ice cream so damn tasty.

You didn't think God created something so sinfully delicious, did you?

ECR said on the same post: "Impressive! Isn't it amazing what we can do when we put our minds to it?"

I'm sorry, what did you say? I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about ice cream.


Jen said on this Real Moms post: "someday you will need to let me show you just how much red sox knowledge i have stored in my head."

You're on, baby. At Blogher, fer sure.

Anyone else want to swap stories at Blogher? Who's going?


Kevin said on this post I wrote after my dogs ate my Girl Scout cookies: "Hey, you know that chocolate is extremely toxic to dogs, right?"

Kevin, what do you take me for? I know that chocolate is toxic to dogs. So I only feed them chocolate for breakfast and dinner. If they're snacking between meals that's their fault.

As for the amount they ate on that particular day, there wasn't enough chocolate in those cookies to make the average 80 pound dog sick. Not to mention that one of my dogs can eat raw sewage and never get sick, her stomach is that strong. And I doubt that she shared enough of those cookies with my other dog. When it comes to ill gotten booty she doesn't usually share. She's like her mama that way.


MotherBumper said on this post about our short stint with sickness: " Do you think it (Bobby, Chicky's favorite stuffed bear) could survive the gentle cycle if it was in a delicates net bag or a large sock?"

I'm happy to say that Bobby survived the sickness being washed off of him and will live to snuggle another day.

I tossed him in a pillow case and washed him on the gentle cycle (oh, how I love my front loading washer). Thank you all for your great advice. And who knew the guys would come out with such great recommendations, too? That's what I like to see, a guy who is not afraid to say "Yeah, I wash clothes. I dig chick flicks too." I could marry a guy like that.

Oh, wait. I did.

Hi, Honey! I've got "You've Got Mail" ready to go on the Tivo. I know how much you love that one.

Ali said on this post about the ROFL Awards: "i sent mine to metro already. do i still get to spank your ass?!?"

[baring my left cheek]

Right there, baby. *I deserve it for that poor attempt at a Polish joke. Don't blame me, I was raised in a Canadian/Polish family.