Tuesday, November 21, 2006

For these things I am thankful

This will probably be the last time I'll have a chance to sit down and write until after all the Thanksgiving hoopla has died down - which should be sometime in March by my estimation. I cannot, however, let this opportunity go by without recording for posterity what I am truly thankful for in 2006.

First and foremost, and it is no huge surprise, I am thankful for the Toddler Tornado, Miss Behaving, Miss Chief, the incomparable Chicky Baby herself... My daughter. The eskimo kisses make up for most of the tantrums you have everyday. Most, babe. Not all. But you find other ways to make up for the other ones, like when you graciously share your cheddar bunny crackers with me. You take such pleasure in feeding me these coveted little treats that even if my stomach was bursting I would still eat every cracker you fed me. Happily.

I am thankful that, starting today, Mr. C is on vacation for almost two weeks. Finally, someone else to share the responsibility of picking up a boneless, thrashing Chicky Baby off the floor before an 80lb dog steps on her. Of course I'm happy you'll be around for the simple fact that I'll see you more, my love, but please let's not have another silly fight about Christmas presents like we had earlier today. M'kay?

I'm thankful for my sister. She who I love as a best friend and a treasured sibling. Who keeps a steady supply of wine coming to my home. Who feeds us on those rare occasions that we brave the Sagamore Bridge traffic to go visit, and who someday soon (coughhaveadamnbabyalreadycough) will give me the niece or nephew I so badly want and will finally take some of the pressure off of me to have a second child.

I'm thankful for the three women in my mothers group that I can stand the sight of that still call and email me for play dates and walks even though I'm the crappiest friend. Ever. (note to self: Include in your New Years Resolution to be a better friend and be the first one to call instead of waiting for others to send you multiple emails inquiring whether or not you're dead.)

I'm thankful for each and every comment and email I get from my blog friends. We are an odd social group, you and I, but your encouraging words mean a lot to a hermit like myself.

(I should have struck those last three words but, really, why bother? Hermits need love too. )

And above all, I am thankful to People magazine for their Sexiest Man of the Year issue. Yes, because of this:


Um, is it hot in here or is it just him?


And also for this:

I'm really enjoying the new, manly Leo.


But especially for this:


People magazine, you have no idea the nasty dreams involving a certain Office worker that I have nightly because of this picture.

Um, Mr. C? I am also thankful that you won't mind if I go camp out in Newton because there is a slight possibility that he will come home for Thanksgiving. Oh yes, there is a possibility. And then, Wham! The poor guy will never know what hit him.



Happy Thanksgiving to all and to you Canucks - Happy Thursday!

Monday, November 20, 2006

C'mon, are the TV people really that bad?

I've decided that life with a young toddler is much like living in a house that has a poltergeist.

The constant worrying about what is going to set Chicky Baby off is exhausting. Why is she angry? Is there a chair out of place? Was a picture moved? All I know is that she babbles something incoherently, then the moaning and wailing starts quickly followed by the ear piercing screeches. If I don't find the cause of the problem I get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, like icy fingers clutching at my gut, and soon severed doll heads are flying through the house.

I know she's trying to tell me something but I just don't know what that is. I'd be willing to break out the ouija board or wear a tinfoil hat if I thought it would help us to communicate.

This language barrier is frustrating for Chicky Baby too; she has needs and desires that she is trying to convey. But I really wish she would learn how to ask for what she wants instead of lifting the cat off the ground by its tail.

Unfortunately, the violent episodes often work to her advantage. It's impossible to miss why she is displeased in certain circumstances. If she wants to get out of bed she rattles the sides of the crib violently and tosses her stuffed animals across the room. If she wants more milk she'll fling her cup in the direction of my head. If she wants to read a book I'll catch the corner of it in the chest.

The only thing that will appease her in these situations? The television. Hmm...


Maybe it's not her fault, after all. Could someone put me in touch with Tangina Barrons? I need to exorcise a demon.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Life sucks and then your car dies

I know, I know. Life doesn't really suck; not all of the time anyway. But our car did die, more specifically Mr. C's car, and that's sort of clouding our outlook on things today. When he paid the ridiculous amount of money for this German car it was with the understanding that it would be driven into the ground. It was with the thought of him one day appearing in one of those testimonial commercials:

"I've driven this car 2 bazillion miles and have only replaced the oil once and it still runs as smoothly as the day I brought it home."
(
Insert oh-don't-you-wish-you-had-a-car-like-mine shit-eating grin here.)

It's some weird problem involving drains and freakish amounts of rainwater pooling on the passenger side floor. No one knows why it's still happening (it's been in the shop three times for this problem in the last few weeks) or how to fix it once and for all and it's starting to look like we'll have to dump this problem on some unsuspecting schmuck buy another car soon.

I've got an ATM hidden in my spare bathroom so the cost of a new car shouldn't burden us at all. Especially with the holidays coming up. I'll just pull out the magical money tree that I keep stored in the basement for emergencies to cover the cost of presents when the ATM money runs out.

Sure, there's lots of money to spare.

I wonder if it's too late in my life to consider a job as a stripper?

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

All of your suggestions on timing our Thanksgiving dinner were truly appreciated. I had no idea how many people were anti-stuffing in the bird. It seems like many of you are afraid of food poisoning. Wimps. I bet you don't bungee jump or skydive either.

(uh, yeah, wimp here. I think we'll be cooking the stuffing outside of good old Tom Turkey.)

Some of your recommendations on what to prepare for sides and desserts made Mr. C and me salivate. BA, I'll be emailing you for that pumpkin cheesecake recipe per order of His Royal Highness, my husband. If I don't prepare that for him I fear that he will withhold sex from me.

Okay, that last sentence made me snicker.

If you have not done so yet, and you're planning on hosting your family Thanksgiving dinner this year or ever, you really should read some of the interesting things that others wrote. Bacon, Amber?! Bacon?!!! I'll be scheduling my angioplasty for the following day.

I'll take many pictures of the food and festivities to commemorate our first Thanksgiving. Or to remember the day we spent together at the emergency room getting or stomachs pumped as a family, depending on how things really turn out.

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

I need to leave you with one last thing. Do your kids watch that new show on Noggin, The Upside Down Show? I'm loving it, Chicky is loving it, and most important I get a full 30 minutes of peace because she stares at it, slack-jawed with a line of drool coming from the corner of her mouth.

After watching for a few minutes you can see why they gave Shane and David, aka The Umbilical Brothers, their own television show. They're engaging, they make strange sounds and weird body postures, and they're funny as hell. But what you might not realize is they're not always G-rated. Oh, sure, on the Upside Down Show they're as tame as Mickey Mouse, but on tour they're a little more... Adult.

Heh. I'll never watch that show the same way again after watching this:



I'm willing to bet you won't see anything like that from a certain annoying purple dinosaur or insipid red Muppet.

(Thanks, Velma, for pointing me to this clip!)

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Save me the drumstick


It just hit me that a week from tomorrow I'll be hosting my first Thanksgiving dinner.

Who the hell thought that was a good idea?

I've got the turkey ordered, my grandmother and mother-in-law are providing the desserts, and Mr. C and I have a vague notion of what sides we'll be serving. Oh, and the wine is taken care of thanks to my sister and her husband and their rotating cast of liquor distributors. I love having a sibling who owns a restaurant.

As long as we have wine who cares if the stuffing is undercooked and the carrots are burned? What' s a little salmonella between family, right? We'll be too drunk to notice that we're feeling a little peckish.

Peckish? Turkey? Heh.

Sorry, I make stupid jokes when I'm stressed out.

Yes, I'm stressed. I know everything will work out (it always does) but this feels like my first real grown-up dinner. Mr. C and I have held dinner parties for our friends but never for our families. I really do want everything to be perfect, but in a laid back, what this? it was nothing we just whipped this up, sort of way.

And the timing? The timing of all the food so that everything finishes cooking at the same time, now that freaks me out. How does one do that? Suggestions? Anyone? Is this thing on?

I know that when everyone arrives my grandmother will be fretting because we won't let her help (oh, believe me, we'll ask for suggestions to make her happy) and my mother in law will also try to help (Here, take the baby). Then my father and father in law will break open a bottle of wine and before long Dad will be making inappropriate jokes (Think dirty. Really dirty.) that will embarrass my church-going father in law. And the dogs will be begging for food and Chicky will be wound up by all the excitement...

Okay, I'm done. I needed to purge myself of that so I can get down to business.

To cook the stuffing in the bird or out of the bird. Now that is the question.

Anyone? Hello?

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

I'm ramping up for the big gift giving holidays over at Dog Gone Blog. Today, gift ideas for the young dog lovers in your life. Tomorrow, outfitting your mod dog.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

I've got a what?

A cavity. I have a freakin' cavity. Two actually. Two cavities.

I've never had a cavity before.

Screw you, Karma, stop laughing.

I've just returned from an appointment with an ice pick wielding Marquis de Sade Dr. Phoebus Farb my new dentist where I was told that yes, I have not one, but two cavities. And that I don't floss enough.

Hi! Thanks for choosing Dr. So and So, it's so nice to meet you. Now open wide while we drill and pick the holy jeebus out of your mouth. Have a nice day and don't forget to refer us to your friends!

Sorry, the blood loss is making me woozy.

There is a possibility I have more but because of my history of never having had a cavity in my freakin' life - Ahem - the nice lady decided that she didn't want to load me up with fillings just yet so we're going to "watch them". Which is code for "I hope you like needles being stuck into your gums because we'll be seeing a lot of you in the future".

And for the record, no, I do not like needles, especially when they are anywhere near my tender parts.

Also for the record, I am a delicate flower so I have many tender parts. Which is to say...

Stay the fuck away from me with your needles you sicko.

I'm scared out of my sneakers. Is there anything I should be particularly worried about or prepared for? Give it to me straight, I'm a delicate flower but I can take the bad news. I want to know what I'm in for. Oh gawd please tell me it's not as bad as I think it's going to be!!

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

We interrupt this whining to send a very huge thank you to Tori of Radioactive Girl for the ROFL Award she decided to bestow upon me.




She decided that Chicky Baby's follicle mutilation at the hands of her own father was worthy enough to be singled out.

At first I was all WTH?! HOAS. IYSS. But then I was all XLNT! TYVM!! I'm SETE. Then I thought WWJD? And that's TBD so I should quit while I'm behind.

SIS*.

THX, I mean, Thanks Tori!

If you want to know more about the ROFL Awards go see Mommy Off the Record and Izzy.



(*for those of you not up to date on the lingo, Like me. I had to look this stuff up:

WTH = What the hell
HOAS = Hold on a second
IYSS = If you say so
XLNT = Excellent
TYVM = Thank you very much
SETE = Smiling ear to ear
WWJD = What would Jesus do?
TBD = To be determined
SIS = Snickering in Silence)

Monday, November 13, 2006

You know you're a mother when...

... Your young toddler sleeps in until 8:45am on a rainy Monday morning and instead of thinking:

"Holy crap! It's 8:45 and she's still sleeping? This is great! I feel so well rested."

You think:

"Holy crap! It's 8:45 and she's still sleeping? Is she dead? I need to go check on her now!"

Jeesh, how my priorities have changed.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Yes, sometimes we do need some stinkin' badges

Perhaps you noticed those pretty round badges toward the bottom of my sidebar - if you didn't, don't worry I'll wait for you to go take a look.

*whistling*



*humming "Girl from Ipanema"*



*Tall and tan and young and lovely...*



You're back? Good. Let me explain the meaning behind those beauties.

Those badges are American Cancer Society - Fight Cancer badges to help raise awareness about the fight against cancer. My blog is sporting the lovely blue Colon Cancer Awareness badge and the equally stunning purple Relay for Life badge, two causes that are very near and dear to my heart.

I lost my mother to colon cancer (or, colorectal cancer, as it is often referred to now) just over 2 and a half years ago. Unfortunately, at the age of 44 years old, no doctor thought that the cause of her sickness and pain was colon cancer and in the time spent ping-ponging between doctors to get a correct diagnosis the cancer had a chance to get into her lympnodes before it was removed. She was 51 when she died. My daughter will never know her grandmother.

From the ACS website: "Other than skin cancer, colorectal cancer is the third most common cancer found in men and women in this country. The American Cancer Society estimates that there will be about 106,680 new cases of colon cancer and 41,930 new cases of rectal cancer in 2006 in the United States. Combined, they will cause about 55,170 deaths."

55,170 deaths.

The age that most people are urged to get checked is 50, and though my hope is that everyone gets a colonoscopy as soon as they reach that magical number I also hope that people will listen to their bodies and force their doctors to give them the test if they believe it is needed. Insurance companies are not too keen on giving colonoscopies before the age of 50 so you have to fight for it. And fight you should - early detection is key to beating colon cancer. Did I make that clear enough? The number of cases of colorectal cancer has been going down in the past 15 years, thanks in part to early detection. Early detection = increased likelihood of not dying from this horrible disease. And it is horrible so, please, get checked as soon as you can.

Through all of this I became part of the Relay for Life, which I talked about extensively here.

If you like those buttons and you'd like to spread the word about cancer awareness (they have others: Breast, Lung, Ovarian, Cancer Survivor, etc.) go here. So far we are 209 strong, which means 209 blogs/websites have these badges displayed proudly.

When it comes to cancer (and especially colon cancer. Let's face it, few people want to talk about their colon) the more we talk about it the more awareness we raise, and with awareness comes more survivors.

Get a badge. What's a few more buttons on your sidebar?

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

*The title of this post refers to quotes from this movie and this one. It has nothing to do with colons or rectums. What are you, six? Stop giggling.

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

To lighten the mood:
In case you were interested, no, a burrito is not a sandwich. I've never been so proud to live in this part of the state as I am right now.

I've been to that "restaurant" once. Personally, I don't think Panera has anything to worry about. Their burritos can not be classified as a sandwich, nor can they be called "tasty".

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Let sleeping babies lie

Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou and Thank you.

I gathered from the comments on yesterday's post that most of you also have rabid children with sharp pointy teeth. Teeth that come out when you try to cut their nails. It's nice to know that I'm not the only one with this problem and I thank you for all interesting suggestions on how to execute a swift nail trim while still maintaining flesh on your arms. But to those of you who suggested cutting Chicky Baby's nails while she's sleeping...

BAAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAAAA!!!!

You mean to tell me that you actually dare to breathe in the same direction of your sleeping child? What kind of magic children do you have? Apparently the kind that slumber heavily in a coma-like state. Not mine. Noooo. I dare not even walk in front of the closed door of Chicky's bedroom while she's sleeping for fear of waking the beast.

My daughter is usually a very good sleeper, but a heavy sleeper she is not. If I so much as touch the door handle she's up on her two feet faster than an Olympic sprinter off the blocks. So though I appreciate those suggestions from a hygienic perspective I really appreciated them for the chuckle they brought me. I laughed, I snorted, I guffawed, I shot wine out of my nose.

And let me tell you, that shit hurts.

It's funny, you can pay a veterinarian or a groomer ten bucks to cut a dog's nails but you can't pawn off the task of trimming your kid's onto someone else. It's just not fair. I'd pay big bucks for that service. Which leads me to my next point.

(Did you catch that segue? Smooooooooooth.)

I promised canine nail cutting tips in return for your sage advice. As much as I'd like to write about it here, I'm too tired after trying to put my kid to bed. A kid who is suffering from MissingDaddy-itis. My husband is traveling for business this week and because Chicky is missing him she's refusing to let me leave her in her bedroom at night. She's finally asleep in her crib after many books and games of peekaboo, so I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and zone out in front of Grey's Anatomy. If you'd like to know more about how to save yourself some money by cutting your dog's nails at home, without leaving bloody paw prints all over your beige carpets, I'll direct you to this post at Dog Gone Blog.

I promise you, cutting a dog's nails is SO much easier than cutting a toddler's. And? You can use restraints if you need to and no one will think twice about it or call the authorities on your. How great is that?

**Added**
Did you catch friggin' Grey's Anatomy? All I wanted to do was loose myself in McDreamy and McSteamy and McGeorge (Gay or not, he's got pinchable cheeks) and what happens? Dead baby. Fuck. Now I'm crying and my nose is running and I can't taste my wine anymore. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

It's a nail biter

Do you know about those mitten-thingies that parents put on newborns to keep them from scratching the holy jeebus out of their sweet new faces? Do you think they make them in toddler size? With double sided sticky tape to keep them from being pulled off? Heavy duty sticky tape?

Because I really need a pair of those for Chicky Baby. She wakes up at least two mornings a week with bloody scratches on and around her nose. Chicky scratched herself so badly a few weeks ago that a scar still remains on her cute little button nose. Her perfect porcelain skin has been marred, people. This is serious shit.

You might be asking yourself "Why the hell doesn't this woman just cut her damn kid's nails instead of spending all her time on the internet?".

And therein lies the rub.

Not the internet thing, because we've already established that I have a problem. No, the nail cutting issue. I hate it, she hates it. She hits, bites, screams. She fights me like a rabid dog. Actually, I would rather trim the nails of a rabid Rottweiler because at least then I could use restraints and a muzzle. And possibly sedatives.

I've tried pinning her arms. I've tried bribing. I've tried anesthitizing her with episodes of Sesame Street and Elmo's World DVDs and though this works sometimes when trimming her fingernails (heavy stress on the word "Sometimes") if I try to clip her toenails she turns into Cujo, complete with foaming of the mouth and growling. I've even tried sitting on her.

Just kidding about that last one. Maybe.

Her nails are getting close to breaking world records and I'm at my wits end. It's not healthy. Do you know what kind of crap can get caught under there? Yeah, that kind of crap. The real kind. And her toenails are starting to curl under her toes and that can't be good. Worse yet, I'm going to be judged by all the other playgroup moms. So please, help a Mama out. Do you have any tricky methods for cutting your kid's nails? At the very least share your war wound stories with me because misery, and post traumatic stress, loves company.

As a bonus, I'll teach you how to cut your dog's nails if you help me cut my kid's.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Yes, I do remember my first time

One of the million things that bugged me about my ex-husband was his insistence on not voting. When I finally divorced his hillbilly ass he was 30 years old and had not once stepped inside a voting booth. Not one single time.

When I met him I was 18. At that time in my life voting was an interesting oddity but certainly not a deal breaker in the potential boyfriend department. No, a hot car and the right friends was certainly more important to me than which candidate a boy was going to vote for in the midterm elections, if he voted at all. Honestly, I don't think the conversation ever came up in the first year or two of our relationship.

It's strange that it never came up because voting has always been important to my family. As staunch Democrats, my father and mother took us to many a ham and bean dinner to raise money for the local Democrat running for a House seat. There was often a recognizable name printed on a red, white and blue sign on our front lawn. And my father was always vocal, very vocal, about which candidate had the best interests of the working man and his family. He's a union man, my dad, and if you're a union man in Massachusetts then chances are you're voting Democrat.

Let's get real, if you're living in Massachusetts there's a good chance you're voting Democrat anyway.

I remember my first time voting. It felt strange and slightly exhilarating to step into the local Knights of Columbus with my mother, to walk up to the table, give my address and receive my own ballot to vote, instead of being told to take a seat in one of the metal folding chairs that lined the walls to wait until she was through. I walked up to the booth and stood there for what seemed to be the longest time, sweating and unsure of what to do. What if I voted wrong? Was everyone watching me to make sure I didn't screw up? Would they take one look at my ballot and laugh at my mistakes?

After I finished punching holes in what I assumed were the right places (it felt like the SATs all over again: C, D, B, D, D, A, oh shoot! Time's up! C, C, C, C, C, C, C...) I put it in the huge box and smiled sheepishly at the nice retiree standing guard. I'm a fraud and he knows it, I thought. But I had done my duty. My candidate for governor won (ironically enough, a Republican) and I was proud of myself for participating.

In 1992 it was time for my first Presidential election: Bush (the elder) vs. Clinton. That was a good time to be a young voter, especially a young Democrat voter, but trying to engage my ex in any conversation about politics was like pulling teeth, then giving up on pulling teeth and going for a full root canal. Without novacaine. That's when he told me that he didn't vote and he had no desire to. I was incredulous: What do you mean you won't vote? You have two good legs and no one is tying you to the nearest tree to stop you, get your ass up and do your duty. Still, he refused. Apathetic is too kind of a word to describe my ex.

I should have known then that things wouldn't work between us. Every local, state and national election was the same - he refused to vote. Sort of like he refused a taste of salsa or any spaghetti sauce besides Preggo, he flat out refused to participate in the voting process. He saw no need and was convinced his vote wouldn't count for anything.

The dumb shit.

It never stopped me from participating but for a time it did slightly numb me to the importance of it all. Missed the gubernatorial election this year? Ooops. I'll vote next time. But after watching the past couple of elections and seeing how so many people didn't vote (and now that I have a husband with a sizable I.Q. and a responsibility towards making a difference) I have a new found passion for our election process. I shudder to think of what would have become of any child that I might have brought into this world with my ex and how little regard they might have grown up with for our basic rights. Chicky Baby will grow up knowing about how Democracy works (hell, we've got "I'm Just a Bill" in our DVD player as I write this) and just how important every vote is.

Bottom line: Mama's don't let your babies grow up to marry morons and get out there and vote today.

You're not tied to a tree, right?

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Damn you, Extreme Home Makeover

Damn your overly caffeinated/bouncing-off-the-walls Ty Pennington (and damn him for being so annoying, yet oh so yummy).

Damn your toothy, too-much-time-in-the-tanning-salon designers.

Damn your slap-you-in-the-head-with-an-anvil product placements (yeah, Bissell, Craftsman, Panasonic, we get it already).

Damn your Pottery Barn-perfect homes (I'd like to see what those places look like 3 months later).

Damn your country music guests (can't we get some relevant pop or rock artists on that show?).

Damn your worst-case-scenario/horrific tales of hardship, barely skirting the line between exploitation (for Kenmore, no less) and charity.

And double, triple damn you for making me cry. Every. Single. Episode.

How the hell do you do it? And where the hell are my tissues?

Damn you, now my node is all stupped up.

Friday, November 03, 2006

BlogLoveApallooza

It's time to post the links from the "Blog Lovefest - Fall '06" tour. Like any good touring festival there has to be a "Thank you and Goodnight!" but I don't want this blogger tribute to end like the original Woodstock, never to be heard from again until corporate sponsors take it over many years later and bastardize the original idea for profit instead of peace, love, happiness, and spontaneous nudity. No, I'd like to think of "Blog Lovefest" like a touring summer music festival, sort of like Lollapalooza back in the day when you could see Jane's Addiction and Living Colour or Soundgarden and The Breeders performing at their peak (we're going to pretend that whole thing with Prodigy and Snoop Dogg never happened. M'kay?). We'll pack up our guitars and side show oddities and our Voter's Rights tables and head off to the next venue.

Keep the tour alive and the love will never die.

See you in Cleveland!

So, please, if you didn't get a chance to write an ode to the one (or ones, I'm flexible, just try to narrow it down to a manageable number) you love take a minute and dash off a few kind words. I will happily include you in this living, breathing, growing list of adoration. Think of it as a gift. Just because you missed someone's birthday doesn't mean you can't give them a belated present. Hey, a present is a present even if it arrives a few days late and reverence and affection are still important even if you missed some silly meaningless deadline. So keep spreading the love!

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

Before I get to the links I need to profess my everlasting adoration and admiration for one particular friend. Ironically - and unfortunately - enough, though she was at the top of my list from the very beginning of this project, this woman has had a rough time of it lately and deserves some love. It seems fitting that Sandra of Sunshine Scribe is the one who should be applying for a restraining order. Not only do I think she's a talented writer, a fantastic humanitarian, a doting mother of a gifted son whom she has written eloquently about on many occasions, and a smokin' hot mama but she has also inspired me in many ways that I'm sure she has no idea about. For instance, because of her I have seriously cut down on the amount of meat (specifically red meat) my family eats. Getting myself and my husband to eat more healthy foods is no small feat and I thank Sandra and her posts on vegetarianism for that. Her Flashback Fridays never fail to amaze me or make me think. And she had the ability to make me laugh. How can you beat that combination? So, Sandra, my hat is off to you. At the risk of sounding incredibly corny:

You are my Sunshine,
my only Sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You'll never know dear how much I love you

Please don't take my Sunshine away.


Ouch, I think I just got a cavity.

Much love to you, Sandra. Mmmmwaaaah.

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

Onto the links!

(If I missed your post please send me an email with "Hey Moron" in the title)


Bub and Pie:
http://bubandpie.blogspot.com/2006/10/violence-lust-and-dead-people.html

Binky (ECR) of 24/7:
http://24hours7daysaweek.blogspot.com/2006/10/because-i-think-youre-punny.html

Elizabeth of Table for Five:

http://table4five.net/2006/10/19/love-thursday-the-jennster-edition/

Kristi of Here In Idaho:
http://www.here-in-idaho.com/?p=459

Dodo of Voodooesque:
http://dodothatvoodoo.blogspot.com/2006/11/get-your-lovefest-on-dear-ms-c.html

Mo-Wo of Mother-Woman:
http://motherwoman.blogspot.com/2006/11/double-happiness.html

Tabba of Mrs. Incredible:
http://stretchedtothelimit.blogspot.com/2006/11/im-taking-lovah.html

Tori of Radioactive Girl:
http://radioactive-girl.blogspot.com/2006/10/love-is-all-you-need_26.html

Mert of Almost Somewhat Positive:
http://almostsomewhatpositive.blogspot.com/2006/10/share-love-or-at-least-gosh-gee-i.html

Lillithmother of From Maiden to Mother:
http://lillithmother.blogspot.com/2006/10/spreading-luv-in-hood.html

Kari of Life: The Ongoing Education:
http://katronika.blogspot.com/2006/10/can-you-feel-love-tonight.html

Mommy Off The Record:
http://mommyofftherecord.blogspot.com/2006/10/with-love-c.html

Crunchy Carpets:
http://crunchy-carpets.blogspot.com/2006/11/finally.html

Krista of The Silent K:
http://blog.thesilentk.com/?p=479

Mombat:
http://mombat.com/?p=82

Dana of The Dana Files
http://thedanafiles.com/?p=38

T of Redneck Mommy:
http://redneckmommy.blogspot.com/2006/10/group-hug-people-my-therapist-says-it.html


Cinnamon Girl of Write About Here:
http://writeabouthere.blogspot.com/2006/10/22-things.html

Jen of One Plus Two:
http://droolstreet.blogspot.com/2006/10/chickfest.html

Mad Hatter of Under a Mad Hat:
http://madhattermommy.blogspot.com/2006/10/sending-out-little-love.html

Janet aka "Wonder Mom" of Princess Stinkfoot:
http://princesstinkfoot.blogspot.com/2006/10/share-loveblog-style.html

Momish:
http://momish.squarespace.com/blog/2006/10/25/a-call-for-action-double-time.html

And because she asked, and it's a fabulous idea, Her Bad Mother's Great Mommyblogger Love-In list:
http://badladies.blogspot.com/2006/05/great-mommy-blogger-love-in-list.html
And love for da Daddies:
http://badladies.blogspot.com/2006/06/feels-and-squeezes.html


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

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did. And to you, yeah you, I see you over there, who hasn't gotten around to writing your's yet...

What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation? Get off your ass and show some love.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

I'm a cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-crackhead

Remember the other day when I mentioned that my laptop was dying a slow, painful death?

Guess what happened yesterday?

Code blue! Code blue! Get the crash cart!

It's like the damn thing thought,

"You dare insult my PC-ness? Who the hell do you think you are, talking about replacing me with another laptop or a Mac? A Mac?! Do you know who I am? I'm an intelligent being, dammit and you hurt my feelings. Don't you know what I could do to you? I am your lifeline to the outside world and you go and talk smack about me. That's it, we're through. I'm outie."

Fuuuuuhhhck.

A couple of weeks ago Chicky Baby pulled my laptop off of the couch where it usually sits, keeping my seat warm for me, and like a piece of buttered toast falling buttered side down the thing inevitably fell straight down on the power cord. I was able to rig it just so to keep giving juice (or, life blood, as I like to think of it) to my computer until Halloween night. I awoke the next morning to find a cold, dead computer. Flatlined. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Time of death - who the hell cares?! My computer won't come back on!

I started getting the shakes immediately.

I knew I was attached to my computer but I had no idea the depth of my dependence on that stupid black box until I didn't have it to kick around any more. Ain't that always the way?

It was so bad that I had to beg my husband for five minutes with his laptop, just five minutes, puhleeeeaze, just five minutes. I need to publish my Blog Exchange post. I need to check my email. I need to write about the loves of my blog life. I need to write other blog posts because I have great fodder. I need to surf for celebrity gossip. I need, I need, I need....

What I need is help. An intervention perhaps?

Hi, I'm Mrs. Chicky and I'm a computer-holic.

I am proud to say that I stopped short of offering sexual favors in return for precious minutes with a computer. And today the new power cable arrived in the mail (um, just a second... Fuck you and your proprietary self, Dell. I had to next day ship the sucker because you don't sell your parts at places like Circuit City. Fuck you very much.) so I won't be greeting Mr. C at the door wearing nothing but cellophane and a smile, ready to do what needs to be done to tire him out so he won't notice me sneaking away for a tawdry affair with a piece of electronic equipment.

Sorry, hon, maybe for you birthday.

Oh, how did it get to this point? I'm like Halle Berry's character in Jungle Fever. I need my fix and I didn't have it for a whole day. One. Whole. Day. Yet I didn't die. I got the shakes but I didn't get the DT's. I didn't need methadone. I didn't knock over a CVS for oxycontin. I did eat a lot of chocolate bars, but who isn't this week?

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Anyone want to start a support group with me? I'll bring the coffee and the folding chairs.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Open Letter to the...

COFFEE MAN

Do you know what a difference your mild flirtation meant to me, that smelly mini-van, tantruming-child filled morning? With my lipstick wasted on the under five set, you calling me “Miss” and smiling broadly after I ordered my vanilla latte made my morning so inordinately exciting, I called my friend in Rhode Island just to report that an under-30 had flirted with me. I frequented your coffee stand for weeks, just for a glimpse of your smile.

GROCERY CLERK

I remember the tired Sunday afternoon when, arms loaded with squirming youngsters and frozen pizzas, you offered to help me. Cheerfully ignoring my tears, you loaded the groceries as I fastened the unwilling babies into car seats and tried to avoid snorky sobs. I welcomed your friendly conversation as a talisman from the normal world –a reminder that daily life was continuing outside the struggles and angst of my new motherhood. You wished me a lovely evening and as I drove away, I watched you in the rearview mirror like someone descending on a hell elevator gazes after a departing angel.

SHY NEW COWORKER

And for that moment of eye contact, when you thanked me for the job and the opportunity, I saw in your gratitude that my presence on this planet wasn’t just a mistake of genetics and random molecules. I felt for that moment that my weary efforts did matter and that for others, like me, days are often made or ruined on the promise of the kindness of strangers.

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

CrankMama, Rachael, is an aspiring hippie mama in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She's raising her 3 young daughters with her 2nd husband, simultaneously trying not to lose her sassy edge.

Come visit Chicky Chicky Baby over here today.


Click the button to check out the other open letters this month, and to get more info on the blog exchange.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Guess who's going as a spineless jellyfish for Halloween?

No, not her...



Because, obviously, she's a chicken. Doing one killer version of the chicken dance. I'm only sorry you can't witness it yourself.

Me. I'm the spineless jellyfish. I caved into the peer pressure to get my kid a costume.

But I have a good reason! Chicky Baby and I attend music class on Tuesday mornings and since this Tuesday is Halloween (which is today for those of you just crawling out from under your rocks) our teacher said we were going to have a party and all the kids could come dressed in costume. Well, I didn't want to be the only mother whose kid wasn't in costume. How much would that suck? It would be like 6th grade all over again...

Oh. My. Gawd. You wore green on Thursday? What a loser. Everyone knows you don't wear green on Thursday. No one is going to be your friend 'cause you wore green on Thursday and no one wants to be friends with the loser who wore green on Thursday.

(Did you catch that it was socially prohibitive to wear any shade of green on Thursdays? It took me years to be able to wear the color sage for fear of forgetting what day of the week it was and wearing it ON THURSDAY.)

So there I was, at Old Navy, buying my kid a t-shirt that says "Little Devil" on it. I had no plans to buy her a costume even though I would probably end up being a playgroup pariah. I figured I could dress up the t-shirt with a pair of devil's horns and tape a picture of Chicky Baby's latest tantrum onto her back and call it a day. But there in the checkout line was this costume, hanging all by itself, in her size. I figured it was Serendipity stepping in and saving me from myself and my Scrooge-like ways.

(but really it was the 50% off tag. $9.95! Score!)

The costume was a huge hit. I wish I could share the pictures with you all from the party but that would require me getting permission from the other mothers. Which would require me telling them about my blog. Which would require me shutting down this blog, leaving town and changing my name.

I'm still not taking her Trick or Treating. A girl has got to have some convictions, even if she is a bleating sheep follower of the crowd.

Happy Halloween to you and all your little chicky's (and the big ones too!).

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

Today over at Dog Gone Blog - the best grooming brush for dogs (and cats too!) that I have ever found. And later today - Dog of the Week.

Monday, October 30, 2006

Sucker for those Mac Ads

Since I've been staring at the blink, blink, blinkity blink of my computer's cursor on the Blogger post page for the past forty five minutes and have yet to make any headway in the creativity department I think I'll ask you, dear internets, a question. I could use your advice.

(Before I do, I just had a thought. Wouldn't it be great if there really were a "Creativity Department" at, say, Target? You pop in to grab some diapers and some inexpensive books and then before you hit the check out you stop in the Creativity Department which, in my mind, is between the invitations and the office supplies. Well, where the heck would you put it?

"Hmm, Creativity is $19.98 today but with this coupon I got in the mail I can get 10% off. Ooh, here's another coupon for Imagination and one for Ingenuity. What the heck, I'll get all three. Then I'll grab some laundry detergent and we'll be on our way.")

Har.

So, the question... My Dell laptop is about to shit the bed (what a horrible image, but fitting) and I need to replace it. It's the cheapest Dell offered since it was all I could afford at the time and to fix it would mean spending more money than it's currently worth. But after dogs stepping on it, Chicky Baby using it as a place to take out her frustrations while banging it with her sippy cup, and cats sleeping on it, my laptop really needs to go.

I'm thinking about waiting until after the holidays for the new Windows OS to come out to buy a new PC but I have to admit that I'm drawn to the Macs. They're just so... Fun. PCs are not fun. But I haven't used a Mac since I was in college which was over, um....

Let's see, carry the one, multiply by 2 and divide by Pi...

Let's just say it was a long time ago. I've been using PCs for a long time and I fear change, but I've heard such wonderful things about Macs that I'm torn (Those new Mac ads? Sucked me right in.). Any advice? Has anyone gone from PC to Mac? Mac users, what do you like about them? And do you have any ideas on how I would pay for this expensive piece of machinery? Pole dancing? Rent out my daughter to people who think they want kids but aren't sure? Sell my dogs for medical research? I'm open to suggestions.

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

One more thing. Since I'm not above beating a dead horse here's your reminder to please send me the link to your contribution to Blog Lovefest - Fall '06. I'm thrilled with the outpouring gushy sentiments I've seen so far and I hope you - yeah you, don't think I haven't noticed a lack of affection for some fellow bloggers from your site - will continue to spread the creamy, Nutella flavored love. I'll be posting all the links this Friday.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Where I gush like a school girl with a crush

How great are you guys? Seriously, feel free to assign yourself a level of greatness because I couldn't possibly do it. I don't think I could find the words to thank you for all the kind words, sentiments, and been there done that's on yesterday's post. Let's just say that I've been having a crappy time of it lately and your words lifted me up, dusted me off, smacked me in the back of the head and told me, to borrow a phrase from Cher in "Moonstruck", to Snap out of it.

You guys are so fabulous. I want to give you all a big smooch. With tongue. Because of what you guys said I think I need to put out a little bit, but I don't go all the way. I'm not the kind of girl that falls into the sack over a few pretty words. You deserve at least some frenching action.

I want to gather you all up in a little ball and put you in my pocket. I want to keep you safe and warm and feed you bits of cake and pull you out when I need my ego stroked. Which is often.

Because the amount of stroking needed is inversely proportionate to the size of my ego.

Maybe I need to start making daily affirmations a part of my routine. I'll squeeze them in between tantrums. I need to learn to take a deep breath, pull out a hand mirror and channel my inner Stuart Smalley:

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.

Har. Get it? Doggone it? Dog Gone it? Gah. No shame, I have no shame.

But while we're on the subject don't forget to send in those dog pictures for Dog of the Week to doggoneblog@yahoo.com. If your dog is picked for the dubious honor you win absolutely nothing but you will have my respect and my cheeky comments on your dog's picture. That should count for something, not much but something.

Okay, I'm done with the shameless self-promotion.

Mainly because I'm tired. So very tired. I attended the funeral of my great uncle today (no need for condolences, this was one of those times when a person's passing was the kindest scenario) and since I don't have midday sitters I had to bring Chicky with me. Funerals are tiring without having to entertain an 18 month old, so today was doubly tiring. It was a very small service with just family and close friends so her presence wasn't strange or unwelcome. Actually, she was a big hit, showing off her mad eskimo kissing skills doing tricks for cheese crackers. But even though there were other young children there for her to play with it was still a stressful time, being on pins and needles, hoping she wouldn't melt down in the middle of the eulogy.

She didn't. She was perfectly well behaved. I'm the problem, me and my inability to relax when it comes to my kid's behavior.

Maybe it's because, as a first child myself, I feel the need to have everything be just so. Maybe it's because I'm a first time mother. Maybe it's because I have no idea what I'm doing but I want everyone to think I do. Maybe it's because my kid was colicky for four months and to this day I still twitch when she screams, thinking the colic is back.

I think a movie monster should be named "Colic" or at least "Ciloc". All the mothers of colicky children in the audience of that movie would get a huge kick out of that inside joke.

Run for your lives! The Ciloc is coming! What shall we do?

Quick! Get the gripe water and giant infant sling! Damn, does anyone have an extra extra extra large clothes dryer and baby seat?

Anyhoo... The kindness you showed me here and the love you're spreading out in blogland is music to a stressed out mama's ears.

I'm done gushing. I need to go zone out to Ugly Betty. Ah, fluff TV. I thank dog for you.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

So low

The Great Blog Love-In Tour - Fall '06 - is going along swimmingly, thanks to all who have participated so far, and I can feel the warm blush of infatuation starting to spread over blogland. I'm thinking of selling tie-dyed t-shirts and hemp bracelets to commemorate this occasion. Nitrous balloons? No?

(man, I miss those Grateful Dead shows).

I need to get around to writing my own ode to blog amore but, unfortunately, there's not much love in Chickyville today.

This kid is beatin' my ass into the ground.

These days I gauge our "good" days by how many tantrums Chicky Baby has had by the time Mr. Chicky comes home from work. More than four and I'm asking my husband to pour me a glass of wine as soon as he walks in the door. More than five and I mutely hand him a full bottle and bang on the counter with my wine glass until he obliges my need for sweet oblivion. On the positive side, less than four and the day gets a "not bad" rating. Less than three qualifies as "good". Less than two and I'm doing a freakin' happy dance. Less than one... Well, that doesn't happen. The timing of said tantrums also determines which category the day will fall into. A tantrum before breakfast will leave a bad taste in my mouth for a good portion of the day.

Today I barely had Chicky out of bed when it started, so that should give you an idea of how I'm feeling right now. I'm thinking cocktails at noon followed by margaritas at 5pm and finishing with a nice vin santo this evening. Screw it. Where the hell is the tequila?

This is one of those days that I feel completely unprepared to be a mother. Unprepared, unqualified, and un-der a lot of stress. It wasn't bad enough that she had a mini tantrum on the changing table first thing this morning because I dared take a cold, wet wipe to her precious bottom, but then Chicky went on to have a meltdown in her high chair at breakfast. Perhaps I didn't cut up her banana pieces to her liking. Maybe I didn't toast her whole wheat waffle to just the right level of crispness. I have no idea and she can't tell me since she refuses to use any other words besides "up", "hello", and of course the ever present "Cah Cah" because she has a need for carbs every second of the damn day. I finally took her out of her chair and handed her the waffle which she happily toddled off with. So much for that rule of "All food must be eaten at the table". Sigh.

Adding insult to injury the men we have hired to drain money from our bank account showed up at 8am and the dogs went bat shit at the sight of strangers in their backyard. Even though the same men were just here yesterday, every day is a new day and a new opportunity to strike fear in the hearts of unsuspecting workers. Yes, my dogs bark. Doctor, heal thyself. Dog trainer, train your damn dogs. Blah blah blahdee blah.

So, the dogs are barking and one of them has a bark that can be heard in three counties. Chicky threw her doll in the trash (the very same trash I just put the uneaten banana pieces into) and began throwing refrigerator magnets in my direction because I didn't remove her doll quickly enough. I felt my blood pressure rising like the mercury on a cartoon thermometer, going higher and higher until it finally pops my head off with it's force. After giving up on the magnet throwing Chicky began climbing into the dirty dishwasher after repeated attempts to dissuade her, the dogs were barking so loudly I was afraid someone was going to call the cops to report rabid animals on the loose, and I hadn't had one drop of coffee yet.

I snapped.

I forcefully grabbed Chicky out of the dishwasher and slammed it so hard I thought for sure all the glasses would shatter. I pulled the two dogs through the back door into the kitchen and before I knew it I had one by the scruff and the other in an intimidated down/stay, telling them both in a less than quiet tone that if they barked one more time I'd pull a Cruella Da Ville on them, only I wasn't quite as G-rated with my choice of words. I shot a look at my daughter and saw her clutching her sippy cup and half-eaten waffle with a look of sheer terror on her face. One look at her face and I don't think I've ever felt so ashamed.

Bad Mommy. Bad, bad, bad.

I'm not cut out for this shit.

Who the hell convinced me that I could handle this mothering gig? Someone must have thought it was a good idea at some point but I don't remember who that someone was. Couldn't have been me. No. I know I have a temper and though I have more patience than I used to that temper has a tendency to rear it's ugly head when I'm pushed to my limit. What the hell am I teaching my kid when I can't even control my own rage?

Before you call DSS on me let me reassure you that I'm very good at walking away when I feel pushed to that limit. When I feel that anger start to bubble I step out of the room and try to tune out the screaming. But it's hard when your kid is running after the cat with a hair brush and the dogs are climbing the walls because they haven't been properly exercised in days (weeks? months?) and your husband is working long hours and your boss is an ass but you keep working because you feel the need to contribute and keep a small portion of your identity....

Okay, I've got to stop here. It's just making it worse. Chicky Baby is now napping and I'm calling for a 'do over'. I'm going to wipe this morning out of my mind like scribbles on an Etch-A-Sketch.

Who am I kidding? Of course I'm not going to be able to completely wipe this from my memory. It's going to stick with me for a long time. The day that I lost my temper and scared my kid, a day that will go down in infamy. There aren't enough apologies and hugs in the world to erase that one. Thankfully she's too young to remember this day, the day her mother turned into a shrieking, bug-eyed banshee, but I'll remember. I'll always remember and it sucks.

The only thing that makes it worse is the knowledge that this probably won't be the last time.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Wicked pissah

Mr. Chicky and I had an actual date yesterday. A date! Where there was no child clinging and crying and wanting and demanding! No cries of "Cah Cah!" from the backseat (that's 'cracker' for those of you not versed in toddler-ese, not a plea for a diaper change). It was sublime.

It was a mid-afternoon date, but still... A date's a date. We went to an open house (more on that later this week when I get around to purging myself of it) and then we saw "The Departed".

Or, The Depaahhted, as we like to say around here.

It may have been the golden glow around the whole outing that made me really like the movie but I did, I really liked the movie. There were some problems with it (a few funny cuts, some hanging story lines that were never resolved) but overall it was good. Since movie reviews are usually boring I'll sum it up in a few bullet points:

(Get it? "Bullet" points? Mob movie? Lots of guns? Sheesh.)

  • Jack Nicholson - Excellent
    (well, duh, he's Jack. He's always stellar.)
  • Inside jokes about the region - Good
    (if you're from here, that is. If you're from anywhere but New England they'll go right over your head. Poo poo to you.)
  • Accents - Surprisingly Good
    (except Alec Baldwin's, Mr. Chicky thought his was pretty bad. And since Mr. C is from one of those tony, monied towns outside of Boston where no one has a distinguishable accent he must be an expert. Right?)
  • Leonardo DiCaprio starting to look like a grown man - Good. Very Good. I applaud this new stage in his development.
    (I never found him to be that attractive but after seeing this movie I could be persuaded into thinking otherwise)
  • Hot sex scene involving Leonardo DiCaprio and someone else I won't divulge here as to not ruin it for you if you haven't seen it yet - Excellent. Fantastic. Fabulous. Rwaaawr. Worth the price of admission.
  • Incorporating so many big name actors into one movie without any one actor being the obvious scene stealer - Pretty good.
    (Except when Jack was on the screen. The director could have stuck him into that sex scene and he still would have stolen the spotlight from the hot action. Did I mention it was hot?)
  • Violence - Not my favorite part but necessary to the plot and not usually gratuitous.
  • Soundtrack - Good
    (Van Morrison and the Band doing a cover of Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" - I know. That one had to grow on me - Dropkick Murphy's. The Rolling Stones. 'Nuff said.)
  • The Ending - Hmmmm....

    The Ending. I'm still on the fence about that. If you've seen it let me know what you think. There's still parts of it that I just don't understand. Now I have to wait for the DVD to come out so I can watch the deleted scenes and then I can piece together what happened.
Over all I'd give "The Departed" two thumbs up and a rating of WP - for Wicked Pissah, as in:

"Dood, bang a u-ie and meet me at the packie on Wistah Street. You need to come see The Depaahhted with me. It's wicked pissah."*

Heh


** Translation: My friend, turn your car around and join me at the liquor store on Worcester Street. We will attend a screening of The Departed. It's phenomenal.

_______________________________

Remember: Keep those declarations of love coming!

_______________________________

And over at Dog Gone Blog: The safe and efficient way to housetrain your dog.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Every party has a pooper and that's why we invited you

We interrupt this lovefest for a particularly bitchy moment.

I refuse to bring my 18 month old daughter trick or treating.

That's right. I'm not doing it. She's 18 months old, has adverse reactions to things being put on her head and scratchy, cumbersome clothing. I have an adverse reaction to buying a $20 or $30 costume, no matter how cute it is, that she'll wear for 15 minutes to carry her up to a strange house where she will immediately start to tear up when she feels forced to interact with a smiling stranger offering her candy that she can't eat.

Yes, I am Halloween's equivalent to a scrooge this year. And apparently I'm in the minority, at least where my friends are concerned.

I love Halloween, I really do. I love handing out candy to kids of appropriate age (that's a hint for those kids who are over the age of 14 who throw on a hockey mask and an old sweatshirt and call it a costume) and truthfully I do get a kick out of seeing the littlest of revelers in their wee costumes that make them look like walking stuffed animals. But let's face it, at this age is the holiday for the kids or for the parents?

My group of mommy friends wants to get all the kids (all the kids? Four kids, it's not a big group) together to go trick or treating. Okay, fine, have a great time but I'm not going. It's not something that interests me and besides I have to work that evening. I have told them on numerous occasions that I can't swing it. But my friends, being the rah rah sisterhood they are (and I should say here that they are wonderful in that way, always making sure that everyone gets included in activities and drawing out those mothers - ahem, me - that aren't natural joiners) keep coming up with ways, however misguided they are, to make sure we take part in the fun.

I love them for doing this but they're starting to tick me off.

I'm starting to feel pressured to join the crowd and I hate, Hate with a capital H, being pressured into doing things that I don't want to do. I have already decided that trick or treating this year is out of the question. Next year, sure, we'll be there with bells on. To me a two and a half year old can begin to understand the concept of trick or treating, or at the very least can say "Trick or Treat!" (my kid's still working on "up"), and they can eat some of the candy. But this year, no matter how much my friends want to include Chicky Baby and me, we're going to gracefully bow out of the festivities.

But they won't let me. I've done everything I can to make it painfully clear that I can't/won't be joining them and yet they insist on trying. It's starting to make me question my conviction. Am I really being a horrible mother if I don't stuff my toddler into a store bought costume and try to make her take candy from someone she doesn't know, candy that I later will consume (like I need more temptation in my house)? Am I missing out on some important milestone for my child by being a Halloween scrooge this year?

Do you think they make Scrooge costumes for adults for Halloween? Or maybe I can just dress myself as a large black cloud.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Love is all you need

(Yeah, this post is long but really, what were you going to do anyway? C'mon, take some time and read. It will be worth it)

** Edited below because really? Why not?

If you've been reading my blog with an regularity I think you would agree that it's not in my nature to blog about blogging. Yes I do reference my own posts from time to time (Oh, I've gotten so sappy - flog flog flog - oh what is wrong with me - flog flog - I promise no more moonbeams and rainbows - flog.) Sure, I do a Meme every once in a while and I reference other bloggers when the occasion calls for it but I'm not one to fall prey to the subjects circling the blogosphere, specifically the ones from the parenting world. I didn't jump in to the feminism debate or the working vs. stay at home mom discussion. I held my tongue as much as I could when "blog politics" was the subject du jour. It's not that I don't like to jump into a good debate or join the vox populi but for the purpose of this blog it's just not my bag, baby.

However, since I love to contradict myself there is a theme in the parent blogs that has ruffled my feathers and I feel the need to write about it:

To Blog or Not To Blog.

I was originally going to get into how a blog is just that - a Blog. And writing that blog, unless you draw a majority of your income from it (and if you do how'd you like to share that info with me? Hmmm?), should not take over your life to the point that you feel torn between family and computer. I was going to write that yes, this little blog of mine has gained me access into a community that I never dreamed I would be a part of but the thought of not being part of that community has woken me up from much needed sleep trying to think of what I was going to write the next day to stay active and relevant (sad, I know). I was also going to write how, because of those sleepless nights, a few months ago I seriously thought about chucking the whole thing and closing the door on this chapter of The Life and Times of Mrs. Chicky.

But I didn't and I won't and I'm not going to write about that.

Instead I'm going to write about how others deciding to close up shop, even the one's who have decided to announce that they need to take a break and not write or comment as much, has affected me and what I'm going to do about it.

Wait! Don't go. It gets really good. It's not one of those posts (the feelings. The feelings! Ack, more rainbows and ponies!). I promise.

A number of bloggers (you know to whom I am referring so I'm not going to post links) have called it quits, or called for a time-out, due to a number of reasons. Blogging burnout, stolen content, other endeavors, you name it. The bottom line is that people, perhaps writers that you have started to consider friends, are not going to be around anymore, and I don't know about you but that's made me kind of sad. And sadness, my friends, breeds sadness. It doesn't help that in most of the northern hemisphere we're experiencing a change of seasons and that, combined with that afore mentioned sadness, is spreading negativity like wildfire throughout Bloggingland. More and more posts are about the War on Toddler-ism (or Kid-ism in general, but Toddler-ism sounds better) and how we're getting worn down by it, unhappiness about the state of their current life or living situations, body image, cankles, scurvy, leprosy. It's all gotten to be so... so... Depressing.

What has depressed me the most, however, is the idea that people are pulling out cardboard boxes and newspaper to pack it up and others are picking this time, when the person is saying 'See Ya Later', to tell the blogger how much they've loved their writing and that they're really going to miss them. Why do we wait until the end to tell other's how much we really enjoyed having them around? Why do we wait for that final post, or the one threatening to end it all, to say "No! Don't go! I love having you around! Your writing means something to me."?

Why don't we tell someone that we care about them, or dare I say "love" them, before they're walking out the door?

No offense to the people who fall under the categories above ('cause I'm one of them) but if we continue on this path we're going to be writing ourselves a one way ticket to a large barrel of antidepressants. What we need is a little pick-me-up - of the non-alcoholic/pharmaceutical kind - to lift our spirits. So I'm proposing this to you, internets:

Write a post, a shout out, a holla, to your favorite blogger of the moment to let them know how much you love what they're doing. And then once you've written it drop me an email or a comment and I'll compile of list and post it on November 3rd.

Now, before you get all squeamish about that word I just used let me first tell you that as a dyed in the wool New England woman I do not throw around the word "love" all willy nilly like. Sure, I'll throw around terms like 'willy nilly' but love is a word I reserve for special occasions. Like Birthdays and Anniversaries and when I want something expensive. If the word "love" is too scary you can use the safer "lurve", "luv" or "loooove", or for those of you who are really squeamish about it, "Gosh, gee, I really kinda like you". You could love this person for anything from a particular post (Jozet, I really loved how you wrote about bats) or something as silly as their profile picture or their site design (T. that 60 foot woman on your header? Rwaaawr. Love it!). Tell them you love them for anything, just tell them that they mean something to you. Don't wait until they're gone.

This blogger doesn't have to be another parent or even someone you comment on regularly. Hell if you want to give a lovey shout-out to Dooce I say go for it. Superbloggers need love too. Do you want to write about how much you love Waiter Rant? Okey dokey. It's still love. The point is to spread some cheer at an unexpected, but necessary, time. Don't save your love for February. Don't wait until Thanksgiving to say how much you're thankful for this person. Do it now.

So go, dear friends, and write about a blogger you love. Spread some cheer and sunshine and rainbows (Ha! Fooled you. I said there would be no more of that but I lied.). Because someone might be a little down in the dumps and need that bit of a lift that you can't get with a prescription. And, please, spread the word. Tell others about this and get others to join in. Spread the word and spread the love. Spread some creamy peanut butter on that love, I don't care, just say something nice about someone.

What are you still doing here? Go, spread the love.

(Disclaimer: Mrs. Chicky and Chicky Chicky Baby are not responsible for stalkers, messy blog breakups or awkward moments as a result of this lovefest. If your latest blog "love" starts leaving you 20 comments a day and 50 emails you may want to seek professional help. If you think you may need help please include a "safe word" with your comment or email and then use that word when it's time to move on from the blogging relationship. Someone will be dispatched to aid in your blog divorce.)

** I know there are some of you out there who love every single person on your blogroll. But what you really have to ask yourself is "Is it love or just infatuation?". Try to narrow it down to either someone you're really all hot and heavy for, and not just a passing fancy, or someone (or maybe even two or three people) who really needs a shot in the ass of love. Scratch that last one, it sounds too dirty. How about someone who really needs some cheering up? Yeah, that sounds better because for a second there this Lovefest was turning into something else entirely.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Five more hours until bedtime

That melancholy funk has returned and it's brought along an army of reinforcements and nothing, not even that hot sex dream I had last night about Tyler Florence and an inflatable mattress covered in sour cream and chive smashed potatoes, can lift this heavy gray veil of dread from my eyes.

I'm just kidding I didn't have a sex dream about Tyler Florence. It was about Neil Patrick Harris and a chocolate cream pie. Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it.

Even my Susie Sunshine posts of late (that are heavy on tangerine hued imagery and the liberal use of edible verse which are less food for thought and more half-done TV dinner) are helping. It has not escaped my attention that my recent writings have been, shall we say, sickeningly upbeat. But, dear reader, lest you think my life is all rainbows and puppies and apple cider donuts let me put your mind at ease.

(well, I did just eat about seven of those suckers in less than 24 hours - donuts not puppies - so I guess it is a little bit about donuts. Anyhow...)

I've needed to highlight the brighter parts of my life with a militant dictator in training in my blog because I need to have something to remind me of the good times. 'Cause living with a toddler with a 'tude and a slight Napoleon complex? It suuuuuuhhhhhh-cks.

I've decided that living with a toddler, especially a melodramatic girl who is gunning for Meryl Streep's job and the honor of being the first winner of an Academy Award to receive her Oscar in a Prada diaper, is exactly like living with an escaped schizophrenic, bi-polar patient from the local state hospital who has been off her meds for weeks. You never know who you're going to encounter at any given moment. Will it be Happy Chicky Baby? Cranky Chicky Baby? Mike Tyson-like Chicky Baby, complete with teeth to bite delicate ear tissue, a hair-trigger temper and fists-a-blazing? The Chicky Baby who acts exactly like your junior year drunken college roommate, kissing and hugging everyone in sight only to dissolve into a major crying jag when she finds out the cafeteria is no longer serving American chop suey?

Chances are I'll see all of those Chicky Babys and more today. Raise your hand if you're feeling my pain.

I need something to help me remember the highs. The wonderful, jubilant times when it feels like the warmth of her smile could keep me cozy all winter long, because the lows are so, so low around here. How low? This morning alone she had five tantrums before 11am. I could only identify the cause of about three of them. The other ones I'm chalking up to the fact that Elmo came on about five minutes earlier than usual (most days she only gets to watch the Elmo part of Sesame Street) so she had five minutes less of Elmo-rifficness to enjoy. Or barometric pressure. It could have been anything.

These days by 2:30 in the afternoon I'm starting the countdown to bedtime. Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick! What do you mean there's still four and a half more hours until bedtime?!

It's not just my dear, precocious daughter who's causing my mood to swing to the dark side, it's being a parent in general. The stress of being on duty 24/7 with no break in months, the monotony that is my "job" these days (really, what's the point in vacuuming up all that damn pet hair? It's just going to be there again in a few minutes.). Then there's the question: To go back to work or not? Part-time or full-time? Who the hell is going to hire me?

That is a post in itself. Later this week, perhaps.

It doesn't help that winter is fast approaching. I see long days stuck in the house stretched out before me. If I were in a better mood I would try to wax poetic about red noses, woolen hats, and pulling sleds down snowy streets but honestly the thought of all that is making me nauseous.

I wish I had something profound to say so I could wrap this post up in a pretty package complete with red velvet bow, but I don't. I've got nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. I'm also a bit afraid that if I continued with the psychotic toddler train of thought I'd start getting into that whole rage/fury thing and I'm not ready to go there yet. There's enough guilt in my life without releasing the demon that is my temper these days.

And the beast is starting to stir from her nap. Damn. Nap is over already?

How many hours until bedtime?

____________________________

I'm not living with just two-legged dictators in this house, the four-legged ones exert their power too. Over at Dog Gone Blog - shwag for your canine intent on world domination. And, later today, pweshus puppy pictures.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Eureka!

This is what I'll do with all that dog hair!


Learning to knit is on my list of 40 things to do before 40, so why spend the money on expensive yarns when I can knit with the hair my dogs insist on leaving on every surface of my home? Seriously, why is dog hair any more icky than sheep's wool or alpaca fleece? My dogs are clean, they get bathed regularly. Probably more regularly than a llama. Just because it came from the same animal who repeatedly licks his nuts (or the place his testicles once were) day after day, does that make the fur any more unclean? It's not like I'd be repurposing his tongue. Or his balls for that matter.

Although, I'm sure there's a market for that, too. And I bet if you dry them, grind some up and put it in your coffee it will make you an animal in the sack.

What I want to know is this, if one gets good enough at knitting with dog fur to start hitting the craft show circuit does one have to divulge the nature of the material? Can't one let the unsuspecting buyer think it's angora when it's really Snowball the Samoyed? I suppose there would be a conflict if someone was allergic to dog. Or allergic to the idea of wearing an animal that eats his own poop.

Yeah. Maybe knitting with dog hair isn't such a great idea after all.

(Thanks Kristi for the heads up about this book!)

________________________________________

And speaking of dogs (Alert! Shameless promotion time.): Over at Dog Gone Blog - Important information if you're thinking of adopting a dog.


Bitacle Steals Content!
If you're not reading this on www.chickychickybaby.blogspot.com or a feed authorized by the author then you are viewing stolen content. Please read this on the site it was legally published on and not on a splog like Bitacle who steals other people's work for their financial gain.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The silent enemy

It greets me at the door when I come home. It's with me still when I leave.

It follows me where ever I go.

If you come to my home it will follow you as well. You won't be able to shake it.

It's in the food my family consumes. In the liquid we drink to quench our thirsts.

It's in the air we breath. Underfoot, overhead, in every direction we turn it's all around us.

And just when I think that I have rid myself of it I turn to find it's still there.

There is no escaping it.

What is it?





Dog hair.

For the love of Pete, the freakin' dog hair. My Dyson Animal was empty when I started. Can you see how high the level of hair is in the canister? It's almost at maximum capacity. In case you think I'm a lousy housekeeper I did a thorough vacuuming the day before yesterday. Less than 48 hours and one brushing session since I vacuumed last and this was the amount of hair on my floor. Alright I am a lousy housekeeper but I vacuum pretty much every day, dammit. Now you know why.


The problem and the solution

Forget what I said before, I hate fall. The dogs are blowing their coats like crazy. When the hell is winter going to get here? At this rate these damn animals are going to be bald before the snow flies.

Hmm... Bald. I wonder what a lab would look like bald?


Bitacle Steals Content!
If you're not reading this on www.chickychickybaby.blogspot.com or a feed authorized by the author then you are viewing stolen content. Please read this on the site it was legally published on and not on a splog like Bitacle who steals other people's work for their financial gain.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

The Depends company stock just went through the roof

There are times in a blogger's life when they, by happenstance or good fortune, stumble upon a particularly inspirational, life changing post by a fellow blogger that changes their outlook on the world forever.

This is not about one of those.

It is, however, about a very funny post by a very funny blogger, one Ruth Dynamite, who rocks my world with her wit and humor. Her post about excrement, or lack thereof, was so funny and, to use the word for a second time in one paragraph, witty that I just had to nominate her for a ROFL award.

Congratulations, Ruth, never has poop been so damn humorous!

ROFL buttonChristina and Izzy for coming up with another way in which bloggers can add more flare to their sidebars! You can see other ROFL award recipients on their sites.


Bitacle Steals Content!
If you're not reading this on www.chickychickybaby.blogspot.com or a feed authorized by the author then you are viewing stolen content. Please read this on the site it was legally published on and not on a splog like Bitacle who steals other people's work for their financial gain.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.

No other season brings to mind images of small towns, white church steeples nestled among red sugar maple, hayrides and jumping in leaf piles quite like fall. Crispy leaves that crunch under foot while out walking on moonlit nights just cold enough to see your breath. Breath it in, fall has a smell all it's own: dried leaves mixed with just the right amount of wetness and a bite of frost. Wood smoke and ripe apples. Dried hay and cornstalks. Never has decomposition smelled so comforting than on an autumn evening in New England.

Autumn is a glorious time in this part of the country. It's our crowning glory. The pretty girl, a few months older and a bit more mature, casting aside her summer glow and gauzy dresses of sea blue for a crown of red and orange leaves set upon her golden hair. Her coat a field of brown and green festooned with the bounty of the late harvest, stitched up with corn silk and orange gourd buttons. She is a sight to behold and people come from far and wide to take in her beauty.

When I was pregnant one of the things I looked forward to the most was sharing these experiences with my daughter. I've always had a love/love/hate relationship with fall. I love the traditions, I love the weather, but I hate that the lazy days of summer are coming to an end opening the door for old man winter. I hoped that having a little person around to educate on the finer points of fall would help alleviate the melancholy I was always left with once September arrived. So far I have not been disappointed.



Every weekend there is another destination. Another farm, another orchard, another stand by the side of the road where people snatch up brightly colored mums to pay homage to the glory of this season by decorating their front porches with the roundly shaped plants. There are festivals and street fairs, where we gorge ourselves on fudge and food on sticks, perusing the wares of local artisans and merchants. I buy a blue tile with a relief of a Labrador patiently sitting with tongue out, a dog belonging to the potter's neighbor so I'm told. My husband puts it up on our kitchen wall.


Then there's the fields of orange pumpkins. Round, fat pumpkins that will join the mums in their place of honor on front stoops. Or soon to become grinning jack-o-lanterns, their innards used for pies and the seeds toasted for snacking. Adults bring their children to pose amongst the tangerine moons or set their new babies down on a pile of the oddly shaped orbs, to take a picture of a sleeping pumpkin in the patch. My daughter finds a pumpkin that is just the right size and proudly carries it as long as her small arms will let her. She tries to pick up a much larger one, questioning the strange heft and covering herself in dry soil. Unable to lift the fruit that is as large as she is she happily toddles off in search of others to conquer.



The trees are full of ripe, red apples that we pick from the branches. Willing limbs that relinquish it's offspring because they have started to weigh the branch down. The tree knows when its time to let go. We eat enough apples to keep a million doctors away. Straight off the tree, rubbed on a pant leg to uncover a perfect shine. Baked in pies and crisps and covered with vanilla ice cream. Pressed into cider, sipped both cold and hot with mulling spices that fill the house with fragrance. The first taste of a caramel apple, the warm goo dripping onto our hands and covering our faces from chin to nose. And when our faces are wet with juice and sticky with sugar we share sweet, sweet kisses.


Pick a road, any road, and take a long, meandering drive at just the right time of season and you'll be rewarded with vibrant hues of orange and yellow that envelope the highways. The sky is no longer the outrageous azure as it was during the summer but instead a lighter aquamarine, as if acquiescing to the riot of flaming crimson. Why compete when you can compliment? I love our long drives in the fall when our only destination is another orchard almost an hour away that sells the most amazing apple cider doughnuts. We eat two each right out of the fryer, the crispy, sugary outer layer and soft interior making the greasy hands well worth it. Our little girl sitting in the pack on her father's back waits patiently with mouth wide open for her bite. We have to stop ourselves from buying too many and making ourselves look like gluttons, but apple cider doughnuts come but once a year. We buy more and enjoy them with our morning coffee, the ones that make it home that is.

No, I have not been disappointed with Autumn this year. It's hard to feel melancholy when sitting on the lawn of our favorite orchard and winery, sipping the cool liquid made from local fruit, watching my daughter maneuver the small hillside down to the steps of the public gazebo. She turns to see me but she can't since the sun is at my back. But I can see her. The light and the warm breeze playing with her hair. She holds onto her father's hand until she feels comfortable enough with her footing to let go. The apple of my eye. Sweeter than all the fruit in the orchard. She takes her father's hand again, not entirely ready to let go. His arm is strong and not worn down by her weight at all. We're not ready to let go, she's not ready let go. We'll have plenty more Autumns to celebrate together.

-------------------------------
Bitacle Steals Content!
If you're not reading this on www.chickychickybaby.blogspot.com or a feed authorized by the author then you are viewing stolen content. Please read this on the site it was legally published on and not on a splog like Bitacle who steals other people's work for their financial gain.