Yikes! Did I not catch it early enough? What a parent doesn't need is another voice telling her or him you are screwing this kid up. Clearly, I am as screwed up as they come, and while I screw circuitously downwards into severe batsh*t crazy I will wave, bow grandfully and throw roses.
How early is early? My little sprightling wasn't speaking at twenty months. She was echoing and cooing and she did have some trouble with putting all the monkeys in a basket. Or what have you. Oh and by the way she was delightful. But it is true. She wasn't speaking. She had said the word kitty, and I was so super excited! My first baby, her first word! Mama 's shaking a conga line. Kitty.
Then, all of a sudden. No kitty. My space angel would just stare at the cat with big blue eyes. Oh and it was so hard to communicate. I feel like I invented a hybrid body language voice test to communicate with my daughter. And I was the only one she understood. Times were tough and then we had her little bro plastered to her feet.
In Pennsylvania, they do birth to three years. Then Early Intervention. And I can tell you, my space angel is the very best space angel out there because of these services. And I can also tell you she qualifies for no services as of today. At eight years old.
And this. THIS is why every family needs a kitty. Meow.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
The Diagnosis (ease)
Good morning, Blog! Mama just spent some time lining up her chakras.
I say diagnoses because lord, are there a billion. First you have the older child with the second opinion (that's two different diagnoses I got). And then the second child and his diagnosisesiesies. It can be very overwhelming, and when you have two children under two already your life is pretty much all about trying to leave your house with one clean pair of pants on. Or any pants on. So when you add this in to the mix, it can really make you want to split like bananas.
And the times they are a-changing. Oh, I'm sorry, we don't serve Asperger's here anymore. Okay, DSM volume five or whatnot. Now we have our spectrum, oh the spectrum. With its pervasive developmental disorder / not otherwise specified. PDD/NOS. Hi, is this code for your child is kinda bunk? I think so. And you have the medical doctors up against the school psychologist and isn't this fun to watch them battle it out. I just want my child to learn and be happy please. So I will take your one million papers and try to read them all and figure this shiznitsie out. Thanks a bundle.
There is no guide. Nobody sits with you and helps you go through this stuff. It is catch-as-catch-can which is unfortunate. I consider myself a smart cookie, but I will tell you the amount of papers these people throw your way is incredible. So after a thousand tests we now say it is autism? All right let's work with that.
Because really, at the end of the day, it can be autism or bipolar or Super Smash Bros disease. My son is my son, and that is who I am working with.
I say diagnoses because lord, are there a billion. First you have the older child with the second opinion (that's two different diagnoses I got). And then the second child and his diagnosisesiesies. It can be very overwhelming, and when you have two children under two already your life is pretty much all about trying to leave your house with one clean pair of pants on. Or any pants on. So when you add this in to the mix, it can really make you want to split like bananas.
And the times they are a-changing. Oh, I'm sorry, we don't serve Asperger's here anymore. Okay, DSM volume five or whatnot. Now we have our spectrum, oh the spectrum. With its pervasive developmental disorder / not otherwise specified. PDD/NOS. Hi, is this code for your child is kinda bunk? I think so. And you have the medical doctors up against the school psychologist and isn't this fun to watch them battle it out. I just want my child to learn and be happy please. So I will take your one million papers and try to read them all and figure this shiznitsie out. Thanks a bundle.
There is no guide. Nobody sits with you and helps you go through this stuff. It is catch-as-catch-can which is unfortunate. I consider myself a smart cookie, but I will tell you the amount of papers these people throw your way is incredible. So after a thousand tests we now say it is autism? All right let's work with that.
Because really, at the end of the day, it can be autism or bipolar or Super Smash Bros disease. My son is my son, and that is who I am working with.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
Autism does speak
Okay, Blog. We have been all fun and games up till now. Our honeymoon phase may be over.
Did you know I have off spring? It's true. And of course with the off spring comes the constant holy fballs as everything you thought you knew you didn't know and now you do again. Well my daughter had some trouble speaking, and she got services. After some months, the teachers that came to our home thought maybe....autism. But they were afraid to tell me. Of course they should not have been because I love everyone.And I learned a long time ago not to give a rat's ass about labels. No, I will not give you my rat's ass. I absolutely will not. Deal with it.
So my little darling got special services that enabled her to start communicating more effectively. And thank goodness because for about six months there she did not speak. It was very concerning. She would do the echollalia, and she would look at you with these huge blue eyes. And blink. She would walk on tip toes and she had the "symptoms" . And we had no idea what to do. She was three. So I got her every gd service there was known to man, and she began schooling at the age of three, with a small set of boys who had the same issue. And she would mother-hen them, the sweet darling. Get a jacket for Artie, tell Mason to scootch over on the carpet. She is an angel.
And wouldn't you know it...around the age of five she popped right out of her quirks and yes, she is glassy-eyed and porcelain, but she needs no remediations at school. She is the happiest duck in the pond and I love her to death.
Of course her brother is only twenty months younger and so far we have had the entire focus be on her. But here he is with his own set of quirks. Rigidity, repetitive motion, and the wailing. Oh, the wailing. So as it turns out (in terms of what school psychologists say) my daughter is the bee's knees and my son has autism. Okay. He doesn't know this.
Yes, there is a spectrum, and yes my son is brilliant. But now, Blog, we have a purpose. We can blog about autism AND make people laugh. How about that?
Did you know I have off spring? It's true. And of course with the off spring comes the constant holy fballs as everything you thought you knew you didn't know and now you do again. Well my daughter had some trouble speaking, and she got services. After some months, the teachers that came to our home thought maybe....autism. But they were afraid to tell me. Of course they should not have been because I love everyone.And I learned a long time ago not to give a rat's ass about labels. No, I will not give you my rat's ass. I absolutely will not. Deal with it.
So my little darling got special services that enabled her to start communicating more effectively. And thank goodness because for about six months there she did not speak. It was very concerning. She would do the echollalia, and she would look at you with these huge blue eyes. And blink. She would walk on tip toes and she had the "symptoms" . And we had no idea what to do. She was three. So I got her every gd service there was known to man, and she began schooling at the age of three, with a small set of boys who had the same issue. And she would mother-hen them, the sweet darling. Get a jacket for Artie, tell Mason to scootch over on the carpet. She is an angel.
And wouldn't you know it...around the age of five she popped right out of her quirks and yes, she is glassy-eyed and porcelain, but she needs no remediations at school. She is the happiest duck in the pond and I love her to death.
Of course her brother is only twenty months younger and so far we have had the entire focus be on her. But here he is with his own set of quirks. Rigidity, repetitive motion, and the wailing. Oh, the wailing. So as it turns out (in terms of what school psychologists say) my daughter is the bee's knees and my son has autism. Okay. He doesn't know this.
Yes, there is a spectrum, and yes my son is brilliant. But now, Blog, we have a purpose. We can blog about autism AND make people laugh. How about that?
Transfer please
Hey Blog! I have added ads to you. How do you feel about this? No, I don't think you're easy. Silly blog. They're just ads. People click on them and then we laugh all the way to the bank. It might take you awhile to get used to them. No worries, Blog. Take your time.
So as I have told you before, Blog, I tutor online. Which is pretty sci-fi crazy. But I love it and it works out well for me. So students log in and they sometimes are members and have a distinct handle. Stickypants123 or whatever. I remember those students. Others are just Guest with a whole lotta numbers after them. Guest453673 is not as easy to remember. But me, I'm Nancy Q. I guess that's pretty easy to remember.
The point is when a student logs on and sees NancyQ, they can decide yay! NancyQ or blech, NancyQ. I of course have no idea. I am all... have we met before? As I have a thousand things stapled to my armpits to do today, I can't remember Guest 45673.
So yesterday this kid signs on and immediately asks to be transferred.. Ha. Uh-oh. I am sure we have met before and you no likey. Okay, a transfer you get. I contact the monitor (space age here) and ask for a transfer and the monitor says, no transfers available. So now I have to tell the kid....can't transfer you right now.
Awkward..
And we hang out in awkward cyberspace. I am like maybe I can help you with your assignment.... and he or she is like you are a useless pile of beans.
Clock ticking.....
So as I have told you before, Blog, I tutor online. Which is pretty sci-fi crazy. But I love it and it works out well for me. So students log in and they sometimes are members and have a distinct handle. Stickypants123 or whatever. I remember those students. Others are just Guest with a whole lotta numbers after them. Guest453673 is not as easy to remember. But me, I'm Nancy Q. I guess that's pretty easy to remember.
The point is when a student logs on and sees NancyQ, they can decide yay! NancyQ or blech, NancyQ. I of course have no idea. I am all... have we met before? As I have a thousand things stapled to my armpits to do today, I can't remember Guest 45673.
So yesterday this kid signs on and immediately asks to be transferred.. Ha. Uh-oh. I am sure we have met before and you no likey. Okay, a transfer you get. I contact the monitor (space age here) and ask for a transfer and the monitor says, no transfers available. So now I have to tell the kid....can't transfer you right now.
Awkward..
And we hang out in awkward cyberspace. I am like maybe I can help you with your assignment.... and he or she is like you are a useless pile of beans.
Clock ticking.....
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
The Bus
Hmmm. Maybe I will tackle this. The bus.
I grew up in NYC, as you may know, Bloggy. People in NYC can be....impatient.
Love you guys :) http://mystretchypants.blogspot.com/2015/04/toot-toot.html
So I took the M101 or whatever the First Avenue bus was called to high school sometimes. Or the M23 that went up 23rd street to the subway station. You get the idea. Mama knows how to commute.
Obviously the bus is second grade to the underground subway. But you take it because it fits your journey perfectly; it plunks you down almost on the direct moment of the movie or class you are going to.
It also highlights you in a moving box with its day glo bulbs. In case you were worried you wouldn't be seen. Nope, you're on the bus. Hiya! There you are. All dangling from a strap as the driver shoots up the avenue.
The problem is there are hospitals along the way. Which means that not a hundred percent perfect people are coming out of the doors. (Is that PC enough?) Which also means, the bus has to stop, And here we are. Not happy. My bus stopped. Aw, man. and now the bus is like leveling down to the sidewalk. And the driver GOT OUT OF HER SEAT. What is she doing? Oh, she is helping the wheelchair along, okay, that's nice. Here you go. Tra la la. Pleasant sounds, and here we go wheelchair aboard.
Oh my god are we really we are stopping here? We have moved one quarter of an inch. Okay, okay, calm down, we are stopping a half block away from the bus stop. Okay. So the wheelchair can debunk and get to its physical therapy. We have driven you approximately twelve yards. And by the way? My yoga class is starting and I am probably going to be LATE because of all of this....handicappeddness.
And this would be why I do not currently live in New York City. I just can't take it.
I grew up in NYC, as you may know, Bloggy. People in NYC can be....impatient.
Love you guys :) http://mystretchypants.blogspot.com/2015/04/toot-toot.html
So I took the M101 or whatever the First Avenue bus was called to high school sometimes. Or the M23 that went up 23rd street to the subway station. You get the idea. Mama knows how to commute.
Obviously the bus is second grade to the underground subway. But you take it because it fits your journey perfectly; it plunks you down almost on the direct moment of the movie or class you are going to.
It also highlights you in a moving box with its day glo bulbs. In case you were worried you wouldn't be seen. Nope, you're on the bus. Hiya! There you are. All dangling from a strap as the driver shoots up the avenue.
The problem is there are hospitals along the way. Which means that not a hundred percent perfect people are coming out of the doors. (Is that PC enough?) Which also means, the bus has to stop, And here we are. Not happy. My bus stopped. Aw, man. and now the bus is like leveling down to the sidewalk. And the driver GOT OUT OF HER SEAT. What is she doing? Oh, she is helping the wheelchair along, okay, that's nice. Here you go. Tra la la. Pleasant sounds, and here we go wheelchair aboard.
Oh my god are we really we are stopping here? We have moved one quarter of an inch. Okay, okay, calm down, we are stopping a half block away from the bus stop. Okay. So the wheelchair can debunk and get to its physical therapy. We have driven you approximately twelve yards. And by the way? My yoga class is starting and I am probably going to be LATE because of all of this....handicappeddness.
And this would be why I do not currently live in New York City. I just can't take it.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Bloggypants
Oh no Blog! I love you so much but it seems like maybe you're moving on. What do I need to do? Pet you with nice, soothing comments? There, there, Blog. It seems I have many options. I can flip you this way or that way with a header or a footer, or I can have cascading data entries to your right or to your left. Whatever you want, Blog. It's about us going forward. Together.
I am waiting for the olders to come home and rip my face off. They have tennis at five and mama's gonna try to get a little Zumbariffic. The youngy is sleeping, so I started doing some research on blogs for you, Blog. And by research, I mean clicking on a whole lotta blogs. None of them compare to you, Blog. No worries.
What I came to find is that most blogs have a....purpose. Oh. That.
Our purpose is to make people laugh, Blog. You silly. So, if you have laughed out loud, leave a comment and I will know I am doing my job right, Blog. Oh and then we will have comments! Like a real Blog!
I am waiting for the olders to come home and rip my face off. They have tennis at five and mama's gonna try to get a little Zumbariffic. The youngy is sleeping, so I started doing some research on blogs for you, Blog. And by research, I mean clicking on a whole lotta blogs. None of them compare to you, Blog. No worries.
What I came to find is that most blogs have a....purpose. Oh. That.
Our purpose is to make people laugh, Blog. You silly. So, if you have laughed out loud, leave a comment and I will know I am doing my job right, Blog. Oh and then we will have comments! Like a real Blog!
Dollars
Blog, how do I love thee? Let me count the posts...
I just came back from my favorite store, the Dollar Store. Okay really my favorite store is probably Nordstrom's, but we don't need to tell the Dollar Store that. And for whatever reason it got me thinking about how I am always trying to teach my kids to be more grateful for what they have. Because children, I am almost sure, are born with some sort of enzyme that makes them supremely ungrateful for everything you do for them. Something about the grass is always greener and all that nonsense. All I know is that I spend nineteen hours learning how to bake an apple pie from scratch and my son is like UGH NOT CHERRY? Kill.
But I remember we were like that as children, so I try to be patient. Disney World AGAIN? When are we ever going to go to Disney Land? Parents sharpen knives and glance at us. So I was thinking in the old Dollar Tree how much I love that store but I will turn on it in a second. So perhaps I am not as grateful as I should be, and that's why the chicklets are sometimes like that. I walk through it and load up on cleaning supplies and medicine but then I see a roll of paper towels and I am like wait a second, Target sells that roll of paper towels for .97 cents. And then I am pissed at the Dollar Store for trying to scam me. But then the Dollar Store says, really? I gave you all these awesome things for a dollar and you wanna ride my a$$ for a couple of paper towels. (Because inanimate objects talk to me, and I need you to think I am crazier than you already do). Touche, Dollar Store. Well-played.
Oh also, the Dollar Store always makes me feel like I am in Taiwan. Not that I have ever been there. But it's nice to get out now and then.
You can get some pretty awesome things at the Dollar Store, although this is why I have a kitchen full of different sized spatulas I will never use. They were only a dollar. The Dollar Tree is different from Dollar General which is a store that charges whatever it likes for it's goods and somehow calls itself Dollar General to trick you. I guess because it sells things in dollar amounts? As opposed to doubloons like all the other stores? I dunno.
Anyway, I am just hanging out today wearing a new pair of one dollar sunglasses and staring at a whole bunch of spatulas. Hugs, Blog!
I just came back from my favorite store, the Dollar Store. Okay really my favorite store is probably Nordstrom's, but we don't need to tell the Dollar Store that. And for whatever reason it got me thinking about how I am always trying to teach my kids to be more grateful for what they have. Because children, I am almost sure, are born with some sort of enzyme that makes them supremely ungrateful for everything you do for them. Something about the grass is always greener and all that nonsense. All I know is that I spend nineteen hours learning how to bake an apple pie from scratch and my son is like UGH NOT CHERRY? Kill.
But I remember we were like that as children, so I try to be patient. Disney World AGAIN? When are we ever going to go to Disney Land? Parents sharpen knives and glance at us. So I was thinking in the old Dollar Tree how much I love that store but I will turn on it in a second. So perhaps I am not as grateful as I should be, and that's why the chicklets are sometimes like that. I walk through it and load up on cleaning supplies and medicine but then I see a roll of paper towels and I am like wait a second, Target sells that roll of paper towels for .97 cents. And then I am pissed at the Dollar Store for trying to scam me. But then the Dollar Store says, really? I gave you all these awesome things for a dollar and you wanna ride my a$$ for a couple of paper towels. (Because inanimate objects talk to me, and I need you to think I am crazier than you already do). Touche, Dollar Store. Well-played.
Oh also, the Dollar Store always makes me feel like I am in Taiwan. Not that I have ever been there. But it's nice to get out now and then.
You can get some pretty awesome things at the Dollar Store, although this is why I have a kitchen full of different sized spatulas I will never use. They were only a dollar. The Dollar Tree is different from Dollar General which is a store that charges whatever it likes for it's goods and somehow calls itself Dollar General to trick you. I guess because it sells things in dollar amounts? As opposed to doubloons like all the other stores? I dunno.
Anyway, I am just hanging out today wearing a new pair of one dollar sunglasses and staring at a whole bunch of spatulas. Hugs, Blog!
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Maturity
Hi Blog! I hope you were okay yesterday without me. You seem alright. It's nice to give each other some space every now and then.
Here's the thing. I am almost not thirty. I have no idea how it happened but it is like one year just kept coming after another and all of a sudden, I am like the age of people I used to think were old people. Which is fine, really, because the alternative is somewhere between Peter Pan and Dorian Grey and I am pretty sure those dudes need serious counseling. Group therapy could be helpful there. Peter (arms crossed): I won't grow up! Dorian (pinky lifted): Can you pass the anisette?
But Blog, as you know, I like to try to exercise. Which is more about wanting to live longer than trying to look good. I mean, yes, I would prefer it, if when I put on a bathing suit, I don't traumatize the neighborhood children and become the folklore for campfire stories. But at the end of the day, I just try to shake what my mama gave me, and accept myself. (BTW, thanks mama for all my shakeable parts). This stretch mark is here because Helen is alive. The two wrinkles around my mouth (a new addition this year) were inherited from my grandmother, which is awesome. I am no longer trying to be the prettiest girl in the room and it's relaxing. I can pass that torch to my little ones, who are beautiful and look absolutely nothing like me.
It's not really about "letting yourself go" (ugh what a horrible expression), but what I like to think of as maturity. At least this is what I tell myself when I entered a Kmart in nothing but a maternity bathing suit and flip flops with my daughter in hand sporting a snorkel mask and inner tube. I am all, where is the calamine lotion? I am pretty sure I had only put make up on one eye. It's Kmart, if I see anyone in there dressed in Dolce and Gabana, I'm pretty sure the natives are on my side.
And if you've piled on the pounds since grade school? So what. I will hug you until you get so fat my arms can't reach, and then I will get a yoga strap and hug you some more.
Here's the thing. I am almost not thirty. I have no idea how it happened but it is like one year just kept coming after another and all of a sudden, I am like the age of people I used to think were old people. Which is fine, really, because the alternative is somewhere between Peter Pan and Dorian Grey and I am pretty sure those dudes need serious counseling. Group therapy could be helpful there. Peter (arms crossed): I won't grow up! Dorian (pinky lifted): Can you pass the anisette?
But Blog, as you know, I like to try to exercise. Which is more about wanting to live longer than trying to look good. I mean, yes, I would prefer it, if when I put on a bathing suit, I don't traumatize the neighborhood children and become the folklore for campfire stories. But at the end of the day, I just try to shake what my mama gave me, and accept myself. (BTW, thanks mama for all my shakeable parts). This stretch mark is here because Helen is alive. The two wrinkles around my mouth (a new addition this year) were inherited from my grandmother, which is awesome. I am no longer trying to be the prettiest girl in the room and it's relaxing. I can pass that torch to my little ones, who are beautiful and look absolutely nothing like me.
It's not really about "letting yourself go" (ugh what a horrible expression), but what I like to think of as maturity. At least this is what I tell myself when I entered a Kmart in nothing but a maternity bathing suit and flip flops with my daughter in hand sporting a snorkel mask and inner tube. I am all, where is the calamine lotion? I am pretty sure I had only put make up on one eye. It's Kmart, if I see anyone in there dressed in Dolce and Gabana, I'm pretty sure the natives are on my side.
And if you've piled on the pounds since grade school? So what. I will hug you until you get so fat my arms can't reach, and then I will get a yoga strap and hug you some more.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Catchy
The news is, I threw back some scalding hot soup last night and now my tongue and tonsils are three crispy strips of bacon. I'm probably not gonna make it.
Hey, Blooooog...how's my favorite left-justified, two dimensional hunka hunka burnin' love? Cootchy-coo.
I am the absolute worst at holding on to things. Be it my cell phone, my coffee cup, the car keys, as soon as I place these mf-ers down, it's like they get swept up into a vortex of you-will-never-find-me-again-hell. My children are already adept at finding things for me as I leave the house, and I am pretty sure one of them is going to start secretly velcroing things to my person so they don''t have to suffer through watching me pat myself down for the millionth time and say where is my.....what have you. Oh, and as soon as I find my what have you? It is at that exact moment that all my thinga-ma-jigs vanish.
I have come to accept it, and as I try with all of my idiosyncrasies (hello, parking straight) embrace me for me. But what I can not get over, and is altogether just too hysterical is the catch-all.
We all have a catch-all. Whether you live in a house or an apartment or an adobe, there is a space where you most likely put things: a shelf or ledge or dresser. What I cannot get over is how I am so intensely conditioned to CONTINUALLY check the catch-all, like a Pavlov dog that is just not cutting the mustard. No milkbone for me? Mew.
I look at the shelf. The keys are not here. They are not there? Are you sure they are not there? They are always there. That's where I put them. Shuffle mail. Nope not there. Okay, the keys are definitely not there. Do not look at the shelf again because the keys are not there. Eyeballs involuntarily shift towards catch-all. All muscles prepared to check there again. For the love of god put up some orange cones or some crime scene tape and STOP checking the shelf because the keys are not there. Jesus.
But there is always that one time. The one instance when those gd keys actually ARE there and they were angled just so in a crevice. It's enough to make you cash in your chips and join the green berets.
Hey, Blooooog...how's my favorite left-justified, two dimensional hunka hunka burnin' love? Cootchy-coo.
I am the absolute worst at holding on to things. Be it my cell phone, my coffee cup, the car keys, as soon as I place these mf-ers down, it's like they get swept up into a vortex of you-will-never-find-me-again-hell. My children are already adept at finding things for me as I leave the house, and I am pretty sure one of them is going to start secretly velcroing things to my person so they don''t have to suffer through watching me pat myself down for the millionth time and say where is my.....what have you. Oh, and as soon as I find my what have you? It is at that exact moment that all my thinga-ma-jigs vanish.
I have come to accept it, and as I try with all of my idiosyncrasies (hello, parking straight) embrace me for me. But what I can not get over, and is altogether just too hysterical is the catch-all.
We all have a catch-all. Whether you live in a house or an apartment or an adobe, there is a space where you most likely put things: a shelf or ledge or dresser. What I cannot get over is how I am so intensely conditioned to CONTINUALLY check the catch-all, like a Pavlov dog that is just not cutting the mustard. No milkbone for me? Mew.
I look at the shelf. The keys are not here. They are not there? Are you sure they are not there? They are always there. That's where I put them. Shuffle mail. Nope not there. Okay, the keys are definitely not there. Do not look at the shelf again because the keys are not there. Eyeballs involuntarily shift towards catch-all. All muscles prepared to check there again. For the love of god put up some orange cones or some crime scene tape and STOP checking the shelf because the keys are not there. Jesus.
But there is always that one time. The one instance when those gd keys actually ARE there and they were angled just so in a crevice. It's enough to make you cash in your chips and join the green berets.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Meat
I've gotta tell you, Blog. So far, so good. Of course, and as always, tread carefully, as there are always the anti-blogs.
No no no I'm sorry, I didn't mean she was prettier than you. Oh Bloggy Blog. Sigh. You are so sensitive. It is nice to know that you care, though. There's a reason to wake up in the morning.
I made dinner tonight which was steak. Oh by the by, there are about seven hundred and thirty two "cuts of steak" which are as equally as interesting as swiping off the same number of deodorant stripes on your new black tank top. So I cook it and I eat it and I serve it, and the whole time in my head I am all animals as food and this is kinda gross. Like when you get the meat from the grocery store "On Sale". Okay.
So I say as we have all said... I wish I could just buy organic or kosher or vegan or gluten-free or maybe just stare at one super awesome bean. Because for some reason, the beans. The beans can substitute for anything. Oh I'm sorry? Were you trying to make chili? Here are the beans. Did you need a new roof for your house? Enter sticky beans. You get what I'm saying.
Anyway, we all want to "be nice" and "eat well" and "think responsibly", BUT the sad fact of the matter is -- well, I won't say it, because you know.
You have seen the chickens in the pens and the eggs in the dens and the tears of PETA DRAMA, and of course it is so awful.
So I can tell you in all honesty, that I have never had my children drink soda or eat at a fast food restaurant. I just decided, those kinds of offers don't exist for these kids. It's so much simpler. They have no idea what soda tastes like. If you put it in their mouth, they'd probably convulse.
Oh, don't get me wrong. If you think I was trying to label myself as a humanitarian, you would be silly. I am still the one who sauteed Maggie Moo while hustling n' bustling and wondering if I gave the cashier my phone number for the bonus savings card. You sure it wasn't 50% off?
Meow.
No no no I'm sorry, I didn't mean she was prettier than you. Oh Bloggy Blog. Sigh. You are so sensitive. It is nice to know that you care, though. There's a reason to wake up in the morning.
I made dinner tonight which was steak. Oh by the by, there are about seven hundred and thirty two "cuts of steak" which are as equally as interesting as swiping off the same number of deodorant stripes on your new black tank top. So I cook it and I eat it and I serve it, and the whole time in my head I am all animals as food and this is kinda gross. Like when you get the meat from the grocery store "On Sale". Okay.
So I say as we have all said... I wish I could just buy organic or kosher or vegan or gluten-free or maybe just stare at one super awesome bean. Because for some reason, the beans. The beans can substitute for anything. Oh I'm sorry? Were you trying to make chili? Here are the beans. Did you need a new roof for your house? Enter sticky beans. You get what I'm saying.
Anyway, we all want to "be nice" and "eat well" and "think responsibly", BUT the sad fact of the matter is -- well, I won't say it, because you know.
You have seen the chickens in the pens and the eggs in the dens and the tears of PETA DRAMA, and of course it is so awful.
So I can tell you in all honesty, that I have never had my children drink soda or eat at a fast food restaurant. I just decided, those kinds of offers don't exist for these kids. It's so much simpler. They have no idea what soda tastes like. If you put it in their mouth, they'd probably convulse.
Oh, don't get me wrong. If you think I was trying to label myself as a humanitarian, you would be silly. I am still the one who sauteed Maggie Moo while hustling n' bustling and wondering if I gave the cashier my phone number for the bonus savings card. You sure it wasn't 50% off?
Meow.
BRF
Hi, Blog!
I just got back from molesting some cantaloupes at Trader Joes. Honestly, we should have gotten a room.
So one of my closest friends moved on me. Now, now. You know who you are. Her job and life and so on and so forth has her doing the alley cat on different ground. Which leaves me with an open position, if you know anyone who is interested, Bloggy.
When you are young, making friends is easy. You simply showcase your best pair of Rainbow Brite stickers and the deal is done. Hand in hand, off you go to terrorize the neighborhood, pigtails and puppy dogs.
In my twenties, I had the pizzazz to make certain plucklings my friends, and that was that. Oh yes you know who you are.
Now that I am "accumulating years", it is not so easy. First, we need to talk about Bitchy Resting Face.
Bitchy Resting Face kind of explains itself. This is the man or woman who always looks so pissed off at the world that you are afraid to ask them to move their cart a little to the right so you can get by. Not sure why some of us have it, but there has to be something about where the lines and wrinkles decide to settle. Pop open a can of Sprite, lean back on your lounger, here we are. BRF. We need to move past Bitchy Resting Face.
People with BRF I am sure can still be my friend. Obvs. Since I love everyone, now they are back in the pool of contestants. Yay! Now that we have gotten past that obstacle, decisions need to be made. I have an open spot for good friend. I will take suggestions, of course. Gimme.
I just got back from molesting some cantaloupes at Trader Joes. Honestly, we should have gotten a room.
So one of my closest friends moved on me. Now, now. You know who you are. Her job and life and so on and so forth has her doing the alley cat on different ground. Which leaves me with an open position, if you know anyone who is interested, Bloggy.
When you are young, making friends is easy. You simply showcase your best pair of Rainbow Brite stickers and the deal is done. Hand in hand, off you go to terrorize the neighborhood, pigtails and puppy dogs.
In my twenties, I had the pizzazz to make certain plucklings my friends, and that was that. Oh yes you know who you are.
Now that I am "accumulating years", it is not so easy. First, we need to talk about Bitchy Resting Face.
Bitchy Resting Face kind of explains itself. This is the man or woman who always looks so pissed off at the world that you are afraid to ask them to move their cart a little to the right so you can get by. Not sure why some of us have it, but there has to be something about where the lines and wrinkles decide to settle. Pop open a can of Sprite, lean back on your lounger, here we are. BRF. We need to move past Bitchy Resting Face.
People with BRF I am sure can still be my friend. Obvs. Since I love everyone, now they are back in the pool of contestants. Yay! Now that we have gotten past that obstacle, decisions need to be made. I have an open spot for good friend. I will take suggestions, of course. Gimme.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Smash Bros.
Wowsers. So apparently there was a video game. And it was supposed to be played. Tonight.
When Teddy has a "good" day at school (oh, don't you worry Blog, you will for sure get to know all about Teddy's bad days), he is rewarded with some preemo video game time. This evening, therefore, after swim lessons, the two gangly Aryans were to put away their clothes and then it was Super Smash Bros all up in here.
But. Older sib got done first. Older sib is actually very beautiful and sweet.... on the outside.. She starts revving the engines for SSB... la la la .. turn on the tv....tra la la turn on the Wii.. get out the controls... *shimmy shimmy* everything looks good all of a sudden, Ted pops out the bedroom door - WAIT. Is Helen starting without me?
Crickets. Super wide eyeballs all looking at one another.
Now, here is where we think about what the scene looks like. Helen was really just getting things ready for Ted. But Ted, well, he didn't quite see it that way. Because you have to think about what it is like to be a seven year old boy with video games. This kid lives and breathes Super Smash Bros. Oh, by the way? You are actually supposed to say Brohhhhs, not brothers. Can you imagine, I actually said that the first time? Super Smash Brothers. That's right, brothers. I did. And may I please be more of a loser?
Anyway all of a sudden, mom's in the spotlight: HELEN IS THE MEANEST SISTER IN THE WORLD (Gallup poll still pending) and Ted's crying tears of severe anguish, and I am like.... I think it's okay, just finish putting away your clothes and then mebe....
But of course it can't be that simple. Helen has to chime in with "I am so sick and tired of Teddy ANNOYING ME." And then that...that is what breaks it. Because now it definitely looks like she was starting the video games without him. So I almost mentally check out, as you would do when you are so happy the issue isn't yours, until I realize I am the referee. And then I also realize, video games are no good for weeknights, regardless. So I chime in with the chorus of Allrighty then, no video games tonight!
Now poor Ted is about to stroke out. His whole day he was daydreaming of blasting mushrooms and saving princesses and using powers even he can't identify. Not gonna happen? Meltdown. Doors start slamming and hairs start wafting and someone is running away from home and someone else can't believe how cruel the world is.
And the whole time, I am still sitting in my chair, by the computer, chin in palm. Eyeballs have gone left to right, left to right, and back again.
So maybe I'll pay the cable bill, and we can all do this again next month.
When Teddy has a "good" day at school (oh, don't you worry Blog, you will for sure get to know all about Teddy's bad days), he is rewarded with some preemo video game time. This evening, therefore, after swim lessons, the two gangly Aryans were to put away their clothes and then it was Super Smash Bros all up in here.
But. Older sib got done first. Older sib is actually very beautiful and sweet.... on the outside.. She starts revving the engines for SSB... la la la .. turn on the tv....tra la la turn on the Wii.. get out the controls... *shimmy shimmy* everything looks good all of a sudden, Ted pops out the bedroom door - WAIT. Is Helen starting without me?
Crickets. Super wide eyeballs all looking at one another.
Now, here is where we think about what the scene looks like. Helen was really just getting things ready for Ted. But Ted, well, he didn't quite see it that way. Because you have to think about what it is like to be a seven year old boy with video games. This kid lives and breathes Super Smash Bros. Oh, by the way? You are actually supposed to say Brohhhhs, not brothers. Can you imagine, I actually said that the first time? Super Smash Brothers. That's right, brothers. I did. And may I please be more of a loser?
Anyway all of a sudden, mom's in the spotlight: HELEN IS THE MEANEST SISTER IN THE WORLD (Gallup poll still pending) and Ted's crying tears of severe anguish, and I am like.... I think it's okay, just finish putting away your clothes and then mebe....
But of course it can't be that simple. Helen has to chime in with "I am so sick and tired of Teddy ANNOYING ME." And then that...that is what breaks it. Because now it definitely looks like she was starting the video games without him. So I almost mentally check out, as you would do when you are so happy the issue isn't yours, until I realize I am the referee. And then I also realize, video games are no good for weeknights, regardless. So I chime in with the chorus of Allrighty then, no video games tonight!
Now poor Ted is about to stroke out. His whole day he was daydreaming of blasting mushrooms and saving princesses and using powers even he can't identify. Not gonna happen? Meltdown. Doors start slamming and hairs start wafting and someone is running away from home and someone else can't believe how cruel the world is.
And the whole time, I am still sitting in my chair, by the computer, chin in palm. Eyeballs have gone left to right, left to right, and back again.
So maybe I'll pay the cable bill, and we can all do this again next month.
Get in Shape, Girl
Who let the blogs out? Who. who who who? Hey Blog. What is up? You've been quiet today, probably because it's Wednesday and the weather is a little off. No worries, we all have our moments. I would honestly rather shave my own eyeballs than fold the laundry that is coming to get me. It's so menacing, all clean and sparkly behind me, in piles. I see you, laundry. Go away.
Okay, so clearly I go to the Y and try to exercise because it is good for me. Supposedly. I go to a class and the littlest one gets to shake her booty in a safe haven filled with plastic kitchens and an arts and crafts table. I try new things, and it is daunting, but also fun. It's tough because I am tall, so although I say to myself You can just hang out in the back and leave if it's not for you, there happens to be about nine thousand mirrors all over the place, and the instructor will ask, is anybody new? I mean, I am happy to pretend I've been here before, but if you guys all start with the hand jive from Grease, I am screwed.
I am all proud of myself woo hoo! good job logging in some serious exercise time for yourself!. And I even stayed until the end of the class. There were haters who left at the 45 minute mark, when things got serious. But nope, I stayed. Yay me!
Class is over; I am on top of the world but then I see the lady next to me.... isn't leaving. She is preparing for the next class. Really? My head is filled with questions: where are your kids? do you work? does the person who stays the longest get a prize?
But I mean, talk about taking the wind out of my sails. Yikes. Though I admire her. Also I expect her to be ripped.
Okay, so clearly I go to the Y and try to exercise because it is good for me. Supposedly. I go to a class and the littlest one gets to shake her booty in a safe haven filled with plastic kitchens and an arts and crafts table. I try new things, and it is daunting, but also fun. It's tough because I am tall, so although I say to myself You can just hang out in the back and leave if it's not for you, there happens to be about nine thousand mirrors all over the place, and the instructor will ask, is anybody new? I mean, I am happy to pretend I've been here before, but if you guys all start with the hand jive from Grease, I am screwed.
I am all proud of myself woo hoo! good job logging in some serious exercise time for yourself!. And I even stayed until the end of the class. There were haters who left at the 45 minute mark, when things got serious. But nope, I stayed. Yay me!
Class is over; I am on top of the world but then I see the lady next to me.... isn't leaving. She is preparing for the next class. Really? My head is filled with questions: where are your kids? do you work? does the person who stays the longest get a prize?
But I mean, talk about taking the wind out of my sails. Yikes. Though I admire her. Also I expect her to be ripped.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Toot toot
Okay, Blog, I didn't forget about you. I missed you a little, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea. This is a fledgling relationship, and it's not that I am seeing other blogs, or that I want to see other blogs. It just means I don't want the pressure of a serious blog. Just so we're clear from the beginning.
For my work from home job, I tutor children and adults online. It is strange because as my eight year old asked me last night, "What grade are they in?" and I said I don't know. "Is it a boy or a girl?" Also a good question, and important information in countless scenarios. I don't ask because we are not there to sing camp songs together, but rather to work on various papers and assignments. And their time is money so I skip the "Who is your favorite Backstreet Boy?" convo.
As a result, it can be difficult to help them. Some of them will say English is my second language or I am in second grade or I am currently stapled to my own pants or whatever. Then I know to go slower, but if they don't give me info it can be frustrating. So after a couple of months I have come up with some awesome go-to phrases: How can I best help you? Do you have an exact assignment? which really all amount to what the f are you talking about?
Some students are great, and then there are the others that basically expect you to do the work for them. I personally prefer the direct approach. Just tell me you want me to write your paper. If some kid signs on and basically cuts and pastes a wikipedia entry for his paper and says "I need to get the plagiarism factor down from 93% Can you help" I am all on board. As opposed to the student who says, "Read this and tell me your thoughts." Code: I am going to text my boyfriend for the next twenty minutes while you do my work. For some reason, that annoys me.
Then we have the other students who like to "test" me. They sign on with a "Have you read To Kill A Mockingbird?" and I say yes. Then they say okay so on page 294 where Scout is crying, how is that foreshadowing... and I am like, I said I read it. I did not say I wallpapered my kitchen with it.
But the smiley faces. Who knew how important they would become? You can say the meanest thing and just use that old smiley face to give it a no harm, no foul twist. I never thought I would cave to the smiley. And here I am, almost using it as a punctuation mark so the kids aren't offended when you give them suggestions. It works :) It really does :)
For my work from home job, I tutor children and adults online. It is strange because as my eight year old asked me last night, "What grade are they in?" and I said I don't know. "Is it a boy or a girl?" Also a good question, and important information in countless scenarios. I don't ask because we are not there to sing camp songs together, but rather to work on various papers and assignments. And their time is money so I skip the "Who is your favorite Backstreet Boy?" convo.
As a result, it can be difficult to help them. Some of them will say English is my second language or I am in second grade or I am currently stapled to my own pants or whatever. Then I know to go slower, but if they don't give me info it can be frustrating. So after a couple of months I have come up with some awesome go-to phrases: How can I best help you? Do you have an exact assignment? which really all amount to what the f are you talking about?
Some students are great, and then there are the others that basically expect you to do the work for them. I personally prefer the direct approach. Just tell me you want me to write your paper. If some kid signs on and basically cuts and pastes a wikipedia entry for his paper and says "I need to get the plagiarism factor down from 93% Can you help" I am all on board. As opposed to the student who says, "Read this and tell me your thoughts." Code: I am going to text my boyfriend for the next twenty minutes while you do my work. For some reason, that annoys me.
Then we have the other students who like to "test" me. They sign on with a "Have you read To Kill A Mockingbird?" and I say yes. Then they say okay so on page 294 where Scout is crying, how is that foreshadowing... and I am like, I said I read it. I did not say I wallpapered my kitchen with it.
But the smiley faces. Who knew how important they would become? You can say the meanest thing and just use that old smiley face to give it a no harm, no foul twist. I never thought I would cave to the smiley. And here I am, almost using it as a punctuation mark so the kids aren't offended when you give them suggestions. It works :) It really does :)
Monday, April 20, 2015
Y
All righty then. Here we go.
The kids just finished their tennissing at the Y. So the Y, apparently, lets you join it for a monthly fee, but then it gets all tricky on you. Like your best friend said you could sit by her at lunch but then you walk into the cafeteria and some other b*tch is sitting next to her.
You can work out and take some classes for free, but then there are other classes that are not free. And there is also a pool membership for the summertime, which is different from your regular old winter pool membership. And there are colors for different prices and classes for different children and I am like I had no idea I was supposed to walk Franklin Covey in himself to get this all worked out. It's the financial rape that never ENDS. But it is actually awesome. Ha ha, who knew we were gonna be all positive?
What I am wondering is while the little off springers are whacking some tennis balls, do I stay and watch or do I go and try to crunch it out a bit? Note: we could be talking about several different types of crunches and many of them are Nestle. I think it is better for me to stay because the kids like my watching them, and their behavior is better. But, it is nice to have unfettered time, and this is also my first taste of I can drop them off and you won't put one of those old prisoner ball and chain thingys around my leg so I can't get out? How is this possible? Oh, the money I was talking about before. Right-o.
The kids just finished their tennissing at the Y. So the Y, apparently, lets you join it for a monthly fee, but then it gets all tricky on you. Like your best friend said you could sit by her at lunch but then you walk into the cafeteria and some other b*tch is sitting next to her.
You can work out and take some classes for free, but then there are other classes that are not free. And there is also a pool membership for the summertime, which is different from your regular old winter pool membership. And there are colors for different prices and classes for different children and I am like I had no idea I was supposed to walk Franklin Covey in himself to get this all worked out. It's the financial rape that never ENDS. But it is actually awesome. Ha ha, who knew we were gonna be all positive?
What I am wondering is while the little off springers are whacking some tennis balls, do I stay and watch or do I go and try to crunch it out a bit? Note: we could be talking about several different types of crunches and many of them are Nestle. I think it is better for me to stay because the kids like my watching them, and their behavior is better. But, it is nice to have unfettered time, and this is also my first taste of I can drop them off and you won't put one of those old prisoner ball and chain thingys around my leg so I can't get out? How is this possible? Oh, the money I was talking about before. Right-o.
So hopefully, you'll come, you'll read a little, you'll laugh a little. I mean, that cannot hurt. And speaking of hurt, I tried this "body combat" class yesterday, and well...you know, you are punching the air and kicking the air because the air, I mean, the air.. has really been nasty to you....I guess. Anyway, this woman was supremely mad at the air so we kicked it and punched it and did all sorts of things to it. I am telling you, this air did not stand a CHANCE. And so the end result is mama's got a couple of sore muscles. Oh, and the guy in front of me had knee socks on? Navy blue? Of course, no judgment (as I severely judge you), but it seems like that would be distracting, to say the least. Why would you like your calves to sweat so?
It's weird, right? You can be in the worst mood, on the way to jump overboard, but if something makes you laugh, you get this feeling in your body. A lightness. A lift. So you say, eh, maybe I will not jump off the bridge today. And as a matter of fact, maybe I will eat some Doritos.
So the purpose of this blog is only to make you laugh, really. I appreciate laughter in my day. Enjoy.
So the purpose of this blog is only to make you laugh, really. I appreciate laughter in my day. Enjoy.
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