So Long Sucky

As much as I want to jump on the mommy blog bandwagon and count my blessings in a myriad of wonderful and thoughtful ways... post various still lifes of all the beauty around me... wax poetic and muse mommy about the smallness of hands and the yellow lock curls that ride down my son's neck, I'd rather just say so long to a year that sucked.

I could focus on the positive and rise like the phoenix, but you'd all smell that BS a mile away. I could recap the various ways in which 2008 both sucked and blew, but you all know the stories. I could tell you what I am gonna do to turn 2009 around, but in the end, it is all pretty much a wash. For instance...

I was out of the house by 8am this morning to hit the gym for a swim, and although I've been swimming since Christmas, today was the first day I got to try out my new underwater iPod. Why had I not tried it out before you ask? Well, since I sort of missed Christmas with my sinus issues, I've been dragging out the fun and my Shuffle was still all queued up with Christmas songs, and let me tell you... Frosty the Snow Man has to be the least athletic-inspiring song ever composed. "Hippity hop hop" makes me wanna eat chocolate and gain weight, not try and burn off those extra Christmas calories. So, I was able to make it to the gym, only to have to try out my new gear in front of a bunch of damn resolutionists. This next week will be the worst at the gym, when all the regulars like myself have to fight for lanes with all the couch potatoes that have resolved to turn over a new leaf. It usually takes a week or two for them to lose interest and retreat with their saddlebags intact, but in the meantime, it means having to get there all the more early to beat them to the bunch. Now, I'm not belittling anyone's attempt (lame or otherwise) at betterment... Believe me, I'm the poster child. I swim all the damn time and never manage to lose an ounce. And you long time readers know this entire blog is fueled on my "bunk up little camper" grit and spunk....

....but, as I was swimming this morning, letting the tunes ~ literally ~ wash over me (by the way, being able to hear music underwater is totally freaking weird), I was reminded of the 2 am mind fuck I received this morning. I woke up with the overwhelming feeling that death is immanent. That even if it takes 30 or 40 more years, that IT is ultimately the end result. No matter how hard you work or what you do to better the world or how many times you make your bed, we're all still on the same train, highballing it straight to the grave. Even though this epiphany has made its way into my soul hundreds of times, when it hits, it never loses its shock value. The realization sucks just as bad every time. The impact never fades.

I almost lost my mom this year, and have become even more painfully aware that it is not a matter of if, but when. A lovely friend of mine lost her mother the day after Christmas to pnuemonia... here today, gone tomorrow. Other dear friends will watch one of their children be trotted off to prison in a few weeks for a bad decision he made, forever changing the lives of everyone he touched. Death is what we can all expect, and sometimes, even our own destinies are not truly our own.

Depressed yet? Here comes the good part. These ties we make... these falling in and out of loves... these (wait for it...) tiny hands we grasp in the night when they toddle from their rooms screaming "MOMMY"... these e-mails we send to strangers, with a word or two of kindness, reaching out into the unknown... This is IT people. All we build gets torn down. All we achieve will eventually mean nothing. All that's left are memories and moments and expressions and feelings that we can't own forever. 2009 might not end up any better than this rancid year. Our 401Ks might still be worth half their worth. Gasa might, in fact, be the beginning of the end of days. Something terrible might happen to us and Obama and the world. But at least there's hope. At least, we are all still here.

A conversation I had with my son last week says it all.

BUB: Mom, did you know there was a great disaster that killed all the dinosaurs?
ME: I know, isn't that crazy?
BUB: And nobody knows what that disaster was.
ME: That's true. You know, the same thing might happen to us. (I know, I'm a horrible mommy, right?)
BUB: No... if a great disaster came, we could all run into our houses and hide.
ME: Well, if the disaster was big enough we wouldn't be able to run and hide.
BUB: Not even all together in a huge house with one big door?
ME: Nope.
BUB: Well, at least if a disaster made us all extinct, at least, then we'd know what happened to the dinosaurs.

At least...

Getting To Know You

The hub has crept off this morning to meet his 90-year-old dad and his coffee-mates for Starbucks this morning, and I've a chance to catch you up on the events of the last few days. (Can you believe the hub's Dad has a coffee klatch? The dude might be a grumpy old bastard but he still drives himself, lives alone, bought his girlfriend a $200 watch for Christmas and dressed up as Santa for his Lion's Club holiday party, and even though I had to pick out the watch and his Santa suit is so ripe and aging that it is growing spores, he's clearly not all bad.) Now, those of you who know anything about San Antonio, I'm sure have heard of the River Walk. A WPA project from the time of Roosevelt, it is a small, stone-lined river that winds through downtown. And although parts of it have been swallowed by the corporate monster and become a Disney ride of bars and tourist hordes, on the whole the thing is still absolutely gorgeous and a symbol of pride for the city and one of the things that sold me on moving here from NYC. There are ducks and tropical landscapes and giant cypresses that canopy and stone architecture... just lovely really.

So, the hub got us a room at my favorite old hotel on the river, and even sneaked off during the day to check-in in advance and stock the place with flowers and wine. We had a romantic dinner by candlelight that included live guitar serenade, leg of lamb and NO CHILDREN. Plus, we had sex twice in a 12-hour period, which for us is really saying something. Long gone are the days when we'd have sex three times a day, and would have made it four save for having to go to work.... But you know what, despite all the sex and flowers and food and wine, do you know what the highlight was? We talked. We swapped stories about when we both moved to New York, about parents and life, and we talked like we used to talk way-back-when in between all that sex we were having. Now, most of the time when we really talk in depth, it is because we've just had a fight, or there is some drama going on, or making future plans, but never just about who we've been anymore.

And so the honeymoon began, and yesterday, the hub woke up early at the hotel and came back with the bub and the three of us wandered the river, chasing ducks and waving at folks on passing river boats. And later we went to the library and the bub made a new friend and I picked up a few movies, and for some reason I chose Annie Hall, the 1977 Woody Allen film. The last time I saw this picture, I was probably 19 and didn't understand half the references and thought it was boring as crap, but last night, for sure, I got it. What a great film. And I saw so much of the hub and me in it. Now, not that the hub is some short, neurotic Jewish man from Coney Island and not that I'm a tie wearing, waspy, pot head, but... just the banter and the ease and the conversation of their relationship really took me back to why the hub and I fell in love in the first place. It helped to have the back drop of long walks and talks in New York.

And when the movie was over, and I looked over to the hub sometime later, he was sitting there reading one of his history books as he is prone to be do because if he is not talking to me, playing with the bub or cooking, or listening to NPR, he is reading... always, always, always reading, and over half of the time, the book is some 500 page history tome of some war or another.... a book that never in a million years would I pick up and peruse. Said book that he is reading at the moment is the Pulitzer Prize-winning An Army at Dawn about the war in North Africa from 1942-1943.... the thing is over 500 pages and includes at least 100 more pages of sources and footnotes at the end.... and so, for some reason last night, it occurred to me that my husband has this whole other inner life that I know nothing about.

Usually, while he is reading these sorts of books, there will be some banter about a particularly interesting anecdote, and I'll know the general gist of the thing, but for the most part, the books exist within our lives completely separate from me. I'm spread so thin nowadays, that I hardly ever get to read, but for sure if I read a book and like it, the hub will read it, but I never, ever, ever read any of his books. Granted, it is because the hub reads these sorts of books that I fell in love with him. For some reason, I've always been attracted to history-buff guys who are smarter than me in the understanding of the larger picture of the world, and the hub certainly fits into that mold, but that passion for that level of understanding of the world is not something we share. I like to read personal narrative and how people connect emotionally with the space around them, while he goes deeper into how our societies are built and formed and created, and for the most part, all of that is born of war.

This is a man who is a pacifist. Who has never been in a fist fight. Who owns a gun, but only to off the occasional rattlesnake. But this is also a man who grew up watching Vietnam play out every night on the television, and is absolutely fascinated by war... and when I asked him last night for some more specifics on why he reads these things, he described it to me was "war is where the rubber meets the pavement"... that WWII alone had so many complicated twists and turns and battles and nuances that helped to create the world we live in today, and that, in a nutshell, to not look at war and examine war and understand the ones that have taken place throughout history is to miss the point entirely. The clashes between countries and peoples are what have created the civilisations we inhabit.

So yea, last night was a great night in that our conversation that started Friday night has continued, and I've made a small pact with myself to learn more and read more and be involved more in the world that the hub inhabits instead of being so insulated within my own head. The man I fell in love with still lives with me and his heart is full of mysteries and knowledge I haven't even begun to mine yet. I've gotten so lost in the bub and my own insecurities and so lost in escaping my suburban mommydome in my own ways, that I'd almost entirely forgotten that this smart, intelligent and extremely sexy man is along with me for the ride. So even though last night when I picked up An Army at Dawn and laughed because I struggled through the blurb on the back, I promised to read one his favorite books Guns, Germs and Steel in an attempt to grow closer to the man I love and know him more throughly. Because isn't love, after all, never having to say 'I don't understand'?

Post-Op

You would know that I'd come down with a case of the flu or allergies or both on Christmas and have to wheez through the morning fueled only by Ibuprofen, antihistamine and maple syrup. The bub had the best day ever with his new finches Wiggle II (named after Wiggle I from Mexico) and Snow White aptly named for her snow whiteness. Those guys have been going to town big time so anyone in the San Antonio area looking for free finches can comment here and in a few months have their wildest dreams come true. Apparently, finches will mate all the time if you let them, but if you take their nest away, the breeding stops. I thought we'd have one go at it just so the bub can see the full life cycle first hand and then give it a rest. Anytime now I imagine...

In addition, there was a scooter and puzzles and a croquet set and a moon-in-my-room... and all that's left of the stocking candy is a headless chocolate Frosty that looks absolutely menacing from atop the liquor cabinet. Now, we sit back and reflect, here the day after Christmas, otherwise known around these parts as the anniversary of the marriage of the hub and me. Although we've been together nearly 10 years, it was five years ago today that we stood in front of my mother's Christmas tree and exchanged the vows and swapped the rings and became forever official until death do us part.

You wouldn't have known it seeing us spar in the grocery store this morning over which aisle to take. OVER WHICH AISLE TO TAKE. Can you believe it? That's love for you, always sweating the small stuff and still somehow living to tell the tale. And I would be sick too, on this the night that the hub procured us a room at a fancy hotel downtown for our first overnight EVER without the bub. He's talking about ditching the restaurant reservations, but I will prevail. I haven't gone four years without a night away to end up eating pizza on hotel sheets. I'm packing decongestant, cough drops, Tylenol and an entire box of Shiraz to get me through...

Anywho, enough with the griping... Best thing that ever happened to me that hub. Hands down.

Where is my mind?

So it's Christmas Eve, eh? I am so exhausted, I just want to take out my contact lenses and let my eyes breathe the fresh air for about ten seconds before I pass out. I almost don't even know who I am at this point. The bub and I sent the hub off to work this morning, and then we headed to the grocery store for holiday fixins: Christmas morning ~ homemade waffles, fruit, bacon and sausage.... Christmas lunch ~ carrot ginger soup which the hub is preparing in advance right now... and Christmas dinner ~ braised country style pork ribs with brussel sprouts and roasted root veggies.

Then we delivered cookies around the hood, and headed up to the Northside of San Antonio, for a nightmare play date that included at least 1 hour stuck in traffic, lunch at a Chick-fil-a, and a mini play date with another friend as she hit the drive-through. As much as it was hectic and exactly the wrong way I wanted to spend the day... (any occasion where the Chick-fil-a is the only lunch option is a travesty in my book!)... it was great jumping into the madness with a good friend and a wee little lass the bub loves. Listening to two three-year-olds croon "Mr. Grinch" can take the bad smell out of any day.

However, my brain is so cooked of late, that last night I stood up my best girl on a movie date. I feel terrible about it, mainly because said best girl doesn't get out much, and getting to get away from the kids and house and family is a big deal and somehow in all the holiday huffing, I plum clear forgot and left her sitting through three hours of Hugh Jackman's torso all by her lonesome. Do I suck or what?

Not to blame it on the drama, but it has been one hell of a year. I feel like a catharsis is overdue. In between fielding hourly calls from my mom and sisters giving me the blow by blow on the Virginia Christmas I am missing, and looking after the hub who is in the midst of his own family sadness, I can't help but feel something is missing. That morning snow fall to clear the mind. That spoken word that someone says just right at just the right time. That full moon moment that brings it all into perspective. Maybe a good cry is in order or an Allegra as my sinuses have me feeling like I've got the flu.

The bub is napping in the other room. In a few hours, we will all head out to foist even more saturated cookie fat on our friends and enjoy sushi with a couple we love. Then back home to ready the boy for bed and visions of sugar plums... and then into the evening when the bub and I will sit back with a glass of wine and look upon the spoils of our labor and I'll be able to relax for the first time in months. Maybe then, hand in hand, I'll be able to share a soul sigh and marvel at the magic of it all. For now, I plunge forth into the rest of the evening, knowing the envitable. There is no way to stop Christmas from coming.

Poor Santa

I heard a sad and mildly amusing story from one of Santa's elves this morning that I thought I'd pass along. As you know, I'd heard through the grapevine that Santa was going to be unloading a pair of zebra finches on the bub. So, apparently... (I don't have all the facts, but this is the way I heard it)... Santa went to the place where he was planning on getting the birds (Santa goes there weekly for animal food and supplies and just loves to stock up on thistle by the pound for his sock feeder)... and they didn't have exactly the bird Santa was hoping to get the bub. Apparently (again, all hearsay, but if you can't trust an elf, who can you trust, really)... Santa had visited five times in the past month, each time retelling the story of how he wanted to get the bub a yellow finch, and how they always had them but how could he be sure they would have them the week of Christmas... and each time, he'd been assured they would have plenty.

So when Santa got to the store, and he saw that they only had one white finch and a butt-load of regular zebra finches but no yellows, he was more than a little disappointed. To make matters worse, he'd wanted to get a pair in hopes that they might mate for the bub, but the sale clerk told him that all the finches in the cage were girls. And there was no way to get any yellow ones or males until after the holidays.

So, is desperation, Santa climbed into his sleigh and rode all around town looking for another store that sold yellow finches, and when he came up empty handed, he thought it was time to return to the original store and speak with a manager. (Hold tight gang, this is where the story gets good.)

Well, the person in charge was just a kid, but still, the moment Santa started explaining his situation to the girl, he started crying. And not just a few tears, but full blown weeping, telling the sales girl how whenever the bub comes into the store, all he does is focus on the one yellow bird in the zebra finch cage and how if he doesn't get one of those little yellow birds, the bub will be heartbroken, and how the he is just sick thinking about it. He was actually doing more than weeping, he was howling really. The tears so thick and loud, his words were almost completely smothered in blubbering. Then the sales girl kindly took Santa's arm and told him that there are no such thing as yellow finches... that the yellow bird in the cage with the finches had been a different, more rare and WAY more expensive bird, and it had actually died a few days ago... and then she took him to the cage and explained that there were plenty of males and females in the cage, and within moments she had talked Santa off the ledge and back into reality.

After a few more heart wrenching sobs, Santa realized all was not lost and then settled for the small white female and a large regular colored zebra finch... and apologized profusely to the young woman as she helped him collect the rest of the supplies and check out. Poor Santa. What a horrible way to spend the Saturday before Christmas. You gotta feel for that guy and all the pressure he must feel to please. And I thought us Moms had it bad. ;)

Bye Bye Baby

So after our crappy morning, I was all psyched to pick the bub up from school and smother him with love and spend the rest of the afternoon eating popcorn and snuggling in bed. But no sooner had I gotten him home when there came a knock at the door, and there stood the bub's BBF from school in his socks and full of cuteness... "Can the bub come over to my house?" And before I could say yes/no, the bub was out of the door like a shot and climbing into the boy's mom's Volvo SUV. I didn't get so much as a goodbye kiss, and now I find myself with two empty hours in which to fill. Sigh.

I'm still on the wall about this drop-off-play-date stuff. This little friend in particular is the smallest of four and he is often over here sans momma and vice versa. In the beginning, I was hesitant to go for this. The first time he was invited over, I went with him and sat with the nanny for three hours. The second time, I held my breath and sent him off on his own. It's not really that I don't trust these people or that I am afraid something bad will happen. It is quite simply that I don't want to be away from him. He's still too little to be off in the world without me. And no matter how many fights we get in or how many times he says "I HATE YOU" there are a million other times when he says I love you with such intensity that it literally makes me weak in the knees and incites me to scoop him up and gobble him whole, cheeks first.

But I don't want to be the tight-ass, smothering mom... who keeps her son from the joys of the world (said friend has a trampoline), but the little dude is only 3 1/2. What if he falls and bruises his knee? Who will be there to kiss it? And really, that's not even it. Plain and simple I miss him, and every minute that I spend without him stinks. Now, that's not to say that I have to be with him all the time. I already had a night of wine and friends planned as I was headed out for a ladies wrapping party when the hub got home. And I was all ready for that... but now instead of spending two hours without him today... I'll be spending five hours bubless, and that's not including the three hours he was at school.

Damn. I was just really looking forward to bonding tonight. I suppose I shouldn't worry. Soon enough we'll be all alone for two weeks, and I'll sure be wishing for two hours alone then. My little man's all growed up. WAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

BOYS BOYS BOYS

Oh my... BOYS! I am quite sure on the evening news tonight you will see footage of me reaming my son in the post office parking lot. I wouldn't be surprised if Child Protective Services is hunting my address right now to come and take the bub away. He has become so infuriating that I did everything but hit him. I used four letter words. I screamed until my throat hurt. I shook my fist menacingly and flung him through the parking lot by one arm. I almost don't think I have ever been more angry at my son as I was then. He has taken to not listening AT ALL, and even worse, all the ugly words he has picked up at school include "I HATE YOU" which in the middle of a post office fit basically means him throwing a match on what is already a gasoline pool situation.

Imagine. Standing in the post office trying to control your little testosterone ball of joy when it screams in your face as loud as it can "I HATE YOU". All you want to do is curl up and die or throw said child through the flipping window... neither of which you can actually do, so you are left shaking your fists in the air and screaming until your blood pressure gets gassed to 180.

He displayed the same behavior (only not as bad) the other night when we accompanied friends on a river boat ride and trip to the Alamo Christmas tree and dinner after. He was so wound up and crazy... laughing and running around like an utter lunatic, that it was either chase him like an idiot or sit defeated while the whole restaurant looks on, giving you the evil eye and whispering tsk-tsks under their collective breath. I am almost tempted to keep him in the house indefinitely until this impish behavior subsides, but then, I will be creating my own personal hell. The worst part is, the bub thinks it is all hilarious. And the more mad I get the more he laughs and thinks it a gas!

Words of wisdom please... Hope that this too shall pass. I am dying inside. HELP ME... SOS... ACK!!!!

Fly Boy

Did any of you happen to catch the moon last night? Just spectacular. The hub got off early from work, so after swinging by to pick up the boy from school, at the bub's request, we headed to the zoo for an hour... Really just long enough to walk to the Hixon Bird House at the opposite end of the zoo and back again. Built in 1966, it is the bub's favorite spot, a little retro aviary with a simulated forest inside and free flying birds. When we first started going to the zoo, the bub was fixated on the safari animals, but for the better part of a year, we do the almost exclusive bird tour with a side trip to the bat room. Apparently, the San Antonio Zoo has one of the largest bird collections in the world. Who knew?

Seeing as the boy knows the names of probably half of the birds there, he is well on his way to becoming a full blown bird nerd. Apparently Santa got the memo. Won't Christmas morning be wonderful?

I have a sneaking suspicion that the boy loves birds for one reason and one reason only. They can fly. I believe it is this fact that mesmerizes him and causes him to favor his winged friends both in toy form and in real life. Really, anything can and does become a bird. A napkin someone dropped on the ground can be picked up and tossed about and turned into a crested crane. To dinner forks become a buzzard, flapping stiffly in the breeze.

So after the zoo, we went to our favorite restaurant, and I was reminded why when the bub's school told me that three-year-olds no longer need to nap, I should have known then that it was a crock of shit. Having afternoon preschool, he usually either passes out on the way home, then we have to wake him for dinner and he cries and screams and yells through the whole thing and then stays up til 9:30... Or if he can make it through dinner, he passes out by six, exhausted by the weight of the world. Sometimes he'll fall asleep around 4:30, and just sleeps through the night. Angel...

But anyway, so we leave the dining establishment, and as we are driving home, I see the top of the moon, all orange and giant on the horizon. There are these big crazy exits they just built on our freeway that are like taking a wild toad ride into the sky on some highway of the future. The boy refers to them as car slides... So, the moon was so big and beautiful, that the hub took the exit going in the opposite direction of our house just so it would seem as if we were flying directly into the moon. The bub was transfixed, as were we. Since he was very very small, the bub has referred to the moon as "my friend the moon", and part of me thinks it all ties into the wanting to fly... the ever-expanding up up and awayness of my son.

He doesn't mind airplanes and blimps and rocket ships, but his definite mode of transportation has to be feathered wings for sure. Halloween was so sad as the month he spent watching me make his duck costume, he genuinely believed that once he put it on he would be able to lift off and take flight. It makes the "you can do anything" parenting mantra a little more difficult to maneuver for sure. Matthew Modine, eat your heart out.

Feed the World

A tradition in my family of women mostly reared in the 1980s is that the holidays haven't really begun until we hear Feed the World for the first time... and even though I am jamming to the non-stop Christmas music station, well... um... nonstop, it has somehow eluded me. Maybe with the current state of the world, radio stations have banded together to make the season an upbeat one and its Britpop message of starvation and hopelessness is too dire and depressing. Afterall how much Bono can we really stomach when all our 401Ks are in the crapper? (Check out those sexy shoulder rolls at 1:23.)

So here, for the first time in however many years since the blasted song was released, I had to go out looking for it. I've posted it for your holiday enjoyment. Cheese out people. Spread the love, do unto others and let us not forget the forgotten faces of Bandaid this holiday season. (I don't even wanna think about how much gay sex went on in the bathroom of this recording session, oh my God... is that Bananarama?)

Friday Night Movie Recap

Though we don't blow the big bucks on a full Netflix membership like we used to, we do keep the one-at-a-time version, just because it is the only way we get to see documentaries. I would say we are documentary junkies, and coming from someone who reads only memoirs exclusively at this point (and the random Harry Potter book) that would make sense. Well, the one we viewed last night was called The Bridge. It was a hub selection, and though I wouldn't give it the coveted 10 thumbs up here, it was rather compelling.

Apparently someone jumps from The Golden Gate Bridge ~ on average ~ every 15 days, so a filmmaker tricked California officials into letting him place strategic cameras on the bridge, wherein he captured 19 of those jumps. Then he interviewed family members, people who saw the jumps, some who tried to jump but failed and even one guy who survived a jump. It was sad and heartbreaking. Most of the people were from nice families, but had some history of mental illness... after hearing their stories and watching them walk back and forth on the bridge in contemplation and then finally seeing them take the plunge, it was morose at best. The one man they highlight the most, a kind of heavy metal, long hair, computer loving, leather jacketed dude... has probably the most profound and haunting jump in that he stood up on the rail and let himself fall backwards, arms outstretched as if somehow embracing his inevitable relief. How dark must life be for someone that this sort of death seems the only option?

Now after viewing it, I found that the filmmakers did not tell the families about the suicide footage until after the movie was finished, and I wondered how I would feel about a ton of people watching my son kill himself? I think lots of people will find the film disturbing and exploitative, but it made me think. Having walked that beast myself on my 30th birthday... it sure is a long way down.

Thar she blows

Seeing as I got a full two hours of serious book work done today without having to run to the post office a million times, I am rewarding myself with a download of our Christmas tree for all who give a damn. She's a looker no?

In the Christmas spirit, I've been thinking about what Meg said about what to do to give this season... and rather than our usually pretax donation rush to the March of Dimes and the Southern Poverty Law Center (thank goodness that Obama guy isn't sucking away anymore of our mad money for his highfalutin campaign needs)... So at the gym today, right before I headed to the pool to fight the old folks for a lap lane, I noticed a Christmas tree with little paper tags on it. I went over to take a look and each little tag had the name of a child and what they wanted for Christmas... obviously some charity thing, and for a minute I thought... hum... what a great idea. Maybe I should take a tag off and buy one of these kids a present. Then I looked closer, at every single tag on the tree, and every single kid on that tree wanted some sort of video game or video game related item... and not to belittle poor folks their Wii, but it made me want to barf.

I kept searching for the one little card that might read: Julie, Age 9, wants the complete works of Jane Austin, a stuffed teddy named Alexander, and a pet dragon of her very own... But alas. Then I felt like crap again for feeling ill of some poor kids because they like video games. And then I felt lucky that my kid is not obsessed with video games (yet) and then I just felt like an asshole. All my goodwill was wasted on narcissistic compulsions and my need to question everything in a cynical and obnoxious way. A few of the kids did want MP3 players. That's not so bad right? And think how cool they will feel at school when they get to show it off to their friends. So, I very well might be getting some kid an iPod for Christmas... but then again, maybe I'll just drag the hub/bub down to the old folks home for a night of caroling. They might hog the lanes in the deep end, but at least they aren't hitting Santa up for the new World of Warcraft game.

Always

Miracle of all miracles, I got Dooced... or at least my bookshop did, and man, if I had something else to do today it didn't get done. I've been going nonstop since her post hit at 1 o'clock this afternoon, and I just sat down here at almost midnight after getting everything finally packed up... yet orders still keep rolling in. I am adding stuff as fast as I can because otherwise I fear people might think I'm a loser with nothing in her shop. That said, it was so gracious and nice of Ms. Armstrong to highlight my store, and even more nice of her to send a handwritten note in the mail. Man, she's cool.

That said, I was scrambling to fill the orders today, and when the hub returned home tonight... we had a little conversation that went a little like this.

ME: I need to go out and buy padded envelops.
HUB: I think I might wanna ride with you to buy padded envelops.
ME: OK. We're going to Wal-Mart.
HUB: We are not going to Wal-Mart.
ME: But hub, they'll be cheaper there.
HUB: We don't shop at Wal-Mart.
ME: Come on. Just this once, and I promise if they are not substantially cheaper, we'll go somewhere else.
HUB: Humph.

See, the hub is a business analyst for a large grocery chain here in Texas, and Wal-Mart is not only Satan around these parts, but it is direct competition to the hand that feeds us. But I whined loud enough so he finally caved, and at 8pm tonight I found myself rolling into the Wal-Mart and wondering how in the hell you can trademark a word like "Always". And as I wandered into the store, I tried to imagine what could have possibly been so on sale that it prompted a stampede that then caused a man to be trampled and go into cardiac arrest. It must have been a huge thing on sale, and I found myself wondering if I needed whatever it was that was causing the commotion. If it is worth risking your life for it must be good and cheap. In between searching for exactly where they hide the padded envelops, I looked for this miraculous mystery item, and couldn't for the life of me figure out what it might have been. Was it Kota the Triceratops? Some sort of Dove Body Wash gift bag? Who knows. But what I do know is, their padded envelop pricing is totally not competitive and I ended up walking out with nary a roll of tape.

All I can say is, screw you Wal-Mart.

Weekend Update

Even though I was impaled in the jugular by my mangy, worm ridden new kitty last night and our heater is still broken and in about 28 minutes we will be shelling out $2,400 for a new one.... all in all it was still a good weekend. For several weeks now, I've been trying to cultivate a sunny side demeanor... shaking off the grumpy, cynical, quick-to-judge nightmare wife/mother I was becoming to embrace the more caring, more forgiving, more humble soul I keep tucked deep within. With Christmas just around the corner, the holiday spirit is making it all the more easy, and so far, I'm not doing half bad.

We spent the bulk of the day yesterday out at the farm putting up fencing to keep out the poachers, garbage dumpers, drunk teenagers and sexed up deviants who are vandalizing the property south of ours. When we (along with our neighbors) sold some of our property over three years ago, we had no idea that a water issue would halt the development and that the new owners would fail to put up adequate fencing and that random trespassers would begin dumping truck loads of construction waste, household garbage, used condoms, empty beer bottles, sawed off deer carcasses and whatever else you can fit in a pickup truck for disposal. Literally, all 200 acres are filled with garbage now, not to mention the people who are hunting illegally and stealing all our deer and the people who come in to cut the oak trees to sell for fire wood. It is a lawless land, and anything we can do to keep the riffraff from coming up our way has taken top priority. It is crazy how people lose their morals when confronted with an open piece of land.

So stepping over the tossed off Trojan wrappers and discarded Coors cans, I sucked it up and decided to not get infuriated like I usually do, but rather look down the road at the day when this will all be over and rather than garbage, we'll have 300 homes as neighbors... Ugh. The fun part was that all the cousins and friends came out to help us and Mary Ann's son and the beer, BBQ and fellowship that followed were well worth the hard work. Plus, the bub is IN LOVE with his cousin, so that helps.

Another example of my spreading of the good cheer? So, as you know I've been shilling used books online for a minuscule profit, and I have come to loathe going to the post office. I'm not sure if it is US postal workers in general who are assholes or if is is the fact that we live in a pretty upscale neighborhood and our postal workers get more privileged jerks than other postal workers so it has made them hostile and atrocious. Whatever the reason, I hate our post office. It is always overcrowded and you always get loads of tude. Plus, since everything I ship goes out book rate/ media mail... they all give me a suspicious look... "Like yea sure, you have books in there... right. Cheap skate." I swear, 2 minutes in that place makes me feel awful, and I DREAD having to go there. So a few days back when the hub suggested another post office, slightly out of the way, but still convenient, I was shocked to find short lines and an amazing staff who seemed to love their jobs and know the first name of everyone who walked in the door (save me). I thought I'd died and gone to mail order heaven... well, that was only because the biggest bitch in the universe must have been off that day.

This morning, I walk in with a stack of books, plus a package holding my dad's cell phone that he left here over the holiday. Well, when she asks me (gruffly) if their is anything fragile in the package and I tell her a cell phone, she immediately chides...

What she said: Did you wrap it up or put it in a box or anything?
What I said: Ah, no, but it is in its holder so it should be OK?
What she said: Well, I can't offer you insurance then if you didn't wrap it properly.
What I didn't say: DID I ASK FOR INSURANCE? DO I EVEN WANT INSURANCE? NO... you evil douche bag!
What I did say: That's fine.
What she said: And in the future...
What I said: Yes 'um?
What she said meanly: When you are addressing a package, don't use red ink because the computers can't read it.

SHE THEN PROCEEDED TO RELABEL ALL MY PACKAGES IN BLACK INK EVEN THOUGH NEVER IN 30 YEARS OF MAILING PACKAGES HAVE I HAD SOMEONE BITCH AT ME FOR ADDRESSING A PACKAGE IN RED, AND IN PARTICULAR, I HAVE BEEN SHIPPING FOUR TO FIVE PACKAGES A DAY OUT IN THE LAST MONTH AND A HALF USING THE SAME RED SHARPE AND NOT A SINGLE POSTAL WORKER HAS COMPLAINED.

What I said: Oh, yes 'um... so sorry.

I didn't give her one ounce of attitude back and smiled and nodded my head and thanked god that I never had to work at the post office and become so embittered and angry toward an absolute stranger for using a red magic marker. She even bothered to give me a flat and emotionless "Have a nice day" and I didn't turn around and say...

WHY THE HELL DO YOU EVEN BOTHER SAYING THAT AFTER YOU'VE BEEN A COMPLETE JERK TO ME FOR THE LAST 3 MINUTES...?

Instead, I collected the bub from the wrapping station (he loves those Mickey Mouse padded envelops), kissed him on the forehead and trotted out of the place feeling on top of the world. I've been in such a great mood the last couple of days that I'm even gonna give the movie Fred Claus a two thumbs up and liken it to Groundhog Day for its cosmic underbelly. I'm not even gonna mention Bombay and remind my mother that the hub and I stayed right where all that madness happened or to mention that getting trampled is just one reason why you shouldn't shop at Wal-Mart during the holidays or any other season. Blinders on... all thumbs up, all the time. Let the holidays begin!