My Ancestors Are Ashamed

My family's (lame) claim to fame is that we're related to William Lloyd Garrison.

Most people pick Pocahontas or General Lee and swear up and down they have lineage!  Lineage, damn you!  Someone in our family actually researched and dug up this guy:

 Journalist.  Abolitionist.  Bat shit crazy.

Death threats from slave holders, be damned!  I will not be silenced!  And Fredrick Douglas?  You, my friend, suck.  Only morons support the Constitution.  Overthrow the government!  Raaawwwwrrrr!

He's no Pocahontas, but whatever.  It could have been worse - like that one guy in Congress who beat the other guy with his cane because...eh.  It was a Tuesday and he'd had enough of his mouth.

I'm a Civil War dork.  Deal with it.

So.  I've got like, 1/32nd of this guy's blood on his sister's side so I should be an awesome writer, huh?  I mean, I should be blogging with passion and fighting injustice or something.

Instead I write posts like this.  Livin' up to my potential every day, internets.  EVERY DAY.

Unstable

One of my oldest friends is always changing, always trying to find herself, always striving for The Next Big Thing...  She's gone through jobs.  Boyfriends.  Degrees.  Haircuts.  Husbands.  Homes.  First names.  Every time I saw her she was someone new. 

Literally.

I could never figure out what she was looking for.  I saw a gorgeous, lovable, incredible woman--and so did every other person (read:  MAN) who ever met her--so why couldn't she?  Why wasn't that enough?  What was with the crazy career switching and name changes?

Kevin would give me the stink eye when I'd catch him up on her latest career move ("She wants to be a pilot!") and nicknamed her Unstable.  Secretly I envied her because she always had a man so totally in love with her that he'd turn into a 100% Supportive Bobble Head no matter how crazy she got.

"Go for it!  Do what makes you happy!  I'll support you financially while you do it!  Here - I bought you flowers and a mani/pedi because it's Tuesday.  Luuuurrvvve you!"

 
Kevin couldn't discuss career dreams without mentioning "bills" and "loans" and "long-term potential". 

"Are you SUUUURE that's what you want to do?  Cause this is going to be a lot of money.  And we can't pay our bills now.  Damn it, where's the TUMS?  My stomach is upset."

My friend and I grew apart and I don't know what she's up to (or what her hair color is) today.  But I think about her a lot--especially when I'm contemplating a crazy scheme and wondering if people are going to give me the stink eye and nickname me "Unstable".

If they aren't already?

...

More details coming soon...

To Undersand Twitter, You Have to Understand Mom-ese.

I got sucked into Twitter, despite saying I'll never understand it.  I waste hours following links to blog posts and going deeper into the Mom Blog Matrix.  It's good for times when I have zero energy and can only muster up enough give-a-shit for mindless clicking.  (i.e., every day at 8 pm)

It's fun finding great posts and linking them for my *shameful whisper* 200 followers.  (Popular on The Twitter I am not.)  I like doing that rather then jumping up and down screaming, "Read me!  READ ME!  Look at MEEEEEEE!" 

Blog whoring - It ain't pretty.

(Although I do that occasionally.  What?  All the popular kids are doing it!)

I also noticed that Twitter streams are full of moms complaining.  Which, hello, I'm Jaci, Queen of Discontent.  Nice to meet you...but wow.  Really?   

My blog is one big vent--so, you know.  Obviously, I fully support a woman's right to witch and I violently oppose stuffing it all down and counting blessings.  *harf*  Realism!  Truth!  Huzzah!  Love it!

But complaining has turned into the only way we moms relate to each other, and that's disturbing.  Yes, we have a hard job handling our precious little parasites all day, but the whole "It's driving me to drinking!" and "Thank God for Prozac!" tweets are a bit much.

I'm guilty of lying.  I've cracked jokes about cracking open the wine (when I'm really sitting in my chair sipping ice water) to relate to another mom.  I'm speaking Mom-ese.  I've exaggerated my levels of annoyance surrounding some kid-related issue.  I'm speaking Mom-ese.  I've sympathetically nodded about how hard it all is because (say it with me!) I'm speaking Mom-ese. 

I excused it because it was all in fun.  I didn't mean it, she didn't mean it...and even if she did mean it, I can't exactly say, "Really?  You drink every night?  Cause I only drink about once a month, and more than one glass kind of makes me nauseous."  Awkward.  You just don't do that.  We girls don't leave each other hanging--we rush to assure each other we're all perfectly normal and accepted no matter what.

My Twitter steam opened my eyes.  If anyone read it, s/he would think Mom Bloggers are all depressive, anxiety-ridden drunks!  In reality, we're probably all sipping plain ol' Diet Coke, taking nothing more than the occasional Advil, and are only mildly irritated with our children.

I see a lot of "Blog with Integrity" badges and cries for authenticity on blogs--usually in regards to giveaways and sponsored posts.  I'm making a resolution to tweet with authenticity and drop the Mom-ese.  No more exaggerations.  No more bitching for the sake of friendly sympathy.  No more talk of pretend alcohol.

EDITED TO CLARIFY: This is very much an "I'm Starting With the Man in the Mirror" kind of post - NOT finger pointing.

It's a weird...Easter cake...or something...

Easter means one thing to me:  Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs.  Every year I'd gobble up all my peanut butter eggs before we left for church...then I'd yack in the parking lot or become a low blood sugar bitch in ribbons and floral prints at 12:15.  "I'm shaky!  Stop taking pictures!  I need luuuuunch!"

I was a lovely child.

Here's my Easter cake--or Jaci vs. Fondant Round 2.

Peanut butter cake.  Peanut butter-cream icing.  Filled with crushed peanut butter cups.  Covered with marshmallow fondant.

It was supposed to be covered with CHOCOLATE FONDANT.  (That's what the brown tree is.)  I made normal fondant...added melted chocolate...and then it turned to shit.  It crumbled and fell apart and I fought it with Crisco and water and corn syrup and finally--finally--got it back to playdough shape...

...only to have it turn too runny.  I would roll it out, try to pick it up, and it would just rip and ooze off the rolling pin.  WTF FONDANT?!?  Gaaaahhhh!

This cake is totally made up with no plan whatsoever and kids screaming and pulling at my pants while I worked  It is what it is.

The top tier is freakishly tall because I overfilled the cake pan and jammed too many peanut butter cups in the layers.  And what's with the pleated fondant?  It was starting to tear and...oh, hell.  I don't know.  It got mashed together that way and I tried to cover it up with a distracting branch.  Because obviously.  That works. *disgusted pause*  Did I mention I had a baby climbing my leg?

Hmmm.  I'm not pleased.

Spiders eat their mates to avoid this whole issue. Probably.

Scheduling.

*sigh*

Scheduling.

If you don't have to schedule you are:
a.) 20 something and frequently drunk
b.) childless
c.) a Sex and the City character

I suck at scheduling.  With everything else I have to schedule, things like intimacy (and shaving legs and oil changes and cleaning out the crisper) just fall off the map.

For the first few years, I thought scheduling was a sure sign of marital disaster and *dramatic eye roll* if we were meant to be together this wouldn't be a problem!  Ack!  You are not my soul mate!  Tears! Woe! Anguish!

(This was all fueled by the ever-so-helpful magazine industry that assures all women that guys would like it 5 times a day, no matter how exhausted he is or how many children are hanging off him or how brunette your hair is.)  

Then I grew up (i.e., hit age 25) and realized "soul mate" is something retched up on the carpet by Hallmark, and if guys really worked the way magazines swear they do all fathers would explode into a pile of smoking ash in the postpartum period. 

Spontaneous is also a myth, because we're never "spontaneous" at the same time.  He's ready--I'm twisting my unwashed hair into greasy dreadlocks and wearing polar bear pajama pants.  Hawt.  I'm ready--he's on his 3rd beer and mouth-breathing his way through a never ending Madden game. Purrrr.

We have to communicate this stuff ahead of time or it just doesn't work.  Schedule it.  But the whole, "It's been awhile.  Let's try tonight," dialog is so toes-twisting-in-the-carpet awkward that it kills whatever mood might have been.  "Yes, let's fix that.  And then we shall fold laundry and scrub out the crisper before checking what's left on our To-Do list!  Excellent."

Then I read a suggestion in Redbook (a magazine that admits all men aren't mythical horny toads? miraculous) about using a signal instead of whipping out date books--and accusations.  It was just a blip about a girl giving her husband a bag full of red beads, and whenever he felt the need to schedule, he put the bead on her nightstand and she knew what to expect that night.

Uhhhh...sounds like genius!

I don't have a bag of beads, and if I did, one of my kids would find it and eat them or throw them down the laundry shoot or just flat out steal it as a treasure.  I can just picture the fight:  "Damn it, I put the bead on your side of the bed!  Why are you in the polar bear pants?"  "What bead?  There's no bead.  I'm in the pants now and they aren't coming off.  Look--my hair is moldable.  Like fondant.  Gawd, I need to wash it."

We're using a piece of my jewelery instead.  And we like it.  Thanks random girl in Redbook.

Sick of the Garbage in my Reader

Top Tier Mommy Bloggers:

Please stop whining that "The Community!" is falling apart and bemoaning the glory days of 2006.  First of all, you define "community" as legions of fans who fawn all over you and the handful of other blogs you feel are equal to you.  That's not a community--that's your little corner of the internet--and stop pretending you're in an uproar about anything other than The Hate Site Spoofing Your Blog and Laughing At You.

When you complain that the mean girl behavior in the community! is costing you income, I roll my eyes.  Who exactly are you trying to get sympathy from?  Only a tiny percentage of this "community" you insist on defending makes more than chump change off their blog--and you already sucked up the lion's share of opportunities available.  And yes, I am jealous of you--and "mean girls" are jealous of you--because you have no humility.  You think you're the next Erma Bombeck/Gloria Steinem when your writing really consists of...

SHIT.  

Get real and admit that a big percentage of your numbers comes from the "I Got Here First" factor.  Your posts are meh with a lot of stolen mommy blogger drama.  You worm your way into every single Internet Uproar (Babble posts, Today Show spots) as if THE COMMUNITY needs your opinion about it before they can move on.  Then you write for days about "I Will Not Shut Up!" and pretend that Modern Motherhood is being defined only on your blog (and your friends' blogs) and HISTORY WILL BE FOREVER CHANGED BY WHAT IS SAID HERE!  WORD WARRIORS UNITE!!!!!!!!


...

And I thought I was full of crazy.  Good gawd.

Here's some perspective:  You are a mom.  You write about being a mom on a $10 domain.  Most of the world has never heard of you and could care less.  Our kids will play drinking games like, "Take a shot if your mom blogged about your potty training," because we all write about being a mom on a $10 domain.  You are not a pioneer, entrepreneur, media mogul, or special snowflake.  You are, however, lucky.  Own it.  Be thankful for it.  And shut up about it.    

Regards,

Jaci  

Whew.  I feel so much better now.   ~end rant

CAKE! Everybody loves cake.

I started playing around with cake decorating in anticipation of Elodie's 1st birthday.  I've always made Elizabeth's birthday cake (long time readers probably remember my clearly homemade attempts) but now I found the World of Fondant.  It covers a multitude of sins. 

I think I found my baking medium.

This is supposed to be Elizabeth and Elodie sitting on top of Grandma's Birthday cake.  I'm proud of the heads...the bodies?  Not so much.  The fondant sank in on itself while it dried, giving the kids an odd, fat-roll effect.  After three nights of screwing with it I ran out of time.  (Look ma!  No hands!  And really stupid looking feet!)

Eh.  First attempt.

So I fussed with this cake for days--literally, days--and after I finally had it together...

Elizabeth stuck her fingers in it, broke off Elodie's left bunny slipper, and pinched off chunks.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Gender Splits in the Toy Aisle

I've talked about the Princess Debates before, but yesterday I saw this in Target:

Gendered hamsters?  Um.  Why?!?

Zhu-Zhu Pets were huge just a couple of years ago.  Didn't they sell about a billion of them as realistic brown fuzz balls?  Clearly, that model worked.  So what's with the Princess carriages and Army insignias?  And what small desert creature is freaking electric blue?  

Yes, children do play along gender specific lines.  Keep baby dolls out of a girl's house and you'll find her swaddling the cat...forbid toy weapons and your little boy with still pretend a rock is a grenade.  I get it.  I'm not a moron.  In fact, my last post used this point to defend the Princess crap and placed the responsibility of a color-balanced playroom right on the parents' shoulders.

But the ramifications of gender split toy aisles are effecting my kids no matter what I purchase and shove in their bedroom.  Just walking around the store with me and seeing Pink Aisle: Girl!  Dark Aisle: Boy! is determining their idea of gender roles.  I see my daughter hesitate over board games because--wait--this one is pink--am I supposed to get this one? 

Your girl can buy "boutiques" instead of hotels!  (Yes, they are serious.)  I thought Mall Madness was bad, but this is worse.  It's subtle.

My daughters are learning that girls take care of babies...shop...worry about clothes and makeup...want a boyfriend...and happily ever after is "finding your man!" while boys build things...fight things...blow up things...and just generally stay over on their side until needed for True Love's Kiss.

As a parent, I have to fight against a mindset society (and Target) has ingrained in their heads.  Niiiice.  Thanks for making my job harder, Hasbro.

Attention all Toy Makers:  There's no reason why a 5 year old girl can't play a game in *gasp* primary colors.  Preschool boys can play with kitchen sets and will one day *shocked sputtering gasp* have to care for their own babies so lay off the damn pink "that's giiiiiirls work" brainwashing.

I'm not a marketing genius or anything--but I have watched several episodes of Mad Men.  (I'm practically an ad exec!  Someone get me a drink!)  Didn't the hamster people realize that one of the reasons their product stood out was because they weren't pink or blue specific?  Why throw that out and reach back to that same old Girl = pink fairy, Boy = black ninja design plan already gagging the shelves?

Oops! I pooped my pants Caillou!

Elizabeth likes Caillou.  The little dork is on NetFlix and she screams, "Caillou!  CAILLOU!" and begs to watch all of Season 1,284 while I beat my head off the wall.  Even Elodie looks at Elizabeth like "Girl--please."

I hate everything about Caillou.  His whiny voice.  His regressive behavior.  His parents' utter lack of a life and constant coddling.  The grandmotherly narrator explaining why Caillou is acting like an ass and getting away with it because...I don't know.  He's a complicated little boy who needs lots of special understanding.

Elizabeth has her face inches away from the screen while I'm chewing the skin around my nails trying not to snap, "Oh, just smack him already!  Don't put up with his shit!  The kid is FOUR.  FOUR!!!"

So I passive-aggressively sing, "Oops!  I pooped my pants!  Caaaaaiiiillou!"  Elizabeth laughs and rolls on the floor because potty humor?  zomg!  Hilarious.

But not hilarious enough to stop watching.

Fuuuuuudge.

Elodie's favorite show is Angelina Ballerina.  Babies love soft voices and calm, slow moving plots with tinkly music.  So does Mom and her big glass of Diet Coke and Cherry Rum, because Elodie stares at it in the awkward après-diner period of Dad's Not Home Yet And It's Way Too Early To Shove Babies In Bed And Mom Is D.O.N.E. With The Screaming-Hold-Me-Thing.

(Doesn't it look like a Beatrix Potter rip-off?  Or am I the only one thinking Angelina-the-pastel-soft-blurry-lines-animal-in-old-fashioned-human-clothes owes the Potter Estate royalties?  Never mind.  It's probably the rum talking.)

I thought it would be nice to get Elodie some Angelina toys off Ebay, but apparently they are like Faberge Eggs worth ridiculous sums.  It's a lab rat in a tutu, people.

Caillou crap is cheaper than dirt.  Go figure.

Got PCOS? Me too! Let's Comisserate!

I was diagnosed with PCOS back in 2004.   (I blogged about this before but it was lost in the Great Deletion.)

I was newly married and having a period every two weeks.  (DOUBLE THE FUN!)  My doctor did an ultrasound and found lots of cysts hanging out on my ovaries and dropped the PCOS bomb.

I don't have the normal symptoms.  (I'm supposed to lose my period, not find an extra.)  I don't have facial hair and weight gain in my middle.  (Although, I am sprouting stomach hairs and rocking a thunder thighs/man calves/ghetto booty combo platter.)  But I've always had low blood sugar issues and jumped from a size 6 to a 12 in the summer of '93.

Memories.

My doctor really wasn't concerned and tossed a few months worth of birth control at me to "reset your system" and...it worked.  I got pregnant 3 months after stopping the pill and didn't think about PCOS again.

Well...guess what's starting to come back?  Aunt Flow's evil identical twin, Blow.

So I'm researching PCOS treatment and finding out that diet is about the only treatment available, because insulin resistance is the evil demon behind all this.  Birth control will regulate Flow and Blow--but it's not a cure.  And?  I'll still be sporting my Fat Combo Platter and wondering why I can't lose weight.  (Side rant:  How can I train for a 5K and run for 2 months and not lose a damn pound?!?!  PCOS.  Those bitches.)

Metformin (the Type II Diabetic drug) is another option that actually address the insulin resistance issue (and weight gain) but I don't want to go there.  It feels like one step up from running to GNC and picking up a bottle of Xenadrine.  If controlling what I shove in my mouth can get the same results as the drug--without chemicals and side effects--then I need to control what I shove in my mouth.

(Easier said then done, because insulin resistance leads to sugary carbalicious cravings and the OMG FEED ME! shakes.  Fantastic.  Maybe I shouldn't discount Metformin so quickly.) 

So, I'm on a mission to reverse the insulin resistance, stop Aunt Blow, get rid of the cancer-risking cysts, possibly ease depression, and drop a few pounds with diet and exercise. 

And now that I've eaten my low glycemic lunch, I really want a Snickers bar.  Fabulous.