Ravings of a Mad Housewife

Phoning It In This Season

2012-01-23T13:26:00.000-05:00

Reading about someone's struggles with Writer's Block is about as interesting as hearing a coworker's blow-by-blow recap of last night's dream.

Kill me now.

But alas! I have the Block.

I stepped away from my blog because after three years, I'm not only covering topics two million other mommybloggers are smothering to death--I'm bored with it.

I'd kill to write something more meaningful, but I'm also at a season of life where I can't even write blog posts.

My children are both in demanding stages. I can barely keep on top of the housework and meal prep. What little free time I have is divided between working out (mentally, I need it) and trying to maintain some sort of non-roommate status with my husband.

Moments of easing back in an armchair with a new journal and the perfect writing pen aren't happening. Even staring at my laptop during nap time isn't an option, because the work here is nonstop.

These girls need me. If I'm not on the ball, they are fighting and screaming and tearing the house apart within seconds. It's overwhelming and at times, really discouraging. Mothering THIS stage has pushed me to the brink.

Writing is a huge part of me that's being silenced by...life. I'm so ragged that my mind is fried and I can't come up with anything creative while words just slip through my fingers. I don't have it in me now, and that scares me. What if I never get it back?

That's the fear of every Mom, isn't it? We all give up something to have our children; some speck of selfishness has to go up on the highest shelf with the sharp scissors and the bottles of alcohol because the kids come first. And occasionally, we glance up at that shelf and long for our old adult things and hope that we don't forget about them when the kids stop grabbing at our pants...in ten more years.

It saddens me, but I'm almost resigned to it. Writing isn't in the cards right now. Blog posts will be sporadic at best, and I'm glad I have this place to write SOMETHING. Because otherwise, I would be totally lost in Momdom.

The Great Bus Stop Debate

2012-01-19T14:21:00.000-05:00

At 8:52, Elizabeth's bus pulls up in front of our house to pick up two kids: The Big E and another little Kindergardener who lives across the street. Then her bus coasts 30 yards down the street and stops again for another group of 4-5 kids...then another 30 yards...

I still remember the morning in September when I woke up from my normal Mombie Walking Death state and said, "The hell? Why not have all the kids walk to the corner and just make one stop?" Then I shut up real quick because having the bus stop right in front of my house is convenient. Screw common sense and childhood obesity rates!

I walked Elizabeth to the bus stop (ie., the sidewalk off our porch) happily for the first couple months. Then the weather got cold. And the baby started to walk and throw herself on the ground in massive temper tantrums. And now standing on my sidewalk in the snow with a writhing toddler who wants to bite me is a giant pain.

So occasionally (ie., mornings I can't be bothered to put on a bra) I send Elizabeth out to GET ON THE BUS ALONE.

I make her stand on the porch so I can keep an eye on her--not because some weirdo is just lurking in the bushes waiting to snatch her--but because she can't be trusted not to load her book bag with "interesting nature rocks" from the landscaping. (Seriously, kid? It's just lava rock.)

Okay, she's really on the porch because the other kindergartener always has his Grandma with him, and letting Elizabeth stand on the sidewalk with them feels like I'm pawning my kid off on the woman. "Oh, hey! Since you're standing there anyway...watch my kid!"

But the bus stop is my house!!! I don't want to stand on the sidewalk helicoptering over my more-than-capable-6-year-old and pat her rump gently as she climbs up the bus steps! Especially when I can see the whole thing going down from the comfort of my living room window!

I'm torn. If Elizabeth were the only kid being picked up, she would be standing alone on our porch every morning while I watched from the window She's on our property. Free-Range Kids and all that. But since Grandma is out there, I drag myself out all angry with a screaming toddler tucked under my arm.

So I ask you: Should I continue to stand outside with Elizabeth, helicoptering her for that 3 minute wait before the bus pulls up? Or should I do the Free-Range thing and let her walk out alone, Grandmother or not?

Liz Lemon, Marla Hooch and House Fraus. Yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this.

2012-01-12T15:59:00.000-05:00

I've been working out every day for anywhere between 15-30 minutes. As Liz Lemon would say, "I have been BMing like a pro!" Seriously, my poop schedule has never been this regular.

However, all this working out is translating into a big fat ZERO on the weight loss front. Me and Weight Loss just aren't friends. So I'm upping the ante by consuming as little as possible throughout the day and going to bed so hungry my chest aches. Meh. It worked in college.

Speaking of Liz Lemon...Elizabeth watched an episode of 30 Rock with me and then said, "Mommy! You look just like Liz!"


We share the same glasses. And stress eating.

I took it as a compliment because most days? I think I look like Marla Hooch.

But, here I am, with my recently dyed-back-to-brown hair.

Taken in my work bathroom, because it is the only place in the world where no one will barge in on me, demanding "cheese cackies" and "ooce."

I'm pushing the weight loss because Kevin's 40th Birthday is this weekend and I'm throwing a big party for him. (A real party! At an adults only bar! NO KIDS!!!) I'm stupidly vain and want to look like his 10-years-younger-hot-wife and NOT the frumpy house frau in a Target sweater.

(see above pic)

I was going to wear this semi-skanky one shoulder top (Britney Spears circa 2001) but I put it on and horrified myself with my upper arm cellulite + an underarm boob roll. I ripped the shirt off in the midst of a small panic attack. I'm a 31 year old mother who hasn't really looked in a mirror in 3 years. I should have known better than to try that thing on.

Now I'm rethinking that lion shoulder tattoo I've always wanted. I can't pull that off. Probably just as well, because I wanted it to be a dark brown medieval lion--brown like a big mole--and everyone I've shared this idea with thought it was disgusting. I guess I'm the only one broad-minded enough to embrace moles.

I would have ROCKED that mole.

Resolutions I Already Started (And No, I'm Not Making Any More)

2011-12-26T21:34:00.000-05:00

1. Read the Old Testament

I'm up to II Chronicles (which is a nice chunk!) and I'm not allowing myself to read another book until I hit Malachi. I'm using a study bible that explains all the confusing stuff in the margins, otherwise I probably would have bailed somewhere around Leviticus and grabbed my ratty copy of Gone With the Wind. Again.

It dawned on me that I sludged my way through Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged--a horrible, boring, difficult book that I despised--but never put the same effort towards a book I'm staking my life on.

Pathetic.

2. Fly Lady

I can almost hear you scream, "NOT ANOTHER FLYLADY BLOGGER!"

(I know, right? What is the deal with this woman and why are internets so in love with her?!?)

FlyLady is a free web site that shares cleaning plans for overwhelmed, unmotivated, craptastic housekeepers. It's a little Stuart Smiley ("you're good enough, you're smart enough") mixed in with lots of e-mails reminding you to get off your ass and clean something.

First: I'm not wearing shoes in my house, and I don't shine my sink with Windex. It's porcelain. I also heard signing up for her e-mails means you'll get spammed 20 times a day, so I skipped it. But I like her idea about dividing the house into four Zones and deep cleaning each zone for one week.

I tried her plan (loosely) for 3 weeks, and I'm amazed at how smoothly my house is running. Instead of cleaning something because I noticed it's totally disgusting, I'm cleaning because it's on this week's list. Therefore, nothing has a chance to get totally disgusting--and I am always always ALWAYS cleaning.

Okay, that part sucks--but it's worth it when my house is pristine. Nothing beats that feeling. (Other than thin, probably. Which leads us to...)

3. Exercise and Stickers!!!

Of course this is on the list.

(Since we're on the topic, I have been uncontrollably jamming food in my face! I don't know WHAT my problem is, but I'm gnawing my way to being uncomfortable & self-conscious & nothing fits again. Even worse, I'm starting to shrug my shoulders and think, "Meh. I'm 30-something and a Mom. Time to hang it up for the next generation anyway." NUM-NUM-BAGELS-NUM-NUM)

But, a weird FlyLady You Tube segment inspired me to pledge to climb on the elliptical in my spider-infested laundry room for just 15 minutes everyday. "You can do anything for just 15 minutes!" She wanted people to "Shine their Sinks!" for a month, and reward themselves with stickers on a calendar every day they do it. I don't share her sink obsession, but the idea appealed to me.

Yeah. It's lame, but I don't care. On my huge MOM CALENDAR (have you seen those things? a line for each family member? it takes up half my wall!) I'm sticking little stars and flowers and hearts on my line for working out for 15 minutes each day.

And okay, I realize 15 minutes is LAUGHABLE and doctors and health magazines all want you on there for at least 30--but it's better than parking it on the couch with a tub of French Onion dip, amiright? "Just 15" gets me on the machine. "30" makes me give up before I even get on.

I also want to share one New Year's tradition we started 3 years ago: Kevin and I write the bad events of the past year on bits of paper, read them out loud to each other, and then throw them in our fireplace while sharing a bottle of wine. They usually range from funny to serious to make-me-cry-painful, but it's just a good way to unload all that...crap...and look forward to a fresh start.

So, I hope you all had a great Christmas, and here's to a fabulous 2012!

Bring it.

Tricks I Stole From Other Mothers

2011-12-09T12:33:00.001-05:00

1. Touch it Once

No, not that "it". Get your mind out of the gutter.

It's a cleaning mantra that means, "If you pick it up, go all the way with it."

...

Why does this keep sounding dirty?

Maybe I should just use examples: Take the laundry basket all the way upstairs rather than dumping it on the steps for later. Put your water glass in the dishwasher instead of throwing it in the sink. Put the loose Lego back in the box instead of scuffing it under the couch with your foot. Touch it once.

LIFE CHANGING, mofos. LIFE CHANGING. I don't waste my time with half-assed chores anymore. If I put my hands on it, I go all the way with it.

Yeah. You heard me. Prrrrr.

2. Well, what would the pioneers do?

This is from my Grandma, and it's in regard to cooking. This woman will make soup out of a box of spaghetti noodles and an old head of broccoli--or, potato soup out of instant mashed potato flakes which I DARE YOU TO EAT WITHOUT CHOKING. She makes all these...ahem...substitutions...while blithely muttering, "Well, what did the pioneers do? They ate what they had!"

It means, "Oh, to hell with running to the store for missing ingredients. It's just food. We'll have another chance to eat again in like, FIVE HOURS, so if this meal sucks DON'T WORRY! There's another one coming."

Which, oddly enough, is very freeing for me whenever I make dinner. It doesn't have to grace the cover of Snooty Foodie Homemaker. It just has to be edible.

But I don't have her drawer-full of used sandwich baggies and worn out twist ties, because that is just WEIRD. And a byproduct of growing up during The Depression. I grew up in the 80's, so my drawer is full of hot pink scrunchies.

Don't judge.

3. Homework Wrestling

A very dear, mentor-ish friend of mine is the education department head at the local private college with hilariously expensive tuition rates. And she is freaking awesome. Anyway...she said that her son was a kinetic learner (say wha--?) and needed to move around in order to learn, so they taught him his spelling words with Beanie Baby Wars and wrestling matches for words he spelled right each night.

THIS IS BRILLIANT.

Elizabeth is only in Kindergarten, land of no homework (so they claim), so we wrestle with sight words. If she gets them all right, she gets 5 minutes to BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF DADDY. (I'm the ref, because the ref just sits on the couch laughing and shouting out Daddy's weak spots. THE UNDERARM! DIG IN THERE!) For everyone she misses (or whines about how she hates them) she loses a minute.

The girl begs to go over sight words.

4. Buy Awesome Kid Foods

My best friend Myndi is beloved by children everywhere. She's laid back. She's nice. And she always has a freezer full of fudgsicles.

I want to live at her house just to nosh on the food in her cupboards. She's got name brand Fruit Loops! The juice pouches that are all metallic and come with their own straw! (What aisle are those even in?) Wait...are those pizza rolls?!?

And? AND? She always has wine and beer stocked in her basement. I BOW TO MYNDI AND HER MAD GROCERY SHOPPING SKILLS.

Because seriously, yesterday I made Manwich Spaghetti thanks to pure laziness and....well...see Item #2 What Would the Pioneers Do?

Planning - The Ultimate Comfort

2011-12-05T04:49:00.000-05:00

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It's December 5th, and:

1. Christmas shopping is done (AND WRAPPED, MOFOS!)
2. Decorations are paired down to "I love this and must have it out or it isn't Christmas!" rather than "Well, it's in the box so I should find a spot for the damn thing."
3. Unloved decorations are at Goodwill.
4. The advent calendar full of Super Fantastic Christmas Family Fun Time!!! that I created months ago is making my life ah-mazingly simple now.

Last Christmas, I read lots of blog posts about homemade, candy-stuffed advent calendars and thought they were brilliant. (Those craft bloggers. Man. Full o' The Genius.) But instead of candy and little toys, I wanted our calendar full of activities for the entire family to enjoy. Ice skating! The Nutcracker Ballet! Children's Theater!

Annnnd...then I realized my dream calendar would leave our family exhausted and broke. (Damn you, craft bloggers and your unattainable ideals!!!)

Okay, so The Nutcracker was out--but how about a movie night in our family room watching The Polar Express? Or playing board games? Or a slumber party under the Christmas tree? That crap is FREE!

There are some ridiculously gorgeous advent calendars on the internet and frankly? I'm embarrassed to show mine. It's a generic scrapbook page hanging on my fridge with mismatched magnets. (I know. GET BACK. The craftiness is underwhelming.) But it's a fun way to give the girls a little non-negotiable surprise each day and keeps the whining and "When is it going to be Christmas???" to a minimum.

Planning it forced me to get my act together back in October and schedule special events like Breakfast with Santa and A Christmas Story theater performance while the good seats were still available. After that, it only took a few hours to brainstorm a list of ~~cheap~~ free activities with Kevin and plug those into the empty days. And, okay, I did slip a few holiday related chores onto the calendar (baking cookies, anyone?) hoping that it will magically morph into something fun. We shall see.

So far, one little paper advent calendar has been a huge comfort to me and is making our Christmas season relaxed and fun.

Well. That and hot chocolate with raspberry vodka. Mmmm.

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How I Roll (Job Interview Edition)

2011-11-29T11:51:00.001-05:00

I have a job interview phobia. I sit there with an eager smile plastered on my face until my cheeks ache.

It doesn't matter how big of a douche the interviewer is or how quickly I realize I would never, ever, EVER want to work there, that stupid grin stays in place.

HI!

I am always interviewed by an asshole, and at some point, he/she always insults me. And I just sit there and take it.

Liberal arts degrees are sooo pathetic! I know, right!

Like the woman in charge of X-ray records at the hospital who said, patronizingly, "I don't think you would fit in here with my girls. I see you more as a receptionist."

If I have to wear one of your scrunchies to fit in, then...yeah. Point me to reception.

Or the panel interview with old men who pounded me with personal questions like, "Is your husband okay with you working?"

Wha--? Don't think that's legal...

Once a pervy old man directed all questions to my left boob in his isolated, dingy office. He never looked at my face and I still kept smiling.

Should I walk out? WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS?!?

I smile like a loon even when I say something totally stoopidz. I read somewhere that you should ask questions and seem really interested in the job...but at the end of the interview I couldn't think of anything to ask. (DATA ENTRY is not that complicated.) Feeling like I need to ask something, I burted out:

"Can I listen to the radio here? Because at my last job, we weren't allowed, and IT WAS HELL to hear nothing but keyboards clicking. Er...I mean...not that I'm going to blare the radio or anything! Hee. Snort. Bwahahahahahaha! Wow. I did not just say that to you."

Annnnd...that's how I landed my current job.

Thumb Peace Declared!

2011-11-15T11:42:00.001-05:00

Victory!!! Huzzah!!!

The Thumb War petered out into a weekend riot, similar to the tear gas and couch fires at Akron U on May Day. Ah. Sweet college memories.

The first night Elizabeth would roll over, put her thumb in her mouth, then wake up spiting and gagging. She'd run to the bathroom and rinse her mouth out and cry before falling back in bed and PUT HER THUMB IN HER MOUTH AGAIN. At about 4 am I was beating my head off my air mattress and screaming, "You know it tastes bad! WHY ARE YOU STILL PUTTING IT IN YOUR MOUTH?!?!?" She'd cry and moan, "I want it off!!!! BLECH!" and we'd fight with each other until we passed back out for another hour.

*shudder* We are waaaay too similar.

Kevin stayed with her the 2nd night which naturally--NATURALLY!--was a perfect night. She was worn out and didn't wake up.

The third night we both stayed until she fell asleep, then let her work through her night alone. I heard her in the bathroom spitting in the sink once--and she just dealt with it and headed back to bed. No crying. No moaning.

And now? It's over! Peace has been declared! The thumb sucking issue is dead!

Honestly, I am in shock. Greeny (and the sneaking of her thumb behind him) has been a big, irritating power struggle for over a year. It's almost like she used him to regress? He wasn't allowed out of the house--he wasn't supposed to leave her bedroom--but inevitably she'd smuggle him downstairs and zone out in front of the TV. Then we would find her with it, confront her, and she'd storm off angry.

I expected a month-long war over her blanket, but she willingly put him away in the attic and hasn't asked for him. She isn't sitting passively on the couch anymore--she's up and busy playing while a movie is on. She's excited to watch her thumb lose it's red lines and sores. Buying that nail polish and asking her to retire Greeny is the BEST move we could have made.

Goodbye Greeny. Elizabeth is not a baby anymore.

I Declare a Thumb War

2011-11-10T15:52:00.001-05:00

Tonight is Girl's Night with Elizabeth. Popcorn. Harry Potter Movie Marathon. Pedicures. Thumb-sucking Intervention.

At 6, it's obvious to the entire family that Greeny (her blanket) and sucking her thumb isn't going away on it's own. Permanent teeth are poking up from baby tooth holes, and it's time for Mom and Dad to step in before she damages her bite.

I bought a bottle of Malava Stop Bitter Nail Polish and told Elizabeth that we're trading Greeny in for a trip to Build A Bear. (Greeny is part of her ritual. She needs one to complete the other, so getting rid of Greeny seems to be the logical first step.) I explained why she needs to stop sucking her thumb, what the plan is to help her, and I'm gearing myself up for a rough couple of weeks while she...uh...detoxes.

The reviews said the bitter polish is so gross that kids gag on it--so I'm sleeping in her bedroom to catch any midnight, unconscious thumb sneaks that lead to horrific freak outs at 3 am. I'm totally sympathetic to her battles with this. I sucked my fingers until I was NINE--and I spent many a night with a sock pinned to my pajamas, tweaking like a crack-head and testing my willpower to not rip the thing off.

(I almost always FAILED.)

Some parents say breaking the thumb sucking habit by force is cruel, and only a monster would paint something on their kid's thumb and take away her method of self-soothing.

Mmmmmmmm. I don't buy it.

"Cruel" is a roomful of dental assistants pinning a 10 year old down in the chair so they can jam her mouth full of goo for dental impressions. Head-gear is cruel. Three years of painful braces to correct 9 years of thumb sucking is cruel. A week of bitter nail polish and Mom sleeping on your floor for support is...parenting.

But...let's discuss it. What's the proper response to school-aged thumb sucking?

It Gets So Much Better

2011-09-08T14:25:00.000-04:00

After dropping Elodie off at Grandma's this morning and trying to shift from Mom to Jaci ~~The Hawt MILF~~ Office Grunt, it hit me that my life is incredibly busy.

I love it.

Kindergarten has added this whole new dimension to our family life, from making sure we're at the bus stop on time to talking about how Elizabeth loathes Miss OMG's song about "Going to the Mat" and lessons on the alphabet. "I already KNOW that, Mom! I'm not a BABY! I don't SING."

OG! To the mat for story time! Tra-la-la-la-LAAA!

I'm signing up for PTO events, planning Sunday School lessons, trying to squeeze in Toddler Story Time at the library for Elodie, running home to meet the Kindergarten bus at noon, cooking, battling laundry...oh, yeah, WORK...

I'm extremely busy, but after so many years of Sit-On-Your-Butt-While-Dora-Blares-in-the-Background-and-You-Slowly-Die-Inside... This? IS BLISS.

Every day, I'm up, dressed and ready to walk Elizabeth to the bus stop--whether I'm working that day or not. It's a rule I made for myself. I used to drive past a bus stop on my way to work and had such rage for the mothers in pajamas.* It was 9 am. I wanted to lean out the window and scream, "I've been up since 6:30. I fed and clothed a toddler PLUS myself. Your kid is 7, but you can't even put on pants?!?"

All that rage was really pointed at Old Jaci who spent two years struggling to shower because of The Baby, when really? I was massively depressed and purposeless in my new mom/SAHM role.

If the MIL hadn't moved into town and offered *FREE! DAYCARE!* I don't know what would have happened to me. Zoloft and Lexipro can only do so much, you know? At some point you have to find meaning in your life--and for me (FOR ME, I SAID)--SAHMdom with a toddler and long stretches of Open Time To Do Whatever doesn't do it for me. I work best when my life is crammed full and I fall into bed happy and exhausted.

I want to make out with this Super Busy School stage. Maybe fall asleep spooning it. Luuurrve it.

If any new moms still read me: I swear to you, on a stack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, it gets so much better. If you're Type A (like me) you'll find your groove with school. Not Dora. We can still be Cool Moms!

Umm. Not that kind of cool mom. I was thinking more relatable to older kids...instead of peaking at the toddler stage... Good lord, are we still going to be sporting elastic waist pants when our kids are in HIGH SCHOOL?!?

Hmm. I just lost my point. Meh. It's gone now.

*I realize those mothers could work midnight shift/have newborns/spent all night cooking meth in their kitchens/have a full leg cast and can't wear pants thereby making me a judgmental asshole. I'm okay with this.

School Daze (Yeah, I know that's not an original title. Shut it.)

2011-08-31T13:50:00.001-04:00

She was nervous.

(It didn't help that family was in her face asking if she was okay? scared? upset? and sending her subconscious signals that school is something to get all in a tizzy about. So. There's that.)

Every kid climbing on the bus had to pause and pose in the door for Mom, which gave me a bit of Suburban Nausea. But then again, I'm not one to wring my hands with sentiment and ooze weak tears. I'm Jaci. But since I'm also Jaci, the Suburban Middle Class Mom at the Bus Stop, I jumped on board the Peer Pressure Bus and snapped the picture.

We both felt awkward about it.

Kevin and I followed the bus to school because we're Helicopter Parents and What! If!

Then, rather than going home and weeping over baby books and allowing ourselves to wallow in "She's growing up!" idiocy...

I am making Debbie Brown's Dotty Dog cake for a friend's 2nd Birthday party tonight. I ran out of fondant before I could make the face, nose, or ears and now I'm procrastinating by writing this blog post instead of making more fondant.

That whole Cake Business idea got shelved when my Mom had to move in with my grandparents this summer and take care of them and their "I'm not going to a nursing home!!!!" fussiness. I'm no where near ready to actually sell these cakes anyway. If you look close at that dog, it's totally screaming "HOME MADE!!!"

*sigh* I don't think his nose is going to fit on the plate...watch it break off in transport.

*shaking fists at sky*

This whole post is a classic example of DON'T SQUEEZE TOO MUCH CRAP IN ONE DAY. I will never, ever learn.

Okay, bag o' marshmallows. Let's rock this.

(For updates on the cake and final pics, follow my Facebook Page.)

Photoshopped Portrait of a Mom

2011-08-24T12:32:00.000-04:00

This weekend, I downloaded our pictures and worked on Elodie's baby book. While I was re-sizing and removing red eye, my hand hovered over the extra special buttons...teeth whitening...thinning...blemish corrector...

I was sooo tempted to photoshop the pictures of me.

If I thin myself by 38%, whiten my teeth, and buff out the evil 11's between my eyebrows I look like me!!! Er, the idea of me that lives in my head anyway; the Jaci that's 24, gorgeous, and modeled at a bridal show.

Runways and crippling insecurity DON'T MIX. (1st AND LAST time I modeled.)

The real Jaci is 31, overweight and has coffee-stained teeth.

*sigh*

Don't get me wrong, I'm alllll about cropping large chunks off my hips (or trimming a slab o' arm flab) and turning a craptastic picture into one I wouldn't mind putting in a frame. And okay, I have used the teeth whitening button. *cough* MY HEADER *cough* But altering all of our everyday, family pictures?

I can't do it.

I have daughters! Girls who are growing up in this horrible culture of BE FLAWLESS. What am I saying by photoshopping all of our family pictures behind the scenes? How can I hand them albums full of glowing, weirdly buffed images of something resembling their mother filmed only from the waist up?

This picture really made my decision. I love it because I have no makeup on, the TV is in the background, and the room is darkened like a cave. It captured the crazy/wonderful/chaotic period of Newborn.

I should crop out the TV, mess around with the exposure, cover my red cheeks with air-brushing/shine remover, zap the moles from my arm, thin myself by 30%, and whiten my teeth. But that would edit out the truth--and the beauty--of the whole picture. It's a moment in time as New Mom, not a Glamor Shot for my vanity.

There's a picture of my great-grandma standing with her young kids in the 1930's. She has my legs! Those meaty, thick, irritating peasant legs. If she had my technology she might have "touched up" that photo--but I'm glad she didn't. That picture is meaningful to me because of her flaws.

I hope my girls can find the same comfort in pictures of me someday.

I'm still cringing at shots of me with double chins, stomach rolls, and meaty cankles, but I'm quietly tucking them in our albums. It's more than just a bad picture of me--it's a picture of Mom.

Join the Dark Side: Become a Clearance Whore

2011-08-22T13:10:00.000-04:00

I didn't do any back-to-school shopping.

(I realize I've committed retail heresy. I shall flog myself with Children's Place ads and Mom Guilt.)

Elizabeth has a complete wardrobe thanks to my insane squirreling away of 90% off clearance racks and Consignment Shop End of Season Sales.

$1 jeans?!? Hells yes! I'll take every size you got. She'll wear them when she's 10.

I realized I have a problem when I dug in a clearance rack and snorted, "Five bucks?!? I don't pay more than $2.50. I shall take my business elsewhere!" and stormed out of T.J. Max with a hair toss.

I have giant tupperware containers (the kind that hold Christmas decorations) filled with Future Sizes jammed in my attic. And? They are ORGANIZED like a mofo. I've never lost an outfit or pulled out a misplaced, now-too-small tank top. It's a gift, people.

In case you would rather spend next August hanging out at the pool with a trashy (and yet hilarious) smut novel instead of OUTLET SHOPPING HELL--here's what I do:

Shop for next summer NOW. "But Jaci, I don't know what size to get!" Neither do I. I guesstimate, and when in doubt, go bigger. I also remind myself that I'm "gambling" about as much money as two large pizzas. It's not going to break the bank if it doesn't fit next year. (Tip: Don't try this with shoes--buy those as needed.)
Make outfits in the store. Bit o' wisdom I learned the hard way. That adorable, moss green corduroy skirt with the silky ribbon bow isn't such a deal when it sits in the closet because you never found anything to match it. (I hate that damn skirt.) If you have no idea what will go with it--PASS.
Rock Consignment Sales. $12 used Gymboree? No thanks. Gymboree for $3? That's better. My experience with consignment is that it's overpriced garage sale stuff every day except end of season sales. I go two or three times a year with my Big Ass Box (see below) and kill two birds with one stone. (Note: I'm not a big enough whore to do yard sales. That's a whole culture I just don't get.)
Get a Big Ass Box! Cardboard or some fancy pants homemade craft project--just get a box. (Me? I went for "liquor store brown".) Take said Big Ass Box and shove it beside your dryer for a handy place to dump too small/end of season outfits that you want to donate/sell. A couple times a year, drag Big Ass Box to a consignment shop or Goodwill and purge.
Tupperware is your friend. The back of the closet isn't such a great spot for storage. For one thing, the kid sees it and screams for the Dora hoodie in July. That's always fun. But mostly it's too easy to lose stuff in there. I toss new clothes in a container, label the outside, et viola. Jam it in the attic until needed.

Here's to avoiding long lines in Justice next August.

Introducing Miss OMG! (or, A Kindergarten Orientation Recap)

2011-08-16T13:44:00.001-04:00

Kindergarten Orientation Recap

1. Elizabeth is the prettiest girl.* She also has Morning Kindergarten, because PA is a state that believes in screwing over working mothers while pouring money into outside after-school-care programs.

*I'm not prefacing that opinion with polite demurs. She's stunning.

2. I'm supposed to send Elizabeth to school with "a small, healthy snack". She's there for 2 1/2 hours. I wanted to bang my head off the wall and howl, "My God! STOP WITH THE SNACK INSANITY! CHILDREN CAN GO A FEW HOURS WITHOUT JAMMING LUNCHABLES IN THEIR FACE HOLES!!!!"

3. The principal impressed me by laying on the floor beside a difficult boy who decided to face plant and refused to get up. This guy impressed me before with lightening fast e-mail responses and a reputation for being hands on--but laying on the floor to talk to a kid? Whoa.

4. Elizabeth did not cling, cry, or freak out. In fact, I was a little late getting to her after the Orientation Bus Ride, and instead of finding her in traumatized tears (like the others) she was leaning against the school wall like a Pink Lady.

5. A clump of moms near me got to know each other by describing their recent 30th Birthday Bar Hops, which then progressed to a scathing review of "obvious 21 year olds" and their trying-too-hard dresses. Because after all, what mom's mind DOESN'T turn to inappropriate clubbin' outfits beside the PTA sign up sheet?

6. All of the Kindergarten teachers are 23, blond, perky, tiny...and help coach Varsity Cheerleading. I wish I were joking. To deal with my rampant 30-something, post-baby-body jealousy, I hereby codename Elizabeth's teacher Miss OMG!

Get used to this picture. I love it so much, I'll probably flash it every time I mention Miss OMG! OG TEAM!!!

Actually, the ~~girl~~ professional teacher deserves to be held in awe. She's got 34 Kindergarten students between her two classes. So...Miss OMG! is like, a totally awesome fit.

Mom Requirement #108: Theme Park Buddy

2011-08-13T12:48:00.001-04:00

At 5? Theme parks are AWESOME!!!!!

At 31? Theme parks kind of suck.

Motherhood is a Calling (Just Like Every Other Calling)

2011-08-04T12:59:00.000-04:00

WARNING: This will only be slightly interesting to Christians, and not at all interesting to anyone else. Turn back. Unpopular theological blatherings ahead.

I came to grip with the Mommy Wars a few months ago and I've shrugged my shoulders at the whole SAHM/WAHM debate ever since. I look at it like choosing a major: it's a personal choice, there are a hundred different paths to choose from, and in the end we all graduate with similar $50,000 resume fillers.

Math. English Literature. Chemical Engineering. As long as you land a job afterward, who cares? The same logic applies to the Mommy Wars.

I'm pretty content to let people figure out their own way of handling their family. Stay home? Fabulous! Work 50 hours per week? Good on you! Seriously people, I don't care.

I do care when someone drags Christianity into the equation and states that they are Called To Be a Mother--which is usually interpreted as Called to be a Stay-At-Home-Full-Time-Mother. It makes me feel slightly stabby.

For one thing, self-righteous back-patting and rounds of "Huzzah! We're doing the RIGHT thing by our children!" implies that ALL mothers should live exactly as they live (at home) or they aren't fulfilling their Calling. As I have yet to find a verse that says, "All mothers shall stay home after bearing children," I wonder where they are pulling this stuff from. I see lots of verses that children are a blessing and the Proverbs 31 woman (who worked in lots of ways) but nothing about who should watch a toddler from the hours of 9-5. (And the Old Testament wasn't exactly lax on details--they even had rules about wearing cotton/poly blends.)

But more than that, by stating that their Calling is high and special and extra-super-dooper important, they are saying God ranks Callings--that He finds some people better than others and therefore gives them the really big work. The rest of the people? Eh...they can go shlep around in a box factory or something.

Here's a mind blowing concept: whatever work you are doing right now? THAT'S YOUR CALLING. Law? Data entry? Nursing? Taking care of your baby? All callings. And next year? You might get a different calling. (I know. MIND BLOWING.) Because when we talk about calling, we're talking about work. Normal, everyday, work.

When God talks about calling? He's talking about HIS WORK. He's talking about adopting someone as His child and then working through them. His Calling is all about calling you to Him. It's not about being a pastor...or a mother...or a janitor. It's about being a Christian.

Is a Mother doing God's work? Yes. Has God given her a major responsibility to protect and cherish and raise a child? Absolutely. Has God made her work more important than other work? No. Is being a Mother the only calling in her life? No.

Is it wrong for a Christian mother to find encouragement in a SAHM life by thinking of herself as doing God's work? NOT AT ALL. Is it wrong for her to think she's doing work more important than that of any other Christian? EMPHATICALLY YES.

Playdates 101

2011-08-03T14:14:00.000-04:00

Top 5 Reasons Playdates Rock

They sell cards for this?!? BWAHAHAHAHA!

1. I clean my house.

Knowing someone is coming over inspires me to swish around some toilet bowl cleaner and chisel dried Cheerios off the kitchen table. Otherwise? Meh.

2. The kids get out of my face.

No one moans for snacks. No one pulls at my pants. No one begs to watch all 200 episodes of She-Ra on NetFlix. For a couple hours, my kids are OFF ME. Bliss.

3. I'm happy.

Instead of listlessly clicking through Twitter links and counting down until 6:00, I'm talking to another mom who can relate to everything that's going on in the room--IN REAL TIME--and we can laugh it off. And when 6:00 does come around, I'm surprised. The day flew by.

4. I get to know another Mom.

I usually leave with a Girl Crush. I'm either starved for friendships or I'm incredibly adaptable (or I'm just a loser) but I've never come away thinking, "Ew. Hate Her." Even with Moms who are the complete opposite of me--I admire something about them (militantly organic? awe-inspiring patience? joie de vivre?) and want to hang out with them MORE.

5. Loooooong naps.

Everyone leaves and the kids crash. Meanwhile, I'm energized from all that adult contact! I bounce around the house getting all kinds of stuff done, like scrubbing out the crisper.

Top 5 Reasons Playdates FAIL

1. Playing matchy-matchy with the kids.

Elizabeth is a 5 year old girl who plays with everyone from 8 year old boys to babies. There is no rule that says we can only invite other 5 year old girls to play Pretty Pretty Princess--or that I can only hang out with another mom who happened to breed the same month I did.

2. Comparing the kids.

Unless they have a disability, they will all walk/talk/crap in a toilet/choose someone you hate for their spouse. It's the circle of life. Stop tweaking out about it.

3. Feeling insecure about yourself.

This one might hurt, but... Okay. If you're majorly insecure about being a mom, or gaining 30 pounds, or extra bills, or screaming "SHUT UP!" at your children, then you're going to feel that 1,000 FOLD on a playdate. You'll be with another mom who has her game face on and she's going to look like everything you're not. So check your issues at the door, or reschedule for a day you're on a Manic High fueled by three cups of coffee. (Works for me.)

4. Letting your kid embarrass you.

Kids are annoying little farts. Once they can roll away from you and form an independent thought? It all goes to pot. Remember: they are a separate entity from you.

5. Hoping she'll be your new BFF and you'll hang out EVERY DAY!!!

I'm a weirdo who thinks Best Friends are rare--like once in a lifetime rare--so I don't go into new friendships thinking we're going to swap clothes and play with each others' hair. And at the age of Mom? We're all busy and stretched too thin. If she stays in touch with you every month, you ARE one of her good friends. Don't get weird about it.

Summer is almost over...

2011-07-27T12:06:00.000-04:00

School starts in 30 days.

The Butt Scooting Problem

2011-07-25T10:15:00.000-04:00

Oh, mother. Who cares if my butt is always black? I's adorable when I's scootz!

At 15 months, Elodie doesn't walk. Or pull-up on her own. In fact, she struggles to get into a sitting position. She lies flat on her back--like a turtle--and yells until an adult helps her sit up. From there she butt scoots around until someone grabs her hands and pulls her to standing/walking.

Just call me The Puppet Master.

I've been worried about her lack of movement for months. The butt-scooting thing means she's always sitting Indian style (or crisscross applesauce - the pansy way of saying it) so when she tries to pull-up, her legs and feet are all tangled up. For a while she refused to straighten her legs when I'd dangle her above the carpet--she'd rather scream in floating Yogi position--and I was terrified there was something wrong with her legs. The doctor frowned and wrote a referral to a developmental pediatric.

Then! She tolerated standing! She took wobbling steps! She high stepped around the doctor and muttered baby insults at him! He tossed the referral and diagnosed her as STUBBORN.

Great. Another one.

Elizabeth at 13 months. She was walking--and giving me attitude--and growing MAD hair?!? Wow. Elodie does not have flippy curls. Sorry. Just noticed that.

Elodie demands that I hunch over and walk her around the house--or else she'll scoot around behind me, moaning and reaching for my pants. (Cooking dinner is awesome, let me tell you.) She's bored with scooting, frustrated that she can't pull up on crossed feet, and screams to be put down on the dirty public floors where she scoots and...gag...I can't even talk about the yuck that sticks to her pants...

But she's FAST! If she wants something, she is scooting like mad, practically jumping up and down on her butt, flying across bare floors and squealing in delight. She just won't stand up and WALK.

All the other babies in the nursery are walking. The little neighbor girl who is 2 months younger took her first wobbling steps last weekend. And then there's Elodie...just butt scooting along.

She'd find a whole new world (and stop moaning out of boredom) if she'd just pull up and give it a shot.

Maybe she'll be walking by fall? Christmas?!?

The Kirkland's Rage

2011-07-21T11:57:00.001-04:00

Me: I'm going in Kirkland's. I want a pair of lamps to go beside our bed.

Kevin: Oh, god.

Me: I'm here. We're looking. STFU.

Kevin: Ugh! This place stinks! What the hell is that smell?

Me: Elizabeth! Get off that bench! You keep your hands to yourself and stop rolling around like a fool. Here. *hands over Elodie* I want to look without her hanging off me.

Kevin: *trials behind, muttering* I hate this place. I'm getting a headache. Why does it always STINK in here?

Me: It's just candles or potpourri, Kevin. GAWD.

Kevin: IT'S. GIVING. ME. A. HEAD. ACHE.

Me: Ooh! Do you like these lamps? What do you think? Will they look good beside the bed?

Kevin: Sure.

Me: Do you like them?

Kevin: I don't care.

Me: Why are you so pissed off? We've been here for three minutes!

Kevin: This place stinks and IT'S GIVING ME A HEADACHE.

Me: Well...MAN UP because I'm digging through that pile of clearance stuff next.

Kevin: *follows me back to the clearance, glaring*

Me: Bwahahahaha! Look at this! Who would buy this?

Kevin: *evil glare*

Me: Kevin! You can't put Elodie down here! Wha-- Come get these kids! They are getting into everything!

Kevin: Who cares? It's all ugly shit no one wants.

Me: *trips over Elodie* Argh! Fine. WE'LL LEAVE. You have to buy these lamps. I left my purse in the car.

Kevin: How much are those????

Me: $25, Kevin. They're on clearance. You can afford it.

Kevin: EACH?!?

Me: No, dumbass. They're a set. $25 a set. Here. You can carry them.

Kevin: GREAT! There's a LINE.

Me: Well, have fun with that. I'm taking the kids to the car.

Kevin: *stare of death* (overheard, on way out the door) I don't want the box. I just want the lamps. No, don't leave and go get the... Fuck. *loudly* I hate this place!

Intentional Living Exhausts Me

2011-07-18T10:17:00.004-04:00

Kevin and I made a New Year's Resolution to live intentionally ~~because it sounded awesome while we were pontificating over our bottle of wine.~~

Basically, it means that we want to take charge of our weekends and not spend them sprawled across the floor in pajama pants, unshowered and scratching our butts, saying, "So what do you want to do today?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do today."

"I don't know." *scratch*

Before we know it, the weekend's gone, no one brushed their teeth, and we all feel like crap because we didn't do anything but watch our entire DVD collection. Again.

(I hate those weekends.)

As part of live intentionally, Kevin and I brainstorm activities that we'd like to do/need to do/really want to take the kids to months in advance. Then we Google things that are going on in our area (plays? museum exhibits? special programs at the zoo?) and schedule them.

(I know. Schedules. GROUND BREAKING.)

All that what-do-you-want-to-do crap is a thing of the past. We can look at the calendar and say, "Hey, we're painting the family room this weekend," or "Next weekend is the zoo. I'll pick up bottled water when I run to the store."

It took 8 years of butt scratching to get here, but finally! FINALLY! We have a life!

Recap since May:

Painted family room
Freezer Cooking
Elodie's Birthday Party
Sorted/sold/stored baby gear and Elizabeth's too small clothes
Garage Sale
Bought huge inflatable pool (and used it)
Pittsburgh Children's Museum
Visited family
Planted a vegetable garden/landscaping
Painted master bedroom
Hosted 4th of July party
Vacation Bible School
Moved (and painted) Elizabeth's new bedroom

ZOMG I'M FREAKING EXHAUSTED!!!!!!!!!!

We've gone from one extreme to the other. We're squeezing so much into our lives that we end up slumped bleary-eyed on the couch every night, too tired to do anything but stare. Weekends aren't a relaxing break--they're a 2nd job.

We scrawled DO NOTHING! over this upcoming weekend (and the rest of our weekends) and fully intend to DO NOTHING. Pajama pants. Dirty teeth. Lord of the Rings DVD marathon. Bring it.

On My List

2011-07-13T17:13:00.004-04:00

1. Booster Seats

I'm taking four elementary school girls to Vacation Bible School. Their parents--who let them ride on a school bus with no seat belt at all--send them out of the house with 3 ft. wide hunks of plastic under their arms like saddles. The seats won't all fit. And? We're going 3 blocks down the street. I roll my eyes and move Elizabeth to the DEADLY!!! front seat, thanking God that I had my children now and not 3 years from now, when all parents will be required to drive a Popemobile.

2. Day Light Saving Time

Obviously.

3. My Suddenly Tight Pants

I don't even want to talk about it. Okay--I do. But I hate myself when I ~~whine~~ blog about weight issues because I'm just feeding into the whole HATE thing that women already have going for themselves and perpetuating a legacy of nitpicking, dissatisfaction, and shame for my own girls. So. I'm going to simply say my pants are tight and it annoys me. Then I'm going to STFU and move on.

4. Netflix Price Hikes

Streaming only? Have you seen your streaming options? Howard the Duck, Uncle Buck, or all 9,000 episodes of Caillou. Mmmm. Tempting, but... NO.

5. Internet "Mean"

It doesn't mean "mean", like "spiteful" or "vicious". It means, "I don't like what you said" or "You didn't preface your opinion with lots of apologies and 'respectfully disagree' and butt sucking, therefore you are MEAN". And? AND? The people who call other people "mean" are, by their own definitions, MEAN THEMSELVES. And is this 2nd grade? Should we all hop in our booster seats and scream, "She's being mean to me!" from our Pope Bubbles?

EDITED TO ADD:

6. Anonymous People Who Think I Should Walk to Solve the Car Seat Issue

Sure. That makes sense.

After all, what's an hour (total) walk in July heat with 4 spastic Kindergarten/1st graders tacked on to the 3 hour long VBS! At night! So what if you have to drag everyone's Food Pantry Donations and your own teaching crap? You're getting exercise, you lazy cow.

And who cares if your point was the absurdity of 4 small children not fitting into your SUV? I mean, really! It's more fun to dole out snide assvice about fitting back into your pants.

Separate But Equal

2011-07-11T12:24:00.000-04:00

Elizabeth is moving into her own room.

I tried switching their beds around, first. I had Elodie's crib by the door and Elizabeth in the corner (newborn/nightfeeding arrangement) and never thought to change it.

(Why? Probably because I'm sleep deprived.)

It helps. Elizabeth can slip in, Elodie is oblivious, and all is right with the world. For now.

But once we hit September, Elizabeth will need to be tucked in early. She needs 11-12 hours of sleep, and right now she's getting about 9. With no nap. Trust me, she's a joy to deal with after dinner.

Which brings me to my next point: I miss tucking her in with stories, devotions and prayers. Since Elodie arrived, that whole routine has disappeared. Kevin and I should do all that stuff in the living room before taking her upstairs, but Elizabeth is usually overtired and melting down. All we do is manage behavior and shove her in her room when we think it's safe.

That's not right.

Separate rooms mean I can give Elizabeth the same tuck-in routine Elodie gets: kisses, cuddles, stories, lullabies. Plus she wants to tell me about her day...or laugh and squirm in bed...or lay out her clothes for the next morning...or just turn off the light when she's ready...and she can't do that with a screaming toddler in the room.

I asked her if she liked sleeping with Elodie, and she said, "No. She wakes me up a lot." When Kevin heard that, he stopped pushing the Sharing Agenda. No one wants to share a room with Screech.

Then Elizabeth perked up and screamed, "Now I can have sleepovers!" which baffled us until I remembered I used that as an excuse to get her to shut up about sleepovers. I thought I didn't have to deal with that crap until 7?

We're ~~fighting over~~ looking through paint chips...

...and gearing up to turn the trashed playroom into Pure Awesome.

If it's done by the 1st Day of School it will be a miracle.

Shared bedroom? I'm so over it.

2011-07-07T13:51:00.001-04:00

Elizabeth and Elodie have shared a bedroom for one year now. It has not been a success. In fact, it's been a constant source of frustration.

We all survived the hell of night feedings and middle of the night screaming. Elizabeth learned to sleep through it--eventually--but did she get a good night's sleep? Doubtful.

We lived through the Spring of Ear Infections only to move into long summer days and short periods of darkness. Elodie goes to bed at 7:30 and is happy to roll around chewing on blankets and catnapping until dark--but only if she's totally alone.

We end up entertaining Elizabeth until 8:30...9:00...9:30...10:00...waiting for Elodie to be fully asleep before we sneak Elizabeth in. And then we're hissing at a 5 year old, "Shut up! SHURT UP!" and if Elodie wakes up, Elizabeth gets yanked out of her room to sleep on our floor until Elodie stops screaming and passes back out. 10:30...11:00...11:30...

Naturally--NATURALLY--Elizabeth knows that waking her sister up means she gets to stay up longer! And sleep on Daddy's pillow! And be carried like a baby back to her own bed at midnight! So she is rarely quiet sneaking into her bedroom--and Elodie is always half asleep because it's shining daylight at 8:52. Every night is a disaster.

So why are we doing this to ourselves? Especially when we own a three bedroom house?!?

Because it's a Cape Cod, with two huge bedrooms upstairs and a small one on the main floor. Who goes downstairs?

It can't be Mom and Dad. Our bed wouldn't fit in that room, and it doesn't have a closet. It can't be Elodie, because I still need to get to her if something upsets her at night. So that leaves Elizabeth, who Kevin still sees like this:

...despite the fact that she's almost 6, can set the dinner table, fold her own laundry, and shove NetFlix movies in the mailbox for me. Leave The Precious all alone on the main floor?!? That's just *sputter* NOT SAFE! No!

He sees it as being "excluded from the family". (The redheaded stepchild? Bwahahaha!) I see it as "solving a problem so we can all get some damn sleep".

Kevin and I are fighting about it, while Elizabeth casually hints that her friends have TVs in their bedrooms and purple is a nice paint color. I think she sees it as her own Purpley Big Girl space, and she'll only see it as exclusion if Kevin pulls sad mouths around her and weeps for his abused little girl. *evil stare at Kevin*

And...okay...she doesn't have to stay downstairs FOREVER. I want the girls to share a room and live that whole Beezus and Ramona thing that my parents never forced my sister and I to do because we hated each other and she called me Pig Head and made me cry by saying my dead hamster was cold buried outside in the snow then moaning, "Jaaaaaciiii! I'm coooooold! Ooooohhhhh!" while spraying her 80's hair with AquaNet.

But that can come later, right? When both kids can be tucked in together without screaming sobs.

See, They Make These Things Called "Baby Gates"

2011-06-24T11:42:00.001-04:00

No doubt you've heard about the book Go the F--CK to Sleep and Samuel L. Jackson's audio reading of it.

When I first heard the audio version, I laughed. I played it for Kevin and he smiled uncomfortably and shook his head. (I'm used to this. He can be a prude.) I thought of posting it to my blog's Facebook page, but didn't because it's kind of offensive, and...meh. That's not my thing.

Now the book has exploded as a Best Seller and everyone has a take on it. Most people love it and think it's hilarious. Some are offended by it. A few over-analyze it. Let's just say it hit lots of parenting nerves.

I want to tell the parents to buy a damn baby gate. Chasing the kid around? Multiple tuck ins? Laying down with them until they fall asleep? That crap doesn't fly in my house. But more than that, I'm rolling my eyes at yet another "This Parenting Crap Sucks!" whine.

Remember when the parenting trend was Super Mom? Power suit, sensible hair cut, brief case and diaper bag?

"I think it's so important for a family to find the time to eat together and share their day. Did I share with you how many meetings I had to rearrange so that I could be here -- not that I'm complaining..."

Well...that was the 90's. That whole "I can do it all!" ship has sailed. Now the trend is "I'm cracking under all this!" It's all about Moms Whining & Needing Wine.

"These kids are so exhausting...I can't even shower...oh god, school's out?!?...I live in yoga pants...I need a night off...I hate laundry...I don't have time to heat up a Hot Pocket...I need a drink..."

I love that we moved beyond Super Mom. I mean, those shoulder pads just had to go, but I miss her "I can do this!" attitude. I'm so tired of whining disguised as "honesty". I'm tired of single people overhearing us and saying, "Wow. I never want to have kids."

My...uh...observations?...of modern parents are pissing you off. (I'm sure of it--after all, I'm talking about you.) You're probably even screaming at the screen, "Jaci, you are such a hypocrite! You're whole blog is whining about motherhood!"

You're right. Quite a few of my posts have been self-indulgent wallowings about feeling trapped in my life. I'm also someone who just came off PPD--and I sound like today's "normal" mom. Is that really okay?!?

Anyway.

If you laughed at the book, great. So did I. We're supposed to. If the book really is your life, put a gate across the bedroom door and walk away. Turn your movie up loud to cover up the temper tantrum, and when the screams stop, pick the sleeping kid up off the floor and tuck him in bed. Repeat each night as needed.

Board book parody not required.

Elizabeth Never Did That!

2011-06-20T11:36:00.000-04:00

Last night, I dumped both girls into the bathtub at once.

I'm not big on group bathing. Put mah pwrecious baby in the same bathwater as Big Kid Elizabeth and her black flip-flop feet? Ew. No.

Now that summer is here and the kids stay up later and later, I just don't care anymore. Sit in each others filth! I'm exhausted! Go to bed! Damn you, Daylight Saving Time!!!

Elizabeth sat with the faucet jammed in her back, Elodie enjoyed the sweet spot in the shallow end. They fought over bath toys and used the wrong washcloths. I sat on the toilet seat reading Ramona the Pest aloud, multi-tasking way too many parenting rituals because let's just get this over with already.

Then it happened.

Elodie shat in the bathtub.

Elizabeth screamed. I dropped Ramona the Pest and screamed. Elizabeth grabbed her Polly Pockets and jumped out while I grabbed a screaming Pooper McGee.

I dressed the kids while Kevin brainstormed ideas to get the poop out of the tub (it wasn't a lone turd, people) and we both kept saying things like, "Elizabeth NEVER did this!"

"Children are different? SIBLINGS are different?!?" I must be a moron who can't fully grasp the concept that Elodie is not a clone of Elizabeth. Never-ending ear infections? Elizabeth was never sick! Butt-scooting? Elizabeth crawled right! Not walking at 14 months? Elizabeth walked on her birthday, remember?

Whatever Elodie does, I compare it to Elizabeth because I know Elizabeth. And I'm dumb enough to think that since I mothered one child, I'm a baby expert.

NOPE.

It makes me wonder how much of an asshole I was pre-Elodie, doling out parenting advice because it worked on my only child! Therefore it must work across the board! Try it on your kid!

I wonder how many moms of 2+ silently sigh when Mom O' One gets preachy or brags about her only child's stunning awesomeness. How many times do they think, "Oh, STFU. Talk to me when you have three."

But if I follow that logic, than the only Mom able to give out parenting advice would be Momma Duggar.

YOU FIXED YOUR HAIR?!? Holy crap! When did this happen?!?

And that ain't right.

I'm Not Drinking the Sugar-Free Kool Aid Anymore

2011-06-14T13:59:00.001-04:00

For three months, my scale sat coated in dust under my bathroom sink.

Sometimes I felt gross and chugged meal replacement shakes, other times I pigged out. I didn't do any formal exercise. I didn't drink nearly enough water or serve enough vegetables. I had numerous Peanut Butter Cup binges.

I got on the scale this weekend and...I weigh exactly the same.

I didn't allow sporadic weigh-ins to determine my mood. I didn't ruin my day over four pounds of pre-period bloat. I didn't pour hatred over my soul because I ate an entire bag of Dove chocolates. I shrugged it off and moved on.

In Girl World, I'm committing a huge sin. I should be on a diet. It's summer! And I'm overweight! And my thighs touch! And everyone else is counting points/carbs/calories and feeling either smugly superior or self-flagellating! It's what women do!

Sorry, but... I'm tired of it.

I read this in a dieting book recently: "Do you eat to live, or do you live to eat?" It stuck with me and pops into my head when I stare vacantly into the fridge at 9 pm when I'm bored.

But the idea behind it is way more interesting than the corny dieting cliche--LIVING. Focus on life! Activities! Work! Relationships! Look up from your plate (and bathroom scale) and check out everything else life has to offer!

What are our bodies for, anyway? Is it something we're supposed to keep in pristine "new car" condition? Or are we supposed to use the damn thing to live our lives?

I hate watching friends beat themselves up over their imperfect bodies. I'm annoyed by ongoing sagas of "weight loss journeys". I'm half angry/ half sad for the women who post their awful, horrible, bad girl! food choices on Facebook/Twitter for either atonement or accountability.

I'm done with it, ladies.

IT'S FOOD. Sometimes it makes me happy, but mostly it keeps me alive and fully functioning. It's not evil. It's not bad. I'm not going to count it, weigh it, ration it, make an idol of it, or find my self-worth in it. IT'S FOOD.

IT'S MY BODY. It's strong and healthy and I use it to live my life. I'm not going to starve it, push it, hate it, hide it, abuse it, feel ashamed of it, make an idol of it, or find my self-worth in it. IT'S MY BODY.

The bathroom scale is shoved back under the sink. Sometimes I serve dessert and a bowl of vegetables with dinner. The elliptical is covered in dust while we all play together in the pool.

I'm living life and enjoying it without the Diet Guilt. It's kind of awesome. You should try it.

$300,000 Houses and Public Schools Just Don't Go Together

2011-06-06T15:05:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I dropped Elizabeth off for a birthday party at the most expensive home I've ever set foot in. (Without paying admission, anyway.)

I can't say enough how down-to-earth and sweet this family is, or how they never ever ever throw their money around. They are lovely, gracious people. They aren't the focus here because...

I'm the classist jerk.

When I pull into Millionaire Acres, I have to give myself a pep talk about not being jealous: "My home is lovely, with it's little window seats and slanted cape cod ceilings. It's aged and mellow and well-loved. I own a NICE HOME."

My talk wears off after five minutes when I notice how plush the lawn is. Or that the adorable play cottage has sturdier windows than my real house. Then I look around at the Pergo flooring and brand new carpeting and Ethan Allan furniture and...wait, did you remodel your jaw-dropping kitchen again?!?

Suddenly my house is a 60 year old piece of junk. I'm jealous and bitter and go home to $120,000 Clearance Street hating life.

It's useless to smugly assure myself that most people living there are in massive debt (suuuure) or shake my fist at the sky and rant that maybe there is something to Communism after all, or think of starving children in Africa to guilt myself over such a 1st world problem. Nothing works. It has to seethe off with time.

When I picked Elizabeth up from the party, I conquered my House Envy just in time to get smacked in the face with Class Reality. Elizabeth was the poorest girl there. The other little girls were from the expensive private school, while Elizabeth was only there through church friendship. In the real world she'll never know those girls--and let's face it, by 3rd grade the church friendship will drift apart as the girls make BFFs at their own schools.

I'm wondering who, exactly, will be Elizabeth's friends at public school? Who's left? If a family can afford it, they shove their kids into private school (there goes the middle class) and more and more are homeschooled. So we have...what? The working class? The poor?

Even though I survived public school in a very economically depressed area--I'm worried. This isn't 1985 when it was unusual to hear of a kid NOT going to public school. This is 2011 with lots of options to find the "best fit" for each special (read: moderately wealthy) child.

Last night I thought about the hard working, dual-income-and-still-paycheck-to-paycheck families in our neighborhood. The lower middle class. The other moms I see driving kids to daycare at 7:00 am right along with me. The dads I see changing the oil in the driveway while trying to entertain two kids. The parents who are working hard, pinching and saving to give their kids the best. Good kids from good homes.

That's who's left in the public schools.

She'll be fine. She'll be with our kind of people.

Scary Mommy in a Bathing Suit

2011-06-02T01:13:00.001-04:00

This picture makes a lot more sense if you read my guest post at Scary Mommy.

Moral of the story? Find a bathing suit you feel comfortable enough in and get off the lawn chair. It took me 6 years, but whatever. I found one. This year I'm swimming with my kids--not obsessing about my jiggly bits under a big towel.

I'm not going to make the cover of Vouge--or Playboy--or US Weekly's "Stars in Bikinis!" I'm a wife and mom and average-sized woman, and life is too short to feel gross about myself on the sidelines because I'm not model thin.

Screw that. I'm jumping in.

And to anyone snorting over my body...

...or my weight...

...or my lumpy, pasty-white thighs...

Suck it.

Are Babies Clean Slates?

2011-05-26T11:34:00.002-04:00

All parenting methods (authoritarian, permissive, pro-spanking, "Be the Best Friend", etc.) are built upon an answer to one question. It's an important question. It's so important that if you have never considered it before, you should put all parenting books down until you decide where you stand on it.

Are children born as "clean slates"?

If you answer YES:

You believe that a baby is a perfect, unmarred, angelic creature. Pristine! Uncorrupted! Their clean slate gets cracked, chipped, scuffed, and scratched through the roughness of life--parenting mistakes, bad teachers, nasty friends. Some slates are tougher and can survive horrible upbringings (Oprah) others crack even under normal parenting (Jeffrey Dahmer). Evil within a person--any person--can mostly likely be traced back to a disaster in their childhood.

Signs You're a Clean Slate Believer:
- In moments of despair you say things like "I'm ruining my kids!"

-When your toddler first bit you in anger, you wondered which other already-corrupted-by-bad-parenting kid taught him to do it.

- When a preschool "bully" pushes your kid down on the playground, you stink eye the mother like she did the shoving herself. She's the puppet-master behind that behavior!

If you answer NO:

You believe a baby is a human creature capable of all the highs (and lows) of any other human. Instead of a Clean Slate, you see Wet Clay. Yes, life can leave dents, but they can be worked back out and remolded again. (At least, up until the point when it starts to dry and harden.) Parenting mistakes, bad teachers, nasty friends--they leave impressions, but can't squish that clay into something it was never meant to be. Personalities aren't learned--they're given to us at birth.

Signs You're a Wet Clay Believer:
- You can keep moments of despair in perspective--all is not lost, kids are resilient, try again tomorrow.

- When your toddler first bit you in anger, you didn't blame anyone but the lump of personality screaming at you in rage.

- When a preschool "bully" pushes your kid down in the playground, you notice the mom turning red with embarrassment and cut her some slack. She's got a strong personality to mold with that one.

It's probably very obvious which I believe, but I'm curious--where do you fall?

*Post inspired by Leo Soderman's guest spot at Literal Mom.

A Turn of Events

2011-05-24T11:36:00.000-04:00

Kevin is a much better parent than I am. He's calmer, more patient, and can "lecture" without raising his voice to ugly levels. I suppose I could insert something catty here, like "I could be the better parent if I only saw my kids for 45 minutes each weekday, too!" but I won't. He's handled the Preschool Age with much more grace than I have, period.

He doesn't get home until 6:30/7:00 so I'm left to deal with dinner alone. I pick them up after work. I make dinner while Elodie moans and pulls at my legs from the floor. I spoon food into Elodie's mouth and fight with Elizabeth to eat her dinner. I drag the food-covered baby upstairs and dunk her in the bathtub. I break up the bored-end-of-day-they're-tired fights between the girls. I give Elodie her last bottle. And just when I'm ready to curse god and die, Kevin walks in the door and relieves me. He sees Elodie for about 10 minutes before her bedtime--then chokes down his cold dinner plate while Elizabeth bounces all over him and I slump in the living room chair.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Elizabeth is the wild card in this whole scenario. She might be quiet and glued to a NetFlix movie while I make dinner. She might be helpful and play with her sister. Or, she might scream and fight and snatch toys off Elodie and end up in timeout multiple times. Those are the nights when I'm calling Kevin at 6:20 almost in tears because I'm overwhelmed and can't do anything but put out fires--and those nights happen a lot.

Last night was BAD. Just...bad. The I-called-Kevin-at-5:28 kind of bad. And when he came home, he choked down his cold Fish-in-Foil Packet (dinner sucked) then sat Elizabeth down on a chair for The Lecture.

I sprawled across the couch with a headache and thought, "Yeah. You tell her," but he surprised me. He said, "Let's pray first."

So we prayed. Then we told Elizabeth that she's supposed to love her sister, and asked her to come up with ways that she could love her--then list the ways that she isn't loving her. We told her that Elodie loves her, and smiles and claps her hands when she sees her, and that if Elizabeth is mean to her she isn't going to do that anymore. We talked about what a big responsibility--and an honor--it is to be a Big Sister.

No yelling. No anger. No screamed threats. Just a warning that if she can't love her sister and obey me during those hard hours until Dad comes home, then she won't be allowed to play with her friends the next day. And summer is coming...her friends will be out of school...and not being about to play with friends on a nice summer day will be a really. long. day.

I laid back down on the couch. Kevin took his gross Fish Packet back to the kitchen and tossed it in the garbage. And Elizabeth pulled out an old deck of Numbers flash cards and played quietly with them.

Either God loves to make me the butt of his own little inside jokes, or he's trying to tell me to pray more often (it's a toss up) but the next 10 minutes were pretty miraculous. Elizabeth laid the flash cards on the table--asked a few questions that I answered half-asleep from the couch--and then counted to 20 by herself.

No "eleventeen". No regression. On her own free-will.

I sat up and saw that she had the cards all in order. 1-20. And when I asked if she wanted to know the numbers that came next, she smiled and said, "Yeah!"

We made it up to 50.

2011-05-20T09:55:00.003-04:00

The comments on my last post ran in two veins: a.) real advice or b.) judgement. After 15 comments* I felt both sides had been represented and hilariously summed up by Krystle: "Oh for fucks sake, anons are so obnoxious. It's always easier to parent someone else's child."

Indeed.

This morning I summed up the comments for Kevin in the one minute we see each other alone before work. He rolled his eyes at the "grossly inappropriate" accusation while scrubbing out his travel mug and muttered, "Please." I forgot to mention that Kevin, the licensed Child and Family Counselor, was in on THE COUNTING FAILURE (as it will henceforth be known) holding Elizabeth accountable and encouraging her right along with me.

"Jaci, just stop writing about that stuff." He sloped more coffee in his cup before kissing the kids goodbye and heading to the garage. Typical man. Totally blowing off parenting insults like pfft! Whateva.

So why don't I stop writing about this "stuff"? Why don't I delete my last post, pretend it never happened, and move on to safer (funnier) topics about Extreme Couponing and only mention my children in cute anecdotes--if I mention them at all?

Because Mom shouldn't have to censor herself. She shouldn't have to worry that if she admits a parenting struggle, she's opening herself up for attacks from Sanctimommies about her character...her personality**...her parenting techniques...her past failures...and a reminder that she (and only she) has the power to SCREW THIS KID UP.

Mom should be able to say: "I tried this tactic out of frustration and you know what? It blew up in my face. Lesson learned, but I'm still battling over here. Any advice?" And--I know this is shocking but bear with me folks--other mothers should show a little empathy, not scorn.

The simple fact is there are about twenty different ways a parent can handle any given situation--and the parent has to figure out which tactic is going to work best for her child. It's usually done through trail and error. I think admitting my parenting failures in real terms, not some cutesy Chicken Soup for the Soul hindsight, is helpful for other mothers struggling with their own specific parenting battles.

There is nothing helpful in stuffing problems down and presenting a Stepford facade in parenting circles. All it does is isolate we Mothers even more, as we turn on each other for ridiculous things like jamming a 7 year old in a stroller or mommyjacking Facebook posts instead of discussing real, pertinent parenting issues that we ALL have to deal with. And dare I say, the real emotions and reactions that go along with it? And the failures?

So the post stays up. The judgmental comments will not...mainly because they serve no purpose other than hurting me, but also because...you know...

MY BLOG.

*Only one comment was deleted for blatant Fear Mongering. That's not normally a criteria I exert the power of MY BLOG over, but something about the whole you're tearing down lines of communication and she won't tell you if she's molested line skeeved me out.

**All I'm going to say about the attacks on my negative personality is that isn't God an awesome god? He put a little girl who struggles with negativity with a mother who suffers the same problem--and can one day pass on a little wisdom. And because my blog is full of snark--obviously I'm an unfit mother ruining her children. It just makes sense, people.

RE: Teaching Elizabeth

2011-05-19T11:18:00.001-04:00

Elizabeth and I butt heads - constantly. She's bullheaded and dramatic and always "wronged" by someone. Life is full of injustice and she must scream about it. Then sulk. Then bring it up again two months later.

"Fool me once--YOU ARE DEAD TO ME." By four she had mortal enemies in Sunday school, people.

The belief floating around is that a child's personality is formed by age five. Elizabeth is 5 1/2. She's formed. From here on out, she'll learn to temper it and show a little grace (dear God please) but I think at her core, her first response will always be defensive wailing at the world.

With her personality, she thrives on negative attention. If you ask her how her day went, the first words out of her mouth are a complaint ("Mary flung a toy around and it HIT ME IN THE EYE!"). Adults try to reason that it was an accident ("No! SHE HIT ME!"), maybe try distracting her with something good that happened ("Yeah, well, AFTER THAT SHE HIT ME!") and it turns into this 15 minute conversation to calm her down and let it go.

It upsets me because I expect a 5 year old to come running up to me in happy excitement, just bubbling over with all the fun things that happened that day--not bitch and vent. As soon as I climb out of the car after work, she airs grievances while my shoulders slump and and the frown lines pop out. Elizabeth, just STOP.

Actually--it's kind of genius on her part. Tales of Good Things are usually met with fake, "Wow! That's nice, sweetie!" response from distracted adults. Complaints get full real attention--even if it is frustration/anger aimed at her own head. Negative attention is better than half-assed attention in Elizabeth World.

It's always been something I rolled my eyes over and blew off--but now it's affecting her willingness to learn.

At 2 1/2, she knew her alphabet and could count to 20--the toddler equivalent of a clapping seal. (Sorry, I don't applaud baby genius unless the kid is composing music and playing for the Austrian royal court.) At 5 1/2, she acts like she can't get past 13 and she has no earthly idea what the letter N is.

When I ask her to count, she rolls on the floor and moans out the numbers: "One...two...*sob*...threeeee...ummmmmm....four....*fingers in mouth*...ohhh!" Negative attention! I'm supposed to plead with her to sit up and say it nicely, or yell and jerk her upright. Either way, it's not enough to count and be pleased with her OWN ABILITIES or SHOWING OFF HER KNOWLEDGE to an impressed adult. Oh no...you will pry the numbers out of her.

And then! Then! She will throw out the number "eleven-teen" in a piss poor attempt to play stupid and get out of counting anymore. "Eleven-teen" is supposed to send me off on a tangent about how it's not a number while she falls out on the floor in tears and sobs of "I can't do iiiiiittttt!" until I blow up and she can go back to watching Angelina Ballerina and sneaking in thumb sucks when I'm not looking.

Last weekend we went head to head. You can't count? Really? I snatched away her purse full of ~~junk~~ precious things and told her she could have back whatever she could count to. I laid out twenty bits of crap (an old rock? seriously?) and she still...STILL...fell out about how she couldn't do it. I grabbed her hand and forced her to touch each piece and chanted over and over again: "15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--15, 16, 17, 18, 19--YOU'RE NOT COUNTING! SAY IT!-20--AGAIN--15, 16--SIT UP--17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--15, 16--THERE IS NO ELEVENTEEN--17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--"

40 minutes later, she counted to 20 on her own in a loud voice and earned all of her junk back. I praised her. Daddy praised her. We told her how proud we were and how happy we are when she sits up and really tries. Then I went to the bathroom and cried.

In retrospect, I should have swept the pieces off the table after the first whiny-fingers-in-the-mouth mention of "eleven-teen" and calmly said, "Nope. We'll try again later tonight," while plopping the bag on top of the fridge. I should have let her sweat it out instead of holding her down kicking and screaming. A little too "The Miracle Worker".

I'm so frustrated, internets. So very, very frustrated. I know she can do it--but she's getting more of a pay off for refusing to do it. Kindergarten starts in a few months and yes, she needs to know her letters and how to count.

I'm laying myself open and desperately asking for advice. From one mother to another--what would you do?

Etiquette vs. Attention

2011-05-17T12:37:00.002-04:00

In case you aren't on Twitter: Blogger went down last Friday and ate posts, lost comments, and generally screwed half the blogosphere. Everyone was pissed and threatened violence, riots, and looting. (Probably.) I shrugged my shoulders and took my kids to the park.

I'm a Blogger girl, so my post on interrupting chilluns and the mommas who don't care dried up and blew away. Let's try this again.

EDITED TO ADD: Thank you Patty for e-mailing my lost post to me! Google Readers...God bless you!

Do you teach your children not to interrupt when adults are speaking?

At the age of 5, I have Elizabeth trained to wait for a pause in conversations before speaking. If I have a friend over and she comes bounding into the room rudely interrupting - she gets the evil eye - and that's enough to stop her mid-squeal. I continue talking to my friend. When we are at a natural pause, I will look at Elizabeth and say, "What?"

Other mothers don't do this. When their children come bounding into the room, all adult conversation dies awkwardly mid-word while Mom turns to Precious and pays 100% attention to a factoid about Dung Beetles. And then she encourages Precious with follow up questions while the other adults scuff their feet in the carpet or start a round of Angry Birds.

I don't understand this. I absolutely agree that Precious deserves to be seen and heard, but doesn't s/he also need to learn the art of conversation? And respect for others? And that other people's words are just as important as his/hers?

Even in the privacy of our own family, Kevin and I crack down hard on interrupting. And I mean hard. I remember Elizabeth talking over me at dinner and I pounded my fist on the table and screamed, "I'M TALKING HERE! YOU DON'T TALK OVER ME!" (Mom Of the Year 2011 - Excellence in Anger Management) When she interrupts Kevin, he usually goes off on a 3 minute lecture on how rude it is to interrupt--and after hearing what she just had to say-- pointing out that it had nothing to add to the conversation.

Harsh? I'm sure there are parents crying out in horror for my poor, repressed five year old and her mute presence at the dinner table. Please. The girl runs her mouth from the moment she wakes up until she finally passes out at 8:30. Do you think she sits there silently? She takes advantage of those "conversational pauses" and does her best to change the subject--back to her, of course--and that's perfectly acceptable. Interrupting is not.

Obviously, I'm baffled by the Interruptions Welcome! parenting style. Someone please explain it to me.

I'm in Redbook! Talking About STDs! (Wait...what?)

2011-05-15T22:40:00.004-04:00

Yes, you read that correctly. I have been published in this month's issue of Redbook!

...

...

Under "Letters to the Editor".

(Shurrrrt up. I've been published.)

Redbook ran an article about AshleyMadison.com and the stomach-churning numbers of married people registered there. *pause while I shudder for humanity* While the undercover journalism and glimpses into the black, tarry souls of serial cheaters didn't phase me, the expert's advice to suspicious wives to keep their grubby paws out of the internet history did. I sent an e-mail that night.

Here's the thing: Affairs are all about secrecy. (No shit, right? Otherwise it would be called dating.) And--this is key--selfishness. Mr. Cheat isn't miserable enough to actually get off his ass and separate from his wife (and throw his life into total upheaval) but he's bored and unhappy and whiny and just too gosh darn special to sink into a mid-life abyss and--

Harf.

An affair is a fantasy. Period. It's Mr. Cheat and an idea of somebody (anybody) to distract him from Wife and Kids and Mid-Level Executive and Receding Hair Line. It's a quicky in a parking lot. A lot of dirty talk over sticky Starbuck's tables. Junk shot pics texted back and forth on the weekends.

And when Mrs. Cheated wonders what the hell is making Mr. Cheat act like a giant douchebag, the first thing she should do is check the Internet History. Not to save her marriage...or her children...or her husband. No--to save herself from perking up when a "may stop recurring outbreaks" commercial comes on TV.

A wedding ring isn't immunity against STDs--but it does mean that Mr. Cheat hasn't thought about protection in any other terms than pregnancy for years. This isn't college--and condoms--and the recent embarrassment of high school Sex Ed. This is an affair fantasy land! It's wild and spontaneous and stupid and reckless and forgetting any consequence than the thrilling thought of "what if I get caught?"

*disgusted full stop*

Most affairs don't involve protection--because most affairs don't involve any planning, period.

When a marriage expert tells a national magazine audience not to "pry" through her husband's e-mail or "snoop" through his phone, I get angry. This isn't just an issue of marital trust! That woman's health could be at risk, and she deserves to know what the hell her husband is doing when he isn't in her bed!

Blech. This is not the sword I wanted to fall on. I hate fear-mongering...and I have no experience with STDs...I don't even know anybody with STDs...and the whole subject is icky and gross and reeks of Ewww. But I want to scream, "WAKE UP MY SISTERS! SNOOP THE SHIT OUT OF HIS JUNK! PROTECT YOURSELF!" Because sticking your head in the sand and "respecting his privacy" is bullshit. Respect yourself.

And let's say you don't find anything--and you feel small and shitty because omg I just snooped on my husband and I'm so so sad and pathetic--and he gets pissed. What's the worst thing that could happen? It leads to a conversation? About how distant you feel? And how much you love him? And how scared you are of losing your marriage? And how you need a little reassurance that everything is still okay between you two?

Unless you're a certified crazy bitch with a history of pawing through his drawers...I think he'll understand.

Check the History.

Comments Off

Mom Blog Glossary

2011-05-11T10:42:00.001-04:00

Mommyblogger - term thrown on every female blogger with children, even if she never ever ever writes about her children.

Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Blogger - a blogger who lost every identity except MOTHER! in labor and delivery. Writes nothing but Cute Kid Stories and usually refers to her children in super secret code words (Boy Child #1) because who wouldn't stalk her blog and attempt to kidnap her glorious spawn???

Blessed Blogger - always counts her blessings and will only admit to "problems" if they are in the past tense with a corny Focus on the Family lesson learned.

Bitter Blogger - rants and vents about how everything in her life pisses her off. Easily spotted by her posts dedicated to tearing trolls (i.e., anyone who anonymously disagrees with her) a new asshole and angry insistence that she does not need anti-depressants. *see Ravings of a Mad Housewife archives June 2010 to whenever PPD wore off - February 2011? Maybe?

Jenny Who? Blogger - shamelessly copies The Bloggess' kooky writing style and comes off looking...stupid.

How To Be a MOM Blogger - sparkling toilet bowl tips and coupon savings from the CEO of the Home.

Empire Blogger - her site has multiple layers of blogs, chat rooms, Facebook pages, legions of fans, and a couple assistants to keep her business running.

Blog Whore - Big Pimpin' and clawing her way to an Empire--or else. Easily recognized by her constant ass kissing tweets @BigNameBloggers and attempts to draw internet uproars over to her blog through flaming posts.

Drama Blogger - How?!? Will?!? She?!? DEAL?!?! She always needs advice, hand holding, and reassurance of her awesomeness.

Brand Blogger - Giveaways! Reviews! She swears on everything that is holy that *insert product here* is life changing! If you showed her a quarter in ad revenue, she'd leap on it.

Twitterific Blogger - Gave up blogging (with her 50 readers) to pursue Twitter (with her 10,000 followers) full-time.

Whine-O Blogger - Motherhood is so hard it drives her to drinking...and pill popping...and martyrdom...and bitter resignation that life is going to suck until the kids hit 18.

Blog Clique - Group of mom bloggers who only read/comment/acknowledge their small circle of BFFs. Most often found on Twitter making inside jokes publicly.

Conference Attendees - Upper middle-class white mothers who have the expendable income to drop thousands on ~~weekend getaways~~ Informative Blog Conferences laughing and boozing with Twitter friends.

Elodie's Birthday Cake

2011-05-06T16:41:00.000-04:00

My Last Baby

2011-05-05T08:48:00.003-04:00

My last baby is now a toddler. Happy 1st birthday, Elodie!

I'll never again cuddle a sleeping newborn...or feel pregnancy kicks...or catch a very first smile...

After a few months of consistent sleep, I'm feeling a bit sentimental over my last baby. She's it! My last taste of New Motherhood. There will be no more babies...or ducky sleepers...or teensie-weensie newborn diapers...

I teared up for about 1/2 a second, then thought of all the hateful baby stuff I'll never have to do again (colic) and felt relief - which is a pretty clear sign that I'm done.

But I'm going to miss cuddling a squishy baby...

...really, really miss it.

My Newest Unstable Idea Is...(drumroll please)

2011-05-02T11:02:00.002-04:00

A friend took a look around my house the other day and told me I really AM a housewife. It's your calling! You cook! You sew! You make fancy pants cakes! She meant it as a compliment, and I was kind of like...Ewww.

But I don't want to be a housewife!

There's truth in her words--and no matter how blind and stupid I may be, I can usually spot truth staring me in the face. I'm a great cook, even with kids hanging off my legs. I'm weirdly thrilled by paint chips and fabric swatches. I own (and actually use) a sewing machine so much I have a "sewing corner" in the family room. *embarrassing* I have a creative bent, and yes, damn it--I play around with Fancy Pants Baked Goods.

Okay--so I'm a good fit for the Domestic Engineer/CEO of the Home! career path. (Sorry, I can't even write that without massive eye rolls and snorting.) But my friend's next words knocked all the air out of me: "Maybe you already are where you're supposed to be?"

Here? No! I'm meant for better things! Power suits and...and...briefcases and...I don't know...underlings to scurry around me in fear and awe.

Here is no make up and yoga pants and listening to kids scream while my brain goes dumb and I forget how to write a cursive Z. (true story)

Then I realized I think entirely in sterotypes--aaaaand maybe I can create my own career path that takes a little from both worlds?

Here's my unstable idea: start a home-based Specialty Cake Business.

My mom made wedding cakes out of her house for years--she even made mine--and she's teaching me her tricks. (Like transportation because my last cake? Uh...it died in my trunk when I slammed on the brakes. I don't want to talk about it.) At first we thought I could do cakes under-the-table just for extra cash, but...

Pennsylvania is a state where a home-based bakery is perfectly legal. I have to be locally zoned for it--I am!--and my normal, everyday kitchen will have to pass a health inspection (uh, how gross would it be if it DIDN'T?!?) and then I can open for business. Real business. From home. With almost no start up costs.

Awe, look. I'll be following in Paula's buttery footsteps. Only I'll be using Crisco and lots of powdered sugar...and no one will want to film me chewing my cheeks as I work...and my accent screams "Western PA Cracker".

What do yinz think?

My Ancestors Are Ashamed

2011-04-29T08:55:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-26T15:30:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-04-25T12:43:00.001-04:00

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...

2011-04-22T13:51:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-04-21T13:06:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-18T15:01:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-04-15T08:12:00.001-04:00

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

2011-04-13T11:20:00.000-04:00

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!

2011-04-07T13:47:00.004-04:00

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!

2011-04-05T12:14:00.000-04:00

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.

Facebook and Amish people and Sad Clowns? BEST POST EVAH!

2011-03-31T11:28:00.000-04:00

This morning, I went counterculture and practically Amish, my mo-fos.

I deactivated my Facebook account.

"Wunderful-gut." (Amish people say "wonderful good" when they are happy. Not that I hang around with Amish people ~~or stare at them when I drive around their buggy on back roads~~ ~~or buy their delectable lard cookies~~. ~~You know, they might be Mennonite.~~)

I'd like to say I did it for some amazingly noble/ethical/nanny nanny boo-boo reason, but the truth is it just pissed me off. I would read the status feeds on my homepage and just get worked up about something on there.

*sigh* Okay. I'll admit the truth: I get angry, then jealous, skip sad, and go straight to full-out depressed.

A normal person would just not check Facebook that much, but HELLO? I'm Jaci. I'm an emotional cutter. And emotional eater. I'm just a sad in the pants clown with a hard, cynical shell.


My mom decorated my bedroom with pictures like this when I was three. Everyone in the family gave me sad clown stuff until I was TEN. I remember a figurine that had a broken suspender and a handful of juggling balls--frozen in helpless misery. I would pluck at his suspender and cry... And you wonder why I'm weird?

I'm online a lot when I'm stuck playing Forbidden Things Monitor during Elodie's awake time. (She screams if I get up, so...there I sit.) I check Facebook often, and reading about trips to Hawaii or Bangkok didn't make Floor Duty any easier. But oddly enough, they weren't the most upsetting...

I was irate over the normal, day-to-day updates of the mundane. The joy of drying sheets outside...typing out lisped kidisms...turning a global tragedy into a life-lesson for feeling "content"...weight loss updates..."My husband is awesome!" remarks... I was blocking people left and right, then pouting in the corner wondering what was wrong with me. Why can't I find bliss in my laundry??? I am the only fat slob not on a diet!!! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then he is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Freakin' eh.

I don't want to know the thoughts of everyone I've ever come in contact with, because knowing all that just makes me...DISLIKE THEM. It's makes me want to brush the dirt off my shoulders and move to a new place with new people--and since that's not going to happen--I hole up in my house and seethe.

It reminds me of 1998 when I would catch rides home from high school with my (former, pre-8th grade) BFF Joy. Joy was popular and a size 3 and never without a boyfriend--I was like Daria.

There we are, riding home together.

She was the queen of High School; I slinked down the halls like I was serving a prison sentence. After a ride home with her, I'd spend the rest of the evening in my room blaring angry music and wondering how two roads diverged so severely in the middle school woods. F.M.L.!!!

So, Facebook is gone. I'm too immature and jealous to handle it.

Whaw-whaw-whaaaaaw.

The End is Near! Repent!

2011-03-29T13:17:00.000-04:00

Kevin's job came with a huge perk: 50% off tuition at Pitt for himself...

...his children...

...and his spouse.

Hells yeah, internets! I'm going back to school!

(Fall 2012 - when the world is supposed to end.)

I already have 3 years in as a History major. (Translation: useless degree) The old plan--pre kids--was to become a lawyer.

That ship has sailed.

Now I'm trying to figure out what to finish up in. Pitt is amazingly practical and does not require two years of foreign language for History majors (unlike the evil hag Akron U). So, I'm really, really tempted to go to Pitt for one blissful year racking up credits toward a fun minor (fictional writing, anyone?) and skating out with a BS in History.

Because at Pitt (unlike the evil hag Akron U) my useless major is ready to go on my useless degree.

Or should I do the uber responsible thing and work on a second, marketable major. (Like Accounting.) I have no real love for math and numbers and anal retentive columns, but I can do it. It would take 2 1/2 years to finish, but it would probably pay more than whatever odd job I'd scrounge up with my fun degree.

(Opinions on this decision are welcome.)

((Let me rephrase that: RESPECTFUL opinions on this decision are welcome.))

Not Feeling the Zumba Love

2011-03-22T13:48:00.000-04:00

I tried ~~Jazzercise~~ Zumba last night. It's fun...I guess? I don't know. I'm conflicted about it.

The instructors were ah-mazing--they totally looked like video hoes! It was almost worth the $5 just to watch them dance. The rest of us? Ew. We bumbled along, awkwardly thrusting and grinding and tripping over ourselves. I swear I flashed back to 7th grade cheerleading try-outs.

*shudder*

Latin music? Meh. It's not me. Salsa moves and snappy footwork make me feel ridiculous, not hawt. Especially when the instructors are just going for it (without directions) and the rest of us are standing there confused, sometimes sticking a foot or arm out but mostly just swaying self-consciously and muttering "What the hell?"

Hip-hop? Hells yeah! I can grind and drop it low. Mmm-hmmm. But...uh...I need a guy. And a beer bottle in one hand. And a sweaty make-out session. So when a "normal" song came on (sorry, I have no love for the salsa crap) I missed Kevin and thought, "We should go out this weekend!"

(Bwahahahaha! Yeah right.)

It was fun--I mean, as far as workouts go. (It beats jogging on a treadmill. Again.) I might take a couple classes here and there to shake things up, but I'm not going to be one of those people with a fanatical gleam in my eye and My Spot! THAT'S MY SPOT DAMN IT!!! I'VE BEEN COMING SINCE AUGUST AND I ALWAYS STAND RIGHT HERE!

And despite the club music and FUN! THIS IS FUN, RIGHT?!? vibe, I couldn't help but remember that I was in a room full of sweaty, middle-aged white women and we were all adding yet another exercise fad to our belt.

I think I'll stick to workouts in my basement. (I need to be near the damn washing machine or laundry will never get done.) Besides, aren't there a bazillion dance-themed workout DVD's out there? I need to add a hip-hop one to my growing collection of never-used good intentions...

The Mommy Mystique

2011-03-19T22:42:00.001-04:00

"Should I work?" "Is my place 'in the home'?" "Being in the home stifles me...is that just woman's lot in life? Suck it up?" "But how will my choice look to my daughters?" "What example am I setting as a modern woman/mom/human being?"

Angela as a 30 year old mom is...me. Ugh. Pathetic. Someone give me a granny skirt and a grungy flannel.

I'm full o' the angst. For over six years I've struggled to find peace with my choice to stay home/work and trying to find some balance between motherhood and...just being Jaci. I'm so tired of it.

Kevin looks at me like I am making a big deal out of nothing. "If you want to work, go to work. If you don't, that's okay with me." Ummmm. Yeah. Thanks for the I'll-support-you-whatever-you-do attitude, but that's not the answer I'm looking for.

I don't think he gets it because fatherhood hasn't rocked him to the core of his identity and given him endless options on ways to combine the personal and the professional. After a two week paternity leave it was back to the only option he has--career path. He can't relate to my nail-chewing and search for "Who am I and how do I combine all this into a fulfilling life?" He retained who he was and simply added "Dad" to the long list of letters trailing his last name.

(There are no letters trailing my last name--er, actually, his last name. Wait...)

It doesn't help that Motherhood has become so charged in our culture. It feels like SAHM has been elevated to some goddess level. Listen to any conversations about this and you'll hear plenty of working women say, "Oh, they have my respect! I don't know how they do it!" and SAHM's declaring that they are doing "the hardest job there is". Today, the ideal Mom is part Martha Stewart, part fun-loving babysitter, all "My Life IS My Kids".

"Look, Mikey! Mom's high! Let's steal her wallet and wait for the ice cream truck."

Even more disturbing, working moms are supposed to long for the financial freedom to be at home. If you're working, you better have a good reason for it (like paying the bills). Women who stand up and say, "I can afford to stay home, but I like working," are given the stink eye and are accused of not loving their children enough.

Search Google Images for "working mom". All the pictures have a mom staring at a computer while the baby either smacks the keys for attention...or just dangles as an appendage.

Betty Friedan identified The Feminine Mystique of the 1950's housewife: feeling lifeless and trapped in society's stifling ideal of what a woman/wife/mother should be. I just read the book and--it's still apt. (APT, I say!) I checked it out because it was mentioned in Mad Men and I'm relating way too much to Betty Draper.

Scary.

That led to a quick jaunt through all three waves of feminism to "catch up" on where We Women are. (My mind is goo right now because BIG WORDS! BIG IDEAS! I've spent the last six years only using my mind to figure out which Wiggle I'd do if someone put a gun to my head.)

Oh, wow. Uhhh...maybe blue? Wait. Let me see the gun again. Will death be instant? 'Cause that's a factor here.

It helped. I'm seeing the arguments for staying home vs. working as more than just a personal issue, and it's nice to read an educated opinion without all the PC mouthings of "Whatever you decide to do, that's okay!" because that's not an answer. At least, not to me. I don't want to be patted on my head and told, "You're good enough, you're smart enough, and doggonit, people like you!" I want a little more truth (and thought) than that.

I found opinions saying that SAHMs are "opting out" of society and running back to the safety of home to bake bread, homeschool, and dig even further into that 1950's model our grandmother's stifled under (Pioneer Woman?) while others upheld the right to stay home or work as one of the biggest victories to come out of Feminism...there is no clearly defined mold that we have to squish ourselves into. I read a lot things that made me mad, made me laugh, or just made me think.

In the end, I think working vs. SAHM boils down to one basic question: "What's your motive?" Not the excuses/reasons/issues we hand society to explain how we're spending 40 hours of our week--I mean the real motives you only admit to yourself.

I had to lay myself open and honestly ask, "Jaci, did you opt out? Did you grab a SAHM ticket to escape your crappy j.o.b.?" Yes, internets. Yes, I did. In 2005 when I said to Kevin, "Let's try for a baby!" I was absolutely miserable as a bored no-longer-newlywed stuck in Retail Hell. Finishing college wasn't an option at that time...but having a baby was. So I grabbed the only escape cord dangling in front of me.

No regrets! I love my daughter, and I gave myself over to my new career as her sun and moon and stars while the universe laughed at me and said, "Ha! You still have to work part-time retail to pay the bills! SUCK ON THAT!" So, yeah. Kind of shot myself in the foot with that one.

Then the MIL moved to town in 2008 and a whole realm of possibilities opened before me. A babysitter?!? A job?!? Maybe even school?!? A real career? I was so overwhelmed I was shaking and puking on the carpet like a nervous chihuahua. I had put all those old dreams away, you know? I locked them up and focused on my baby because it was too painful to remember that one last, final year of my Bachelors was always just out of reach. Now the universe was saying, "You want it? It's yours," and I didn't know what to do with that.

What do I do with that? It's such a weighted choice now. I'm not 19, fresh faced and dreaming only of myself! I'm a 30 year old Mom who has to choose to invest the family finances into herself to maybe, just maybe, return an investment in a career that's going to profit everyone. What major do I finish in? What career will have the most child-friendly hours yet still be fulfilling for me? Should I even bother with school or just find a decent office job? Am I just being a selfish cow? What if I'm stupid now and can't keep up with the classes?

Then the nightmares start...those ridiculous dreams where I haven't gone to class and I don't know where class is but there is a test and SHIT I'm going to fail. And Kevin gets in my face and wants to know what major I'm going to finish with and "Are you SURE that's what you want to do?" and I say yes, no, I don't know, GAWD, I WASN'T AROUND TO SECOND GUESS YOU WHEN YOU GOT YOUR MASTERS SO BACK OFF.

Then I do nothing but putz along in my current state of part-time everything and cry when census forms come and I check Highest Education Completed: High School while Kevin checks Post Graduate.

So what's my motivation NOW? Well, I'm not "opting out" anymore. I want my own career because I'm not satisfied by motherhood alone. And I realize that the work I'm doing right now--as Mom--is not something any illiterate moron with a vacuum cleaner and a handful of baby butt wipes could pull off. It's important work! And I'm never going to be able to shrug it off or hire it out, even if I manage to one-up Kevin with the letters trailing my name.

I have to be Mom, and I have to be Me. Duality. Balance. All that jazz.

So. For the first time in six years, I'm at peace with my motherhood. I'm not wrestling with the ridiculous Mommy Mystique found on every page of Redbook...and every channel of cable...and every film with a Mom role...and internet message boards where women bash each other...and even the Mommy blogs.

I know myself. I know my motivations. I finally figured it out.

Oh, You'll Get Socialized (and other milestones)

2011-03-08T13:13:00.000-05:00

Did I tell you that Elodie is a butt scooter, not a crawler? It's totally hilarious and never fails to entertain me. I want to buy a video camera just to capture it, because...we don't own a video camera. I know. Parenting FAIL.

And Elizabeth...enrolled for Kindergaaaaaarrrrrten!

Oprah's screaming it and I'm being slain by the Spirit in the aisle of Harpo Sudio.

Oh joy! Rapture! Non-sarcastic squees! Even Elodie is butt scooting toward Elizabeth's forbidden Polly Pocket crap in pure excitement.

Elizabeth needs school. She needs the routine of "Today, I'm am going here for 3 hours. I will do x, y, and z. I will see a, b, and c and they will all play with me. Today will be exactly the same as yesterday." She thrives on that, not my schedule of "Uhhh...I work today so get dressed you're going to Grandma's," followed by "Why are you up and dressed at 6 am?!? We're not going anywhere! I'm off!" And since her little friends all go to preschool (yes, ALL) she's an isolated, bored, spastic mess.

Wait...that sounds familiar...

Ravings of a Mad Housewife circa 2008. I was so bored, I took this picture of myself during Elizabeth's nap time and used it as my avatar. Then I read Gone With the Wind out loud and cut all the vegetables for that night's roast on a BIAS. It was too much excitement for one day.

Anyway. Before last week's Kindergarten Orientation I was totally beating myself up for not putting her in preschool. Not because of the whole "socialization" crap...

Janis: Why didn't they just keep home schooling you?
Cady: They wanted me to get socialized.
Damian: Oh, you'll get socialized all right, a little slice like you.

...but because I was afraid she'd be behind. I mean, those preschool kids probably come out READING for cripes sake. What else could they be doing all day?

Ummm...not reading. The kindergarten curriculum looks exactly like the curriculum Primarily Kids Preschool was trying to sell me when Elizabeth was 2 1/2. Writing her name. Pre-reading. Story time. Sharing Time. Learning "math" by using a calendar and charting the weather.

I sat there and wanted to scream out, "Wait! So Kindergarten is just...free preschool?" Yes, Jaci. Yes it is. Now stop beating yourself up for teaching her the alphabet at home with kindergarten worksheets purchased from Sam's Club for $15. She will be fine.

Now, back to Elodie butt scooting across the carpet. Ha! Classic.

I hear "Are you okay?" a lot. It's starting to disturb me.

2011-03-03T14:46:00.002-05:00

People don't get me. My ideas/opinions/thoughts/jokes/sarcasm are all wrong and when I voice it, I get the look. And I sit there and think, "Srsly? SRSLY. I'm the only one who thinks this? Mmmhmm. Whateva." Then I get kind of scared and wonder if I'm just surround by un-like-minded people (just made that word up) or if I'm just un-minded (bonus--there's another). What if I really am the only one who think this?

I'm calling people who don't get me Beige. Beige cars, beige clothes, beige walls in their cookie cutter beige houses, beige ideas, beige conformity, beige family pictures with everyone in beige on a BEIGE SANDY BEACH GAAAAHHHH!

Traditional. Conservative. Status Quo.

I envy beige. Beige looks...serene and happy and conformist and "good enough". Beige is warm and comfortable. Beige is content. I want Beige. I chase Beige down like he's my high school boyfriend--I know he's an asshole and we don't work, but he's all I've ever known and I think I need him.

I don't like feeling outside the box. It makes me sad in my pants--and angry--then back to sad--then I eat Reese Peanut Butter Cups and surround myself with a hundred crinkled wrappers because Woe! I cannot be Beige and just fit in. I can't even fake it. (Obviously. Everyone keeps asking me what's wrong.)

Wow. Even they are beige.

Maybe because I look beige, people expect me to follow through with that? And they get weirded out by my bait and switch? Maybe if I had pink streaks in my hair and a sleeve tattoo, all the Beige's in my life would smile indulgently and say, "She's a little kooky! Wait, let me get my Sense of Humor out before I talk to her...just...let me...get this stick out of my ass...there! I'm ready."

I'm kind of like this guy:

But society wants me to be this woman:

And the only way I can combine the two is through humor and sarcasm and spells of cynicism. And yes, sometimes I'm a little pissed off because I'm in a hard season of my life (2 kids under 5, remember?) and my days are long and monotonous and I feel like a Mom-Flop because I don't have cutesy printed tissues in my purse to wipe the snot off my baby's face and I forgot to pack a bottle and why am I overwhelmed by this and weeviling my nails to bloody stumps while other moms are pulling snacks out of their coordinated bags and how did I get here?!?

It's hard to control my face (apparently) and sometimes that anger and disgust flashes across and people ask me if I'm okay...

Yes. I am okay. I'm just not Beige, and it's bothering me.

Little Girls, Little Girls, everywhere I look....I can see them

2011-02-25T08:44:00.003-05:00

Been there. Every morning.

Elizabeth assures me I'd make an excellent Miss Hannigan. "You sound just like her!"

(Hmm. Scream much, Jaci?)

Unfortunately, Miss Hannigan and I would have been BFF's sitting around her bathtub, dipping into the gin and screaming at the kids to "Go find something to do! WE'RE TALKING HERE!" Then we'd show off our best Charleston moves and assure each other that our gams still look great, damn it. And maybe--if we drank enough--we'd go scratch "Money Can't Buy Me Hair" into Mr. Warbuck's Duesenberg.

(I had to Google that--I thought it was called a "Doozleberg". And Google was all like, "What the hell? You just stumped me. Here's a sticker." Then I searched "Doozleberg car" and Google reached through the screen to smack me and scream, "DUESENBERG YOU UNEDUCATED MORON. GIVE ME BACK MY STICKER.")

Auditions are the first weekend in March...in a town an hour away. The logistics of making practice holds me back more than my inner Mean Girl pointing and laughing. I couldn't make it there before 8.

Instead I'll annoy my children by loudly singing around the house and totally ignoring their meltdowns. "Little girls, little girls..."

Old picture, but it still sums up my days: one screaming, one bouncing off the walls.

Get Back! I'm Evolving

2011-02-22T13:01:00.000-05:00

I've been incredibly restless.

I'm longing to change. Grow. Learn something new. It's all very Eat, Pray, Love--minus the self-centered, spoiled, man-obsessed angst.

(And international travel.)

((And very large book advance.))

I've felt very purposeless plodding along between part-time office work and part-time SAHMdom, never really fitting into either place. I'm lucky enough to be part of a great Mom's Group that meets for two hours every Friday (kid free!) and instead of talking with the other SAHMers, I felt so restless that I'd pace the halls.

I couldn't relate to the conversations. I didn't feel "called" to be a Mom. I couldn't care less about kid-centered issues. Was this it? Was this life? A perpetual Groundhog Day of bottles and nap times and cooking dinner and picking up the playroom? And being surrounded by other women who are perfectly satisfied with their Groundhog Days and can't relate when I say, "I don't know what I want but I know it's more than this"?

I came *this* close to auditioning for community theater. I saw the notice for Annie and thought, "How fun! That would be a perfect way to kill time until spring! And maybe, I'd meet people other than moms and co-workers! Maybe THE THEATER holds people who think like me and won't berate me or look at me stupidly when I say I WANT MORE THAN THIS!"

I printed out sheet music and practiced 32 bars of mezzo-soprano awesomeness before I woke up and thought, "How the hell would I manage play practice, a clingy baby, a bored 5 year old, and a husband who doesn't come home until 7? And for what--the chance to play Mr. Warbuck's house maid #3?"

Oy. What was I thinking?!?

Besides, isn't that pulling an Eat, Pray, Love on a small scale? Escaping life and reality and running off to "find myself" in...community theater?

~~Oh, geesh. That's my version of Italy?~~ ~~Wow, Jaci. Way to dream big.~~

A~~ck! Negative self-talk! Scratch out! SCRATCH OUT!~~

I died my hair back to brown. I tell people it's because I couldn't afford highlights anymore, but it's really because I'm wildly bored. I rearranged my living room. I picked up my college French textbook and said sentences out loud. Stuck. Stuuuuck.

(And yes, I gave the blog a makeover--after taking it offline for a while.)

Getting back to "finding myself"--I fully believe God put me here for a reason and my job is to find my purpose where I am. I don't need a new job...or a new hobby...I need to learn to find joy right here.

I'm trying.

Now I Want Sake

2011-02-14T11:06:00.001-05:00

Valentine's Day is predictable and lame and majorly re-re--but if you don't acknowledge it you feel sad in the pants and your inner Mean Girl points and laughs.

Ergo...even if you and Da Man agree that Valentine's Day is predictable and lame and majorly re-re and the holiday is dead to you...do something special anyway. Examples:

- Make something for dinner that does not contain the words "casserole" or "surprise".

- Set the table with more than just forks.

- Take a trip to the liquor store and buy something weird just because you can. Sake, anyone?

- Clean the bedroom...or if that's a lost cause, make up a bed in some other room. Kitchen? Hey, at least you're close to the sake.

- Laugh and say, "Even though it's predictable and lame and totally re-re, I still want you to know I love you."

Whatever you do, DO NOT:

- Burst into tears at 11 pm because it's Valentine's Day and you secretly hoped Da Man would do something cheesy and special but he didn't because you both agreed it's predictable and lame and totally re-re and you knew you should have married your ex-boyfriend.

- Have a fight and storm out of the house with the bottle of sake and a pack of cigarettes and wind up in a parking lot crying to 80's love ballads on Delilah.

- Sigh while thumbing through your kids' Valentine's Day crap and tell them to enjoy it now, than stare wistfully into the distance.

- Make a special evening because you expect something in return. That's not love--that's manipulation.

The Princess Debates

2011-02-07T15:50:00.000-05:00

Unless you canceled all forms of media for budget reasons (ahem), you're probably familiar with the Princess Protests going on in parenting circles right now. Moms are fed up with the sea of ruffly pink girl clothes and painfully pink toy aisles and are accusing Cinderella of sexualizing our girls.

*eye roll*

I agree that Disney is ALL OVER the little girl market and it's hard to find things that aren't bedazzled with Princesses--but it's not impossible. Moms are the ones slathering their girls' room in Pepto Pink and Sleeping Beauty bedding, not an evil Disney CEO. It's Mom who buys the Princess dress up trunk...the hot pink kitchen set...the pastel Legos...the Belle bath towels. Mom doesn't have to pick pink--but given the opportunity she usually does.

Even if Mom didn't buy it, her little girl would probably take her hair band and slap it on her forehead as a crown anyway. Girls love Princess and dress up and frilly sequined 80's prom looks. Hey, 4 year olds are notoriously tacky.

Back to my point (if there is one): No one is holding a gun to Mom's head and forcing her to pick Princess! We have entire stores dedicated to nothing but toys--I won't even talk about how our culture practically worships at the Idol of Childhood--and Amazon and Etsy and a billion teeny tiny specialized internet companies. With a little bit of effort, I can easily find a neutral kitchen set or a career-themed dress up trunk or a de-hootchifying makeover kit for Barbie. If my playroom looks like Walt Disney secretly fathered my children, well guess who screwed that one up?

The problem doesn't lie in the doll clutched in my kid's hand...

It's my fault for treating my daughter like a Spoiled Little Princess.

I applaud mothers for stepping back and saying, "Whoa! This princess crap is getting crazy!" and wondering what impact this may have. (Mindful, involved parenting is always going to get my support.) But blaming the manufacturers for making the junk you bought is totally ridiculous.

We have absolute control over what comes into our homes, even down to what's playing on the Idiot Box. If Princesses are running wild, we can turn the TV off. Stop buying the dolls. Redirect her attention to something more fun. And even better--get down on her level and talk about what's so appealing about a blond girl in a pink ball gown.

Stuck in a Winter Slump

2011-02-01T10:21:00.000-05:00

My entire family now spends weekends huddled around the TV in stinky pajamas, either: a.) napping, b.) complaining, or c.) fighting. It all started out with cold/flu issues--someone got sick and everyone else just hung out with them. Then sitting around watching Bolt for the 10,000th time while Elodie scoots toward forbidden things and Elizabeth sucks her thumb and Kevin sprawls all over the floor like he's suffering death throes became our Family Pattern.

I hate it.

I'm out of ideas. Around here, a family in winter has two options--go out to dinner or go shopping. I think I must be turning into an Old Fart, because going out to eat isn't anywhere near the special treat it used to be. I usually end up at a sticky table shouting to be heard and wrestling children back into their seats--or my meal comes and I'm like, "Ugh, I can make this better"--or everything is wonderful and the bill is outrageous and I feel guilty.

Then there is shopping--or, as I like to call it--killing time looking at stuff with no intention of buying it. We used to kill time buying stuff. (Hello, credit card debt...and piles of junk now going in garbage bags as I declutter.) Then we realized that was pretty dumb and now just look, which is infinitely more boring. (And depressing.)

So...we stare at Netflix.

I know there are plenty of things we could do. (Like shower. That would help.) Board games. Make snow men. Go to the library. Bake muffins. Spend hours fussing over duck a l'orange. But my creativity and energy is totally sapped and I can't break the cycle of sloth.

I'm looking forward to spring...or even a couple days where it's not GRAY. That would help.

This is Why I Hate Weight Watchers

2011-01-25T15:30:00.000-05:00

Shut up. I can hear you snorting and rolling your eyes. I'm not quiting. Gawd. Haters be hatin'.

I'm down 4 pounds. I'm tracking my foods online and assigning point values to everything. It's working.

However, I do hate that so much of my consciousness revolves around food. I'm not hungry and I'm not hording points like before--but still. Food is on my mind.

I like life better when it's not.

I suppose I'll eventually fall into a food rut where I just eat the same crap all the time (salad anyone?) and I'll stop staring at my cabinets muttering mathematical formulas. But then I'm scared that I'll be that girl who knows the points value of everything and blurts it out over dinner with friends. Fat Girl Tourettes, if you will.

Shit, that Ranch Dressing is 5 points!

I'm doing the program all online, which is awesome because those meetings suck hard. I don't need to go sit in a room with inspirational bulletin boards and listen to a group sigh about the temptation of cake, while The Leader warns us all to measure our pasta! Don't eye ball it! Doom! Woe! Evil spaghetti!

But I am confused by certain things: Am I supposed to eat all of my points? Why does the recipe builder give wrong point vales? Why is a McDonald's Fruit & Walnut Salad 6 points when fruit is free? And how much free fruit is too much--I'm not going to lose if I gag down 2 pounds of fruit, right? So I checked out the message boards...

Oh. My. Gawd. The rudeness and snark on that board drove me away...and I'm a Mommy Blogger. Am I the only one who finds it hilarious that Weight Watchers has a group of ~~Evil Skanks~~ Mean Girls? And they sit there all day jumping on threads and ganging up on newbies and telling them how to lose weight?

(Nevermind that they are still fat. Ignore that man behind the curtain!)

I hate message boards. It doesn't matter what the topic is (TV Without Pity, Baby Center, The Bump) hordes of Super Geeks swarm the site and take it over. Then I feel stabby (and retarded) for getting all worked up about XtremeDietrz snark on Chubbybunny's breakfast muffin question.

Note to self: AVOID MESSAGE BOARDS. CONTINUE DIET IN INTERNET BUBBLE.

My Weight

2011-01-20T10:17:00.000-05:00

I wasn't going to write about weight issues, but after re-reading last January's Pregnancy Weight Gain Freak Out, I'm going for it. I'm notorious for over-sharing. Why stop now?

When I delivered Elodie I sat on a number that would make a NFL linebacker blush. I dropped 35 pounds with breastfeeding and Nutrisystem. Now I'm 30 pounds away from a number that doesn't make me wince--and that is still in the Overweight Category.

I let myself go after Elizabeth--I can admit it now--and I'm so mad at myself for wasting 5 years pretending my weight was okay! It wasn't okay. I wasn't happy as the chubby mom. I hated entire sections of my body.

And yet I did nothing. I shifted my focus off me and put it on my baby. My house. My role as a SAHM. Sure, I tried a few diets and signed up for a few gym memberships, but they always failed the first time I ran into a problem (usually money) and I'd quit. I was resigned with Plus Size.

Then--The Disaster slapped me out of it.

This is silly, but...you know one of the first things I did after D-day? I threw out my penny pinching, budget pleasing Cover Girl and walked my ass back to the Clinique counter. I'd be damned if I was going down in cheap foundation! And I tossed a bottle of my favorite Channel in there, too. I bought all the stuff I wore before marriage and debt and motherhood--and from that point my Me Switch flipped back on.

Thank God.

When I lost 15 pounds from grief and insomnia, I was blown away. I remember looking at the scale and feeling the handful of denim sagging off my butt and thinking, stunned, "I can lose weight? I'm capable of losing this weight?" And I felt hopeful about my body for the first time in years.

Then I got pregnant.

Anyway. Elodie is 8 months old...home life has calmed down...and my switch is on. I want to lose weight. I'm aching to lose weight.

I will lose weight.

Drop It Like It's Hawt

2011-01-15T15:31:00.000-05:00

...like the negative self-talk. I'm proud to say that I'm not spiraling into self-hatred and beating myself up over things.

Example: there's a group of neighborhood moms that I just can't break into. I've given it my best for 3 years and I'm "accepted" up until a certain point. (I can hang out but I'm not eating Family BBQ on Sundays, know what I mean?) It's frustrated me and I don't know how many times I've invited, planned things, reached out...and then wasted valuable kid-free time venting to Kevin about how these-people-should-LOVE-ME-damn-it! while he rolls his eyes and says, "Jaci, why do you care?" and I whine, "I don't knooooow. What's wrong with me?!? Hold me."

Then? A new mom moved in and I tried to be-friend her because gawd I've been there and within 2 months she's at the center of the clique, swapping recipes and Mommy Angst. WTF UNIVERSE?!?! I started to go into my 7th Grade Shame Spiral, but then I snapped out of it.

So I'm not in the local chapter of SAHM's R Us? Their loss. I have more important things to deal with.

~~~~~~~~

I dropped a few pounds with the new Weight Watchers. I loathed WW with a hatred beyond reason because the old program made me feel like Scrooge McDuck hoarding food points.

But with free fruits and vegetables? I can relax and step away from the Points Calculator and stop thinking about food and ohshitIonlyhave3pointsleftwhatcanIeatwiththat? screw it, I'm eating this cupcake. Ooops. I mean, those 6 cupcakes, half a bag of stale Fritos, and a cheese stick.

Bonus! the food I eat doesn't look like dog food. Or cost $300 per month. *stink eye* Nutrisystem.

The Mad Housewife Society: Live. Laugh. Pull Your Hair Out.

2011-01-14T09:21:00.000-05:00

Today's post is from Momma H at Live. Laugh. Pull Your Hair Out. Kevin and I ditched our prenatal classes. All we did was giggle inappropriately and annoy the other serious couples.

Did I ever tell you about my husband passing out at our prenatal class?

I was pregnant with our first child and excitedly we signed up for the weekend classes so we could learn all about the birthing process, medical options and newborn care.

We were your typical young couple doing all of the "stuff" that new parents should do before welcoming their perfect new baby into the world.

We had to have a tour of the birthing unit so we were sure that this hospital would provide exceptional care to our new child and us.
We had to know our birthing options just in case I decided to be a hero and go epidural-free.
We had to learn what exactly happens during labour.

Why, I am not sure. I mean, when you feel pain, you know it must be a contraction. When you feel like you have to push, then push.

Or just do what the doctors and nurses tell you to do.

But anyways, our lovely instructor was explaining birth using a doll and a toque (winter hat for you Americans)."The baby's head pushes its way through the birth canal....."
"The cervix stretches....."
"The placenta passes down through your vagina....."

Hubby turned green and said he was going to the washroom.
He got up.
Walked to the door.
And fell flat to the floor. Honest. He really did.
Flat out......

Out cold.....

I was horrified and embarrassed.
He thought he had just witnessed some sort of horror movie.

He never went to another prenatal class.
But was at each birth.
Watching the entire birth.
Holding my legs as I pushed...and pushed.
Cutting the cord after the baby was born.

And he still wants to have sex.

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Surviving Colic : From a Mom Who's Been There. Twice.

2011-01-12T16:03:00.000-05:00

I enjoy babies. They are fun and adorable and so blissfully happy with their own soggy sock.

Nature's perfect optimists.

Mom, stop tweaking out. I'm done screaming. I swearz.

Sometimes I wonder how different my stint with motherhood would be if I hadn't had two colicky newborns. If I hadn't paced the floor from 5 until midnight with swaddled babies out of their minds with pain; wild-eyed, clawing. If weeks of screaming hadn't turned me into an anxious, neurotic mess that overreacts to every whimper. If it didn't take 8 months (and medication) to get me to drop my shoulders and get comfortable again.

Colic made me feel like I got ripped off in the delivery room. Everyone else went home with a sleepy, cuddly lump while I spawned a screaming Banshee. Combine that with crashing hormones and you've got one hot mess.

If you're dealing with it...here are a few tips from a seasoned Mom:

IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT Don't look back over your pregnancy and try to pin this on that one time you ate sushi. Or the chocolate cake you ate last night that *may* be in your breast milk. You didn't cause this! Stop beating yourself up!
IT'S NOT THE BABY'S FAULT After a few nights of screaming, it's easy to blow up and say, "There's nothing wrong with her!" and your mind starts to turn the baby into some evil creature who cries just to destroy you. DEEP BREATH! It's not personal. I promise you, your baby doesn't hate you and she isn't doing this just for attention. When you start to feel resentful, it's time to hand her over to someone else and take a break.
THERE'S ONLY SO MUCH YOU CAN DO The most heart-breaking part of this? Your precious baby is in pain--it's all over her face and in her voice--and you can't stop it. Swaddle her arms to keep her from clawing you (and herself) and just hold her close. Jiggle her. Rock her. Run the vacuum cleaner for white noise. (You'll figure out the perfect combo for your baby.) And stay calm. It will end by midnight or 1 am.
GET HELP You need as many arms as you can get, because that 5-11 shift comes every night whether you are ready or not. Ask your parents, sister, friends...seriously, get a list of people and use them. This isn't the time to be Super Mom. Let someone else hold the baby, and you? Go some place where you won't hear the screaming. I know it's hard because it's your newborn and you're in Protective Mama Bear Hormone Crisis, but has your pacing and hand-wringing helped any other night? Umm...no. GO. And fight back those psycho "No one can hold her like me--eek, they're going to do something wrong!!!" feelings. It's all hormones and exhaustion, not reality.

And remember, other women have been there. You're not alone. And your baby will turn into an optimistic lump who coos and grins and melts your heart--with no screaming.

I promise.

What Would Betty Draper Think of Mommy Bloggers?

2011-01-11T11:57:00.003-05:00

Ah, good ol' Birdie. The character I want to hug and then smack upside the head.

I'm addicted to Mad Men DVDs. It's all I watch despite Kevin's eye rolls and heaving sighs and complaints of "There's no one to like on this show! They're all bad!" I know, Kevin. That's the beauty of it. That's why my black, soul-less heart loves it so.

In case you haven't watched the show (really?) Betty Draper is an early 60's housewife/trophy wife/miserable woman. She's naive and childish and I feel sorry for her--but also? She's kind of a bitch. Queen of the Stink Eye.

I wonder what Betty would think of my blog, or any Mommy Blog where women spill their guts about loneliness...motherhood...marriage...spanx... I'm pretty sure she'd toss her head and say, "That's tacky. Doesn't she have any self-respect?" Then she'd sip her Gimlet and light up another cigarette.

My grandmother was a lot like Betty. (Minus the cheating husband with a fake identity. Obviously.) She stayed home and "kept house" (and appearances) and judged the neighborhood from behind her formal living room draperies. It was the era. You didn't blab about your real problems to anyone other than trusted family and friends.

Our era is waaaay different. Everyone blabs to anyone who will listen! (Or read.) Blogging started out with people talking about their issues--real, honest, relatable issues--and now I feel like it's crossed the line into Betty's side-eye sneer: "tacky".

Posts read more Raw Confessional than Relatable because The Drama? Attract hits. Ads flash on sidebars. Giveaways and contests and Facebook Fan Pages reel more readers in. Women lay their lives open on the table and encourage readers to comment on it. And it all reeks of...

Neediness. "Tell me I'm special! Give me attention! Look at me! Praise me! Validate me!"

It's like we all have an endless black hole of insecurity. (Yep, I'm including myself in this commentary.) Why? I mean, what's lacking in our society that we feel like we have to turn to the nameless, faceless internet to be heard? Or loved? Or understood?

Ideas?

The Mad Housewife Society: Texan Mama

2011-01-07T06:35:00.001-05:00

Today's Mad Housewife is Gretchen (aka, Texan Mama) from Who Put Me in Charge of These People?. This post reminds me that I never had a baby shower. Or a bridal shower. No one threw one for me--and it felt tacky to throw one for myself.

I'm all sad and bitter.

I love babies. LOVE LOVE LOVE babies. I want to squeeze them and nuzzle them and smell them till my ovaries do backflips. They are cute little bundles that deserve every ounce of attention showered upon them.

When I was pregnant with my first daughter, Peppermint Patty, I was so excited about having a baby shower. I had this pumped-up expectation that I could go to Target, use the magic price gun to register for every bit and bauble that I thought my little bundle could ever need, and just sit back and wait. I’d have a shower, maybe two, and people attending the shower would basically fill my daughter’s nursery with a Diaper Genie, crib linens, baby monitor, toys, and outfits.

I’m not sure why I was so selfish about it. Well, maybe more than being selfish, it was more… ignorance. I was relatively young, and I was one of the first of my friends to have a baby. I was in that awkward phase between having NO etiquette as a wild partying college student, and learning proper adult etiquette. I didn’t quite understand that people would give me gifts and I. WOULD. BE. GRACIOUS.

So nowadays, when I overhear moms talking, or I read about moms considering having a baby shower for their second, third, or subsequent babies, I step back and say… “Wait, WHAT???”

A shower, for a wedding or for a baby, is intended to help the family get a good start on their new phase of life. A baby shower is pretty typical for a first baby because the family will likely not have any baby gear. But what is the logic behind having a baby shower for a second or third baby? If it’s a different gender baby, the parents aren’t going to need a new crib or stroller or Diaper Genie! If it’s been quite a number of years since the first baby and the gear is all outdated, the parents will still know what they want and they can purchase it themselves. (I’d even argue that if the parents ARE going to choose to completely start over from scratch with new baby gear, then they probably have enough money to buy it all themselves anyway.)

I’ve been thinking about this because I can only imagine what a drag it would be if I happened to be a single person and I kept getting invited to shower after shower after shower. I mean, how much is enough? I want to tell these moms who are serial shower throwers, “Your vagina is not a slot machine!”

If a close friend or family member really wants to get the expectant mom a gift, they’ll do it whether there’s going to be a shower or not. They don’t need an invitation to another party where they’ll have to sit around hearing about labor pains and waiting to smell a mystery jar of baby food and guess what flavor it is.

The next time you hear someone considering having a shower for a repeat pregnancy, you might want to remind them that in this economy, it’s just more fiscally responsible to reduce, reuse, and recycle, and that includes baby gear.

Fork. Spoon. Oh, and fingers.

2011-01-04T22:45:00.001-05:00

You know what I hate about January? Every Weight Loss Guru comes crawling out of their infomercial hole to push their Magic Juice.

Nutrisystem. Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers. Bali Total Fitness. Focus on the Family.

Errr...what?

I don't have cable (The budget! The budget! The budget's on fiiah!) so I miss the TV spots with former* celebrity fatties convincing me that my life would be so much better if I got off the couch and ordered now. Internet ads I glaze over and ignore.

Christian Weight Loss? I don't remember reading the part where Jesus rebuked the fatty in the crowd, but maybe I missed it. I thought he said "Man shall not live by bread alone," not "Man shall not eat bread. Or carbs. And he who covets cake shall surely perish."

Wait...gluttony was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, right? Remember? Brad Pitt found the fat guy who was made to eat bits of linoleum or something and then they moved the fridge and found GLUTTONY!!! written behind the fridge in ketchup. Or Arby's Special Sauce. Or was it just scratched into the paint? I can't remember. Now it's going to bother me.

Anyway. I think I'll avoid all of the crazy diet plans and stick to PUT THE FORK DOWN.

*I couldn't decide where to put "former" in that sentence--but it can be applied to both "fatties" and "celebrities" so it doesn't really matter.

Treat Myself Kindly

2011-01-02T13:16:00.000-05:00

"You're staying home for New Year's Eve? Ha! LOSER. No wonder you don't have any friends."

"OMG, look at your fat roll! That is so disgusting! *gag noises* Why don't you take a kitchen knife and cut it off--do the entire world a favor."

"All you write is a blog, and it's not even popular! *snort* So pathetic."

I'm fed up with the Mean Girls living in my head, running me down and throwing me into full on self-hatred mode. What am I, 13? I would never talk to someone else that way. I don't sit around pointing and laughing at strangers--so why do I do it to myself?

So my New Year's Resolution is: Treat Myself Kindly. One way I'm putting that into action is revamping this blog.

I dropped Anonymous because 85% of the time it's spam or an anonhole, so...yeah. That's gone. I ditched the blog buttons and gadgets in my side bar because I don't want to be another Mommy Blogger obsessing over stats and Super Special Flair, and the Google Friend Connect thing seemed a little like showing off "I have 490 Followers!!!" or not measuring up "I only have 490 Followers. Meh." I wanted to take the focus off Empire Building and put it back on writing.

Another big step in the right direction: BlogHer ads are gone. I'll be honest with you...I barely made any money off of them. It was more about the ego boost they gave me that I was "good enough" to have an ad contract. And since that contact came with a "You Must Write One Post Per Week" clause, it pressured me to write when I didn't want to (and probably shouldn't have).

And finally... what I write here will be humorous observations about my life. I'm not going to come here with real parenting frustrations. I will not climb up on the cross (stole that one from Aunt Becky) and be crucified as a piss poor mother...or struggling mother...or depressed mother...because I wrote an honest post from a hard place. I have a husband and supportive friends that I can turn to with all that--you guys? Well, you're here for me to entertain.

Okay. One Mean Girl down. The rest I'll battle on my own.

You Don't Have to Go Home But You Can't Stay Here

2010-12-11T10:42:00.001-05:00

Bitter. Depressed. Angry. These words keep resurfacing in my negative feedback.

I'm not the type of person to roll my eyes and wave my middle finger in your general direction when you tell me I'm wrong. I may talk tough here, but in real life? I listen. I consider it. And? I'll thank you for pointing it out.

Maturity--it's a wonderful thing.

When the anonholes joined forces and said in unison, "Wow, unhappy much?" it got to me. And when a company turned me down because my blog read as more "depressive" than "cheeky" I woke up.

The Mad in my title should be defined as crazy, but for the past year or so it's just meant...uhhh...mad. Angry. Discontent. The Disaster That Must Not Be Named ripped my humorous outlook to pieces and left me jaded and cynical and seeped into my writing.

My blog has turned into a place where I go to vent and I feel like I can't come here with anything else. Like the Beth Moore study I'm reading. Or the quilt I'm hand-finishing. Or how I'm excited to re-paint my bedroom (again) or that I'm dreaming about summer and trips to the zoo with a 1 year old and the end of shelling out $60 per month for Elodie's liquid gold. Or that I'm having fun playing Barbies with Elizabeth and making one of them the bad girl who insults all the other Barbies.

My Readers want sarcasm and rants. Hand them a piece about the joy of quilting? Pffft. So I wrote what "belongs" here--negativity and frustration with a side of anger.

Lately, my blog hasn't been about writing anyway. It's turned into a place where I throw open my curtains and say, "Want to see how I'm struggling with motherhood? PEEK IN THE WINDOWS! JUDGE ME!" And I hate that. I never wanted to put my life on display (I blame the pregnancy updates for getting me here) and I want to stop it because frankly? It's none of your business.

I've thought many, many times about ending the blog, but I hung on because I built something good here. "I have followers! I have a recognized name! I'm crawling my way up!" But to what? Really?!? What is a blogger in the grand scheme of things?!?

This blog isn't bringing me joy, and it certainly isn't worth the $30 per month I get in ad revenue. And now that I know that it isn't going to help me reach my real goals...well...

I'm not going to invest my time here anymore.

I have babies to take care of. Work to do. And a novel to write.

I'll be around. I'll post something funny occasionally. But The Raving Angry Housewife is dead.

The Mad Housewife Society: Where's My Damn Cape?

2010-12-10T06:49:00.001-05:00

Today's Mad Housewife is from Jessie at Shutterbug Mama. I think every mother since the dawn of time can relate to this post. I know I can...although Kevin has never gone hunting...and I'd probably give him the Homey Don't Play That look if he tried.

Let me start off by saying I by no means thought that raising a family would be easy. But I never thought I would need super powers. Let's set the stage. I have a 17 year old step-daughter and two boys, 9 and 10 1/2 months. I know, big age gap, that is another post in its self. Also, I have a full time job. Let's go through mine and my husbands typical day shall we.

Me:

Wake up at 6:00 a.m. so that I can do my hair and make up and try and find something that will fit my post prego body. Wake up the 9 year old so that he can get himself dressed, teeth brushed and occasionally his own breakfast. I also need to wake up the baby, change his diaper, get him dressed and make a bottle. By now it is a little after 7. I get both kids shuffled into the car. Thank God the teenager wakes herself up and is self sufficient. We leave the house. I drop the 9 year old off at school and then take the baby to day care. Then I go to work...for 8 hours. Sometimes I do errands during my lunch hour, Wal-mart trips, prescription pick ups, you know, things of that nature. When I get off at 5, I leave and go get both boys from daycare. Once a week I pick up the boys and then go to the grocery store...clearly I have a death wish of some kind. I usually get home around 6. I change the baby's diaper and put him down with his toys. After, I make sure the 9 year old did his homework and didn't get in trouble that day. Then I eyeball the house and make sure the teenager did her chores. Lately this hasn't been a problem (she has a boyfriend and wants to stay ungrounded, she has become the model daughter, no lie). When the kids are taken care of, I start dinner. Some times while cooking dinner I start a load of laundry as well. I usually do at least one load of laundry every other night. Why do my kids wear so many clothes. After dinner I usually give the baby a bath and then hand him over to his dad and go and clean the kitchen. When I am done with the kitchen I take the baby from the hubby and put him to bed. If I have no laundry to do...I can then relax. It is usually no between 7:30 and 8 p.m.

Hubby:

I wake him up about 6:45 so he can brush his teeth, put on his uniform, kiss the kids and be in his truck by 7. He works for 9 hours and comes home. When he arrives home he walks in the house with a beer. Takes off his shoes and work shirt and sits on the couch until dinner. After dinner he gets back on the couch until I bring him the baby which he entertains until I'm done with cleaning the kitchen. After he is free of baby duty he goes back to the t.v. until 10. He then showers and goes to bed.

Honestly...he wonders why sometimes I'm a bitch? Let me add that right now is deer season and my husband is a hunter. That means that AT LEAST 2 weekends of the month he is gone from Friday morning until Sunday evening. That means I have 3 kids 24/7 BY MYSELF. I often feel a little suffocated and like I never have time for myself.

Why can't woman have a "hunting" weekend. I've never been able to just say "hey, the girls and I will be gone for the weekend". No, I'm the mom. So I first have to check with hubby and see what his plans are and then will he need a sitter at all and if so I need to set that up. I also need to make sure he has all the groceries and baby things that he might need while I'm gone. God forbid he have to leave the house. We have a freakin teenager...leave the boys with her and go to the store. When he goes hunting there is no checking if I have anything planned or anything.

Let's take this weekend. He is leaving Friday morning. I want to take a free photo class Friday at 5. I work Saturday form 9-1. My company Christmas party starts at 4 Saturday evening. Luckily I have a wonderful teenager and we worked out the boys schedules together. She will take one boy with her Friday night to the movies, I will take the baby. She will watch them both while I'm working and they will all go with me to my Christmas party (it is a family thing).

I am woman hear me rawr. I can take anything you throw at me. I helped raise a wonderful teenager daughter (who isn't mine but I would claim ANY day of the week) and two beautiful boys. I work, I have friends, I find time to blog, scrapbook and even have a glass of wine from time to time to relax.

How about you? Do you know where your cape is?

Want to be a Mad Housewife? Send your guest post to me at ravingsofamadhousewife@gmail.com and be featured next Friday!

I Believe in Work At Home Opportunities! And Santa Claus. And Filter Queen.

2010-12-06T11:13:00.001-05:00

'Tis the season to be scaaaam-ed! Fa, la, la, la, laaaa, la, la, la...la.

I saw a work-at-home ad in the newspaper (I know, I know) and called about it because...um...well, my hours got cut and I lost $200 a month and I need to replace it, mmmkay? I can do telemarketing while changing diapers and yelling at a 5 year old to stop sneaking in the Christmas gifts and trying to stretch 2 chicken breasts into three healthy meals. I am WOMAN. Rawwwrrr!

So. The interview.

It was a local company! In business for 80 years! Selling quality products! And the guy gave me unlimited cups of coffee (with Hazelnut creamer, mind you) and flattered me with compliments about my intelligence and general all-around awesomeness.

Did you know he hasn't had to hire for this job in 7 years because it is such a good job that no one ever quits? I mean, he's only interviewing because a lady retired after 14 years. I had fallen into something like winning the lottery! And he's going to hire me because he can see that I have something in me and I'm going to be great at this job. (Just call me a special snowflake!) I was going to make--are you ready?--I was going to make at least $1,000 per month.

And get this: I could be at home with my kids while doing it. I could have dinner on the table at night when my husband came home. And? I wouldn't have someone else raising my children.

I'll let that one settle in for awhile.

...

...

...

Back to the job...

All you have to do is call from this list of people! It's not cold calling--these people filled out contact forms and want someone to call them! Call these people and schedule an appointment for one of our salesmen to come to their house and take some air samples and show them how our miraculous air filters work! And? AND? To thank them for their time--and without any purchase whatsoever, now, just to thank them for considering--we're going to give them a FREE MINI-VACATION! So all you have to do is get people to agree to look at our product for a FREE VACATION! Now how easy is that? Do you think you can give away FREE VACATIONS?

At this point my face went into my classic WTF? sneer and I interrupted to say, "WHY? If your product is so good, why do you need to sell it with free vacations? Sounds like a scam."

Why, to thank them for their time! And why would this seem like a scam?!? I'm giving them a vacation. *insert belittling anger* I buy these things for pennies on the dollar. I have over a 70% sales rate. I treat my customers well and I run into them every weekend at the grocery store. But I'm glad you said that...it shows me something about your character that you'd question it. See? I knew there was something in you.

Now. For your training... I'm giving you TEN of these vacations to give away to your friends and family! Remember, they don't cost me much! *wink* Give them to your friends and tell them you need help with your training. I'll come to their house with you and put on one of my demonstrations so you can take notes--because you'll be more relaxed in their homes rather than a strangers, right?

"No, actually, I'm fine with going to someone--"

No, you'll be uncomfortable. Get 10 of your friends.

...

...

...

Oh, internets. I wish I could say at this point that I laughed and walked out. But I didn't. (I blame the Lexipro Shakes, but really? I was just that dumb. And desperate for an extra $200 or so a month.)

I came home and Googled his name, his company name, every combination of crap I could think of looking for Better Business complaints or some confirmation that it was a scam. But I couldn't find anything. Then I thought, "Well, I'm not out anything to try it right? I'm not investing money. Maybe it's legit?" and I started asking friends if they wanted a free weekend trip somewhere.

I sat on it all weekend, feeling that Creeper Twinge. I racked my brain for something, some detail that I must be overlooking. And why the hell did he need 10 of my friends? I could see maybe 2 or 3--but 10?!? How many freaking times do I need to observe the sales pitch? Especially since I'm not going to be selling the shit, I'll be making phone calls!

Then I remembered the name of the air filters because I saw a framed picture of it for 1/2 a second walking past the conference room--Filter Queen.

So I Googled it.

BINGO.

Basically, this guy has a big giveaway at the Pittsburgh Home and Garden Show and people enter it by filling out the contact forms. They don't win the car (I bet no one does) but he hands the forms off to women like me who call and say: "Mr. Smith? You remember the car giveaway you entered at the Pittsburgh Home and Garden Show? Well, you didn't win the car--but I have good news! You won the 2nd prize: A FREE VACATION! CONGRATULATIONS! Now, someone will be coming to your house to drop off your vacation package, but you need to be there for it! What day is good for you?"

Eh, voila. Appointment set.

And Mr. Smith opens his door expecting to be handed a vacation package and finds a pushy vacuum cleaner salesmen instead. The salesman drags his shit inside and says, "Mr. Smith, before I give you your prize, I need to go through a demonstration..." and he dumps a jar full of dirt on his carpet and proceeds to sweep it up and tell him how unhealthy his house is. Think of the dust mites! Now, for $4,000...

Mr. Smith says, "Whatever, buddy, I'm not buying a vacuum," but the salesman won't leave. He points of the health hazards of his house. He guilt trips him about his piss poor sales. He gets on the phone with his "boss" and loudly carries on about "What did I do wrong? He doesn't want to buy!" And then finally--3 hours later--he takes the filter out of his handy dandy vacuum, dumps his dirt back on the floor, and leaves.

And that free vacation packet? It's sitting on Mr. Smith's table with important codes--OOPS!--left blank. Worthless.

I sent the guy an e-mail with all my google links and said, "Thank you for the opportunity, but I'm going to pass."

I almost fell for it. STUPID! STUUUUPID!!!

The Mad Housewife Society: Your Post Should Be Here

2010-12-03T03:40:00.001-05:00

No guest post this week. (Lots of people working on them, but none turned in yet. Gawd, you people act like it's Christmas or something.)

I planned on leaving today's post at that until I woke up to this:

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "I Love Working":

Wow, you and your readership seem to be really angry and unhappy. If you want your daughter to be better behaved, I'd suggest starting to actually like and enjoy her. She can tell how you really fell.

I love how anonholes are always able to sneak into my Bad Thoughts, pick a real doozy, and then throw it in my face when I check my e-mail at 3 am.

Anyway, I can't focus on this. I'm going through some serious Lexipro withdrawals and I'm struggling enough as it is. So I'll just say, "Satan, get thee behind me!" and move on.

Have a guest post for The Mad Housewife Society? Send your submissions to ravingsofamadhousewife@gmail.com

Fellow Bloggers: I Have Some Bad News

2010-11-30T10:46:00.004-05:00

You may or may not know this, but I want to write a novel.

I have a few chapters jammed in the drawer of my coffee table, layered between Battles of the Civil War and Titanic: The Disaster in Newspaper Stories. Once, my mom opened that drawer looking for scrap paper and grabbed a page all covered in red pen and hot coco rings with a look of "What the hell is this?" and I snatched it out of her hand like it was my vibrator.

"Nothing! Uh...that's...that's nothing...."

I don't want to write a memoir or some real-life sob story about my struggles with fill-in-the-blank or a self-righteous parenting/cleaning/budgeting/cooking/get-your-shit-together-like-ME! advice book. Frankly, the story of Jaci the Real Housewife of Butler County isn't all that exciting.

I'm not the typical Mommy Blogger hoping to land a non-fiction book deal...or magazine column...or talk show...or whatever it is that serious Mommy Bloggers want. (I don't really pay attention. Sorry.) My biggest dream would be to have an agent land on my blog and send me an e-mail saying, "Love it! Do you have anything else I could see?" and I'd send her my struggling attempts at Chic Lit/Coming of Age/something-or-other and VOILA! ~~I am the next Sophie Kinsella! Only American. With dark humor. And I never talk about shopping. Okay, I'm nothing like Sophie Kinsella.~~

That's why I started this blog. That's why I'm not like other sites with giveaways and reviews and Twitter parties and loading up my sidebar with ads. (Although I should, because DAMN, smart bloggers be WORKING. IT.)

I stumbled onto the blog Adventures in Agentland and lurked quietly in the corner because zomg! an agent! squee! (I know. I'm weird. In my mind, a real live approachable agent is like spotting Brad Pitt or something.) And when she asked for questions, I slipped mine in.

Jaci said...
How important is a blog following for a fiction writer? Are blogs really seen as credible, or do you roll your eyes when someone says, "I blog!"

Not very credible at all, I’m afraid. The reason for this is that no matter HOW many followers you have, there is no guarantee they will all go out and buy your book. People with followings like SH*T MY DAD SAYS are credible because they’ve proven a very WIDE audience, and so there’s more of a probability that many people will buy the book.

Fuuuuuuck. (Sorry, gentle readers. This is curse worthy.)

Wrestling with wording on posts..the nights I lost sleep because an anonhole got under my skin...the irritation when a post is taken the wrong way...the name calling and insults on a Guest Post Gone Mad...laying it all out there for random people to judge...

All--ALL OF IT!--is for nothing. This little blog isn't going to help me become an author.

Ouch.

Deep down, I think I knew that. The only dependable way to get published is to write a good book and send to agents and publishers--over and over and over again--until one of them gets it. I just hoped this little ol' blog would get my foot in the door.

I'm not sure where to go from here.

There'll be much misteltoeing! And hearts glowing! And parents fighting!

2010-11-28T21:22:00.002-05:00

I love Christmas. Constant noshing on cookies. Evenings by the fireplace. Soft mood lighting coming from the tree. Sweaters covering my lumpy bits. Dry air making my oily skin disappear and my hair stay frizz-free.

I HATE the damn gift budget and money fights in the middle of Super Fantastic Family Fun Time.

Kevin and I decided that this year, we are not going to have Toy Explosion 2010 surrounding our Christmas tree. In 2008, I bought so much stuff for Elizabeth that she got bored opening it. After screaming, "You're crying about having to open ANOTHER gift?" I vowed never to go crazy again. And with two kids instead of one Little Precious? Yeah. Time to budget.

We set the bar at $100 per kid and I expect to go under that with Elodie. She wants to chew on my pearl necklace more than Fisher-Price, and as for clothes? Eh. She only likes those soft old lady pants and turtleneck onesies--and she pukes squash on them regularly. She's good.

But Elizabeth? I'm at a very restrained $60 and I still need her big gift from Santa. Guess what she wants?

Meet the Dream Dazzlers So Chic! Salon Stylin Hair Salon! For only $59.99, this hunk of breakable plastic can be yours!

$60 for a plastic vanity is godawful, especially when this:

...is $53 at Amazon. (Yes, that's cherry wood and Queen Anne legs. I'm drooling with lust. Furniture and home decor COMPLETE ME. You have no idea.) I just need the $40 shipping fee. Booo.

I spent a good 40 minutes selling the benefits of a real vanity compared to the Hot Pink Mess. You can sit at it and fix your hair before school in the mornings! You can keep your hair things in the little drawer! We'll put your chapsticks on a little gold tray just like Mommy's Makeup!

(Yes, I have a vanity like I'm Joan Crawford. And sometimes I feel a little like a Geisha with the whole seated-makeup-ritual. But my makeup is flawless when I'm done, so shut up about it.)

She saw the light and wants a real vanity! And then Kevin said NO. "She's too young. She won't appreciate it. I'm not wasting $90 on that! She won't be wearing makeup for years!"

He doesn't get that little girls will sit in front of a mirror and brush their hair and play for hours. He doesn't understand that she'll grow with it and yes, that bench will probably be stained with Cover Girl by the time she's 13. But so what?

Now we're fighting over a kid's vanity. I know. Ridiculous.

Bring on the Christmas Suck.

Family Picture Success!

2010-11-26T12:33:00.002-05:00

Elodie: The Startled, Angry Cabbage Patch.

Too cute.

Penguin pj's? Really? That's the look you're going for?

2010-11-23T12:47:00.001-05:00

Last weekend, we made the great pilgrimage to Portrait Innovations for the dreaded FAMILY PICTURE. We all remember last year, right? *shudder*

I was prepared for disappointment. I was prepared for Photo Shopping Skills and $800 "specials". But NO! I love our picture! We all look amazing!

(Except for Elodie, who looks like a frightened Cabbage Patch. Meh. 3 out of 4.)

Portrait Innovations was packed with families at 8:30 in the morning because apparently, all of Pittsburgh heard that I was going to be there and wanted my autograph. But then they chickened out and pretended like they had no idea who I was and provided me with blog fodder instead.

I color-coordinated my family because I'm a power-tripping asshole. But I'm not one of those people who force the entire family into khaki pants and denim shirts like we're all factory workers in Socialist Russia.

But...

Someone forced their family into matching penguin jammies.

Brother. Sister. Baby. Mom. DAD.

I saw a grown-ass man walk into the busiest spot in Pittsburgh in lime green flannel jammies with teeny penguins and presents blazing across his hairy man-limbs because his wife is a freaking moron.

Internets...don't. Just don't.

Can you imagine your husband's co-workers sneaking into his office and laughing and snorting at his ridiculous pj picture? Step away from the Target Jammie special. Go for the denim shirts even!

Say no to the pj's.

Introducing The Mad Housewife Society

2010-11-22T12:32:00.001-05:00

Because we all have a crazy bitch inside...

Hmm. That might not be the best motto for our new club. Kevin named my crazy bitch Trina (after my college roommate) because when she comes out my head bobs and I get all inner-city-Cleveland. That's probably not a good thing that she comes out so often that she has a name, huh?

I was just sitting here admiring my hooker boots and realizing that I haven't worn heels since before I got pregnant and that's probably why I'm clunking down the hallways like a tween when genius struck.

Dear Reader, I know you have a Mad Housewife inside of you. I know you have things you are longing to say but you can't say it on your blog and have your mom read it...or your husband...or your best friend because *ahem* it's about her. Or maybe you need to get something off your chest but you don't have your own blog. Or maybe you just want to pimp your blog with a guest post. (It's cool. We all do it.)

Join The Mad Housewife Society!

Every Friday I'll run a guest post from one of you about anything. Your opinion on lime green pad wrappers. (My stance is "embarrassing and tempting to 5 year olds digging through the trash".) Asking readers advice about your husband's mouth breathing. A funny rant about your co-worker's Justin Bieber hair. Be anonymous. Be you. Be Trina. Whatever you want!

I'm excited, internets!

Details: E-mail your submissions to ravingsofamadhousewife@gmail.com Posting preference will be given to readers who follow or subscribe to Ravings of a Mad Housewife or make me laugh and snort at the same time. No recycled posts, product reviews, or endorsements.

Thanks for the hair damage, Garnier Blow Dry Perfector!

2010-11-18T22:39:00.002-05:00

See this?

Hell itself spat it out.

It's Garnier's drug-store answer to the Brazilian Blow Out, and since it only "Lasts up to 7 shampoos!" I gave it a shot. Tames frizz? Easier, faster blow dries?!? Sign me up!

I won't even go into the painful details of applying it and having my entire house reek of sulfur and 80's perm and Super Mutant Rotten Eggs...or that my hair still releases eau de perm funk as soon as water hits it. No, I'm more upset that it completely fucked my hair.

The Blow Dry Perfector made my hair lifeless, stiff, more frizzy, and coated in some sort of tacky grime. But the best part? It ate a good 3 inches of my ends! Like, gnarled them up into twisted, split, deformed bits of yuck.

Hawt.

I have highlights. I flat iron my hair. And to be fair, the box did warn that peeps with "damaged" hair shouldn't use it--but I don't consider 6 month old half-highlights and flat iron use to lump me into the DAMAGED category. No way should a $10 product sold in Target do that to my hair!

A salon cut, a deep conditioning treatment, and $50 later my hair looks healthy again--at shoulder length. I lost over 5 inches of hair, Garnier.

YOU SUCK. And you need to recall that shit before you get sued.

Look Out World! I'm back!

2010-11-17T16:17:00.001-05:00

I have been too exhausted to do anything other than roll on into work with glasses and dirty hair. I haven't jogged since the 5K. I haven't cleaned or cooked real meals. Most nights, I crawl into bed at 7:40 and don't move until 6 am the next day. And last Saturday? I slept all day. It wasn't even something I could control--my body just shut down and I passed out.

My crazy pace finally caught up with me.

God must have looked down and said, "Uh...yeah...this isn't working," because the universe intervened and my hours were cut. From now on I will now work a laughable 2 days per week--and with that I'm going to label myself a SAHM again.

I'm relieved. Not that the world of data entry isn't fulfilling *eyeroll* but things within the family just flow better on days that I'm off. The kids can sleep in. Elodie can dork around with her morning bottle and it's no big deal. Elizabeth doesn't regress in Grandma World. Dinners are more than Crock Pot Mush. And--this is hard to describe--but we're all calmer. There's no schedule to freak out about.

So...I've done a lot of thinking about this whole SAHM thing, and I've come to the realization that it sucks for me because I'm constantly comparing myself to others. Instead of relaxing and enjoying my (short) time at home, I torture myself with thoughts of how I don't measure up to other women--or to the woman I want to be. I haven't finished my degree. I don't have a career. I never even had a good job. We struggle to make ends meet. I hate myself. I hate my life. Look at me, all I am is a MOM...

...

LAME.

I'm the one making SAHMdom miserable for myself. Sure, the isolation and lack of adult contact is a downer, but about 85% of my problems are all coming from that nasty little voice inside me.

Help me out, internets. What do you say to shut that voice up?

"Good News: Going Back to Work Doesn't Harm Kids!" Uhhhh...okay...

2010-11-08T14:16:00.001-05:00

I read an article several weeks ago that left me scratching my head. There's something wrong with it but I couldn't figure out what...

It's supposed to be reassuring (Good News, Working Mom! You're Not F-ing Up Your Kid!).

"A review of nearly 70 studies conducted over 50 years shows that children whose mothers went back to work within three years of their birth were no more likely to have academic or behavioral problems than children of stay-at-home-moms, according to a report in the Psychological Bulletin."

...but it's kind of tearing down Sacred SAHMdom. I mean, if kids all equal out in merit and intelligence and behavior anyway, then why stay at home? SAHMs are sacrificing their own careers to be a major influence in their child's life! They are giving their kids a gift! They feel called to be at home! They...aren't making that big of a difference?!?!

I stayed home for 2 1/2 years with Elizabeth. I put in my hours of floor-time and nap duty and temper tantrums and play dates and believe me, I couldn't wait to get back to work. The SAHM life was too isolating for me. (Actually, I discovered I'm an Energy Leech and I need to feed off the positive productivity of others or I end up lying around in a stained T-shirt watching Maury read paternity results, too depressed to move.)

Some days I was a great SAHM, other days I was the semi-crazy woman wandering around Target stuffing popcorn into her kid's sobbing mouth because gawd I have to get out of the house today or I. shall. run. mad. If some researcher told me my Sacred SAHMdom didn't help Elizabeth earn any extra intellect points, I'd have to chuckle and agree with him. "Why, yes sir, we did watch a lot of Playhouse Disney while Mommy surfed the internet..."

But I refuse to believe that my time at home had (and still has) no effect.* I refuse to believe that there is no real difference between a child spending time with her mother and a child spending time with a babysitter. Maybe the differences just aren't as extreme as behavior issues and failing grades?

And maybe, instead of hiding behind the ridiculous PC battle cry of "Every mom makes the right choice for her own family! And it will all work out in the end! So shut up!" we should fight for ways to help mothers and children spend more time together--like extended maternity leave and more flexible uses for personal-time and on-site, employer provided day-cares and preschools.

But you know me. I'm just a starry-eyed dreamer.

*Disclaimer: I didn't write this to flame on working moms. Hello? I am one.

It's a Couch to 5K Miracle

2010-11-07T21:03:00.002-05:00

(I'm the one with the moon-face and the ridiculous pink Dr. Seuss hat.)

It is finished. I jogged the 5K in 43 minutes.

I didn't blog about each and every painful Couch to 5K detail because...well, unless your doing the same program, it's a pretty boring read. So I'll tell you all about it now--at the end.

I only stuck it out because I jogged with a group of friends. I wouldn't have pushed myself beyond the 5 minute mark if I didn't have a little peer pressure and support--and I definitely would have quit two weeks ago when the thought of running around that parking lot again made me want to fake an injury.

There's nothing magical/mystical about the program that turned me into a runner--just like there's nothing magical/mystical about Weight Watchers or Adkins or poking a toothbrush down your throat after dinner. The program is just a tool to help--the magic comes in when you say, "I'm going to do this!" and you mean it.

And by the way, I'm still not a runner. I can jog comfortably for 20-30 minutes. Big difference!

I think I would have made a better time during the 5K if there hadn't been a couple big hills. I trained a little bit on the hills around my neighborhood, but mostly we stuck to the parking lot. The hills killed me! After the second big one, I felt light-headed and kind of sick and still had a mile to go.

Not cool. I had been running for 20 minutes and was so excited until I hit the damn hills. Oh, and the Hard Core Douche who yelled, "Move! MOVE!" on his way back. I was up against the guard rail, dweeb. The extra 2 seconds you shaved off that turn really caught you up with the 19 year old who ran it in 17 minutes, huh? *eye roll*

There's no reason to be a Hard Core Douche--especially when the race is a Turkey Trot.

By the way, it pains me to post these pictures of myself with no make-up and a ridiculous hat and really, really old workout clothes because I had stupidly thrown my new ones in the washer with a handful of Elizabeth's stuff 15 minutes before the race.

You're lucky I love you, internets.

EDITED TO ADD: I finished #171 out of 198. Really? I was that pathetic? Ugh. Nevermind. I don't want to talk about it anymore.