Strange bedfellows

::An open letter to Mr. Ashley Clark, backup violinist for some blond chick (Carrie something?) on last night's SNL::

Dear Mr. Clark,

The fine men and women of the International Union of Pure and Applied Physics beg to inform you that it is, in fact, impossible to headbang while playing the violin. The laws of physics forbid it.

Furthermore, it makes you look like an epileptic baboon.

Please cease and desist immediately upon receipt of this letter.

Sincerely,
Jane

Hypothetical

Let me propose a hypothetical scenario.

Let's imagine that somebody mailed off a resume for a promising position on Monday.

This proposition would land our fictitious resume on the boss's desk on Tuesday, perhaps Wednesday.

Let us further hypothesize that this somebody received a phone call to conduct a phone interview on Thursday.

We must of course suppose that this hypothetical somebody conducted herself spectacularly during said interview, popping of spectacularly articulate impromptu answers to job-related questions with great aplomb.

Next, our scenario involves said boss inquiring of said somebody whether or not said somebody would be attending a hypothetically critical job fair, at which said boss would be looking for prospective employees.

On our hypothetical somebody's affirmative response, hypothetically prospective employer replies...

"Oh, well, perhaps I'll see you there."

What the hell is this? Perhaps? Does she hate me? Does she want me to suffer untold agonies of mind? Is this some sort of trial by fire? Is "perhaps" the job-seeking equivalent of "let's just be friends?" Or "it's not you, it's me?" Am I overreacting?

Reincarnation

So Mouse's hair is growing in - brownish and wavyish and unruly. Most of the time, I have to keep brushing it back from her face because it does "the Napoleon."

Combine that with her famously compelling charm (even strangers have to stop and smile at her when she grins at them) and her propensity for the total destruction of everything she can get her hands on, and she may just be destined for a military takeover of France. And Egypt. And Italy. And Austria. And Germany. And Poland. And Denmark. And, er, Russia.

Geez. That sounds a lot like someone else. Let's hope she doesn't grow a moustache.



::disclaimer::
In no way do I wish to imply that my child is a tyrant, despot, dictator, or freak. She's just strong-willed.

Afternoon delight

You know those days? The ones where you spend a lazy afternoon rolling around in the bed, snuggling, kissing, rubbing noses and backs? Where you don't say much, just murmuring meaningless little endearments and giggling?

I had one of those afternoons today.

The sun was shining in through the window, the breeze was blowing in, and we just lay in the bed, cuddling and nuzzling, pleasantly reminded of the love we have for each other. It was perfect.

Right up until the point where she wouldn't nap. Silly Bear.

Withdrawal

I used to be a smoker.

I liked it.

A lot.

Every time I was frustrated, confused, upset, angry, worried (you get the picture), the first thing I did was light a cigarette. It was soothing. It gave me time to sit and think, to ponder my problems, to figure out what I was doing, to fix the thesis that wasn't *quite* right (I was an English major. Most of my best papers were fueled by beer and nicotine).

When I got pregnant, which coincided with when I got married, I quit. I did it, obviously, for the baby, but also because I had set the wedding as an arbitrary stop date well in advance. Once I got married, I figured, I was a grownup. And I never wanted to be the kind of grownup who smoked. Somehow, I figured that if I didn't stop when I got married, I'd never quit. I always knew it was bad for me, disgusting habit, cancer, socially verboten, etc. So I was perfectly willing (mostly) to give it up.

With only a few lapses (nothing permanent), I've been a non-smoker for three and a half years. There's only one catch.

What do I do when I'm frustrated, confused, upset, angry, or worried?

I have nothing to do.

Mostly, I eat. Binge eating. I'll grab whatever's near and shovel fistfuls of it into my face. And that helps, a little. But it doesn't really satisfy the way smoking did. It doesn't make me feel good in that same way. It makes me feel fat, bloated, guilty (I have a weight complex), and weak. When I'm upset, I want that damn cigarette.

The reason I bring this up today is because today I was angry. Irritated, mostly. A bit annoyed. Well, more than a bit. I was ready to say very rude things to people who are close to me, and to whom I really shouldn't say rude things. Picture this:

I've been home, alone, with the girls, all day.* There was explosive poo, there were grouchy children, there was calm but bitter Mommy. That's fine, whatever. Typical day.

I work online now that I quit my "real" job. I have X number of hours of work that I *have* to put in every day. That's the deal. There's pretty much no way to do that when I'm alone with the kids. The Bear, maybe. She's a very biddable kid, very content to amuse herself, and she's very easy to reason with. But Mouse? The kid either eats or destroys everything she comes in contact with. She never sits still, and she can *never* be left unattended. Not for even a second.

So today, when my SIL (16, almost 17) came home from school, I took the opportunity to put in a bit of time at work. In plain sight, I got out my computer, said "I think I'll get in some time at work," sat down, and began working. The girls were sort of romping in the living room, right with me, but occasionally wandering around the house. I sort of assumed that my SIL would at least keep half an eye on them, and whenever they wandered out of my sight, I kept calling things like "Girls! Come back in this room, please! Don't go there! Come over here! Mommy's working!" hoping that my SIL would take a damn hint and look after her only nieces for a bit instead of, get this...

...shutting herself in her room, phone glued to her ear, telling the Bear "Bear, don't go in my room!" and generally ignoring them and leaving me to fend for myself.

I was fuming. I finished my project, closed up shop, and packed the girls up. I had to get out of the house. As were putting on coats and shoes, to my utter disbelief, she actually came out by us and said "Jane, I can watch the girls while you go to the store!" To which I pointedly replied, "I can take them to the store by myself just fine, thanks. It's when I'm *working* that I need help to watch them." And walked out the door, which may or may not have been shut with a bit more force than technically necessary to make it latch.

I wanted a cigarette so badly I could taste it. Had to have it. Right then. But with the girls around? No way. What to do?

I ended up with a large Dr. Pepper and Taco Bell's new 7-layer Crunch Wrap. I ate it sitting in the garage. Crying. Listening to the Stone Temple Pilots on the radio. I wanted a cigarette. I still do, a little bit.

What do you do when you're angry?


*I'm staying with my in-laws because my house has no roof and no heat.**

**Long story.

Hell bent on destruction

Things my toddler has done today:

eat breakfast
drink sippy cup of two-day-old milk, found under sofa
unfold entire newly folded contents of laundry basket
fill cordless phone cradle with soy milk
unwrap a maxi pad and stick it on her head
eat lunch, refusing all foods but applesauce
nap
distribute contents of baby wipe container around bedroom floor
unroll entire spool of toilet paper
dig in bathroom trash can
suck on the little cap thingy that covers the screws on the bottom of the toilet
eat Desitin
rip pages out of older sister's book
get bitten by older sister
eat a piece of electrical tape
remove every single pot, pan, lid, baking dish, colander, and piece of Tupperware in my cabinets
bang aforementioned pots and pans together
fill aforementioned pots and pans with raisins
stick cat in large casserole dish

It's only dinnertime here, and I've just sort of given up. I'm hanging on in quiet desperation until bedtime. It's the English way.

When it rains...

Oh my sweet merciful crap.

If it doesn't stop raining in my house, I'm going to have a damn panic attack.

Yes, Virginia. In. My. House.

Attic. Second floor. First floor. Basement. All wet.

::whimpers, hides under bed::