39 years ago today, my father died.

It was 1970.
On a Thursday.
He was 41.
I was 11.

He had been sick for several months before dying of lung cancer. But when you're just 10 or 11 years old, and measuring time to the end of life as you know it, those days, they fly.

The weather that winter was much like the one we are having this year. I remember lots of snow as I walked home from school that day. And Uncle Snooky's car parked in front of our house.

Where it didn't belong.
At 3:30 in the afternoon.

And it was cold.
A Thursday in February Cold.
The kind of cold that can stick with a girl, say, seven or eight years.
With residuals.

In the years after he died, there were times when I lashed out at him, for leaving me at the mercy of his grief crazed widow. A woman who knew nothing about caring for a grief-crazed child.

But mostly I was afraid
Of falling.
Off.
Any thing.
Any where.

Mostly always,
I was afraid.

It is February 5, 2009.
A Thursday.
He was 41.
I am 50.

And very much not alone.
So very much not afraid.

Labels: Deep Shit, Passages

Lessons From a First Grader
I always face the new school year with a bit of trepidation, but most years I'm mostly excited about going back. As I mentioned a while back, this year the usual trepidation has been raised to levels of true anxiety, with no real basis, other than a few changes in the work environment. And any other work-related horror the mind can conjure, at 3 a.m.

And I really should know better.

In my 13 years with the school system, I have faced/overcame/survived some very intense, short and long-term professional challenges.

But just as every year is different from the one before in terms of unpredictable stressors, each school year also guarantees at least three specific, predictables: A beginning, an end and lots of breaks in between.

Segue Alert:

This past weekend, Cakers and her father hatched a little plan for her to go tubing. Alone.

When I heard about this plan, I immediately put to it, a gentle kibosh.

To Cakers I said: Ummm. This is something that daddy and I need to talk about for a couple of days, then decide together. ::i.e. Tubing, my ass.* With assorted, flying monkeys.::

To Cabana, I said: Tubing, my ass. With assorted flying monkeys.
She's too young. I mean, technically she’s still in kindergarten.
She needs to practice more with a grown-up.
Behind a paddle boat.

For one day, I held firm.
Then, late Saturday, Cakers asked again.
Her dad then approached me, in private, and made an appeal.

She really, really wants to do this, he said, then promised to go really, really slow.

It was a spectactular, late summer evening. The water was like glass, with nary an enemy U-boat or warship in sight.

So, armed with the knowledge and conviction that my husband loves Cakers no less than I, and would never put her in harm's way, I found the courage to let go. Or at least the courage to let her go tubing.

That’s not to say that I wasn’t scared.

I was.
Terrified.
And thrilled.
And proud.
And even a little envious, of her sense of adventure.

But mostly I was terrified.

Initially this post was going to be about fear. You know, about poor me, having to go back to work with all those big, mean scary changes. And how my big, mean husband and little, mean daughter committed against me, that heinous act of emotional terrorism.

Heh.

But after I uploaded the pictures to the blog and started to write, a totally different story emerged. A lesson, if you will.

A lesson for the mother olden,
From her little daughter golden.

You see, the pictures depicting Cakers' little adventure on the high seas no longer looked like a scary venture, but instead reminded me of the phases of a typical (and survivable) school year, for me.

And it goes something like this:

1)The Fresh start. Note the hair, all flowy and light. And the coy little smile, nervous-yet-excited.



2) It gets Dicey. After a month or two, the year begins to reveal its true potential, forwarning the need to hang on and hunker down.



3) The Occasional Slap Upside the Head, When You Least Expect It. Self explanatory.



4) The End of the Trail . By that last day of the school year, this is pretty much how I feel/look. Flat and weary; with my hair stuck to my brain.



5) But Then... It's summer. Again.



And then I realized it was gonna be all right.


******
p.s. Please click pics for enhanced perusal.

p.p.s. I meant for this to be a Labor Day post, but my labors yesterday were happily redirected.

p.p.p.s. Where'd my baby go?

*Has great google potential.

Labels: Cottage, I Work Too, Now You're Whining, Passages, Scary Shit

Today I decided that a major contributor to my current status of unbloggability is related to unresolved issues regarding our most recent stint at the cottage. A weekend that ended over one week ago.

Simply put, the weekend was amazing.

But over the past week, whenever I sat down to write about it, I could not find the words. It was as though my observations and feelings were in-capturable by language available to me at the time.

So there I sat, staring at the white blank of blogger, pining for more creative climes.

But I do have some pictures of some amazing weekend things. Yes I do. Pictures to which I will now attempt to apply a modicum of language.

::Remember to click 'em. Size does matter.::

Amazing Thing #1: The Pipples





Amazing Thing #2: The Water






Not only did the lake display an array of color and texture throughout the weekend, the water felt different.

Silky.
Golden.
Like a tactile elixir.

I swam a lot and for long.
A rare thing, for me.

Amazing Thing #3: The Sky




Amazing Thing #4: The Sky Meets the Water Meets the Pipples








Okay.
I'm over it.
Really.

Summer who?

I'm So Over Him, Too.
College boy returned to campus today. To an apartment. I was kind of happy to see him go because he'd been kind of a nerve prancer this summer, what with not having a job and all.

And keeping the hours of the vampire.
And eating all the pop-tarts. And peanut butter.
And tapping on my laptop.
And sitting in my knit spot.
And watching my T.V.
Loud. Ly.

Just hours after he was gone, Cakers threw a hairy fit over some ridiculous thing. I've been applying a swift kibosh to these outbursts, so was about to send her to her room, when I noticed that the crying had a different feel than the usual overdramatization.

Her sobbing was that of the truly broken-hearted, with a sorrow that resonated a bit with my own heart, under the crusty veneer. So I scooped her up for an impromptu snuggle, in a dining room chair. I kissed her head and rocked her slow and before she even said the words, my eyes were already welling up in anticipation.

I miss CAY-mer-on!.

It's a little soon for me to miss him outright, but I recognize a definite sense of melancholy over this departure. It's like I'm homesick, but still at home.

Everything's normal, but somehow not the same.

Or maybe I'm just feeling the reeling in the years.

Gainful Unemployment
My work year starts August 28, the first of three full days of professional development. Every year I start off feeling a little nervous about the unknowns. But as this school year approaches, I'm becoming increasingly anxious and distracted and having trouble sleeping.

With good reason.

Between significant changes in supervisory and administrative and speshul ed teaching staff, a bigger caseload and tougher graduation requirements, I fear becoming the impetus for the No-Sosul-Werker-Left-Behind. Or-Maybe-One,If-She's Pretty-Squirrely. legislation.

I had about 16 fucktillion more things to talk about, but I suddenly seemed to have lost my mind.

Wind.
I lost my wind.

Mind, good.

Wind, gone.

Labels: Cottage, From My Loins, Passages, Pho-Ho'

Aww and Paw...





Ever since The Cakers was a baby, her father has been counting down the years until she turned five and he could take her to the annual, community Daddy-Daughter Valentines Dance.

I was the chauffer for the event. On the short drive home from the drop-off, I found myself fighting a case of the baby blues. It just didn't seem that long ago when my adorable husband started counting coup on the years until he could take his rightful place at the dance.

Then I started thinking about my son, away at his second year at college and how it wasn't that long ago he was in high school, with girls who not that long before that, had gotten all gussied up in their velvet and tights and maryjanes, for a real live date with the very first man of their dreams. Daddy.

And it doesn't help that my baby girl is already "tall" for her age, which definitely enhances the feel of her growing away from me.

A cute little side story: My husband and Cakers went out to dinner at a nice restaurant that was offering a special daddy-daughter deal for dinner. About half-way through their meal, the place was filling up with "dates" and Cakers suddenly got up from the table. My husband thought she went to talk to someone she knew. She quickly returned to the table with a plateful of croutons, which she had helped herself to at the salad bar.

Dates do that.

P.S. We're suppose to be headed to the cottage for our four-day mid-winter break weekend. My husband got held up at the bank ::not like that:: so I thought I'd use the time to bang out a post. But he's now here so I gotta hit the road, without proofing. Sorry.

P.P.S. I don't know how this ended up back in the draft pile so I'm republicking.

Labels: From My Loins, Manpie, Passages

And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live, when you were young.-The Killers

(Just sayin': The following post is kind of ramble-y and was not well thought through prior to publication. Twas also proofed sparingly.)

One of my walk routes takes me past a place that has a distinct smell. I'm not crazy, or at least I'm not crazy in a way that sounds or smells like what I'm about to type, but I swear that this place with a smell smells like mashed potatoes, with lots of butter and black pepper. Like my mom used to make. On Sundays.

And just for a minute, could you please indulge me by paying no mind to the fact that you are sure that a place outdoors, in a residential neighborhood, cannot smell like mashed potatoes with lots of butter and black pepper?* Because it does. Because I've smelled it. And do smell it. And whether or not I'm experiencing a localized olfactorial hallucination, which I'm not, is not the point. At least not today. So please play along.

The first time I smelled the smell, it made me cry, a little. It wasn't a sudden break down and blubber kind of thing but more of chokey-uppy-where'd-that-come?-from-gaspy kind of thing. During 5 o'clock traffic, no less.

While I haven't cried the mashed potato since that first time I smelled it, the scent does still make me feel kind of sad and nostalgic. I think it's about Sunday dinner with my family, when I was a kid. When my family was whole. Or as whole as it would ever be.

Before my brother went to Viet Nam.

Before my daddy got sick and died.

Before my brother came home from Viet Nam and cried a lot in the basement.

Before my big sister went off to college to save her soul.

Before my mom went crazy from grief and worry.

Before my little sister and I grew boobs and tempers and a keen appreciation for a swinging vacuum cleaner hose as a weapon of choice.

Before all that.

I make a pretty mean bowl of mashed potatoes with lots of butter and pepper. But no matter how many steamy bowls I prepare of the stuff, it never quite tastes the same as that haunting smell.

Lately I've been feeling kind of sad and nostalgic about my current tribe. Mostly my girl, but the boy too. I miss them.

Yeah, the boys at college and that makes some sense.

But The Cakers is here every day.
And yet I miss her.
Every day.

Because every day she comes home from school different than she was the day before.

And every day I am simply amazed at the new person she has become.

And every day I want to get to know this new person. But there's never enough time. And before you know it, it's time for bed.

So she goes to bed and gets up and goes to school and changes all over again.

And before I have a chance to miss the girl from the day before, another one has shown up at the door. So we do it all over again.

And I feel like I'm watching a movie of my life at hyper-speed. In this movie I play myself, watching the movie of my life at hyper-speed. And all I can say is that it's a good thing I don't have any lines because I find it hard to breathe at times.

Just point me the button to slow it down. I promise I'll use it sparingly. Otherwise I'm just going to have to grab hold and not let go until she's big enough to kick my ass. Which may be as early as next week.

The same week I turn 48.
The same age as Madonna, who, according to the host of a nightly entertainment show, is doing some amazing things for someone "pushing 50."

I don't want to be amazing for my age.

I just want to be.

eh.

I soon will post a knit updater.
But it must wait a few days later.

*I'm pretty sure it's a plant I'm smelling. Smell familiar?

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Deep Shit, Passages, Tree From Where I Fell, Yore

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.-Groucho Marx

Last Friday I was walking past the high school at the very time the varsity basketball players were being dropped off to catch a bus for the big game. Regional finals.

As I stood at the curb of the drive-way and watched the mom-driven cars with the win-driven passengers pass me by, I started to cry. Even though the brief surge of emotion caught me off guard, I quickly identified the source. Time.Flying.

See, I'm having trouble wrapping my pea brain around the fact that it was just over a year ago that I wrote this post about my son's last high school basketball game of all our lives. The game that set in motion the Perpetual Snot Fest That Was My Face, well into June.

I can't believe that it's coming up on one year since I started drinking heavily planning my son's graduation open house, plans that included a little Trippin'Down Memory Lane .

In about six weeks my son will conclude his freshman year of college and come home for the summer, to bug the ever lovin' shit right outta me. ::He's a colossal HBO hog.:: But the real emotional kicker for me has been The Cakers getting her draft papers for kindergarten, in the mail.

My baby. Starting kindergarten (providing she passes the physical). And me just pretending it ain't so. See, I know how this story ends, as described above. Only by the time she goes to college, I'll be feeble-minded. And off my rocker to boot. Late-onset Post-Traumatic Scrapbooking Disorder, they'll call it.

I have been preoccupied lately with this time thing. I've been feeling like that last clip in the final episode of Six Feet Under, where they fast forward through time for each of the characters,while Clare drives away at the speed of car. That's how I feel. I'm Clare's car. Same ol same ol, while the rest of my world is flying by, and eventually away.

Ack. I really wasn't going to get so fucking dramatic today. My original thoughts for this post were about my chronic fear of getting old and catching the same Mom Butt Disease that the lady on the Pizza commerical has. You know, the one who sprints down the street while carrying a pizza? They make it look like her life is so busy that her husband can't stop the car to pick up a pizza. The real story is that her husband is trying to leave her and her ol' lady khaki ass.

Getting Into My Pants.
I'm done with the pants, except for some weird ass shit I gotta do with the waistband. I have been putting this off for two days, and I'm sure I'll go five. But here's what I got so far:



The hole for the waist cord is about as gnarly as the crotch hole. I didn't use the cable cast on this time because the yarn ends up on the wrong side of the needle and, well, I didn't really care.

The Question
Is Cheesy Blogging better than No Blogging At All?

All right people. It's official. Work is kicking my ass. Again. I knew it was coming. It happens every year at this time, in the world of speshul ed. Because I blew my I-Can't-Blog-Good-No-More whine wad on The Test, I thought I'd take a more subversive tact, which is to distract readers from the lack (absence?) of interesting, current fodder, by linking to a past post which may be unfamiliar to new readers, and hopefully forgotten by youse faithful.

In fact, it was one year ago today that I pulled my first official cheese post, by rerunning a post from the previous year; an ode to my husband on his birthday. ::Happy Birthday Honey. Zoom.:: I won't link to that, because even I have my cheese link limitations. But it is a good read. Both times (i.e. March 22, 2004 and 2005).

An Asside: Has anyone else noticed that crime shows on TV are starting to borrow story lines from Scooby Doo episodes? Can you spell Saturated Market?

Labels: Deep Shit, Passages

The older I get, the more my one life, feels like a lot of little lives, neatly nestled within one another.

You know, kind of like those Russian nesting dolls.



I know. I'm scared too.

Anyhoo.

Last Wednesday, I returned to my full-time job, after a lovely, 10-week summer break and lots of Cakers time.

Friday past, I sent my son off to college.

Late Friday past, I intercepted two tearful phone calls from my son, who's away, at college.

Saturday, when not receiving any of the dozen plus, progressively happier-toned phone calls from my son, at college, I was shopping for additional necessities, for my son, the college student.

Sunday, the family my son left behind, as he headed off to college, piled into a vehicle and traveled two hours, one-way, to visit said son at college, and to deliver the goods purchased the day before, phone calls notwithstanding.

I’m truly doing okay with all of this. I am. Sending a kid to college is a lot like a healthy breakup. You know what I'm talking about. Those bittersweet ordeals, where both parties know it's for the best, while mourning that which was, and will never be again. Sans personal protection order.

I’ve not been crying or dwelling or calling him on the phone. In fact, I've been celebrating some newfound freedoms, as follows:

1)Working out on the elliptical, wearing just a jog bra, slippers and a rhinestone, butterfly brooch.

2)Drinking Bacardi straight from the bottle.

3)Openly fondling the cache of long lost forks and spoons and cereal bowls, the likes of which I haven’t seen in months, perhaps years.

4) Feeling no pressure or guilt when “There’s nothing to eat in this house! ” ::Onthat note, I invented a new emergency treat, for when the snack cupboards are bare. Sprinkle a layer of fresh, shredded parmesan (the real stuff, not the smelly dust found in the green can.) in a flat dish and microwave until melted and brown around the edges. Less than a minute,usually. Let cool, a little. And voila, you have Parmesan Paper Crisp. No crackers required.::

Okay. Back to the dolls. Over the past week or so, I haven't been feeling quite myself. It's like I'm living too many lives at the same time.

Or I'm living a little of someone else's life.
Or maybe someone's living a little bit of mine.

It feels like a couple of my inner lives, have lost their little heads.



That can't be a good thing, right?

Anyway. What, with the craziness of returning to work and the tiny heartache of the displanted sprout and the upcoming holiday weekend, I think I'll be taking a brief blogging break.

I haven't even been knitting. ::And I hope who ever is wearing my knitting life's little head, is doing me proud.::

P.S. I started this post a couple of days ago, before the devastation of Katrina was fully known. My heart aches for our brothers and sisters who have lost family and/or homes.

My heart swells for the rescue warriors, who refuse to rest until the job is done.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

Today is the day,
We give babies away,
With half a pound of tea.

My mom used to sing that song, when I was but a wee. The rest of it goes something like..."So if you know any ladies, without any babies, just send them round to me." It was actually a disconcerting little ditty, to my tiny ears.

Anyway, the first verse has been running through my inner mom space, all day. Ever since I woke at dawn with the dawning: Today is the day, they give babies away. To college.

Today. My Boy. To College.

After that first rude awakening, I was able to fall back to sleep, briefly. After all, I have been preparing for/bracing against/eagerly awaiting this day since that first transitional meltdown, after the last high school basketball game (See March 6 post, Senior Moments).

But soon enough, a tiny jolt of sorrow-based-reality (aided by a preternatural taunt from The Man Who Lives in Cheddar's Mouth) had me out of bed and down the stairs, to stare at the neat piles of Brand New Gap, lined up on the dining room table.

Three preppy piles of Where'd-My-Baby-Go? To make a mother cry.

Thankfully, these moments of weakness have been few and far between. And whenever I need a healthy dose of pragmatism, I need only recall a question from The Cakers, posed earlier in the week: "Is Cameron going to College? Or Costco? I can't remember."

I Didn't Think it Would Suck Like This
Monday night, Cam was heading out for a "last hurrah" sleepover at a girl's cottage, with about a dozen of his closest friends. Before I could stop, I hear me say, "I assume her parents are going to be there?"

Immediately, I realized my error. Unless I was giving unsolicited advice on a hostess gift, my question was out of line. Because,in a few short days, ready or not, my boy was going on a very long, sleepover. No parents required. Ever. Again.

I think the hardest part, this week, has been standing by, helpless, as Cam grapples with the heartache of saying goodbye to his closest friends, as each takes his/her leave of their safe, community harbor.

"I didn't think it would suck like this." He said. "I'm excited and everything, and I know I'll see everybody again, but it's never going to be the same. We're all going to change. At least a little."

Yeah, baby. We will.



At least a little.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

Wednesday’s Child if Full of Whoa

Thank you for indulging me in my moment of doubt, via my last post. Insecurity happens. And yes, Judith, some days I am a dry rub kinda gal. Unfortunately, it’s usually in the wrong way.

Today is Sunday. ::No shirt, shitlock.:: Wednesday of this week, I return to work, courtesy of two back-to-back days of hours-upon-hours of painfully imposed staff inservice. Talk about your dry rubs. On a humpday. Oh, the whimsy.

And now it’s time to start the annual wail-song.

Summer is done.

Wail over.

Truthfully, I always look forward to returning to work in the fall. You see, if didn’t have a job to go to in the fall, I’d not “have my summers off.” I’d not have opportunity to enjoy the lazy, hazy, days upon days of feeling like a totally indulged, spoiled brat. At 46 years old. I’m tellin’ ya, it's an annual treat, beyond my wildest, exclaimabilities. And neither is it hateful.

::Another benefit of returning to work is access to my dictionary.::

And besides, I love my job. I love the structure and routine, and the kids and the energy and the overall sense of professional competency, a la flight by the seat of my pants. And, my family and neighbors alike, always appreciate the annual return of my daily hygiene practices.

Is That an Elephant in the Living Room, or are You Just Happy to See Me Go?
On Friday, my son leaves for college. I have nothing to say on this matter. No thoughts or feelings. I’m a grown woman. Well-adjusted. Mature.

Sidenote to parting child: My job is done. You have your entire life before you. Godspeed, hey. Just one thing? Please give me a week's notice ,if you plan on coming home for Thanksgiving. This way I can give the new tenant who is renting your room, adequate notice. For the record, sometimes college students get invited home by their roommates for weekends and holiday breaks. I think this sort of thing affords excellent opportunities for interpersonal growth and exposure to other life forms. Just so ya know. See? I'm totally okay with you being gone. From our home. For weeks and weeks. You're grown. Have I mentioned, My Job is Done?

Always, your mother.

And no, I'm not in denial. Because being in denial, would suggest the existence of a problem. An impending loss. A life transition. An "oject-du-deny" or a "deny-ee," if you will.

But not me, man.
I'm good.
Solid.
The Beans.

Ass Can See Clearly Now
All day yesterday, it was evident that the lease on my contact lenses was up, and it was time to toss. So, last night, while preparing for bed, after brushing my teeth and before the nightly pee, I tossed my contacts in the toilet. (Pee and boobs..)

Then I went to bed. In my nice shortie nightie.

This morning, I got out of bed, pulled on my yoga pants, under my nightie, and went downstairs to face the Sunday. About 10 minutes into the newspaper, my right cheek started itching, a little. In an annoying, poky, itchy kind of way. Being the lazy ass that I be, I shifted weight to the other cheek and kept on reading.

The poky itchy continued. And then I started to worry, a little. What if it’s a bug? Or a spider??!!!?? A half-dead spider, half-smooshed on my ass. No, no...a half-dead, half-smooshed spider who is totally aware of her impending demise and desperately trying to lay her last sac of eggs, in my ass, before taking her last, half-smooshed breath.

Oh my god, I’m thinking, as I run the faster-you-run-the-scardier-you-get-run of childhood. (You remember that one? Running back to the house after taking the trash to the garage, after dark? Every step to safety, making you somehow more afraid?)

Once in the bathroom, I really start to panic. I pull off the pants and start swiping manically at my cheek. Because I was afraid of touching whatever it was, I really did not give this butt whacking my best effort. Instead, I hoped that the “I’m gonna get you,” frenzied, hand job would be enough to scare the half-dead-half-smooshed-lethally-venomous-egg-laying-black-widow off my ass. To make us both feel better, I promised aloud to let whatever-it-was to live, then added that a reciprocal courtesy would be the decent thing, as well.

After the hand-to-ass dance, I scanned the floor for deadly bug debris. Seeing nothing on the floor, I suddenly felt calm and brave and all grown up. And with a burst of additional courage, I rubbed my finger over the offended area. ::I still could not bring myself to look at it in the mirror. I wasn’t ready for what I might see . Besides, I think I might have some legitimate denial stuff going on with the size of my ass, a fret I’ll save for another day.:: As I gently poked at the area, I felt a distinct abnormality on my skin. Something hard and crisp and totally stuck on my ass. Realizing it was too crisp to be a half-dead-half-smooshed spider, I lost all sense of trepidation and ripped the thing from my flesh.

It was a contact lens. Blue and puckered and dry as a witches.... pork rub.

Evidently I picked up a little something off a toilet seat last night.

First I chuckled.

Then I tried to find some mystical message within, such as "What would it look at, if my ass could see?" The answer came loud and clear, "Your husbands ass. While you sleep." As asses go, his is pretty sweet, but not mystically so. Perhaps, if my once seeing-eye-ass could talk....we'd hear a differnt tail?

But for now, that's as far as my ass can see.
And officially concludes today's list of Sunday Sundries.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, I Work Too, Passages

I've been tout busy around here, getting ready to go back to the cottage for the holiday weekend. We leave this afternoon, and I'm not nearly ready. Read: 'Nother shit blog post, today.

I was looking around my brain for something interesting to write, but came up with nothing. So I went to Plan B. Or, plan B.D.B. (Blogger Draft Bin).

I often get an idea for a post, get it started, save it in draft form, then abandon/forget my intent/get-hit-by-a-lost-train-of-thought-and-sustain-severe-cognition-injury.

Today, I'm purging the draft bin. Grab a bucket and a mop. There will be no logic or flow to this post, from this point on.

::And this is something new? I says to myself::

Starting Now......

No, Now.

k.

Spaybacks Are a Bitch
I don't remember what googlenastics I was performing, when I found this website.

Aside from the rather aggressive name of the organization, I was first struck, and then alarmed by this picture:



It appears to be the surgical recovery room for recently spayed kittens and toddlers.

And this picture, set my whiskers on end:



I know! I couldn't believe my eyes. They let girls into the boys bathroom.....to perform surgery, on helpless animals (and toddlers?)

Done.

It's No Global Perspective
(Hint: Say it slooooooo)

K.

After my son's graduation open house, I had planned on writing a party-survival-afterglow post. All I came up with, however, was this picture:



These are the snowglobes I made for table decorations for the party. My intent was to brag on my cleverness, and give any of you future open house throwers a clever idea. So, there it is. A clever idea.

You can order the globes here.

Almost Done.

Following is a sampling of pictures that went into my son's graduation party scrap book.

Here, I'm wearing probably the first fully sleeved sweater I ever knit. The yarn was a high end red heart acrylic. The pattern was from a pattern company with the name Bee in it. I loved that sweater so much, I made one for each of my sisters and my mom, too. Same yarn, different colors.



The dinosaur sweater on my boy was my first attempt at knitting with different colors. There's a name for that kind of knitting, but it escapes me. Frequently. You can't see the details, but there are 3-D dinosaur scales on the tail, going down the arm.

This is a shot from my first vacation, after the divorce. Check out the brows. Yeah, I know, Brooke Shields called....



White Boys can jump.



Done.

California Dreamin'
Yesterday, the Post Toasty Man (it was 99 degrees, give me a break.) brought me a special treat from La, of West Coast JenLa Fame. It was a prize for supporting her recent participation in a walk-a-thon in the fight against breast cancer. (Would a booby prize joke be inappropriate here? Yeah, probably).



That there is three skeins of Reynolds Mandalay (silk! Whee!)....



....And some stitch markers, two deliciously scented candles and novelty soap! (Which Cakers opened immediately and which also smell curiously like beer, in a good way....).

La, to show my heartfelt appreciation for this special treat, I'm sending you this:



Whatever you do, La, DO NOT remove the eye stickers or let it have water after midnight.

Done.

P.S. I tried bloggers new photo feature. Works good. No more middle man photo agent required.

P.P.S. I haven't sewn my tank up, yet.

Labels: From My Loins, My Daughter Scares Me, Passages

Well, the countdown to the Open House has been reduced from days to hours. 31 hours, actually, at this writing, per my Dell desktop. But I’m okay. Really.

The food and cake* are on order. The carpets are clean. We got the balloons and the helium and the school spirited paper plates. And the memory book debaucle is merely a bad memory.

All that’s left is the last minute, final detail shopping. You know, stuff like, cheese. Cheddar. Shredded.

Yeah, that's my list. Cheese.

There should be more. I know it. But it seems that the stress of planning a Graduation Open Wound House has tapped my cognitive resources and I’ve lost my ability to make lists. I’m listless.

Yesterday at work, I started work on the final list. I began, of course, with cheese. Then the phone rang. Then a client came in. Then it’s lunch, followed by a two hour meeting. Then my day is done.

On the drive home, I am horrified to realize that I left my final, detailed list, of cheese, on my desk at work.

Once home, I sat with crayon in hand, (My husband has wisely removed all sharps from the immediate environment.) to commence with round two of the last list. Okay, first we had, uh, the cheese. Cheddar, I believe. Shredded.

And then….then….I gotta pee. Bad. Ly.

And then, The Cakers comes home from daycare.

And I give her a hug.

And then, my little sister calls, needing help with yet another crisis. (Crisis: Blockbuster isn’t going to carry Season 3 of Six Feet Under and do I wanna go halvesies on a purchase?)

And then I go for a walk.

And then it’s dinner.

And dishes.

And bathing a toddler.

And finally it’s quiet.

So I sit, with crayon in hand, and look at my list so far, complete with subcategories:

1. Cheese.
a. Cheddar.
b. Shredded.

And then, nothing.
Nada.
Jack.

Jack?

Revised list:

1.Cheese
a. Cheddar
b. Monterey Jack
c. Shredded.

List is done.

You think I’m kidding? I’m not. Well, I am exaggerating, but not kidding.

I think my brain has gone into survival mode and is allowing only consideration of the necessities, at this point. Upon further consideration, I think my brain is pretty smart. You see, I’m having a taco bar catered in. Tacos, with all the fixins'. And the woman who took order, warned me that people tend to put too much cheese on their tacos (as opposed to the restaurant being cheesy with the cheese?) and advised me to buy extra.

And ya know what? When it comes right down to it, the cheese does stand alone. It’s my last authentic party necessity.

While these items would be nice, I really don't need:

1) fresh cut flowers
2) light bulbs
3) new picture frames
4) streamers
5) decaf coffee
6) plastic wine glasses
7) Bacardi Vanilla
8) Diet Vernors

No siree, Bob. All I really need is…is...now what did I do with that list?

Gang, Gang, the Hail’s All Here!
Here in Michigan, we’ve been blessed with beautiful weather over the past few weeks. Memorial Day weekend, we were supposed to have rain, three days running. It was beautiful.

How great that the weatherman could be so perfectly wrong, at the so perfectly right time. What are the chances of it happening again, this weekend? Well, I'm praying for at least an 80% chance of meteorlogical error. (Feel free to bow your heads and join me).

Weather forecast for Sunday, June 5: Temperatures in the low to mid 80’s, scattered thundershowers throughout the day, some severe, with a possibility of hail. (And if I hear one more unfunny joke about mother nature providing ice for the party, I’m gonna hail chunks.)

I’m trying very hard to not think of my big brother’s graduation party, on a Sunday, in June, in 1967. A beautiful, sunny day, until the tornado sirens went off, as the sky suddenly churned an eerie green. And how we had to run, party en masse, to our neighbor's tiny, tiny basement, because ours was filled with the clutter we cleared from the main living area, for the party. And how my basement, at this time, is filled with half of my living room and all of The Cakers toys. And yarn. Of course.

Although, if we had to squeeze 300 people down my basement, they probably won't even notice.

But really, I’m okay.

In fact, if you're thinking that I'm thinking that I'd rather stuff red pepper flakes under my eyelids than prepare to entertain 300 strangers in my cluttered basement, while cows and oil tankers whirl overhead, you are soooo wrong.

Anyway, I’m sure all y’all’s gonna be real happy to get this party started, and done with, so you won’t have to hear about it. Anymore. But rest assured, if the sirens blow, the second thing I’m grabbing is the laptop. The third? Vernors.

*I think Rolf the Cakemeister has a little crush on me. Or maybe he thinks I have a crush on him. Or that I am a caker baker stalker. I must have returned to the caker baker counter three times, to triple check what I put on my order. “Hello Marcia…” he said, in an alluring, caker baker voice.

Labels: Passages

The boy is officially a high school graduate. And I'm proud to say, that throughout what Cakers calls Cameron's Marching Party, I only cried once. Briefly.

I know. It surprised me too. Maybe it was the impersonal feel of a football stadium, on a cool, windy night. Or maybe I got it all out at the Baccalaureate. Or maybe it was due to the following distractions:

1) The Cakers following the previously drummed into her head agreed upon plan, to keep all talk to a whisper. While it was great that she was being such a good listener, the content of a toddler's whisper, in a crowded football stadium, is hard to discern,and the cause of no small amount of frustration. It's even more difficult to hear a toddler's whisper, when said toddler is simultaneously kicking up a racket on the aluminum bleachers in front of her. (An unforeseen behavior, and therefore, untouched by the previously established verbal contract. That Girl Ain’t From ‘Round Here. Mark my words.)

2) Just before the Marching Party begins, my mother pulls from her purse, a plastic storage bag containing a creamy, light-yellow liquid, and holds it up for all to see. Amidst some giggles, she loudly announces that in this bag is a partially melted, half-stick of butter, recently borrowed from my sister. "I wondered where that bag went. I looked everywhere, when I got home....."

::I could write a book about the stuff in my mother’s purse. For now, it’s enough to say that the topic has been a source of local entertainment, for years.::

3) Fighting the urge to grab my husband and drag him down below, for a rompin' circumstance under the bleachers.

Huh? Well, grab your favorite lust object/toy and go read this this poem, which was read by a student, as part of the graduation ceremony.

I was kind of surprised that this morsel of erotica passed administrative approval. A bit of a gaffe, for a school with a nationally recognized academic reputation. The same high school that gave us the likes of Chri*s VanAl*sburg (The Po*lar Ex*press) and the creator of Amerikan Pye (don’t want no local googlers ‘round here. I might have mentioned here before, that I live in Ea*st Great Fa*lls and my son attended E*st Great F*lls High).

So, what made da momma cry, at her boy’s educational emancipation ceremony? Just a bunch of talk.

When the processional first came into the stadium, the line was stalled for a few minutes, as the cadence was established*. Because they were all dressed alike, it was hard for me to lock on to my spawn, at first. But soon enough, I recognized a familiar movement, within the sea of gently bobbing, blue mortar boards. It was my boy, all right. Talking.

Talking to the left and talking to the right. In fact, sandwiched in line between his two best friends, he was in conversation-hog heaven. Some of the other students were talking too, but discreetly. You had to look real close to see it. But not my boy. He was a well-capped, walking gesture.

Why would a talking teen make me cry? Because at every parent teacher conference I attended, over the past 13 years, I heard about my boy’s mouth. It wasn’t a bad mouth, or a sassy mouth. Just a fully engaged mouth. Always.

Seeing him there with his best buds, in full chatty caricature, during the last moments of (in?) his official capacity as an educational ward of the state, brought me a tear, and a snot bubble.

But for the rest of the evening, my emotional control was like a bag-o-buttah: Lookin’a mess, but otherwise fully contained.
Eminem and the Drama Mama
The Graduate and His Mother


Post Post Note: Although I haven't been posting, I have been chronicling the mother's journey toward matriculation and the ongoing pain of the Open Wound House preparations. Originally, today's post contained nearly every thought I've had on all these matters, over the past week. But, my editorial instinct got the better of me and I commenced to chopping. Maybe, later, k?

*I almost cried, watching the teacher in charge of spacing the marchers. He held each student with a hug around the waist, followed by a properly timed, gentle shove into the processional.

Hug followed by shove.
A representation.
Of something currently familiar.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages, Tree From Where I Fell

When you're three year's old, all the world's a milkshake.



I Really Love My Peaches
We went to the cottage this weekend. The phone line was not working, so no blogging could be done. I got plenty done on Peaches, however. (Add about two more inches from the long drag home)



Here's a close-up of the pattern.



Have I ever mentioned how I love knitting lace?
Yummy.

Senior Moments
My son graduates high school this week. And I'm finding myself increasingly emotional about the whole thing. At the high school where I work, Friday was the seniors' last day. As it was my son's.

At the school where I work, it's tradition that at the last bell, the entire student body cheers out from the hallways, in unison. It's a cool thing, for sure. And always puts a smile on my face. Well,usually. This year, it made me cry. Blubber cry.

Of course, I have more to say on the matter, as well as some exciting weekend coverage. But people, school is still in session for some of us, and I gotta get.

Have a Monday, everyone.

P.S. No time to edit today. I'm subscribing to the TPP system of blogging. Type, Publish and Pray.

Labels: Passages

I finished Blaze.
And feeling burned.



I'm sure there is a funny observation to make about that thing crawling across my upper plexus. But for some reason,I'm a woman without humor, at this time.

Just in case that shot does not adequately represent my personal anguish, let me clarify: This little fucker is too big.

This is my back doing a pretty good imitation of a Raspberry Sharpei.



By the time I had walked back into the house after the picture was taken, the sweater had fallen off both shoulders.

Please don't tell me it looks okay. 'Cause it don't. Need a comparison shot? Take a peek at the designer's intended look, here.

Even my sweet, good-natured husband struggled to find something positive to say. His best shot: "Can you can knit some kind of insert to put back there, like a low-riding humpback thingie?"

I admit that I worried about the medium being too big. But having a license to conceal 38-D Magnums, on a smallish body frame, I neither wanted to err on the side of going too small, and end up with this look:



I'm not really sure what's next for this most recent bain of my knitsistence. I'm thinking of offering it to my younger, larger- boned, smaller-busted sister. (The one with issues with her issue.) If she'll have it.

But, love it or hate it, an Effin' FO still deserves a decent wrap-up:

Pattern: Knitty's Blaze
Size: Medium (bitch.)
Yarn: Cascade Indulgence
Size Needles: 5 and 6

Since I had this yarn for more than a year, it qualifies as another ball buster. Ain't that the saddest irony?

Open House Correction
In my last post, I edited out the explanation for the Ode. (I was trying to practice "positive posting", as my hubby recently told me that my blog's been a bit of a bummer, as of late, and the preface to the ode was a bit of a whine). So, to clear up the confusion, the graduation open house for my son is not until June 5. The poem was a representation of my overall attitude toward the upcoming celebration.

I've got a butt-load of thoughts and frets (mostly frets) as I prep for the shindig. I hope I can find the time to get them down. Lucidly.

That being said, I do have a bit of advice for anyone who is still reading this. If you're thinking of starting up scrapbooking, from scratch, with the sole purpose of creating a memory book representing 18 years of a high school graduate's life, with only three weeks to get it done, please, take the scallop-edged scissors away from your neck (they'll only leave a curvaceous, hickey-looking mark, anyway.) and call your doctor.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Crapbooking, Knit Done, Passages

Knittin' Knuttins'
I've been wrestling with my Blaze sleeves, again. Between the two sleeves, I've re-ripped and re-knit, at least 5 inches, over the past two days.

And why did I do this? I did it to align the pattern at the bodice/armpit joint. Am I a knitting Goddess, or w,tf?

I'll take w,tf for five hundred sleeves, Alex. In other words, Knitting Goddess I ain't.

After all that fine-tuned attention to detail, I was finally (FINALLY!) ready to join the sweater body and sleeves in Holy Knitrimony.

But when I came to the part in the directions where it states,"If anyone here has reason to believe this menagerie trois should not be joined in holy knitrimony, raise your hand now, and forever hold the piece(s), in the bottom of a knit bag," I was stunned to witness this:



Upon closer inspection, I realized that this creepy sweater was trying to tell me that I wasted a shitload of time and effort aligning the armpit stitches,because the pattern at the sleeve/body join does not line up, by four stitches.

I'm sorry, but I've had about enough of this boolshit. I have things to do. Open Houses to plan. Spring things to knit.

But I'm not giving up. I will finish this little turd, at the cost of excellent armpit alignment. I know,nobody ever said knitting was going to be easy. Sometimes there's loss of life, limb and armpit alignment. And just between you and me, I think the pit part stinks.

Mi Open Casa, Su Open Casa
In comments, Kelle observes that I seem to be malingering in my parental duty to plan and provide a most excellent graduation party, for my son.

Well, I'm here to tell you, Little Miss Thang, I am currently working from a Graduation Party Plan . As follows:

1) Have a drink and think up some really cool shit to do for the party.
2) Go to bed.
3) Wake up and decide that all that cool shit you thought up last night was just the rum thinking, and who will give a rat's ass about the party anyway, come July?
4) Buy some really nice toilet paper at Costco.
5) Sweep toenail clippings from bathroom floor, into cold air return vent.
6) Wonder what the hell is a cold air return, if they are really cold and why people talk about them, as though they know what they are, but they really don't. Know. Either.
7) Wonder if my toenail clippings are now cold.
8) Laugh, clown, laugh.
9) Take my medicine.
10) Buy some really nice toilet paper at Costco.

P.S. I'm way behind in email correspondence blog reading. And I apologize. I've had about a one hour chunk of online time over the past three days, and chose to use that time to publish this post. Laurie, I hope to get to your book MEME this weekend.

Labels: Passages, When Knitting You is Hurting Me

I've been in a bit of a funk over the past few days, ever since the pitiful conclusion of my son's very last varsity basketball season, of his life. My low-grade sorrow has nothing to do with the actual loss of the game, however. It has everything to do with the loss of another kind. Loss associated with endings and beginnings and the realization that every step my son takes toward the future, is another step away from me. And further, that there’s nothing that could (or should) be done about it.

Throughout the basketball season, I survived many fretful, mutha-of-a-playa moments, by peering at the shot-to-be, (or the clock, or the scoreboard) through clasped fingers. Today, I find myself peeking at the next phase of parental reality, through a similar screen. Only this time, the fingers are clasped over my heart. And, just as it was when I watched a game, I want neither to see the play fully, or miss it altogether.

I am also mourning the loss of those little moments of the season. Bitty visual bits, taken for granted at the time and now gone forever. I'm talking about stuff like the image of my boy jogging into the gymnasium with his team, for the pre-game warmups. He's wearing his school colors, smiling, joking and living jock-strappingly large. And the last time this event occurred, I hardly paid attention.

For me, however, the most precious piece of the basketball season, was being a regularly invited participant in my son’s world. I mean, aside from the weekly cash harvest, there are not many teen activities where parental involvement is not only desired, but expected by the offspring in question.

Attending my son's games gave me an automatic “in” to his day. Every Friday night, I knew what he was doing and who he was doing it with. Because I was there. And together, on Saturday, we talked about/reveled in/mourned the events of the night before. I'd share snippets from the stands, while he provided inside scoops from the bench.

Although it felt like a pain in the butt at the time, I will miss fixing his late night suppers, after an evening practice, or game. With the Cakers in bed, we'd have a chance to talk about nothing in particular. Momma's special fried egg sandwich seemed a favorite (The secret ingredients being seasoned pepper, no salt and perfect timing on the over-easy.).

With basketball season over, my status will now return to that of chief cook, logistics sniggler, and vehicle key provider. And in just a few month’s time, I’ll be helping him prepare for the move of his lifetime, off to college. While this is the way it's supposed to be, and I really am excited for him (and for us, and for the vacancy of a walk-in closet, with shelving...what to do?), there's a part of me that will forever pine for the spirit of a Friday night home game, and the opportunity, just one more time, to witness my baby-turned-man's proud, carefree gait around the gym.

In his colors.

To the beat of the cheering crowd.

Monkey Shines
Some progress is noted on my Blaze sleeve. This sleeve might be one of the worst pieces I've ever knit, and still be perfectly satisfied wearing. For some reason, the looping of the cables is really bad on this one. But, if I look at it through my fingers, I can hardly tell.



And now that it's March, and the days are getting noticably longer (driving my cat and my Cakers stir-crazy!), my fancy turns to knits of spring. Which means it's time to finish up the winter assignments and pull out last spring's UFOs. grr.

Crazy Daze
I'm afraid I'll be short on words around here, for a couple more weeks. In the world of Speshul Educashun, spring is a very busy time. In fact, over the next few days, I have exactly five, lengthy reports to write, in addition to managing my already spring-feverish, adolescent caseload. Which means, for me, homework. All this is in addition to my husband picking up a couple substantial contracts with new clients, meaning lots of single parenting in evenings.

So, I'm not whining. Just wharning.

Finally...
The winner of the guess the body part contest is......Reader Kelle! (Belly roll, please!). Kelle, I will email you.

And on the topic of my body parts, off site I have received a comment that my blog has turned to the Howard Stern of knit blogs, what with me baring my tongue and bra and blood red moles.

It wasn't my intention to turn this place into smut world. And hope that nobody really believes I would take myself so serious. That being said, I'm removing the offending shot from my blog.

Blessings to all, for a safe and satisfying week.


P.S. Keep an eye out for some cool changes around here...this week.

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

Thursday's Poop Or: Just Some Little Turds
I have been working on one post all week, but this isn’t that. This is the classic Yikes!-No-Post-In-Days-So-Time-To-Pull-Something-Out-My-Butt post. Grab the T.P.

Speaking of pulling stuff out your butt and grabbing the TP, I’m happy to announce that The Cakers is about 99% potty trained, front and back. She’s pretty much done with the training chair and now perches precariously on the throne, au naturale. Her first poop was at the cottage last weekend, under a proud Nana’s watchful nose.

As many of you, when you have a tot in training, bodily functions become the family focus in both word and deed. But what’s really fun is when the young one becomes preoccupied with all things privy, including mommy and daddy’s Activities du Pot-TAY.

Yesterday morning The Cakers stood right outside the bathroom where her daddy had taken up temporary residence. Realizing he was out of toilet paper, daddy reached around to get a box of tissue. From the other side of the closed bathroom door he hears, “Daddy, that’s not the toilet paper!”

Upon exiting, daddy was greeted by his darling daughter holding out a gumball. “Here’s your gumball daddy! ‘Cause you’re a big, big boy!”

Clarify Me
Okay, about that ex-boyfriend thing.. You see, he mistakenly remembered that I drove a Volvo station wagon (which was really a Camry). When we met again, he tried to make small talk and asked about my car. He meant to say “are you still driving the Volvo?”.

This Couldn’t Weight
Remember that stupidly thin girl in high school who, in response to someone saying “You’re such a stick,” would say “Oh my Gawd, I’m a whale!” And remember how everyone hated her, but not because she was skinny (as she always presumed) but because she wouldn’t shut the eff up about how unskinny she really was?

Well, I found out what happened to her. She became a doctor. And to avenge the years of solicited animosity and related nightmares of being lunched at a Big and Tall convention, she came up with this notion.

You’re such a stick.
Oh my gawd, I’m a whale…on the inside!
From here on known as The Jonah Syndrome

Brother, Oh Brother
My brother is home from his “job” overseas. I’m glad. He’s sad.

Someday I might share some tales. But because he hopes to be rehired in a few months (and he's already on shaky ground for giving the local paper an interview that ended up on the front page of the Sunday paper), I’m keeping mums for now. It's weird business.

Knitting Knuggets
I have knone. But I’m thinking about it…..

Labels: From My Loins, Passages

Thunky Thursday
I can't shake this song, from first thing in my morning car…

Somebody told me
You had a boyfriend
Who looked like a girlfriend
I had in February of last year… - The Killers.

Be Killin.’
Me.

Autumnal Inequinox
I think I’m suffering from the seasonal malaise that Amy is reporting. I know that for me, it has to do with the shifting of the afternoon sun and the fact that I have no windows in my office (brain can't make gradual daily adjustments to changes). When Daylight Savings time is done in a couple of weeks, I’ll suddenly feel just right.

Tubular (Or: All That, and a Lithium Drip
I love:
The new TV show LAX . But I'm thinking that the writers can't keep up for long, the quick pace and interesting story lines that initially captured my attention.

I fear:
The BK commercial where the guy wakes up to find himself under the covers with a stiff headed Burger King, who lovingly hands him a sausage biscuit. Just add Dairy Queen with a banana split and they’d have the fixins’ for a ménage a porn parfait. (Anyone remember the joke about Burger King, Dairy Queen and an unwrapped Whopper?)

I hate:
All the new CSI copy cats. This includes the CBS copy cats, copy cat-assin’ their own show, about two too many copy cat-assin’ times. (Wordass Queen: I wasn't sure about the hyphens.)

My pick, however, for this year's copy cat lameass combo award goes to Medical Investigation. I wanted to like it, but the acting sucks and the premise can’t be swallowed without intubation.

SideNote: I’m actually relieved to hate this one. My brain is already overloaded with daily CSI reflections. I mean, every time I sneeze, I can’t help but picture, in full special effect slo-mo imagery, my little spittles flying through the air at 20,000,000 miles per hour, to land on some hapless victims shoulder who simultaneously brushes up against a woman who just had sex with a felon just moments after....okay...that’s my brain on CSI.

Oooh Baby, Baby Sweater
Almost done. All I have left is to whip up the collar and go upstairs and holler (where did that come from? I'm thinking of some childhood rhyme and pulling down pants...I think I’ve been Burger Kinged.)

Front



Back


Finis
My son received his acceptance letter from (to?) CMU yesterday. To say he is pleased would be an understatement. Last week we had a heart to heart about his college plans and he said he is really, really excited about going there and that he has no qualms giving up his Green Dreams. He also said he has no interest in visiting or applying to any other colleges.

Soooo.....Every fall my husband and I take a long weekend up north. We weren't gong to do it this year because I was needing to save my personal days for carting the Camster to college visits. Now that those plans have been neatly kiboshed, I'm taking a long weekend at the cottage, with The Husband, The Cakers, The In-laws and The Cheddar. ::My in-laws are great and their presence allows for a date night with my sugar daddy.::

We're leaving tonight after work. So posts might be scarce over the next couple days. Or not.

Labels: Deep Shit, Passages

My Fifedom for a Sleeve
Andy: Well, when did you do your last troublecheck?
Barney: Yesterday.
Andy: You didn't troublecheck today!?!
Barney: No.
Andy: Well, let's troublecheck! Sarah, get me 142-R. And put this right through - this is a troublecheck.

I've made some progress on the third sleeve of the Dreamy Creamy (Or is it...oh. never mind.). Three sleeves? How you do dat? Easy. You be a Barney Fifical Knitard. That's how you do dat.



In a Previous Episode: I had to lengthen the arm holes on the body, so the ribbon didn't cut across mid-boobage*. Therefore, I had to adapt the sleeve width to fit the new pits. Easy Peasy? More like Cheesy Queasy. If this doesn't work, I'll be reaching out to my knitting community, with all three arms.

*There's a pattern adaptation lesson here. Boobs are more dimensional than a tape measurement. Boobs have depth and width and volume and length. Yes, I said length. Boobs take up space, therefore they take up fabric. Playtex knows this. Victoria knows this. Marcia did not know this. Now she does.

A Busy Mutha
The weekend seemed to fly by. I took my son on a college visit on Saturday. He approached this special voyage with a less than enthusiastic attitude, on account of having already made up his mind on where he wants to attend, and it wasn't here. After talking to the representatives from his major, however, we were both grinning ear-to-ear and eager to leave the fray of program hawkers to have a chat.

Once outside, Cam said something to the effect of "Well, I started out on this trip thinking it was going to be a waste of time and now I'm thinking this is where I need to be."

This is hard on a mom. I know Cam really, really loves State and he is still feeling torn. Hell, I really, really love State. It's my alma mutha, after all.

But here's the tough part. The part that cries "is there an adult in the house?" State doesn't offer Cam's major of choice (Sport Stu*dies. Yes, it's really a major. I was shocked too.). Central does offer the major and is kind of establishing a name in the field, including a well-connected internship program with semi-pro teams around the state.

We had a mature discussion about this and I am impressed that, although he loves his Spar*tans, he seems to grasp that the right academic program is more important than a month of Saturdays at Spart*an Stadium.

Cam is still going to visit State and I know that someone there will tell him he can patch together a course of study that will get him to the same place that Central's program can. But I also know my boy and that he needs a bit more structure than that. And then there's the internship program, and Central is smaller, which means and he'll get more attention and guidance....sigh...growing up is hard.

And besides, East Lansing doesn't have a Krapohl Ford Dealership.

It's a message from God.

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Passages

NFFHC
Not Fit For Human Consumption. That would be me. I used to experience this condition about once a month, for a day, if that. Now? Once a month, for about three weeks.

And now, a long premenopausal whine...
A Wreak in Review

Monday:
Gonna potty train the Cakers.
Big Girl Undies? Check (Bob Bob Bay Pants, even)
Potty Chair? Check
Case of M&M's? Check
Bladder of Steele? Double Check
Willing Participant? Uh, no.

The Cakers is thrilled with her new undies and wears them with pride. But when she has to pee, she asks for a diaper. That's when the fun begins.

Before getting the diaper, I bribe her to the potty chair with an M&M and a little poem (One piece for sitting and two for....peeing).

Once she's on the potty chair, I ply her with more M&M's, read her books, serve tall cups of water, run the faucet (oops, did I spill some on your leg?) and even tandem pee (hey, what's a girl to do with all that water running?). After 10 minutes (no pee), she abruptly stands, grabs her neveryoumind and demands a diaper, which I promise to fetch.

On the way to the diaper tree, I'm distracted. I check my email, empty the dishwasher, hava cuppa joe an read War and Pees.

Finally she yells, Momma! Diaper!

Here I come! I yell back. And show up with another book.

Read a book? I ask, donning the smile of a preacher's wife. The Cakers looks pained and her knees are clenched together. But she agrees.

Chocolate milk? Okay.

Giddy with confidence, I'm sure we'll soon be whizzing past all previoius expectations.

Alas, she starts twisting and writhing. She is no longer curious about George and whether or not he pees in the toilet or in the tree, or in the yellow hat.

She wants her diaper and she wants it now. I gotta pee!!! She cries from her potty chair, hands tucked below.

So I put the diaper on her (no need to traumatize, yet) and she skadiddles to the playroom. Two minutes later she hands the diaper back, wrapped tight and still steaming. Five pounder, I'm guessin'. Bladder of Steele. That'll serve us well, someday.

Tuesday: See Monday

Wednesday:
Senior Pictures.
First of all, my son approached my inquiry about senior pictures the same as he does questions about ACT applications, cleaning his room and current English grade: Huh?

Next came the argument:
Do I have to?.
Rite of Passage, says I.
Exasperated sigh. So you're telling me I can't be a senior without a senior picture?
Yes, that's what I'm telling you.
(I've only myself to blame. He wasn't pottied until 9th grade).

Then he was assigned to find a photographer.
How do I do that?
Have any of your friends had their pictures taken?
Huh?
Friends...pictures....have they?
Mom. ::insert OMG look:: We don't talk about stuff like that. Like "Dude, I had my senior pictures taken today, it was sweet."

He finally came up with a photographer and I made the appointment. Then came the outrage and disgust that this event was to suck up two hours of his precious sleep life. You'd think I'd asked him to look through his undie drawer, in search of my misplaced sani-thong.

Then came the argument about what to wear. Remarkably, he was able to pull a couple decent outfits from some dark, stinky place. But only after I threatened to take him shopping.

Overall, the shoot went better than I expected. The photographer was well-versed in methods of hooking the adolescent ego, without being schmaltzy. He even convinced Cam to walk to a nearby park, taking shots all the way down the busy street.

But dang, if I ain't parenting in a couple different worlds.

Thursday: I gained 10 pounds. (In all fairness, it took all day... )

Friday:
To husband, I say: I'm fat.
Says Husband, in return: But you try so hard not to be.

Saturday:
I cry.

Weighty update
I don't feel fat anymore. In fact, my jeans are so tight, I don't feel anything below the waist.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Passages, With Grace My Ass