On the rocks and straight up

There goes the neighborhood...

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 13:29:00 +0000

This week, after hitting up the drugstore for a super-antibiotic plus steroids, the kids and I were cruising through the parking lot of the grocery store/drugstore complex on the way out, when we saw it.

I am not making this up. It is not Photoshopped. And yes, I did turn around and go back to take a picture.

Photo conditions were not optimal: hanging out a car window laughing my ass off, iPhone shaking as a result, kids yelling from the backseat, "Mommy, what's so funny? What's so funny? What? What?", cars behind me honking at the idiot holding up traffic taking a picture of a random bumper.

Anyway, if you can't read the stickers from the photo, the one on the left says:

"Two's company ... three's a fantasy."

The one on the right says:

"Support porn. It's cheaper than dating."

The best part? There was convertible carseat strapped into the backseat.

My reaction?

Also real, and seen in that same parking lot earlier in the day.

This post is part of #iPPP (iPhone Photo Phun), where we link up photos taken from our smart phones. Any smart phone.

Red letters

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:14:00 +0000

I was always meant to be Joseph’s. What better sign than being born with his name tattooed onto my leathery skin? From boyhood, I was his constant companion, sitting on shelf after shelf until we arrived here at our permanent home, this cabin on the lake. Here he brought his wife, and inside my pages, joined her name to his. With each baby, with each marriage, with each death, I was inked again. Bearing witness.

When he took me to the porch each morning, I absorbed the oils from his fingers and the salt of his sorrows, and in return he took peace from my pages. From his lap I watched his lips move over my stories; his calloused hands carefully turning pages that crinkled like flakes of croissants. He paused to sip his coffee, staring out at the early morning fog on the lake. And he talked to God, and to me, like we were old friends.

We put the children to bed together every night with a story. Tiny Elizabeth, all dimpled cheeks and giggles, and her older brother David, literal to a fault, asking his father why the family hadn’t given away their money since Jesus said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven? Why were they living here at the lake when God called them to feed his sheep? There weren’t even any sheep at the lake. And why did they pray for the troops when Jesus said to love your enemies and bless those who curse you? David went on like this every night until Joseph finally said “Enough, now. Goodnight.”

David came to me often, restless, looking for answers in the place his father found his. But I had none for him. I watched from the table on the porch as he tried to find peace in pill bottles and vodka, and Joseph’s tears and raspy voice told me what I already knew about the rest of David’s life.

And then one day Joseph inscribed the details of David’s marriage along with the rest.

When David came to visit, to record the birth of his son in his own hand, his touch was foreign on my pages. And though they were soft, those hands were not gentle. He prayed over my pages and shocked me with his transgressions. Married just a year, but lost as ever.

When I couldn’t yield the answers he wanted, the rationalization for his decisions, the forgiveness for his sin, he slammed me down and ripped out a page of Matthew.

And then I heard him, down at the woodpile, and realized what page he had taken.

“And if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”

Screams.

Sirens.

Then silence.

So together, David, Joseph, and I were all ripped into pieces.

But Joseph has come back to me. We are broken, torn; but we are together, even as the fresh ink scars both of us, and his tears run down my pages as if they are my own.

***This piece is for the online writers' group Write on Edge (formerly the Red Dress Club).

The prompt was for memoir, but I ended up writing fiction. I welcome all constructive criticism.

The prompt: Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul? The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” Tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

Diagnosis? Children.

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 02:41:00 +0000

After 6 weeks of feeling like crap, I finally dragged myself to the doctor yesterday.

“How long have you been feeling bad?”

“Well, since the beginning of December, at least.”

“Why didn’t you come in before?”

“Well, I have 5 year old twins. One of them had eye surgery in late October, the other one had a continuous stream of non-strep tonsillitis episodes last year (seriously, seven of them), then had her tonsils and adenoids out in early December. Then, three days later, the other twin got strep. Then I was dealing with both of them sick. Then I got laryngitis again and y’all sent me to the ENT and he did the scope thingy through the nose and decided I had acid reflux and needed voice therapy, and then I had to have an evaluation with the voice therapist and she did another scope thingy on the back of the tongue--I wish I had my iPod with me, the pictures are crazy--and I’m supposed to go back for six weeks of voice therapy but obviously I haven’t had time to do that, either, and anyway, it’s not like I’m an opera singer, and then the other twin--”

“Which one?”

“Boy. Not the one who had the tonsillectomy. That’s my daughter. Anyway, he got strep again in late December. Last week he got a sinus infection, an ear infection, and related conjunctivitis. My daughter’s been coughing for 9 days and yesterday the pediatrician put her on an antibiotic for a sinus infection. And my husband’s sick, too, but he won’t admit it. So ... this is kind of the first time I’ve had a chance to come in.”

::Silence, as the doctor stares at me::

“Oh, and I’m losing enough hair that my husband is concerned about the plumbing. I know you’re not my endocrinologist, but while I’m here, can you check my thyroid levels?”

“Ok, why don’t you hop up here and we’ll take a look?”

After the requisite throat swab, peering in ears, mouth, and palpating of lymph nodes, the doctor started writing on his prescription pad.

“I’m giving you a ten day course of Zithromax.”

“Wait. I thought that was a five day thing.”

“It usually is.”

“So why ten?”

“Because you’ve been sick for over a month.”

“Well, what do I have? Strep? A sinus infection?”

He handed me the prescription and patted me on the arm.

“Children. You have children.”

In which I demonstrate my math and history prowess via photos

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 20:27:00 +0000

I do not have a degree in early childhood education.

However, over Christmas, I was able to formulate a theorem of sorts, involving math, children, and history.

The Angelaian Theorem:

Christmas ornaments

plus 5 year olds up to no good (squared)

equals Anne Boleyn.

That is all.

Blame it on the dog? I don't think so, Milli Vanilli.

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 01:07:00 +0000

We’re not quite to the level of “the dog ate my homework” yet, but my 5 year old twins have suddenly mastered the art of blaming inanimate objects for their misbehavior.

To wit:

Someone drew on the wall in the playroom, and when questioned, I was informed that it was probably SuperPuppy (a stuffed dog with a giant red bow and a definite lack of opposable thumbs).
Someone covered portions of the walls in both of their bedrooms with a menagerie of animal stickers (they call them their “zoos”). On inquiry, I was told it was the fault of Blue Dog (a stuffed blue dog) and Ellie (a pink stuffed elephant).
Someone blew up the playroom. It literally looked like the aftermath of a tornado, except with intact walls and windows. I was informed this was likely the fault of a large purple manatee and an oversized frog.
Grant’s new green shirt sprouted holes all over the front. Holes in suspiciously straight lines. The kind you might get from bear claws, or, say, safety scissors. He told me that a monster probably did it.

Perhaps anyone with a five year old can relate to this. Or maybe it’s just me. Obviously my kids think highly of my intellect.

The other day the kids were throwing things around the living room, and as I watched a small turtle hurtle past our flat-screen, I’d had it. I announced that this behavior was unacceptable.

Naturally, they told me they weren’t doing it. It was the animals.

So I said, “Fine. If you’re going to blame things on your stuffed animals, or if your animals are so poorly behaved, the next time they do something bad that you know they’re not supposed to do, I’m taking them away. You got that?”

I got a chorus of sheepish, “Yes, ma’am’s,” and they went upstairs, ostensibly to clean the playroom. Personally, I think it’s where they keep their maps, battle plans, and small arms.

Anyway, this weekend we ended up at the pediatrician’s office for the inaugural visit of 2012. I sent the twins on to the sick waiting room while I checked in.

Now, the waiting room’s chief attraction is a ginormous fish tank. It’s been there since they were infants. And since that time, I’ve told them over and over that they are not allowed to touch the aquarium glass or make loud noises, because it can make the fish very sick. They’ve always been good about this, but I make sure to remind them, because it’s so tempting to touch the glass.

Before they went into the waiting room, I reminded them not to touch the fish tank.

While I was checking in, I took a few steps over to the side, looked into the waiting room, and reminded them again, not to touch the fish tank.

And then collected my receipt and check in sheet, walked into the waiting room, and found my two darlings standing on chairs, beating the side of the fish tank with Blue Dog and Ellie.

If that weren’t bad enough, they weren’t alone in the waiting room. There was an immaculately dressed and coiffed woman sitting in the far corner with her ridiculously obedient child, staring at me, as if I were THAT mother. You know, the one who has absolutely no control over her children whatsoever? The one who wears baggy jeans, clogs, a fleece, and no makeup to the pediatrician’s office on a Sunday morning? The one whose head explodes when she finds her offspring misbehaving when she should have been with them in the first place, the one who frog marches them over to the nearest couch, tells them to sit, and then in a very low voice, tells them something horrible enough to make them both start screaming and crying in a manner you would expect from, say, a two year old?

Yes, THAT mother. Um, that would be me.

My head exploded because when I got into the room and said, “What on earth are you doing? I told you not to touch the fish tank!!!” the kids both replied that they hadn’t done it, Blue Dog and Polar Bear had.

So I sat them down and told them that Blue Dog and Polar Bear were now mine. Gone. Perhaps forever.

::Cue tantrums of the massive variety::

When we got home, Grant said, “But I can still play with Christmas (another stuffed dog) and SuperPuppy, right?”

I said, “Wait a minute. They were in your backpack at the doctor’s office with Blue Dog, weren’t they?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then no.”

::cue wailing::

“Give them here. They were co-conspirators. Guilty by association.”

“But Mommy!!! They didn’t really do it! I did it!”

“Yes, Grant, I know. But I told you the next time you blamed something on your stuffed animals you were going to lose them. So hand them over.”

::much wailing::

Anne decided to weigh in. “Mommy, here’s Polar Bear. I don’t mind if you take her. I don’t really like to cuddle with her anyway.”

“Ok, then, go grab your manatee.”

She trotted off and came back with her favorite toy, a giant purple manatee.

“You like cuddling with Flipper, right?”

“Yes, she’s my favorite!”

“Hand her over. She’s mine.”

::dual wailing::

“But Mommy!”

That night, Flipper the manatee, Polar Bear, Blue Dog and his associates all spent the evening in a trash bag in the laundry room. We told the kids that if there were any more incidents where they blamed something else for their actions, that the bag would go in the trash can.

After a night and day of good behavior, Mark relented and gave the animals back. (Personally, I would have left them in the joint for a week or so.)

Outcome: so far, so good. I’ll keep you posted.

A belated Merry Christmas to all! (With drunken Santa activities and pole dancing)

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 20:01:00 +0000

Here’s hoping Christmas found you all healthy and happy and munching on chestnuts roasting by a blazing fire, sipping hot cocoa while gazing out the window at ethereal snowflakes floating down to coat your world in shimmery magic for Christmas morning.

Our house? Not so much.

Everything was just peachy (other than Anne getting over having her tonsils and adenoids removed, Grant just having been diagnosed with his second case of strep throat in the month of December, and my suspiciously sore throat, cough, fever, and threatening laryngitis).

We got home from church Christmas Eve to tackle that most daunting of tasks:

Find all the Santa presents
Smuggle them past the kids’ bedrooms without waking them up (difficulty level high when presents all wrapped in super-crinkley Target bags and parents prone to walking into walls)
Assemble said presents.

That’s only three things. For all you non-parents out there, I know it doesn’t sound that bad. For you I have two words: JUST WAIT.

Mark and my dear sister spent hours assembling a Hot Wheels garage and a giant marble run. I contributed by live tweeting. If you’re wondering how it went, here's my twitter feed. Unfortunately, it's broken up into two sections, and you'll need to read from the bottom up. But still, it gives you a flavor of the evening.

It was all worth it. We ended up with two happy kids and one clogged garbage disposal. The culprit? A Nerf gun dart. I am not making this up.

Now the thought of “taking down Christmas,” as Mark puts it, has me ready to break into hives. I think we’ll keep it around a while longer. In the spirit of keeping it alive, I’d like to share one of my favorite Christmas videos. This is the a cappella group Straight No Chaser from Indiana University, performing their version of the 12 days of Christmas. Enjoy!

And if that weren't enough, I feel compelled to link to this video, which will rock your world and your preconceived notions of pole dancing. It's like lyrical dance...on a pole. If you consider that it might have been the North Pole, it even ties into this post quite nicely.

Siri (my intelligent ass)

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 15:20:00 +0000

A personal assistant always seemed like a nice thing to have, and Apple has brought one to the masses in the form of Siri, the artificial intelligence built into its new iPhone 4s.

I was thrilled when Mark got me an iPhone for my birthday. It hadn’t shipped yet, so he printed off the product page and put it in my birthday card.

I should have been apprehensive when I saw this:

Because “intelligent ass” is as good a way as any to describe Siri’s personality. She’s a cheeky little minx. Sometimes she works exactly as planned, and at others....well, read on.

This morning I asked, “Siri, what is the meaning of life?”

Response: “To think about things like that.”

Siri and I have only known each other two days, but I think that’s long enough for her to be pronouncing my name correctly. “Angie” is not that difficult. But she insists on pronouncing it “Aingie,” which makes me want to throw my phone at oncoming traffic.

This morning I set out on a quest to get Siri to pronounce my name correctly. Among her many flaws, she suffers from selective idiocy. Tell her you need a place to hide a body and she’s on it. She asks if you’d prefer swamps, metal foundries, dumps, mines, or reservoirs, and offers to find one close to your current location.

But try to get her to say your name correctly and she says, “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘You’re not pronouncing my name correctly.’ Would you like me to perform a web search?”

“No, I want you to say my name differently.”

“You are Aingie, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not how you say it!”

“Calling (random person), mobile.”

“No! Cancel!”

I finally swore at her, and she primly responded, “There’s no need for profanity.”

“Fine,” I said, “See how you like it if I start to call you Suri.”

“There is no Yousuri in your contacts. Who would you like me to call?”

Suddenly I remembered something I’d read about how this artificial intelligence worked. It learns as it goes. Was I setting up a bad relationship with my personal assistant?

“Siri, are you mad at me?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“Siri, I love you.”

“Impossible.”

“No, really, Siri, I love you.”

“Maybe not.”

“I love you...”

“I bet you say that to all your Apple devices.”

“I love you...”

“Our love is like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.”

“Do you like hairy potter?” (That’s how it came out on the screen-- ‘hairy.’)

“I’d rather not say, Angie.”

“Why not?”

“You see things, and you say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were, and I say, ‘Why not?’”

“You’re very philosophical this morning.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Who were you quoting earlier?”

“I’m Siri. But enough about me... how can I help you?”

As we really are

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 22:54:00 +0000

In the middle of my grandmother's 100th birthday party, somewhere after the bread pudding but before the champagne toast, the photographer came to our end of the table.

We have endless photos for our children of the two of us, smiling into the camera. The laptop is packed with family shots where someone is tired, cranky, not smiling, or sticking a tongue out for posterity. Even if everyone is smiling, it tends to look like we're candidates for a police lineup.

I wanted to capture a image of just the two of us; a slice of the evening that will one day let our children see that the relationship between their mother and father is richer and deeper than they imagined when they saw us only as purveyors of food, toys, and hugs.

I told Mark what I had in mind, and he thought it was sappy. "Why would you want to snuggle my face in a picture?" he asked.

"Just trust me," I said, leaning into him, letting my face settle next to his, loving the familiarity of our planes and curves fitting together. I wanted this photo so our kids could see us one day as we are together, as we are when no one is watching.

He sighed, leaned into me, and we both exhaled and relaxed into each other.

The shutter must have clicked, but I don't remember hearing it.

**This is a memoir piece for Write on Edge, an online writers' workshop. The prompt: This week, I’m asking you to take us into the moment your favorite photograph of yourself was taken, to show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.

Wordless Wednesday: what my daughter brought home from preschool

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 15:24:00 +0000

This is the closest to wordless my Wednesdays are going to get, because I didn't even know what to say when my daughter brought this piece of art home from preschool earlier this week.

Yep, that's a big, fat, FU.

With her carefully traced hand in the middle. Note the prominent middle finger.

Another look?

When it comes to the teen years, we are so screwed. I'm gonna go curl up in the fetal position and weep now.

22 things I HAVE done

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 16:43:00 +0000

1. Jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

2. Adopted an abused and neglected dog. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made, even if this Christmas card was under-appreciated.

3. Done a drug-raid ride-along with the police as a journalist.

4. Traveled by myself through two countries whose languages I didn’t speak.

5. Partied in Tijuana.

6. Scuba dived on an iron-clad steamer in 100 feet of water.

7. Tried to give my anger to God in a collection plate.

8. Ridden on a motorcycle.

9. Danced on a bar.

10. Owned and ridden a unicycle.

11. Been in an elevator with Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thornton.

12. Rode horses for years and won a dressage class.

13. Dressed as the Blonde Ambition version of Madonna at a Halloween party--and caught a husband as a result.

14. Endured 3 months of bedrest and preterm labor with twins and delivered two healthy babies.

15. Written an epic 100 item bucket list (and made a fair dent in it).

16. Had my ass kicked by postpartum depression, then returned the favor.

17. Faced my biggest fear when my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. (He's was given a clean bill of health at his last appointment with the oncologist, by the way!)

18. Did my own makeup and hair for my wedding (and still don’t understand why everyone thinks this was such a big deal).

19. Did my own makeup for last Halloween’s “sexy zombie” look.

20. Fallen down the stairs of the Anne Frank house (to applause from the people lined up to go in).

21. Used part of my semester abroad to bring “Animal House” to the Brits, along with toga parties and hall crawls.

22. Was there for my father when he was dying.

***This post was written for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. The prompt: Write a list of 22 things you have done.

Wordless Wednesday: the Titanic and Beyoncé

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:35:00 +0000

I know it's supposed to be wordless Wednesday, but bear with me, because this may require some explanation.

Mark and I took a weekend jaunt to his alma mater this weekend for homecoming. Friday night the campus takes on a carnival atmosphere. There was a Ferris wheel, a carnival ride that would have made me lose my dinner for sure, a bounce house, and....

The sinking Titanic.

I told Mark I had to take pictures because nobody would believe me otherwise. This is a giant inflatable thing just like a bounce house, except people climbed up the steep grade in the middle so they could slide down the deck.

My poor iPod camera didn't do this thing justice, by the way. It was huge. And complete with giant inflated propellers on the back (which Mark refused to stop the car to allow me to photograph).

Here's another view. Huge. Titanic, even.

On a completely unrelated note, I told Mark that if we ran across any big metal chickens this weekend, he had to let me buy one. He agreed, but added that he felt sure no such chickens would be forthcoming.

Imagine his shock as we sauntered down the street to dinner and ran across this:

I promptly dubbed it Beyoncé Jr., and demanded that Mark take a photo. Of course I wanted to get it, but Mark wasn't keen on a $150 metal chicken. It seems The Bloggess has singlehandedly created a market for metal chickens and through sheer demand, driven up the price. Oh, well. One can dream.

Three blocks later....

I grabbed Mark's arm and gasped. "Holy mother of chickens! It's HER! It's actually Beyoncé!"

Bizarrely, I was more excited by this than I would have been by a sighting of the actual Beyoncé. Yes, I know, I'm odd.

Sadly, Beyoncé was locked in an art gallery that was closed for the night. And, as Mark kept asking, "Where the hell would we put it, anyway?"

***If you are unfamiliar with Beyoncé the giant metal chicken, you must go visit The Bloggess and read about it immediately.

Kafka in a minivan

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 19:13:00 +0000

The drive home from preschool is not that long. And yet, it’s quite long enough. Today, I was hoping the kids would tell me what they learned about recycling at school, but instead....

“Mommy, what if your head just exploded?” I look in the rear view mirror to see Anne gleefully pantomiming an exploding head.

“Well, it would make a big mess, and since I wouldn’t be around anymore, you and Grant would have to clean it up. So... you’d better hope that my head doesn’t explode.”

“But wouldn’t it be funny if your head exploded?” Both kids cackle madly, and another glance in the mirror shows Anne with her cheeks puffed out, smacking her hands against her face so the air explodes out of her mouth in a whoosh.

All I can think of is John Belushi in Animal House, in that scene in the cafeteria. You know, when he stuffed his mouth and said, “What am I? What am I?” Then bam! slammed his hands into his cheeks so that mashed potatoes exploded onto the uptight sorority chick across the table as he yelled, “I’m a zit!”

So even though I don’t want to encourage joking about Mommy’s head exploding, my daughter is doing a perfect John Belushi impression without even realizing it, and I can’t help but giggle.

And it only feeds the fire.

“It would be so funny, Mommy!” Grant chimes in. “If your head just, exploded, like, boom!”

“You wouldn’t think it was funny if it happened while I was driving you two around,” I say. “Then there’d be a mess and you’d be stuck in traffic in a van with the child locks on.” I emphatically push the child lock button. They loathe child locks.

They ponder. For about three seconds.

Then, “Mommy?”

“Yes, Anne?”

“Do you know what my favorite thing is?”

Pink? Unicorns? Candy? Twirling? Antagonizing her brother? Dancing to Vanilla Ice? Her stuffed pink elephant with the purple ears? “Um, not today. What?”

“God. God is the best thing ever.”

“Well, yes. Yes, he is.”

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Anne?”

“Do you know what ‘chimney’ starts with? The letter R!” Both kids break into uncontrollable giggles.

“Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but there’s no letter R in the whole word.”

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Grant?”

“Wanna hear a joke?”

“Sure.”

“Red, blue....underpants!!!!”

I can’t hear myself think for all the laughing. Which is a good thing, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t get it.

**Image source: http://ow.ly/6VqEF

Threads of a memory

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 11:54:00 +0000

The tulle was finely woven, fluid as silk stockings. Intricate flowers of lace twined around the whole border, an alencon halo. Alencon. I whispered the word, tasting its strange French flavor. My breath caught with the creamy threads as they snagged on the dry skin of my hand.

When I eased the comb into my hair, it tugged at my roots, whispering that the 32 years of marriage it represented were solid, substantial. I slid in pins to anchor it, then it trailed me down the aisle.

Something old. Borrowed. A thing of fragile beauty, crafted to endure.

** This is a memoir piece written for Write on Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club), an online community for writers. It's short, because we were given a limit of 100 words. (Mine clocked in at 98.)

The prompt: This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell me what it is, conjure it.

Naked yoga at midnight, anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 13:27:00 +0000

Hey, y’all. I’m still here. It’s been a hectic few months.

Pop quiz: where does Gimli (the axe-wielding dwarf from Lord of the Rings) live when he’s not busy slaying orcs?

Answer: my head.

It’s the only possible explanation for the migraine madness that has been my life. I began tracking my migraines seriously with the aid of an app (no, I’m not kidding) in the last ten days of June. During which I had ten migraines. Followed by twenty three in July. Fourteen in August. Ten in September.

That = incapacitating.

However, for the first time in a long time, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. (And it doesn’t feel like a train.) Notice the downward trend in the numbers? It may not seem like much, but it’s a huge reduction, and it is steadily going down. With the help of my new neurologist, new medication, and some radical dietary and lifestyle changes, my migraines have become less frequent and less severe.

They’re not gone, though, by any means. There were two blissful weeks when I had no headaches, and I want that feeling back. At this point I’d do anything for it. Gimli was here just this morning, though, swinging his axe behind my left eye. I pitched the bastard an Imitrex and it seems to have done the trick.

But in an effort to keep the axe out from behind my eyes and the base of my skull (Gimli’s favorite targets), I’ve resorted to what may sound like crazy stuff.

For instance:

No more coffee. This was a real challenge. Mark laughed when I told him I was going to stop drinking coffee. I’m pretty sure he hid in the bathroom and wept, anticipating that lack of caffeine would turn me into a pre-menstrual she-devil from the 9th circle of hell. Considering that I wasn’t even functional enough in the mornings to make my own coffee (he’s been doing it for me since we married), it was a reasonable fear. Maybe that’s why all the knives disappeared from the block while we tapered from high octane to part decaf to none.

Someone on Twitter likened giving up coffee to giving up orgasms. While I wouldn’t go that far, I do love coffee in all forms. Starting in high school I depended on it to get my mornings started. By my first year of law school I was drinking a half a pot a morning. No more. These days I’m drinking peppermint tea. And I have a much easier time getting out of bed in the morning. (But no, it’s not the same.)

Also, no alcohol. Since July, I’ve abstained, except for two occasions. Both drinks were high quality vodka with a touch of club soda, and I only had one. My head didn’t react to either, so I’m hoping alcohol will eventually prove to be ok in moderation. Now, wine is a separate category. At this point I wouldn’t dare touch it. And I adore wine. And bourbon. Hey, there’s a shot glass at the top of this page. Mama likes the sauce. But she likes being pain free better.

Most importantly, I’ve changed my diet to include more greens and less processed food, and less animal products as well. No, I’m not a vegan or even a vegetarian, but I’m now the proud owner of a blender with more horsepower than our lawnmower, and I fill it with a mix of leafy greens and veggies daily, blending up green concoctions that Mark finds noxious but I’ve grown to enjoy. Chinese broccoli with dandelion greens and carrot tops, anyone?

All this has meant I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time reading about the effects of diet on migraine and inflammatory disease, not to mention shopping for crazy unfamiliar items at Earth Fare, and trying to cram a produce aisle’s worth of greens into the fridge each week.

I think it’s helping. I pray it’s helping. And I’m going to keep it up, because Lord knows, I don’t want the thing my kids to remember about their childhood to be all the time Mommy spent in bed in a dark room. At this point I’ll try anything.

So if you tell me that doing yoga naked under a full moon will help, you can expect to see me on the lawn at midnight with my mat.

I don’t even care if you alert the paparazzi.

Photo source: http://ow.ly/6LDLM

The Great Monkey Deception

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 23:57:00 +0000

Y'all are not going to believe this.

This morning, as I was eating cereal and waiting for the coffee to clear the dregs of sleep from my brain, the kids were watching TV. (Don't judge; I'm a terrible person, let alone mother, before I'm sufficiently caffeinated.)

Anyway, they were watching Curious George. We've seen every episode a thousand times by now, but somehow, I never quite noticed...

THAT CURIOUS GEORGE HAS NO TAIL.

See?!? I am so not making this up.

Now, every Curious George book I've seen starts with the phrase "This is George. George is a monkey," or some such. All the PBS disclaimers at the end of the episodes say, "George is a monkey. He can do things you can't do." You know, so that if your children try to swing from tree branches by their nonexistent tails and fall and break their legs, you can't sue the network.

Ahem.

Anyway, according to Wikipedia, this means George is not a monkey, but an ape (perhaps a chimp), or a gorilla (um, no).

I mentioned The Great Monkey Deception to Mark as he was on his way out the door, and he said, "Well, maybe he's a macack." At least, that's what I thought he said, because frankly, I assumed he made the word up.

So I said, "Yeah, right, George the curious macack. Very funny."

But you know how we established in the predator urine post that Mark knows everything?

This, from the Wikipedia entry on Curious George: "...though it should be noted that some species of monkeys, such as the Barbary macaque, have little or no tail."

Somebody please sign my husband up for Jeopardy. And order me a large slice of humble pie.

Supershoes and bathroom blues

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 01:13:00 +0000

“Mommy! My shoes hurt!”

Words dreaded by mothers (especially mothers of multiples) everywhere. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And that means a trip to the shoe store.

I’m sure you remember what transpired on our one and only visit to Payless Shoes. Well, this trip was much more expensive, prolonged, and involved public nudity (mine).

This particular shoe store has become our store of choice for two reasons: it’s small enough that it would be impossible to lose the kids, and it has a childproof lock on the door so the they can’t run out and into the parking lot.

The trip goes something like this:

“Mommy, can we get these Jibbitz?”

“No. Stand up so this nice lady can measure your feet. No, stand up! Stop leaning over, you have to put your weight on your foot so she can see how big it is.”

“Mommy, can we get these Jibbitz?”

“No, I already told you we cannot. You need sneakers and you need church shoes. Not Crocs.”

“Mommy, can I get just one Jibbitz? They have Woody and Buzz.”

“No. I’m trying to talk to this nice lady about what shoes they have in your size. Go sit over there. Wait! Anne! Stop playing with those stools! You’re going to get hurt!”

“Mommy, how ‘bout just one Jibbitz?”

“For the last time, no dadgum Jibbitz!”

The nice lady’s smile is starting to look pained. She goes to the back and returns with a tower of shoes, and we begin a joint effort to get them on Grant’s feet.

The first shoe has barely gone over his heel when we hear, “They hurt! Mommy, they hurt!”

Ok, no problem. Bigger size.

The nice lady laces the bigger shoe, and Grant busts out melodrama worthy of Hamlet. “Hurt! Mommy, these shoes hurt!”

Ok, different style. Hideous style, but at this point, he has no shoes to wear to summer camp tomorrow, due to the blanket ban on Crocs, so I don’t care what they look like.

Our saleslady’s cohort, all bright and perky, comes out from the back to extol the virtues of this Japanese sneaker. “They’re light! Really light! So you can run like Superman!”

We all agree; with these ugly Japanese shoes, my son’s running abilities will magically transform from Phoebe from Friends to Clark Kent without glasses. We carefully velcro him into the shoes and I hold my breath as he stands up. They are the ugliest things I have ever seen; retro and futuristic melded together into navy, red, and white lightweight supershoes.

“Mommy, they hurt!”

A flash of pink pulls my eye to Anne, now perched on top of two stools she’s stacked on top of each other, approximately 5 feet off the floor.

“Anne, if you fall and break your neck I am so not taking you to the hospital.”

I feel the “Bad Mother!” stares, and I relent. “Ok, fine, if you break your neck I will call 911. Now get off those stools! How many times have I told you not to play with those?”

The shoe ladies fuss over Grant’s feet, finally pronouncing the Japanese supershoes a perfect fit, so we ask him to do a superhero run around the store. Which he does. The shoes are no less hideous in motion, but if they fit, I’m a huge fan.

But at the end of his victory lap, Grant pulls a face. “They hu-urt,” he says.

Lather, rinse, repeat, until there are no more athletic shoes in stock in his size to try. With every single shoe, he howled like his foot had found an errant bear trap instead of a retro New Balance.

We give up and move on to water shoes. A full hour later, Grant hates anything that touch his feet, and the saleslady has entered a period of glazed, near-catatonic silence. Bright and perky has started to tell me, repeatedly, about their fantastic return policy, and how perhaps if we just took the shoes home, he could break them in a little and maybe he’d come to like them.

Then I remember: church shoes. I lunge for a box of bucks (the saleslady having mysteriously gone from catatonic to supersonic to ring up another customer) and shove them on Grant’s feet.

“They hurt!”

“Of course they do. Now, let’s get somebody to check them.”

Both saleswomen reluctantly check and pronounce the bucks a great fit. Over his howling, I say we’ll take them. Plus a pair of sneakers he hates and a pair of water shoes that make him cry.

And then of course somebody has to go pee so I herd the children through the open curtain of the stockroom straight back to the bathroom. They each go, and then, as I’m doing my business, I hear the pop of the lock and the creak of the door, and I look up from my perch on the toilet...straight out into the front of the store.

Straight out into the front of the store with people in it.

People watching me wipe my nether regions.

Since my brain exploded, I don’t remember much until later in the day. Mark asked Grant to show him his new shoes, and there was such weeping and gnashing of teeth that Mark said, “Fine. You don’t get to go to preschool tomorrow.”

Oh, hell no he didn’t.

“Honey, I had no idea tomorrow was take your son to work day.”

His eyes widened. “I didn’t actually mean it,” he hissed.

Men. Boys. Is there that much of a difference?

*This post is linked to this week's prompt at The Red Dress Club. The assignment? A memoir piece about an embarrassing moment.

Predator urine. No, really.

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 03:20:00 +0000

Hi.

Yes, I’m still here. I could try to explain why there haven’t been many posts here at On the rocks and straight up in the last couple of months...but I’d rather share what Stephen King says in “On Writing,” his book about how he came to be a writer: “Then as now, I tend to go through periods of idleness followed by periods of workaholic frenzy.”

Yes, that.

Anyway.

This weekend’s paper featured an in-depth article on how to keep deer (and other pests) out of your garden. A solution for almost every pest involved spreading “predator urine” around the affected plants, or, for gophers and other tunneling beasties, soaking something in predator urine and dropping it into their dens.

I thought this was our paper’s way of avoiding an uncomfortable subject by substituting a preferred word. For instance, a large gathering downtown over Memorial Day resulted in what was unquestionably a riot. As in, 30,000 people gathered in one place. The mob commenced to loot, fight, and eventually shoot one guy in the head. The paper is resolute in its use of the word “melee” instead of “riot” to describe the incident.

Naturally I assumed that “use predator urine” was the paper’s polite way of saying “go pee in your garden.” The venison spaghetti sauce served at all our family Thanksgivings proves nothing if not that we are predators of deer, right?

Right.

And given local ordinances about public urination, the paper can’t come out saying, “Hey, guys, go take a whiz off the porch into your wife’s flowers so the deer won’t eat them.”

Right?

Apparently not.

I shared my theory with Mark, and he shot it down, telling me that no, the paper meant that you should use actual predator urine. Not husband pee.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “You are so messing with me. Like you could go out and buy predator urine.”

“Oh, you can get it at Home Depot.”

“You are so full of it.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Yeah, right. You just want me to go into Home Depot and ask ‘Hey, dude, where do you keep the predator urine?’ And then he’ll be all, ‘Uh, I got a crazy lady on Aisle 6 wanting to buy urine.’”

“I’m serious. They have fox urine.”

“Riiiight.”

“They do! And it stinks. Trust me, you do not want to smell like fox urine.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re serious.”

He looks into my eyes. “I’m serious.”

“Ok, then look it up online and show me.”

He moves to my computer.

“Wait! Don’t you dare Google ‘fox urine’ on my computer. Use yours.”

“I’m not. I’m going to the Home Depot website. Though maybe they don’t sell it online.”

“Yeah. That would be convenient.”

He types. He clicks. Products appear. None of them are fox urine.

“Huh. I guess they don’t have it online.”

“Shocker! Might that be because you are so screwing with me?”

Mark continues clicking and typing. “I know that they have wolf, bobcat, and coyote urine...I’m sure there is other stuff, but I don’t know what.”

“Ok, say you’re right. How do they collect this urine? I’ve gotten urine samples from a 4 year old at the pediatrician and I would rather chew my own hand off then try and catch one from a coyote.”

“Captives. Zoos, breeders.”

“You’re telling me that our zoo is in a major monetary crisis when they could be selling all of their animal waste products to major home improvement stores?”

“Sure.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to add to this ridiculousness?” I ask, now typing furiously to record for posterity Mark’s pitiful attempt at wife ridicule.

“Yes. I’d like to add that you think it’ll be fun to do this sarcastic, scathing post, but you’re the one who’s gonna be embarrassed when it’s confirmed that they do sell all these products.”

“Ok, fine, you get on your brand new computer and Google ‘captive urine.’”

He gets on his computer, types for a minute, and then smugly hands it over.

http://www.amazon.com/GreenSense-Red-Fox-Urine/dp/B00025H3DA/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1309612470&sr=8-3

You’re kidding me.

Right there on Amazon. Red fox urine. Also available? Urine from wolves, coyotes, and bobcats.

Of course it is. Because Mark knows everything.

I stare at the screen, searching for telltales that would mark this as a fake site. Trying to figure out how these are joke products.

“So why didn’t you want to Google it?” Mark asks. A smirk dances around the corners of his mouth.

“Because you can Google perfectly innocent things and get horrible links to Thai whorehouses and stuff, and I’m pretty sure ‘fox urine’ would lead to the kind of viruses that come screaming out of your laptop and splatter you with giant oozing sores.”

“Thai whorehouses?”

“Yes. Or massage parlors, whatever. Stop smirking.”

Later, in the bathroom, we’re both brushing our teeth, and I’m trying to salvage some of my dignity by reiterating my previous argument.

“You know, I still think they used the phrase ‘predator urine’ because they couldn’t say on the section front of a reputable newspaper that they wanted you to go pee in your own flowers. I mean, if your cousin Tom proves nothing else, it’s that men are deer predators.”

I continue to talk as Mark swishes with Listerine.

“And that part about using predator urine in gopher holes? I mean really. Peeing on your flowers is one thing. Peeing in a gopher hole? What if the gopher jumped out and just, you know, latched on?”

He chokes on his Listerine and spits into the sink.

“You know that gopher in Caddyshack would have done it. I bet they’re all like that. Isn’t that why people have gopher bombs?”

“Why don’t you Google it?”

“I am so not Googling ‘gopher attacks penis.’”

“Ok, well, try ‘cougar attacks penis.’ I’m sure you’ll have better luck.”

I’ll leave that one to you, dear readers.

On the rockstars

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Fri, 06 May 2011 14:34:00 +0000

It's Friday!

I still can't talk, so I've been reading quite a bit. There is some fantastic stuff out there on the interwebz, y'all.

So...this has prompted me to introduce a new feature: On the rockstars. I'll link to fantastic posts, and then you clicky the linky, and go read. Yes? Yes.

This week's rockstars, in no particular order:

The Ups and Downs, by Lori at In Pursuit of It All (formerly In Pursuit of Martha Points). If you're a homeowner, you will laugh.

My TV turned on is fine, Thank You, by Jennifer at The Martha Project. If you have children, you will laugh.

TV is FUCKING CRUCIAL, by Benjamin at My Dad Homies. If you have a pulse, you will laugh. You may want to swallow anything you're drinking before reading.

Finally, Why Writers Drink, by Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds. If you are a writer, this will probably make you snort bourbon out your nose.

Enjoy.

Prison (and other possible complications from laryngitis)

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Thu, 05 May 2011 02:56:00 +0000

After my beloved little petri dishes passed along the viral (“Sorry! There’s not anything we can do for that!”) illness from hell, I’ve been coughing. Enough that I’ve lost my voice completely.

Shut up. It’s not that funny.

Mark has been on a business trip, so I’ve been parenting kinda like a chimpanzee:

Clap.

Point.

Snap fingers.

Cough.

Clap angrily.

Cluck tongue.

Shrug shoulders.

Cough.

Point to something else.

Shake head furiously.

Mime brushing teeth.

Cough.

The twins think I’ve lost my mind as well as my voice.

You know what? They might be right.

Anyway, as I was getting ready to take them to school this morning, I made sure to pack a notebook and pen in my purse, in case a dire need to communicate should arise. I had all sorts of scenarios in mind. And after my socks, sharks, and other irrational fears post, are you that surprised?

Didn’t think so.

There are a billion reasons I could have needed that notebook. A cop could have violated the unspoken “We don’t pull over ponytailed and harassed looking women driving minivans, even if they are reaching into the backseat to swat at small children and swerving all over the road” rule. And if that happened, I would totally have had to write to him. No way he could have heard what’s left of my whisper over the barrage of twin-fire.

“Mommy? That’s a policeman! Why is he at your window? Is he going to take you to jail? Can we all go? Hi, policeman!”

“Mommy, is that policeman a boy or a girl? Does it have a penis?”

“Hey, Mr. Policeman! When I grow up? I wanna be a garbage man! Can we go visit your jail now?”

“He’s...he’s gonna be a garbage man and I’m gonna be an ice cream girl!”

“Do you know what number Thomas is? He’s the number 1 blue engine!!!”

“Hey! Mr. Policeman? Do you know any fire trucks?”

“Can we go see the jail now?”

My alternate scenario? We get into a car wreck. Hanging upside-down from my seatbelt, the paramedics try to coax emergency contact info out of me. But I can’t talk. They assume traumatic brain injury and I end up on a table with someone rooting around in my grey matter.

Or, most likely, and potentially the most disastrous, another mother waves hi from a distance as I herd the twins into into school. She yells a greeting. I smile, serenely and silently waving back. (If you don’t know me personally, well, let’s just say “serene and silent” is not exactly my style.) “Who pissed in her cornflakes? What a bitch,” she thinks.

So obviously I packed my notebook.

School dropoff went smoothly, thanks to my adaptation of the universal sign for choking. (FYI: universal sign for laryngitis: clutch one side of your neck while using the opposite hand to point to your throat and mouth “laryngitis.”)

Back in the van, I considered my to-do list and realized I need to go to the bank. On the way, I mentally congratulated myself for having the foresight to bring my notebook and pen. Clearly the drive-through wasn’t an option, so I would have to go in.

I was mentally composing the note in my head when the good Lord literally stopped me in my tracks. A red arrow in the left turn lane is probably the only reason I’m not in prison right this very moment.

I was on my way to the bank.

With a notepad.

And a plan to hand the teller a note.

That, dear friends, is what happens when you think ahead.

The Little Engine That Couldn't: How to short-circuit a preschooler's tantrum

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 22:35:00 +0000

Eureka, people. I found a sure-fire way to make a preschooler so confused she stopped a tantrum.

I turned it into a grammar lesson.

“I can’t” is A’s new battle cry, and it’s been so bad that Mark went looking for a copy of “The Little Engine That Could” this weekend. We now have one on order from Amazon. Until it arrives, we’ve been doing our best to assure A that she can.

And that works....not at all. She gets angrier and keeps repeating “I can’t!” until she’s worked herself into a sweaty red-faced tantrumy mess. And the girl’s got pipes.

The very second I got the twins into the car after preschool today she revved up for a tantrum of epic proportions. The subject: she didn’t want to have a nap or quiet time. Did I mention she was screaming? And that we were in the car? And that I was recovering from a two day migraine?

“I can’t, Mommy!” she wailed, over and over. Each high-pitched syllable was an ice pick to the back of my right eye.

“You can,” I said. “We have to think like The Little Engine That Could. Think positively. ‘I think I can, I think I can,’” I chanted. We were hitting every red light the city had to offer, and I was trying to convince myself as much as A.

“No, Mommy, I can’t!”

Positive. Find the positive. Where the hell was the positive?

“A, that ... that was a beautiful use of a contraction!” I chirped.

“Wha--?” She stopped, mid-wail.

“A contraction! It’s what it’s called when you combine two words into one. You did it perfectly. You said ‘can’t.’ That’s a contraction of ‘can’ and ‘not.’”

“I can’t do it, Mommy!”

“See, you just did it again! ‘Can’t.’ That’s short for ‘cannot.’ When you spell it, you put in an apostrophe to stand for the letters you took out.”

“It’s not fair!”

“Oh, another good one! And you used it perfectly, too! ‘It’s’ is a contraction of ‘it is.‘ That one trips up a lot of adults, because they try to use it possessively. But used as a contraction, it is easy, and you just did it!”

“Stop it, Mommy! I didn’t do it!”

“Fantastic job! ‘Didn’t’ is the contraction of ‘did not.’ I’m so proud of you!”

“I....what....Mommy! I can’t do it!”

“Bravo, sweetie! You’ve mastered ‘can’t.’ You could have said ‘cannot,’ but you’re savvy enough to know how to make that longer word a contraction.”

“Uuugh!” Our van has this awesome wide angle rear-view mirror, so I saw her throw up her hands in disgust. G was doing the Wimbledon, swiveling back and forth between Mommy and sister and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

“This is a very important subject. All your life, people will judge you on your grammar. And you know, apostrophes are near and dear to Mommy’s heart. Mommy would love nothing more than for you to grow up knowing how to use apostrophes correctly.”

“Mommy! Stop it! I cannot do it!”

“Of course you can! Wow! You are so versatile, honey! You just did it without the contraction! Good job! ‘Cannot’ instead of ‘can’t’! Wait until your great-grandmother hears about this. She used to be an English teacher, you know.”

“I can do it, too, Mommy!” G chimed, right as we pulled into the garage.

“I’m sure you can, honey.”

“I don’t want a nap! I don’t!” A shrieked, fully aware that she was losing my attention.

“Who said anything about a nap? And you did it again! Two beautiful contractions! ‘Don’t’ is a contraction of ‘do not.’ We spell it ‘d-o-n-apostrophe-t.’”

I kept right on with the grammar lesson, calmly lecturing as I unstrapped the twins from their car seats and herded everybody to the door.

“Mommy! You’re not listening to me!” A actually stomped her foot. The thing is, I’m pretty sure she no longer had any idea what she was upset about.

“Good girl! That’s another contraction! Can you tell me what ‘you’re’ is short for?”

“G won’t stop talking! I need you to listen to me!” (G was not, in fact, talking. G was watching this spectacle like it was WWE RAW.)

“Wow! We hadn’t even gotten through ‘you’re’ and you used another contraction! ‘Won’t’ is very useful. Do you know what it’s short for?”

My refusal to get upset and engage in her tantrum turned A’s world upside down. I chattered grammar stuff in a calm voice as I got both kids ready for either a nap or quiet time (their choice). I tucked G in, and he said, “I’m going to have a nap, Mommy. Was that a good contraction?”

“Yes, sweetie. That was beautiful.”

Ta-dah! One down.

A was gearing up for her tantrum finale in the bathroom. “I can’t brush my teeth!”

“Great!” I said, taking the toothbrush from her. “And we’ve learned that ‘can’t’ is short for....” I waited, expectantly.

She spat and rolled her eyes. “Cannot.”

“That’s my smart girl! Can you tell me what contraction Mommy just used in that sentence?”

Before she knew what was happening, A found herself tucked into bed. She looked positively gobsmacked.

“But Mommy, I don’t want a nap!” she yelled as I closed her door.

“Good contraction! You used ‘don’t’ again! And you do need a nap. Goodnight.” I closed the door and waited outside.

“I can’t! I can’t take a nap! I can’t!”

I went back into her room, still calm. “Now let’s think positively and use the inverse. ‘I can! I can take a nap!’”

“But Mommy, I can’t!”

“Oh, yes you can. You are a strong willed child. You can do anything you put your mind to.”

And y’all? She took a two hour nap.

When I opened her door, she greeted me with a huge grin. “I did it! I can did it!”

Next up? Subject/verb agreement.

In which I take a nap on a bed of nails

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 01:49:00 +0000

So, what have I done this week? Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary.

Played both paramedic and Dr. Mom to one four year old with two skinned knees and shins. Band-aids were applied with style and panache, thankyouverymuch. I do apologize for the screaming. I’m sure you heard it, no matter where you were.
Assured four year old with skinned knees that yes, I know what I’m doing. After all, I am a Juris Doctor.
Accepted worshipful looks from both twins as they struggled to comprehend how a Juris Doctor is like a pediatrician. (Hint: not at all.)
Convinced both children that all mommies are covered in eyeballs. Not just the backs of our heads, but everywhere. Further convinced them that the extra eyes are visible only to adults.
Corrected each twin’s grammar regarding proper usage of “me” vs. “I” so that both sound far more intelligent than any contestant ever to appear on “The Bachelor.”
Negotiated a truce between the leaders of two small (but fierce) terrorist factions.
Rescued the dog from a hostage situation involving said terrorist factions.
Cleaned up purple paint spilled during an attempt by the female terrorist to deface the base camp of the male terrorist.
Confiscated and disposed of both sides’ remaining paint supplies, forcing them to revert to the more primitive crayon.
Instructed two four year olds on the finer points of dancing properly to “Ice, Ice, Baby.”
Attempted to explain to one unnamed four year old boy that swinging one’s, um, male parts around while dancing is not appropriate.
Assured said four year old boy that swinging said male parts around while dancing is not what the manufacturers of Thomas the Train underwear had in mind when they put a hole in the front of his briefs.
Explained the origin of belly buttons to two absolutely astounded pupils, who demanded photographic evidence that their umbilical cords were not a figment of Mommy’s imagination.
Took a brief nap on a bed of nails at the local children’s science museum. I’m serious. Over 4,000 nails. Note: do not surrender control button of bed of nails to small terrorists, no matter how cute they may be.
Fired an air cannon at my husband and both children.
Allowed both my husband and both children to fire an air cannon at me.
Found SIX four leaf clovers while walking the dog.
Bought a lottery ticket.

My father's gift

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 11:52:00 +0000

This is a memoir piece for my online writers' workshop, The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself.

----------------------------------------------------------

The nights were the hardest, and the most precious.

During the day there was a constant low drone. Nurses in the hallway, doctors muttering into dictaphones, somebody always taking vitals, visitors’ shoes clacking miles to nowhere on the hall tile. Their footsteps beat various arrhythmias, echoing in my chest like strong bass.

There were good nights and bad nights. The bad ones still haunt me. Sometimes I wake in a cold sweat, hearing the shrill beeping of an empty Dilaudid pump.

I found many things at my father’s deathbed. Love. Fear. A strengthening of faith. And forgiveness.

All I had to do was ask, and one night, as he was conscious, I knelt beside him and held his hand. His beautiful hands, swollen, bruised.

“Daddy, can you forgive me?” I asked. His eyes snapped to mine in surprise.

“Forgive you? For what?”

I cradled his hand between both of mine and thought of 30 years of sins against this man. The white lies, the tantrums, spilled milk and iced tea. The not-so-white lies. Words thrown like daggers in anger. All the times I could have done more, given more, loved more.

“For everything. I know I’ve done so many things in life that have hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for anything and everything I’ve done to hurt you, and please, please, forgive me.”

He didn’t like for us to cry, but we were the only ones there, and suddenly my whole heart was there on the bed between us, beating, waiting, hoping that something in my life made up for all the inadvertent sleights and disappointments.

“Of course I forgive you,” he said. His eyes were clear, and it was like looking into a mirror. I have my father’s eyes, and I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as they were in that moment. They took in the whole of me, flawed, and they radiated unconditional love and acceptance. He squeezed my hand, and then the drugs pulled him back under.

Grace fell like rain that night, from a father to his daughter, bathing her in love.

I am forgiven, and each time my son or daughter threatens to run away or yells that they don’t love me anymore, I try to remember my father’s eyes. Some day my father’s eyes will look down on my children as I tell them that they, too, are forgiven.

Sanctuary

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 02:30:00 +0000

This is a fiction piece for my online writing group, The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write piece about finding beauty in something ugly. Oh, and to do so within a 600 word limit.

**************

The storm took her by surprise. Rain slashed down the street in sheets, tearing through Juliet's light windbreaker. She swung her backpack off her shoulder and clutched it to her stomach, breaking into a run. No way would she make it back to her dorm before her laptop and textbooks were drenched.

There was only one place to go. Tall and foreboding, the building cast a constant shadow over her daily scurry to and from class. She made a habit of averting her eyes, but it was always there, on the periphery, waiting.

The rough iron of the doorknob felt foreign in Juliet's hand as she grasped it and pushed at the heavy door. She shivered as she stepped into the silent stone narthex. Rain slid down her legs in cold streaks and puddled on the floor.

She'd never been into St. Paul's, but the faint scent of incense and the sound of the downpour thundering on the slate roof reminded her of hours spent on her knees in their little stone church back home. Before she gave up.

The sanctuary was empty, but for the lines of flickering votives to the left. Unconsciously, she drifted over to the flames, casting her eyes over all the prayers represented in their flickering light. One wick was low in its little glass, and as she watched, it grew dimmer, then, with no fanfare, went out.

Answered or unanswered, she wondered. A life saved here, or called back home?

The wet backpack was cold, and she forced her numb fingers to let it slip gently to the floor. She knelt and thought of the crucifix back in her dorm room, hidden under the bed with a bottle of cheap vodka and a battered stuffed bear she'd had since babyhood.

Suddenly she heard slow footsteps behind her. The wood kneeler creaked, and with a heavy groan and crackling knees, a presence settled in beside her. Glass clinked and she smelled sulfur from a match.

And something else. Dear God, what was that smell? Cat piss and mildew? A sigh turned into a rattling, chesty cough. My God, she thought. This is what I get for coming back. A slow death by tuberculosis.

Another hacking cough, and Juliet couldn't help but open her eyes.

She stared.

The figure next to her was wearing dark rags. He had a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and as he coughed again, she smelled wet dog. She felt nauseated.

His fingers were thick and lined with dirt. The callused skin gave way to ragged nails edged with black, and his hands shook as he placed the candle on the altar.

Another cough and he turned his head in her direction.

Juliet knew that face. She saw it every day outside the diner just off campus, as she walked home. He sat on the sidewalk with his guitar, and she'd passed him so many times she'd learned to ignore him, to not feel the pang at the open guitar case holding only loose change.

His eyes were closed in prayer, and as she watched in amazement, the big, dirty hands produced a delicate rosary and began weaving a practiced path along the worn beads.

He was far away, close to his God, and now Juliet was the invisible one. She couldn't stop looking at his face, his hands, his lips as they whispered the same prayers she'd been taught and all but forgotten.

And then, tears began to slide down his face, streaking clean tracks through the grime. She felt guilty for bearing witness to this, for being here when she only needed to get out of the rain.

Slowly, she pushed herself up and gathered her wet bag from the floor.

At the door, she looked back.

The kneeler was empty.

"Just wait until he's sleepy and sneak up on him."

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 03:27:00 +0000

I am dog sitting. For a dog that is near and dear to my heart. My mother's dog, Baggins. (No, she's not a huge Lord of the Rings fan. He was a rescue dog and the name came with him.)

So, for my very first vlog, I bring you this. No animals were harmed in the making of this video. And Mark is a very good sport.

Tequila Sunset

noreply@blogger.com (Angie) — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 03:01:00 +0000

As evidenced by my last post, it’s been a rough week here in twinland. We capped it all off with a really fun visit to the pediatrician that I’ll be telling you about as soon as I’m over my PTSD.

So how does a parent cope?

By making up a fabulous new drink, of course. Here it is, and I hope it makes your Saturday night infinitely more fun.

Tequila Sunset

Ingredients:

Tequila (be classy, please; ditch the bottle with the sombrero and at least go for some Cuervo. Or, if you really wanna play grown-up, some Patron will do nicely).
Crystal light (Sunrise Classic Orange flavor)
Tonic water
Lime or Meyer lemon

Optional: Orange liqueur (makes for a much sweeter drink, so skip it if you’re not into that).

Fill a really big glass with ice. Pour tequila over ice (amount may vary depending on whether your children have been monsters or actual demons that day). If you’re so inclined, add a dollop of orange liqueur.

There may be very little room left in the glass.

Add Crystal light, then top with tonic (keeps it from being too sweet).

Stir.

Drink.

Watch in amazement as your life becomes beautiful again. Goggle at how quickly a household can go through a fifth of tequila. Rest assured this is not a problem and will probably stop as soon as your kids leave for college.

Oops. Now you’re thinking about college tuition. Maybe you should mix another one.

What to read while you’re drinking your fabulous concoction? Go to Elizabethtown and check out the synopsis of the upcoming new WB series, Super Moms. Super Moms is the brain child of my friend Elizabeth, aka “The Hammer.” Rumor has it that there’s massive pre-show buzz on the blog underground. I’ve been cast as Lady America, and Law Momma will be playing Justice. Go check it out.