Watch It Byrne

I'm stumped

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 20:33:00 +0000

My daughter believes that our house is haunted.

By a guy wearing purple pants with a mean face.

The details are pretty new, but ever since we moved in here she has had something like this to say. Actually all the kids at one point or another have mentioned something weird. Jackson has come downstairs in the middle of the night because he felt a burning hot hand on him and then went icy cold all over. Nathaniel has woken up saying he heard a scream. And now Avery with her poorly dressed dude... for two nights in a row now.

Apparently, he stands by the bathroom door on the landing upstairs. When I asked her how she got downstairs to tell me about it (because he would have been directly blocking the stairs) she said "He fades."

Duh.

And now I don't know what to do about this. It's not like I can go "Ohmygod!! I know, right?" and reveal my belief in ghosts or the fact that I think there is something totally weird about this house too. And at the same time I can't say "Oh shut up. Ghosts are totally fake. Also, there is not a monster under your bed. Probably." That would just make her feel dismissed and afraid of things under her bed.

I tried "Well, honey, he probably looks angry because he is wearing purple pants and purple pants are stupid." She was not amused. And then Jackson got upset because he really wants purple jeans from Old Navy and I had just called them (and by proxy, him) stupid. She was also not amused by "He probably is near the bathroom because he has to poop and you keep LOOKING at him so he feels embarrassed."

So I ended up telling her this morning simply that I heard her. That I believe she believes she sees the purple pants ghost. It seemed like a really good strategy at 8 a.m. when I was trying to get breakfast made and kids showered and dressed and lunches made. It seemed to calm her down a little. So I was a little surprised when she came running in to me as she was eating breakfast to tell me she saw the ghost standing right behind her in the kitchen. And then when she called me when she was in the shower to tell me she heard ghostly laughing. And then when she called me AGAIN from upstairs brushing her teeth, saying the guy was standing in the corner of the bathroom.

I have no idea what the hell to tell this child.

THIS is what parenting books should be about. NO parent really needs the parenting books that are all "Feed your kids vegetables!!" and "High fevers are bad!!" and "Car seats are important!!" Those books are bullshit. They don't tell you anything you really need to know. I mean, rodents can figure out to feed their babies, but no Guinea Pig mom has ever had to answer the Specter Question.

Parenting authors (I'm looking at you William Sears and Dr. Spock and whoever wrote that What to Expect Book) you have let us down. Shame on you.

Sometimes typos are the answer

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 19:05:00 +0000

I just sent an email, to a woman I have never met, with the subject line "Parent Rep Shits".

Awwww...... s-h-i-R-t-s dammit. SHIRTS.

And yep...this is how I am coming back from a bajillion month disappearance. Talking about typos.

Soooo.....how've ya been?

This feels like one of those times you run into an ex-whatever and it's all awkward and everyone tries to be all "everything has been AWESOME" and then maybe you hang out once in that we-should-grab-coffee kind of way and then inevitably one or the other of you start to think that maybe the other person likes you again but no one wants to be the first to say it. (worst sentence ever written)
So here goes......

I like you guys.

And this is what happened.

So a few months ago I posted about how I was all teeming with anxiety and how things get really really overwhelming sometimes. That is something that has always been true for me. I get all jittery. Like my insides don't fit. Like everyone is staring at me and making fun of my shoes. Like I am walking around with a booger hanging out of my nose.

But after that post I got all stern with myself and was all "You need to start taking care of yourself. You should go to the DOCTOR!" So I made an appointment with a gynecologist. Of course. Because when your head is messed up you definitely should go to a vagina doctor. Plus I figured that this was probably all due to menopause. (at the age of 37 and for issues I have had for my whole life- makes total sense) So I made the appointment with a gynecologist.

A new one. (Brilliant. But I had no choice because we moved to Cincinnati 7 months ago.)

I go to the new girly doctor and I make it through the whole blood pressure and weight taking part/torture. The doctor comes in and we are in the "getting to know you before I ask you to remove your pants" part of the appointment. He was nice. He seemed intelligent and caring. I held it together for approximately 3 minutes. Then he asked me if I had any concerns. I said that sometimes I feel anxiety. And then I started sobbing.

I'm not sure anyone has ever been Prozac-ed so fast in all of history. I think he would have wrestled me to the ground and shoved it down my throat if he had had any emergency Prozac on him.

The good part is that it helps. Some.

And then I spent the last few months playing. Mostly with these freaks.

I haven't talked about them much. I didn't talk about anything much because I was so afraid of getting pigeon-holed as a mommy-blogger or that chick that bitches about her teenager-like angst all the time or the lady who waxes philosophical about marinara sauce and sunsets.

So I played with these guys.
And I drew some stuff.

And I took some pictures.

And I am trying to remember that tiny piece of me that knows how to scream FUCK IT at the top of my lungs.

Except for at the library. They frown on that there.

Where I just close my eyes and hit "publish"...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 16:07:00 +0000

It's all in my head and then I sit down at the computer or with a blank sheet of paper in front of me and suddenly none of it is right. Suddenly I have to have something to SAY. There must be a MESSAGE behind the words. It's all very exhausting.

I can't just talk about my gray roots or that I have become obsessed (in my mind) with attempting to fill my freezer just in case of Doomsday thankyouverymuchNationalGeographicChannel. And honestly, I am not really very good at being a Doomsday Prepper and filling my freezer. Right now it is stocked with dinner rolls that I got on some fantastic sale around Christmas-time. I could fill the Post-Apocalyptic bread baskets like a hundred times. You are welcome, World.

I can't talk about the butterfly napkin holder I got at a thrift store that is sitting on my kitchen table with the sad $1 price tag still on it. I bought it with the intention of sanding it down a bit. Painting it. Making it kitschy and utterly fantastic. But I went to buy sandpaper and there are all these CHOICES. And it is really hard to look at the dude at Home Depot and say with a straight face "I'm working on a refinishing project of a 1970s-era plywood napkin holder. What would be the correct sandpaper to use to retain its rustic charm?" So now it just sits and mocks me and I am about 10 seconds from puffy-painting its ass and calling it a day.

And I can't talk about the anxiety that grips my brain so hard and so suddenly that it takes my breath away. That it makes it hard to leave the house. That making a phone call to order a pizza actually hurts. That makes it so that talking to anyone- even those I know well- becomes terrifying. That makes writing anything impossible.

Self made prisons are the most confining.

But today I actually got up and got dressed. I got up and got dressed like I do every day, but today I did it without feeling like throwing up.

I'm counting it as a win.

(Even though the Anxiety-Bitch in my head says that you all are totally making fun of my shirt behind my back.)

Flash me those pearly whites

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 18:08:00 +0000

I spent all last week at the dentist. I had to have two teeth filled and then I had to take my eight-year-old to the orthodontist. Teeth are one of the body's greatest design flaws. They are like having knives in your kitchen covered in that candy apple coating. Sure it's pretty and shiny and SEEMS hard, but it ERODES. The first time you pour a Coke over it some of that prettiness disappears. Of course the knife is still effective so its hard to throw it out, but it just doesn't look as good. It's the same with tooth enamel. Tooth enamel is all white and awesome and you are all "I have such a beautiful smile!" And then you go to the dentist and they tell you that a big bunch of that pretty white coating is just gone. And it's never coming back. You would think that teeth would be made of something harder and more durable. Like titanium. Or diamonds. For god's sake I have jewelry that is stronger than my teeth....and it doesn't even have a job to do.

Having teeth filled is possibly the worst form of torture ever. Actually its not the filling part. Its mostly the shot of Novocain thing. I hate hate hate having things numbed. I am totally convinced that no matter what anesthetic or how much is used, that I will totally still feel whatever is happening. In fact, before my first c-section I pretty much clung to the anesthesiologist and yelled repeatedly "I'm gonna feel it! Make sure I can't feel it!" Because, of course, the anesthesiologist had never done his job before and totally needed my guidance on how things were supposed to go. Oh...so you AREN"T supposed to feel the knife slicing into your abdomen. Gotcha. Good thing you said something because I was just filling your spine full of Hawaiian Punch. So you can imagine my angst before the fillings. But the dentist was really good and was like "Let's come up with a hand signal so that I will know when you need me to stop and take a break for a minute." And my thought was "Won't you be able to figure it out when I bite you?" But she works with children so that probably wouldn't phase her...just like the panicking adult didn't really phase her.

After having my teeth drilled and filled I got to take my eight-year-old to the orthodontist to discuss strategies because his teeth are TOO BIG and crowding each other. In fact, he is eight and has only lost six teeth because there is no room for the other teeth to come in. The orthodontist said he is a seven-year-old mouth-wise. I am still not sure if that was a compliment or some big criticism of my parenting abilities. Honestly, it's like evolution planned for there to be orthodontists. His teeth are too big for his head. What the hell, Teeth? You never hear that about, say, the pancreas. No doctor is ever like "We need to fit you with a gut extender so we can make room for your spleen." Even goldfish know when to stop growing to fit their environment.

The best part about Dental Week was that the orthodontist's office had complimentary cappuccino. A big machine with a "take all you want" sign on it. It's like he knew I was coming in or something. Or maybe he just figures that if people erode their teeth with hot beverages he will create a demand for more dental work.

So last week I learned that 1) teeth are stupider than goldfish, and 2) my kid's orthodontist is either a sales genius or a misguided barista.

Pretty productive if I do say so myself.

My hiatus ends with this

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:06:00 +0000

I haven't posted in a long long time. And there is no good reason for it. Well...there is a reason, but it's not a good one. I got all "I don't have anything good to say" and then I just didn't say anything. It's really just internet pouting. Have I mentioned before that I might just be mentally twelve years old? So I should probably apologize in advance for the possible ADD nature of this post. But I won't.

Sooo....this past weekend was my birthday. I turned 36 so now I am officially closer to 40 than I am to 30 and that kinda freaks me out. I did the same thing when I turned 29. Most people are all like "Oh my god! I can't believe I am turning 30 (or 40 or 50)!" and I am always "What about turning 33, huh? God that's a total bitch. It's like you aren't even 32 anymore." And for some reason it makes sense to me and people are always trying to figure out the correct response to something like that. They are never sure if they are supposed to agree with me or maybe they are the odd ones because turning 33 never even phased them.

But even with the internal freak out, it was a really good birthday. My mom and I drove up to Cleveland on Saturday to visit my grandparents for the day. Driving in a car for that long definitely leads to a lot of conversation. With me being a pharmacy tech and my mom being a nurse in a urologist's office, part of our conversation turned a little "shop talk." I never thought that bonding with my mom would include the words "Viagra" and "penile injections" but it totally did. Here's the thing.....I feel I need to share some of this conversation because it is actually a Public Service Announcement. Are you ready for it?

We Do Not Care About Your Personal Penis Activities.

There are specifics to that. One, we do not care that your Viagra is too expensive. Neither do we care to hear things like "I will just have to be more selective about when I use it." My job is to count out the little pills and put them in a vial and then take your money. I cannot control the pricing for your escapades. Two, we do not care that "it is your anniversary." We do not need a calendar of your special events nor do we really want to know how you will be spending them. We are happy to do our jobs, but please cease making us be professional in the face of such statements. We do not know the proper sympathetic statements to make when presented with them. Nor do we really want to spend time figuring them out.

Moving on.....

Part of my birthday weekend I spent shopping with my mom searching for the elusive Perfect Pair of Jeans. And get this! I found one such pair! They fit right. They aren't too long or too short. They make my butt look good (and isn't this really the only qualification for Perfect Jeans?). They aren't too dark or too light. They are in a smaller size than I usually wear....and I don't really care if the designer of said jeans does that thing where they call them a different size so the woman buying them is all "Oh my god! I wear a size 6 now! I am TOTALLY buying these!" The tag says "size 6" and that is all that matters to me. But I totally did the thing that all women do when they find the Perfect Jeans. I only bought one pair. Why?! Why did I do this? I have a theory. I think that women and jeans are like those dudes who can never commit to just one chick because they are convinced that someone better/hotter is just around the corner. That is women and jeans. We are commitment-phobic about our pants.

One more thing....

I spent last evening at a Girl Scout event with my daughter. Three of the women there said to me "Wow! You have lost a lot of weight!" Why is it that in my head I hear that as retroactively calling me fat? Of course the sane part of my brain just thanks them, but the crazy gnome controlling the other half of my brain? He whispers "She just insulted you in the past." I add this to my list of reasons to be wary of Girl Scouts.

I don't have a good wrap-up for this post. I tried, but I just can't come up with anything that ties this all together. Just roll with me.

I think I get a Marketing degree for this- or maybe slapped with a restraining order.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 16:37:00 +0000

I know this guy. And by "know" I mean I stumbled upon his blog a while ago and then became proficient at lurking there. Not because I am some creepy internet stalker (ahem), but because this guy is awesome. I may or may not have developed a tiny blog-crush. And I may or may not have laughed so hard at some of his posts that beverages came out of my nose.

I am going to get all link-y here....at least I am gonna try.

Seriously- go check out Johnny Virgil over at 15 Minute Lunch. He is an amazing storyteller. And it gets better. He wrote a book. A freaking BOOK. You can buy it. I bet he would like that.

I am going to be done gushing now...because there is a distinct possibility that this post will earn me the internet equivalent of a restraining order. But I am totally gonna chance it.

Plastic fumes are not festive. Something you should never learn the hard way.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 00:12:00 +0000

So I just baked some Christmas cookies. Okay- to be more truthful they were just normal chocolate chip cookies, but I put in red and green M&Ms. So that makes them all festive, right? Here's the thing...... When I went to put the first ones on the cookie sheet I had a moment of "oh hell, I am going to hate this because I only have one cookie sheet and I am going to have to wash this in between each batch that I bake so they don't get all burn-y on the bottom uuuuggghhh why did I start this...."

And then I had an idea.

I remembered I have this rubbery mat-thing that is supposed to be super great for baking. Your baked goods will just slide right off and unicorns will sneeze glitter right in your very own kitchen! At least I think that is how the advertisement goes. So I pulled it out of the cabinet and got everything ready. Blopped the cookie dough onto it and put it in the oven where I imagined little imperfect circles of deliciousness would soon be created. But I think something went terribly wrong.

My first clue was the horrible horrible smell of burning plastic and hair. I can't even explain the hair smell. My only guess is that I used a new recipe and "bread flour" is actually made out of "old unwashed hobo hair."

And then the smoke alarm went off. But there was no smoke in the house. Weird, right? I think my smoke detector has a "your cookies are gonna taste like shit" alert. But I can't be sure. So I opened the oven door and the cookies were all half baked melty blobules and I was all "They aren't even DONE." So I had a debate with myself about whether or not I should just take them out because they were creating meth fumes or something, or let them finish baking because they weren't even real cookies yet.

I opted to let them finish baking. (You can't eat hot, runny cookie dough. Even I know that's not right. And throwing them away would be wasteful. Probably.)

In my defense, the only cooking lesson I ever got from my mom was when I was in college and decided one night to make dinner. I wanted to make roast beef (?). So I asked her how I would know when it was done and she said "Does it look like you want to eat it?" (And in her defense, that is actually true for beef.) The rest of my cooking knowledge I got from the Food Network and they let people like Guy Fieri have a show.

So I let them finish. And then I wrestled them off the silicon-baking-mat thing. And then I ate one.

They were pretty good. If you like plastic flavored M&Ms. Personally, I like the coconut ones better.

Ten reasons the hamster that lives in my house should cease to exist

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 19:27:00 +0000

1. It's a hamster.

2. It runs in a wheel. All night long. It doesn't have a metal wheel, but a plastic one attached to the side of its cage. You would think that might be better, but it's not. Instead of SQUEEEEK SQUEEKA SCREECH SQUEEEEK all night, you hear THUMP THUMP WHUMP THUMP THU-THUMP. All night.

3. It refuses to learn to do any tricks.

4. The guy who sat with me to "learn the company's computer system" but who I was really "training to replace me" at my old job gave me the hamster (from his own personal hamster stash I'm guessing). Brought it to me. At work. On the day I was fired.

My boss called me into his office and was all like "We don't need your services anymore" and I was all like "Okay. I'll just stop by my desk and get my hamster and be on my way."

5. It openly mocks my non-pet-lover status by being a pet.

6. I got it for the kids. It is nocturnal. The kids are not. (Yes, I was aware of this fact when I got it.)

7. It is a constant reminder of my decision-making skills. (see reason number 6)

8. When I take it out of its cage and hold it for the kids to pet/poke it, the thing shoves its rodent face so far forward it looks like its eyeballs are going to pop out of its head. That's just creepy. And I have no idea what the protocol would be if ever tiny eyeballs suddenly fell on my floor.

9. It bites me when I feed it. That's just bad form.

10. It has chewed nearly all the way through one of the bars on its cage. Metal bars. I fear animals that can both eat metal and hide in a shoe. The potential for some sort of horrifying attack/embarrassing death is simply too high for my comfort level.

A question possibly not worth this much thought

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 17:39:00 +0000

This weekend I walked into the bathroom after the youngest got done using it and immediately yelled for him.

"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....

He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.

Why?

My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.

The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.

The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks. But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.

Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.

My best argument for why Ohio trumps California

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 16:18:00 +0000

Okay. So I am in the grocery store last week buying a stash of personal-use Halloween candy. I have the youngest Monkey with me, which means that I am spending about a bajillion dollars over my fun-sized budget. It also means that I have spent the entire trip to the store saying things like "don't touch that" and "you don't need a toy" and "quit poking me in the butt." On Repeat. To Infinity.

Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.

So I get in line to check out.

I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:

1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.

But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.

I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.

"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."

This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."

She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.

"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."

NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.

VIVA LA OHIO!!!*

There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?

*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.

Worst. Job-Seeker. Ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 16:09:00 +0000

"Do you have a high school diploma?! Do you want to be trained not to kill people?!"

Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)

So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....

"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")

....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.

And so I call.

And they tell me to check my application status online.

And so I say thank you and hang up.

And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.

And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.

And so I say thank you and hang up.

And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.

And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.

And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)

And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......

I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.

My Inner Dork is showing

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 21:45:00 +0000

Random thought today (As I was listening to a bunch of music I have been introduced to over the past year...so maybe not so random.):

It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.

I know this well because I used to listen to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw

P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.

P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)

P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.

I know its superficial....and there is nothing wrong with that

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 01:25:00 +0000

This morning I stood outside in my pajamas with my ever-present and absolutely necessary cup of coffee watching the bus stop until my eight-year-old was safely on his way to school. I was watching from a distance of course, having long ago been banished from actually going within a hundred feet of the bus stop. A bus stop restraining order, if you will. Not that I can blame the boy. I am pretty sure the only thing that will kill your third grade cool-quotient faster than bed-head-mom-in-holey-pajama-pants is eating your boogers. While I stood out in the early morning cold I saw something that made me smile and made me think a little.

There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.

I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.

I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.

Gentlemen, we dress for you.

We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.

And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.

Soapbox city (days after everyone else got here)

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 16:40:00 +0000

Okay. So I know I am way behind the bandwagon here, but I can't help it. Bandwagons have never been my favorite mode of transportation and news bores me. Maybe if they had a mime or something instead of that annoying scroll bar thing on news stations I could totally get on board. *

I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.

The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."

I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:

*BOOM*

(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"

That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.

Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:

Right here.

See. You can't stop laughing either can you?

It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)

I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.

*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.

On call

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 15:00:00 +0000

By no means am I grossed out about body stuff. I have three kids for god's sake and a nurse for a mother. If anyone got over their icky feelings about talking about poop or pee or exactly where a boo-boo was, its me. I can explain the intricate workings of a tampon or catch an eruption of puke in my shirt or bare hands. I am not embarrassed by the words "penis" or "vagina" (though the word "stool" gives me the willies for some reason). I knew what would happen to my body during puberty long before any of my friends had ever thought the word "period." Okay- so maybe that was part my nurse-mom being responsible and maybe it was partly that I had my first period at age 11 and started shaving my legs in the fifth grade (I am a hairy beast, what can I say? Unfortunately, I fear my daughter will be following in my footsteps...) The point of all of this? The point is that even with all of this comfort level I was sadly unprepared for the phone call I received a few days ago.

My best friend, Chloe, just had a baby. Well- it was like three months ago but that is "just" enough. He is a wonderous little thing, all floppy limbs and beautiful in that wise-to-the-world-soul-on-fire kind of way. She already has two kids (the youngest of that set being four years old) and we laugh a lot about how much she feels like she has forgotten in the last four years. She will worry about how much he is eating, or not eating, or peeing, or crying... or whatever. Maybe that's just the way it is with newborns, no matter how experienced of a mama you are. I don't really remember- within three and a half years I had three kids. Those beginning days and months are safely locked in the part of my brain that protects me from trauma, I think.

So she worries. About everything. Even with her own body/psyche.

And she calls me.

Chloe: "Hey. The kids were exposed to Hand Foot and Mouth Disease at daycare. Is there a rash or something that you get on your butt?"
Me: (quickly looking up said disease online so that I may speak "intelligently" about it) "Yes! There is! Which child are we talking about here?"
Chloe: "Well, ummm..... its me....and I need someone to look at this...."
Me: "Its like midnight."

Yes- the thing that jumped into my head first was not that I was being asked to go look at my friend's ass, but rather that the ass-looking was to take place at such a late hour.

Chloe: "I know, but I need someone to see this! Its not really a rash, but more like a zit. But not a zit. But like a bump. But kinda not. I need you to come check."

Here's the real kicker.... I started considering it. If my friend was really in need, how could I not? And yet, on the other hand I was not really looking forward to the viewing.

Me: "Can't Martin check it out?" (My thought here being, as her boyfriend and father of the new little wonder in her life, he may be more, ahem, familiar with the area.)
Chloe: (in desperation) "He won't! And its like IN there!"

After a few more minutes of convesation with words like "crack" and "taint" and instructions like "pop it" and "call the doctor" and questions like "can I have your cute black shoes with the super high heels when you die of a butt boil?" we came to the conclusion that it was a hemorrhoid. That's right. I diagnosed a hemorrhoid. Over the phone.

Ahhh....the little extras we sometimes get with the birth of a child.

Ahhh....the things we will do for our friends.

I am available for consultation by phone to anyone else with odd questions. But only between midnight and three a.m.

And I still super want those shoes.

My newish oldish gig

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 17:41:00 +0000

First let me say that I am possibly the flakiest blogger in the world. Soooo long between posts.... are you ready for a little rambling?

(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)

Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."

Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".

Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.

I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....

Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.

I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?

I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).

But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.

This one goes out to the ones I've loved.....

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 17:17:00 +0000

If you love something let it go.

We have all heard these words of wisdom before, usually when we are in the throes of heartbreak- at the exact moment when those words mean absolutely nothing to us.

The truth is that people walk in and out of our lives all the time. We let loves walk out, we redefine family relationships and drift away from friends. We even actively work to make this happen with our children. We teach them the skills they will need to survive on their own. Experts tell us that when our children test their boundaries we are actually doing our jobs as parents correctly. We go into the job knowing that someday they will strike out on their own and leave us behind.

There are hurts in each of these leavings. Our children push us away and it digs into our hearts that our babies don't need us as desperately anymore. We realize we haven't spoken to our best friend in weeks/months/years and it tears at us that the inside jokes may not be funny anymore and instead of "What are you doing today," we are left with "Once we did things together." A love leaves us and we crumble a little with the knowledge that we gave a stranger a piece of our heart only to have it handed back for not fitting quite right against theirs.

But here is the thing... do we ever really let go of the people who were important to us? The people we love poke us and sting us and stab us and stretch us and grow us. Our ties to them stretch like rubber bands and our relationships are redefined and readjusted. They become a part of our story. Do we not hold them in our hearts? We can remember the way they looked when they laughed. We can still hear their voices in our minds in quiet moments. A sight or a scent in a crowded room can take us back to a specific moment in time entangled with the memory of that person. We don't need their permission to love them, we just do. Maybe the only thing we need to know is not that they loved us, but that we loved them.

I was issued a challenge this week regarding the idea of letting someone go. Not so much with the first part of the saying- letting go is something we do when we have no other choice. When those that we love have already gone. The challenge comes with the second part of the saying: "If it comes back to you, its yours forever." I am not really sure that anything can ever be yours forever. Relationships are fluid, not solid and guaranteed. Maybe we can love someone enough to let them go....

But can we love someone enough to let them come back?

Have your credit card ready...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 16:42:00 +0000

I am a sucker. I am an advertiser's wet dream. If it can be advertised, I can be convinced that I want to buy it or beg for it for a gift. I am especially susceptible to late night infomercials.

Debbie Meyer Green Bags? Of course! Who doesn't want to keep their produce brand-spankin'-fresh?! I am fully convinced that these special bags will make my strawberries last until the end of time, unless I remember I have them in the fridge and eat them all in one sitting.

The Bumpit? Yes! I want it! I even have it! Sadly, it does not work. I am truly disappointed. Nevermind the fact that I have never nor will I ever actually leave the house with any sort of hill or mountain sculpted into my hair.... the models on the commercial seemed so happy. So put together- which is totally my fantasy. I am one of those women who always looks like she could have used an extra five minutes to get ready. Disheveled is my norm. Anything to help it not be like that would be welcome. Next I am gonna try the InStyler. If Allure magazine says its good then it has to be, right?

I can totally see the use for the Kangaroo carrier to make switching purses that much easier. At three in the morning the Neckline Slimmer makes sense and I am a huge fan of Proactive though I do not possess the pimply face that the product requires. I can kick the asses of all the PX90 people and I dream of having closets thoroughly organized with those special hangers and Space Bags and the Flip Fold.

Oh these advertisers have me by a choke-hold. My late night brain wants it all. (My late night brain also thinks that there is a chance in hell that someday I will hit the winning lottery numbers...)

But the other night I found my Holy Grail of late night infomercial products. The EZ Egg Cracker. Its not so much that I have the obviously huge problem of cracking and separating eggs that this product promises to alleviate. Its the "free gift" that comes with it. An egg scrambler that you use to scramble the eggs IN THE SHELL. Just poke this little probe into the bottom of the egg and press a button and egg innards are whipped and mixed. I MUST have this. And not so much because I spend my mornings bitching and moaning that the scrambling process takes just too much time and muscle....no... what I want to do is steal into your house (yes, yours) and prescramble all of your eggs. I want the media to pick up this story- a rash of home invasions where the only damage done was creating morning convenience.

I wanna be called The Scrambler.

Or maybe the Egg-sistentialist.

Sigh. I need help. And a Jupiter Jack.

Sometimes it takes someone else's eyes to see clearly

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 26 May 2010 17:22:00 +0000

Guess what?

I am not pretty.

No no!! Don't do it! Don't go to that place in your mind where you say "Aww... yes you are." I am not fishing for compliments here. The truth is that I am never gonna be a model. And yes, at the age of thirty-five I may or may not have just come to this conclusion. Though there was a time in my life when this was a "dream" of mine.

Ummm... yeah. Sweet perm, right? My sincerest apologies to whoever took this picture. I will give myself a break though. This picture is from right around the time I also thought that it would be cool to jump in a way-back machine and be a singer in the 60's. My secret fantasy was that I would go to the recording studio one day and meet the Monkees and Davey Jones would fall madly in love with me and I would live out my days playing tambourine duets and wearing go-go boots and hosting Tupperware parties in the Jones mansion.

I am a Nerd, yes. But model-pretty? No.

When I pull my hair back into a wet ponytail I look like my brother. (Not in a family-resemblance kind of way, but in an "is that a dude with boobs?" kind of way.)

My eyes are kinda squinty. (Especially when I smile. Is there such a thing as eye fat?)

I am hairy. (Like I started shaving my legs in the fifth grade and once in the sixth grade I shaved my arms, using the excuse that I had just gotten a cast off my wrist and the "doctor told me to do it." I discovered that the only thing less attractive than a forest of arm hair is arm stubble.)

I am freckly and wrinkly and have graying hair and have been occasionally mistaken for pregnant when I am not.

I have a funny crooked front tooth.

My face is kinda red all the time.

I am not pretty. And I have obsessed over it. Tried everything to change that. Tried not caring about it. (Ha!) And it hasn't been until recently that I could really look at myself in any other way besides being tied to those flaws.

It looks like I laugh boldly, I was told.

And that is beautiful.

The tides are rising

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Tue, 25 May 2010 22:18:00 +0000

Its Summer! Okay- so its only the end of May and school isn't out yet and corn on the cob hasn't come into season yet.....but its hot outside. Hot. Pretty much that means Summer to me. If I can get out the sprinkler and feel comfy in a bathing suit (umm... outside the obvious "haven't lost the baby weight" thing) then its Summer, whether or not that kind of day happens in May or July or the middle of December. In fact, I am a big fan of grilling out in December, just so I can taste a charcoal-seasoned burger and eat the crispy burned parts of a hot dog.

I remember Summers when I was little. Waking up in the morning and "getting dressed" in my bathing suit first thing. Every day was endless and filled with popsicles and making bouquets out of dandelions from the backyard and the thought that just maybe today the neighbors would invite you to swim in their pool. And then as I got older it was days of laying in the backyard working on my tan with the neighbor girls and riding my bike around the neighborhood hoping to catch a glimpse of the cute guy down the street. And then those days giving way to teenage summers of lifeguarding and meeting friends and boyfriends at the mall in the evenings.

Thinking about those seasons and looking through old pictures I found this one

I love this picture. I am about 9 years old in this picture and I love the fact that I am holding my breath in anticipation of being engulfed in the waves. There is a quality of holding your breath in anticipation of life at this age. Someday not far in the future of this picture I will be spending my days tanning and gossiping, learning how to correctly apply eyeshadow, and just how powerful a smile can be. I will be spending my babysitting money on new lipgloss and the perfect pair of jeans. I will be fighting my way through the social jungle of high school and sinking into the quicksand of my first heartbreak. Trying hard not to get swept away by the tidal wave that life can be in those years.

And I find myself even now on the cusp of this Summer, the Summer of my thirty-sixth year, twenty five years after this picture, still holding my breath....

Sending my seven-year-old off to the last days of second grade and knowing how close he is in age to the little girl in that picture. How big changes are coming for him- changing schools next year to join a gifted program, growing into the age where its no longer acceptable on the playground to be the sensitive child that he is, and only a few short years away from filling his Summer days with girls and jobs and hangin' with friends instead of Pokemon and scooters and water fights on the lawn with his mom.

Watching my five-year-old on the verge of being a little girl and no longer my baby girl. How she is morphing before my eyes from the giggly and shy preschooler to the Queen Bee of her social group, strong in both opinion and body- preparing to head off to kindergarden in the fall into a world filled with school buses and outside influences and "on her own" situations.

Watching my four-year-old clown around and dig in the dirt and bridge the gap between toddler-hood and child-hood. How he is becoming aware of his world and the world around him and knowing that my hold on him is slipping with each day- how he already alternates between calling me "momma" and "mom", how he begs for freedom and still runs to me for the smallest of hurts. Waiting for the day he no longer needs to be tucked in at night and thinks that his friends are smarter than I could ever be.

And I am holding my breath for myself. Feeling myself on the edge of change and feeling the growing pains of learning to fit into my own skin. Wanting to keep myself from being swept away by the process of making decisions that make long-hidden dreams come true and the letting go of the ideas of what "should" be. Trying not to drown in the oceans and lakes and puddles of a life spent not really living, but surviving.

Maybe this Summer I will learn to swim. I will let the wave catch up to me and pull me in and I will float instead of sink. I have held my breath long enough.

Vacation to an exotic location

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 16:23:00 +0000

Hey! Guess what!! I am getting to visit another blog and post a little sumpin' sumpin' there! Today I am over at Not To Brag, an incredible blog by my friend MEP. Megan and I grew up together and spent our days in the same Catholic schools from second through twelfth grades. Same art classes in gradeschool shown on PBS and same Homecomings and Proms. Same lovely uniforms and Science Fairs. I have recently reconnected with her through Facebook, that wonderful of all wonderful "Hey how ya doin'" spots. She is a mother with two boys and a brand-new baby girl and a wonderful voice in the dark. Her blog is funny and honest and just plain entertainment in a world of "should have's" and "ought to's". And she has been a wonderful source of support and information as I have begun my journey sharing my words with the world. Go check out my little addition to her world and while you are there stick around and read a while. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.

Be back soon!

Conclusion: Spain hates little kids

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 18:56:00 +0000

I stumble into the living room this morning and the Monkeys are all in various stages of lounging- each with a different arrangement of pillows and blankets and breakfast items- giggling hysterically.

"Mommy, Mommy! Watch this!"

I stare at the TV through blurry pre-coffee eyes and mumble something vaguely like "Oh, that's great" and attempt to shuffle away to make myself a pot o' the juice.

"MOMMY! Watch until I say stop!!!"

Ugh. Fine. I stand and watch, barely registering what I am seeing (pre-coffee me is grouchy and unable to process things). This is what I see on the screen

It appears to be some conglomeration of stuffed animals in a car. Doing stuff. Now imagine this scene with a live cricket hopping around. No, I am not making this up. The above creatures and one of these

Now, I hate bugs and everyone knows this. I figure this is why the Monkeys are beginning to giggle even more. It is disgusting. And seriously, if this was in my car (nevermind the stuffed animals that apparently can come to life and kill me in my sleep- if they can figure out the child safety locks) I would never go in it again.

"Keep watching," I am warned and the giggling is becoming louder and louder.....

A panda bear with a muzzle appears on the screen. What??!! A stuffed panda I get, but a muzzle? I have never once felt the need to muzzle a stuffed animal. There has never been a point where I looked at a cuddly stuffed creature and thought "Ya know- this bear is getting a little too mouthy. That's it, mister! One more backtalk and I will muzzle your ass!" And who MAKES stuffed animal muzzles? Is there a huge market for this sort of thing? Is there an epidemic of out-of-control-yappy-rabid toys that I am unaware of? Do I need to go get some of the seemingly vacant-eyed animals in my house in check? Or is the Disney channel getting into some sort of subliminal fetish thing? (Which I would be more concerned about if the panda was wearing a ball-gag, but still...)

More and more giggling. And then, out of nowhere, crawling over the seat of the vehicle right toward S&M Panda and Blue Ball Dude and Jumping Cricket is this

Oh my effing god.

I simultaneously jump, scream, and throw up a little. My heart is racing. I am awake! Fight or Flight has fully kicked in. (flight all the way, baby) My Windex is powerless against such a creature. And the Monkeys have erupted into full-fledged laughter. Why? Why is this? Do they not know that this creature has this face?

And it will think nothing of sucking your brains from your head or at the very least getting really close to your face and giving you a heart attack. (I can no longer look at this picture. His spider eyes are stealing my soul as we speak.)

This is a kids show? Whatever happened to Scrooge McDuck or HeMan or Jem? This little nugget of a show is called The Secret Life of Suckers and I Googled it and discovered it was created by some Spanish production company. All I have to say is this: "Parar y desistir!!!" and "Sus dibujos de animados me da pesadillos!!"

A tale of a shoe and a "bee"

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 15:29:00 +0000

I just chased a bird out of my house. Like, JUST did it. There was a bird. In my house.

I opened the patio door to check on the Monkeys (who were drawing faces on rocks and setting them up "to take pictures of the rock family"......???) and a bird flew right over my head and into the dining room. My confused brain could not make sense of it at first. And then the Monkeys started yelling "A bee flew into the house! A bee flew into the house!"

Holy eff. That was a huge bee. I don't think I have enough Windex to drown such a big bee, I am thinking. Windex is my weapon of choice to kill all unwanted living creatures that wander their way into my home. Its pretty good on spiders, but I am pretty sure I will have to rethink my weapon if say, a rabid dog or a thief finds their way in.

Thief: I am here to steal your worthless belongings.
Me: You shan't take my 8 year old TV!! Watch yourself! I am armed and will make you delightfully streak-free!
Thief: Your cleaning products have no effect on me. Now hand over your semi-working printer and your Julia Roberts DVD collection.

I determine that it is a bird (thank god not the most genetically mutated bee on the planet) that has buzzed my head and landed on the ceiling fan. I must remove him from the house. I do not need another pet. And the bird poo. Oh dear god. If it becomes cement on my car's windshield I can only imagine what it will do to my couch. So my brain immediately thinks of my secondary weapon of choice for unwanted living creatures- a shoe. I have many to choose from- and I take a moment to ponder the options. One of the kids' flip flops? Hmm... good because it is pretty disposable if something terrible happens and bird entrails accidentally appear, but they are small and will require a proximity to the bird I am not prepared for. My high-heeled black boot? Nah. I really like those shoes. My pink and white Easy-Tone exercise-y shoes? Perfect! I grab one (is it weird that I took a moment to consider left or right?) and head back to the dining room to do battle. He is sitting on the fan sizing me up. I think he knows he can take me.

My brilliant move? I use the toe of the shoe to spin the fan. Bad. Idea. He takes off in a chirping fury and flies frantically around the living room. My next brilliant move is to stand on the couch and wave the shoe around above my head with the hope of....knocking him out of the air maybe? (Then what?!) Perhaps to be DIRECTLY in the line of fire of his pecky little beak? My thinking is not clear. All I know is that I need to remove this feathered poop machine from my house.

Apparently, the work-out shoe frightens the thing (I know, buddy, they frighten me too). Or maybe the sight of a crazy woman doing some sort of spaz dance on the furniture scared him straight, because he headed straight for the open patio door. You could almost see his little bird brain thinking She aint got no rhythm. I refuse to be taken down by an Arthur Murray reject.

He heads for the door with me in hot pursuit. Kids are yelling directions (unhelpful ones like "Kill it!" and "Get me a feather!" and "Go get a birdcage!"). He makes two attempts to make it through the wide open door (really?) and finally flies free straight to the back fence where he sits and glares at my house.

Damn. He is totally gonna come back in the night and do a fly-by pooping of my windows.

Bathtub hijinks and senseless beverage death

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 17:04:00 +0000

Scene yesterday morning:

I am in my jammies enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the younger Monkeys color at the table. It is relatively calm with only a few random arguments over the whereabouts of certain crayons or who has had a longer turn with the one remaining colored pencil. Ahhh.... vague peace. And then there is a knock on the door. Craaaaaap.......

The guy is here to fix the tub. I totally forgot he was coming. After a brief back-and-forth conversation in my head about possibly maybe just ignoring the door I come to the conclusion that I live in a townhouse and this is the maintenance staff. If I don't open the door they are going to come in anyway. Craaaaaap......

So I answer the door. Jammies and bedhead, coffee in hand. And there is Tub Guy who immediately starts laughing. Okay, I will give him that I am standing there in plaid flannel boxers and my ancient BGSU sweatshirt. And did I mention the full-on bedhead? I don't get movie bedhead where there is possibly a strand or two perfectly mussed. I get crazy person bedhead where it looks like I have actually electrocuted myself and/or may be starting a crop of dreads or maybe a wild mouse habitat. So while I will give him all of this, it still is a blow to my fragile morning ego. I make him stand there in the doorway while I run upstairs to gather the damp towels and stray underwear discarded before the family's morning showers (well, from everyone except me- double crap) and kick the pile of undone laundry out of the way and close the bedroom door (because it looks like the rest of the house threw up its junk in that room).

I listen to him work for a while fixing the hole (yes, hole) that had appeared where the silver overflow thingy had been. I was unaware that a bathtub could get a hole in it. And even less aware that it could be fixed. He calls in reinforcements and two other maintenance guys show up- Jovial Guy and The IT Kid. Seriously. I wonder if it is Bring Your Computer Dork Teenager To Work Day. He has those black-frame rectangle glasses and a goatee and carries the clipboard. Go figure. I hear the word "hacksaw" being casually thrown about. I am nervous. I wonder if they are possibly turning my tub into a wonderful watery sculpture- and if IT Kid had to get a permission slip from his mom to use such a dangerous tool.

They wrap things up and I am given this warning from Tub Guy: "Don't get this wet. AT ALL. I will be back in the morning to finish." (As he shows me a hole in the tub that looks suspiciously the same, only with some gray putty stuff around the edges. Hacksaw?) No shower for me. This is tragic. Showers and coffee are survival tools for me. And I am being told there is no wonderfully heated water or jasmine scented shampoo in my future today. I am gonna have to make it with one out of two survival requirements today. Craaaaap.....

Which brings us to the scene this morning:

Nine in the morning. I have gotten a HUGE cup of coffee while out taking my oldest to school (seeing as I was all out of coffee in the house). I am standing in my bathroom, vaguely dressed and sporting the towel turban, frantically wiping the water-splatter evidence of my illicit shower off the tiles with a Spiderman beach towel when the following things happen simultaneously:

1. There is a knock on the door from Tub Guy. Damn. He is going to send me to Plumber Jail for unauthorized bathing.

2. The four-year-old yells "Oh no!" and I walk into the kitchen and see this scene

The untimely demise of coffee in its prime.

Damn. One out of two again.

*Note: Four-year-old coffee bandit was unharmed in coffee disaster. My coffee-addicted soul, however..... scarred. Also, Tub Guy reduced my Plumber Jail sentence to time served in light of the agony of the above tragedy and the hard labor required to remove 22 ounces of sugared beverage from a kitchen floor.

Buried (in plain sight) treasure

noreply@blogger.com (Sharon Byrne) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 19:11:00 +0000

When I was at my parents' over Easter I found a bunch of old pictures (and by "found" I mean "pulled out the box that was sitting right in front of my face.") Soooo many treasures to behold in that box of old photos. It was a virtual cornucopia of awkwardness and odd faces caught at inopportune moments. It was beautiful. And then I came across this picture:

I know, right?!

Look at that face!

Check out those clothes! (okay, okay....it was the early 80's...)

I'm all elbows and knees and giant mouth! (Anybody have any doubts anymore about the whole fist-in-the-mouth thing? Makes sense now, right?)

And the hair?! Was the mushroom haircut ever a good look? (Sorry, mom.) Who takes their kid to get their hair cut and says to the stylist "Make it look like she is wearing a hair shower-cap" ????

Jump-roping was my favorite activity at that time. (I was seven) That Cinderella dressed in yella had so many doctors taking care of her snake bite, it was ridiculous. And later I would expand my jump-roping repertoire to include Double Dutch. And even went so far as to enter into a Double Dutch competition with my Girl Scout troop. We spent hours and hours practicing technique and making up a "routine"......and never went to the competition. I don't know why. Perhaps a camp out with the requisite jungle breakfast (Does anyone remember those? Little boxes of cereal and bananas that were hung from trees and we had to forage for in the early morning dew-covered woods. Why this was considered fun, I will never be able to explain.) caught our collective ADD attentions. Perhaps we simply realized that a routine that consisted only of the ability to jump into the ropes and jump back out without becoming hopelessly entangled would never really win any awards....

But I love the joy this picture captures. And I like to think that I finally grew into those poky elbows. And maybe next time I go visit my pit crew I will ask Molly for a little shower-cap 'do...... for nostalgia's sake.

And there were so many more treasures found... I will be sharing them from time to time....