Mama Still Wears Gucci!

Bumper Stickers and Strong Stands

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:00:00 +0000

Anyone who clings to the historically untrue - and thoroughly immoral - doctrine that 'violence never solves anything' I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always pad for it with their lives and freedoms.

-Robert A. Heinlen

It's Veteran's Day. I'm embarrassed to admit that this day hasn't always had much meaning to me. It essentially meant the inconvenience of banks being closed and seeing some old men in the parade wearing their garrison caps with weakened bodies and oft repeated stories of old memories and fallen comrades.

But then I became the wife of a soldier in combat. The wife of a mere three weeks before her soldier went to Iraq. One of the nastiest, scariest, most dangerous part of Iraq. The entire deployment, from the pre-deployment training, time in theater, and post deployment time in the U.S. but still separated from family lasted nearly two years.

I feel differently about Veteran's Day now. Veterans aren't just old men anymore. Veterans are no longer an abstract concept to me, no longer just people who are good, that matter, but just not to me. I get it now. I get the sacrifice. I get the necessity. I get the fear. The worry. The bargaining with God. I get the pride. I get the patriotism.

I have walked in shoes that few people have. I have run a gamut of emotions that defies the imagination. Yet everything I felt while James was gone, everything I went through was nothing, nothing compared to his daily reality. His reality of facing death on a daily basis. Voluntarily. His reality of seeing the carnage, seeing the indescribable evil of the regime of Saddam Hussein. His reality of worrying about me, home alone, knowing I'm worried for him. His reality of seeing men in his unit being served with divorce papers while in country because their wives couldn't take it. His reality of men going home draped in the flag instead of sitting on an airplane. The reality that it could have just as easily been him.

It was a life changing two years. It is something I wouldn't change, wouldn't give back. Ultimately it's something I'm thankful for. Thankful because I get it now. I don't take much for granted anymore.

I saw a bumper sticker today. It said something like, "If you can read this, thank a teacher. And because it's in English, thank a veteran."

That about sums it up. Thank a veteran. Be someone who gets it.

Pipe Dream?

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:37:00 +0000

Dear Johnathan Hillstrand,

Captain, take me away.

Yrs,

Maybe They'll Offer Me a Job

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 04:12:00 +0000

Dear Zantac Marketing Think Tank,

Your slogan pisses me off every time I hear it. Can you seriously have missed this? Do you sit in a room and play with helium balloons all day? Do you play a little game of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours"? Whatever it is you do, assuming you're even awake while you're at the office, it can't involve much brain power. Creativity was not in the job description, eh?

Because every time, every single time your commercial comes on and the voice over guy says, "Heartburn? Attack it. Zantac." I scream at my television and resist the urge to bludgeon it with the nearest blunt object. I resist only because it's not my TV's fault you're all too damn dumb to come up with "Heartburn? ZANTAC IT."

Did you get it? See how I did that? Attack and Zantac? How they sound the same? They kind of make one word? It creates a little PLAY ON THE NAME OF THE PRODUCT YOU'RE PEDDLING? Fools.

Hate,

Soylent Awesome

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:04:00 +0000

Fade in.

The year? 2009.

Planet? Earth.

Location? The kids' bathroom.

The question on everyone's mind? What is Soylent Awesome?

AH! Soylent Awesome is MOM AND JOSHUA!

Fade out.

Fragalicious

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 07:00:00 +0000

I've been sitting here for awhile trying to whip up something really clever to introduce what you must realize is another edition of Friday Fragments hosted by Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin Time. Here's what I have so far.

Clever Intro Number One - The Question.
Why is it that I look so forward to Friday? It probably isn't because it signals the beginning of the weekend because weekends are essentially meaningless to me, a stay at home mom of two children who are too young to go to school. This can be interpreted two ways. 1.) Every day is a weekend because we are free do whatever it is we want, or B.) There is no such thing as a weekend because moms don't get time off; we don't have wages, labor laws, or union delegates. What is a weekend again?

I think I went really off track there.

Clever Intro Number Two - The Hook
So there I was, walking along the sidewalk, diaper bag and car seat complete with baby in one hand, toddler straggling along barely holding onto the other when this scraggly looking man approached us and said...

Ooh, a cliffhanger.

Clever Intro Number Three - The Anecdote
Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who liked to wear Gucci and compulsively make lists. The day she found Friday Fragments was, quite possibly, the best damn day of her life. Well, behind the day she got married, gave birth a couple times, and discovered the combination of fried chicken and maple syrup.

Well, we can phone it in with that I guess.

Um, I'm a little worried and I can't really talk about it yet because it might be nothing but it also might be something but I don't know if the nothing is something yet or if it's still nothing but if it turns into something, or rather already is something and I have that confirmed I will talk about it but if it turns out to be nothing than I will perhaps share anyway if you really beg and plead and then we can all laugh about it and say "well good thing that something turned out to be nothing otherwise something would have really hit the fan" and if something really is something we can deal with the fallout together which really wouldn't be all that bad and might actually be kind of neat but still would be a pretty worrisome kind of something.

I'm going to call the Guinness Book of World Records to have the previous declared the longest nonsensical run-on sentence in the history of time.

Am I the only one who believes that cats are the embodiment of evil here on Earth? I think it is only rational to acknowledge that felines are the furry, four legged minions of Satan. They serve no discernible purpose. They send ~~everyone on the planet who dares oppose them~~ me into anaphylactic shock when contact is made, and I'm pretty sure they eat babies. How can anyone love something that eats babies? Show me a cat lover and I'll show you someone who supports the actual eating of babies.

Yup, I've got it all together. Have not lost one bit of my mind, thank you.

I'm still doing my stupid yoga. I still think it's asinine, but it does work. I don't buy into all the "Ohm" bull shit, but the unnatural ways they make you contort your body do begin to make it look a little more like you should be allowed in public without a warning label and a little less like Jaba the Hut. Java the Hut? Jaba? Java? To-may-to? To-mah-to? I've never seen Star Wars. I really don't get the reference, but I think he's some sort of fat guy or something. Maybe I should have researched that a little before just including it willy-nilly.

I've also never seen Seinfeld, The Simpsons, or Friends. I don't know if I'm missing anything, but I am a pretty high functioning individual even without knowledge of this "sitcom" stuff. I think the whole humor thing is a fad anyway. I'm sure it'll pass.

And? Scene.

The Bah-est of Humbug

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 03:07:00 +0000

When preventable tragedies happen people always wonder why. When an otherwise normal seeming person dresses himself all up in camouflage, finds himself some high ground, and fires an automatic weapon randomly into a crowd of bystanders people always scratch their heads and go, Huh. Well, that probably shouldn't have happened. What went wrong?

I'm about ninety per cent sure I have the answer.

People go out of their minds and do things they'd never otherwise do because of - drum roll please - Christmas music.

Let's be honest here, have you ever walked into a store during the Christmas season, heard "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" for the eightieth time and not wanted to commit mass murder/suicide? No, you haven't. Maybe you haven't acted on the impulse, but I would bet what little money I have left on the fact that you've weighed the pros and cons.

But NOW it's worse. NOW the assault on our ears begins irrationally early, like a few days after the Fourth of July. Come ON. I am finding it increasingly difficult to get into the "holiday spirit" when I am now expected to maintain it for six to eight months out of the year.

It is two days after Halloween as everyone who has a pulse should know, and so I do not think it is unreasonable to expect a little hiatus from the cheap lawn decorations and festive sweatshirts from Grandma. But I have watched no fewer than three of my neighbors hefting their fat asses up on their ladders to attach little strings of lights to their roofs and arrange little Santa and Christmas tree decals on their front windows.

Oh, she's anti-Christmas.

Nah. I'm just anti idiot who can't keep his pants on and wait for the actual holiday season to start. I love Christmas. I love having a tree, I love the lights, I love everything about it. I'd just like to love it in an abstract, distant kind of way until about, oh, say December 15. Then we're golden.

Because today when I walked into the grocery store and heard "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" my only deterrent from drastic measures was that I am way to prissy and beautiful to survive in prison.

Everybody Knows It.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 04:38:00 +0000

It's like I can't tell which is which.

Since I have little of import to say, I thought I'd just remind everyone that Jon Gosselin is, in fact, a douche bag.

That is all.

Ode to Tracey, or, Pick Me! Pick Me!

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 16:51:00 +0000

This is the best giveaway ever. Srsly. It's so awesome that I hesitate to tell you about it because I want as little competition as possible. I want. To win.

Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog has been one of my favorites for a long time. Her writing is entertaining, real and honest. If you haven't read her blog yet, do so immediately. Please and thank you.

Now, if you're interested in the giveaway, and by "interested" I mean, "if you enter and happen to win you will turn the prize over to me because after all Ella B. has been through this year she deserves a new wardrobe" you need to visit Tracey at her other blog which is aptly named Just Another Review Blog. The rules for entry are all there, and should you win, you need only contact me so I can give you my address and you can forward the prize to me. Because, well, I said.

Also, if you're really in the mood to read some great stuff, check out Tracey's third blog which is called Just Another Homeschool Blog. See how she does that? So clever.

So check out this giveaway. It's like the sweetest one of all time. I really super extra duper wanna win. Mmkay?

Uh Oh.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:29:00 +0000

I'm late. Depending on how you look at it, those are the two scariest or the two happiest words in the English language. I'm late. For some that sentence is cause for joy, for some it is cause for panic. I'm late. I'm panicked. What does it mean? How is this going to change my life? How is my husband going to feel? I don't know what to do besides, well, panic. When it occurred to me today just how late I am, I spent several minutes curled up in the fetal position, shivering and trying not to cry. How did this happen? I'm always so careful! I'm really wringing my hands over this. I'm late.

I HATE posting my Friday Fragments late. Sheesh! What did you guys THINK I meant?

Visit Mrs. 4444 for more installments of Friday Fragments. Probably ones that were posted in a much more timely manner than mine were today.

I'm cautiously optimistic that James is going to get this job we've both been lusting after. He's reached the final step in the interview process which is an on site interview and negotiation of terms. I am convinced they're just bringing him out there to present an offer, and the only way he won't get the job is if he shows up drunk, sleeps with the HR guy's wife, and then burns down the building. So once everything is final I'll begin house hunting in earnest, though if I'm being honest with you, I've already been doing a lot of looking online.

Both Ella B. and I have appointments with surgeons next week. I am at the point where I have to consider drastic measures for my tumah. Ella B. is having her consult with the pediatric orthopedic surgeon to determine the best course of treatment for her congenital hip dysplasia. I have decided that we've had ENOUGH MEDICAL MALADIES ALREADY.

My DVR has joined my List of Things That Need to Die. I record my shows so I can watch them in the peace that comes only when children are sound asleep, but the thrice damned DVR cuts them off like three minutes before they end. Normally this isn't a big deal, but when I'm trying to watch The Office and there's that final little joke at the end? The stupid recording always ends right before they get to the punch line. It's probably the best part of the show.

Ha! I'm late. Oh, I kill me.

Wait a Minute. Republicans Can't Do Yoga.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 14:19:00 +0000

Joshua always compares everything to a banana, which he pronounces "gabana". For example, he'll look at an object, we'll say a sock for the sake of this example, and say, "Wait a minute! That's not a gabana, that's a sock!" He does this with pretty much everything he looks at, touches, or thinks about. I've given up trying to figure out why or where the behavior came from. I'm just enjoying how cute it is. He does it the other way around to, like, "Wait a minute! That's not daddy's car, that's a gabana!" And he's right. It is a gabana. It's so not daddy's car.

Right now there are also certain mispronunciations of words that I'm not correcting because the way he says them are so stinking cute and I can't bear to part with them yet. Call me a bad preparer for school, a remiss parent, or whatever you will, but I'm going to let him say "gabana" instead of "banana" and "tee bays" instead of "PJs" for as long as he wants to. I say tee bays too, because well, the cuteness. I melt. You haven't heard cute until you've heard my Joshua say, "Wait a minute, Mommy! That's not a gabana, that's my tee bays!"

Which, roundaboutedly brings me to my point. Wait a minute! Roundaboutedly is not a gabana! It's not even a word! What is wrong with her? My sister talked me into doing yoga. I swear to you my first response was, "Wait a minute! I'm a republican; republicans can't do yoga!" But I am learning to branch out in my life so I agreed to try it once. Not in front of anybody, for Heaven's sake, just in the privacy of my living room while the doors are locked, the shades are drawn, the kids are napping, and James is not expected home for hours.

I follow along with the yoga show on FitTV, and those skinny women with no make up and fingers that are eight miles long sure do make it look easy. And it was the first time, since I mainly spent the half hour laughing at the asinine way they talk. They speak in this stupid half whisper that's supposed to be relaxing I guess. Then they say things like, "Feel the cleansing light sooth your spirit as we come back to center, welcoming the breath, embracing our bodies and ending in prayer pose with our hands to our hearts."

Puh-lease.

But the next day I was determined to really get through the half hour show without laughing at them or imagining kicking them over while they're in deep "Ohm" and then laughing hysterically. I learned something about yoga. It's extremely difficult. Who would have thought? I used to be a gymnast, before I got married, had two kids and gained sixty five pounds, and I was confident I hadn't lost my strength and flexibility. I'm not sure why. I haven't flitted around in a gym for over ten years, and that stuff doesn't exactly stay with you.

I'm a week into my yoga. I'm doing it five days a week and taking the weekends off. My sister said she's dropped a pants size (what? From an eight to a six? ~~the bitch~~) and she's been doing it about a month. So we'll see. It's difficult, but I can definitely get behind something that doesn't make me pant myself into an asthma attack, make me do these ~~horrible convulsions~~ dance moves, or just generally wish for death. ~~That's what she said.~~

So if you're driving by my house in the afternoon and I've inadvertently neglected to close my draperies all the way, rest assured that's not a hippie, that's a republican doing yoga.

Well, F.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 03:08:00 +0000

I am living in such a tsunami of chaos. I don't know if I'm coming or going. I haven't been sleeping, I haven't been eating, I'm sick again. I've lost fourteen pounds, which is good. I'm sure to gain it back when my life stops sucking so much, which isn't good. I can't remember where I put things. Today I went to the grocery store, forgot my list, went back home to get my list because I can't afford to just wing it anymore, went back to the grocery store with my list but without my purse, swore a lot. Went back home, got my purse, held on to my list and went back to the store. When I got there I had to really focus on the words I had written because they were just swimming around on the page. When I deciphered them, I had to talk myself through remembering the difference between garlic and onions. I'm so damn tired.

When I got home with a random compilation of things, some of which were actually on my list, I decided I really wanted some homemade tomato soup. I chopped up all the onion and garlic I needed. I only cut myself once. I put everything in the pan to simmer in some chicken stock and went to cut my tomatoes to roast before they went into the soup. They were apples. Fucking apples instead of tomatoes. I got the garlic an onion dilemma figured out, but I confused my apples and tomatoes. Nobody wants to eat apple and onion soup. I probably would have had a complete mental breakdown if I had to go to the store a fourth time, so I threw in some carrots and some noodles and called it chicken noodle soup sans chicken. It sucked, but it was food. I even ate a little bit of it. Yay me.

After my little broth experiment for dinner I decided it was time to clean out closets. I can fit into a lot more of my things now. I'm still a long way away from the sixes and eights I've been stubbornly clinging to since well before Josh was born. I threw them out tonight. I also boxed up my entire wardrobe of work clothing, it's only been like five years since I've actually worked, to take to the Goodwill or, gulp, the consignment place. I'm pretty prepared to take an ass whipping on that crap. "You said you paid $900 for these Jimmy Choo's? OK, well, I'll give you, say, fifteen bucks?" I can't WAIT. It's going to feel so GOOD.

I want some tomatoes, I want some sleep, and I want my life back, please. I feel like a damn lunatic.

Every Light in the House is On

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 02:12:00 +0000

James is gone for the weekend at drill with the National Guard, the kids are in bed, I'm finally relaxing with a much needed ~~bottle~~ glass of wine, and I have a confession to make.

Last night I slept with the lights on.

There. I said it.

I'm not afraid of the dark at all. I am, however, afraid of the myriad ~~monsters, murderers, and rapists~~ unpleasant things that come out of the dark to strike the unsuspecting female who sleeps in the pitch darkness. Especially when I'm home alone in a new house in a new city and I've just watched three episodes of I Survived and 48 Hours, Hard Evidence right before going to bed.

It's not that I think the light itself will save me. In reality, if I ever do experience a home invasion, my little hall light will only allow me to see death coming. Plus, in this house, the gun cabinet is built into the hallway between the bedrooms, and in order to get to it I'd have to run past the crazed mad man intent on having his vile way with me and then taking my life, into the kitchen to find the key, back through the boobie traps he's probably set in preparation for just this very flight, struggle with getting the cabinet open, and then quickly learn how to load, undo the safety (pretty sure I'm not even saying that right) and point and shoot all without waking up my children. Obviously I should just wear a T-shirt to bed that says, I Suck at This, Kill Me First. Anyway, having a light on isn't going to help me.

What runs through my mind though, is that I don't want to be one of the idiots on the true crime murder mystery shows that is, through their asinine actions, just begging to be killed. Really, who's the jackass who run upstairs to the third floor and then whines about not being able to escape? I'm not saying that person deserves to be killed horrifically, but neither can I rule it out. So as I'm laying in bed running through what I might say to this person who broke into my house to steal me and my valuables, because my big mouth is clearly my only shot, I think that whatever I do, I need to make sure it isn't something that's going to get me on one of those shows (postmortem, naturally) about which Bill Kurtis says, "The last thing she did before being blugeoned to death by the man the media dubbed the 'Gucci Mama Killer' was run past the intruder, fumble around in the kitchen for some sort of key, then run straight through the tripwire set by the killer where she was then hung upside down by her ankles and tortured with her grandmother's best silver." I mean, I don't give it a lot of thought or anything, but I really don't want to be on one of those shows.

Actually, the reasons I wouldn't want to be featured on television for being a murder victim are two fold. One, I really don't think I want to be murdered. Two, I still haven't lost the baby weight, and I just know my husband would find the fattest, ass-y-est, most unflattering picture imaginable and that's what they'd flash on the screen nineteen times. Then people would think I was crappy at self defense and fat and they wouldn't even feel sorry for me.

So I leave the light on because then perhaps the killer will just decide to let me sleep, because a grown woman with children who is ~~afraid of the dark~~ extra cautious when her husband is out of town is just too pathetic to be killed. And then Bill Kurtis will never be able to say, "If only she never got up to turn off that light..."

I Have Seen it All and I Have Seen too Much

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 06:00:00 +0000

It seems in my middle-of-the-night-wish-I-could-sleep-but-I-can't-and-it's-pissing-me-off-I-guess-I'll-play-Bejeweled-or-something random internet searches that I have found the feces....

that result when shame...

eats way too much...

sheer stupidity.

Fragments That Fall on Friday

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 06:00:00 +0000

I don't really have a clever intro. I'm not really feeling very clever. I'm going to do the Friday Fragments thing again because I like it. I want to. It's a fun way to just write and not worry much over what's on the page. I'm going to link to Mrs. 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time because those are the rules and I am a stickler. But I'm probably going to just "frag" about one topic. It probably won't be funny. Don't know yet; haven't really even thought about what I'm going to say. Just gonna let it all hang out. Maybe there will be some gaiety. Guess I'll just dive right in then.

Even though yesterday's post was, if may toot my own horn, brilliantly hilarious, I'm not feeling like very much sweetness and light. I'm having difficulty shrugging off this burden that I'm angry has been handed me to carry. I can feel physically the weight of this stress that is building and building and I just want to raise my fists and scream Enough! But I don't, because I am The Mother. And The Mother keeps everything together even when everything is crumbling around her. My mama taught me that.

I may have, ahem, taken my ire out with much vigor and vim on the hapless little CPN who works for the orthopedic surgeon Ella B. was referred to. The thing is, my pediatrician set it up so the surgeon's office would call me to schedule a consult, an ultrasound for Ella, line out specific treatment options, and then schedule the procedure. I waited for a couple hours like a nice, patient lady but they didn't call. So, I called them. First, they couldn't find the chart. Then they wanted me to wait until December even though the pediatrician told her to set up an immediate appointment. Then, in order to accommodate the pressing nature of the case, they wanted me to do the initial consult with another surgeon in the practice who doesn't specialize in pediatric orthopedic surgery. This surgeon was not willing to do the ultrasound without personally verifying one was needed even though one was ordered by the pediatrician. It was at this point that I moved to Plan B. Plan B pretty much consisted of this particular office SHOVING IT.

I found a doctor I think will be really excellent. His main practice is at the Mayo Clinic, but he does have privileges at the Children's Hospital here, so we won't be traveling. I had my pediatrician contact his office before I did to make sure they understood the urgency here. Maybe urgency is the wrong word medically, but I feel really fucking urgent. Anyway, he was very accommodating. He will be in town on November 5, and while that's over a week away, he did really shuffle his schedule to get us in, he's specialized in pediatric orthopedics for thirty five years, and he has gray hair and a beard. I make it a point to trust doctors with gray hair and salt and pepper beards. It's a whole thing. I can't really explain it.

I'm trying to be optimistic here. I'm trying to be glad that we caught this early; we're treating it when she's so young that she won't remember it. We're treating it before she's mobile. I'm trying to remember to thank God that we have her here at all, and that she's healthy enough to be treated. I'm trying to count it a blessing that the congenital hip dysplasia and the HS Purpura (an autoimmune disorder) are the only tangible repercussions of her prematurity. Well, that we know of. But still, how awesome is that? How miraculous is the fact that she defied so many odds without batting an eyelash? How amazing is it that she was the smallest baby ever born at this hospital that didn't spend a minute in the NICU? I am thankful and I am blessed. That doesn't mean it isn't hard. It is. But she's totally worth it.

Tasteful? Treasures? Like a Tupperware Party?

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:50:00 +0000

I never thought I'd share this story. I have, after all, a reputation I'd like to maintain. But Justine has inspired me. On her newly made over page of fabulous, Stupid is as Sister Does, Justine reviewed a, um, product. Maybe I should have channeled my inner Puritan and skipped this one over because, well the words alone are enough to make me blush and stammer, but I thought I'd allow a little bit of the naugh-tay in. Just for a minute. Just to see how it felt. I made it through relatively unscathed, and I do recommend reading the post, especially if you don't have a phobia about the human body like I do. If I could gasp and sputter my way through it, I think normal, less tightly wound people will really get a kick out of it. So to speak.

Anyway.

Reading this review caused all the repressed memories to come flooding back. Those of you who know me know I'm, well, a prude. I don't like to "touch others" or "show affection". I can't "name all the parts of the human body" or "say the s-e-x word out loud". I don't "wear shorts" or "take a shower without locking the door even when I'm alone in the house". I also have a (probably naive) assumption that others are generally the same. So when one of my mother's friends invited me to a "Tasteful Treasures" party, I never dreamed. Never imagined. Never could have thought in a million years that it was a, gasp, tupperware party except 86 the tupperware and substitute the sex toys. Holy. Shit.

You have not known shame, my dear friends, until you have sat on a couch next to your mother and listened to description after description of vibrators and anal beads while sampling Pina Colada lube from the tip of your finger. You have never really wanted the earth to swallow you whole until you have sat on that same couch next to your mother and watched a DVD tutorial on the proper usage of the vibrators and Pina Colada lube. And you have never truly wished for death, literal instantaneous death, until one of the vibrators is passed around and your mother turns it on, jabs it into your back and says, "We should buy one to share! Like, not for it's real purpose, obviously, but because it's actually a really good back massager."

Kill.

Me.

Now.

After being bombarded with very inventive crippling causes of shame for over an hour, we all had to go into a room with the lady to make our private purchases. And if you don't buy something you're a total jack ass, because everyone knows you have to make a purchase at a tupperware party. Even if there's no actual tupperware in sight and you've totally been hoodwinked into participating in the most horrifying experience of your life. But then when you do buy something, you have to walk back out of that room with your "discreet" brown paper bag that's stapled shut so everyone else in the room can be awed by the mystery of it all.

One by one I watched these women go into that room and walk brazenly back out with their little stapled bags. I began to hyperventilate a little bit as my turn approached. What the hell was I possibly going to buy? I'm not a deviant! Well, if you ignore the fact that I was at a sex toy party with my mother.

I was vastly relieved to learn that Tasteful Treasures has its own line of scented candles. What I learned after the purchase to my great dismay, was that the candles are larger than the, um, "toys" so the lady gave me this giant bag to put them in. Everyone else left that room with little delicate sandwich sized bags. I came out dragging this gigantic thing you could have fit a Volkswagen in and everyone looked at me like, Oh mmhmm. It's always the prudes you have to watch out for. Sick.

I am absolutely convinced I was invited for everyone's amusement. And now I have this overwhelming feeling of wanting to die again. This is why I really appreciate the brain's ability to repress unwanted memories. I'd like to have this particular slate wiped so clean it would be as if it never existed.

Stupid Is As Sister Does: Eden Fantasys Product Review

Sometimes I Really Hate to be Right. Seriously.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:23:00 +0000

When it rains, it pours. It's cats and dogs out there right now. Ella B. had her well check today. I brought in some pictures of her that highlight the problem I have long suspected she has with her hip. The problem that a lot of my family tried to talk me out of, the problem that some attributed to my purported flair for the dramatic. You know it's bad when I take zero pleasure in "I told you so". A mother knows.

You can really see it in this shot where she's sitting in her chair. She consistently leans to the side like this; she's unable to sit up straight at all. She cannot sit independently.

And this one of her standing up. Though it doesn't look like it, this picture was taken straight on. She looks like she's standing crooked. It's the hip.

They examined her closely. The rotated her hips this way and that; they measured her legs. They looked at the creases where her thighs meet her bottom and the ones behind her knees. The disparity pointed toward Congenital Hip Dysplasia. The X-rays confirmed the diagnosis.

Time, they tell me, is of the essence. We'll be discussing treatment options with the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow. Well, when you're reading this it will be "today". Wednesday, that is. We have to act now, before it goes on any longer. The longer it goes untreated, the worse the future complications. I'm hoping they'll put her in a brace for a few months and that will be the end of it. That's probably unrealistic; as I understand it that's the typical treatment for newborns, and she isn't one. In all likelihood, she'll be put under general anesthesia, her hip will be repositioned correctly, and she'll spend several weeks, perhaps months in a body cast.

We'll need a special car seat to accommodate the cast. We'll need to get really creative and skilled at diapering around a twenty five pound body cast. We'll have to keep an active, excitable seven month old entertained while she is rendered completely immobile. We'll have to worry about the long term effects of not just the problem, but the treatment. The body cast could affect her growth permanently, and her growth is already an issue. We'll have to pay some attention to our two and a half year old. But that's all stuff I know I can handle. I'm only mildly concerned about that. My only real thoughts are for my precious baby. I wring my hands over just how much her tiny body can handle. She's been through so much already. She's fought for her life before she has a concept of what her life even is. She's so strong, but at the same time so tiny. So fragile.

There has to come a point where enough is enough, and I have to believe I'm sprinting toward that point. I've kind of had it with the trials and tribulations this year has brought, and I'm ready to move into a little ease. A little luxury. Clearly there are mountains left to climb.

The Waiting Place

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 19:34:00 +0000

We're waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting. This is the beginning of week two of the second job loss. James is currently in the second phase of the hiring process with a company he'd love to work for, but OUR urgency is not THEIR urgency, so everything is moving really slowly. It's frustrating because I want to know where I stand. I want to know what's going to happen. I want to know we're going to be OK.

I'm not sure I've ever been this worried. The first time around I thought he'd find another job right away. The first time around I wasn't panicked over getting the bills paid in addition to the mortgage. I didn't have to clip any damn coupons, except for that one time, or consider (and ultimately reject) buying store brand "diet cola". I'm going to splurge the extra dollar-nine for real DC. I deserve it.

I'm about one panic attack away from the loony bin at this point. I have Josh's birthday coming up, I have Christmas, I have three or so thousand dollars a month that my creditors are going to start getting serious about wanting, and we. have. no. job. I have never in my life had to worry about money. It used to be that if I wanted something, I'd go to the store and buy it. If we needed a vacation, we'd go to the travel agent and book it. My car always had a full tank of gas. My kitchen was well stocked with gourmet groceries. We'd eat out a few times a week. If something broke, we'd get it fixed. If the fix was taking too long, we'd just replace it with a new one. But now, we have no income. Other than the pittance James gets from drill each month. That used to cover my salon expenses. I miss those days.

I am excessively worried. I am humiliated. I am angry at how unfair it is. I am astounded that it's been this difficult for a highly qualified professional to find work. I am filled with regret over the excess with which we used to live because though I'm trying, Armani suits and Louis Vuitton hand bags don't sell for market value on eBay.

We've been brought low. Had our asses handed to us. Felt the door hit us on the way out. We now stand at the junction between Hell and High Water. And we're still just waiting.

FuhRAGmehnts.

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 14:04:00 +0000

Ever felt like you had a destiny? A calling? This insistent tugging at your heart, your mind, perhaps your very soul to go forth an conquer? Yeah, me neither. If sappy crap like that ever pops up I usually douse it in the gasoline of cynicism and light it with the spark of indifference. I like to keep it happy. Still, the tiny little corner of my person that still possesses motivation to do something other than skate through this season of my life with something other than internal dread and forced external faux optimism is Mrs. 4444. Oh, yeah, and I guess my "husband" and "children". They bring with them mild reason for getting out of bed as well. Anyway, here goes...

I think I need to develop a sarcasm button for my keyboard. That way, just when I worry I've gone too far, I can push the sarcasm button which will indicate to others that I don't really hate everyone and everything. Most of the time. (Button? Hello? Beuller?)

Right now I am listening to the sweet sound of the Dyson, and I am sitting at the keyboard, not walking around behind it. This can only mean that James, bless his once again jobless heart, is cleaning my house. This is a situation I can get used to. I guess the staying up late at night worrying about money, wondering if we have to move again, hoping against hope that he'll get a real job again, and the intense stress induced by the whole situation can be tempered a little bit by having a clean house I had little or nothing to do with.

My sister, knowing my current woes and complaints and having recently graduated from college and gotten married (so, not kicked in the teeth by life yet) told me to make what she calls a "Small Battles List". These are little things I can control while the rest of my world spins completely out of my sphere of influence. I am working on it. So far it has things like I CAN eat the whole cheesecake while watching Biggest Loser. I CAN point and laugh at the people waiting for public transportation in the driving rain while I'm in my nice warm SUV with heated seats. I CAN record a bunch of King of the Hill episodes on the Tivo and watch them in the wee hours of the morning while drinking Diet Coke and eating cookie dough. I CAN live in the delusion that this behavior will not make my ass so wide it needs a warning sign. These are battles I can WIN.

Button?

Laundry List

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 16:11:00 +0000

I'm not a big whiner, but I'm really inclined toward the activity these days. So, waaah, and such.

Everyone in my house is sick. Just when I thought I had escaped the illness, the germs invading the bodies of my children and husband converged into a SUPERBUG and assaulted me with full artillery. Wah.

The car dealership James worked for found out he took time off of work to interview for a real job and let him go at his "ninety day review". Once again we find ourselves with buckets of money going out, and and the barest ounces trickling their way in. Double, perhaps even triple Wah.*

I'm worried about Ella B. I think she has some sort of hip issue that makes one leg appear longer than the other. Her legs measure the same in inches, but her hips are offset. This is preventing her from sitting up and I'm afraid she won't be able to walk without serious intervention. I can't get her into the doctor before her next well check because it isn't an emergency, but it's driving me nuts to wait two more weeks to get some answers. Um, Wah.

My head tumah is outstaying its welcome. It hurts. It's ugly. Most of my family says the swelling isn't that noticeable, but I can see a basketball in my cheek whenever I look in the mirror, so you do the math. Yup, two plus two equals WAH.

James is filling out power of attorney, next of kin, and six hundred other preparation for deployment forms right now. He has to go on Sunday to the armory in the Twin Cities to begin processing for mobilization to Afganistan. As it stands now, he probably won't be going because he will be honorably discharged in June, 2010 and the deployment is slated for October, 2010. And thankfully, the military has done away with the stop loss nonsense, so he can't be called back to deploy if he's out of the Army. Still, if being a military wife has taught me anything, it's not to believe anything is really what they say it is until it's happening. I've been through an almost two year deployment and I know things, including dates, rarely go as planned. So while the chances that he will deploy again are minuscule at best, I'm still going to call for a chorus of WAH.

*The interview was very positive; they've scheduled a phone interview and hopefully after that they'll fly him out again for negotiation of terms and then we'll be (God willing) back in the saddle.

Serves Me Right

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 16:53:00 +0000

...For letting him dress himself.

And the Baby Slept Through All the Fun

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 19:33:00 +0000

Alright. I know I said I was on hiatus. I know that this is the second post in the three days since that riveting announcement. I know that makes me a bit of a liar. Or a really crappy predictor of the future. I really anticipated being gone for awhile, taking some time to reflect and regroup, but it's occurred to me that I'm much more of a "doer" than a "thinker". So I'm eliminating the Debbie Downer routine, for the most part, and I'm focusing on the positive.

I love fall. I love the crisp, smoky air. I love the changing of the leaves. I love the pumpkin bread and turtleneck sweaters and piping hot bowls of soup. I love everything about it. So I thought it would be nice if we raked a portion of the forty tons of leaves in our yard today (and by "we" I mean "just not me") and I supervised and snapped some photographs. It turns out love of autumn is passed down from mother to son.

As fast as James could rake them together, Joshua would charge through piles of leaves like a madman. He had a ball. And he even helped out a little bit with the bagging.

It was a family affair, the raking of these leaves. Grandma and Poppa Bryan pitched in once we put lunch at Sammy's Pizza on the table.

They mainly spearheaded the supervisory committee, but I think James really enjoyed three different people giving him directions concerning a mind boggling task like raking leaves.

What was I doing this entire time other than taking these spectacular pictures, you ask? I pitched in with the leaf bagging! What am I, a princess who is above all manner of manual labor?

I took this leaf...

And I put it in the bag!

I also instructed James to rake in one direction so the grass was all facing the same way. I hate it when it looks all haphazard, raked in nineteen different willy nilly directions. It was almost as taxing as that time I mowed the lawn.

Maybe I Just Need Some Sleep

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 05:43:00 +0000

I'm taking a hiatus from my hiatus to say that this just really fucking sucks. And the thing is, I don't KNOW what to say, I don't KNOW what to point to and say, "THAT'S it" and then just fix it. Because it's so many things.

And maybe I just need to start writing like this more at one in the morning where I just put this word vomit on the page for awhile and hope you don't hold it against me that I stop trying to pretend like everything is still coming up fucking roses when it just really isn't.

All I know is, I cried, CRIED while watching Jim and Pam get married on The Office when Jim cut his tie off because Pam ripped her veil and it's really not right that someone would cry about something like that. And I was just sitting there crying and my face hurts because of this goddamn "tumah" and the last three times I've been out of the house I haven't even worn makeup and I DON'T say the "f" word.

So I don't even know what I'm saying except that I really want someone to sit across from me and cut off his tie so it won't matter anymore that my veil is torn. Or maybe it's just one in the morning. Maybe I just need some sleep.

Slumpage

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 13:38:00 +0000

I'm having a really hard time sitting down at my laptop and plunking out posts that have some sort of meaning, are humorous, or are even mildly interesting to read. It's alright, this little slump I'm in is beginning to show; it's taxing to continually keep up appearances. It shows in my page views, it shows in my comments, it shows just when I go back and read something I wrote recently and I shake my head a little.

So, I'm taking a little hiatus. I reserve the right to make it as long or as short as I want. I might pull myself out of this little writing funk by this afternoon or it could take a few days or even, gasp, weeks.

I'm still here, I'm just going to take some time trying not to suck quite so much. I think we can all benefit from this situation.

In Case a Reminder is in Order

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 15:00:00 +0000

I am getting more than passing tired of certain individuals, I believe you know who you are, worrying yourselves into a tizzy over the manner in which I choose to raise my children. You see, everything they do or don't do is up to, well, me. Maybe they didn't teach you that in Buttinsky School, but there it is. How I choose to dress them? Me. How I choose to teach them about Jesus? All me. Where I choose to send them to school? Um...me. Who I allow them to spend time with? Well, I'll take "Me" for five hundred, Alex. Where and when we go to church? And the people said...? Me! See, the beauty of being able to call them mine is that no one else can lay claim to them. Picture me wearing parachute pants and singing "Can't Touch This".

And now that we have that out of the way, I have an award that I have too long neglected to acknowledge.

From Mrs. Boring Stay at Homer of Things a Mother Finds Under the Covers, I was fortunate enough to receive...

The rules of this award are as follows:
~Answer the questions below using only one word (it's harder than it seems!)
~Thank the blogger who gave it to you (See above)
~Pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers (See below)

1. Where is your cell phone? Table
2. Your hair? Growing
3. Your mother? Awesome
4. Your father? Absent
5. Your favorite food? Pasta
6. Your dream last night? Sigh
7. Your favorite drink? Diet Coke
8. Your dream/goal? World-Domination (it's one word if I hyphenate, right?)
9. What room are you in? Kitchen
10. Your hobby? Reading
11. Your fear? Grasshoppers
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Healthy
13. Where were you last night? Home
14. Something you aren't? Shy
15. Muffins? Blueberry?
16. Wish list item? Johnathan Hillstrand (one name is almost like one word.)
17. Where did you grow up? Minnesota
18. Last thing you did? Cleaned
19. What are you wearing? Jewlery
20. Your TV? Off
21. Your pets? None!
22. Your friends? Few
23. Your life? Chaotic
24. Your mood? Content
25. Missing someone? Always
26. Vehicle? Huge
27. Something you're not wearing? Chainmail
28. Your favorite store? Nordstrom
29. Your favorite color? Black
30. When was the last time you laughed? Today
31. Last time you cried? Yesterday
32. Your best friend? Mama
33. One place that I go over and over? Bedroom
34. One person who emails me regularly? James
35. Favorite place to eat? Out

Dreams for the Future

stephanie.delger@yahoo.com (Stephanie) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 16:21:00 +0000

I would really prefer it if people didn't have to use the washroom at all. But until that day comes? Can we please just keep it a little more private? Am I really asking all that much? I have encountered more people, mostly at "tumbling class" with Joshua, that are inclined to discuss their childrens', um, movements. Like the woman who puts her son in a pink unitard isn't humiliating him enough?

I don't know why parents get together and want to talk about things that go in the toilet. I struggle through enough of that with my almost three year old (there's less than eighty shopping days left until his birthday, PS). Joshua knows that what goes on in the bathroom and the equipment he uses while in there is private and not really up for discussion unless he needs help, slammed it in the toilet (THAT was a fun day), or he needs to tell me about a "bad touch" and then someone gets killed. He's pretty covetous of his privacy too, much to the consternation of others who watch him (Grandma, I'm looking at you) because they want to be helpful. And I also think they fear a sprinkler type situation in their sparkly bathrooms, but he actually has pretty good aim. When he wants to.

See how I did that? I discussed something that really should not be discussed while dancing around the issue and not using any words to engage the gag reflex? It wasn't hard at all! So I'm really just asking for the same courtesy, parents at tumbling. When your son turned the back of his pink unitard brown, probably just to punish you for making him wear it, I really don't care to know the details.