Good bye cruel (blog) world....

I'm pulling the plug.






-- Mox

The contents of my head today.

The bad news is, I feel fat today. So I put on my fat pants (don't tell me I'm the only one who has fat pants, don't lie to me) and the good news is, I found $5 in my pocket. Woo!

Had a dream last night that I had open heart surgery. I have no idea what that means. It must be significant in some way, though, since I rarely remember my dreams. And I've never had surgery, major or minor, so where that came from I have no idea.

My best friend is having major trouble with her oldest son and I just want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her to see if I can shake some sense into her. She knows what needs to be done but she's not doing it. I'm trying to stand by her and be her sounding board but my bossy nature is hard to deny.

A word of advice: an antique bed is probably not the best choice for a six year old. The only reason Spawn has an antique bed is that we were able to purchase it, complete with mattress and box springs, plus a dresser, for less than $500 for the whole shootin' match. But the thing has fallen down twice. I'm ready to give up and get the kid a whole new bedroom suit, one that can withstand jumping.

After I made my first sale on eBay, I was hooked. Heaven help me, I'm selling everything I can find around the house. It would probably be a good idea for the cats to keep moving.

I can't decide what's worse -- having to be at work on a gloomy, rainy day best suited for sleeping in, or having to be at work on a glorious, sunny day best suited for anything but working. Either way, the common denominator would be not working, I think.

Damn. I'm tired.



-- Mox

Legal, moral, ethical.

I am a knowledge junkie. My friends will attest to this because I am the one flooding their email boxes with links to interesting articles that I've read. But I think you should constantly be learning something. I used to make a habit of taking at least one CEU course each semester because it kept me from getting into a rut, mentally. Over the years I've taken oil painting, tai chi, ballroom dancing, and writing classes. The last class I took, I was pregnant with Spawn. I haven't had the time or the money to take anything in six years.

Six years!

Now, I'm going to admit something to you that's probably pretty obvious by now. I am, at the midpoint of my 39th year, having a really hard time with the concept of turning 40. Every ten years or so, I go through this assessment period and I start to wonder what the hell I've gotten accomplished in the past decade.

And right now, the answer is something akin to Not A Whole Lot.

I mean, sure, I've managed to go and procreate, but in six years I think that's just about all I've done.

And there's so much I still want to learn.

Seven years ago, I took a short story class. And y'all, the professor teaching this class was CUTE. Turns out, I am not too old to be crushing on the teacher, especially since he's what I'd consider my "type" -- meaning he's well-read, articulate, intelligent, and has a nice smile. And I like a man with a nice smile. Especially if I'm going to be discussing story theme and analyzing meaning with him and he's truly a nice, nice guy.

I'll admit, I was interested. And I can't say for sure but I think it was reciprocated. You know, the warm tinglies were flying between us. That sort of thing.

And I'm still sort of crushing on this guy because his kid goes to the same school as my kid and I see him pretty often. I find myself fanning my face after I talk with him sometimes. This is not good. This is dangerous. This is a case where out-of-sight-out-of-mind is good, in-my-face is not.

I can see real potential for me to get into trouble here. I've always been a stereotypical "good girl" whose only infractions have been misdemeanors. I mean, I didn't even have a fake ID in college.

So in search of something to get me out of my rut that is legal, moral, and ethical, I've decided to learn Italian.

Sicurezza preventiva.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: you know what

Okay. Show of hands: how many of you decided to stay in bed today just because it's Friday the 13th?

Gotta admit, that's a pretty convenient excuse. If I were more superstitious I'd use it myself.

Regardless, though, of what the date is, the fact still remains that today is Friday. Which means date night with my spouse and post-Lent imbibing. Life is good, or at least it will be sometime after 5pm.

For those of you who are superstitious, just remember: in some cultures, a black cat is a symbol of GOOD luck. It just depends on which side of the superstition fence you're on.





-- Mox

I fear they will revoke my Southerner card.

People around here talk funny. I talk funny, too, so I can say that. It's like saying my sister's ugly -- I can say it, but nobody else can without risking a bloody snoot.

And I know that I talk funny and everybody around me talks funny, but that doesn't mean that I always understand what's being said.

Here's the thing I don't get: dinner and supper.

Now, around here, dinnertime generally means the hour of noon or somewhere thereabouts. Suppertime is the evening meal. Of course if you work second or third shift time isn't as big of an issue and the designation for your midshift meal is generally "dinnertime." Supper is the meal after that.

I'm afraid to admit this, but I use the two terms pretty much interchangably, and I use them solely in reference to the evening meal. The midday meal to me is Lunch.

Now, before anybody spits out their sweet tea and calls me a carpetbagger, let me assure you that I am born and raised Southern, right down the shoes that are not on my feet. And despite my elevated educational level and bona-fide degree in English I still say things like "y'all" and "ain't" and all manner of stuff that's just not proper grammar. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it must be a duck, right?

And that's just it -- I speak the language. I understand my neighbors and they understand me.

But at noontime, I go get myself some lunch.

And at six PM, I call my family to the supper table, to have dinner.

I can't really keep it straight in my head, either. When someone says dinner to me I picture meatloaf and mashed potatoes, unlike what I picture for lunch, which is a sandwich. I'm just as likely to ask my family what they want for supper as I am to say dinner's almost ready and no you can't have a snack right now. It's all the same to me.

It's shameful, that's what it is.




-- Mox

For everything that I post here that's not depressing as hell, there are at least two posts in my drafts folder that are.

A farmer had 3 beautiful daughters who were getting ready to go out on dates. The first beau came to the door and said, ''I'm Eddie, I'm here to pick up Betty. We're going for spaghetti, is she ready?''

"No," the farmer said.

The second beau came to the door and said, ''I'm Joe, I'm here to pick up Flo to take her to the show. Is she ready to go?''

"No."

The third beau came to the door and said to the farmer. ''Hello, my name is Chuck.''

The farmer shot Chuck.



-- Mox

You don't need to see that.

I had a post all written up just a few minutes ago and decided that it came from a dark place in my brain that I just don't want to share with the Internet.

See, I didn't want to run you off. You come here for the funny. Am I right?

No?

You come here for the interesting? The enlightening? The educational?

I didn't think so.

You come here to see me lose my shit.

Well, sorry. Not today. I can't even watch that, myself, today.

It's pretty spectacular, though.

We'll try again tomorrow.




-- Mox

Thank God THAT'S over.

The main reason I don't make a habit of denying myself anything is that if I can't have it, I want it. And if I want it and can't have it, I get rather bitchy. So to save everyone the trouble of having to deal with me, I just don't deny myself anything. Works for me.

You can bet your sweet bippy I won't be giving up ALL my vices next year for Lent. Ambition has its' place, but not if it leads to self-flagellation.

But now that the Resurrection has been properly recognized and celebrated in the Christian world, I can go back to my chocolates, my cokes, my booze. My sinful nature can once again exist without attendant guilt.

Funny, though. Now that I can have it, I don't want it.

Figures.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: the little things that tick me off

I don't ask for a whole lot in the morning, usually. My basic criteria for a successful morning is a glass of OJ, an hour of quiet, and my newspaper. That hour of quiet is the reason I get up so damn early, before everyone else in the house. If I can get at least half of that hour by myself then I can tolerate most anything the more cheerful members of my household can lob at me.

By that statement you can assume that I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be.

Because I like for things to go according to plan at 5-freakin-30 in the morning, I expect that there will be at least enough OJ for one glass and that my morning paper will be on the stoop. If my paper isn't there I get irritated.

Like this morning.

Back when our little podunk paper was locally owned, there was a number you could call to notify them when you didn't receive your paper as usual. Someone was actually sitting in the newspaper offices at six in the morning just for that purpose. They would offer to bring you a new one or credit your account, and in the wee hours of the morning that was as close to vindication as sometimes I got all day. But now our paper is owned by a big conglomerate and they've taken everyone out of the office early in the morning. Now you have to wait until "business hours" to call and report your missing paper, and while they will still offer you a new one or a credit, it's just not the same.

Hmm. Maybe what this post is about is not that I didn't get my paper this morning, but that I don't get the customer service I used to.

I think if we all got more bend-over-backwards customer service we'd all be a lot easier to live with.



-- Mox

Thoroughly disgusted.

Y'all, I have GOT to stop shopping at the same stores as my mother.

Yesterday Spawn and I hit the mall in search of something for me to wear for Easter. Hitting the mall with Spawn is exhausting all by itself, but you throw in a comprehensive search for suitable churchwear that meets the criteria of a casually attired, pushing-40 but still in good shape mom of one, and you've got yourself a recipe for collapse.

My preferred mode of dress has a lot more to do with jeans and flipflops than it does with plunging necklines, and since there is no way in hell I'm going to appear in public dressed in a slip dress made of Pucci-style print fabric... I pretty much bombed out. Designers these days must be on some sort of extended acid trip.

I have no idea where women my age shop for clothes. I mean, I see a lot of women in my age bracket who look fantastic, and they're not wearing what everyone else is wearing, nor do they look alike. They wear their clothes, not the other way around.

I sought refuge in the one store I was certain I could find something in -- Talbots. And I bought a really nice suit, on sale, that will work both for church and for work. I look like I can kick some serious ass in that suit. No, really. All I need is a briefcase and some Ferragamo pumps. And because I'm always in search of things to wear with jeans, I bought a couple of knit tops. I was feeling pretty good about it, too, until I got my purchases home and discovered that my mother had bought one of the exact same tops for herself.

Yikes.

I am mightily resisting turning into my mother in so many ways, and yet here I am mimicking her fashion sense. No wonder I'm depressed.




-- Mox

Uncharted waters

How do you teach a six year old the difference between pointing with a pointer finger and pointing with The Bird? Especially when they attach no significance to The Bird, like us more worldly adults do?

I am without an answer here.




-- Mox

Further evidence that I am starting to lose my edge.

In the position that I play, the position of Mom, there are skills that come into play that may seem insignificant to some. There is, of course, the Eyes In The Back Of My Head skill. Also, the Been There, Done That skill, which pulls up scenes from my own childhood and allows me to quash a plan before it gets hatched because I did that once and it did not work out in my favor. The skill of Anticipatory Reaction has saved me many a spilled drink at the dinner table. And the Ability To Count All The Way To Three works in a way that no mere warning could ever accomplish.

But I'm losing my grip on one of my skills, the one called Knowing Where Everyone Is At All Times.

Truthfully, it's been an easy skill to keep up on, since the other members of my household all seem to have the grace of a pack of elephants and we have old squeaky floors. Plus, Spawn has a tendency to sing all the time and my husband is either coughing or sneezing (allergy season, you know), and the cats generally are meowing/hissing/fighting/running all the time, so keeping tabs on my family has been pretty simple.

But lately, I've found myself losing track of them. My husband can be in the back yard instead of in front of the TV like I thought he was, and I will have no recollection of him walking through the house to go outside. Or Spawn will be in the living room one minute and the family room the next, and I never heard the kid move. The cats I can still pretty well keep track of, since they mostly want to be under my feet at all times. (Meow? Meowmeowmeow?)

I am starting to wonder if I'm losing either my hearing or my grip.

I used to be a lot more on top of things around my house, but here lately I've found myself preoccupied more often. There's a lot of stuff rolling around in my brain that takes up an inordinate amount of space, and then there are the lists. Because my psyche doesn't seem to be content with the two shopping lists I have tacked up on my fridge, I have started to make lists of the intangibles in my life -- things I like and hate about my jobs, goals yet unattained, ideas that need fleshing out, worst case scenarios.

Maybe I just need to chill out.





-- Mox

Now I've gone and done it.

I don't have what I'd consider a particularly addictive personality, which is to say I can walk away from stuff if need be. And sometimes, the need be. Ho boy.

Now, I do a fair amount of shopping online; Amazon is my best friend. And someone in my position doesn't have a lot of time to do leisurely shopping trips, so if I can hunt & gather online then so much the better.

I try to limit my forays into cyberspace because I see real potential for me to abuse the system. I'm trying to get out of debt, not further in. And so, thus far I have been successfully able to avoid one of the biggest selling sites on the Internet.

eBay.

Oh, I hear you. How could I be willfully ignorant of one of the top sites out there? Obviously there is something wrong with me because everyone who is anyone is buying and selling on eBay.

Or so I've been told.

I've been a little afraid of eBay, to tell the truth. There seems to be a real science to the buying and selling that happens there, a system that looks to be quite complicated to the average liberal arts major with no head for business (me). So I've done what I always do when it comes to stuff I'm a little afraid of: I ignored it.

But here's the thing. I am a consignment shopping fool. I buy a lot of Spawn's clothes at consignment shops because a) it's cheaper and b) the clothes have already been washed, so whatever they are is whatever they are. No guessing about shrinking/stretching/fading. I don't feel too anxious about turning the kid loose in a consignment outfit, since whatever damage that can be done is, to my thinking, negligible. I don't feel nearly as blase about full price brand new clothes. And I take a lot of stuff to consign, too, because I don't have a lot of smaller kids in my acquaintance to pass things on to and really, I'd rather have a few shekels in my pocket.

I had three outfits of Spawn's that the kid has outgrown, top-label designer stuff that was barely worn (thanks, mom, for clothing my child), and I knew I wouldn't get too much out of them in consignment. So what to do.... what to do... ?

You guessed it.

I closed my eyes and jumped into eBay. I listed the three outfits and am waiting, on pins and needles, to see if anything happens.

And you know what happened next? I started shopping. And I started bidding. And I won an auction. It should be delivered this week. I'm also watching a handful of items.

My road to hell is paved with eBay links, folks.





-- Mox

Photo Friday: Oh Snap

The dogwoods are starting to bloom. Which means we're due for a cold snap.

I sort of don't mind it, really, because at this point "cold" is a relative concept. Upper 70's and lower 80's for the past week has gotten me rather spoiled, though. 60-ish weather is going to be a bit of a shock.

But this puts me ever closer to that magical point where it gets warm and stays warm. Just one more cold snap before summer.

Both sides of my street are lined with pink and white dogwoods. Most of my neighbors have azaleas in full bloom. My street is the prettiest street in town this time of year.

Yay spring!




-- Mox

My mind, it is so small.

Things I should have given up for Lent:

1. Talking out loud to myself

2. Cursing

3. Cursing out loud to myself

4. Cursing at inanimate objhects

5. Cursing at other people under my breath

6. Holding imaginary conversations with someone I'd like to curse at

7. Doing this out loud

8. Cursing myself




-- Mox

Duck: calm on the surface, paddling like hell underneath.

It seems I spend a good deal of my time peeved about something.

Yesterday I had to call my mortgage company to try and ascertain why they had assessed me a late fee on my last payment, when I had mailed it out on the 12th, which is in advance of the 16th deadline. Turns out they didn't receive it until the 22nd, so voila, late. That'll be $38.18, please.

A cursory check of the postal service website tells me that the check should have been received in their offices (in Atlanta) within two days' time. So either the post office here screwed up (likely, because the PO here is notoriously slow) or whoever received it at the mortgage company took their good sweet time in posting my payment.

Not a lot I can do about either scenario.

And oddly enough, that's not what pisses me off. I don't generally get all worked up about things that are out of my control. No, what's got me in a lather is the customer "service" I received.

My husband is fond of reminding me that customer service is the easiest thing to give and yet the hardest thing to get. As a man who works in the convenience store industry, he knows what he's talking about. I don't know why that is but it's just not human nature, I guess, to be pleasant and helpful. I find it hard sometimes, myself.

First off, I understand that there's not a whole lot that people can do about the sound of their voices. But people who hire for telephone customer service positions would be well-served to actually listen to what people's voices sound like before setting them up with a workstation and a headset.

Secondly, I understand that customer service people, particularly those who talk to people who are sending the company money, are by necessity a bit jaded. They've heard every excuse in the book. They deal with a lot of people who are actually TRYING to pull the wool over someone's eyes. It's hard not to answer that call without presupposing you're dealing with a liar.

Here's the thing: I am not a liar. The reason I am not a liar is that I am not good at it. If I were a better liar I would lie like a rug and not give it a second thought. But I cannot lie with any sort of conviction and therefore you won't catch me doing it. It's probably why I'm not a better writer: I can't make up shit to save my soul.

So I called my mortgage company to see if I could get this straightened out, and silly me, I thought I would be able to work this out. After all, I've never been late on a payment before, not once in all the eleven years I've had a mortgage. I've probably been spoiled by the great customer service I've received at other companies -- even credit card companies -- and it seemed reasonable to me that forgiveness should be relatively simple to get on this.

But no.

You know what I got? I got a guy with both a nasal voice and a snotty attitude. When I first heard his nose talking I cringed a little bit but, you know, thank god at least English was his first language. (Sidebar: don't get me started on customer service reps who speak a heavily accented English. Just don't.) I explained the situation to him and you know what? I got exactly bupkiss. Obviously, this guy has become accustomed to dealing with deadbeats and wasn't going to brook any excuses. He launched into a spiel about the many ways I could avoid this in the future starting with, hey, mail it on the first like you're supposed to, you bum (implication mine), or set it up to be automatically deducted from my account on a certain day (um, no). Several times I opened my mouth to interrupt but it was obvious he was working from a script of sorts. Nothing I said changed his tone or position.

I took it as a personal affront to be spoken to that way. Do not lump me in with that group of people with sob stories about how they can't pay their mortgage.

I suppose I could have escalated the issue and asked to speak to a supervisor, but at a certain point you have to ask yourself: is this worth $38 to me?

Customer service. Hah.

Now would seem to be a good time to shop around for a new mortgage. See what I can come up with. Rates are (according to the media) at historic lows.

Is $38 and a snotty attitude worth a couple hundred thou? I think not.




--Mox

That's odd.

I love to watch people. Now that we've had a spate of warm days, people have come out of hibernation, and that means I've had a quite a lot to watch here lately.

Here's something that makes no sense to me: people who smoke a cigarette while riding a bicycle.

Is it just me, or is there something a little off about that?

I understand that not everyone has a car, or wants a car, or has access to public transportation, so they have to get around by whatever means possible. But you'd think that if you were going to ride a bicycle, you'd want to do it without a cigarette hanging out of your mouth.

Here's the thing: riding a bicycle takes two legs and two arms. And in the case of an incline, it also takes some lung and muscle power. Smoking a cigarette takes at least one hand/arm and some lung capacity. Why would anyone want to complicate something as simple as riding a bike with the added bother of having to keep up with a smoke?

I won't even get into the health stuff here. All I'll say about that is this: exercise = healthy; smoking = not so much.

People are funny.




-- Mox

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Man.

80° over the weekend. Glorious.

My kid and the neighbor's kid were out running around in their swimsuits yesterday. This is March?

I dragged the porch furniture up out of the basement yesterday. The cat was a bit miffed that I took her favorite sleeping spot away, but I'm glad to have the extra space restored in the basement. Now if I can just get to St. Vincent de Paul with the stuff I'm giving away, I'll have even more room down there.

I gave up on wearing turtlenecks several weeks ago but it still seems to be a big leap to shorts and sandals. And yet, here I am. Please note that you do not hear me complaining.

One of the things I love about spring is its' ephemeral nature. The quick succession from bud to bloom to leaf happens almost in the blink of an eye.

One of the surest signs of spring is the sound of birds singing in the predawn hours. That's one sound I miss when fall comes. But in the spring, the birds are singing to catch a mate and the air is saturated with the sound. I have a pair of doves checking out the vine-covered pergola over my deck as a possible location for their nest. If you've never awakened to the sound of a dove's soft cooing outside your window, I suggest you search out the experience.

To delight in the act of creation, whether through your own hands or through the observation of other creatures, is one of the traits that ties us to God, I think.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Dandy

The old wives' tale (or old farmers, whichever) says that spring has officially arrived once the dandelions bloom. Dandelion blooms are said to signal no more snow.

Well, guess what's blooming in my yard?

Huzzah!




-- Mox

I think I will write a sonnet, about my Easter bonnet.

Every so often, things will work out just right, where a beautiful, sunny, warm day exactly coincides with my day off.

Yesterday was such a day.

The First Day of Spring came in gently yesterday, with sunshine and 75° weather (in March! can you believe it?) and everyone out and about and in a great mood. There was a sense of firmly shutting the door to winter and turning the lock. Windows down, stereos blaring, flipflops out of the closet, and all of us grooving along in sync with the weather. I love it.

I am now sufficiently emboldened to try and find something to wear for Easter.

I think that, at least for me, shopping is about 95% attitude. If I'm feeling frumpy or overtired, nothing I see is going to make me happy. But set me out for the mall on a fine spring day and see what I come back with.

Yesterday I decided to save myself a huge wad of cash. I bought a $30 (on sale!) slipcover and threw it over my 12-year-old couch and voila -- a new couch. My husband was very pleased. Next will be a slipcover for the wing chair that the cats seem to want to climb all the time. All told I'll probably spend a tenth of what I would have on new furniture. I'm feeling quite smart.

If I could slipcover my husband then my happiness would be complete. Same sturdy frame with a new exterior, something a little softer that wouldn't be such a pain in my ass. If it were only that easy.





-- Mox

Sprrrrriiiiiiiinnnnngggggg!

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

This has been SO worth waiting for.


Enjoy these few glimpses of Spring in my neck of the woods.

-- Mox




poetry, courtesy of Robert Frost, of course; from New Hampshire, 1923

spring, courtesy of Mother Nature

Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

I've probably mentioned this before (and frankly I'm too lazy to go hunting around in the archives, especially in the 700+ posts at my old blog) but I am a heavy sleeper. I sleep the sleep of the dead. It's a combination of sheer exhaustion and a clear conscience most of the time, but it's also genetic: my father's side of the family are all sleepyheads and can nod off at a moment's notice.

I realize what a blessing this is, of course, particularly when I have the odd night of poor sleep.

I've been having restless nights for the past week or two, and man, am I crabby. Part of it, I'm sure, is a little bit too much caffeine and not nearly enough booze (next year I won't be quite so ambitious as to give up The Drink for Lent) in my day-to-day existence. My nerves, they are a little jangled.

Is there anything worse than being wide awake at 4am? Let me answer that for you: yes. What's worse than being wide awake at 4am is dropping back off to sleep at 5:15. When your alarm goes off at 5:30. Which gives you a bad case of foggy brain. So you remedy that with cappuccino, which of course has caffeine so you can get through the morning. And maybe you have a little sweet tea for lunch. Which sets you up with enough caffeine to carry you through the rest of the day and most of the coming night, so that at 4 the next morning, guess what.

At four in the morning the theatre that is my mind is a series of disjointed thoughts, some dreamlike in their level of weirdness, some based so solidly in reality that there's no way to dismiss them. It's like being awake for my dreams, and for someone who rarely remembers her dreams it's a little disconcerting. Apparently I worry about stuff a lot more than I thought.

The good news is today is the last day of winter.

The end.




-- Mox

More than bunnies.

For all of the nail biting I do as a parent, there are moments where the planets are aligned perfectly and I can let go of the breath I'm holding. And even though they're only moments in the grand scheme of hours and days and weeks and months, these moments somehow sustain me as if they were events that last longer than the fleeting seconds they're actually comprised of.

Yesterday held one of those such moments.

I've been fighting a particularly ardent battle of wills with Spawn as of late, and I don't know if it's seemed harder because of Spawn's high spirits or because I'm feeling ground down. Whatever the case, it seems that I've been on the kid's case a lot more than usual here lately, and whenever we get locked into this pattern I end up feeling like a particularly bad parent, a parent who can't seem to do anything but correct and discipline. It sucks the joy right out of my soul, to be that parent.

But Spawn has a way of restoring some of the joy with a look or a word or a touch, or a combination thereof. Yesterday as I was in the role of Drill Sergeant Mom, emotionally and physically shoving Spawn toward getting ready for church (we have been out of the habit, and when you are out of the habit it gets quite difficult to motivate yourself to get back in), Spawn stopped me dead in my tracks with a hug and a kiss and these words: "I love you more than bunnies."

Hmm. How about that.

I don't know where that phrase came from, but Spawn's been saying it to me almost from the moment first words became first sentences. And if you really think about it, what could be a sweeter sentiment, because most of us regard bunnies as soft and cute and pretty innocuous and how could you not love a bunny, even a little bit? It speaks volumes to me about the depth of the kid's love for me, even when I'm not being a perfect parent. That I could be doing it all wrong, yelling and being punitive, with a frown on my face most of the time, and still merit such simple, uncomplicated love from the one person who would be well within rights to withhold such affection from me... boggles my mind.

Now, it didn't make Spawn any easier to deal with from that point on, because the kid is in a stubborn, I'll-do-it-my-way mode of thinking right now. But it did give me the strength to keep on going. And it forced my brain to get off the path I had been on and try a new one. Sunday afternoon was less angst-ridden.

I often indulge in "what if" thinking, extrapolating what our lives would be right now if we'd never had a baby. Certainly, we'd have a lot more money. We'd probably have traveled quite a bit, too. We would be on track to retire at 50. I might have gotten my book written, or learned to paint, or gotten into the best shape of my life. But would it be possible to have my faith restored in myself just with one simple phrase?

I highly doubt it.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Winter ain't done with me yet.

Earlier this week, we had temperatures of 75 and 80. Today, the above is what we have.

It's funny, how warm 40 degrees can feel when you've had temps in the 20's, and how cold it can feel when you've gotten used to 60's and 70's.

Spring officially arrives next week. Someone needs to tell Winter to start packing.




-- Mox

The word for the day is: ugh.

I am having a hard time this week pulling it together, folks. Today I forgot to pack my lunch. I've certainly never forgotten to eat, so forgetting to pack my lunch... how is that possible?

I had to sit down yesterday and try to explain to Spawn why I find Bratz dolls unacceptable. Do you know how hard it is to explain to a six-year-old the concept of "tacky"? Never mind the whole idea of "sexy" because at this point members of the opposite sex are still fairly cootie-ridden and there is no way to explain that someday the two camps are going to notice one another without freaking the kid out.

Oh, I so remember this from my own childhood. Except for me it was a purple coat. (Funny, the things that your mother will deem unacceptable.)

As a child, I went shopping with my grandmother every so often and on one occasion I found and fell in love with a purple coat. So my grandmother bought it for me. And my mother, finding the color of the coat to be "tacky", made my grandmother take it back. I remember being quite heartbroken.

Some thirty-odd years later I understand the concept of tacky, even though at the age of seven all I knew was that my best friend's favorite color was purple and my mother was a great big ol' meany for not letting me keep that beautiful purple coat. Apparently, in my mother's mind back in the early 70's, purple was a color that "nice" girls did not wear, at least not as an overcoat.

Funny, how you become your mother even though you try not to.

Spawn was out shopping with my mother yesterday and somehow managed to wrangle a new umbrella out of her, a Bratz umbrella. I have a strict no-Bratz policy in our household, because I find them trashy and oversexed and the tacky third cousins of Barbie. And make no mistake, I played with Barbies myself as a girl. I didn't understand the feminist backlash against them then, and to an extent I don't now. Maybe it's because I've not attached a sexual meaning to Barbie's huge hooters, despite dressing and undressing her thousands of times.

As adults we get hyper-vigilant about all things sexual when it comes to our kids, and that causes even somewhat rational people like me to come down hard on oversexed Barbie knockoffs like the Bratz dolls. It's just not an image that I want Spawn to think is okay.

And lest you think I'm a huge, latent feminist nutball, looking for sexual meaning in children's toys, let me tell you that my sensibilities get offended by other things, too. I also banned Barney from ever entering our house when Spawn was a toddler. Because I thought Barney was simpering and I could not stand that goofy giggling voice.

I am weird, I know.




-- Mox

From the "Things I Don't Get" File:

What is so all-fired sexy about Justin Timberlake?

And if he's bringing sexy back then where has it been all this time?

I'm taking this as further evidence that I am getting older and further out of touch. But in my estimation the boy needs to 1) grow a pair, 2) shave his neck, and 3) bathe.

As a matter of fact, I see a lot of junior celebrities who could use a good hose-down.

A few years ago while waiting at the salon for a haircut, I picked up a People magazine. At that point I had been buried in diapers and children's videos for a couple of years, and I was shocked to find that I had no idea who three-fourths of the people listed in the magazine were. So now I try to keep up, at least marginally, with pop culture. And because now I am an embittered old crone whose days in the sun are far behind her, I find myself more often than not shaking my head over what passes as "sexy" these days. Apparently filthy appearance is the New Sexy.

Didn't the grunge look die with Curt Cobain? (Aha! I know who he was!)

I find myself longing for the Golden Age of Hollywood, not so much because I was around back then (because I wasn't, thankyouverymuch) but because back then when the celebrities stepped out they were decently dressed and clean. Their hair was combed. There were no "wardrobe malfunctions." No one came in looking like they'd just done a hundred hard miles in the heat, on foot, wearing clothes picked up off the floor in their skank apartment.

Maybe this is why I can't find decent clothes to wear, because fashion emulates pop culture.

I don't get it. I don't get why anyone would want to cultivate a look that suggests someone coming off a three-day drunk.

Which brings me back to my original point: I don't understand what is so all-fired sexy about Justin Timberlake. And if this is what passes as sexy these days then apparently my ovaries have already dried up.




-- Mox

Style, and the lack thereof.

My husband and I took a rare trip to the mall the other day, since we both still had gift cards from Christmas burning holes in our wallets. And you know what? We didn't buy a damn thing.

Every season I find something about the latest fashions to hate. This season it seems to be everything I see.

Long, floaty, tiered skirts. Dark colors. Mod prints. Embellished jeans. "Distressed" fashions. Buttons and doodads and contrasting stitching and weird cuts. Even at Talbots, which I have long regarded as the holy grail of clothes I can wear that don't look painfully trendy.

I am not a hippie, nor am I a hipster. I am no longer a teenager. I am most definitely NOT a matron. I'm not out there selling my wares, but I'm not interested in covering them with shapeless sacks, either. I am not six feet tall and 100 scrawny pounds. I have hips.

Do you know how hard it is to find clothes for my particular fashion niche? I'd like to define my sense of fashion as "classic" but a lot of what's considered classic is also what my mother wears and I am really fighting that. It's bad enough that I'm starting to sound like her, do I have to morph into her style, too?

Clean lines, nice fabrics, basic pieces. That's all I ask. Oh, and for things to not cost a fortune.

Apparently I ask too much.

I have entered into that fashion no-man's-land of What to Wear When You're Shoving 40. Designers don't really give a shit about my age group. Nothing is designed for the "funny, I don't feel old" generation, it's all for teenagers who want to look like they're pulling their clothes out of a dumpster.

Of the dozens of things that I tried on, only one outfit, a nice navy blue pinstripe suit, really looked good on me. And it was $300.

Well, hell. It might as well have been $3000.

Is it my imagination or is everything crazy expensive these days?

As a kid, every year I would get a new outfit for Easter. As an adult, I haven't had a new Easter outfit in years. And it doesn't seem like this year I'll find anything, either.

This is depressing.




-- Mox

Damn, y'all. I need a vacation.

Over the weekend it was 62 warm and sunny degrees. I spent my entire Sunday out in the yard doing cleanup work, and true to form for a weekend warrior, I am sore today. I am also going to Hell, do not pass go do not collect $200, because I used the time change as a convenient excuse not to go to church yesterday.

I now have spring fever something awful.

The fact that spring break is coming up and I am consigned to working the whole time is also wearing on my nerves. My whole life I've never done spring break. My whole life I've either spent it sitting around the house while my parents worked or I've worked that week while everyone else is at the beach. Why oh why can't I be one of those people who gets a vacation for spring break?

It's just not fair, I tell you.

I am also playing that mind game with myself, you know the one, where I look at the clock and say to myself, "but it's really blank o'clock." It was hard as hell to get up this morning. Nice to have that extra hour of daylight at the end of the day, mind you, but the mornings are going to be a pain until I adjust. Thank god for coffee.

I really just feel like bitching today.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: picking and choosing

Here is what $7 will buy at a used book sale:

Eleven books, plus two others not pictured here because they are gifts. All of these are MINE.

The nice thing about being on the inside of this book sale is that kids and parents get to shop first, before it's opened to the general public on Saturday and Sunday. You wouldn't believe the stack of books Spawn got for a mere $8, some of which were my favorites as a child. And I couldn't believe I got both Steinbeck and Hemingway for 50¢ apiece. In hardback. And as I'm always looking to expand my (still non-existent) library with works that have stood the test of time, I snapped those up pretty quick.

The hardest thing about helping to set up the sale the other day was resisting the urge to set aside a box for books I wanted to purchase. Well, that and the urge to read instead of stack.

In other news, it's going to be 70° here today. The downside of that is I have to be indoors, at work.

If I could pick and choose today, I would choose to be outside in the sunshine with my nose in a book.




-- Mox

All hail independence.

Sometimes a mom has to take a stand.

Occasionally I'll get into a little tiff with my mother about the amount of independence I am encouraging Spawn to have at the tender age of Six. It seems my mother would enjoy seeing me doing things like pack the kid's suitcase for little overnight trips until the kid is, oh, twenty five. Mox don't play that shit. Spawn packs. I check the packing. Usually we're good to go with only minor adjustments to the contents of the suitcase (i.e., removing the flip flops and packing tennis shoes, it is still winter, after all).

But I encourage the independence because I know that 1) it will help the kid to leave the nest someday and 2) cut me a break. Because I want the kid to be able to leave the nest without the guilt that is still visited upon me periodically (why do you think that I still live in Podunk, I cannot leave because they would follow me) and I am determined not to play the martyr card.

As of late we have been having a struggle with dinnertime. I recognized that the Martyr thing was starting to rear its' ugly head when I started feeling used for cooking semi-fabulous dinners that Spawn would summarily declare "disgusting." Oh, the culinary rules of Six -- no gravy of any sort, not even on mashed potatoes, no green veggies ("Mom, how about you give up asparagus for Lent?"), absolutely no tomato sauce of any kind, which lets out spaghetti and pizza as quick-cook substitutes on nights I don't have time. The kid would exist on Wendy's cheeseburgers if I allowed it. And I don't.

So last night I decided: enough. I'm tired of cajoling the kid into eating, tired of witnessing the pained expression of someone who is forced to eat Salisbury steak oh the humanity, tired of enforcing the eat-your-vegetables rule. I knew that Spawn had the upper hand in this little struggle and I made up my mind that I was done fighting. The kid could starve for all I cared.

I gave my husband a brief heads-up -- we were not going to talk about food at the table, we were going to go on and eat our dinner and if Spawn turned up a nose at the food then the kid would just sit there with an empty plate and watch us eat.

Which is what happened for the first five minutes of the meal. Spawn sat there and looked at the empty dinner plate and at the food that was on the table ("gross" and "disgusting" and "I don't like that") and then asked me to fix a PB&J. When I didn't leap up to fix it, the kid did it personally.

So okay, the kid ate, got some protein in, and I didn't leave the table exhausted from a battle over food. If Spawn wants a PB&J for supper then I've had a demonstration that I am not the only one around here who can make one.

My mother was mortified. How could I not plan and cook my dinner around those few foods that her precious only grandchild would eat? What kind of a mother am I? After all, she fixed me Spaghettios whenever she cooked Navy beans for supper when I was a kid. (Side note: Spawn will not eat Spaghettios. I have no idea what is wrong with this kid.) But I am a hardnosed mom when it comes to suppertime. I fix what I fix and the chips just have to fall where they may. Imagine, me subsisting on Kraft Mac 'n Cheese every night because that is one of the "safe" foods that Spawn will eat. Nuh-uh.

Please do not tell me that I am doing this parenting thing wrong because I happen to believe that short of abuse and neglect there is no wrong way to do it.




-- Mox

I have never understood the concept of a "used" book.

Today I am spending my morning in the locker rooms under the bleachers of Spawn's school gym, helping to set up for the annual used book sale. Over 40,000 used books are sold every year to support the school library. You'd think that in a podunk town this size there wouldn't be 40,000 extra books lazing about, but apparently the absence of anything resembling a nightlife results in a certain sort of intelligentsia.

I am just as cheap as anyone else when it comes to spending my money on things that have been pre-owned, but the whole idea of a book being "used" is somehow odd to me. Sure, I bought used textbooks in college because they were cheaper than the shiny new ones, and often with great notes in the margins, but to me the term "used" implied diminished and that doesn't make any sense to me. Are the words any less meaningful if someone else's eyes and brain have read them first? Is it worth less because the spine is broken?

Not that I am going to argue at pennies on the dollar for tomes, of course. And helping to sort and set up gives me a sneak preview and lets me pre-shop. The school library makes money, my tuition bill doesn't go up (as much) and I get stacks of new reading material. Everyone wins.




-- Mox

Sweet nothings:

SAMBUCA CHOCOLATE SAUCE
Can be prepared in 45 minutes or less.

1/2 cup water
2/3 cup sugar
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Dutch process)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup Sambuca, or to taste

In a small heavy saucepan combine water and sugar and boil, stirring, until sugar is dissolved. Remove pan from heat and whisking cocoa powder, whisking until smooth. Whisk in salt, cream, and butter and return pan to moderately low heat, whisking until butter is melted. Simmer sauce until thickened slightly, about 2 minutes, and stir in vanilla and Sambuca. Cool sauce completely and transfer to a jar with a tight-fitting lid. Sauce keeps, covered and chilled, 1 month. Serve sauce warm over ice cream.

Makes about 2 cups.
(Source: Gourmet, December 1994)

Really good with honest-to-god Italian spumoni.





-- Mox

Loopholes.

The thing about giving something up for Lent is that on Sundays whatever it is you gave up, you can have. My pastor calls that concept "little Easter" and as far as I'm concerned it is a loophole that I can live with, though I don't ordinarily take advantage of it.

When you have been enthusiastic enough to believe that you can give up chocolate and alcohol for Lent, the key to using a loophole like that is Midnight. As in, technically, Sunday begins at midnight on Saturday night. Which means, when you are attending a birthday party on Saturday night and the party moves to the clubs at midnight, you are golden.

It has been a very long time since I came in stumbling drunk at three in the morning.

Amen.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: Hey, buddy.

Driving into work this morning, I noticed a few of the trees already have swelling buds on them.

At this point in the winter, I will take any sign of spring that I can get.

A cursory check of my yard has found that my daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths are also quite ready for spring. I wish I could say the same for my crocuses (crocii?) but the squirrels have dug all of them up and, I suspect, eaten them.

We are currently in Day Two of In Like a Lion, and frankly I am more than ready to be done with the constant blowing. If the wind would die down it would be relatively warm around here.

Spring break is coming up in a month. Do I have any plans? No. We started checking into the cost of things and you know what? The first week of April is the most expensive week of the year for traveling to places warm and sunny. Were I not trying to work the miracle of the loaves and fishes on a daily basis around here taking a beach trip might be feasible. But since I have yet to discover the trick of feeding five thousand, the whole notion of leaving town is tempered by the fact that I would get as far as the city limits and have to come back.

One soul: for sale.






-- Mox

Lion/lamb.

Some ruminations on this first day of March:

I don't know why I bothered to do my hair this morning.

How is it that a person can go to bed dog-tired and yet not sleep well?

I need a vacation.

And a winning lottery ticket. Otherwise, no vacation.

Bury Anna Nicole already. Sheesh.

I really should not have given up chocolate and alcohol for Lent. Next year I'll be smarter.

But I probably will be breaking Lent in a big way when I go to my friend Denise's birthday party on Saturday night.

I don't have time to be working today.

I did not low-carb it for breakfast this morning and I do not care.

How much longer until quitting time?






-- Mox

February, I quit thee.

I have long said that the primary attraction of February is in its' brevity. I find it easier to get through a month that is only 28 days in length (29 in leap years, I know), particularly when that month is one thing that stands between me and springlike weather. A 28-day month in the middle of the summer just wouldn't have the cachet that February does. And it would likely piss me off.

But I can DO February. I can do it even though we have to contend with Valentines Day and Presidents Day and Ash Wednesday, those quasi-holidays that muck around with our schedules. And even though March weather around here is iffy at best, I know that I've got a better shot at warm weather during that month if I can just suffer February for four weeks.

So to February I say, on this last day of its' existence this year: don't let the door hit you on the way out.




-- Mox

I take it back.

Fly-shopping is a lot like fly-fishing, except without the fly and without the fishing.

Let me explain:

You whip into a store, see something you like, and because you don't have a lot of time to fiddle around with making a definitive decision, you buy it without trying it on, knowing that if you get it home and it doesn't fit or is the wrong color, you can take it back. So you take it home and try it on and it's wrong so you take it back.

I do this. It's a wonder the bank can keep up with me.

In my family, we call one another Myril whenever one of us does this. Myril was a friend of my grandmother's who had perfected the art of fly-shopping, and it seemed that at any point in time she had a sizable quantity of merchandise in flux between her home and the mall. When I was in college I shook my head about it, because in college I had all the time in the world to linger at the mall and try on stuff. But as always, the thing that I disdain becomes the thing that I do, and I've found myself over the years doing a fair amount of fly-shopping, mostly because my life seems to have sped up. I don't have a lot of time to spend on myself.

Last night on my way home from a late meeting, I had a few minutes to kill so I stopped in at the Super Walmart (which I despise but that's another post entirely) to pick up a couple of necessities. Before I was finished I had not only bought those necessities but also a couple of CDs and a new bed-in-a-bag set for Spawn's room... with the thought in the back of my mind that if the colors weren't right I would take it back. Here I am trying to make good on my pledge to pay off my one remaining credit card balance and then assuring that it will take longer than I anticipated. It's a perfect example of why I should not be given any free time to mill about in a shopping venue. I am my own worst enemy.

Have I mentioned that one year for Lent, I gave up shopping? It was harder to do than giving up chocolate.

The irony here is that the bed set is still in the back of my car because I got home so late I haven't had the time to even bring it into the house. We are in the midst of making redecorating plans for Spawn's room, because at Six my child no longer has need of the baby decor that I have been too lazy to change. I still have the color chips taped to the wall, and I'm trying to make a decision.

Will I take it back? Remains to be seen.




-- Mox

Time marches on, and a lot of times the route it takes is all over your face.

I just fired off my first official "happy 40th birthday" e-card to one of my friends.

It's happening. I can't stop it.

I have a feeling that my own impending 40th birthday this year is going to come accompanied by a big dose of freak-out. I say this because I'm having a bit of a freak-out just thinking that my friends are all turning 40, before me, and soon enough it will be my trip down the slide. It will be just like when I hit 30, that assessment of the past ten years and the realization that I have done exactly jack shit during that time.

It's six months away and already I'm investing the angst. What fun.

Intellectually I know that 40 isn't all that old, per se, and that I could reasonably have another 40 years of life left in me. So I'm trying to take care of myself, because in another 40 years who knows how things will be. I certainly don't want to be an old-thinker and in order to keep my brain thinking young, vibrant thoughts, I'm trying to take care of the body it's in. A wise 74-year-old man told me once to take care of my body while it's young and it will take care of me when I'm old and I'm inclined to take heed because this man bicycles 10 miles a day.

Still, I'm finding myself using points of reference like "that was 30 years ago" and the dreaded "when I was your age" and oh my god my inner child rolls her eyes because I sound just like my mother. Apparently there is no cure for this.

And I think of myself as young because I have a child in kindergarten, though if I think about it further most of my friends have kids in high school and believe me we are far too young to have teenagers. What gives? Of course it's all a matter of timing, a lot of my friends got married right after high school and/or during their first two years of college and had their first kids right about the time I was tapping the last keg of my college years. I was in no hurry to get married, and in no hurry to have a child, and so far I'm pretty pleased with the timeline of my life in that regard. I don't think I would change a thing. Still, I am what you might call an "old mom." I don't think about it too much until I get around the other mothers of Spawn's classmates and it's pretty obvious that I am the oldest one in the room. And Spawn is my only; some of these other mothers have two or three older children, meaning they started on the baby train a lot earlier than I did. Where some might look to me for wisdom just by virtue of my age, I just can't hold a candle to these young moms who've been there, done that before.

I'm trapped in a weird place.

What have I done with myself in the past ten years? I guess that could be defined by what I haven't done, too. Since my 30th birthday I've managed to collect a mortgage and a kid, and keep the same husband and more or less the same job. All noble and above-board endeavors, to be sure. I've also not written the Great American Novel or even a mediocre essay for publication.

My life feels like a holding pattern, and I get the sense that my generation's time in the spotlight is nearly over. The seeds for my midlife crisis are effectively sewn.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: drop off

Well, folks, it finally happened.

Spawn has joined the ranks of the drop-off kids.

I'd been talking it up for a few weeks, waiting for the kid to make the decision instead of me pushing it, because who am I to push a kid who isn't ready to let go of mommy's hand? Well, the mommy, that's who I am.

But I knew the time was coming, since so many of Spawn's classmates were drop-off kids, bounding out of their mothers' minivans without so much as a look back, and frankly, I'm just like any other parent who wants her kid to be on par, developmentally, with the other kids. I also was getting pretty tired of the park-walk in-walk back-drive away dance that I was subjected to every morning. When Spawn started requesting a kiss on the cheek and no further public demonstration of affection, I knew that my baby was taking a few more independent steps away from me. And because I want my kid to be independent, I was glad to see it.

The first couple of days of drop-off were uneventful, even a relief; to be able to pull into the circle drive and have my kid hop out of the car with a quick peck on the cheek signaled to me that by not pushing the issue I had avoided making a bigger deal out of it than it had to be. And I got to work on time -- no speeding required (and thus no tickets). Glory hallelujah!

The third day of drop-off, I took a different route to go to the gym. Instead of turning left out onto the street, I turned right, which took me past the front entrance of the school. I looked as I went by and saw Spawn standing in the lobby of the school, looking around as if unsure of which way to go.

The sight of my baby standing there with a backpack, looking left to right, deciding... well, my friends, it clutched up my heart. For a fleeting moment the urge hit me to go into the school and point the way, to make sure that Spawn got to the right place.

But my baby doesn't need to be walked into school anymore. It's one more thing that ol' mom has outlived her usefulness for.

All of Spawn's milestones have been met with rejoicing around here. The first words, the first steps, self-feeding, potty training, self-dressing, shoe tying, no training wheels... I've celebrated everything that Spawn has learned to do alone. Because I know it's necessary to do these things for yourself. Some of these things have been great milestones to move past -- if I never change another poopy diaper in my life that is fine with me. Others have been a bit bittersweet -- to have my child rub lotion on my winter-dry-and-itchy back was a sweet reward for all of those times I spent rubbing lotion all over a tiny baby body. Sometimes Spawn gives back when I least expect it.

It's hard to realize that every day that goes by my kid is learning the things that every kid should learn in order to become an independent person. I try so hard to not hold the kid back. And what's hard about that is when I'm not ready and Spawn is, and I have to have that internal fight with myself to let the kid go and do and be.

A mother's heart is a strange place sometimes.




-- Mox

Turkey, cold.

Here I am, folks. I haven't forsaken you.

Yesterday was one of those days where my feet hit the floor at 6am and did not cease to make contact with the pavement until ten that night. I got a lot done, and I also made myself completely exhausted in the process. When will I learn to take a day off when I have a day off?

Giving up the chocolate and the booze and the cokes all at one time yesterday gave me a whopping headache, too. Sort of a reverse hangover. I am trying so hard to be good, y'all, but I do enjoy my vices, probably a little too much.

It's going to be a loooooong 40 days.




-- Mox

One last day.

I'm fixing to show my age here.

On the old sitcom Laverne & Shirley, the girls entered into a contest where they did a "supermarket sweep" type of race, where they had a limited time to race through a grocery store and load up their carts, winning whatever it was they could get across the finish line. Both raced through and loaded up their carts, and also stuffed things down their shirts in an attempt to get the most food across the finish line. But the load they were carrying was too heavy, and as they crawled toward the finish line all they managed to get across was a box of Mallomars. Which is all they were allowed to take home.

If you are scratching your head and wondering, "....Laverne & Shirley...?" then you probably need to watch some late-night cable.

I bring up this long-ago sitcom episode today because that's sort of what it feels like to have arrived at Fat Tuesday. Both of us have decided to give up some of life's little edible/drinkable pleasures for Lent -- not so much because of the spiritual aspect but because we both recognize the need to get a grip on our waistlines -- and to that end have been living it up. But here's the thing about living it up on a deadline: once you are standing on the precipice of that deadline, you're pretty much done with the living it up.

I'm serious, y'all. I'm kinda sick of all of it.

There is only so much boozing it up you can do before it gets to feeling like old hat, only so much chocolate you can consume before it ceases to be a treat, only so many cokes you can drink before you start to crave something without carbonation. You need to make a switch.

Which I guess is a good thing, seeing as how for the next 40 days I'm going to be grazing at the salad bar and realigning my chakras or some such nonsense. That first rum and coke after Easter is going to go down mighty good, I'm sure.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to waddle off towards lunchtime.




-- Mox

Bee in my bonnet.

I am the sort of person that, when I get an idea stuck in my head, I cannot let it go until I have processed it and acted upon it. I have inherited this trait from my father, who will start a project and work slavishly at that project until it is done, like he is on a deadline. Call it a one-track mind, I guess. Unfortunately, it is also something I have passed down to Spawn, whose current idea is that we should get a dog.

While I would certainly entertain the idea of a dog in our family -- after all, I had dogs as a kid -- the fact of the matter remains that we do not have the lifestyle for a dog. We are simply not home enough to form that wolf-pack bond that dogs seem to crave. And because Spawn wants a little wimpy dog, a poodle, I am afraid that our two cats would gang up on it and beat it up like the little nerd that it most assuredly would be.

I am not a poodle fan. I am 100% there with the notion that a poodle has hair instead of fur and therefore not the shedding machine that furry creatures tend to be, plus a bit easier on people with allergies. But a poodle to me isn't a dog. Sure, it's cute and soft and it barks but so do chinchillas and last I checked, they are not dogs. (For the record, Spawn would also like a chinchilla. I would rather have a coat.)

I have put some thought into this, long ago before we adopted the second cat, because at the time my husband was not budging on the subject of a cat and Spawn was not budging on wanting a pet. So I gave some thought to a dog, did some research, and narrowed it down to a select few smallish breeds that would be good family dogs. I presented my husband with the idea, and he quickly squelched it because "dogs shit in the yard." So back to square one and eventually he caved in and we got the cat and what do you know, he LOVES that cat. Loves. that. cat.

But we are not dog people. Not really. We're cat people because cats do their business in a litter box and don't require a lot of human interaction to keep them from destroying the house. Cats are also not as blind to your faults as dogs are and they do hold a grudge, but that's the price you pay for having a self-cleaning pet. Which is SO worth it to me.

Still, I can see the day coming when we add a dog to the mix, because I think a kid needs a dog. Something to care for that responds with undying devotion, and because both cats and other human beings don't give you that sort of return on investment, a dog is a good choice for a kid to learn about responsibility and reward. I am taking up the cause.





-- Mox

Photo Friday: Man, I got nothin' today.

So how's about I just toss this out there and go on my merry way.






Enjoy.



-- Mox

Is it Friday yet?

Ever have one of those weeks where you had no idea what day it was for the majority of the week? That's been my week this week. I've been thinking it's Thursday for the past two days. Imagine my great disappointment when I figured out there was only one Thursday in a week and the past two days haven't been it.

I guess the good news is that today is Thursday, which means that tomorrow is Friday and that means date night with my husband and also the consumption of adult beverages. Possibly many adult beverages. Hey, I might as well have one last hurrah before Ash Wednesday.

The winter blues have really gotten to me as of late, and I've pretty much figured out that it's got less to do with the length of daylight in a day as it has to do with the amount of degrees in the air. I got through the shortest days in the year with a fairly healthy outlook, in part because it was 60 degrees a lot of the time. But the weather turned damned cold about a month ago and I've been pretty much in hibernation mode since. And for me, hibernation mode includes a general malaise and pissed-offedness.

And to add a little more drama to my life, it would seem that some of the decisions I've reached in the past couple of months are now coming back into question. Just when I thought I had things all figured out.

Really, Friday cannot get here soon enough.




-- Mox

Off the hook.

My husband is a lucky, lucky man.

Because I am not a romantic sort of person, I have given him a free pass today. He is under no obligation to send flowers, buy anything, or take me anywhere in the name of Valentines Day, and by mutual agreement, I am off the hook too.

Maybe it's a function of getting older or maybe it's because we've been together nearly 20 years, but the big ostentatious displays of affection that are de rigeur for this day leave us both nonplussed. I know how he feels about me and vice versa, and to go out and blow money on overpriced bouquets and steak dinners just because it's a certain day of the year seems to be a bit of overkill. It's a relationship litmus test that, frankly, is stupid.

Is it my imagination or has Valentines Day morphed over the years from a sweet, token-of-affection holiday to an over-the-top commercial guilt fest? It seems everyone is all wrapped up in material displays of affection -- not just the card shops and jewelry stores but now car dealers are getting into the act. What? Buy your sweetie a car for Valentine's Day and show how much your love them? Oh, and use your tax refund check as a downpayment? How does this have anything to do with genuinely loving someone? Here, honey, have a new car... and a brand new payment book. Yikes.

The only concession we have made for the day has been to get Spawn a little token of love or two, because when you're Six it's all about the holidays, no matter what holiday it is. So we got the kid a card, some stickers, and a new music CD and are calling it a day. I might -- maybe -- make a pan of brownies tonight. But that's it.

And tomorrow everything with hearts on it will be at least 50% off. Today's news, tomorrow's fishwrap.

I am such a romantic.




-- Mox

Busy signals.

In this day and age, calling someone on the phone and getting a busy signal is pretty rare. And if you don't know what a busy signal is, you're too young to be reading this blog.

But that's what's going on here today. Busy busy.




-- Mox

So this is how it's going to be this week.

I got a speeding ticket on my way to work this morning.

Ordinarily I confine my heavy-duty cussing to within my head and occasionally under my breath, but today the air inside my car was fairly blue and I'm not too sure that this week the air here won't be blue, too.

That's $159 fucking dollars that I don't have, to spend on a stupid fucking ticket.

See?




-- Mox

Photo Friday: R.I.P....?

I received word this morning that my neighbor lady passed away yesterday.

I am uncertain as to how I feel about that news.

While I am most definitely sympathetic to her husband and son, who will most likely feel quite lost without her, personally I don't know that I will miss her all that much.

You see, she was one of those neighbors.

Every neighborhood has at least one of those neighbors, the kind who are up in your business far too much, who spew vitriol on every subject, who will corner you and talk your ear off, who will talk about you behind your back. The kind you will duck behind a tree to avoid. When you have to erect a privacy fence between your two yards just to avoid feeling like an animal on display at the zoo, you start to wonder about the sanity of a neighbor who just stands in her driveway, staring and chittering away at you. Conclusion: losing it. The retaliatory cutting down of a tree so she can stand in an upstairs window and watch you over the fence will cause you to wonder how tall can you make that fence.

When we bought our house ten years ago, our neighbors were quite elderly then. We knew this day would come eventually. At a certain point we began to wonder how long "eventually" would take. Some old people seem to be too ornery to die.

But because I was raised to be a Proper Southern Woman, I will go to the funeral home and pay my respects anyway. And then maybe, finally, there will be some peace in our neighborhood.




-- Mox

I itchy, U scratchy.

Penny wise and pound foolish, that's me.

Yesterday I spent $60 on an hour-long massage just to have someone rub lotion all over me, without the expectation of a little something-something afterward. (Ladies, you know what I mean.) The cold weather we've had as of late has wreaked havoc on my skin, and because I am a Delicate Southern Flower I have been all dried out and itchy. Plus any reasonable excuse to get a massage works for me.

That $60 could have probably been better spent elsewhere, on items that would have been useful for the good of the entire household, but sometimes a stressed-out mom has to do what a stressed-out mom has to do. I try really hard not to martyr myself around here, because no one cares if I do. No point in being a martyr if no one cares.

If I were a wealthy woman I would get a massage at least once a week. God, I love it.

The downside is that today I am achy, because apparently I was a lot more tense than I originally thought, and having the kinks worked out yesterday served to release a lot of bad energy I have been holding on to. Evidently, I am a lot more pissed off than I knew.



-- Mox

Back in the saddle again....

Hey, y'all, a favorite blogger of mine has returned to his online chronicles. Welcome back to the land of the blogging, Chuck.

Speaking of getting back to normal, Yours Truly has got to get a grip. Against my better judgement, I got on the scales this morning and learned that I have gained four pounds. And the digital scale does not lie, not like the old-fashioned ones that our moms used that could be manipulated into thinking you're five pounds lighter than you actually are. Now, four pounds may not seem like a whole lot, and truth be told I haven't noticed a difference (yet) in the way my clothes fit, but you know how four pounds can turn into five and then ten and then you're back at Square One. And I knew it would be unhappy news when I stepped on the scale, because of the way I have been feeling lately (read: bloated, restive, cranky) and the way I have been treating myself lately (read: flannel pj's and pans of warm brownies). So yeah, no big surprise there.

Add to that the remarks made recently by Spawn and my husband that suggest to me that my backside isn't as small as I previously believed. A six-year-old has no guile. However, a forty-one-year-old does, and no matter how much he professes to like the size of my butt it still does not endear him to me.

~sigh~ I know what it is I have to do, but I just don't want to do it right now.

I have given myself a deadline, though. We are two weeks from Mardi Gras and subsequently Lent, and I intend to arrive at Fat Tuesday having enjoyed these two weeks to the fullest before donning the sackcloth and ashes. I'll start off Ash Wednesday with the hairshirt of sensible diet and (gasp!) no alcohol, and ride it through 40 days. Good for the soul, no?

This is my plan. Maybe not a good one, but a plan nonetheless.




--Mox

Colder'n a well-digger's ass.

Have I mentioned that I don't care for cold weather?

If not, I'm mentioning it now.

When I got up this morning, the temperature, figuring in the windchill factor, was -7. That's minus seven, y'all. As in, not warm enough to be zero.

When it's this cold, not only are my feet frozen but so is my brain, and I can't think of anything except how nice it would be to bag this paycheck-to-paycheck existence in favor of warmer climes. The fantasy that gets the most airplay is the one where I'm so filthy stinking rich that I get up in the morning, check the weather forecast, and wherever it's 70+ degrees is where I get on my private jet to go to. And if I don't have a home there, when I get there I buy one.

And this would be my back yard:

This would be the pool area:

And this would be me:

It's these little fantasies of mine that keep me going on days such as these.



-- Mox

Photo Friday: Good news.

In this neck of the woods.... this little bugger won't see his shadow today. Which is so utterly and completely fine with me that I can't even begin to tell you how utterly and completely fine it is.

I am so damn done with winter, folks. I've been done with winter since this past summer.

Also, today is my brother-in-law's birthday. Somehow it's fitting. He's a bit of a recluse.

Bring on the spring!




-- Mox

S.N.A.F.U.

Sorry, no wit from me today. As luck would have it, we got snow last night. Which means all of my carefully crafted plans are slightly tweaked today, if not completely tossed out the window. Like, you know, writing a post.

Ordinarily I wouldn't mind a snow day, but right now I've got so much going on that it's a great big inconvenience. When they close the schools for no damn good reason then I've got to scramble to cover Spawn-care and continue to juggle the stuff I normally do while the kid is in school. A couple of days later and it would have been a moot point, because we could have all slept in and then gone out to throw a few snowballs. But right in the middle of the workweek, when I've got a few hot potatoes on my plate, well, this is one of those times I wish I had power over the weather, so I could have held it off for a couple of days. That's all I really need -- a couple of days.

Ah, well. Business as usual, I guess.






-- Mox

Veni. Vidi. Vici.

There is a reason I do not write haiku. This reason has less to do with my ability than it has to do with my verbosity. And while it's obvious that my verbosity does know a few boundaries (because I could really write reams but I choose not to, I am a ruthless on-the-spot editor), I nonetheless hate the idea of the restrictiveness of a haiku. I like lots of exposition in a story, and that's probably because I grew up listening to and reading lots of southern storytellers who can paint some pretty vivid pictures with their words.

However, John over at Disappearing John RN tagged me last week to do a meme called Six Word Stories. And because I value the thoughtfulness of a link, and I also don't want him to think I am ignoring his request because he has been nothing but nice to me... I am going to try it, by god.

And I just want to go on record for saying this was HARD.

And so I present: Three six-word stories that have come from the pages of my life here in this little podunk town:

Strong perfume; negative reaction; hurt feelings.

Purse snatched; Grandma chased; embarrassed thief.

Late bedtime; early rising; grumpy child.


There you have it, nine words that have summed up the goings on around here. A coworker offended another coworker with her (probably too-blunt) assessment of the second coworker's perfume. A string of purse-snatchings in which one of the (elderly) victims gave chase and summarily thwarted and embarrassed the snatcher. (Don't mess with Grandma's purse, is all I'm saying.) And a pattern that we have fallen into as of late around the Mox household, whereupon Spawn stays up entirely too late and then gets up in the morning for school with the demeanor of a bear.

It's all fun and games around here, folks.

I'm not in the habit of tagging others for memes, but since I also would like to share the pain, I think I will tag Brooke (who is a honest-to-god real writer who also oddly enough hasn't written anything on her blog in a few days), Mark (because I am jealous of his tropical locale), Mike (and I am expecting something very clever from him, no pressure, though), Jas (because he will rise to the occasion as only he can) , Snagley (who has admitted to a blogging dry spell as of late), and Bridegroom (who needs a good excuse to post, anyway).

Go egg them on. Or, you know, just egg them. Whatever gets the job done.



-- Mox

Perhaps I am a bit too anal.

If you have a kid in Catholic school right now you know that this is National Catholic Schools Week. I don't know about anywhere else, but here at our school that means fun and games, no homework all week, and a relaxation of the dress code.

Call me crazy if you want, but I like the uniforms that the kids have to wear. It's so much easier in the morning to get out the door when you don't have the quandary of what to wear. I don't have to supervise the assemblage of outfits, and there is no need for me to veto clothing selection. Spawn puts on the khakis and the polo shirt and off we go.

However, this week the school is having special dress days. Today is Mix-up Day. Which means that whatever the kids wear, it's not supposed to match.

Yikes.

I helped Spawn pick out an "outfit" last night, and it was painful to me. I am a matchy-matchy type of person, Mrs. Coordinate Your Colors, that's me. I find it difficult to mis-match stuff on purpose, green-and-purple stripes with red plaids and yellow polka dots and what-all. These people who can put on the first thing they grab out of the closet in the morning, well, I just don't understand them. I get the hives. More than once last night I caught myself trying to coordinate Spawn's outfit rather than purposely making it mismatched, and finally I just had to give up and let the kid do it without my help. A six year old can really get into the spirit of such things.

Back in the day I could have gotten into mismatching clothes on purpose, and I could have dreamed up some pretty wild combinations. I used to love it when we had special dress days at school. But over the years I've become so used to "dressing for success" that that part of my brain has atrophied and creative dressing is far beyond my grasp anymore. I suppose what this means is that I have crossed a threshold and am now firmly on the path to old-ladydom.

It was a little harder than I thought it would be to put together a mismatched outfit, because upon close inspection, Spawn doesn't have too much that isn't coordinate-able. I looked long and hard and discovered that most of Spawn's clothes are without patterns, mostly solid colors and mostly colors within the same color family. I also discovered that I have entered into a phase in my life whereby all fabric in my house is solid colored and/or subtly patterned.

Translation: I am dull.

But still, Spawn got the job done, where old Mom just couldn't bring herself to do it. So this morning we walked into school, me with my perfectly coordinated business attire, right down to my socks, and Spawn, who was wearing an orange shirt, fuchsia and blue embroidered jeans, a pink belt, one lavender sock, one red sock, two different shoes, a purple lei, and a hot pink straw hat. God, it's great to be Six, because at Six in an outfit like that you can't help but look adorable.

I love the fact that having Spawn in my life means that I have to stretch my brain every once in a while.




-- Mox