when he’s president…

I just picked up the wee one from school. He had a "book" that he made to help celebrate President’s Day (in the book are pasted in silouettes of former presidents). On the last page he drew a picture of himself as president and dictated a message for his teacher to write:


The wee one would be the best president ever!

I was just thinking

there’d be no blogs without it
unless blog was job

Worst. Haiku. Ever.

So I’m sitting here and there are at least 40,000 things I should be doing, but instead I’m thinking about a question the wee one asked me.

"What are you scared of?"

Here’s a list of things I’m scared of, in no particular order:

1) people flying while standing up straight, like in the Buffy episode "Hush"
2) the idea that a statue might come to life while I’m looking at it
3) pictures of the ginormous part of an iceberg that’s underwater
4) snakes
5) dead birds and most alive ones, too

***we interrupt this regularly scheduled Oscar diatribe***

eight days on market
one tired mom keeping things clean
three offers on house!

Well, technically we have two offers because the third family decided to not officially make their offer when they found out about the other two.

But still – TWO real offers! The house was only on the market eight days when the offers came in. And here we thought it was going to take at least three months, if not more!

We’ve accepted one of the offers, countered the other one to keep as a back-up and now we’re in freaking out mode. How will the inspection go? Will the contract really go through? If it does go through will we find a house to buy before the end of March?

The place we were in love with a few days ago is seemingly less than perfect now – we don’t know much about the school. We’re not sure about the crazy HOA fees or how the houses are going to hold up over over time (it’s a new house, and the neighborhood is full of pretty houses now, but they’re all spanking new, you know? How will they age?) And the houses are so close together it’s almost like they’re condos. Making the transition from a huge yard and a cul-de-sac to a large house, tiny yard and neighbors you could shake hands with if you reached out your window, would be hard. Of course, we know that moving closer to the city means closer quarters to your neighbors, it’s just… we’re not sure.

We’re going to look at more houses this week and cross our fingers for a good outcome from the inspection. I’m going to continue to freak out (and be very secretly pleased with myself for keeping a house so clean that other people actually want to LIVE IN IT).


Oh, and how about those crazy shadow people at the Oscars? How awesome were they?

I need a good spring album

mood stabilizer
I’m jonesing for some new stuff
springtime music hunt

A few years ago, I had the Garden State soundtrack and the Shins to
listen to all spring and I was happy. Last year I alternated between
Psapp and the Ditty Bops. I’ve done the Jack Johnson thing and the Astrud Gilberto thing. Now I have Corrine Baily Rae and I love it,
but it’s not really the fun, bouncy lightweight spring music I want
right now. The new Shins album seems a little too moody, and I’ve tried, but the only Justin Timberlake song I can stand is SexyBack and even that is almost too embarrasing to mention.

What should I try out? Ideas, suggestions?

Mama needs a music fix.

A Confession

Do I shun routine?
But why in the world would I?
I am a mama.

I canceled my physical therapy appointment today. I called and told them I’m feeling funky and that my husband is getting over the flu and in case I, too, have the flu I don’t want to bring it to the office with me.

Now. While it is true that my husband is getting over something nasty, it hasn’t been definitively diagnosed as the flu. It is also true that I’m feeling funky, but mostly because I’m exhausted, not because I’m sick. I guess karma will now make me sick, but I really didn’t feel like having my ass kneaded today.

Today is my 8th anniversary and if anyone is going to be kneading my ass, it will be my husband, and he will be gentle and not stabby like the PT is.

We don’t have any big plans for today – how could we? He’s sick… it’s a Tuesday… I have a teething nursling who won’t let me out of her sight. But hopefully this weekend we’ll be able to get out alone. Last year we stayed in a hotel! And went to a Coldplay concert! I’m not sure how we could top that even if we tried.

So in a feeble attempt to recapture some romance, I’m opting to only have my ass massaged once today. This will also free up some time so I can plan a nice dinner and possibly wash myself. I aim high, don’t I?

It’s hard to believe that this time 8 years ago I was getting my hair done and nervously eating Krispy Kreme donuts while I stared at my wedding dress on a hanger. Today I’m blogging while ravenously eating buttered toast and hollering at the wee one to get dressed so I can take him to school.

I know that in the grand scheme of things, 8 years is a blip, a whisper, a second. But this morning 8 years seems like 8 light years. Excellent, wonderful, surprising light years, but light years just the same.

I have to go plan for a romantic ass massage now. It’s so worth the $25 cancellation fee.

my belly hurts from laughing

some crazy shit up in there
some crazy great shit

This morning the wee one wanted to play ninja turtles.

"I’ve given them names!" he exclaimed with glee. "Here you be this one." He handed one to me and I took it.

"Yours is named Peacock Butthair."

"Peacock Butthair?" I asked, choking on my tea. "What did you name yours?"


take that, you bony beast

expensive PT
twenty minute ass massage
this doesn’t seem right

I’ve started physical therapy for my asshole pelvis. Not to say that I have a pelvis in my asshole, but that my pelvis itself is sullen and peevish and mean to me. Peevish Pelvis. I think that was a voice exercise we used to do in theatre class.

Anyway, I started PT, and so far it’s pretty exciting. I get to spend 15 minutes in a quiet room laying on a giant heating pad while my lower back warms up. Then my therapist comes in, gives my legs a yank, comments on how crooked my pelvis bones are, and then kneads my upper ass area like it’s an especially stretchy pizza dough.

Boy does it hurt.

Then she makes me do all kinds of crazy leg lift things and a squeezing-a-Mickey-Mouse-ball-with-my-knees thing, and then I pay a million dollars because my insurance won’t pay until my insane deductible is met, and then I go home. It’s all pretty thrilling.

I wish I could say the ass massage was my favorite part, but really, laying in a quiet room, resting on a heating pad and gazing at paintings of old ocean liners is my favorite part. It doesn’t feel like someone is drilling through me with a stabby blunt object, and that’s always a nice thing.

My pelvis turned into an asshole sometime around April last year. Maybe by April this year it will be contrite and friendly again. If it’s not, though, I’ll have ocean liners to look at and excruciating ass massages to look forward to. Hell, as long as the room is quiet and no one needs a juicebox, I’ll be happy to go to PT forever. Or until I run out of money.