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.

the flat top shop

We walked through the door and this is what we saw: two pictures of Jesus hanging on the walls, a Coke machine, a corkboard full of business cards, a cash register, a checkerboard with only a third of the checkers, three barber chairs, one barber, one guy with a Marine haircut, sitting in a chair in the waiting area, and one guy sitting in the barber chair.

The guy in the barber chair had the kind of comb-over that starts at the top of one ear and goes all the way over the head, rainbow-style, until it reaches the top of the other ear. If there was a stiff breeze, this dude’s hair could stand up straight for about a foot and a half. He was having the non comb-over part of his hair trimmed. And his goatee maintained.

So the wee one, the wee-er one, and I all sat down and I began to rethink my brain wave to go see a real barber. Initially I was like, hey, this will be cool. A real barber will be impressive, the wee one might get a spray of manly hair spray or something (thus smelling like "man stuff" – aka what he calls deodorant or aftershave) and it will be fun for all. Plus, I could save a few bucks. The place we usually go is one of those kiddie haircut extravaganza places with motorcycles you ride, and movies to watch. Cool, but not cheap.

Anyway, as Barber, Combover and Marine began somehow simultaneously discussing the war and broadband internet, I started to feel a little uncomfortable. For one thing, they could probably smell my commie pinko liberal blood from a mile away. For another thing, no one had acknowledged us when we came in, and ten minutes later there was still no nod of "I see you over there, be with you in a second."

We sat. The wee one fidgeted, begged for a Sprite, tried to play checkers, ran around and eventually it was his turn.

The barber put a big cushy block thing in the chair and the wee one sat on it. The barber ran his fingers through the wee one’s crazy rat’s nest mop and said, "How short do we go? A 2? A 3?" I was like, "Uh, 2 inches?" And then he showed me the clippers and I still didn’t really understand the whole 2 3 thing, but I agreed to a 2 on the sides and a 4 on top. The barber said it would be a Howie Long flat top. "Do you know who Howie Long is?" He asked. "Indeed," I answered, smartassedly, because even though I’m a girl I know about football. "Just don’t make it a Howie Long mullet." He gave me a sideways look, but didn’t say anything.

The barber got to work, shavin’ shavin’ shavin’. The wee one stayed very still, even when he was giggling. Then the flat top part began. "It’s like a carving," the barber said, as he buzzed and snipped and measured and combed. He had to put some kind of gel in the wee one’s hair, then blow dry it, and then comb it and then shave over the comb to even it out. He must have done this six times. The wee one was in the chair FOR OVER AN HOUR getting this damn flat top.

As the barber worked, he kept shaking his head. "There are a lot of cowlicks here. And tufts." He would shake his head some more and keep working. After a while, a kid appeared from a back room, carrying a math book and talking about dinosaurs.

"If the dinosaur could breathe fire, he wouldn’t have to use the microwave to make bacon!" the kid said gleefully. Then he bought a Coke and went back into the back room.

I wanted to say, "Are we in a David Lynch TV show?" But I said nothing. I was afraid if I spoke, the magical charm that was holding the wee one still would break and he would accidentally get his head chopped off, as it was at about this time the barber whipped out a STRAIGHT RAZOR.

"Uh," I said. "Be still, wee one." And I closed my eyes.

I heard giggling, and a sharp admonishment to be still, and I slowly opened my eyes. The wee one had survived. Hooray!

Finally the flat top was finished. "You may want to rethink this haircut in the future," the barber told me. "This kid’s head has all kinds of tufts and cowlicks and bumps and his hair is very thin. You’ll be very busy every morning making this haircut work." He looked at me accusingly, as if my child’s abnormal head was all my fault (which it is, I guess). I smiled, paid the bill and tipped him 25% because he worked very, very hard on his "carving."

The wee one got some pink lemonade Double Bubble for his trouble. He was quite happy.

His hair has not been flat since it was designed by the barber. I mean, are you kidding me? Use a blow dryer on a four year old every morning? Who knew flat tops were such trouble.

It’s damn cute, though.


no time for blogging
many excellent stories
are ruminating

OK. I can’t blog right now. I’m cleaning the house. Well, my in-laws are cleaning my house and I’m making a pitiful, but industrious effort to help.

Anyway. I have a great story for you. The wee one got a flat top at a for real barber shop. There was war talk and dinosaurs frying bacon talk and bubble gum, and admonitions to me for creating a child with such problem hair. It’s a most excellent story, and I can’t wait to write it. So stay tuned….