honk honk ashoo

life imitates art
glad head is not pillow, though
too stuffy for me

The wee one has a book – The Story of Honk Honk Ashoo and Swella Bow Wow, by Frank Cosentino. It’s about a little dude who’s head is a pillow, and the sweet little dog he becomes friends with.

I feel a little like Honk Honk Ashoo today, floppy-headed and stuffy. And every time I sit down I fall asleep. I had one of these brief narcoleptic moments just a few minutes ago, and in the five minutes I was asleep I actually had a very short dream about milkshakes.

So. Tired.

I think it may be time to wean the wee-er one. She’s 19 months on Friday, and as much as I love the closeness of nursing, I do not love the nursing at night. I am so over the nursing at night. O. Ver. It. Also, she has just started this thing where when she nurses she reaches into my shirt and pinches and scratches and claws at the skin on the outside of my armpit – right in the crook of my arm. My arm crooks are raw. It sucks.

I don’t know how long it will take to wean, but I’m very tempted to just run away for a weekend and see if it resolves itself. I somehow doubt that, though.

So it’s back to being a fluffy-headed Honk Honk Ashoo doppleganger.

And that is the coolest looking sentence I’ve written in a long time.

today’s a big day

so many candles
to float in a Corona
who needs birthday cake?

Happy birthday to my grandma! She has no idea what a blog is, nor does she probably care. But in the spirit of celebrating a remarkable feat, it seems like a blog-worthy announcement.

Mudder is 84 today. I wish we could be there with her to celebrate.

I’ll have a beer for you tonight, Mudder. Hope your day is swell.

I’m afraid to say this out loud, but….

what a gorgeous day
early springtime makes me smile
also, kids are gone

I’m home alone right now. For at least an hour, probably more. My husband has taken the kids to the grocery store, in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. He loves me very much.

I have on a shirt that’s kind of hot (in a sexy way, not a sweaty way). My hair looks good. I’ve spent at least an hour in the sun, reading a great book (The City of Ember, by Jeanne DuPrau – awesome). I’m listening to New Soul by Yael Naïm, and pretending that one day I can afford a Macbook Air.

My stomach does not hurt. I do not want to strangle anyone in my family. In short, I feel good. It’s been a long time since I felt a simple happiness like I feel today.

To be honest, it scares me. Feeling good seems to always portend bad shit – like Nature or God or the tiny baby Jesus or whomever, is trying to butter you up before the inevitable disaster. But maybe, Nature, or God, or the tiny baby Jesus is saying sorry for such an incredibly fucking shitty week last week. Maybe they are making amends.

For that I say thank-you.

For that I say whatever the vocal equivalent is of falling prostrate onto a blanket out in the yard and feeling the sun ravage my face as I smile and think that wrinkles are definitely worth it.

the news

Good:

I do not have appendicitis

Bad:

I seem to be having a week long panic attack centered in my stomach

Good:

No one has a fever and the wee one is back at school

Bad:

I have lost an entire week of editing

Good:

It is Friday

Bad:

Monday is three days away

Good:

I slept until 8:45 this morning, and so did the wee-er one

Bad:

The wee-er one will not nap

Good:

Someone searched for my blog using the terms "amy winehouse separated at birth camel"

Bad:

I just realized Amy Winehouse does look a little bit like a camel

Good:

The Texas primary might actually be of some importance this year

Bad:

I haven’t re-registered to vote since the move

Good:

There is no ice storm

Bad:

It won’t stop raining

Good:

I am wearing a soft purple t-shirt

Bad:

It has mac and cheese all over it

Good:

Blogging

Bad:

Unable to figure out how to end this post

trying out housewifey-ness

me and Donna Reed
baking, swearing and laundry
two peas in a pod

Today I am being a housewife. This, I think, will get the kids back on the road to recovery. I am baking banana bread, folding clothes, and planning to make a very scaled down vinegar and baking soda volcano for the pleasure of the wee one. I am wearing a necklace.

This day is so shocking to everyone, you would think that instead of organizing the pantry and wearing a clean shirt, I set my hair on fire and then grew seventeen-inch rainbow-colored horns.

Whatever. As long as they are shocked into getting better, it’s all good. If I have to, I’ll dig up some old black pumps and prance around with the vacuum cleaner. I’m going to scare the germs right out of those rascals. Why not?

I would also like to say that so far, things might actually be looking up. No one has a fever, the wee-er one ate lunch for the first time in a week, and I have yet to throw anything or scream an obscenity out of frustration and/or exhaustion.

Is it the Donna Reed impression that’s doing it, or the introduction of penicillin into the fray?

Maybe it’s a heady cocktail of pearls and pills. That sounds like the name of a new blog, doesn’t it?

no time

never any time
and yet I sit on my butt
awaiting trouble

I have so much to do. Work, laundry, all of the things everyone always has to do. But instead I’m blogging and worrying, two of my most treasured past times.

For your enjoyment…

Worry Number 1:
Does the wee-er one have the flu, or just a weird, random, fever-y virus? She’s had her flu shots, but I’ve heard the strain that some people are getting this year is different from the one in the shots. I hate to take her to the doctor if she doesn’t have the flu, because she’ll just pick it up when we’re there. On the other hand, if she does have it, then I want to get going with the anti-virals.

Worry Number 2:
That I am an asshole. And that by wanting to transfer my son out of his neighborhood school into a different school with more opportunities and smaller classes that I am turning my back on a school that needs community involvement, and that I am implicitly racist. But can I shoulder the burden of a neighborhood school all on my own? Can I deny my son extra opportunities that he wouldn’t get where he’s at now just because I’m taking a stand politically and socially? Or can I be confident that transferring him really is the best option for us, and that the decision is not a personal attack on anyone’s socio-economic status?

I’ve been thinking about both of these things way too much. Mama needs a xanax and a vacation.

infused with Vitamin Ego

mostly I don’t care
some days fall off deep end, though
feel like hunchbacked hag

I realized this morning that my toes look like wrinkled, dried up, albino snub-nosed carrots. They are not so cute right now. I blame winter. I also blame my sudden and spontaneous coveting of peekaboo heels. I can’t wear heels without, at minimum, twisting my ankle, and yet, all of a sudden I feel an absolute 100% need to but some black patent pumps with a little peekaboo for my toes. Except that my toes look like roots and tubers and I can’t wear heels without programming an orthopedist’s number into my phone.

What is happening to me?

Also, this morning I noticed spots on my hand. I think the scientific term is "liver spot." Can I blame winter for that, too? Probably I need to blame too many years in the sun.

How can I be shriveling up already? I’m barely into my 30s. Things are not looking up for my 40s are they? Maybe it’s time to start being a girl and paying other people to take care of these things for me.

What happened to my hard-line age gracefully stance? It went out the window the first time I dyed my hair and the next day a door-to-door salesman asked to speak to my mom when I answered the door. Stupid, lame, see-through sales tactic, I know. And never answer the door when it’s a stranger, I know. But I still fell for it, even as I yelled at him for knocking on my door.

I’m over the gray. I’m over the tuber-toes. I’m over the liver spots. I’m turning into a pile of food only Soviet-era Russians would stand in line for.

This, my peeps, is completely unacceptable.

Late to the Party

th-that don’t kill me
can only make me stronger
Kanye may be right

Being the old fogey that I am, I was unaware you can buy a "personal massager" (we are in Texas after all) that plugs into your iPod and gets jiggy with the beat from whatever music you get down to, so to speak.

In fact, there are apparently a bunch of "personal massagers" that do this, including one that creates vibrations not just from your iPod, but from whatever noise it picks up in the room. Hmmm. Suddenly the neighbor’s barking dog becomes even more of a nuisance. Or not. I make no judgments.

Anyway, I learned this by watching a show called Erotic Shop. It’s an infomercial/QVC knockoff that plays in the wee morning hours on the Oxygen network. I admit to not watching the whole show. I began to get lightheaded at one point.

You guys, that stuff is crazy. And, also? You can buy them via Amazon in case you have a little extra money left on that holiday gift certificate.

See what never sleeping does? You hear about magical new inventions. And also the phrase "bubble plug."

I’m pretty sure in Texas you can get arrested for just saying that.

The Haiku Household’s quote of the evening…

*drum roll*

"If you’re old enough to discuss the electoral college, you’re old enough to wipe your own butt."

He’s 5 years old and can tell you about the popular vote versus electoral vote, and yet getting him to wipe his own little smartass smart ass is impossible.

I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of connection between butt-wiping and electoral politics, but I’m too lazy right now to pursue it. There’s probably a significance to that, too.