Category Archives: Welcome

If you Give a Mom a Muffin

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Happy Mothers Day!!

If you’ve never read If You Give a Moose a Muffin, don’t. It’s okay. You don’t have to. Or any of the others that follow in the series.

 

 

If you give a Mom a muffin, chances are, she’ll want a coffee to go with it.

And if you give a Mom a coffee, she will think about her muffin top, and get the coffee to go. The mom will try to walk off her muffin, eating the other muffin and drinking her coffee, recalling she has forgotten to buy food for her family. The mom will walk to the store…the list is at home. The Mom will run home, retrieve her list, leave her coffee mug on the counter and run back to the store. Back at home, the Mom will pre-cook some tacos, patting herself on her back for her brilliance. The mom will leave the food on the stove to cool, unpacking the rest of the groceries, letting an errant yogurt tumble down the stairs. While the mom is cleaning up the yogurt, she will spy a hole in the wall that she was going to spackle last week. Retrieving her bucket of poly-fill, the Mom hears the doorbell ring and puts the bucket down. Running up the stairs, the mom will stub her recently broken toe. Weeping, the mom will answer the door to the mailman, promptly wiping off her face. Accepting the package, the mom acknowledges the mailman recoiling in horror. If the mom reads the look on the mailman’s face correctly, chances are, she’s got some repair work to do. The mom winces to the bathroom, sees Alice Cooper in the mirror, and decides to take a shower. Turning on the hot water, the mom peels off her clothes only to hear the phone ring. The mom runs to the phone forgetting her nakedness. Streaking past the open picture window, the mom realizes her error, freezing momentarily, spying the mailman across the street about to turn. The mom runs back to the shower to wash off the dribbling mascara, leaving the phone. The mom does her best to scrub up, but spies a silverfish in the corner of the tub. And if the mom sees another silverfish in the tub, chances are, she’s going to scream some obscenities. towelling herself off, the mom remembers she is angry because she didn’t actually drink the coffee. Dressing, she hurries to the microwave to heat up the mug. She spies the cooling beef tacos on the stove but only thinks about putting the pan in the fridge. The mom drinks the coffee forgetting all about the muffin or whether or not she actually ate it. The mom then answers fifty-seven emails while texting her husband and scrubbing the counter. While scrubbing her counter, the mom will spy a wasp at the window, and think its time to hang those fake wasp nests!

The mom will go to the garage and search for the nests, getting out the ladder to hang them.  A neighbor will walk around to the back of the house, scaring the bejesus out of the mom, to let her know the trunk of the car is open. Again. The mom thanks the neighbor, but chances are…she swears when the neighbor is out of earshot. The mom suddenly remembers the phone and checks it…there is a message. The mom’s heart sinks to see it is the school, chances are, he’s hurt himself badly. The mom calls to discover her kid is sitting in the sick bay waiting for her. The mom runs to the car to retrieve her kid, forgetting all else. The mom learns that her kid is nauseous because he spun himself around 500 times on the playground equipment. The mom cancels her one and only important meeting for the MONTH, fuming at the green child. They drive back home and she tells him no, he may not play computer games. The mom gets a call from her friend, would she like the other child to come home with her today? The mom cringes at the momentary loss of memory about having another child while saying, yes, that would be great, thanksomuch. Then she puts away the ladder and the spackle and puts on another load of laundry, five loads already done in-between all the other shit. The mom decides to deal with wasps and holes another day and plays lego on the floor with her boy, laying as still as possible. At least I cooked dinner, the moms sighs, but then…did she put it away? Jumping up the mom runs to the stove to discover she has not put it away and the time has stretched into hours and beef in the heat is dicey and does the mom want to see this beef later all over the stuffies in a giant barforama at three a.m. from food poisoning and the mom cries arrrggggggggggfghhhhhhhhhh and chucks the beef into the garborator as the husband walks in and the other kid comes home and starts a fight and there is scattered lego everywhere and the husband says are you alright and the mom morphs into a giant three-headed hydra that is seven feet tall who says

I AM LOSSSSIIIIINGGGG MY MIIIINNNDDDD! At which point everyone laughs and then the mom laughs and thinks, I need to focus. Then the mom sees the muffin on the floor that the cat has dragged under the counter and half eaten and thinks, oh, chances are, that’s where my fucking muffin went.

Poor little Stubby!

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I think I have broken my toe. Again. This comes to no surprise to my family and loved ones, who have seen me repeatedly try to “behead” my toes, usually about every two to three months. There is one in particular, that has been smashed into things so often that it looks like “Gumby.”

This toe resides next to the large one, on my left foot. It sticks out further than the big toe, which I read somewhere either meant I was intelligent, or had a big penis, I can’t remember which, so neither must be true. What I do know is that if you have a toe that is larger than your big toe, it will be the one you ram into things. See, intelligent!

“What is wrong with you?”  My husband will ask, as I ram this toe into the bed frame for the 547th time. “aaarrggggghhhhFUUUUUCCGGGG, suckamabotchi!” I will answer, tears springing into my eyes. This is if the kids are in earshot. If not, I unwittingly recite a George Carlin rant about the things you can’t say on television, as my eyes bug to twice their size, cartoonish.

I need a permanent splint for this toe, like a baby carriage. Or a protective force field. I wonder how much this would cost, or if I could invent it. Invisalign braces? They can do that, so I can design…. invisatoeram. “With this invisible toe protector, no one will know you repeatedly jam your toes into things! No more scraping them on the pavement, yanking the door over their tops! With INVISATOERAM, you too, can have a normal life, like normal people do, the ones who actually have an awareness of their toes in relation to other objects!”

I admit, I have just never gotten the hang of that. My toes reside wayyyyy on the other side of my body, and quite possibly, I have never gotten around to memorizing where they should go. This sounds silly, but between the years of 13 and 15 I grew seven inches. SEVEN INCHES. I kept slamming my head into cars when I got in, before my body realized I was really a lot taller now, dear, and why don’t you just try ducking instead? Or maybe, maybe it is because of the head smashing; I cancelled out the few wires I needed that were in charge of toes. PPfft, bam, black area, the fuse went out. Nothing, Nada, No signal there.

Toes? What toes? We have toes? What department is in charge of that?

Oh well, I am better at other things. This is what I will tell myself, as I limp off to bed. This will all be better, in the morning, toe. At least, until I try to walk. Then I will curse my idiot toe-crushing ways, limping like Quasimodo, as I shuffle the kids off to school.

 

Don’t show me your taco…on facebook

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You are either for it or against it, pro or con. I thought I fell into the con category, until a few weeks ago. “Divorcebook,” my friend calls it, after witnessing first hand the slaughter of a few marriages that may or may not have died, pre-facebook. Facebook seems to have overtaken most other forms of communication; is supposedly our “connection” to each other. I get that it can be useful, especially for keeping in touch with long distance friends and relatives. It’s easy, it’s quick, and it lets everyone know what’s happening in your life. You can form a group, start a protest, have a virtual “reunion.” After all, we are all so busy, right? Right?

Superbusy?

HERE ARE THE BEST FISH TACOS EVER says a caption, and a picture of said tacos.

Would you be taking a picture of tacos and discussing it with me, before facebook? No. You would see it as…a waste of time. You’d just eat them and be done with it.

MY SWEET, SWEET WIFE AND I ON THE BEACH, and… the picture of the smiling couple.  I’m sorry, but, BARF.

This feels like propaganda, or at the very best, just bragging. Pre-facebook, you’d be telling me the reality, that he never picks up his clothes off the floor and you are sick of his love affair with the ipad. But I don’t hear any of this now, because you are too busy posting these pictures to send a personal email or, god forbid, pick up the phone.  “But I don’t have TIME to call anyone,” I hear you say. MAYBE IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE SPENDING SO MUCH TIME SENDING EVERYONE PICTURES OF PUPPIES!” Maybe, just sayin’.

It’s not just the time-wasting element that gets me. It’s the impersonal nature of it all. I had a friend request that I accepted. “I am so honored to become your 847th friend, “ I told him. He responded, “I know, I know”…turns out he was trying to get to 1,000. Ever hear your good friend had a baby over facebook? Obviously the mom didn’t email, because she is exhausted/still losing blood, but the least you could do, significant others, is lock yourself in the bathroom, avoid your newfound responsibility, and send a personal email. Sure, send it to 20 of us. 40 even. Just don’t let me find out about it weeks later. Ditto on death, doubly so.

How about a friend request that is totally inappropriate?  I got a request from a guy that I had to shove out the door one late, beer-soaked evening. (College boys can turn into rapey-warewolves after about 1:30, and sometimes you need to physically kick them out before they get the clue.) But wait! Here is my potential rapist, asking me to be his friend? Dude, are you serious? Not only do I ignore this request, but I want to send a message back. There should be something stronger than “request denied.” It should say “Request noted, but recipient would rather impale herself repeatedly on flaming skewers than know anything about your life.” Some friendships (choke) need to die a natural death.

I have a friend who I do admire for her convictions. Her convictions have recently led her to veganism, which is great, but she keeps ruining my newfound respect for her by posting pictures of carcass’ hanging from hooks, with headlines of “HOW can YOU EAT MEAT, Knowing this?” It totally ruins it for me, as I chow down on the last of my cheeseburger.

These were most of my thoughts on facebook, until a recent friend request. “So and So would like to be your friend!” facebook relayed to me cheerfully. And  there was the picture of my long-lost pal, her smiling happy face peering out from a tiny little square. I actually jumped up and down, yelling to my husband.  “Hey! Do you remember so and so?” Of course he did, she was one of the first friends of mine he’d met.  She’s the type of gal that lights up a room when she walks in. Her laugh is infectious and she suffers no fools. She is my absolute favorite type of person and I lamented her loss….due to time, distance…and… lack of facebook.

She may never have found me, if there was no facebook. I have to give credit where it’s due.

There are still a few out there who understand the need for personal emails. Just today I got one from my friend who has recently started dating, after losing his wife almost two years ago. I am thrilled for him. I am also honored that he wanted to share his good news, and not just have me stumble upon the fact that his status had changed.

 

 

It Comes in Threes

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Why do things break?

While you ponder that profound question, I’ll give you a few answers.

Because it wasn’t put together properly, because the laws of physics/gravity/erosion/time were applied and ate away the material, because it was made in China by an enslaved five year old, because because because. But, why, pray tell, does shit always break in THREES????

There is a law we all seem to know about, that doesn’t really have a name, but applies in many regards to our life. Things will ultimately break down all around us, not once, not twice, but three times, like a bully at the playground slamming your head into the pavement. This bully, I’ll call her Life, can be a total bitch to deal with.

“I SAID, I want all the money you make, up front, now, in the form of a water tank, a broken shower, and a new roof. NOW! Quit your crying about a vacation or a house payment and GIVE ME THE MONEY,” she says, relentless. So you cry and give it to her, because, what else can you do? Jerk-face Life.

Its superstition, and if you look anywhere you can find a third to back up your two random bits of awfulness, whether they actual things or more nebulous scenarios like a break-up or a sickness. For me, I often lose something, break something, and then, god forbid, break a favorite mug. I try not to take my possessions too seriously, but a favorite broken mug is a real bummer. It’s like a friend, always there waiting for you in the morning, saying, “Hello, tired traveler. I’m sorry your kids woke you up ten times in the night. Here is a perfect cup of coffee. Yes, my handle is a smooth and soothing piece of ceramic, warmed by the liquid within. Go ahead, it’s okay, you can hold me in both hands if you need to. You can even bring your lips to me and hold them there far longer than you should. I am here for you. I am your mug.” There is a tiny part of you that knows this is just a simple object, that it serves a purpose and that it can be replaced.  But somehow, that is the three that breaks me. “Why are you crying over a broken dish?” my husband once asked me, the last time I (sob) lost a mug. I smiled to show him that I knew it was nuts, that I was really just pre-menstrual, that I was in a mood, ha ha. But the reality is that I couldn’t put into words how my Mom and I laughed about this mug, it’s simple “that hits the spot” statement, that we bought it in a small and dusty town filled with antique stores, where we ran into an old neighbor we hadn’t seen in fifteen years, and where I’d had one of the best meals of my life in a place that made it’s own butter.

This law of threes could be happening around us at all times; we just only take notice when it becomes ghastly expensive or starts messing with our sentimental items. I don’t shake my fist at the sky if I break a razor, find a grey hair, and stub my toe on the bed: that stuff is happening all the time. Next time I break something I will follow the old wives tale, and take two jam jars outside and immediately smash them, offsetting any further issues that are itching to arise. Take that, jerk face.

 

 

 

Spring….Break?

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I know it is wrong to complain about vacations. Growing up, my family didn’t really do them; we camped instead. We struggled with an enormous mildewed army tent, “vacationing” amongst mosquitos the size of hummingbirds. I shouldn’t complain, but sometimes vacationing with kids feels very unlike a break.

Once upon a time, we decided to fly to L.A. and drive to San Diego, trying to save a few bucks. My arms ached after driving Mach-ten on the freeway, cars zooming around me from all six lanes. We took the “scenic” route, on the advice of the rental car employee, which I now realize was a minion sent from the netherworld to test our marriage.

“How much longer is it?” I say, too late to turn back.

“Ummmmmm,” my husband stalls. The scenic route is non-stop traffic,with ocassional peeks at the coast. The goldfish crackers are dwindling, I need to pee. It will be three hours longer, and I don’t care about the view, and the kids only want to get out of the car. Steam escapes my ears. We near the end of this particular hell and my husband growls, “What will make this situation better, Erin?”

“A New Husband,” I snap. “But a cheeseburger will have to do.” I swerve into the nearest, nastiest of family restaurants. Then, miraculously, we all burst out laughing.

This trip wasn’t too bad. Only one trip to the hospital, one ear infection, one allergic reaction (mine) and one finger slammed in a door. Its always the “food issue” that gets us. When my kids get hungry, which is always, they do not peep like baby birds. “I am dying,” they say, an hour after a massive snack. My husband is the same. He gets a look in his eye that is a hair off malice. I throw power bars at them like they are zoo animals.

Last year, we went to Maui, which was amazing, I can’t complain. But again, one minute we are swimming happily, and the next, the sun is too hot and the sand is in everything and the flip-flops are floating out to sea and WAHHH!

Food time, I think, frantically throwing all our gear into bags. My daughter is having trouble walking so I pick her up, along with all the other gear, looking like the whitest sunburnt Sherpa ever. The kids are crying and my husband is running away, pretending not to know us. We take a shortcut through the Sheridan pool. (We aren’t staying at the Sheridan. We are staying at some dude’s apartment that is retro seventies tiki, complete with two can openers (and not much else) lots of tiny ants, and another guy in the guest house named Gary that we didn’t know would be there.) So I do the only thing I can think of to get his attention.

When he looks back, I flip him off.

He turns, gob smacked, and marches back.

“Did you just flip me off? In front of the Sheridan, in front of the kids?” He whispers.

I just smile, hand him a child who is wearing a short dress and has somehow lost her underwear. But I’m giggling. Better enjoy it, only three more days until vacation is over.