Ham On

I spilled soda on my computer minutes after taking this pic

We've been eating ham since Sunday. It might not seem that long, four days, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the same salty meat is grossing me out. I ended up with a monstrous hunk of meat after waiting in line at The Honey Baked Ham store, getting to the cashier, and him telling me they were out of small size hams. The hundreds of people lined up behind me made my judgement cloudy because I wasn't able to properly think, "Is buying a $70 ham a good idea? And will we be able to eat all of this?"
What I thought was, I might regret not buying the ham, and then I will have to wait in that long ass line again, and thats if I'm lucky enough they haven't sold out of them for Easter.
My cousin is babysitting the kids this week because the usual is on a ski vacation. I remember when my cousin was 5 years old and we went to Limited Too where my sister bought her a knitted poncho. Then we went next door and I bought a two inch mini skirt from Bebe that I paired with stilettos because Sex and the City was the rage then and chicks were working the hell out of heels. My cousin is graduating from high school this year and moving off to LA in the fall.
I'm at work, and just returned from the cafeteria to get a bottle of water. I was stopped by someone with a bunch of petitions to sign. Usually I'd run away, fake mute, or just give the universal signal for "I'm about to shit my pants and need to run to the bathroom," which is pointing to my butthole and mouthing "I'm sorry." But I felt bad for this person, standing in the sun with her clipboards, and I signed all her damn petitions. I had to write my address which makes me nervous she might come and kill me later. I tried to get out of it initially by saying, "I'm actually in a hurry and need to buy water."
Then she said, "Oh, I have a bottle of water here, you can have it. It's unopened."
I didn't want to express on my face what I was thinking in my head which is, "How do I know you didn't inject this bottle with GHB, or worse, Visine?"
I reluctantly took it, but was hinting at my unlikeliness to drink it by continuously asking, "Are you sure you don't want this? You are going to get hot? The sun is really beating down right now."
She said, "Oh, yes. Take it. I have other plans."
"Oh really, and what's that?"
She said, "Soda."
Even water can be tiring. I decided to get a soda too, and I'll take this water home to feed to my plants. Then I'll eat ham while my cousin tells me what she did with the kids. She'll remember this when they're graduating from high school. Hopefully, the ham will be gone by then.

Electric Stove

Working

When I watch House Hunters International, the Americans always want to maintain their Texas lifestyle in the center of a metropolitan city, so there is nonstop griping about the apartment not being 4,000 square feet and consistent bafflement about the toilet being in a separate room from the shower. Every freaking episode, this is highlighted as peculiar. Maybe one day someone will do their homework, and see the toilet room, and say, "I've heard about this. It's sort of smart to separate the two, so one person can shit while another person showers." Aside from apartment size being less than palatial, and wall color being the undesired shade, there is usually a request for enough toilets for each family member.
After moving to Sacramento and renting a house with four bathrooms, I vow to not move into another home with that many bathrooms until I'm rich enough to hire someone to clean them. The crazy thing about toilets that aren't being used is they get dirtier faster than toilets that do get used. I was constantly cleaning bathrooms that were never even used.
Another common request on House Hunters International is for a gas stove because of chef sensibilities and having better temperature control. The perk to the four bathroom house was it had a very nice electric stovetop. Instead of having to lift metal grates to scrap every crumb or splash, the entire stovetop is cleaned in a single swoop. Ten seconds of work compared to five minutes, really, it's no-brainer. Excessive cleaning is for the birds, or people who get paid actual money for it.
There are the people who enjoy cleaning, in which case I sort of salute you. I would perhaps encourage you to find more exciting things to do. It reminds me of my sisters coworker who is a health nut and equally body conscious. My sister said she asked her how she stays so thin, and she said she chews her food thirty times before swallowing. I couldn't help but say, "She must be marvelous lunchtime conversation." I picture her bopping her head from side to side with each chew as she counts up to thirty and then swallows. It would be like talking to a wall.
Lately cooking has been tiresome, and it might be from all the dishes, although I do think I should freshen up my recipe cycle. Come to think of it, I might fit right in on House Hunters International. My list of requirements is getting long. I'd like a house with a pool, a chef, and a cleaning person. That's it, really. Oh, and I'd like the walls to be a light grey color. And thats it!

Little Sister

Sunscreen suit

I don't know why I'm watching Jerry Maguire because I fucking hate this movie. Is Renee Zelwiger the most pathetic human in the world. Single moms number one priority is not to find a man they can fix, become enslaved to, and truly enjoy being treated like shit by. They are busy enough. I've watched ten minutes so far, and the only saving grace is that fucking adorable little boy. Little kids in glasses are top tier cutie pies. He resembles my little boogers, especially Kiki who ended up looking like she was born on a Wisconsin dairy farm, made of milk.
I have to slather her in  sunscreen if she doesn't wear her full body bathing suit because she would turn into a tomato after a day in the sun. With the weather heating up, we started swimming in the afternoon. Kiki was in the pool with a group of little girls. Maybe because two year old boys easily flip the uncontrollable beast switch, throwing a wrench in peaceful afternoon outings, I didn't see too many of them around. As Kiki swam amongst the little girls, I chased George up and down the side of the pool, in a fucking bathing suit, that turd. After he started venturing off toward the tennis courts at full speed, I had to give him the ultimatum, hang out at the pool or go to the childcare center. He decided to chill out, and we had a fun time.
Kiki could spend four hours floating in the water talking to herself, but George gets a bit bored, and
mixes it up by jumping off the stairs, or paddling all the way down to the deep end and screaming, "Help!" even though he doesn't need help, so I swim down and join him. For someone who is always running away from me, he doesn't really ever like me to be far from him.
Kiki was chatting with friends, and kept pointing to George and saying, "There's my sister." I think she felt left out amongst all the sister duo and trios, but I cleared it up for anyone who was confused,"Actually, he's your brother." George and I played on the shallow side of the pool, having a great time. I forgot how wonderful pool time is, we are going to have a very nice summer. I'm already bronzing up nice.
The pool is a great mom hot spot. I met a woman who gave me a pros and cons list for every elementary school in Sacramento. I'm looking forward to all the new families we meet. We can get overly emotional and desperate, "You complete me... for now."
I was about to change the channel when I noticed that Jerry Maguire took Renee to Paco's Tacos (the best restaurant in LA) for their date. I used to live around the corner from it, and could write a ten page love letter to their chilli relleno burrito. Yes, they put a chilli relleno in a burrito. Anyways, Rene put on a ball gown for the date because she is desperado, and then she fainted because he gave her kid a high-five or some shit. I never knew skinny blondes had it so hard in LA.
This movie is frustrating the fuck out of me because I hate Jerry and I hate Renee, but what an exceptional soundtrack. Aimee Man, too! Jeez. Aside from the music, I have to turn it off before I die of embarrassment, and I can't die without eating another burrito from Paco's Tacos, and fishing for more elementary school information from the moms at the pool, women who've got more important things to deal with than chasing around broken men who treat them like dog doo.
For example, I am going to sort all the plastic bags George took out from their boxes to line his bed with. I didn't notice he'd been working on this project until I put him to bed. He is such a busy body, an adorable little busy body, who keeps me a busy body.

People You May Know

They're getting in my head

I went to a birthday party last weekend, and spent most of the time chatting with a lawyer who had two toddlers running around. She knew a lot about home health care so my brother and her talked shop, and I stood there, nodding a lot. She was quirky, nice and, most importantly, looks like she enjoys drinking beer and getting loud.
Fast forward two days, and I get an email from LinkedIn. The subject line read 'People You May Know' and a picture of the girl I met at my friend's party, was looking right at me.
"Is LinkedIn stalking me?" My best guess is they got their intel from the group Evite. Anyways, it was a nice way for me to reach out to her. "Umm, yeah, so I'm not cyber stalking you, but LinkedIn is. Weird, right?"

I've had a cold this week, and because of it, we couldn't see my family for Easter since we'd pass the germs on to my sister's new baby. I used NyQuil the first couple nights, and had consistent early bed times. Last night, I figured I'd take a night off because I don't need a NyQuil addiction creeping up on me. I had work to do anyways. My couple nights of NyQuil induced sleep supplied me plenty of bad dreams where I went back to work after spring break, and was unprepared from doing nothing for 14 days.
I was emailed yesterday by the family I tutor, they decided they aren't going to continue having me tutor their daughter since she failed another test, and has to take summer school. It sucks that she failed. I would have liked to contribute towards her succeeding, not the other way around. The last time we had a session she was falling asleep at the table so I don't think it's a brain problem, but a time problem.
My mother warned me about this when I told her I was signing Kiki up for music lessons. She said, "Be careful, Alicia. There was this thing when you guys were growing up called 'the over scheduled child,' where kids gets anxiety and stressed because they are driven from one activity to the next and don't have any time to relax.
"Is that why my favorite after school activity was watching M.A.S.H. and eating Bagel Bites?" I asked.
My mom might be on to something with the kid I tutored, but I don't need to worry about putting Kiki in activities because of possible exhaustion, just yet. I think the student and her parents are not prioritizing. Her parents needs to read Tiger Mom. Amy Chua will let them know math comes before band, tennis and vacations. Without having to tutor two nights a week, I will be less stressed, and not feel like my only time for lecture prep is in the middle of the night.
When I went to bed, my breath was shallow, and I tried not to cough because it would kick start ten minutes of pain. I got out of bed for a new batch of cough drops and saw the time was 11, too late to go back on my no NyQuil stance. I read Shirley Jackson's Got A Letter From Jimmy, and thought Shirley's got some big cajones. Reading up on what the academics think of Ms. Jackson's story, it's deep meaning deals with communication, I think thats a load of rubbish, and this short story with mafia levels of violence was a wonderful outlet for frustrations she felt toward her husband who was being an idiot.
After the story, and the interpretations of the story, I fell asleep, and dreamt my cousin had a baby whose eyes were just white, no pupils or color, and one of them was cracked, and then I yelled at my sister's ex-husband. It was unsettling, but better than feeling like I went back to work with my pants around my ankles.

Our Easter Sunday has been very relaxing. George is sitting with his box of chocolates, rubbing the tops of them with his fingertips, or rubbing them on his cheek, all the while talking to them, "Those are my chocolates." and Kiki is fighting the urge to steal them, and eat them in her closet as fast as she ate hers.
Since I'm all caught up on my work, I can relax today and that entails web surfing, reading and writing. If I get an email from LinkedIn during one of my frequent email checks, saying People You May Know, with a picture of The Easter Bunny, a scary looking baby with white eyes, or a person who I'd like to never see again except to yell at in my dreams, then I know that LinkedIn's intel goes much deeper than the web, their in my head, and I think the best way to get them out is by employing Shirley Jackson's methods. Although it's unclear if my own head should be under attack or the head of LinkedIn.

My precious

White Pants Surrong

Protecting my pants

My mom told me after my little brother turned four, she started wearing white again. The entire decade before she was birthing and rearing, so wearing white was out of the question because even the most anal of children will have a Pig Pen dust cloud following them.
I watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and am influenced by Yolanda's super style. Before Erika, she was the only one who didn't look like she was parading in a Spanish Flamenco Fiesta and lost her sombrero.
I bought white pants because Yolanda always looks like a bad ass in hers. I put mine on, and felt like a bad ass as well. After picking up Kiki, we came home midday, I knew I was in serious threat of being swiped by a grubby paw, used as a tissue for a runny nose, or as a very convenient face towel.
When we sat outside, I looked at the lawn chairs, if the kids didn't get me, the furniture certainly would. I went back inside and grabbed a towel that I wrapped around my waist like a fashionable surrong, or Fabio's everyday wear.
Kiki looked at me like I was confused, but she didn't think too much about it, seeing as how she often wears a skirt underneath a dress just because.
My pants made it through the afternoon unscathed. I kept the white pants surrong on as we drove to the pool, and then I used it as a towel.

Activism Trumps

I watched Real Housewives of Beverly Hills after party aka Watch What Happens Live, and the very lovely Rachel Dratch was a guest. Her book, Girl Walks Into A Bar, is two thumbs up. She was on the show with Erika Girardi, who came as her alter ego Erika Jayne. Erika put into perspective how teeny tiny Dratch is because she looked absolutely microscopic, and Jayne looked like a fabulous Glamazon.
Erika had on a fur coat and when asked by a viewer if the coat was real, Jayne said, "Yes." A proud fur-wearing lady. She briefly hesitated, you could feel her thinking, "How should I answer this?"
And then, very absolute, she didn't bat an eye when she gave her answer.
I suppose this will have some backlash, since one of this season's Real Housewives of Beverly Hills story lines is Vanderpump's activism on ending The Yulin dog eating festival in China. Vanderpump can be kind of gross, mouthing her dog's face, or those ghastly geese living in her moat. All the while she is talking to them like she's got one finger up their asshole, "You like that, hanky-panky, don't you, you big dirty bird. Oh yeah."
Anyways, Jayne, says fuck it to the animal rights subplot on the show, and sports a coat made out of, what looks like, snow leopard or polar bear.
I have to be unapologetic in my turing-a-blind-eye to the gay rights movement, by eating at Chick-Fil-A because it's the best, absolute best, restaurant to bring kids. There is a pristinely clean play room, enclosed in glass where kids are set free. There is free Wi-Fi. A good variety of food, soup, salads, sandwiches and ice cream. And the best part, no one fucking cares if your kid acts crazy. All this for a high end fast food prices, avoiding the Jones's trap one might wander into to at Au Fudge.
Before you get your panties in a bunch, I'll ask, "Where'd you get your nails done?"
If you go to any nail salon in America, then you are contributing to fucking slave-labor, and the brainless twats who say, "Well, I tip really well," can go eat two dicks, because the slave-driver is now getting double what he usually takes in.
So what did the nail salon expose do for nail ladies? Who knows? That story went out with the changing tide. So yeah, your human trafficking trumps my Chick Fil A indulgences.
It's good to pick your battles, or partial battles, wisely.
Really though, Chick-Fil-A sort of apologized. Money is money for shits sake. Any nail lady slave driver will tell you that, they're likely doling out apologies by the dozens, and like Chick-Fil-A, I don't think they're apologizing for anything but how their actions caused a loss in sales.

Potty Mouth

My brother came to visit over the weekend. I dragged his ass to an Easter egg hunt, a three year old's birthday party at a gym, and then the after party at her house. When my brother gave me the look that said, "You better take me home now, or I'm going to get George to do that awful thing he does," I gave a quick adios salute, and wrangled the kids.
When we got home, I put the kids to bed, and then Matt and I had the difficult task of deciding what to watch on Netflix.
He said, "How about we watch an informative documentary?"
"I was feeling a bit more like a Rom-Com, or perhaps just a Com."
We went through all the Coms and could't find anything we both agreed on, so he said, "How about an informative documentary."
"Egh, alright!"
So we decided on Ken Burns's The Roosevelts. The series is made up of seven 2-hour episodes. I knew I wasn't in it for the long haul, but the hour and forty five minutes I did watch were very entertaining. Teddy was such an energetic character, and Franklin Delano (that names needs to make a comeback) had been so misunderstood throughout college.
Regardless of how impressive the story was, I had to go to bed, so I went to bed, and Matt carried on watching. The next day, I sent the kids in to wake him up. They sat at the foot of his bed barking like dogs until he finally rolled out of bed.
While I was getting the kids breakfast he decided he'd jump right back into the miniseries, but put his headphones in because the kids were jamming hard to Ricky Martin. He started laughing hysterically to himself, and then pulled out his earbuds and retold me the story he just heard about Teddy being such a long winded conversation dominator.
Kiki was running out the back door to play in the yard, and I asked her come sit down and finish her breakfast. She looked at me and did a head nod toward the outside, like "But, I'm going outside." And she went outside. Then my brother, who already thinks my kids are unruly, said, "Wow, Alicia, your kids are such good listeners."
George, who was sitting in his chair eating, started to sing, "Jingle fuck, jingle fuck, jingle all the fuck."
I just rolled my eys, threw the kitchen towel on the table, and sat down. Matt walked to the bathroom trying not to laugh, "Oh, I just learned a new song, thanks to George, The Potty Mouth."

Dead Fish

Feeding the fish

We go to Nimbus Fish Hatchery often to feed the fish. The last time, we watched the informative film playing on a loop in the visitors center. I learned a fish hatchery's purpose is to compensate for the fish population depleted by dams, and that fish are born in the river, swim all the way out to the ocean where they live for two years, and then swim back to the place they were born to lay eggs. The main fish harvested at Nimbus is Rainbow trout. Because rainbow trout die after laying their eggs and fertilizing eggs, the hatchery has a no nonsense approach to retrieving the eggs and inseminating them. The fish jump up a ladder to get back to the hatchery when they're ready to lay their eggs, and then get sorted out by male/female and size. The females get their belly sliced open, and all the eggs wiped form their insides. This couldn't have been timed better with me having to explain to her a c-section the day before. Then the eggs are squirted with male sperm. The fish are then sent away to a food processing center in Seattle.
Kiki was on the edge of her seat during the entire film.
Afterward she had lots of questions, and she met the perfect person to talk to. He was a holds no bars ranger, who looked like he recently achieved his Eagle Scouts badge. We looked at a calico Chinook Salmon in a tank, and Kiki asked, where are her parents. Straight faced, he said, "Her parents are dead. This type of fish dies after laying their eggs."
Her brow furrowed, and she decided not to fight him on this. She let me know he was full of bull, when we were in the lanes feeding the fish. She'd throw pellets in the water and the fish would do sudden acrobatics, resembling a bunch of slashing silver machetes. She said, "There's the baby, and there is her mom and the dad and her brother." pointing to fish in the water.
George spent most of this time trying to catch birds that looked like they were cooked up in a Stephen King novel; tiny, shiny, black birds with yellow daemonic eyes. He only came close to pouncing on one once. H eventually gave up, and I didn't need to rely on scare tactics, which could have gone so far as shouting, "Don't touch those rabies infested creatures, they'll peck your eyes out."

We were playing in the backyard today and Kiki came up to me holding a little squishy toy with prickles. She said, "Meet my friend, Urchin. Her parents are dead."
"Poor Urchin."
She wandered off, and I sat in the sun, unclear if there is something I should say. I'm much better with coming up with ways to prevent death, rather than explaining it.

Dog Food

Alms

A childhood friend told me her mom used to find us under their stairwell eating dog biscuits, pretending we were homeless. We were seriously method in our acting. I had a fascination with homeless people because of a book I'd read called The Family Under The Bridge. It makes me sick now to think I was eating dog food like a forgotten elder, but kids practice their play with rigorous dedication.
Kiki has been pretending she is a dog for the last couple days. George and I are also dogs in her mind. She has hardly broken from her dog character, except to correct me when when I call her Kiki instead of Cleo, or if I forget to call George T-Bone.
Even this morning, right when she cracked her eyes awake, George and I came into her room, and she said to me, "Clifford did you have a litter of puppies last night? Is that why you left me to sleep alone?"
"Yes, Cleo, I had to go have my puppies, that's why you had to sleep by yourself."
"Well, where are all your puppies?"
"Oh, I had to give them away. I had ten puppies, and thats too many mouths to feed."
Even as an adult I pretend were living in scarcity.
"George wouldn't have any milk to drink if we had to feed ten puppies."
"You mean T-bone!"
"Yes, I'm sorry. Of course, T-Bone."
"We'd run out of dog food?"
"I'm afraid so."

Bite Me

L-I-V-I-N

Sunday I went to a BBQ in the country. There were horses at the house next door, and the kids and I walked over to the fence to feed them grass. The horses had names, but we named them for the brief time we were with them; Cow, Julie and China. We were standing with some other kids, who were clearly from the country because they had no hesitations as they fed the horses. George joined the likes of them, and loudly giggled as he pet the horses head and wet nostrils. Kiki would throw the grass at the the fence and shriek.
The horses started getting excited and antsy from being around the kids. China, the littlest horse of the three, was behind Julie, trying to push her way through. Julie was annoyed by the little horse, and she turned around and bit her on the neck. All the kids were defensive of little China, and said things like, "Julie should go to time out for biting," and "Biting is bad, Julie." When China didn't take the hint, Julie kicked her in the ribs. I got nervous that this was the beginning of a horse brawl, where the wire fence wouldn't protect us from flailing horse feet.
"Ok, one last feeding, then we need to go." Kiki threw her grass at the fence while screaming, and we walked back to the BBQ.

I started this blog almost a year and a half ago. I thought I'd make it a hipster fashion blog, but I quickly realized there are thousands of other people out there doing it better, and I'm not as passionate about fashion as I'd hope to be. My flex rules about workout clothes in lieu of outfits builds the case that I frequently have days where "I gave up" and "can't be bothered."
The blog morphed into nonfiction narrative, funny stories from my day-to-day. I think the stories can be a bit shock value, but they are my truths, and truth can be fucking ugly sometimes. The blog allows me to be creative, and gives me a lot of happiness. I am proud of it, and I have my favorite posts, and my least favorites.
One of my first posts is about leggings and visible panty line, VPL. It is my most frequently viewed post because it shows up in search engines for people looking to jack off to fat asses in legging. I am not fucking you. My Blog Statistics shows "Fat Ass in Leggings" too often for me not to cringe, but it drives traffic, so I'm grateful for that.
Kim Kardshian gets loads of shit because she is always tweeting her nakedness. She likes to think people who are unimpressed with her are slut shaming her, but really they are just saying, if you want to get the R-E-S-P-E-C-T then don't flash your junk to the world. I don't really care either way. There are times when I wake up, and after stripping down to get in the shower, admire myself for way too long in the mirror. Sometimes, I take pictures because I think, "I might want to see this one day."
So yeah, I can't just hand my phone over to someone to flip through pictures because I have too many naked photos of myself on there. On a side note, to discuss in more depth at a later date, is it gay and incestuous to jerk off after taking naked pictures? (Whats with trying to label everything? It's the fashionista in me.)
Would I be embarrassed if my naked pics were out there? I doubt it because I probably wouldn't take so many if I weren't somewhat proud of them (I delete the ugly ones, of course.) Kimmy Kardashian is annoying because her slut shaming essay says she's proud of herself, even her flaws. Listen, slut, were happy you're happy you're a slut, but when you call your blow-up-doll plastic surgery constructed self "flawed," it can make other people say, "if she's flawed, then what the hell does that say about the rest of us who aren't willing to get cut up for our beauty?" Her slut pride celebrates sexuality but reaffirms truly ridiculous beauty standards.

So I go with the flow with my blog. Sometimes it's funny stories, sometimes it's serious shit, movie or book reviews, feminist rants, and other times just tired streams of consciousness. I'm putting out my truth, and beauty is in the head of the reader, but if someone has a problem with the story, or wants me to tame it down, well, please accept my flaws, or else, you can Bite Me, in which case you will be sent to Time Out, without any screen time.

Spring Break

You've GOT to be kidding me

Today I'm officially on spring break. Bust out the bikini, it's party time. Not really. All this means is I get to work on my screenplay for a week without feeling guilty I'm not doing work for my class.
The students took their midterm yesterday. I might be too easy on them, with the hints. Since they have already realized I'm a pushover, I will have to wait till next term to be more of a stern no-nonsense teacher who has high expectations, and doesn't ever feel sympathetic towards someone who has clearly blanked on the information. It is the same students who come up and ask questions in a round about way of saying, "I have no fucking idea how to do this," or, "I forgot."
Some people would rather not ask. They are intelligent, but they would rather not ask and get the hint, and turn in the wrong answer.  I respect them for that.
One of my students asked to take the test early, she said, "I booked a trip to Cabo for spring break, and I totally forgot I have class on Wednesday."
I was laughing because that is so silly, and I let her take it early. It was during our class intermission when she asked, so we were in the front of the room, and the students who didn't run out of class to try and test out if the Starbucks line is going to make them late for class, sat in their seats playing on their cell phones. They seemed distracted as she explained she is having a hard time with the class, and subscribed to an online resource where video explain the material. In her words, "I'm paying fifty bucks for math-for-retards videos."
My jaw dropped. First of all, she is too young to say "retard." Thats such an eighties word, and it worked it's way out of popular vocabulary in the nineties when people learned about political correctness. My eyes widened, and I changed the subject. Surely the people playing Candy Crush didn't hear her the first time, but if she said it again, I'd think some eyes might look up. She is a funny girl, and the odds aren't so great that she will pass the class, but I'd be happy to have her in my class down the road when she needs to take it again because she is hilarious, when she isn't dropping R bombs.

Monday I caught someone cheating on a quiz. That night I told my husband about the cheater. I was angry because this kid took advantage of my generosity. This student is a regular at my office hours, and I feel like he's been blowing smoke up my ass all this time, a deceitful ass kisser. In my office hour we work most of the quiz problems, almost the exact problems, before class, so to cheat is asinine since he just saw the answer fifteen minutes prior, and these quizzes are not worth much in the overall grade. I said to my husband, "I'm embarrassed for him. I'm embarrassed for his family." I could have sounded much more sensei, had I finished it up with, "He does dishonor to his family," but I didn't. Seriously though, his face makes me want to blow fire out of my mouth and scorch all the hair off his head.
This morning George and I went to the park with my friend who is a part time elementary school teacher. She said she always feels awful when she catches kids cheating. Her students are 10 years old, so she interprets it as the kid having too much stress and feeling overwhelming pressure. The guy I caught cheating is 20 years old, so maybe he has external pressure to succeed, but in this case, I don't feel sorry for him.
To me, cheating seems like it would be harder than studying. If I didn't give myself a heart attack during the act of cheating then the days following would be a tortuous period filled with hyper paranoia and guilt. The student who said the R word and forgets to attend class might not be able to squeeze by in this class, but the kid who studies regularly, attends class, but cheated on his quiz, is probably going to pass. I don't have any doubt here on who is going to live a happy life, failure is much more than a letter grade.

Emotional Hangover

So tired, but happy

Last night I was falling asleep and thought about the funniest thing. It's comical in itself, to be laughing out loud in a still dark room. I thought about earlier in the day when I gave George a bath. He ran around the house naked laughing and shrieking as I tried to wrangle him. When I managed to drop him in his bubble bath, he was still reeling from our cat and mouse game. He has doing a crab yoga pose, lifting his butt up and down. He started shouting, "Check this out guys," to me and Kiki. He was flopping his peen around and found it so neat-o he wanted to show this trick off by shouting, "Check this out guys!" over and over. I tried to not laugh because it might prompt him to do this in public sometime, like after swim lessons. So I acted slightly impressed, a little, "Whatevs. You've got your tricks, I've got mine."
Sunday I was fighting the Mean Reds like crazy. My idea to move to the East Coast is definitely under evaluation, since two weeks of rain had me bedridden. I'm not completely inclined to blame my valleys on the weather, I'm thinking it could have been an emotional hangover from the peak of elation preceding the weekend. Both my sisters had babies last week and I spent four days opera singing Life Is Beautiful while cooing over baby pics and face timing morning, noon and night.
Exhaustion compounded things; it didn't help Sunday was daylight savings time, so we lost an hour, and George woke up twice that night. The first time he woke in a screaming fit that he wanted to go to Carson City. This has happened before; he wakes up disoriented and fucking pissed, demanding he return to a certain place, like the car, shower, living room or my parents house. I think he wakes up from a dream and is totally confused why he is not in the place he just felt he was in, and then freaks the fuck out, because thats how he likes to deal with things.
The second time he woke up because he peed the bed. After changing the sheets and putting him in fresh pajamas, he went back to sleep.

When he started his morning hollering, I thought I might as well smother myself. I asked my husband what time it was and he said 6:30. I leaped from bed, ecstatic to have slept an hour later than George usually allows, but I quickly realized I jumped the gun, and it actually was his normal 5:30 torture time because of daylight savings.
Sunday I felt a bit like Brie Larson in Room when she is getting depressed in the room. I was being a shitty parent, hiding under my blankets, unable to communicate unless it was, "Could you please excuse me, I need some personal time." Room was such a disturbing movie to me, a film that "sticks to your ribs."
I spent the second half of my youth in South Lake Tahoe, and the year before I moved there Jaycee Dougard was kidnapped. Her picture was on every shop window, and we all heard the story of her being snatched off her bike on her way to the bus stop, with her step-dad chasing down the car. It was surreal when she was discovered, such incredible news. I can't imagine her mother's joy. I haven't read Dougard's book, and now I hear she is writing a second one. I don't think I will ever read it because, even though her story ended up being amazing, the decade in captivity would be unbearable.
I heard an interview of the man who kidnapped her, and all I got from it was this horrific line, "I don't know why anyone would ever let their kid walk to the bus stop."
My daughter is starting kindergarten in the fall, and I toured her school the other night. They explained how kids are dropped off at "curbside pickup." I can drop her on the curb and she is escorted to the gym, where she will wait with her class and be collected by their teacher.
I nearly fell over. I will never be able to drop this tiny little person off on the sidewalk and drive away. I'm going to park my car and walk her to the doorway of her classroom, every morning, because I heard this simple thought from an awful person.
After I watched Room, I stopped jogging in the street, and ran only on the treadmill because I thought too much about how you can get snatched right off the side of the road. It's been raining, so it's not like I've been fighting off an urge to go pound the pavement, but today, with the sun out and clear skies, I couldn't pass up being outside with running in my dark and damp garage.
My friend called while I was out and we chatted about work, kids and summer trips. She told me about her friend having a baby and getting a fucked up epidural. The same thing happened to me with George. The doctor fucking stabbed the epidural in too far, and ended up giving me a spinal tap. No one realized I was already at 10cm, and the baby needed to be pushed out immediately, but my entire fucking body was numb. It was one of the worst moments of my life because I was scared for my son, and panicked I might be paralyzed for the rest of my life, living in a hospital bed. After George was born, and I barfed all over myself, I laid there, and worried. I pictured Javier Bardem in The Sea Inside, and how he lived in a hospital bed as a quadraplegic and all he wanted to do was die. I started to feel tingling sensations after time passed, and began believing the doctor, that I was going to recover.
I don't know what happened after George arrived, but I have some sort of psychic powers since then. It could have been from the incident being so scary, feeling like we weren't going to make it. The psychic feelings might be fading, but for the first two years I felt like I was reliving time. Maybe I'm misdiagnosing feeling a slower pace of time, where my body and consciousness are slightly out of sync. I don't know, but it is fucking weird, but kind of awesome.
I read an article that said childbirth can lead to psychic abilities, so I guess if I ever had a third I might become full-blown psychic, and could start up a hotline. It would be cool. I could do a commercial where I wear a psychic hat, and shake my wand, repeating, "Check this out guys!"  I do not have a movie to compare this aspiration or experience to... Yet! One day. I can dream it up next time I'm reeling from an emotional hangover, hiding under my covers for hours recharging my batteries. With my weak psychic powers, I still have no way of knowing what George is going to do. He cracks me up all the time, even hours later, when I think about it, all alone in a dark room. 

Glass of Poop

George is such a little fireball. Lately he's been amusing himself by saying, fuck, a lot. I tried ignoring it, time outs, yelling and anger, but he doesn't give, well to put it in his words, two fucks.

The kid is always looking for a reaction. I tried to explain to him that he will get more attention and praise for saying nice things, and that's helped a little.

Our babysitter said she thinks he has derived the word from Trucks-and-bridges because most often when he says it he shouts, "fucks and bridges!"

My husband did some reading up on this, and today we implemented a new strategy. Every time he said fuck, we'd bring him a truck and say, "oh, a Truck! Here's your Truck!"

He actually was quite amused by it. We'd come up to him and speak very slowly, "Did you say Truck?!" And he'd smile. He's used to getting a negative reaction, but a reaction nonetheless, so when we weren't hauling him off to his room for time out but mimicking him by saying, "oh, truck, of course a truck," he felt satiated. 
Tonight we went over to our friends for dinner and George started giving me indications of being a noncompliant turd. He started by wandering around aimlessly whining. Then he looked at me with clenched fists. I walked over to him and kneeled in front of him. My strategy was to talk really loudly right when he goes to say it, so no one would be able to fully identify what he said. He shouted, "fuck," spit flinging from his mouth. I tried to sooth him, "Please, George, can you just relax?"
After a bout of demonstrating his power, he calmed down, and spent the last 45 minutes singing into a toy microphone by himself. I apologized to my friend before we left, and sent another sorry text from home.
We are not going on anymore playdates until George is set straight. Tomorrow were dedicating ourselves to reformation. I will not pretend I don't hear him saying "Fuck" so I don't have to drag his ass down to his room for a time out. He only does it for attention, and there are plenty of other things he can do instead that won't make my face turn beet red, and make me want to hit him upside the head.

We watched If You Give A Mouse A Cookie on Amazon Prime. There's only one episode, so of course they wanted to watch it four times in a row. We were singing the intro song together and then George came in for the chorus with, "If you give a mouse a poop, he's going to ask for a glass of poop." I reacted just as anyone would, laughing so hard my head hurt. He was beaming and I was happy he performed without relying on excessive shock value, just mild shock value. Making people laugh is his favorite thing. Whoever laughed whenever he said fuck for the first time, is on my shit list for life.

Farrah Fawcett Hair

Yesterday morning George and I drove to the other side of Sacramento to go to the nice Walmart. The Walmart in my neighborhood screams unattended mental institute. The last time we went to our Walmart Kiki and a crack head lady had a twenty minute conversation. Kiki kept asking the woman about the scarf on her head, and the woman kept telling Kiki about an apple cake she found in the bakery. As they both had an animated one-sided conversation I stood on the sidelines becoming increasingly anxious they would touch, and my daughter would be exposed to a vicious strain of under-belly bacteria.
After the thirty minute drive to the good Walmart, George started nodding off. And when I pulled into the parking lot he was fast asleep. Foiled by my sleeping kid, I had to drive back home to put him in bed. The drive was not a complete waste, as I turned the car around to go home, I took a picture of my hair in front of the Walmart sign.
I watched the movie Diary of a Teenage Girl. It's a really good movie. Kristin Wigg plays the mother, and she does a fabulous job, a slight redemption. The script is so funny. The mom, while claiming to be feminist, tells her daughter she ought to dress more provocative, since her youthful figure is temporary. She also criticizes and compliments her daughter's friend's hair, by saying it's pretty, in a a White-trash Farrah Fawcett sort of way.
I'm so happy times are changing, and we're seeing the trend move back from flat ironing hair toward a more voluminous eighties lamp-shade hair style. Flat ironing hair is one of those trends that I can't get on board with because it's a beauty regimen that would take me an hour. Yes, an entire hour, which is completely fucking nuts, especially since I run so I'd have to re-do this process every day. The reason flat ironing takes me so damn long is because I have Farrah Fawcett hair. I have to move the flat iron centimeter by centimeter on high heat to make it go from wiry to smooth.

With Sacramento rain, flat ironing seems even more asinine. Put in the hour to straighten hair, and then its wasted after quickly walking to the car. The much needed rain, in addition to making my hair a more lively lampshade, is making us have to get creative with our activities. We run around in the back yard a couple hours a day, and now were spending a lot of time at fast food places with indoor gyms. Last night the kids and I met up with friends for a playdate at an indoor gym equipped fast-food restaurant. The kids ran off to the play area and the mom and I chatted like crazy, only stopping to take a kid to the toilet every fifteen minutes.
She started slowly by remarking on her husband's inadequacies, and by the end of the two hours she had railed him hard as a lazy bag of bones who makes her job harder. This morning I needed to take an ibuprofen because my neck hurt from nonstop head shaking in an oh-no-he-didn't kind of way the night before.
Feeling compelled to commiserate, I fell down the rabbit hole, and started to match her stories with my own. I thought we'd laugh through stories of man vs. woman, and we did, but when we said goodbye and parted ways for the night, she looked unsettled and sad, and I left feeling bad, like I should have been telling her stories of how things can get better rather than indulging in stories of  men being good for only two things (a paycheck not even being an applicable comfort for her.)
This morning I woke up and had resonating feelings from the shit talking bender the night before, where all the things I complained about the night before were illuminated, and I was so easily annoyed, I sat cross armed in the corner glaring with a look of disappointment and judgement.
I went running, and realized I need to cool my jets. I apologized for waking up unbearably grouchy, and fessed up to all the trash I talked the night before. I have to get a grip when it comes to complaining. There is so much to be grateful, like changing hair trends, rain and having a happy little family. I really don't have time to dwell on the "room for improvement," I don't even have time to do my hair for fucks sake. Next time I hang out with my friend, when things start to go toward dwelling on the negative, I'll have to pull a conversation switch on her. I'll ask her if she has seen Diary of a Teenage Girl. Her husband will be Dad-of-the-year compared to Monroe, and that will kick-start a gratitude talk.

Ice Cream For Breakfast

A lot to get done... Eat some ice cream.

This week is super busy for me; my class has a big exam next week that I needed to write and make the review for, the family I tutor for added another night a week, House of Cards started back up, and my little Georgie has decided to wake up at 5 am every morning.
I'm finding myself working until midnight every night, and then having to wake up at five am, from a night's sleep that was interrupted at least once by a kid having to pee or needing a snuggle after a nightmare.
Last night I came home and had a headache. I took tylenol, and then kicked myself because it ruined my plan to take NyQuil and fall asleep with Kiki at 7:30. It turned out to not be an issue because I was able to fall asleep at 8 without sleep aid.
Someone once told me, "If you ever want something to get done, then ask the busiest person you know."
As I keep piling more stuff on my plate I am finding there is more to do. Last night, I took George pee at 3:45 in the morning, and after I put him back to bed, I laid awake for over an hour thinking about the kids needing to eat more green veggies, and how I will go about making this happen.
The night before I woke up from a dream that I was riding a roller coaster and my harness was not fastened securely, so I was holding on tight to make sure I didn't fly off. The roller coaster even went under water, and I held tight while submerged waiting to take a breath of air again.
Roller coasters are a usual stress dream I have, same with being on a crashing airplane, being a student in a class I forgot to attend all term and realizing I have a test that day, or I am on an elevator that shoots way up into the clouds and I'm getting nervous of the heights.
This makes me wonder what people dreamed about in times of stress before the industrial revolution, or commercial flight. I suppose they could dream their ox ran away, and they needed to plow the field, or a fire burned their house down, or their stocked larder flooded and months worth of food is ruined. Most of the scenarios I'm envisioning involve natural disaster.
During these times, when I feel the weight of a hefty to-do list, I usually rely on good food to provide comfort and stress relief. As a student I was convinced the best way to prepare for an exam was to eat a meatball sub, where studying came in second. This morning, as I'm writing tomorrow's powerpoint, I'm having ice cream with my coffee, and instead of feeling overwhelmed, I feel light and at ease, like an all around accomplished go-getter.  

After today my work load will decrease significantly for a couple weeks, so waking up throughout the night won't be as devastating since I won't follow up my kids' potty trips and nightmare snuggles with hours of thinking of more stuff to do. I will blissfully fall back to sleep and dream about wonderful things, like drinking coffee and eating ice cream or a warm meatball sub.

Tea Party

This afternoon we had a tea party. I noticed how much our tea parties resemble a group of thirsty teenagers who just got their hands on a bunch of booze.

We cheers almost every time we sip. Sometimes we cheers before and after a sip. George likes to shout, "Sip, now!"
Then we all do a quick cheers, and knock back a sip of mint tea. Hardly a few seconds pass before George insists on another group cheers-sip-cheers.
By the time our tea cups were running low on tea, the kids started getting rowdy with their cheers. I had to constantly remind them that they will break our most coveted sentimental souvenirs, our coffee cup collection, by smashing them together like were on our fifth hour at Oktoberfest.
When Kiki finished her cup, she wiped her lips with her forearm, burped loudly and said, "excuse me."
She peeled off her sun hat, and climbed out of her chair. She put her foot down, and said, "Were done here."
I wanted to relax some more, and keep drinking tea, but she wasn't going to allow it. "Get up, and wrap me and G into a burrito on my bed."
George pushed himself away from the table like he was springing off the wall of a lap pool. He ran into her room, and laid stiff on the comforter. She laid next to him, and we took on our new personas. I am Chips-And-Salsa, she is Carnitas and George is Beans.
"Wrap us up tight, Chips-And-Salsa. But do NOT cover Carnitas' or Beans' eyes," Kiki instructed.

Then I wrapped them up tight, with their eyes poking out of the comforter-tortilla, and pretended I was going to eat them for dinner.
A giant burrito is the best way to end a round of fast paced drinking, tea or otherwise.