Smiling When Your Friends Are Watching

I'm still here.  I'm barely hanging on by the skin of my fingernails but I'm still here.  Life is handing me lemons, and I'm not interested in making lemonade.  I'm more interested in cutting the lemons in half and then squeezing them into the eyes of one who needs a fucking wake up call.

The tension in this house is freaking unreal.  (Sorry, dear sister, that you received some of the lemon-squeezy. I do love you enormously.)  My guts are completely twisted up.  In my mind, I am alternately curled up in a ball and bent over barfing because I can't stomach the stress.  Since Hot Stuff reads my blog sometimes, I am not going to get into detail, although again, like it was here, it is rocky between us.  Only worse.  And this? Was me. Still is. Only worse. To those who left a comment; thank you, my heart was touched.

Last year at this time I could not wait until 2008 was over. In 2008, my mother died. My relationship with my brother fell apart.  My Little Dude was born.  It was all too much and I kept telling myself, don't worry, 2008 is almost over.  2009 will be better.  It wasn't.  This year I am not telling myself that 2010 will be better.  This year I am telling myself that I will make 2010 better.  I will not leave it to someone else.

The meaning of Christmas

A conversation yesterday morning between Hot Stuff and I as we (finally) put up the tree:

HS: So.. what do you want for Christmas?

Me: Um.. I don't know.. whatever.

HS: Well, don't say whatever, or I'll end up coming home with a frying pan or a house coat or something. And how many house coats do you have, like three upstairs that you don't wear?

Me: Yeah. Well, why don't you get me an apron? I need an apron.

HS: Are you serious? You want an apron?

Me: Well, kind of.

HS: uncertain smile

Me: Lookit, I'll tell you what. You think about me, and about what I would like. If you put some thought into it, I'm sure you can figure it out.

HS: Are you fucking serious?

Me: Well, yeah. You need to put some thought into it. Seriously, it won't be that hard. Just consider me and what my tastes are, what I like and don't like, and I'm sure you'll come home with the perfect gift.

(I am such a shit.)

Hot stuff leaves to go pick up a gift for me and then grab my sister from the bus station. On the way into town, he calls me from his cell.

HS: Hey, were you serious about all of that earlier?

Me: Yeah. Hon, you have to put some thought into it, okay? I'm sure you'll do great.

HS: Fuck.

Is it wrong to take such delight in playing cat and mouse with someone's sanity? Is it fair to lay down this pressure five days before Christmas?  The answer is a most enthusiastic Yes! I have learned that the true meaning of Christmas is being able to put the screws to your partner in life for your own personal enjoyment.

Thank you, honey, this was the best gift ever.

I am not without mercy.  After Doreen and I laughed about it, I gave her the okay to call Hot Stuff and tell him that an iPod would also be a good gift. (Although, I am fully aware that I will be opening another frying pan and/or housecoat Christmas morning if he reads this.)

Letters of Intent, Dec 18/09

Brought to you by Julie @ Foursons.

Dear Little Dude,

I'm tired, okay? I'm sorry that you are teething, but there is nothing I can do about it.  I give you Motrin, we cuddle, we laugh, you have a bottle, I put you to bed, you commence with the wailing.  I get you out of bed; you don't want a teether, you're not hungry, you don't want the facecloth, you don't want me rubbing your gums, and as soon as I put you to back to bed you start this crying business again.  It needs to stop.  Seriously.  I am all done, baby. Alllll done. I am also WAY ALL DONE being woken up two or three times in the middle of the night.  I am taking care of all your little baby needs before bed so I don't have to be coming down in the night to settle you back to sleep.  One of these times I am going to break my damn neck on the stairs because my brain, which is supposed to be at the helm, is still actually asleep.  If you could just tell me what you want, I would try to do accommodate you.  If all you want is to yank my chain, which is what I think is really going on, sorry.  I'm not that kind of Mama. You'll have to get over your adorable little self and cry yourself to sleep.  I'm not going to play the game tonight.  It's been a stressful week and I have nothing in the tank except nausea.  Just a few more days until your Aunty Meg comes to visit; she is a much less tired second-mother and has much more stamina.  Tough it out, kid.

Love, Mom

Dear Hurricane,

Thank you so much for making me laugh today.  Yes, that guy was weeeeiiirrrrrddd looking.  Maybe next time you could tell me in a quieter voice.  Also, you don't know this but after you went to bed, I came downstairs and laughed because you asked me why I was freaking out.  Who taught you those words? Oh yeah, me.

Love, Mom

Dear Princess,

Please, please stop taking your pull ups off during naptime.  I am tired of scrubbing poop out of your carpet.  It's very labour-intensive.  Yes, I know we are going to replace the carpet soon, but come ON.  Cut me a bit of slack, okay?  I can't be changing your sheets every day or washing your toys all the time because you got poop on them, either. 

Love, Mom

Letters of Intent, Dec 11/09

Brought to you by Julie at Foursons. Click over and read some other great letters. After you finish laughing at me, of course.

Dear People Who Are Having A Shitty Day (and/or Anyone Else Who Needs A Laugh),

In the world of Stone Fox, days are seldom without some laughter/drama/tears (kids)/tears (mine)/carpet scrubbing (and that's not a sexual innuendo, unfortunately).  Today was no exception, although I did wake up and wonder to myself, Self, what are you going to post about today? Nobody has spewed any bodily fluids on any carpeting and/or upholstery for 24 hours straight.

Before I knew it, the morning was over and I picked up the Hurricane from school and headed into town.  A quick stop at Greyhound and then on to Wendy's, as I am not made of actual stone and the whines and pleas of the childrens does wear me down.  Know what I discovered when I pulled up to Wendy's Order Here microphone?  The Order Here microphone in the lane where there is no way to get out of the lane because it has a high curb and you can't drive out because there is a minivan in front of you and you can't back out because there are two guys in a pick up truck right behind you?

I discovered that my driver's side window was frozen shut.  Frozen. Shut. Tighter than a duck's arse.  So while I am wondering what the EFF is wrong with my window, I open my truck door, get out of the truck, and proceed to place my order into the microphone.  All the while, I am jabbing the open/close button for my window, trying (unsuccessfully) to get the son of a bitch unstuck.  I could hear the lady at the drive through window laughing her ass off when she repeated my order back to me.  I am pretty sure I heard the two guys in the pick-up truck killing themselves as well, but I was too embarrassed to even look in their direction.  I get back in, drive up to the Pay Here window.  Get out of the truck.  Give the lady, who is still laughing, my bank card as I lamely attempt to explain my truck window is stuck.  While I am waiting for the transaction to go through, I grab my window scraper and make a huge deal out of scraping the bottom edge of my window.  Then grab my bank card and get back into the truck.  Hammer again, still unsuccessfully, on the open/close button for my window.  Drive up to the Pick Up Order Here window.  Get out of truck.  Pick up order.  Hear several people inside the drive thru windows laughing.  Don't even bother giving lame "window is stuck" excuse.  Hang head in shame and haul ass back to truck.  Lay down rubber speeding out of drive thru lane.

I drove four blocks before I pulled over and gave the kids their meals.

We're probably going to start eating at A&W's now.

Having a great day,
Stone

10 Reasons I don't babysit for a living

I am a sucker for a hard-luck story, so when one of the other preschool moms asked me to watch her kids on a short term temporary please-please-my-last-sitter-crapped-out-and-you're-probably-not-a-psycho-I-mean-you-seem-like-a-nice-person-and-I-am-so-desperate-please basis, I caved and said yes, even though I have sworn never to look after anyone else's kids at least twice before. 

The Mix: in addition to my three, I also had a 4 year old girl and a 15 month old boy.

So here's why I keep swearing off babysitting:

1.  This shit always happens at the worst time; like when my Little Dude is cutting 2 molars at the same time and does nothing but sit in one spot and cry all day unless I carry him around or wear him on my back like a Gee-Damn pack animal.

2.  I have my own little psychos to trash my house, I don't need anyone else's little psychos to help.

3.  The fact that I referred to other people's children as "little psychos."

4. I really needed to go to the liquor store today but couldn't because it doesn't look good when you leave the truck running with 5 small children in it to go grab alcohol.

5. I didn't have time to work-out this morning before I picked up the little fartknockers.  I had my short-shorts and runners on, rolling with my black socks (how's that for a visual?) before I realized that shit, I was getting paid to watch someone else's kids and maybe I should be at least on the same floor of the house as them.

6. Loading 5 kids each with their own backpacks/diaper bags/booster seats/carseats into a vehicle, by yourself, is a fucking bitch to do.

7. The noise level.  It's like a Nine Inch Nails concert what with the discordant screeching and incoherent shouting all freaking day.

8.  HAPPY HOUR.  There is not enough sarcasm in the world to infuse into those two words when they are used to describe the hours between 4pm and 6pm, when children the world over go into full-on Nuclear Meltdown.

9. Today is not Free Day but I ate a lot of cookies.  From the stress. Yes, the stress from the little psychos.

10. I am way too tired to think of a #10.

Technically, I only "misplaced" the baby & Why sleepovers are awesome*

This morning as I was working out, I was planning my day.  Since the Hurricane was at a sleepover and I wasn't due to pick him up until 2 (2pm! Can you believe it? Usually it's noon pick up), I had all morning to Get Stuff Done.  The schedule: caulk some weatherstripping around the Princess and Little Dudes' windows.  Run into town, go to Michaels.  Grab stuff for prettifying cafe noir chocolate truffles.  Go to grocery store. Grab groceries.  Pick up Hurricane.  Come home, prettify truffles.  Try not to eat them all.  Make some Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies.  Try not to eat them all. Congratulate self on Getting Stuff Done.  Have relaxing evening.

Well.  The first hitch came when I was putting on the weatherstripping.  I was in Little Dude's bedroom and I thought I heard him in the Princess' bedroom.  When I went in her room to do her window, he wasn't there.  He wasn't in his own room, and he wasn't in the living room.  I checked the bathroom and the dining room: no baby.  Kitchen: no baby.  Entryway: no baby.  Man the Panic Stations.  Check every room again.  No baby. Flip open the cover of the Panic Button.  Check every room again and even open front door to see if by some stretch of physics he opened the door and decided to go for a walk (in -28C weather).  Can't hear baby noises anywhere.  Try to make brain stop thinking of horrific and terrible accidents that can occur when children are out of direct eyesight for 60 seconds. Insert and turn key of Panic Button to Enable.  Tell self to calm the fuck down and order heart to stop having heart attacks.  Hand is hovering over Panic Button.  Get brilliant idea to check staircase.  Run to stairs, see baby sitting on bottom stair in the corner, smiling and playing with the Princess's magic wand.  Have complete and total nuclear meltdown on the inside from the sheer relief.

Then we went to town.  Town was good.  Town was a success.  I got Doreen's older daughters to watch my two babies.  (It is not lost on me that a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old did not misplace the baby.)  I got the stuff I needed from Michaels and the grocery store, and Doreen and I got to hang out for a couple hours while I did my running around.

When I went to pick up the Hurricane, his little friend's mom told me that the kids had a great time, my son was well-mannered (yay! threatening their little lives does work!), they were up until 11, and Hurricane was up at 7 because he had gotten sick and puked all over the bed and himself.  It was at that moment that I remembered the Princess had some nasty poops the day before, so I figured it was a virus that the kids had passed to each other.  He said his tummy felt much better after he threw up.  As I was profusely and sincerely thanking her for taking such good care of my kid, I was also thinking in my head, Score! At least he didn't barf in his bed at home.**

**This completely blew up in my face.

*I thought of the title right before this happened:

On the way home; as in, we are less than 3 minutes away from our house, my Hurricane says to me, "Mommy, I don't feel goo-BBBAAARRRRFFF!  GLLURRRRRP!  REEEETTTTCCCCHH!"

He varminted. All over himself.  His booster seat.  My truck seat.  The floor of my truck.  Various and assorted toys laying on the floor.  Poor, poor little guy.  He was so upset.  I sped home and got him into the shower while I brought in groceries and babies and baby paraphernalia and wondered how the hell I was going to get varmint out of my upholstery.  After throwing the toys and his booster seat into the snow, I ended up using laundry soap and a scrubber to scrub out the barf.  At -28C (-18F) I don't have the intestinal fortitude to do a good job, or even a half-assed job.  I maybe did a quarter-assed job, but I sprayed lots of Febreze.  That must count for something.

And that is why this post is being done at 8:30 on Sunday night.  It is currently -27C (hey, it warmed up!) and the last thing I want to do is go outside in the cold and the dark and scrape varmint off a booster seat and throw on a wash of barfy clothes and toys.  Instead, I sit in a nice, cozy house and write about it instead.

And how was your weekend?

Letters of Intent, Dec 4/09

Brought to you by the letters F-O-U-R-S-O-N-S.

Dear Tiger Woods,

I, for one, am not surprised that your wife took a golf club to your SUV.  What did you think would happen when you inevitably got busted for cheating? Haven't you ever heard of Miranda Lambert or Carrie Underwood? Woman are not just going to sit back and take this crappy treatment anymore.  You should be feeling damn lucky that it was only the SUV that got the business end of your club.  You know what amuses me the most? That you told a friend your wife went "all ghetto" on you.  Excuse me?  The woman who takes care of you and your kids and puts up with your enormous ego and then finds you cheating went "all ghetto" on you? QUEL. SURPRISE.  I would be getting "all axe-murderer" on you, myself.  It's funny how you accuse her of being ghetto when you're the one slinking around like some horny ghetto dog sniffing at all the females.

Oh yes.  You may be worth a billion dollars, but you are still a dog. I hope she takes your worthless ass for everything.  Oh, and nice role-modeling, by the way, I'm sure all the little boys who idolize you are taking notes. Cochon.

Disgusted,

Stone Fox

Dear Dr. Google: I have this weird rash..

Winter skin, oh winter skin, how ugly are thee.

After 10 years, my outer layer still thinks we live in a moderate coastal climate, and not this vast and frozen prairie.  As soon as the temperature drops below about -15 C the backs of my hands start to crack and bleed from the dry air.  I lotion, and I lotion ("It puts the lotion on it's skin. It PUTS the LOTION on IT'S SKIN.") and it's an okay solution at best.  I have tried every type of lotion out there, to little avail; inevitably, I start to dry out and wrinkle up and I look like this:

"I'll just have a spring water, no ice, please."

That's normal.

Not normal? Breaking out in a rash.  The backs and insides of my arms.  My legs.  My forearms.  I know it's not just regular eczema or psoriasis, as I have both of those all year round.  (Those lotion commercials that show the babes with the smooth arms and legs.. so relatable for me!) It's not scabies, because I had that when I was in my early twenties (don't judge, it's highly communicable).  It's not allergies, because I'm not eating anything different.  I don't think it's fungal, because it's not showing up in dark, sweaty crevices. And, I'm showering these days. Like, every day.  Yeah, I'm impressed, too.

I have narrowed it down to two possibilities: stress, which is entirely possible, although if that is the case, I would expect to be a solid mass of itchy redness; or dryer sheets.  Oh I love me some fresh smelling Fleecy.  Cheaper than Bounce, works just as good. I fear, though, that I may have to give up the nice sniffy stuff and go with the environmentally-friendly, fair-trade, sustainable-responsible-growth-organic-hemp-woven-by-certified-hippies-no-perfumes-not-tested-on-cute-fuzzy-bunnies dryer sheets, or no dryer sheets. No dryer sheets?! HA! Yeah, right. Frizzy..er hair and socks static-clinged to the ass of my pants? Not to mention all the dog hair I'd have stuck to me? Think: Teen-Wolf.

As if I need any more help to look like a spaz. 

Speaking of my spazziness, Temerity-Jane interviewed me for the Great Interview Experiment, and she did an excellent job.  Click here if you want to read about me talking about myself. Go forth and laugh heartily.

Picture credit: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23381234-moment-600-years-ago-that-terror-came-to-mummies-of-the-amazon.do