Cracklin' Rose

It's been going on for at least a year this neighborhood card club, and last night I was invited to play with them. Okay, I was a sub, and a last minute one at that, but I snagged an invite. Being as I'm not a joiner, and being that I have a low tolerance for most women in my neighborhood, my absolute giddiness at the prospect of playing cards with them for 4 hours surprised me.

Despite my boisterous voice (a term used to describe how you "sound" to your readers [or, in this blog's case, reader]) I really am a quiet, shy soul. I don't get funny until I know you. I don't comment much until I'm comfortable. I mostly sit and smile beatifically; so for the ladies last night it must've been like playing cards with a Botecelli. 

I had a good time. It felt good to be out of my house, to be talking to adults - albeit however superficial the conversations, and to have 4 hours just for me. At night's end I was kind of bummed that I was merely a sub and not a regular at the neighborhood card club. As much as I don't  like a certain neighbor lady and her brassy, me me me attitude, I wanted to be a part of that superficial group.

Alas, it can never be. They are full up, and unless they catch another member cheating like they did that Cheri or Jerri or Merri, it doesn't look like their membership's going down. But it felt good to be a part of the in crowd for a night.

 

You know how when you're just sitting at your kitchen table minding your own business enjoying the stunning 4 part harmony of Abba and trying to decide which of the lead girl singers is prettiest** and your world shifts on its axis? I thought you might.

My daughter's ex-pediatrician, the one who gave her whiplash, and I have always had a different relationship. From our first pre-natal interview I was fairly intimidated by him in much the way I would be if he were a rock star from the 70's. Turns out, HE'S A ROCK STAR FROM THE 70's.

I found this out while swinging my feet to the ever catchy, ever bouncy, surprisingly deep Super Trouper. The Sinister Dr. Doom was once a member of Abba. You can't tell me he wasn't because he is DEAD ON the skinny, tallerish guy.  Not the guy who plays piano and wears a beard, the other one. 

I knew I'd seen him before!

** Hands down the blonde. She has a fun vibe.

 

 

Listening to: weather bug chirping its happy storm warning

What I learned from War of the Worlds

by Cracklin' Rose.

If ever we're invaded by tripod arachnid type aliens with cute heads and sharp teeth I think that people should stay away from large crowds of other people. What better way to be mass destroyed than to be with the masses waiting for a ferry? It's like fish in a barrel. 

Also I learned that it's best to stick to the back roads because angry mobs are going to want your mini van and you want to keep your mini van as long as possible because it's a long way to Boston.

I also learned that it's important to keep cellusomething or other starter type car parts on hand just in case there is an electro-magnetic pulse. It doesn't have to be from aliens. It could be random. If you have one of these super duper things, then you will have the only car that runs and people will envy you. But, as stated previously, you and your mini and its cellusomething or other thingy should stick to lesser traveled country roads unless you want your son beat up and Dakota Fanning nearly crushed by an angry, desperate crowd.

If Tim Robbins offers you shelter in his water-soaked cellar just say no. Tim Robbins is creepy.

I also learned that while in real life Tom Cruise is kinda intensely abnormal, he plays a great action hero. Over and over and over and over and over.

 

 

Listening to: disappointing silence

Oh sure, I beg, I plead, I offer you illicit cyber-sex (oooh the juicy hits I'll get now!!) if you'll just add an Adam Ant video. I dream of sharing his short man yumminess with the blogging world, and then one day... one day it happens. VideoCodeZone throws up an Adam and the Ants video. Stand and Deliver with all its awesome awesomeness. Dandy highway men!  And then? And then?! And then I realize the smug phuckers have put up a bum video. They're teasing me. Every day I go and I hope and I click on their report video not working link and... nuttin'.  So this is what I'll share with you for a day or so... a big blank space of what cuddabeen Adam.

Damn you videocodezone! Damn you!

The poor girl has had a continuous ear infection going on 3 months. We've tried 4 different antibiotics and 3 doctors. Our last antibiotic was Suprax. Our newest doctor lifted his graying, bushy eyebrows in surprise and said, "Suprax is a great medicine, but it doesn't do squat for ear infections. In fact it can often lead to [some horrible sounding thing that I can't remember]."

We're on antibiotic number 5 now, and finally, FINALLY have a referral to an ENT so we can get this child's ears fixed so that she can actually start talking. All this signing is wonderful and quite the party trick, but really, it's time for some more words.

Oh, interesting tidbit new doctor threw out. The reason The Netherland's antibiotic consumption is way lower than ours is because their doctors make housecalls. Except he said, house visits, but I heard howzvizits and thought it was some Dutch holistic treatment. So then looked like a giant weenie because he repeated himself and I was all, "ooooh. HOUSE VISITS. Yeah. I get it." And he was all, "retard."

So in summary, ear infections 5 / Rosie 0.  Let's hope this one works or it looks like tube city for my girl. Anyone's kids have tubes? Let me know how it works.

 

 

 

 

Unless it's followed by, "And then I kicked his ass," or, "But I defended you emphatically," please don't tell me what negative things people in our family are saying about me or our children.

Seriously, J. I don't want to know because I have insecurities THIS BIG and hearing these things second hand? Doesn't help.

He's done this to me twice now. First time was when he raced home to tell me that brother-in-law and his sister think that Bear's fat and that it's my fault. Then today, when he more or less confirmed his grandmother hates me. Well, maybe hate's too big of a word, and maybe I should cut her some slack because he was rushing her to the hospital for some unexplained vaginal bleeding after a bladder biopsy of some kind, but hey, Grandma! I'm not the one who doesn't answer the phone if I don't feel like talking. That'd be dipshit brother-in-law's ex-wife.

*

** edited to add that Grandma's fine.

**also edited to add that J seems to derive sick pleasure at being placed above me on the list of people Grandma will call if she's dying. Ya know, if she'd said something like, "I don't usually call Rose because she has 3 kids to wrangle into the van and then sit in the ER waiting room with," then I'd've been fine with her dis. But NOOOOOO she was all, "Normally I call SIL #1, but she's pregnant and has Vaughn to cart around and I hate to inconvenience her. Then I call SIL #2, but she has to work all the time so she's never home. And you J, you're usually out of town. I don't call Rosie because she never answers the phone." But it's the way she said it. Like I somehow intuitively know it's Grandma on the line (we don't have caller ID) and I screech, "NO ONE PICK UP THE PHONE!! IT'S GREAT GRANDMA!!! STAY. AWAY. FROM. THEPHONE!" That's not me Bitty!!

I'm the one who doesn't return calls that specifically ask for J.

 

I've been putting off writing this because I don't want it to appear that I have more bark than bite, because my bite is pretty big. BUT...

I've been cleaning.

Don't say it. I know.

I've been keeping a clean house.

And it's damn tiring. It's wearing me out. It's true that all I do is clean or think about what I need to clean, and it freakin' NEVER stops. It's getting easier and there are perks which will be discussed in the next paragraph or so, but d-yamn!  It's just further proof that my job never ends. Ever.

Two things that have rarely happened in my house before J had his tantrum have happened. My daughter's teacher stopped by unannounced (another post. A happy post. A proud as hell post!) and I didn't flip out or make her stand on the porch and chat. She called through the screen and I said these three words, "Come. On. In."  I had no worries that she would talk to the other teachers about the sty Dee has to live in or worse, that she might call social services.  It was a good feeling.

Yesterday morning the family spent an hour cleaning. J swept all floors, I did bathrooms and windows and laundry and mopped the kitchen and foyer (but not deep cleaning because they didn't neeeed it. Whee.), Dee watched Rosie and organized her toys, and Bear... looked for a missing X-box cable.  But whatever. 

It wasn't a horrible hour. It wasn't a rushed hour. We weren't tripping over toys to do it. We weren't wading through piles of clothes. We weren't overwhelmed with the mess we had to get through just to find a place to start. We didn't fight through it. We didn't glare at each other and think, you should knoooowww why I'm hating you right now!  I didn't have to ask him to help. I simply started the laundry and all of a sudden there he was with the sweeper. I didn't have to scream at the girls to get them to help. It was weird. It was nice. 

As a result I invited my in-laws over for dinner and it was a no stress kind of night. Fun and clean and I didn't have to worry that they might wander into the room/closet that we'd shoved all our crap in and get killed or lost. So that was good.

BUT... d-yamn. I'm not sure I'm embracing this whole thing. Yes, J's happier, and it is kind of nice and I do enjoy the results, and at least one of my kids has confessed that she enjoys the cleaner environment, but why is it that it feels like I'm constantly worrying about the state of my kitchen counters? Is that healthy? It can't be healthy. By day's end I have no energy left to write. Or relearn how to punctuate.

Where's the balance?