Oh. Hai!

Things I've been doing instead of blogging (because I don't think I can blog about anything until I blog about how I feel now that my youngest has started kindergarten):

(Or, also, how I feel about the fact that we are almost officially and with finality a two-child family [as in, the snips have not yet been made, but they will be made before the dawn of 2009. Snip, snip and a bag of frozen peas] , which is a fairly recent decision but also firmly and with much peace in our parental hearts.)

(And the very thought of the soul-scraping excavation and tear-fest that would have to take place in order for me to verbalize and express to you, dear readers, either subject in a way that I think it deserves? Daunting. And...and...)

(Well, have you ever had a bruise that hurts really bad but you can't stop poking at it because you can't believe how bad it hurts and it hurts so bad that it might even feel kind of good? Or when your baby teeth started to become loose and sometimes it hurt really bad to wiggle them but you just couldn't stop yourself from wiggling them all day long because the hurt felt kind of good?)

(So. Daunting and painful. Painful in a way that I kind of want to poke at. But not just yet.)

(I'm learning in my old age that you can be simultaneously ecstatic and devastated by the exact same event(s). These feelings don't necessarily come in equal measures nor are they always well-timed. But it is possible, oh yes it is. And you won't be able to tuck them into a neat little box marked "no regrets," oh no you won't.)

(Like maybe you'll use the restroom at TJ Maxx and witness a young mother yanking jeans up over the bare buns of her toddler while he's standing on a diaper changing station. And you'll burst into tears because those moments are gone for you. Even more sadly, you realize that when those moments were still yours, you were too harried and impatient to be fully present and feel the joy to be had in changing a diaper in the middle of trying to run errands.)

(But maybe sometimes you were very patient and you loved every moment with them when they could still sit in the front of the cart and you cooed and giggled with them down every aisle. Maybe you just don't give yourself enough credit.)

(Even writing this much is causing me to swallow hard and blink. blink. blink.)

(I'm not ready to wiggle this tooth loose yet.)

Instead, I've been:

• Watching all four seasons of Weeds.
• Daydreaming about having twins and sextuplets (wait, what about what I just wrote up there?) and having the gumption to make 100 percent organic meals for them every day of their lives, amen.
• Missing my husband, who has been in a southern state for work the past six weeks and will be gone for three more.
• Choosing and ironing all my outfits for the entire week on Sunday evenings. (Change my life much?!!)
• Planning weekly menus, shopping only for the menus and sticking to a grocery budget. (Change my life, part the second!!)
  
• Turning the TV off during the school week.
• Getting really excited about politics.
• Getting really sick of politics.
• Wanting to marry one of the nerdy guys on Big Bang Theory. Or at least live across the hall from them and have them crushing on me.
  
• Purchasing and returning and re-purchasing a Halloween costume for a 5-year-old who can't make up his mind.
• Taking two kids to the same school at the same time. (squee!!!) Ditto for picking up.
• Scratching my head over Juno (I know. I'm like a year late to the party here.) because why did no one tell me that Jason Bateman (swoon) was such a douche in it? The movie was heartwarming and all. But couldn't they have hired Jeremy Sisto to play that part? Still swoon-worthy, but, you know, he's also known for playing a douche. At least I would have seen that plot twist coming and would have then been able to further focus on the charm that swept the rest of you up. A year ago.
  

Thank you for your patience with me and all my broken promises and for helping me with my life through the glow of my computer screen.

Famous. In a lame sort of way.

Z was reading over my shoulder (on my lap, actually) while I was reading the blog of someone we both know.

He asked about my blog, which he knows about (somewhat). He asked if anyone we don't know reads it. I said something like "maybe a few people. It is The Internet, after all. Anyone can find anything they want on the internet."

"So you mean we're famous?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it famous."

"So you mean famous in a lame sort of way."

Laughter ensued. And I promptly changed my subtitle.

p.s. I am painfully aware of not posting much lately. I'm up to my neck in emotion with my youngest starting Kindergarten and can't quite summon the courage to sit at the keyboard and let it out. But I will soon. Promise.

Super

I categorically reject the results of this quiz. I totally dig Dean.

Are You Compatible With The Supernatural Boys?

More on Supernatural. Created by BuddyTV

66

We recently got a Wii.

(And by "got," all I'm going to say is that corporate waste is a damn shame unless you are the beneficiary of it. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.)

(We didn't steal it.)

So far, we only have the Wii Sports game that came with it. With summer coming to a close and a week of grim weather preceding the first day of school, we have let Z explore the ins and outs of it. He has unlocked many tricks and secrets that would have taken his antique father and I (I'm not antique, I am young and girlish, but not video-game minded. His dad is very much video-game minded, but is getting feeble at the ripe old age of 38.) months to discover, if ever.

Anyhoo, this afternoon he explored the Wii "fit age" portion of the game. (We don't have WiiFit [yet] and I don't really know what I'm talking about here, only telling you what my 9-year-old told me) After swinging with/at various virtual sports equipment-type thingies, he said, "My Wii Fit age is 66. Is that good?"

"Well, it means you are 66 years old. If you think 66-year-olds are healthy, then I guess it's good."

"Oh." Mild disappointment.

Later, when his dad arrived on the scene, he told him the "age" and was greeted with uproarious laughter.

This time, Z's reaction was to grin from ear to ear and say, "I need Life Alert."

To know oneself

We've been talking a lot about our dreams at the house of Zdoodlebub. Some nightmares have surfaced and my sweet Z, who hates to talk about his feelings, was finally convinced that scary things need to be talked about. That it's not good to hold them in. That there's a wild chance mom and dad might actually be able to help him feel better if we understood what was going on inside.

That actually worked. He started talking. I was so amazed. And grateful. God's been giving me the right words at the right times a lot lately. It's so radical.

But this rabbit trail does not lead anywhere inspiring or profound. It leads once again to my number one son's dry, self-deprecating sense of humor.

The reason I brought up the fact we've been discussing dreams is this: The Bubs was in the middle of a very elaborate (made up) "dream" that he'd had the night before. All sorts of crazy things were happening, of course.

Then he said, "Z, you were there, too. But you were grouchy."

I stifled my own immediate zinger, something along the lines of, "What a surprise."

And I was half expecting Z to get vocal and mad about this imaginary judgment from his little brother.

But Z? The one who was being described as grouchy? He filled my silence.

He said, "Hm. What a shocker."

More Wit and Enthusiasm from Z

Scratch that. I meant to say, "Some Contempt and Hostility from Z."

We were at a local thrift store today, dropping some things off and then, oh what the heck, let's swing in and take a look.

(Found a modern, like-new, celebrity cookbook for $1.00. Score!)

While I was waiting to pay, the boys wandered over to the "suck a mother's soul out of her eyeballs from always saying no and then saying no again amid escalated pleas and then saying no again over the cries of protest while still trying to conduct a transaction" candy machines.

(We just got back from a mini-family vacation and we were able to thwart all requests for choking-hazard, blue-dyed gum balls that cost 50 cents each.) (Still NO with the cents symbol on the keyboard? What's up with that? It would sure have come in handy these last two posts.)

But lo! There was gum ball machine at this thrift store. And gum balls were at a thrifty price of 10 cents a piece. I could not deny my thrifty shoppers and doled out a couple dimes to a couple eagerly awaiting palms.

Z went first. Then the Bubs. Then a howl of protest. Because the Bubs got the coveted Blue Dye Ball of Sugar and Elastomers. Z ended up with something orange with black swirls. (Can't you just taste the black licorice? Yuk.) After months of begging to no avail, he had finally won the battle of wearing mom's patience down to a nub (not really, it was more about the 10 cents-ness of it), he got stuck with a flavor he knew he wasn't going to enjoy. He was so bummed.

Much to my surprise, however, he tentatively popped it in his mouth on our way to the car. After a few chews, he made his quintessential Z howl of disgust and I quickly pointed him in the direction of a Dumpster. Where he ran. Fast. And spit. With more sound effects.

When we got settled in the car, I asked him "What was so bad about it? Can you describe it? What did it taste like?"

His dry, disappointed reply?

"Hatred."

Pringles on Clearance

So here's the story straight from Z's 9-year-old lips to the internet's ears.

So we were at Target. And we were in the food aisles. And we saw a six-pack of Pringles. Three original and three sour cream and onion. Which is weird, because sour cream and onion just happens to be my favorite flavor. And you know how each can usually costs more than a dollar? Plus, the cans in this pack were 25 percent more bigger than ordinary cans. So actually it's like there were seven and a half of them. And it only cost $5.06. Awesome, huh? Pretty good bargain!

Friends and family alike have been regaled with this tale of bargain shopping. I've heard it told and retold at the pool, in my living room, on the phone and in the car. The best part? He NEVER leaves out the line, "which is weird, because sour cream and onion just happens to be my favorite flavor." Complete with hand gestures and head shaking at the serendipity of it all.

When he brought me the box initially, I said no because, Dude. Six cans of Pringles? I don't need that temptation in my kitchen. But then he read the marketing ploy about TWENTY. FIVE. PERCENT. MORE. IN. EACH. CAN. And I have to admit, I was intrigued. Then I saw the little red clearance sticker and was sold. I used it as a little teaching moment for math and also for emphasizing the importance of getting the most bang for your buck. And now we're stocked on beach snacks at least three more outings. OK, maybe two.

(Oh, and our friends stopped two days later and scored them for $4.16. Z was agog. Agog, I say.)

For Your Entertainment OR May Be Disturbing to Some Viewers

I thought you might need a bit of cheering up today. Something to laugh at. Albeit at my expense. Go ahead, I don't mind.

Or maybe you have the hiccups and you need a good scare.

If this doesn't do it, I don't know what will.

This is me giving myself low-lights and a mini-mask. This is what passes for a spa day at the house of Zdoodlebub.












If this doesn't prove that I'm here for you, I don't know what will.

Behold the Giant Orange Purse

Or rather, its contents.

I got tagged over here and I thought it would be kind of fun. With! Pictures!

So, um, I'm kind of organized. I'm not even going to negate myself by saying I'm anal or OCD because I really don't think that my being organized is a coping mechanism that hampers others or myself. I'm just an organized person, darn it, and I won't apologize for it.

(Although I do wish at times I could be a bit more spontaneous and free-spirited. But that is a post for another day.)

There up at the top. That's the giant orange purse. It came from a giant store with giant red circles for its logo. Because I'm a special kind of classy. The cheap... No wait. The frugal kind.

Anyway, this photo portrays the contents of one section. (There are approximately three sections with maybe a couple additional zippered parts for secrets and microfilm.) (And maybe one or two smallish outside pockets for things like cell phones and cigarettes. Wait, do purse makers still cater to the cigarette smoker? I remember all my mom's purses had that perfect size exterior pocket so as not to crush her Kools.)

Section One contains:

• Four lip glosses in varying textures and shades of pink or brown...uh, I mean, "natural."
• Two pairs of sunglasses (I don't even know)
• Keys
• Earplugs. They were in a secret zipper pocket so they are never in the way but never forgotten. (Husband. Snoring. Hotel rooms. Offspring who awaken from said snoring. The end.)
• One black hairpin (for when my side swept bangs are driving me windy/sweaty crazy).
• One snack size bag of Craisins and deluxe mixed nuts for when I'm running errands and am tempted to drive through McDonald's or die of starvation. I know. But don't hate me because I'm so awesome. Hate me because I'm beautiful.
• One hand-me-down Razr from when my husband upgraded to the CrackBerry. This is the first cell phone I have had in seven years. It was free (because it was my husband's company phone and they didn't care if they got it back) and, even though I sort of proudly lived my life in the slow lane up to this point, life circumstances dictated the need for one. We have a prepaid plan, which suits us perfectly. I often forget I have it with me, forget to bring it with me or forget to charge it adequately. Which results in many voice mails from my husband that I don't receive until about three days after he leaves them, saying, "This was a great investment. I'm really glad we decided to do this."
  

In Section Two we have another set of useful items.

• Zipped up in the spy compartment, were the tampons. Usually the pad is not included. In fact, until dear sweet heaviness, APRIL AND EVER SINCE, I don't think I had purchased pads since the birth of The Bubs. But after the Great Red Debacle of '08, it's here to stay. Until it gets all linty and wretched. Then I will replace it.
• Travel-size Pantene Pro-V Volumizing hairspray in maximum hold. Again, don't hate me because I'm high-maintenance. Hate me because I'm vain and insecure. And occasionally need to fluff the follicles.
• $.99 Anti-bacterial Wet Ones from the travel bins at giant-red-circle store. (Did you know there isn't a "cents" symbol on the keyboard. Am I blind? What the?)
• Band-aids.
  
• Travel-size Kleenex.
• Tiny notebook. Birthday gift from a friend.
  
• Fingernail clippers.
  
• Safety Tats. Don't ask. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I still think it's a good idea, which is why I still carry them, waiting for just the right moment when our kids might get lost and then will have our cell phone number tattooed on their forearms. In reality, it was $22ish that could have been spent somewhere else.
• Sunscreen. Propaganda, I mean, marketing for something or other. But a good purse size, so I kept it.
  

This brings us to Section Three, the part that zips closed so as to thwart pickpockets and insects. The things these items have in common and why they must be in the center, zippered section are thus: 1) they are valuable or more likely 2) I don't want them floating around in my way when I'm looking for keys, sunglasses, a ringing cell phone, wipes or raspberry lip gloss.



Section Three contains:

• Hand lotion
• Backup lip gloss in a less desirable shade
  
• A pen from my optometrist's office
• Gum
• Travel-size pill bottle containing a mix of Excedrin Migraine, ibuprofen and allergy medicine. Do you think they rub up against each other in there and get all cross-effectivized?
• Primatene (shut up, I know, I know)
• The wallet I've had longer than I've had my husband. I've tried other wallets and they all suck. I love this wallet, it is perfect for me. It contains bank cards (no credit cards), driver's license, auto and medical insurance cards, library card, Costco card, misc coupons, checkbook, a few pennies, maybe a dime and a nickel, one receipt that at the time of this photo had not been entered into Quicken but since has been. I'm still married, duh. If the receipt wasn't entered, you'd know it because I'd be divorced.
• One Clinique compact in an oil free pressed powder. I think the color is "Stay Buff." Because I'm really pale. And oily.

That concludes this edition of my inane ability to expound on the minutia of my life.

What's in YOUR purse? Linky, please!

Self-medicating

I was going to post something totally different to fulfill my self-imposed goal of three per week.

But.

I am loaded up on carbs and a different sort of inspiration has struck. The inspiration of over-sharing. Too Much Information. TMI, if you will. For all you cool kids out there.

I'm on the fourth day of my honeymoon ("honeymoon" is code between my husband and I for "don't touch me I have my period.") and maybe I pay too close and obsessive attention to the ebbs and flows (no pun intended) of hormones and my brain, body, emotions, et al.

Like how on the first day, when I don't yet know for certain that it is the actual first day, I feel great. It is the day that PMS shakes a tail feather and I no longer feel like bursting into tears because the suns rays are too bright or leaving a note in the sink to bid farewell to my sweet men since they would be so much better off without me.

The second day is heavy and crampy. Bearable. Definitely. Because I'm so grateful to be released from PMS's peckish grip.

Then, sweet potato pie, comes the third day. For the past few months, the third day has become this waiting game for the disastrous two-to-three hour period (no pun intended) in which the crimson flows brighter and faster than it ever has been my misery to experience.

That's what happened yesterday. I had to leave work. LEAVE WORK. to change my pants. Horrification. That has never happened to me before in my life. Thank God for my giant orange purse that I could sort of carry awkwardly behind me and for no one being in the reception area other than the receptionist to whom I whisper-yelled over my shoulder, "I'm having a problem, I'll be right back."

(I'm still having nagging thoughts about whether I double checked my office chair for stains. But, no, I'm pretty sure the torrential downpour started upon my standing.)

And.

That brings us to today.

Just spotting. No major absorbency required.

But.

There is a very real "dumb" day for me.

And today is that day.

This became wildly obvious because, among other things, I left my giant orange purse in the shopping cart in the parking lot of our grocery store.

I have never. NEVER. done this before. I still can hardly believe that I loaded our groceries, got my keys ready, pushed my cart into the cart corral thingy and my giant orange purse was in the cart THE WHOLE TIME. I watched it roll away from me without even seeing it.

I realized the giant orange purse was gone as I pulled into the driveway. Because it's usually the first thing I gather up before we all head inside.

So the boys and I raced back to the grocery store parking lot. When we got to the traffic light closest to the store and it was red, all three off us were craning our necks to see if we could get a glimpse of giant and orange in any of the carts corralled in the cart corral.

But we didn't see any orange.

Short story long, my giant orange purse had already been turned in. Nothing was missing. (There was no cash anyway. Nothing new there.) It is safely back in my possession.

And now, after consuming a bag of microwave popcorn with about a half-cup of Lighthouse Original Bleu Cheese dressing (each kernel dipped in the dressing), a pee-colored pop and a third of a can of sour-cream-and-onion Pringles, I have enough brain power to write all this to you.

I feel pretty good right now. Shocking, I know. (I am, however, right on the precipice of the amount of bleu cheese dressing I consumed being kind of gaggy.)

I guess I needed the carbs.

Sometimes I hate my wee brain and all of its mysterious chemicals.