Am I Going Mad or Am I Just a Mommy?

I think what we have here is a communication problem.

In case you are stumbling upon my blog for the first time, I just want to let you know that Moodswinging Mommy does read.  I present some evidence here, there, and way yonder. 

I am really not a small town kind of gal even though I am stuck in the 'burbs with two kids.   As far as I'm concerned, small towns do have some things going for them.  One of them is the free local newspaper.   Each week when a new edition comes out, I gleefully snap one up. Does this make me a concerned and informed citizen?  Well, I'm a taxpayer, so at some level it does.  Then again, I can't vote, so I'm kind of in a gray area.

The reason I love the local paper so much?  Two words:  Police Log

Don't get me wrong.  It's not out of some kind of schadenfreude that I enjoy the police log so much, it's just that they report on every event, from the most trivial to the most ridiculous.

How does this one strike you?

1945phone.  Assist citizen, services rendered.  Location/address: 123 Main Street (Yes, they give the entire address!) Walk-in party reports that his girlfriend and child have been missing since Wednesday.  Made contact with girlfriend, she and the child are okay.  She left him.  See N665's report.

Now, it is not my business why she left or whom she left.  Maybe the guy was a complete douche-bag or even worse. (I'm betting on the latter.)  However, since I don't know the details, I can't help feeling a little bad for the guy.  

Now I've heard of breakup via answering machine, breakup through text message, but breakup via the police and local newspaper?  And to give his address to boot?  What's next, breakup by sky writing? 

Two days until the next paper comes out. I can't wait!

Manic Monday

Ah, the eighties!  I'm about to break into song here.  Except it's 5:43 am and now I'm starting to fade.

Insomnia sucks!

After laying in bed listening to Super Dad snore lightly for oh, five and a half hours, I finally got out of bed.  I'm not really positive why I didn't sleep,although it may have had something to do with the GQ article I read before bed last night.  The one with this guy on the cover.

Mmmmm!  I mean, the articles were all very informative and really well written.  (Since when did I become a cougar?)

Okay,out of love and fairness for Super Dad, I will now post one of his favorite hotties here as well:

 

(I really like her dress, and wonder where she got it.  If I could get a cheap knock-off somewhere, I could definitely pull off the cleavage, if I do say so myself.)

Anyway, back to the insomnia:  I'd be very satisfied with my accomplishments if I had not hit a wall by now.  So far I have:

- Fought off the cat, who is purring like a motorboat, clearly delighted that someone is up and no one else is competing for my attention;

- Pushed said cat off computer keyboard (after scratching under his chin of course.  I'm not heartless.);

- Chatted with some very nice ladies in Australia;

- Dispensed translation and pregnancy advice to a friend in France;

- Done my Dancing with the Stars Latin Cardio DVD;

- Made son's preschool snack: Today he's having a medley of strawberries and grapes and tiny soy nut butter sandwiches shaped like cars and airplanes.

- Had breakfast (corn flakes with strawberries).

Pretty good, right? 

Now I have to brace myself because the rest of the house is about to wake up, and more specifically the five year old boy with boundless energy, and the two-and-a-half year old girl (She's two...'nuff said.)

Oh my goodness, in the flurry of activity I almost forgot to take the medication that my gastroenterologist prescribed for me.  Here they are:

 

                                                                   Pill  # 1                    

                                             

                                                                Pill # 2

Oh, and did I forget to mention that I am not allowed to drink any coffee?  No caffeine whatsoever.  My GI guy is a sick bastard!

I'm screwed!

I can envision my afternoon now:  I will be passed out and drooling on the couch.  Meanwhile the two year old will be climbing all over the couch and tap dancing in her party shoes on the kitchen counter tops while her older brother tries to hit her while testing out his new light sabre.

Pray for me, please!

Moodswinging Mommy's Busy Today

Whee!  Today I get to play "Hollywood." That's all I'm sayin' .  Apparently I have lost any shred of sanity and dignity I had left.

Will  you hear about this?  Of course, friends!

You just have to wait until some time in April.

Tales from the Truck

Let me be clear from the outset.  This tale is not about me, since I drive a cheerio and goldfish-littered Toyota Sienna that has been known to smell like sour milk from time to time.  This tale involves my dear brother, who happens to be a firefighter-  hence the title.  I assure you, his shiny red truck is as immaculate as my vehicle is filthy.

My brother is typically very closed-mouthed about his job.  From all accounts when he is on duty, he is either (probably in this order):

a) grocery shopping, because firefighters love to eat...a lot;

b) sleeping, eating, or watching TV;

c) en route to a false alarm;
 
d) returning to any of the aforementioned activities after said false alarm (usually it's to grocery shopping);

e)  actually dealing with something that is actually life-threatening and/or downright disturbing.

Today's anecdote falls into the last category. 

One day a 911 call came into the station:  Male in apparent cardiac distress at Catholic church nearby.

Super Brother and the his fellow firefighters arrived at the scene post haste to observe a man who had collapsed near the front pew of the church.  It was obvious the man was in bad shape, and the firefighters worked quickly to assist.  Super Brother was busy applying leads for the cardiac monitor to the man's chest when he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

It was the priest. 

"Uh, any chance we could move this along?" he inquired impatiently, nudging his head towards the parishioners who were beginning to enter the church for Mass.

My brother gave him a wide-eyed look, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "We're doing the best we can," was all he could muster, while trying to concentrate on saving the man's life.  The firefighters continued on with their work to stabilize their patient. 

Three minutes later...

Tap, tap, tap. 

The priest again- "Perhaps when the ambulance arrives, we could all take a moment to pause in the vestibule?" suggested the man of the cloth.  While clearly the ailing man was not ready for the Last Rites, timing was everything and he had to be transported to the hospital without delay.  The firefighters gave the priest a look and didn't bother to respond.  The ambulance and paramedics arrived, and the sick man was wheeled inside the vehicle in a flurry of activity.

Timing was indeed everything to everyone on this morning.

Instead of showing piety and compassion for the sick, the priest was more intent on Mass starting promptly.  Failing that, making a grand show of blessing the man in front of his other parishioners as they arrived was next on his mind.   Purely disturbing.

The good news is that the man who was having a heart attack most likely survived.

I just hope he found a new church to attend.

Dude, hit the brakes! I've gotta make a stop!

 

If you are ever in West Hollywood, be sure to check out this cool place.  I wish I had, but I was too busy trying to find a way around the police and roadblocks on Oscar night.  Oh well, next time.

More Wordless Wednesday

Yes, it's Monday.

And that means Makeover Monday is back.  I have given myself a large task for the week ahead and have to go and take a before picture.  Be prepared folks, for I am delving into a lair that no one sees but Super Dad and me. 

Stay tuned.  I just have, oh, 6 loads of laundry to do and then I'll be back.

Really? Like they don't have enough toys?

Gotta keep that kid out of my bedroom!  And if LifeStyles is reading this, I hope you appreciate the  free  advertising. 

Just Fast-Forward One Year

How I love the comic strip Cul de Sac!  It is scary how closely Richard Thompson came to depicting my daughter in yesterday's strip....on both the nap and carrot issues.  She's not in preschool yet, but I guarantee this will be her next year (minus the extraordinary drawing ability- if she takes after me).

Check it out here if you missed it.  How many preschool teachers and parents can relate?

Thank you for the laughs, Richard!

The One Where the Mommy Thinks She Must be Hot

Two weeks ago we were in California.  The sky was blue, temperature a balmy 65 degrees, the flowers were in bloom, and the palm fronds were waving gently in the breeze.  Yes, I was feeling good on that mid-vacation Wednesday.   I thought I must be lookin' pretty damn good too in my cute new Gap ensemble with matching sandals.  I had also taken the time to do my hair and make up.  How often does a stay-at-home servant mother get to do that? Bless Super Dad for being there to run interference!

As we headed down highway 15 en route to San Diego, my sense of well-being was completed by the complimentary hot cocoa I sipped, courtesy of our time share's lobby.  (There is a tiny possibility that my bliss could have been augmented by the Sudafed and my daily calming prescription cocktail, but whatever the case, all was right with the world so who cares anyway!)    The Preschooler was chirping happily about the trucks on the road, and the Toddler-Who-Doesn't-Believe-In-Time-Differences was sleeping in her car set. 

"Wow, can you believe that?  Twenty-five avocados for five bucks!" I said with astonishment while passing a roadside stand. Golf courses and boulder-covered hills flashed by.  "Look at that big truck up there, Momma!" exclaimed an excited RJ.  It was an armored vehicle, with the words California Department of Corrections emblazoned on the side.   Many pairs of eyes peered out of the barred windows at the freedom outside.  Some were glazed, dead-looking, and others, very angry.

Inadvertently I made eye contact with one scraggly-haired and wild-eyed fellow sporting an orange jumpsuit.  When he saw me he bugged out his eyes and waggled his tongue at me using a technique that even Gene Simmons would have envied.   

I quickly averted my eyes from the clearly obscene gesture, while laughing and thinking "Ooh, not so scary when you're behind bars then, are you?"  My second thought?  Well, it wasn't a horrified "That man is clearly a murderer, sex offender or some other kind of psychopath and he's looking at me!"  It was "Cool, somebody must think I'm hot!"   Yup, I'm messed up alright!

Once in San Diego, we had a lovely time touring the aircraft carrier USS Midway.  As much as I am all for peace, love and yoga, I have to say it was pretty cool being on the flight deck of such an awesome beast.  RJ was in his glory.  (Just don't get any ideas, kid!)

When we were exiting the Midway and making our way back to our car, Super Dad and the kids were about 50 yards ahead of me.  I could see and hear a very hostile and disturbed individual approaching.  He was clearly mentally ill, under the influence of drugs, or both.  As he came closer to me, I instinctively gave him wide berth while keeping my eyes down and clutching my purse.  

Much to my dismay, he decided to stop two feet in front of me as I picked up my pace.  He looked me up and down.  And then he spoke...

"BONY-ASSED   *&$%@- FACE! "  

Then he moved along, harassing all within his path.  I got the hell out of there and into the car.

Was I shaken by the encounter?  No, not really.  While I was pretty sure that being called a  you-know-what face wasn't exactly a compliment, I was quite pleased all in all.

"Cool, someone thinks I have a bony ass! " I thought gleefully.  Now, I realize that this is an insult in some circles, but to a pear-shaped five-foot two woman with ten pounds of baby weight still to lose, that's a pretty nice compliment to hear. I'll take a bony ass over a chunky, dimply one any day. 

So there you have it.  Evidently I am a super-hot MILF,  at least among the sex-deprived inmates and insane meth addicts of California.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Yup, I must have a screw loose, alright.  I blame it all on the weather, open-toed sandals and legal prescription drugs.  But the complimentary hot cocoa is most to blame.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I am a little biased, but I think my two-year-old Ce Ce speaks exceptionally well for her age. We rarely have to ask her to repeat herself, and if we are ever stumped, her four year old brother is there to assist.   We do have to interpret occasionally for those who aren't accustomed to her speech patterns. 

Unfortunately, what I am about to recount was not one of those times. 

While browsing through the produce department of our local supermarket recently, Ce Ce was especially excited.   Perhaps this has to do with the fact that she is a fruit fiend, or that the bakery department with the free cookies for kids was nearby.  (The free cookies are no longer- damn economy!  I'd like the CEO of Hannaford to have to wheel my tantrumming children around just once to understand what impact this has had on mothers everywhere. But again, I digress.)

All of a sudden, Ce Ce started gesticulating madly and shouting "Dawa!  Dawa!" cookie crumbs spewing out of her mouth.  "What's that sweetie?" I responded. "Please don't talk with your mouth full."   She persisted as we passed the tomatoes and the bananas, shouting and struggling to stand up in the cart for a better view.  "Mommy!  Dawa!  DAAAAH WAAAAA!!!!"

She finished her cookie just as we came upon the display of red and green grapes.  She clapped her hands, grinned and then pointed again, this time at the grapes.  Evidently we had arrived at the object of her desire.  Grapes.

"DIARRHEAS!"  "MOMMY, I WANT DIARRHEAS!" Cece exclaimed, clear as a bell while waving madly at the grapes..

Oh, how I wished she still had cookie stuffed in her mouth!  I burst out laughing, and sheepishly glanced around the produce department to see if anyone else had heard.  About nine or ten people were chuckling to themselves.  One man looked like he was about to double over with laughter.  

Quickly I bagged up some grapes and headed far away from the scene, only for it to happen again in front of a display of raisins in aisle 3.  

As I drove home, I tried to recall how many times I had warned my kids not to eat too many grapes and raisins at one time.  I have wiped too many bums far too often as a result of grape/raisin overindulgence.

I guess I can no longer complain that my children never listen to my advice.

In case you were wondering, grapes and raisins are still "diarrheas" in our house.  I think I will be a little sad when she stops calling them that.