Tuesday Night I Had a Date. With a Girl! Nay, a Woman!

And I liked it.

Mm-hmm, that's right.

Sure, Tom and I had a date night scheduled for last night (our first since out anniversary in November).  But I have needs, people.  Needs!

If you've been hanging around for a while, you know that I have not been able to make any friends since moving up here.  Not that I haven't tried.  You can catch a small sampling of my struggles here.

Recently, the alleged mommy group from Facebook went silent.  I don't whip around on there as well as some people, so it took me a  while to realize I wasn't hearing about yet another event scheduled when I couldn't attend.  I looked into it only to learn that "my" group was pretty much defunct and a new group had taken it's place.  The name was almost the same, but with the word Christian added.

I am not Christian.  I am not anything.  In fact, the best descriptor I've heard for people like me is "good for nothing."

I have nothing against Christians (well, except for that hate group that travels to the funerals of dead soldiers... I have a lot against them) or any religious groups.  I am aware that my lack of religion makes people uncomfortable.  (My stance is that I will not attempt to convert you; please do the same.)  And I suppose that the opposite is also true to some degree.  So I'm probably not going to be joining a group with any religious affiliation in the title.  Especially if the group has just been narrowed down from something for all.

I hadn't yet figured out how gotten around to withdrawing from the original group.  About two weeks ago it was suddenly blowing up again.  Yes, there were group activities I couldn't quite attend (an hour before the end of the workday before I go on summer break? really?!).

One woman posted a desperate plea for diapers.  On Monday evening, I met her to give her a box along with some wipes.  It was nice and fits well with my Pay It Forward philosophy.  She's my new Facebook friend and I like her.

Did you know that Tuesdays are "my" night?  Tom's night is Thursday (and apparently also Sunday morning).  He plays tennis.  It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I feel desperate enough ready to have a night of my own and leave putting the girls down to him.  I had gone to the gym three weeks in a row.  There's a fun looking dance class that I've watched each week.  The more I didn't go to it, the more I knew I wasn't going.  By last Tuesday afternoon, I realized that the possibility of going to that class had been a major draw in getting me to the gym at all.  But my motivation (the Achilles heel of my exercising life) was plummeting.

Connecting with Kim the night before emboldened me.  I posted on the mommy group wall:

I know it's late notice, but I'm looking for a Tuesday night workout buddy. I have a membership to 24 Hour Fitness, which is great, but I'd really love to do something *with* someone. Could be the gym, walking/extremely slow jogging with lots of heavy breathing and possibly some grunting coming from your partner (I'll try to keep the cursing to a minimum). I'm available any time after 6:30, tonight or future Tuesdays. My ideal partner will generally be able to resist suggestions like, "Why don't we just go to Starbucks and hang out?"

Thirty seconds later and the group that had been humming along was silent.  Dead.  It was all my fault.  I killed it!  My use of the word grunting probably turned them off.  Or that I only said I'd try to keep my mouth under control.
 
All of a sudden there was a response!  A woman was available to work out with me.  At the end of July.
 
And another woman was up for something.  After she heals from an upcoming surgery.  How about the middle of July?
 
*sigh*  Does it seem like I am cursed to never make friends up here?  I thought so, too.
 
But then it happened.  *cue the angels singing as clouds parted and the sun bursts through dark ominous clouds*
 
Someone was available that night.  And she's a member at my gym.
 
And she, Jennifer, arrived on time!
 
And we have the same workout stamina and style!
 
Did you know that half an hour on the elliptical can go by lickety-split if you're chatting and laughing and acting out Bossy Betty's elliptical story?
 
We had so much fun while building muscles (except for that one arm device... that was an instrument of torture) and toning our butts.  Well, my butt.  Thank god I didn't look at Jennifer's Facebook profile or I would have realized I was going to the gym with a pretty, young, thin woman.  I am shallow and easily intimidated sometimes, I'll admit it.
 
For the first time in my month of working out (plus the *ahem* four years before that when I did not go at all), I stayed at the gym an entire hour.  We left laughing and looking forward to next week.  And that class that I've been not attending?  Jennifer is willing to try it, too.
 
When I got home, I couldn't believe all the responses I'd gotten.  No fewer than six people want to get together.  With me.

Who Put Me In Time Out? And When Is It Over?

I am still in Blogger hell.  Random ability to comment.  Sometimes it looks like I'm going to get my comment posted, even if it is as "Anonymous," but at the last second I am sent to sign in again.  But I cannot sign back in and my comment gets eaten.

The other night I wrote a lengthy post about my date with a woman and how awesome it was.*  Blogger wasn't auto-saving for some reason, and I didn't think to copy and paste until after my entire post was lost.

This lame-ass post is saving, and may post just fine.  Great.

So... I am way behind on reading, getting farther behind on writing and feeling quite frustrated by the whole thing.

I perused Blogger's user forum and followed each bit of advice I gleaned there (different browsers and clearing caches, cookies and browser histories).

What else can I do?

*Yes, if I can get this problem sorted out, I will rewrite the story.

Fynnie Heard I Had Nothing to Say

Train? What Train

Yeah, no train.  Apparently Tom was only telling me about today's limited runs because of the holiday, the cost and the fact that we'll need to go down the hill to take Mad on the train for future reference.

Fine.

So, in lieu of train stories, I shall show you a little girl in training. 

*sigh*

I'm not ready.

Nope.  Not even a little bit.

Dear Godiva Chocolates,

I held you in high esteem when you were in expensive department stores.  I would eye you lovingly in your brown and gold packaging, even though I'm more of a black and silver girl myself.

On rare occasions, I would buy the smallest morsel.  Corey and I would savor it.

Years back when I wanted to find a way to say "I'm sorry to take your job, but I am a single mother and I can't choose a stranger over my son," I put together a gift bag.  The piece de resistance was a selection of Godiva chocolates.  (It worked, by the way, the recipient even sang beautifully at my wedding a couple years later.  No joke.)

Now, I'm not saying you're at the same level as XOX Truffles in San Francisco (a place so good that I have a permanent request for people to buy chocolate for me at the bottom of this blog... which no one has taken me up on *sigh*), but you're very, very good.

Hershey's?  Why does it do that odd squeaky thing when you bite into a Kiss?  Blecht!

Lindt?  Sure, they'll do in a Christmas stocking stuffer pinch, but could you eat Lindor Truffles every day?  Probably, but I digress.  The fact that they've chosen a name so close to a medical weight loss program (or vice versa) is just disconcerting.  Like those Olean potato chips that had a lengthy disclaimer at the end of each commercial warning of potential anal leakage, I don't want to be reminded of my fat ass while enjoying something naughty.

Dove?  Dark, semi-sweet and satisfyingly solid, Dove chocolates were how I would reward my sign language students on special occasions.  Most of the rest of the time it was Starburst or something from the 99 Cent Store.  Yes, Dove is good, but it's good chocolate for the masses.

Godiva, you have always been well above these knock-offs.  And yet, what did I spy while buying new panties for Mad at Kohl's yesterday?

That's right!  Display after display of Godiva chocolate treats.

How could you lower yourself to mass merchandising?  Is WalMart next?  The swap meet, which would require to set up shop in that funky smelling snack bar?!?  Have you no standards?!

Do you know how good dark chocolate Godiva pearls taste when you buy them with Kohl's cash?

Why Would You (We) Do That?!

Madelyn loves trains.  She has always been fascinated by them. 

Of course, she was fascinated by buses, trash truck and street sweepers, too.  It just turned out that "fascinated" translated directly as, "Oh holy moly!  What is that big thing?!  Can it get me?!?  AAAaaahhh!!!"

*ahem*  That was last year.  Now she's three.

As we drive up or down the pass each day, Mad requests that we go down and see the trains.  There's a fire road that extends about 2/3 of the pass.  Little semi-paved pathways shoot off that allow being right next to the southbound trains.

As long as the conductor doesn't give a friendly (obnoxiously loud) whistle, it's kind of fun.

Madelyn tells us if the engine is Thomas or Percy, and whether or not Thomas is pulling Clarabelle and Annie.

Tom thinks she'd enjoy riding on a train.  He wanted to do it for her birthday, but there is a serious lack of commuter rail lines up here, and we don't want to go as far away as Amtrak would carry us for the occasion.  As with most good things, we have to go down the hill for it.

Today we are hoping to finally take Mad on a train ride.  The fact that it's 8:45 and she's already melted down two times, refused to eat breakfast and went back to bed to get some extra sleep after I carried her, kicking and screaming, up the stairs per Mama's request... that doesn't mean it's going to be a nightmare of a situation, does it?

What the Hey?!

For the past day and a half I have not been able to stay signed in long enough to comment on anyone's blogs.  And let me say that I have typed out some brilliant and witty comments.

So if you have posted something but haven't heard from me, it's not for not trying.

Anyone else having the same problem? 

I guess I'll know if you don't answer.

Pet Names

I've mentioned the birth board I joined while pregnant with Fynnie.  Sometime around her birth I realized that (doh!) there was one for Mad, too.  (Corey was born before I'd even heard of the Internet, let alone used it.)

Today one of the April '08 mamas posted a question about pet names for our kids.  I'm including my response here mainly so it'll be accessible to my kids one day.  Because sometimes I think of wrapping this up when they're grown and saying, "This is who I am.  This is where you are from and part of who you are."

My son, Corcheval (AKA Corey) has been Bub or Bubba, which came from a made up song where I called him my Boobahoo My Sweet Doopy Doo.  LOL, nobody who wasn't around when he was a baby knows about that one.  I've also called him Con-Chacon or just Chacon most of his life.  Oh, and sometimes I still call him Corcheval Percival Peabody Parker, which is not his actual name, but what some friends used to call him because (I'll admit) he does have a rather ridiculously formal full name.

Madelyn is Mad, Mad-A-Girl, Madaladelyn, Honey Bunny, Sweet Girl and Moto.  The song I made up for her just uses Madelyn, mainly because I couldn't believe my kid had such a classic name.  So I was trying to get it stuck in my head so it would feel natural (it does).   Not Maddie... you can pretty much define who is around her all the time or not by who calls her Maddie.  Ironically, lately she's called herself Maddie Maddie Coco Pop.

Fynn is Fynnie, Fynnie Fynn, Fynneola or Fynnie Fynnie Coco Pop (also part of a song).  Sometimes she is Cute Girl or Monkey, too.  She was also The Fynnster for a while, but that seems to be going away.

And just for self-flagellation purposes, as a child I was called Froggie or Jojo until I was no longer powerless to stop it.  Worse, one of my parents friends thought "Jojo" didn't make any sense (it was from my middle name, Jolene), so she decided to call me Sam Sam.  Worst of all, that was apparently not bad enough, so she eventually changed it to Claude Claude.  I remember going to their house and seeing that on "my" cup.  It is one of the first things I think of whenever I think of that whole family.  Still.  Oddly enough, I've gotten some nicknames as an adult, too.  Shani and Shanahan are the most common... except for Shancy Sweener.  That is Nancy's and my Brangelina.

Fynnie's Fourth* Tooth Has Broken Through

But lest you be concerned that we're about to revel in long-sleeping nights, the next two are locked and loaded.

No pictures because... *sigh*... I can't seem to get her to smile with her mouth open and her head back far enough to see under her upper lip.

*Not that I am sleep deprived or anything, but the title was supposed to say fourth, not third.

Who Are You to Me?

When I was 15, my best friend Jennifer and I could usually be found at Roller City.  Mm-hmm, that's right.  We skated.  Every. Friday. Night.  And some Saturdays. 

Oh, and if there was an overnighter, we were there!  One time I even joined a small crowd roller skating from Rancho Cucamonga to Newport Beach.  At night.  (Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me that the girls were driving out and only the guys were skating.  I couldn't keep up and ended up riding in the bed of a pick-up truck.)  If you were to drive it back then, it would have taken about an hour to get there on the freeways.  We arrived at sunrise.

So, of course to be included on such a trip, I felt like one of the cool kids, right?  Well, as cool as you could be if your big social events all revolved around roller skates.

Somewhere in that year of being 15, Jennifer and I, totally rocked the 80's style.  I always blow-dried my hair and then used a curling iron to make it just wavy.  Bangs.  She either sported a perm or her hair was crimped to perfection.  Eyeliner.  Super tight jeans with oversize shirts.  Oh, and we both had mouths full of braces. 

One night we happened to spy this new guy.  Kinda cute.  Tiny little OP shorts and a shirt with a collar.  Curly hair.  And these massive skates like we'd never seen before.  He was fast and athletic. 

I ceded to Jenn when it came time for a "lady's choice" skate.  Here's what I learned later.

His name was Norm. 
He was older. 
A hockey player. 
And they were called Roller Blades.

Norm eventually became one of my best friends.  I have now known him quite a bit longer than I have not.  We had some wild days together, and might enjoy recounting those stories privately, but wouldn't necessarily want to share them with the world.  Thus, when Norm turned 30, he instituted a new rule:  Pre-30 Days.  Anything that happened before you turned 30 could no longer be mentioned.  He's serious about it, too.  Five years ago he half-heartedly claimed he was moving on to the Pre-40 Days rule, but there's not as much to put behind from 30 to 40, so it's not hard and fast.

Norm has been such a huge part of my life.  When he met the guy who would become my first husband, he pulled me aside within minutes and said, "What are you doing?  You can do so much better than this."  Because I am sometimes a complete idiot, I tensely replied, "No I can't" and then married the loser dude about 18 months later.  Norm tried to see the good in Stephen and stood up at my wedding.

He started dating Angela when I was pregnant with Corey.  Corey and I stood up at their wedding.  She's as awesome as he is.  Their 14th anniversary is coming up this fall.

When I met Tom and thought he was pretty special, I arranged for a dinner with Norm and Angela.  Norm gave his blessing by the end of dinner, which was good, because I already felt like Tom was the guy I was supposed to have waited for.

Tom and I married about five years later.  Norm, Angela and her mom were all present.  They even helped with setting up the day before.

Sometime around Norm's 40th birthday, we started hanging out less often.  I'm not exactly sure why.  And when I became pregnant with Madelyn and then Fynn, the calls became even less frequent.  (I can still count on a birthday call where Norm will recount the convoluted mathematical equation that allows him to remember my birthday.  It's a tradition.)

I know they've struggled with fertility issues.  And I know that Angela has some severe weight issues, and hockey player Norm seems to be following in her footsteps.  It seems plausible to me that either or both of those could be factors in their willingness to get together.  But I also wonder if it's not that at all.  What if I said or did something to offend one or both of them?  What if Corey took something while we were at their house that last time?  What if I'm just boring or we just don't live in the same higher home value areas and they're embarrassed?

Whatever it is, I'll probably never know.  We're not that close anymore that I could really ask.  And whatever the reason, it's not bad enough to end the friendship.  I do still get calls.  My calls are still answered.  But our invitations frequently aren't.  Or I will hear that they're going to come, but they don't and we never know why.  When someone does show up, it's Norm to a party, alone.

Last year Norm stopped by here unexpectedly.  Very unexpectedly since we live too far enough away for the casual drop in.  I burst into tears.  Honestly, I can't remember if this was right before or right after Fynnie was born.  I'm sure hormones played a part, but still...

Which all brings me to today.  Today I received an invitation to a surprise birthday party for Norm's 45th birthday.  It's for this Saturday.  Tomorrow.  The invitation came in the form of an email addressed to "family and friends," but I was the only recipient.  Sure, sure, she could have taken the time to BCC everyone, but who does that on a personal email?  And she has rented out a facility on a Saturday evening.  I know the economy's down, but could that really have happened before 10:20 this morning?

We are not going.  For a legitimate reason.  We already have a party for one of the girls' friend's first birthdays tomorrow afternoon, followed by a baseball game that evening.  I RSVP'd saying I'm sure they'll have a great time and we'd love to hear about it later.

Between you and me?  I didn't really want to even send that email.

Starting Early

Yesterday evening Corey had an appointment with one of his doctors.  As it happened, I'd promised Margaret I'd get the girls as soon as possible because she's been ill.  I wanted her to ease back into watching them.  Aaand Tom ended up working very late because he'd taken time off to be with the girls while Grandma was ill.

So the girls came with Corey and me to this appointment.  Madelyn was concerned that she might have to get up on the "zamming table" and kept stating, "I don't want a checkup.  I don't need a checkup."

Imagine her surprise when there was no zamming table.

Multiply that when it turned out that the doctor mostly wanted to talk to Corey and Mama, but not her!

Madelyn handled herself pretty well, all things considered (it was a no nap day).  She did get a little squirrely and ended up falling off the couch.

I gave my standard we-don't-whine-about-things statement, "And she's down."

Mad gave her standard response upon standing, "And I'm up!"

Doc looked at her and said, "Wow, you're pretty tough for a little girl."

Mad, "Well what does that mean?"

Doc, stuttering, "Uh... it means... uh, I'm being *ahem*... uh, sexist."

Mad, "Don't do it sir, don't do it."

Doc, "You're right.  It's my mistake.  You were right to correct me."

Madelyn's last two statements may have been coached by her Mama, 'cause Mama don't play that.

Impressed?

Today I amazed and astounded my coworkers with my ability to look right and left.

Was it the chiropractor?
Nope.  I sure would like their hours, though!

Pain meds?
Nuh-uh.  One full day of heartburn and a terribly upset stomach was enough, thanks.

Time, a few office cubical deep tissue massages, slightly better sleep and a (brief) trip to the gym seemed to be key.

So yes, Inquiring Minds, I went.  I arrived in plenty of time for the dance class, but that was definitely not an option.

I rode the most relaxed stationary bike ever.  Seriously.  It has arm rests.  Twenty minutes of random hills on level five of 20.

That was it.  I would have attempted the adductor and abductor machines, but a pair of women were lounging on them.  They should have had umbrella drinks.

Aside from going to the gym, I have to say, my biggest accomplishment was not going at the gym. 

And if I ever think about taking Advil again, please print this post and slip it under the bathroom door.  I'll find a way to make it stick.

Pain in the...

I used to listen to Howard Stern.  I was young, whimsical, (not so) secretly rebellious (if you knew me away from work).  And he was kinda cool.  Dorky, self-deprecating, madly in love with his wife. *swoon* 

Plus, there was a good chance that I could learn something.

One time he had a guest who said that certain so-called normal actions were actually little markers of mental illness.

Losing your keys every morning?  Instead of just saying "I don't want to go to work," you're trying to sneak out of it.  Making excuses.  (His explanation was lengthier and more detailed.  You get the gist.  Right?)

As a bona fide morning key loser (and member of a highly questionable extended family), this struck a nerve.  I did not lose my keys for more than a few seconds for years after that.  If I couldn't find them, I would simply acknowledge that I didn't want to do whatever I was trying not to do, remind myself that I had to do it anyway and then *poof* remember where I'd left my keys.

July of 2000, Corey and I were invited on our very first camping trip.  Ever.  My neighbor, Shannon (aka Sha-Nay-Nay) invited us to join her entire family on a trip to Big Bear.  My previous camping experience included "camping" in a huge and well-furnished RV during my teen years.  Oh, and that one time I spoiled the backyard sleeping bag adventure by freaking out about the coyotes that I could hear waiting to eat me as soon as I fell asleep.  (In my defense, we lived in the foothills just outside Los Angeles.  There were coyotes.  I could hear them.)

I bought sleeping bags and enough s'mores components to satisfy a small army.  I was excited!

And then I was intimidated.

What if I made a fool of us?

What if the other people didn't like me?  (No question they'd love Corey.  Just me.  This may be shocking, but I'm not exactly a new people sorta person.)

I did not lose my keys.  Nope.  My back went out.

Now I do have a history of back problems.  Mostly from ages 7 to 14, a time that encompasses almost my entire gymnastics "career" and a year of living normally afterward.  But I was 29 (about to be OLD by Sha-Nay-Nay's nine years younger mind).  I knew what it was.  It was my excuse not to go.  Once I realized this, I got down on my bedroom floor, flat on my back and stretched out while I gently scolded myself.  A few minutes later, my back was magically healed fine. 

Corey and I had a lovely time.  And I learned the correct ratio of people to s'mores ingredients is not two full-sized bars per person, with extras "just in case."

Fast forward to modern times.

Did you know that Thursdays are "Tom's night"?  They are.  Sometimes he plays softball.  For the past year or so he's been playing tennis.

Last week I finally got a night of my own.  Tuesdays.

In anticipation of selecting a night, I have driven around with almost enough gym gear.  I set myself up for the eyes of Big Brother had my fingerprints scanned so I can enter the gym I've been paying to be open just in case I care to drop in.

Last Tuesday was the big night.  My dilemma was whether I should go to the gym near work, but then drive for nearly an hour after that when I might be getting sore from my heavy-duty workout, or if I should go to the gym near home.  The big fear about going to the one at home was whether or not I'd actually go, especially since I didn't really know where it's located.

I left my office and drove about a mile to the gym.  And found a decent parking space.  (Not that I care if I have to walk a little.  It's the gym, after all.)

Where I realized I didn't have a lock.

And I had to go to the bathroom.  Which I was totally not going to do at the gym.  I mean, seriously.  Eww!

And I forgot a towel.

And if I did go in and get changed, I wasn't going to buy a lock.  I mean, c'mon!  And really, I wasn't going to schlep my work panties out the front door and come back in to work out.  Who does that?!?

So I drove away.

Went home.  Went to the bathroom.  Nursed Fynnie.  Went to the bathroom again (nerves).  And left.

And realized I still didn't know the location.  So I called Tom and he told me.

Upon arrival, I realized I didn't grab a towel.  I have one covering the passenger seat of my car so a stain doesn't show.  Nope, the baby blue towel is much less conspicuous.  I took it with me.

Went in and did the death grip on the StairMaster for 10 (long) minutes, and did some other stuff, too.  Saw that they have a dance exercise class on Tuesday nights.  I arrived too late to jump in, but I spoke with the instructor later.  She's great, and I told her I'd see her next week.

Tonight.

Only yesterday morning I woke up with my neck all kinked up.  I cannot look to the left, although my head keeps tipping that way.  Limited range toward the right.

This is the kind of pain that takes your breath away.  And, according to my coworkers, is painful just to see.  One of them, Joanie, gave me a deep tissue massage yesterday evening and again this morning.  My chiropractor is just not available during times when I could go the past few days.  Another coworker gave me an Advil.

I don't take pain meds very often, but it worked really well last night, so we bought some more.  Today it has wreaked havoc on my stomach.

Part of me is wondering if this is my lost keys.  I don't know.  I hope not.  I do have a lot of problems with my neck.  The last time I messed it up, it turned out I'd dislocated a rib.  Rolling over in bed.  (I do wish the story had more to it, but that's how it happened.)  This is, comparatively, not that bad, but it ain't great.

But I also have a long history of finding reasons not to exercise, and the flabby ass and giant thighs to prove how effective my excuses have been.

So I've decided that I may or may not go to the gym tonight, but I am going to do something.  It can't aggravate my heartburn or make me turn my neck, bend over or move up and down more quickly than your average post-operative septuagenarian.

It also cannot be here at home.  I'll let you know how it goes, and whether or not I lose my keys.

The Excitement Comes to a Screeching Halt

Today, since some (one) of you were wondering, I started my day off with a meeting.  Four agenda items and it still took nearly two hours.

That ain't right.

Yeah, My Job Sucks

Yesterday I had to go to that schmancy luncheon and canoodle with Tommy Lasorda.  Today I had to chaperone a bunch of middle schoolers at a baseball game.  It's an annual event.  It's awful(ly cool)!  I hate it (when it's over and I have to go back to the office).

Girl, Whaaat?!?

No really.  I swear it's true.

What's that?  You didn't get my text?  It said I spent three hours spent surrounded by guns and now I smell like Tommy Lasorda.  I'll add that I laughed and cried and laughed.  A lot.

Dude, I couldn't make this stuff up.  This is way better than the naked hug with my doctor, too.  I swear.

Today was the annual Police Recognition Luncheon.  Tommy Lasorda was a surprise guest speaker.  His stories about a few less than academic ball players were HI-larious.  ("Saxie, what's today's soup?"  "Of the Day.")  Afterward, my friend Lisa and I got our picture taken with him.  His cologne was awesome.  We kissed him.  Tommy Lasorda's cheek is soft and smooth.  As Mad used to say, "dey nice."  Speaking of which, it was my idea that we kiss him, but it was Lisa's decision to ask if we could fondle his cheeks.  He did not decline.  We stuck to the soft cheeks on his face.

I'd post the pic, except that I don't have it yet.  Oh, and for some reason I asked my skinny friend Lisa to be in the shot with me.  Why did I do that?  The last time we had our photo taken together, my head appeared to be three times the size of hers.

Here's a quick summary of why I'm pretty sure I won't be posting the photo when I do receive it.

By the numbers

One heck of a roller coaster, that's what the past few days have been.  This roller coaster (that used to terrify me as a kid) aptly sums up our experience... if played on repeat for three days.

2 teeth coming in

2 ear infections

1 sore throat (still too soon for the culture to come back)

3 medications ~ one antibiotic, two fever reducers

24 hours ~ the point when I was expecting things to be looking up

36 hours in two hour increments ~ how long it really took before we started seeing any improvement at all.  It was a faint smile at Madelyn and slightly more effort at nursing

30 seconds ~ roughly how long it took to take Fynn's temperature five times, each time seeing the number go higher and higher.  Almost three full degrees in 30 seconds.  Having a baby whose temperature can literally shoot up 10 minutes after being dosed with fever reducer makes people who say brilliant things, like "she should have been to the doctor long before her temperature got that high" make me want to call them bad names in places other than my mind.  Instead, next time I'll just ask to see their medical degree or politely go tell them what they can do with the borderline accusations of neglect unsolicited advice.

104.4 ~ the point when I thought we'd be seeing another febrile seizure any second.  But just as quickly as it rose, it started dropping. 

1 more video ~ this one showing the point at which we were finally allowed to disembark the roller coaster from hell.

Whatever You Do, Please Do It Now

We are starting on day three of one sick Fynnie Fynn.  What the heck?  Like getting two consecutive front teeth isn't enough for this week.  Well only one has broken through, but the other one is right there.

Nope.  What started out as a mild teething fever has turned into double ear infections, a sore throat (possibly strep... I suppose we'll hear on Monday) and, tonight, vomiting.  With any luck, the vomiting was due to getting fever reducer (we're onto the children's medicines now... infant stuff isn't cutting it) right after the antibiotics.  But if, when it's time to take the next dose of amoxicillin, your child's fever suddenly goes from 99.4 (the lowest it's been since Wednesday afternoon) to 103.1, you don't wait for the stomach to settle.

As with last night, Tom is taking the first shift of snuggling a diapered baby who's wrapped in wet towels.  Last night my shift started at 12:30 and went straight through to morning, so I'd better get some sleep.

If you are a chanter, a prayer, a sharer of good vibes or thoughts, or a sender of white light, please, do it now.  And maybe send something for the future.  This is Fynn's second set of ear infections in two months.  Doc said that sometimes there's a link between teething and ear infections; they don't know why.  She has a lot of teeth waiting to come out.

Whatever you do, Fynnie loves you for it.

The Mother's Day You Deserve

That's what a friend said she hoped I am having, the Mother's Day I deserve.  I don't know if I am or not.  I suppose so.

Let's see:

Corey is not here.

I had to cancel plans for time with my mother and Corey, and part of me is relieved. 

We started this weekend with a vomiting toddler and a teething infant.  The tooth has again receded, so we'll get to go through all that again. 

Tom's brilliant idea for a Mother's Day gift was to put a rosemary hedge in front of our house, something I've been longing for since we had to leave our rosemary plant at our old apartment when we moved.  Only the general consensus from the informational cards we read at one big box place and the person we spoke to at a local nursery is that the shade from our north-facing house will likely kill the plants next winter.  Same thing with lavender.  Or any plant that we would actually want to put there.  Plenty of sun in the backyard, but no sprinklers and I do not think that Tom's "if we're diligent" suggestion is likely to happen.  We remember to water the front lawn because we see it every day.

Fynnie and I just woke up from a lovely nap and either a pox is upon her or she has been bitten repeatedly on her abdomen, chest and back.

And I'm on my period which, true to form for the past few months, has come with a really nasty attitude.  I told Tom that I'm thinking about talking to my doctor about it.  He said it doesn't seem like anything's that different.  Fortunately, for both our sakes, I have the sense that he meant things aren't as bad as I'm making them out to be.  But he doesn't hear all of the things that I say under my breath nor the things that I somehow wrestle my tongue out of saying.

So... is it the Mother's Day I deserve?  (That's a rhetorical question!)

Something Awful

Isn't that a strange phrase?  How does it translate into "a lot" or "with a passion"?

Why don't people realize that's what I mean when I say things like, "I love to sing something awful"?

Maybe they've heard me sing.

I love to sing.  I have always loved to sing.

In fifth or sixth grade I tried out for the Tri-Cities Choir (those three cities were Ontario, Montclair and... I'm not sure what the third city was, but clearly this was only a big deal to the people applying).  I don't recall what song I sang.  I do remember standing next to the upright piano, singing my heart out and wondering what it was going to be like as a member of this choir.  I mean, I breezed right into my school's choir which was an awesome way to get out of class proved how talented I was.

Fast forward maybe 15 years when I was saving my mom from being featured on Hoarders decluttering my mom's apartment in advance of a move.  She pulled out this file that she'd kept with my accomplishments.  Dozens of (participant) ribbons from all those years I spent competing (without advancing) in gymnastics.  (Motivational) Certificates for doing things (like attending) in school (without faking sick because Luke and Laura were trapped on an island).  What else did I find?  The rejection letter from the Tri-Cities Choir.  Suddenly I recalled how the bearded, corduroy wearing man wrote on a little scrap of paper, "F flat."  Only his "flat" was underlined three times.

When Corey was a baby I would sing to him to help him sleep.  When he was maybe 18 months old I noticed that he was increasingly distressed at bedtime.  One night it finally came out.

"Hush little baby, don't say a wor..."

*sobbing*  "No song!"

"Hmm hm-hm hm-hmm..."

*bawling with tears shooting out of his eyes*  "No hmm-hmm!"

As I've aged, it seems to me that I can now occasionally hit keys.  Madelyn has enjoyed having me sing to her.  But I guess that's changing.  She's three now and more discriminating than when she was two.

This evening as we were driving home, we talked and sang.  Sometimes we talked in sing-songy voices.  She finished my sentences.

"I cannot..."

"... sing!"

*sigh*  At least we know she's got taste.

Goodbye April, Hello May!

Sure, some good things happened in April, but here is just a sampling of why I am happy to see it leave.  In fact, this sample represents one week, Saturday to Friday.

Saturday:  Had Mad's birthday party.  Struggled to pull it off.  Barely Managed with the help of several people, not really including my own mother.  Wrapped up the party with Mad having what seemed to be a seizure.

Monday:  Mad was unusually cranky and wild.

Tuesday:  The in-laws left.  That night Mad, Fynn and I were definitely coming down with something.

Wednesday:  Have to go to work.  I have no more sick time, and my work is balking at letting me use the Paid Family Leave that I qualify for.  Struggling to keep Fynnie's fever down, she ends up with the typical 24 hour dose of fever reducer.  In a one hour period (yes, under her doctor's care... half of it was given at her doctor's office).

Friday night:  Spent in a hospital emergency room with my son who was having "bad thoughts."  When he thought he might have to be admitted, the thoughts suddenly vanished and he was sent home with a list of numbers to call "if this ever happens again."  Turns out he hadn't been taking his medication regularly because of... *bigsigh* my mother's hygiene habits. 

That, my friends, was one week of my life.  I'm glad April is over.

Now that May is here, things are looking up.

Fynnie has started lifting her heinie a whole inch off the floor.  Yesterday she started scooting.  Okay, she goes backward, but she can do corners and turn all the way around.  She can also get that thing I keep moving out of her reach.

Two days ago she said her first word and it was MAMA!  Okay, it was Mama immediately followed by a raspberry (on five separate occasions, so clearly she has some strong feelings).  Go Fynnie, go!  And let's leave April in your dust!

I Guess It's Been a While

Last week I finally decided to stop in at my gym.  I figure I pay someone to work there a few hours a month, maybe I should check the place out.  Plus, it's been a while since I've seen my gym ID card.  Not, like, decades... I definitely recall seeing it on the nightstand upstairs. 

I walked in to the place and read perused the sign on the door about the "no copies of IDs" rule.  Made sense to me.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that the rule only applies to parents who are dropping off children in the kids' club.  No, the rest of us don't need to bring any ID.  Why not?

They scan your index fingers. 

That's right.  I've been away from the gym long enough for Star Trek to have landed.

Oh, you were wondering how my trip to the gym went?  Totally successful.  Did what I set out to accomplish.  When I'm ready I'll go back and, you know... exercise.  I've even got appropriate exercise type socks in my car as we speak. 

No, I do not think I'll be using the high heels that are also in my car.  I plan to put some tennies and exercise clothes in there, too.  I just can't find the right outfit.

Anyway, Tom just came back from a run.  I feel worn out just thinking about it.

Dear Cold Caller,

You are lucky if you get this reply from a potential customer,

"We aren't able to use your product right now, but please take my email and send me information because we would like to be able to plan for it."

The correct response can come in many forms.  It does not, however, sound like this:

"Well we don't send out information.  That would be a waste of time for us."

Because, as it happens, any follow up response from said potential customer (SPC) will include a short but sweet declination of your services ending with the statement, "because that would be a waste of time for us."

Furthermore, when you then give out your website address, SPC will not even pretend to write it down.  She will, though, roll her eyes at the not-quite-cleverly misspelled name of your company before hanging up.

Armpit Warmers

Yeah, that's right.  Armpit warmers.  I have 'em.  I've joked about having them for a long time, but today I knew that all joking was over.  ForEVER.

Fynn's apparently hitting that nine month growth spurt, and she's still recovering from a(nother) nasty (fricken) cold.  So we're back to nursing from 1:00 in the morning or so until we get up.  This morning I woke up at 6:45 and realized I was laying on my back. 

Oh the glory of not laying on my left side with my back arched so that my knees aren't disturbing one Miss Fynnie Fynnie Coco Pop.

My next thought was, "She's not even nursing!  Wonder when she stopped?"

And then I realized, she was still nursing.  While I was laying on my back.

*sob*

My Word

Ever suddenly face a new difficulty while doing something you've done hundreds of times in the past with no problems?  If you're like me (the me of these days when sleep is a rare treat and caffeine even rarer), you have a couple of standard responses.

First, you continue attempting to do things the old way.  Why will it only upload one photo at a time?  It's probably just a glitch.  If I keep trying this, maybe the glitch will go away.

Second, walk away and figure you'll come back to it later.  Ugh!

Third, come back and try the old way again.  Five more times.  Begin thinking in symbols.  Maybe I'll just take this piece of %#$&@ and throw it out the %^&##% window!

Fourth, find a new way of doing the old job.  Only this way is incredibly time consuming and, therefore, extra frustrating.  %^#^#%^%*  $%*$&%*$&*  @$@#$^!!!

Fifth and finally, you might try posting a question about how to resolve the problem.  Anyone know of an easier way to post photos on my blog?  The old way isn't working.  #@$$$%!  If anyone knows the answer, you can be my new BFF.

Someone wonderful and full of the knowledge of Blogger and Picasa might. come along and give a simple suggestion.  Have you tried uploading directly to Picasa?

Well I'm here to say, Step aside Nance!  There's a new BFF in town and her name is Heather (no, not Luke Skywalker's mama Heather).  This Heather is mama to Baby J and Bean.  Baby J is older than Bean, which is just confusing enough to make me like her even more.

When one acquires a new BFF, it's a good idea to learn a little about them.  I mean, I'm used to awkward silences and uncomfortable glances, but keeping those to a minimum whenever possible doesn't hurt either.  So I dashed over to Heather's blog, conveniently named Mama to Baby J and Bean.

I already was aware that Bean is cute as a button and has Williams Syndrome and that Baby J is adorable, even without any "and has"'es.  And I remember watching a news program (20 or so years ago) on the happy, smiling, musical, elfin people with Williams Syndrome.  So I felt like I already had a handle on all of that.

Yeah, no.  Yet again I discover that there's a whole other dimension to life than what I'd heard.  You can check out some of that by reading this post.

Above all else, Heather is a mama and as many mamas do, has a couple of birth stories to share.  She's not as wordy as some of *ahem* and managed to get both stories in one post about her relationship with pain management.

If you're over there, feel free to drop her a comment, letting her know how happy you are to see pictures on my blog again.  And to help you feel happier about photos on my blog, here are a few from Madelyn's first Easter, which also happened to be her first birthday.  I'll post photos from yesterday and today another time.

Feeding herself.

First time directly in the bath.  She loved it!

Daddy will do anything to make it better.

Bad News/Good News

Fynn is finally starting to be less boobiefied.  She'll even stop at night so Daddy can put her to bed instead of nursing off to dreamland.  I'm happy letting her nurse as long as she wants (pretty much), but it's also exciting to have a bit more freedom.

Yesterday I called my local parks and rec department and left a message saying I'm interested in teaching a sign class.  Mentioned that I'd taught down the hill for 13 years.

Today a woman called back.  Her name was familiar.  She said that the budget cutbacks have hit parks and rec; they are cutting classes, not adding them.  We agreed that this is utter nonsense since the cost of hosting my class is essentially paying someone to type my info into the online community guide and paying someone else to pay me periodically.

So that's the bad news.

The good news is that the woman's name was familiar because she was the person who hired me 15 years ago.  She said, "I'm familiar with the quality of your work and I'd love to have you.  Please fill out a contract and I'll let you know when something opens up."

That made me feel pretty darn awesome.

And the not being able to teach a class up here just yet?  Well, I consider it one more roadblock in my path to making friends up here.  It's almost entertaining at this point. 

Tom and I did a bit of home market research.  The countdown is well under way.  All we need in order to move is 11 months and a down payment.  The time part is taking care of itself quite nicely (although I was devastated yesterday to learn it was only Tuesday morning and not Wednesday afternoon).  The down payment part?  Well we're saving.  At this rate it'll be about six(ty) years before we're able to afford the area where we want to live. 

Maybe by then my classes will be established and I'll have made some new friends.

Celebrate Good Times, C'mon!

Mad wanted ducks and frogs, chocolate cupcakes and white and a spoon for her birthday party.

I admit these frog cupcakes are rather pitiful.  I found the best frog cupcake toppers, but Tom decided "we" should make these instead.  In the picture we'd found online, the green candy stayed in a smile.  Ours would hardly stay bent at all.  When I tried putting a very bent piece on one cupcake, it dragged the frosting down until the frog looked even more grim than the others.

Corey said these look less like frogs and more like green French people. Vohoho!

Oh, and what they lack in style, these cupcakes made up for in ability to stick to the paper.  I don't say I completely forgot to put oil in the batter.  I say I made fat free chocolate cupcakes.

The same lady who made these perfect ducks was the maker of the frogs Tom said we shouldn't buy, because "we" could make our own.  (Our order was perfect and shipped a lot more quickly than I'd expected.  Not only that, but since we'd purchased the candy for the frogs at an overpriced mall candy shop, the cost savings for doing it ourselves was $3.)

Banana nut muffins cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.  Um, yes please!

I am just so relieved that Tom didn't insist we make duck cupcakes, too.  Oh, I found an adorable ducky cupcake.

But I also found a blog that showed exactly what my ducks would look like, should we attempt such a feat.  I think the fact that the writer calls her sister-in-law's (I believe) effort "mutant rubber ducks" speaks to the horror.  You can check that out here.

When the kids arrived, they hunted for butterflies.  The butterfly nets had one "catch" in it and the kids had to find the matching prey.  Good thing Grandma put the butterflies out and not me.  I envisioned them being spread high and low around a couple of rooms in our house.  She put them all in one tiny little section.  The kids are two, so easy finding and matching is different for them than for me.  Note to self.

This little lovely is still on the wall.

Critter tree.  For looks.  We are using it for Easter, too.  Just as you see here, only without the balloons.  It may also become our Cinco de Mayo tree.  Arribe!

Making caterpillars in our weed-ridden backyard.  Check out those short sleeves.  It was a balmy 53 degrees in the sun.  With wind.  Jackets were brought out shortly after this.

Lots of activities to do, but what's better than digging in cement-like clay?

Each of the kids had a pot and a selection of veggies to choose from.  Samantha and her mother opted for an ambitious looking watermelon plant.  I am not kidding.  That's what she called it (the mother, not the child).  I love Valeria.  She's from the mommy group I was in when Mad was born.  We were the rare group that had nothing in common aside from our babies.  Valeria is from Belarus and a model.  Now she's working on her own clothing line.  I can be counted on to not wear makeup, accessories or, often, shoes and a bra.  Somehow we make it work.

Mad got some great gifts. Apparently people felt like they could help us furnish our barren abode house at the same time as they celebrated Mad's third birthday. She received a puppet theater and a table and chairs.

Safety is important.  We were all happy to read this on the box.

Not as happy to see this on each and every chair.  At least they won't pinch!

And now for the dramatic conclusion...

Right after this was taken, Mad seemed to have a seizure.  Thank god my mother-in-law was there.  Her nursing skills, speed and calm exterior helped us all cope a little better.

Yes, she's seen a doctor.  He said it could've been a seizure or she could have been holding her breath from all the excitement.  Waiting on a neurology referral.  Yes, that's a ridiculous thing to have to wait this long for.

Mad Mouth

Daddy, to Mad:  "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I want to be a purple."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"That's Babies R Us.  That's where stinky diapers come."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mad, to Mama:  "I want a chippie."

"You do?  Where are they?"  (Asked as I scan the post-birthday party bomb blast that is our living room and kitchen.)

"They're right over here, honey.  They're right over here, hon."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And what does Fynn add to a conversation these days?  A lot of panting like a dog and blowing raspberries. 

To Answer the Question

It's now 29 degrees and everything's covered in frost.  Upside:  no wind, so it only feels like 29.

Hooray?

Yesterday I bought Mad an outfit to stand in for her cute sundress, and bought a sweater to go over Fynn's.  I may just stay in my sweats and yoga pants.

Incoming!

Upon turning on my computer this morning I can see that today is the day my in-laws will arrive at our house.  How do I know this (rest assured it's not my sleep-deprived brain that cannot keep track of complex lists or the days of the week)?

At this moment outside my window it is 36 degrees and raining.  Which probably means it's snowing in the pass.  In the middle of April.  Officially warmer than where Judy and Larry left (just outside Chicago) a few short days ago.

On the upside, the wind is about 35 miles per hour slower than it was yesterday...

Not That Wild After All

Tom and I are sitting here catching up on tonight's Idol elimination show.  I like that we can fast forward through the commercials, including the in-show Ford commercials*.  I also like skipping the often horrendous group songs and some of the guest performers.

Tonight's guest performer, to my utter shock, was Iggy Pop.  (Yeah, I know that Constantine Maroulis "performed"... whatever.)  I love me some Iggy Pop.

But not on American Idol.

And maybe he's gone the way of Funyans.  Those were some of my favorite bites of junk when I was a kid.  Had them about ten years ago and realized that either the ingredients or my palate has changed.  Or both.

Mr. Pop, who is almost exactly a year older than my mother, did some things tonight that made me contemplate his AARP membership.

The peepee stance.  Feet out, knees in, hips to one side?  And you're gonna look like you're scanning the aisles for the blue light of a restroom sign?  Almost sent me to the restroom.

Or how about that Marilyn Monroe-esque rolling around on the stage?  Again with the out-of-breath-how-the-hell-did-I-end-up-here-and-where's-the-restroom/whiskey/next-shot-of-something-strong look on your face.

*Seriously, winning a 20-anything Ford Focus is not a prize.  It's a white elephant.  White elephant gifts are not funny unless you don't "win."

I Know Why They Say

... glasses make me look smarter.

Now I look like I can read. 

Unless I take them off, in which case I sound like someone trying to read in their new second language.

(Note to self:  So what if you  read "today" as "holiday," you got three-fifths of those letters in the right order.  And location!)

Sticking With Tradition

Tomorrow it should be in the upper 70's around here.  A few days ago it was in the 90's down the hill, mid-80's here.  Sunshine and blue skies are a lot more common up here than any other type of weather. 

My in-laws will be here on Friday.  The forecast?  Rain and temps in the low 50's.

I don't know how they do it, but they manage to bring cold, often wet weather every single time.  One time they arrived to gorgeous blue skies and nice temperatures.  About two hours later the wind kicked up and blew in this awe-inspiringly massive storm cloud.  Rain splats the size of silver dollars pelted us as we stood there in disbelief.

We have scheduled Mad's birthday party to coincide with their trip.  For some ridiculous reason we have included messy outdoor activities.

Dear Diapers.com

You amuse me.

Yes, I love that you don't charge sales tax.  And that there has been a 20% off coupon code each time I have needed to order a ridiculously expensive European car seat from your fine establishment.  And that I have ordered on Saturday night and received the shipment on Monday morning.  That's all cool and, yes, you rock.

But no, I will not be utilizing the "reorder in seconds" link.  Each girl has one car seat per car.  We're done.  Please stop sending me invitations to spend more money we don't have on things we don't need.

Sincerely,

Me

Oh Yeah, Huh?

I've had my new eyeglasses for a few days.  Seeing with them on is different than without.  Strange that everything is not only clearer, but seems closer, too.  Stairs are still weird, and I'm not exactly thrilled with the way I kind of get woozy when turning my head.  I'm sure I'll adjust to those things soon enough.  There is one thing I have to get into my head STAT, though.

Wearing glasses isn't like wearing sunglasses.  If one is a people watcher in shades, nobody really knows whether you're still looking a second too long.  Note to self...

Ha!

This post had already been written.  Badly.  I'm sparing you that, and will instead get to the point.

Tom said this afternoon (after a full day of cleaning and organizing while Margaret watched the girls here at home), "This is fun!"

And again I say, "Ha!"

People Get Into Trouble For This, Right?

I do wonder if Fynn will some day sit across from a therapist and uncover hidden memories of being left alone.  In a closet.  With the door pulled shut.

Will she ever recall images of her parents high-fiving over their schemes to find the darkest recesses of their home and sprawl her out?  Has she seen the desperate glee as we've plotted an end to her days of napping only in a carrier or someone's arms?

Or, as I sometimes suspect, will she someday drive us to weekly therapy sessions, where her father and I will try to figure out how we went from being two people who could successfully sleep train an infant for nights and naps in one day (bless you, Mad-A-Girl!) to people who have to bring Grandma up to the house to help with Fynn so we can get things done?

Only time will tell.  For now, I'd better get all that pre-cleaning day laundry put away so I have time to deal with everything else tomorrow when Grandma's here.

Tribute to a Man I Never Met

MH II died far away from here this week.  His father, a teacher I've only been working with for a couple of months has left to meet his son's body and bring him home.

I don't know how he died.  I have the basic understanding of why he was in the Middle East that most of us have.  So, like a lot of us, I don't really know why he died either.  All I know is that a soldier is coming home with his father by his side.  Twenty-four years are what they got together.  In friend years, it's a lot.  Not so much in parent-child years.

My Precious

Poor kid's got Mama's frizz already.  But check out that toothy grin!

Party Planning

Tom decided he'd like Mad's third birthday party to be WordWorld themed.  Or The Wiggles.  I have never really disliked a kids' show until seeing a few episodes of The Wiggles.  Granted, they have some catchy tunes, but they also... okay, they're just weird.  And they're not my kind of weird.  Ugh!

More importantly, do we have to have commercial themes?  We did get her a musical Elmo balloon last year (the music piece lasted five or six months longer than the balloon itself... an excellent investment in Mad's eyes), but are we really the type of people whose parties match up with television shows?  We may as well shop at WalMart, catch Bieber fever and start teaching Mad that Hannah Montana is an excellent role model right now.

*sigh*

Margaret and I did a little birthday decoration reconnaissance Monday night.  Stopped at a home decoration store rumored to have butterfly nets for cheap.  When you're looking at a dozen kids, they weren't that cheap, and for some reason, the more appropriately sized small ones were twice as much as the large ones.

Went to the dollar section at Target and found the small ones for a buck.  Along with some frog slippers and a frog magnifying glass.  Have I ever mentioned Mad's unswerving adoration for frogs?  I do find it ironic, since my dad insisted on calling me Froggie from age 11 to probably 19 or 20.  It was cute for about three minutes.  People loved to gift me with frog statuettes, stationary, stickers specially printed with my "name."  Beginning at age 22, frogs were given away, donated or tossed with every move.  I moved four times that year alone.

It's probably inevitable, Mad's frog love.  She also loves ducks.  They do not have quite the same luster as fwogs, rather they are fwogs' pond buddies and, as such, held in a position of esteem.

Behold part of her collection of frogs and ducks:

Allow me to introduce you to some of her friends.  Back Row: Duck, New Frog, Backpack Frog, Other New Frog.  Front Row:  Another New Frog (sometimes known as Fynnie's Frog, which Mad reclaims as often as possible), Little Green Frog (AKA Original F.R.O.G., this is the dude that started the craze... ahem... for Tom... before Mad was born), Duck and Frog Blanket.  (Not pictured because she's sleeping on him right now:  Big Green Daddy Frog and a collection of fuzzy and rubber ducks, but no, not fuzzy rubber ducks.)

The other morning on the drive to Grandma's, I asked Mad, "What do you want to do for your birthday that is coming up?"

"I need chocwet."

"Yes, honey, that's because you're my daughter.  What do you want to do?"

"I need chocwet and white."

"You want chocolate cake?"

"Yeth."

"And white cake?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you want a cake or would you rather have cupcakes?"

"I ravviveler have cupcakes!"

"Chocolate cupcakes and white cupcakes?"

"Yeth.  I need chocwet cupcakes and white cupcakes.  And a spoon.  And ice cweam."

One thing I love about my girl, that ability to separate the needs from the wants.

Today we made more progress in the party planning details.  There's a cupcake bakery that recently won Cupcake Wars.  Margaret pulled the address for me so I could check 'em out.  I asked Mad if she had any particular decorations she wanted on her cupcakes.

"Yes, ummm... I want fwogs."

"Anything else?"

"And ducks.  And fwogs and ducks."

In case that wasn't clear, this evening she explained the whole situation to Tom.  Covering her bases, don'tcha know.

Tonight Tom made invitations that feature a frog who is a complete unknown in the world of children's television.  Or probably any television.  Printed on duck yellow paper.  Has some cute wording.  I gave it a fun font.  More of a garden/pond feeling than a theme.  At our house in the desert.  All is well.  (Yes, I am dying to go all "ducky" here, but a modicum of restraint, people!)

Psychically Linked to My Physician

No, not the one who gave me the naked hug.  I have a team of specialists, people.  A team.

Or, well, I have an OB (AKA the Naked Hugger) and a regular doc.  Regular Doc has been my dad and Margaret's GP since right before Margaret had her accident.  Only he didn't know he was her doc yet.  The switch was that right before.  So when it came to getting doctor's orders for Margaret to be moved from an intermediate care unit at the hospital to a rehabilitation center, my dad had to call and explain.  Only he couldn't deal with one more thing at that moment, so I called. 

I explained the situation to the receptionist, figuring she'd speak with the doctor and either let me know what he said right then or call me back to do so.  Do you know what happened?  The man got on the phone within a matter of about 30 seconds, got the lowdown and approved the orders.  Margaret was moved at 5:00 that night.  That man is magical.

Do you know why else he's magical?  Because my father, the man who throughout my childhood proudly displayed a poster with a picture of an orangutan and a caption that read, "If I want your opinion I'll beat it out of you" (yes, really... I have a photo of him sitting proudly on his Harley in full biker regalia in front of that poster... he gave one to each of his girls about 10 years ago), actually listens to the man.  And follows his instructions.  Dad's health isn't great (that's what being free and easy in the 70's will do to a person, I suppose).  He gets blood work done regularly.  And goes to all of his appointments with Dr. Mike.

Do you know why else he's magical?  Because my mother, the woman who had an infection in her leg so bad that she basically slept through her mini-vacation at my grandparents and then promised them she'd go to the doctor as soon as she got home... but went to a cabin in the mountains ALONE for three days before going home (thereby keeping her word, don'tcha know), therefore ending up in the hospital for a week, followed by a couple weeks of home health care... she actually listens to the man.  And follows his instructions, gets blood work, etc. etc.

In case you're wondering, yes, there was some confusion in the office with my dad, his wife and ex-wife all being patients.  I think it's clear now.

Dr. Mike has officially been my doctor for a few years, but I'd never been to see him until recently.  Mostly I don't get sick (this past fall and winter were an aberration... and if my aberration coughs on us one more time I will flip out all over him, mm-hmm).  There was one time when I tried to get an appointment, but couldn't.  Doc was on vacation and his receptionist didn't have an on-call alternative, nor would she schedule my appointment before he was back.  It was bee-zarre, to say the least.  And annoying.

I never bothered to find another doctor.  When I recently had issues that should be dealt with, I tried again.  I have to say I don't care for Dr. Mike's front office people.  But the man?  He took care of everything that could be handled by him, referred me to an orthopedist for a ganglion cyst (am I becoming freaking cyst-tastic or what?).  When I had more issues, I saw his physician assistant, who ran labs and gave me some suggestions on how to manage my dizziness in the meantime.

I didn't get right on the blood work because that night was when Fynn got so sick.  Then I was sick.  Then I was on my period.  I figured my best blood should be tested.  So I went when things settled down (and after I resumed prenatals).

Today I was thinking about what the PA said about getting my test results.  "If there's a problem, we'll contact you.  If not, we won't."  Personally, I don't trust this method of communication.  Sometimes people overlook something or forget to make a call.  Wouldn't it be nice if they could just call?  Is that too much to ask?

This evening I asked Tom what came in the mail.  "Bill for my car, something from DirecTV (dude, that's junk... have you noticed we've had FiOS going on two years now?) and something for you from some medical place.  I don't know what it is."

Turns out it was a card from Dr. Mike's office, but in an envelope so that prying eyes would not know my test results.  'Cuz I'm mysterious like that.  It says I'm normal.  In writing.  I don't care what you've heard or read.  Dr. Mike said it, so it must be true.  Like magic.

PS Coincidentally, now that Fynn's past that growth spurt/illness/teething thing, I get more sleep.  Turns out I'm a lot less dizzy when I'm not exhausted.  Go figure!

Mish-Mosh

In case you were wondering, I love making food for Fynn, just as I loved making Mad's baby food.  (Corey couldn't have cared less about food until around a year, so he just went straight to food.)  It's easy, natural.  The bananas Fynn eats are never pink (wth?).

I do not, however, love the feeling of Fynn's food on my hands or wrists while I'm feeding her.  I was the same way with Mad.  It's like being slimed.  It practically is being slimed.  I do not want to be slimed.  On my hands.  Clothes are fine, go for it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The other night Tom brought the girls home after work.  It just so happened that I arrived home about 45 minutes ahead of everybody else.  Part of my free time was used doing dishes and getting the girls' dinners ready.  I also went across the street to check our mail.  We received a card from my in-laws with a check "to help offset those rising gas prices." 

The mind immediately starts coming up with ideas, dreams, lofty goals for what we could do with the money.  One thing was a priority, however, and that was getting oil changes for both cars.  Tom's went to the Toyota dealership.  Mine went to a local franchise tire shop.  They had awesome reviews online (as opposed to either of the Ford dealerships within 30 miles).  When I walked in, the two guys behind the counter were friendly... to the point of being charming... and said that my car would be ready in 20 minutes.

Going to a tire shop for an oil change usually means a bit of a wait, so Tom and the girls were in his car, ready to go shopping for each of us with some of the remaining money.  With a 20 minute wait, we decided to hang around.  On our way back from a jaunt up a hill, Michael called to tell me that my oil change was done, but that my rear differential needs to be serviced and that my tires need to be aligned.

*sigh*

Have I ever told you my theory about extra money?  When the money comes, the problems will follow.

The upside?  I mean aside from the fact that my girls will be safer travelling up and down the hill each day.  Seriously, a couple of young mechanic types being charming.  With me.  I haven't come across charming mechanics in years.  (Okay, my old guys were charming, but they were... you know... old).  Yeah.  I'm wondering if I just paid $200 to be charmed, too, but in my mind the answer is a resounding no.  Stained baseball cap holding back unruly hair.  No makeup.  Clothes with this mornings bananas, cereal and breastmilk combo all over 'em.  Bloated because my period's coming.  I mean, these things are all normal for me, but I guess I should have sent Tom in for me.  Bua.Ha.Ha.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I recently scouted out local eye doctors.  Called one and inquired about the cost of frames.  I haven't needed to wear glasses regularly for about eight years or so.  When I did, I often allowed myself to be suckered into expensive frames.  Those days are gone.  I set a limit and don't want to try on anything over that amount.  It makes sense to me that I should have a decent selection of lower cost frames in this area (where Tom recently discovered 48% of the population is on welfare, gah!) than down the hill.

I went in and spent about half an hour trying on glasses.  (The less expensive ones were in a tray box in the corner, in case you're following my lead.)  I go back on the 17th for the exam.  After noticing that I had to walk 10 feet to see myself in the large mirror, Tiffany, the woman helping me suggested that I should perhaps not be too surprised if bifocals were necessary.  In which case none of the glasses she's holding for me will work.  Whatever.  Then we talked about how my eyesight has just tanked since having Fynn, and how I'm going to be turning 40.

"Oh.  Ohh yeah, that's it.  That's the problem.  Mm-hmm.  It's the big FOUR-OH.  Yep.  That'll do it."

Again I say, whatever!

Awesome Hair Theory

Tom had jury duty yesterday.  He was supposed to be at work 70 miles away at 4:00 in the morning, but instead he had to be at court five or so miles away by 12:00.  Noon.  Poor guy. 

He spent a few hours in the jury box yesterday and had to return for continued jury selection today.  At 10:30.

I was pulling for him to get selected.  I've sat on a couple of juries, and have found the whole process fascinating.  Okay, there was that awkward moment with my last service, when asked if I had any knowledge of anybody in the court, I admitted that I'd met the judge before.  When he was in family court about two years earlier.  The judge handled a situation with my ex-husband.  Peering over his glasses at me, the judge said, "Wait.  I remember you!  Wasn't your husband, The Lurker?"  *sigh*  Yes, yes he was.  Can we move along?

When Tom went back today, he spent roughly two minutes seated in the jury box before being summarily dismissed by the prosecution.

I said it's probably because Tom's been growing out his hair and it's just too awesome for them.  I'm probably right, too.  Tom said the next person to come out of the court room was another man, somewhat older, but with equally awesome hair.

Peacefail Demonstration

A friend sent me a facebook invitation to this Friday's "a day of peace."  I like peace.  I signed up.

For the past two days I have been trying to practice the requirements.

I have an idea... for a day of peace. Wouldn't it be amazing?


Just one day in the year where we all held our tongues.


A day where we ignored others' shortcomings and made a valiant effort to be kind and understanding.

Doesn't that sound nice?

I believe I've found a way to successfully do my part.  It will involve sending the girls down with Tom and spending the day in the closet and maybe flicking the light on and off. 

It will definitely not involve going to work, driving, talking to coworkers, relatives or certain friends, explaining why fantasy baseball isn't really a good enough reason to pull money from our meager savings, watching the news or listening to the radio.

The other option is to hold my tongue, between fingers or teeth.

Milestones

Today, March 1 two things became irrevocably true.

One, Fynnie got her second tooth.  Perhaps that's why we were up from 2:30 to 4:00 this morning, although she seemed perfectly happy.

Two, I must now say, "... when I turn 40 this month."  Last year Tom threw a surprise party for me.  To make up for the god-awful birthday of 2009.  More than one person insinuated last year that I was "39 again."  Dude!  Today one of my coworkers said, "Is that all you're going to be?"

Apparently she meant that in the because 40 is so young sort of way (most of the women I work with are at least 50).  Or that's what she tried to explain after hearing me gasp and seeing my mouth drop to the floor.

Not that mere weeks from 40 is old or anything, but today I borrowed a magnifying glass from my dad and Margaret so that I could do some paperwork at the office.  We have to cross-check students based on this exceedingly long series of digits.  Turns out I can't see much difference between 3, 6 and 8.  Or 4,7 and 9.  Okay, yes, sometimes I get 5 and 0 mixed up with other numbers.  But 1, that I can handle, no problemo.