Stumbling Towards Perfect

Three guys were standing around my office chatting about someone and, since I missed half the conversation, I piped up with: "Who?" And just the way it came out, I knew... sure enough one wise guy mocks, "Hoo! Hoo! What are you - an owl?" (and they all rolled with laughter) And the second wise guy says, "Maybe we should ask if she shits through suspenders!" And it was silent. Dead silent, because, really, what does taking a crap through suspenders have to do with a nocturnal bird? ** After further investigation it was determined second wise guy had actually said, "Maybe we should ask if she sheds lots of feathers ." This is an example of why it's important to enunciate.

If you reek of alcohol at 2:00 in the afternoon - EVERY afternoon - you drink too much. If you have alcohol oozing from your pores and you haven't even broken a sweat - you drink too much. If you ask for cologne for your birthday and people give you bottles of scotch because that's what they think you wear - you drink too much. Thank you, Mr. Drunk Guy, for entertaining me this afternoon. It almost made me forget about Ms. Inconsiderate who hacked in my face - no worries; she stated she wasn't sick. She just has allergies and coughs a lot. I think she should have just apologized, but apparently when you explain your allergic-cough condition it absolves you from following proper health and hygiene ettiquette. But I digress.... I was thanking you, Mr. Drunk Guy, for coming in and taking the time to slobplain (that's my made up word for "pathetically slobbering through an explanation") that you have to park your green cadillac in our municipal lot because your dr

While cleaning at my grandmother's house I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. More than likely the result of going up and down a step ladder attempting to wash shelving and walls, and the ever enlarging offspring hanging out in my womb, cutting off vital circulation. I'd pause for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and continue on. But then it got to a point where I literally felt the walls closing in on me and the floor started to slip beneath my feet. Clawing my way to the living room, I did my best to mimic the whole head between your knees thing (yeah, right...). Luckily I was not alone: Bean: What's wrong ma? Are you okay? About to Pass Out Mother: ...no... I need water... get me water... Bean: What's wrong with you? APOM: ( struggling to breath ) ... I just need some water.... please.... Bean: ( sitting down comfortably in the cozy chair across from me ) It's kind of hot in here, don'tcha think? Great-gramma should open some windows. APOM: ( head sti

I am 23 and one-half weeks pregnant today. That means 16 and one-half weeks to go... unless, for some reason, Cletus the Fetus is intent on remaining in my womb until s/he feels willing to exit, or until I convince the Scheduling Gods to bless me with an injection of the synthetic form of oxytocin, used to induce and augment labor (commonly referred to as pitocin, for those of you wondering). So far, Cletus has shared with me the wonderful world of Extreme Heartburn. I'm sure there's a maximum consumption limit of Tums, but I simply cannot get enough to allow me to sleep through the night without holding on to the fire extinguisher - I'm convinced the burning will reach levels conducive to spontaneous combustion. The little fetus (who I'm told is about 11½ inches long and weighs 1 pound, or about the length and weight of a Harry Potter book) delights itself on hanging out on my nerves, sending shooting pain through my stomach, down my leg, out my feet, where it apparent

Dear Mrs. Webb, I understand you're upset. For what particular reason, I can only guess. Understanding your position that the Sate of Wisconsin requires municipalities to conduct certain inspections to your property for the purpose of ensuring it is safe to live in is asinine, unnecessary and a waste of tax payers money, I invite you to consider something a little different.... What if these required inspections catch a construction error that saves your 4-year old granddaughter from getting her head stuck in between the deck railings and strangling herself? Or catch a wiring error and your home doesn't start on fire causing the smoke inhalation death of your husband of the last 43 years? From your cuss-laden tirade on the phone this morning I understand that safety is not really a priority to you, but - and this may come as a surprise to you, sitting on the receiving end of your angry and ignorant (and unbelievably loud) commentary is not exactly MY priority. So, it was

I bet you think that by 8 days into my domestic sabbatical I'd be sneaking around the house at two in the morning putting things back in their proper places... but NO! I have stayed strong. In an effort to pull the blinders off Big V's eyes and show him that indeed, my role in the household is a lot more difficult than "it only takes twenty minutes to do the dishes" I have refrained from conducting any sort of domestic duty (except for once when I dusted, but that was because he reaminded me - over and over and over again - that he helped me when I was the one in charge). This past Memorial Day weekend my extended family and I went to my 91-year old grandmother's house to perform a mini extreme home makeover. It was necessary it so many ways. I personally spent two days scrubbing every nook and cranny in her house, including a much neglected bathroom. (Look, I'm not judging - my time will come, but it was SO GROSS!) Big V did manly macho stuff like shoveling

Angry Man upset at Neighbor: Neighbor legally constructed shed which now shades Angry Man's garden. Angry Man is persistent in his complaints and adamant in his belief conforming, perfectly legal shed should be removed because his garden was there first. As usual, when not getting one's way, complainant veers off course during argumentative phase: Angry Man: What about flag poles? Building Inspector: Flag poles? AM: Can you have them? BI: Yep. AM: Can you put them anywhere on your lot? BI: Yep. AM: Anywhere ? BI: Well, where would you like to put it? AM: [ clearly ignoring question ] What if my neighbor puts it up right by his property line? BI: ...okay... AM: And the flag encroaches over my property line? Do I have the right to cut it? BI: [ hitting head repetitively on desk ] ... you know, I suppose if you can find a way to climb up there and cut it without trespassing on your neighbor's property or desecrating the American Flag, then, sure, you could do it.

A sabbatical was used by professionals once every seven years to devote to research and learning, and I have learned so much in such a little time. Last night the Phenominal Moms gathered around for our bi-weekly rebalancing fix... I gotta tell you, if you don't have a group of strong, positive women - drop everything you're doing and go find them. Find them NOW. Look everywhere, and if you don't find them, just keep looking. Do not stop until you find amazing women who you can draw positive energy from. Our topic focus last night was control. *gulp* As in... forcing your future husband to conform to your ways of cleaning and maintaing a house? Gee, I might not have much to say about this issue.... (as I sit sweating in the guilt that's currently smothering me). Yep, yes, absolutely - I admit, I am controlling. Housekeeping drives me crazy . Why? Because I don't like to do it. I like the results, the sparkling countertops and shiny floor... I don't like scrubbin

Yeah, uh, I really don't "get" this. I'm all for sharing with co-workers, and not trying to be stingy, but seriously, you honestly don't have to leave a singular sliver of donut to split when there's fully intact pastry patiently awaiting consumption... close your eyes when you take the last bite - the calories don't count that way.

See, I can be positive. I have chosen to replace my "strike" with the more meaningful "sabbatical." Big V laughs, promising it's not that hard to clean the house and assures me I will find the house in better order than when I did it alone. Before "Bite Me" escaped my lips, I managed to put together this distorted thought process: "Stop. It's a trap. He's trying to tell you that you failed, thus playing into your natural stubbornness to prove him wrong, prompting you to jump up like Super Mom with Six Arms and attack the dishes, make dinner, sign Bean's permission slip, pick out Dotter's clothes for tomorrow, wash the toothpaste out of the bathroom sink, and sweep up the dog hair. It is most certainly a trap!" In the end, I smiled sweetly and said in my most sincere and encouraging voice, "I sure hope so, honey." (I think the "honey" was a bit much, but he knew what I really meant: "I will be watchi

Yesterday marked the first day of a self-imposed 30-day strike against all things domesticated. As usual, I left home at 7:30am... consciously stopping myself from picking up dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and straightening the bath towels. I returned at 5:30pm, clothes still lazily piled below the skewed towels. And I was ok. Even after I noticed the tissues in the trash dangerously perched above the rim like skilled Chinese Acrobats, I was still ok. I know this is just the beginning and I shall not be defeated at this early stage of the game. I grabbed my book - a most excellent read titled No Angel by Penny Vincenzi, I can barely put it down - and headed outside to relax. Dotter came out to join me and suggested we head off to the park, which WE DID! (We invited Bean, but she decided to roll the dice and see if Big V would take her to WalMart so she could get a new music CD that just came out.) Hand in hand we strolled through the neighborhood pointing out flowers and birds.

I should be rejoicing - Yippee! Halfway through the Surprise Pregnancy! Only 4 months to go! I'm so giddy I could skip! But I'm not. Really, I'm not. Not that I wouldn't love to be skipping about tra-la-la-ing throughout fields of native flowers... well, that is if my allergies were in check and I wouldn't balloon up and sneeze for fifteen hours following said skipping excursion.... But I can't skip. Hell, I have trouble walking across the office to the bathroom every hour on the hour (regardless of my limited fluid intake). My back hurts from sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. I've got heartburn so bad I think my chest will literally disintegrate from the intense burning. I'm tired - more tired than I ever thought humanly possible. If I could nap for four to five hours a day I'd be golden. Not that napping is an option... certainly not at work... certainly not at home where Bean feels it's her personal calling in life to make sure everyone

As of today I am officially on strike. I shall no longer: 1) Pick dirty clothes up off the bathroom floor and deliver them to the hamper. 2) Sweep the wood floors that extend throughout our house which get covered in dog hair on a daily basis. (I am surprised that Satan isn't bald by now.) 3) Pick up dirty cups, glasses, dishes, etc., off the coffee table and walk them into the kitchen to be with all the other dirty dishes waiting patiently to be washed. 4) Explain that the stench coming from the kitchen is actually caused by the overflow of garbage which needs to be removed and taken to the big, plastic containers found in the garage. (They have lids. Use them.) 5) Ask all members of the household to gather in the bathroom so I can point out that when tissue can no longer precariously perch on top off the trash mountain it's time to remove said trash mountain. 6) Replace the toilet paper roll on a daily basis. (Apparently, we have a habit when we go that causes us to remove th

If you read my previous post, you'll know Big V's attendence was required last-minute for a family dinner. He went to said dinner, returned home and announced, "I guess I have to be to church tomorrow by ten o'clock, and I'm supposed to wear my dress pants, orange shirt and tie." Attendance was required, yet again, last-minute, for a nephew's first communion. Now, I'm not Catholic, but I'm assuming notification was given a little more than thirteen hours ahead of time. "My precious child, you shall be receiving for the first time, the sacrament of the Eucharist, tomorrow morning at ten. You may now invite your family to attend. And go - !" Like that didn't leave a bug up my butt. Our precious we're-not-planning-a-thing-and-spending-all-day-together was shot. We did manage to spend Sunday together doing yard work. I burnt my arms to a crisp helping dig out and remove piece-by-piece an old brick patio. We'll have to wait until a

I want a nice lawn. No, I want a fantabulous lawn! One that is green, lush, beckons you to place your tender bare foot on its soft, velvet grass... What I actually have is somewhat of a cross between a furrowed field and bombed out Beirut, currently being overrun by a creep named Charlie, but does show some promise in the front yard (if I could just get rid of the thousands of dandy-lions prancing about). I've inherited from my father the Anal Lawn Gene, which requires that I know such things as: (1) First take two laps around the outside of the lawn (this is where you turn around). These laps should be with the clippings being shot TOWARDS the center of the lawn. Not shooting out to the street, or along the sidewalks, or at the house. (2) Mowing should be done SLOWLY. If you're traveling a bumpy trail at warp speed the mower will "jump" - so will the blades. This means you will miss cutting parts of the lawn leaving you with a choppy haircut. (3) Grass should be clip

I had just pulled out of the office parking lot when my cell rang....(isn't this how it always begins?) Mom? Mom? Bean? I can hardly hear you... Shhhhh! You want me to Shhhsh? Mom! Please! Just be quiet. Ok. Why are you calling me whispering? Because Gram's in the other room.... Where are you? In the bathroom - SHHHHH!!!! Ok, Bean, look - I'm in the car surrounded entirely by myself. No one can hear me. Trust me. Now, what do you need? And why are you whispering in Grandma's bathroom? Not GRANDMA'S bathroom - PAPA'S bathroom. Ok. Why are you whispering in Papa's bathroom? Because I just.... you know... went ... you know... went a lot .... Are you looking for a congratulatory trophy? Mom! Please! This is serious. I need your help. Aren't you a little old for me to wipe? MOM!! Ok. Sorry. I'm sorry. How can I help you -- from my car? It won't flush. What? The toilet. It won't flush ! Well just go tell Gram - she'll fix it. NO! MOM! OH MY GAW

At this point in the game I have accepted the fact that I will never be referred to as the nurturing mother that all children long to have. Perhaps it's because I rarely bake homemade goodies and generally serve dinner a-la-frozen-food style. Or maybe it's because the first thing I say is, "what did they do NOW?" when the teacher calls from school. It could be because if someone comes crying that they hurt themselves, but there's no obvious trail of blood, I console in the form of "suck it up - it's not like the arm is completely off." But I did think maybe, possibly, perhaps by the Will of God Himself, I would have been doted on and served by two of the best mannered children for Mother's Day. They came close.... if you count being woken up at 7 o'clock in the morning by a sugar-manicked teen: "MOM! MOM! Get up! You HAVE to get up! There's something in the garage - Mom - Did you hear me? There's-something-in-the-garage-and-I-thi

Bean: "My buns smell weird - here, you smell them." Bean: "Oh my gawd... I totally have to - OOPS! Too late!" Bean: "Do you think four inch heels are too much for a thirteen year old?" Bean: "Only a hundred and fourteen dollars? That's not bad for a dress. I'll probably even wear it more than once."

I honestly feel that for some people they truely do love each other - they just don't know HOW to love each other. I'm not sure why though. Because both people could go and find someone else and live okay together. It's almost like they settle for the easy way out. I wish I could think of an analogy... Maybe, like, I love roasted duck... orange duck - whatever. I love it. I love the taste, the texture, the everything about it... but I don't know how to cook it. I don't know how to make it right. I've tried and I've failed. Over and over and each time I think I've got it, but then, when I taste it it's just not quite what I imagined, so I'm disappointed. I don't want to be disappointed anymore - so I stick with Hamburger Helper. I mean, it's good, you know. It's tasty. It's easy - I have no trouble browning the meat and tossing in the water and milk and prepackaged parts... it's alright... I don't hate it or anything... but

Finally a weekend with weather worth hailing! As in "hailing in praise" not "hailing the size of golf balls" which at this point would not have surprised me. But no, it was actual, real, nice, sunny, warm weather. The kind that you picture yourself sitting on your front steps reading a book for hours while the kids race up and down the sidewalk. Ahh... That is until you try to shove in a bridal shower, the Bean babysitting, Dotter complaining that she's bored and has no one to play with, twelve loads of laundry unearthed from the children's rooms, dishes that weren't done since Wednesday, a flooding window well, a quite unhelpful downspout requiring the drastic measure of digging a trench and burying drain tile, the Bean heading off to her dad's with the grand notion that she'll get HIM to take her to the mall to spend every last penny of the babysitting money she earned since I NEVER do anything for her. EVER. The dog puked. A few times. In

It took our office rep forty-five minutes to run three minutes down the road, pick up lunch, and bring it back. Forty-five minutes is a long time. To a hormonal, pregnant lady whose back aches, belly is stretched beyond repair, and who only consumed a can of A&W Root Beer and a handful of Hot Tamales gummy cinnamon candies, forty-five minutes could mean life or death. Not of the pregnant woman... but to the clod who offered to pick up lunch (who we all know just needed an excuse to swing off and stop by his house first). I'm finding it incredibly difficult to focus lately. My whole body aches and I swear there's got to be a tumor at the base of my skull. I'm a habitual leg crosser whose legs no longer cross... or, when they do, happen to cause all blood circulation in my lower extremities to cease. By 10:00 in the morning I'm completely wiped out. I walk across the office to throw garbage away just to keep me from falling asleep at my desk. Even my snarky sarcasm ha