Everywhere, signs.

Before I even get started on the story I intended to share, I interrupt this blog post for a tangential thought.  Dear lord, please let's all hope I can eventually remember what I came here for in the first place.

Tangential thought: one of the best parts of being a parent is getting to mess with your kids.  I personally believe bonus parent points can be awarded if you can mess with your kids in such a way that they know they are being messed with, but the reference is far too obscure for them to understand.  Just before Christmas, we took the kids to Lincoln Park Zoo to see the zoo lights.  Note that I say we went to see the zoo lights and not the animals, because the animals, largely, were missing or sleeping.  Also, parts of the zoo were closed or undergoing renovations.  There were signs everywhere explaining why animals were missing or exhibits were closed.  So, the kids kept asking, "What does that sign say?"  And every time they asked me that, I would tell them, "Long haired freaky people need not apply."

But I digress.  Here's where I was going before the train immediately derailed:

Last year for Mothers' Day, Ella made me a gift at daycare.  It was a little sign to hang on my bedroom door (or, presumably, on any door with a knob), that says "Mommy's quiet time."  Ella's teacher explained to a bunch of three- and four-year-olds that they should give their moms time to relax and enjoy some peace and quiet, so when the sign is on the door, they should leave their moms alone. (Right.  But a sweet idea, nonetheless.)

I was cleaning up my bedroom last night and came across the sign on my dresser, so I hung it on my door knob.  When I got home tonight, I discovered that Ella had moved the sign from my door to her door.  My first thought was, "Ella stole my quiet time.  Oh, the irony!"  But then I realized that she moved the sign off my door knob to make room to hang the giant fancy heart she decorated for me for Valentine's Day. 

She's a sweet kid--even if she did steal my quiet time.

Admit it, you're weird too.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who gets angry and shouts at the radio when I hear poor grammar in a song.  Other people are also known to yell things like, "It's who, Katy Perry.  WHO!!  The one WHO got away.  Unless you make a habit of dating inanimate objects, which wouldn't be that surprising, Whooore," right?  Right??  Please tell me I'm not alone in this.

In other news, I've had the luxury recently of driving to and from work with no little people in the car.  This means I get to shout freely at bad grammar on the radio, drivers with poor driving skills and whatever else irritates me.  It's really liberating but it's also possible that my crazy is getting out of control.  CHANGE LANES ALREADY, ASSHAT. 

Now with more books!

Admit it.  It makes me seem smarter right?  I like to give the impression that I'm literate.  Or literary.  Or literal.  One of those.  But not litigious--too much paperwork.

Seriously, people, what is with your cloven hoof fetish?!?

Over four years ago, I quipped about a Nike gym shoe I had just discovered that appears to be designed for people with cloven hooves (me).  You can see it here, if you'd like.  And who on earth would've ever guessed that a) people, to this day, would be googling "Nike cloven hoof" or (some variation thereof) left and right, AND, b) if you google that phrase, the first result you get is my little old website.  How perfectly odd.  I love it!

Totally Her Father's Daughter

Tonight the kids and I hopped in the car around 7:30 to run to the store.  Despite the fact that it was mostly dark already, Eric found his sunglasses and put them on.  As soon as Ella saw that, she demanded her sunglasses as well.  Monkey see, monkey do.  Except, as I reminded her, earlier, she had insisted on leaving her sunglasses at daycare for some reason.  No way, no how were we leaving that building with her sunglasses in our possession.

So, as I backed down our driveway on the way to the store, she began to throw a royal fit over her lack of sunglasses.  At night.  Long, skinny arms and legs went flying in every which direction.  Screaming, kicking, you name it, it all happened.  Eventually, she calmed down enough for me to understand what she was screaming at me.  She was (not so kindly) demanding that we return to school to get her sunglasses.  "Ella, we can't go to your school," Eric told her.  "It's closed now and if we break in, the police will come and we will all go to jail."

Well, lordy, lordy did that girl ever launch into an all new tirade.  I didn't catch every single thing she said, or shrieked, as the case may be, but the gist of it was a three-year-old version of "fuck the police."  She called the police all sorts of mean pre-school names, and insisted that she was going to bite them, scratch them, kick them, etc.  Eric, totally exasperated by her...threeness, replied with a deadpan, "Ella.  If you did all that, you'd be dead in a matter of seconds."

That kid cracks me up.  His delivery was awesome, and I'm not sure that I'm accurately capturing it in writing.  I don't know where he comes up with half of the things he says.  But I get that sentiment--I'm largely exasperated by her threeness as well.  This will pass, I'm sure.  Things will get better.  I do worry, however, about the fact that I'm raising one future cop and one future criminal and/or gangsta rapper.  I hope that works out ok for us.

Upshots to the Whoopin' Cough

1) I'm getting an excellent ab workout.

2) At only 15 calories a pop, the all cough drop diet is certainly helping me achieve my weight loss goals!

A Load of Compromisin' on the Road to my Horizon

I wonder if this feeling will ever pass because apparently I write about it every year.  My life and all its responsibilities have crept up and caged me.  Mostly I'm settled that it's how things have to be right now.  But damn if every August/September my desire for a change doesn't peak.  Watching people everywhere go back to school and start a new chapter of their lives floods me with jealousy.  I don't even know that I necessarily want to go back to school.  I don't know what I'd study.  I don't know how I'd find time TO study.  But I just know that every year around this time, the fact that I've been living in the same place for 6 years, and have had the same job for the majority of that time really hits me hard and I want to shed my skin and move on.

Sometimes I stand still long enough to notice that everything around me has completely changed.  The daily routine keeps changing as the kids get older.  Evolution is constant and goes unnoticed, unappreciated because it's wrapped in the same familiar packaging.  Friendships change--grow and shrink, rotate, move to the forefront and step out of the limelight--with the ebbs and flows of life.  A cross section of my life would reveal layer upon layer of changes--good times and bad, great friends, rich experiences.  For all that, I'm very lucky. 

I'm pretty sure that the desire for change still burns to remind me that my work here is not done.  It keeps me on my toes, ready for the next big adventure, whenever that may come along.  In the meantime, I suppose I should try to enjoy this same old, same old.  For all I know, it may be the calm before the storm.

One of these days I might wonder away.

Does anybody out there watch the TV show House? OK, now what about Castle? I don't watch either (where by "don't watch" I mean "barely know of their existence"). But I like to think that the latter show is a bigger, fancier, more elaborate version of the former. I hope it's really true.

Sweet fancy Moses!

Oh, hey look! It's 2010! Where did the time go? I'd like to say I've been working on a huge project, like writing a manuscript, but such is not the case. Or maybe I should say something that makes me sound smarter, like, "Oh I haven't been up to much--just out campaigning for Dick Durbin and waiting for my shipment of Darwin fish bumper stickers to arrive." But that's not true either. I can't claim to be wrapped up in an intersting book. I can barely share with you one piece of interesting pop culture trivia. I don't even know who's on American Idol. One word folks: LAME.

Basically, I've been living under a rock, just trying to hide from the Chicago winter. It's not working, though. Sadly, I still have to come out to go to work. I wouldn't doubt that Chicago boasted something like 87 consecutive days of sub-freezing tempertures and 102 consecutive days of snow cover this winter. I'm so done with winter. Mother Nature, I cast the evil eye in your general direction!

OK, it's bedtime now, but stay tuned for more random rants. Nighty night!

Really, fashion magazines everywhere? Really?

I have to admit that I am in a bit of a fashion quandary. I am completely perplexed and unimpressed by the styles being shown for this Fall that, apparently, people are supposed to actually wear. Like, put on their bodies and parade around in. I mean, have you seen some of these styles?!?

Last weekend, I walked through Woodfield Mall in its entirety and could not find a single item worthy of my hard-earned cash. I mean, some of the things I saw were OK in a "I could see them looking cute on other people" sort of way, but nothing struck me as being appropriate for me.

First of all, let's start with the color schemes: blah and more blah. I have as much black and gray and tan as I care to own, thank you very much. But all I could find available in stores was any kind of apparel you could possibly want in varying shades of oatmeal. No thanks.

Secondly, I know I have a hard body shape to fit. I've known this for a long time. But everything--EVERYTHING--I saw in terms of tops is that awkward length that is supposed to come down a little lower than your waist, or even be that weird "hmmm, is this a shirt or a dress?" length. With an awkwardly short torso, I can't pull any of that shit off. That shirt length makes me look even shorter and fatter than I actually am, so I must avoid it like the plague. Basically, I may have to go topless until that trend passes. I may have no other choice.

Thirdly, skinny jeans: making even the anorexics of the world look chubby and dimpled. Why, why, why does this style exist?!?! Anyone with even a slight curve to their hips who sports this style ends up looking like a slice of pizza from the waist down. That's all I have to say about that.

Lastly, maybe I'm just being dramatic, but I feel like I'm at an awkward age for fashion right now. I'm not young or thin enough to pull of anything really trendy, but I'm not so old that I can (or want to) wear any of the more matronly looking styles. It's terrible.

So, here's my dilemma: I have a closet full of crap that is way out of style, doesn't fit well anymore, or is just in bad shape, and there is nothing out there that I want to replace it with. This is all the more reason to get in better shape. Otherwise, if I'm going to have to walk around naked until these trends pass, we're all in trouble.

You could be a winner.

Man, it's really possible that five-year-olds have it all figured out. Maybe it's all very deep and mysterious -- at five you know everything but don't now it yet, so then you have to go through your whole life learning new things, meeting new people, going to new places until you're enlightened enough to realize that you knew everything when you were five. Yeah.

The other day I picked Eric up from school and he was telling me about a game he was playing at the after school program. "First they give you a car and then you have to get a girlfriend. And then you have to pick a job. I didn't know what kind of job I wanted, so I had to go to school. Then I went to school and I still didn't know what kind of job I wanted, so they just told me what kind of job I had. (Me: What kind of job was it? E: I don't remember. Something yucky.) Then I drove around and I had my yucky job and then I kicked my girlfriend out of the car because I didn't want a girlfriend anymore! Oh yeah, I remember now! The game is called Life!"

So true, Buddy, so true.

All about Ella, or Enough with the shoes already!!!

Oh, Ella, my poor little second child. See, dear, the thing is that when one's children multiply, her free time divides. That's all. You're not any less loved or appreciated than Eric, just littler. I swear. So, without further ado, this post is all about you.

Ella, you're a little pistol. You're full of spirit and fierce independence, but also empathy. You don't seem to be afraid of anything, and you enjoy taking care of everyone. You're full of giggles and hugs. You love to dance to loud music, play with cars and trucks and push your dolls around in a stroller. You're always carrying around a cell phone, or anything that looks like a cell phone to you--calculators, ipods, remote controls.

But the activity you love more than anything--MORE THAN ANYTHING--is putting on my shoes and wearing them around the house. The higher the heel the better. And seldom do the shoes match each other. Your favorite pair right now is a red patent leather pump and a brown strappy sandal--both left shoes. And, truth be told, you're pretty good at walking around in my shoes. Except when you aren't, of course. You've been know to topple over and knock your noodle on something, just to get right back up, yell at the shoes for making you fall, and put them right back on, showing them who's boss. Lots of times you're both sporting my shoes and "talking" on the cell phone.

You're also have lots of cute words right now. You get up in the morning and ask me for a fafo (Ellish for waffle). You do not, however, find it amusing when I ask you if that is a breakfast delight from the Grecian island of Fafos. Before you put on your shoes, you have to put on your gocks, and your affirmative response is, "Yesh." It's actually a pretty mean Sean Connery impersonation. Even though you know what a banana is if asked to point one out, you still insist on calling it an "appo" if you want to eat one. Your favorite things to drink are "appo duce" and "moke". You also enjoy nutrition-packed dinners consisting of "hockogs" or "peeta". Often times, you don't care if our meals are identical, you prefer to sidle up to me, bat your big old eyelashes and say, "Bite?"

Last but not least, you adore your big brother, "Ermo." You follow him around, doing everything he does. And you're absolutely convinced that you have the motor skills to do everything he can do. You're always trying to help him, though he often doesn't appreciate it, although he does adore you too. You guys are often partners in crime, and many times I can't figure out whose bad idea it was in the first place.

So, Ella, there's you in a tiny little nutshell. And even though I'm frequently forced to do horrible things to you, such as change your diaper and brush your hair, I want you to know that I love you very much. You're the best little girl I've got!

(And, for the record, you just walked past in the strappy sandal and the red heel...)

Oh Nine Divine.

So I wrote this whole long post welcoming 2009, and explaining some hopes I had for the upcoming year and some goals I made for myself. But then it was too long to send from my phone, so I guess those goals weren't meant to be and I should just forget them. Just kidding. But they weren't really that exciting anyway.

So instead, I'll leave you to ponder this: Who would win in a fist fight between Aunt Jamima and Mrs. Butterworth?

On being a better self.

I often joke that being a stellar employee is the only role at which I have never failed spectacularly. It's true though. I would be mortified at work if I didn't bring my A game and a boss called me out on it. So why, then, am I so willing to accept mediocrity in other areas of my life? Why is it OK to let myself down but not others?

These are deep thoughts for this lunch hour. I'm thinking I'm going to actively need to work on this though. I hope it's an achievable goal to do things simply because they are right and good for me or my family. I hope that's not too much to ask in this lifetime.

Now with more white space!

Oh dear. Forgive me blogger for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession post. I don't know what to say. Literally.

I guess I'll start with this: Go America! Apparently we all, or, well, 53% of us at least, managed to come together and elect Barack Obama president only because of the color of his skin. Furthermore, it is so clear, and has been since the dawn of time, that John McCain was purposely trying to lose this election (hello, Sarah Palin?!?) because why in the hell would the Republicans want to go in and mop up W's mess?

In other news, I've been spending some of my non-blogging internet hours perusing the web-rantings of Bitter Republicans. Because they're HI-larious. Seriously, Bitter Republicans? He was only elected because he was black?? What do y'all suppose we should call that phenomenon--reverse racism? And John McCain purposely foiled his own chances of winning? Really? Was it all just a publicity stunt to drum up a little business for Joe the Plumber?

All sarcasm aside, I truly am very excited about the results of the election. I've always kept myself an arm's length away from politics. It always felt to me that politics bred angry and narrow-minded passion in some people, and sparred the kinds of arguments that lower my comfort level to somewhere close to steel wool rubbing on bare skin. I simply can't handle opinion-based debate. So you like wine and I like beer, who the hell cares? No amount of you spouting made-up "Anheuser Busch eats babies" statistics is going to change my palate. So let's shut up and drink already. But I digress.

It's not that I don't have political opinions, it's just that I form them and then keep them to myself. I've always seen politics as a necessary evil. But this time around, I must admit, I really got into it! For the first time I really felt some of that passion. It wasn't a my-side-is-better-than-your-side passion, but more of a yearning to be part of something great. I can't really explain it. I just wanted to get involved.

In any case, it's late and I'm rambling. It's time for me to turn in.

[Upon a quick re-read of what I've written, I feel the need to elaborate on two points, because I know that tone is hard to gauge through writing. 1) I do not believe that all republicans are bitter about the results of the election; I was simply referring to a specific few who made some ridiculous comments that I read. 2) I also do not believe that all people who are passionate are angry and narrow-minded. That is simply not the case. ]

Wherein I reveal that I think I am The Funny.

Sure, my kids are funny. But I really must say, they are not as funny as I am. I mean, *I* have a whole autograph book from my senior year of high school in which a great number of people wrote, "You're the funniest person ever! KIT! TTYL." So, that obviously speaks for itself. But. BUT. The only person who really knows how truly funny I am is me. And, quite often, I'm the only one around to appreciate it anyway. And even if there are others around, they usually don't appreciate it as much as I do. So, what this boils down to is that I'm a terrible comedian because laugh at my own jokes. Usually before I'm even done telling them. So, I've tried to combat that by working on my deadpan sarcasm, which, let me tell you, is misunderstood far more often that it is appreciated. ANYWAY, I don't really know how I got off on this rant about how I'm my own number one fan, but I'll give you a little example of how weird I am. Things were a little slow after lunch today at work, so I started putting together a newsletter to send out to my office re: upcoming holiday plans for the office. I was using a template in which there was a section at the bottom telling people where to direct comments or questions, and giving them an option to unsubscribe by clicking on a link. Well, this won't be a newsletter to which anyone actually subscribes. Quite the contrary, it will be maybe one step up from unsolicited erectile dysfunction spam (except for the part where I reveal when and where they need to be to claim their free holiday lunch and booze). But, I decided to leave that line in the newsletter nonetheless. And I linked it to the state Department of Employment Security website, with the locations of the unemployment offices listed on it. Did I mention I have a bit of an evil streak? My ass you'll be unsubscribing to my newsletter. And for that, I was just so pleased with myself all afternoon--like giggle-every-time-I-think-about-it pleased. I'm sure some unfunny person will make me take it out when and if the newsletter actually gets sent. But for now I'm enjoying my own antics.

My, what sparkly feet you have!

Eric thinks that cats poop in a "glitter box." Tee hee.

File this one under the category of "Measure Twice, Cut Once"

Should've just made it a "No Parkin'" sign...

Ain't no parkin' here, you hear?

Sorry about the crappy quality...I kind of figured they had a no picture takin' rule as well.

Bulking up.

So, I'm sitting here on this fine Friday night, and I'm just now getting around to eating dinner. I decided on a Kashi frozen dinner that I picked up at Target the other day. They looked decent, fairly healthy and, although they're a bit pricey, there was some promotion where they were on sale 4 for $11, but if you buy 4, you get a $5.00 gift card when you check out. So I decided to buy some. I think I tried one in the past, but to be honest, I really don't remember much about it. Tonight I went with the chicken florentine, which boasted 5 grams of fiber and a whopping 22 grams of protein. I started eating and thought, OK the flavor is pretty good. I'm eating some actual vegetables here, which is good. But something was amiss. I kept eating and finally it dawned on me. I'm eating cardboard. Chicken florentine flavored cardboard. I mean, don't get me wrong--it's tasty and I'm sure they use high quality ingredients and all that, but, lordy, that much bulk in one little dish is a little hard to work through. Hopefully the other flavors go down easier.

Come Hell or High Water

I WILL get home tonight, even if I have to swim across the damn Des Plaines river. Dammit. No pun intended.