Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Life of Ings
These are the Spawnling's Life of Ings.
The Toad is working. And hating it. Except for the paying. He's complaining about the scheduling. And the working. And the dealing with people. And the lack of sleeping.
The Howler, on the other hand, is whinging. And playing. And will be roller skating. She is also singing. And swinging. And running.
And now that we have that out of the way, I can go back to regular language, and not worry about meeting some arbitrary standard (which, as we all know, is my standard. LOL)
The Toad is working. He hated working all nights, so now, they schedule him days during the week, and nights on the weekends. Pretty funny, in a cruel and ironic sort of way. He was better off with Vince, working the all nights.
He's still a jerk (Toad AND Vince). He spends his time alternating between hiding from me, but annoying Kevin, and picking fights with the Howler. (and maybe I'm not done with the theme.)
The Howler, darling thing, has an ever growing penchant for irritating me--if not by sheer volume, then by repetitive mouthiness. If I hear one more time that ANYONE's parents are nicer than I am, I just may have to fix it so that she discovers how much nicer EVERYONE on the planet is than I am.
She's very demanding. And unrelenting. She started again this month about never wanting to have a baby. God, that's worse than the hot flashes and night sweats I suffer. I'd rather pull my own teeth than have THAT conversation again. It's (and I'm not comparing her to a pig, really) like teaching a pig to whistle: it frustrates you and pisses off the pig. Hey. I think I'm the pig in this scenario, actually.
She also must be working for the government (or the National Enquirer) too. She must know who is on the phone, and if there's any chance at all she knows the person, she wants the opportunity to talk to them. Not that she'd talk to them if they were in front of her, but I think it's just the idea that one of us is unavailable to sit and stare at her magnificence.
Last night, she went, dripping and buck naked from her bath over to her father, who happened to be on the phone with his mother. The Howler demanded she speak to Grandma, and when she was told "no", she stomped (and I do, indeed, mean stomped) to her room, and began banging drawers open and shut.
When I told her that she could talk to Grandma "tomorrow night, after the birthday party" she said, "Yeah, right"--sounding for all the world like her father. So I said, "Wednesday night, then, while I'm at the PTA meeting" to which she responded with, "Oh, yeah. Like I don't already have plans for Wednesday night."
It took everything I had to not bust out laughing. I know that plans SHE has, and they involve making the Clairol company a LOT more money--it's like she's a major stock holder. Sheesh.
So, the Spawnlings are both very unhappy--and for the same reason.
Neither is getting his or her own way. And I am, yet again, losing brain cells and natural hair pigment in the process.
The Toad is working. And hating it. Except for the paying. He's complaining about the scheduling. And the working. And the dealing with people. And the lack of sleeping.
The Howler, on the other hand, is whinging. And playing. And will be roller skating. She is also singing. And swinging. And running.
And now that we have that out of the way, I can go back to regular language, and not worry about meeting some arbitrary standard (which, as we all know, is my standard. LOL)
The Toad is working. He hated working all nights, so now, they schedule him days during the week, and nights on the weekends. Pretty funny, in a cruel and ironic sort of way. He was better off with Vince, working the all nights.
He's still a jerk (Toad AND Vince). He spends his time alternating between hiding from me, but annoying Kevin, and picking fights with the Howler. (and maybe I'm not done with the theme.)
The Howler, darling thing, has an ever growing penchant for irritating me--if not by sheer volume, then by repetitive mouthiness. If I hear one more time that ANYONE's parents are nicer than I am, I just may have to fix it so that she discovers how much nicer EVERYONE on the planet is than I am.
She's very demanding. And unrelenting. She started again this month about never wanting to have a baby. God, that's worse than the hot flashes and night sweats I suffer. I'd rather pull my own teeth than have THAT conversation again. It's (and I'm not comparing her to a pig, really) like teaching a pig to whistle: it frustrates you and pisses off the pig. Hey. I think I'm the pig in this scenario, actually.
She also must be working for the government (or the National Enquirer) too. She must know who is on the phone, and if there's any chance at all she knows the person, she wants the opportunity to talk to them. Not that she'd talk to them if they were in front of her, but I think it's just the idea that one of us is unavailable to sit and stare at her magnificence.
Last night, she went, dripping and buck naked from her bath over to her father, who happened to be on the phone with his mother. The Howler demanded she speak to Grandma, and when she was told "no", she stomped (and I do, indeed, mean stomped) to her room, and began banging drawers open and shut.
When I told her that she could talk to Grandma "tomorrow night, after the birthday party" she said, "Yeah, right"--sounding for all the world like her father. So I said, "Wednesday night, then, while I'm at the PTA meeting" to which she responded with, "Oh, yeah. Like I don't already have plans for Wednesday night."
It took everything I had to not bust out laughing. I know that plans SHE has, and they involve making the Clairol company a LOT more money--it's like she's a major stock holder. Sheesh.
So, the Spawnlings are both very unhappy--and for the same reason.
Neither is getting his or her own way. And I am, yet again, losing brain cells and natural hair pigment in the process.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Home
This month, Scribbit's Write Away contest is about "Going Home"
The problem I have with "going" home is that I'm already there--I live in the house I grew up in. It's changed some, mostly in paint colors and the patio in the back, but it's still effectively where I grew up, and when I sit on the front porch with my Sweetie, I feel like I've become my parents.
This house is also full of tiny little crevices of memory--memories mostly of Dad, since he's been gone 19 years this month. Every so often, we clean out a cupboard or a drawer or even the entire garage and find things my dad left there. Things from my childhood, things that cause him to just fill my brain...and my eyes with tears.
Mostly, though, I'm struck with the not-so-Disneyesque circle of life. My son was 3 months old when my dad died, yet, he looks so very much like my father that he's recognized by people who, for all intents and purposes, have never slapped eyes on him. He's usually dumb-struck over this, disbelieving in their eyesight, I imagine.
I can remember when the Toad was about 2 years old, in bib overalls, toddling about the yard, and I sat on my porch steps and cried because, even then, I knew what my grandmother had seen in her son (my father) as he toddled about her yard, all those years before.
It's a powerful thing to feel that connected to a woman who died when you were 6--someone who is hazy memory flashing behind your eyes like so many fireworks on a July weekend.
Then I see my daughter--the irrepressible Howler. She is all snap and fire and motion, and I know my father would laugh himself breathless to see her (and me with her.) I feel that, as truth, most often in the months we're outside. This hurricane of motion and feeling and noise would amuse him to no end.
I've read that smell is our strongest link to memory--and that we can remember the feelings associated with infancy if those memories are linked to a scent or an odor.
This is what I remember about my dad. How he smelled. How he smelled clean, and how he smelled after work. How his clothes smelled and how his hair smelled. The aftershave he used (Old Spice), after 19 years, will still send me reeling into a memory binge.
I remember being little--as young as the Howler is now, and cuddling up with him as he lay on the living room floor to watch TV (read: nap) after supper. I remember how, unless it was very warm and humid, he didn't mind me--except for my being "all elbows and bony knees" digging into him and stealing his rest. I suppose this is where and when those smells burrowed into my brain, waiting decades to resurface and bring me home.
Both my children, when clean, at the end of the day, smell like my dad. That particular showered-in-the-AM-but-been-up-and-alive-all-day smell. Not sweaty, or dirty, just a sweet, barely there smell that was just him. And they've both got it--some part of him that passed down through years and my DNA.
It's cliche to say, "you can never go home again" and in some ways this is true--even if you live in the same building or town where you grew up and first knew "home." It changes and you change until neither is recognizable to the other on a superficial level.
But sometimes, under that exterior, you find a crinkle of memory strong enough to allow you to see it and know it as it was. Sometimes you get moments where its as though childhood magic fills you again with belief and love for this world you grew up in. You experience it again and realize that "home" is where you are--as long as you can remember you.
The problem I have with "going" home is that I'm already there--I live in the house I grew up in. It's changed some, mostly in paint colors and the patio in the back, but it's still effectively where I grew up, and when I sit on the front porch with my Sweetie, I feel like I've become my parents.
This house is also full of tiny little crevices of memory--memories mostly of Dad, since he's been gone 19 years this month. Every so often, we clean out a cupboard or a drawer or even the entire garage and find things my dad left there. Things from my childhood, things that cause him to just fill my brain...and my eyes with tears.
Mostly, though, I'm struck with the not-so-Disneyesque circle of life. My son was 3 months old when my dad died, yet, he looks so very much like my father that he's recognized by people who, for all intents and purposes, have never slapped eyes on him. He's usually dumb-struck over this, disbelieving in their eyesight, I imagine.
I can remember when the Toad was about 2 years old, in bib overalls, toddling about the yard, and I sat on my porch steps and cried because, even then, I knew what my grandmother had seen in her son (my father) as he toddled about her yard, all those years before.
It's a powerful thing to feel that connected to a woman who died when you were 6--someone who is hazy memory flashing behind your eyes like so many fireworks on a July weekend.
Then I see my daughter--the irrepressible Howler. She is all snap and fire and motion, and I know my father would laugh himself breathless to see her (and me with her.) I feel that, as truth, most often in the months we're outside. This hurricane of motion and feeling and noise would amuse him to no end.
I've read that smell is our strongest link to memory--and that we can remember the feelings associated with infancy if those memories are linked to a scent or an odor.
This is what I remember about my dad. How he smelled. How he smelled clean, and how he smelled after work. How his clothes smelled and how his hair smelled. The aftershave he used (Old Spice), after 19 years, will still send me reeling into a memory binge.
I remember being little--as young as the Howler is now, and cuddling up with him as he lay on the living room floor to watch TV (read: nap) after supper. I remember how, unless it was very warm and humid, he didn't mind me--except for my being "all elbows and bony knees" digging into him and stealing his rest. I suppose this is where and when those smells burrowed into my brain, waiting decades to resurface and bring me home.
Both my children, when clean, at the end of the day, smell like my dad. That particular showered-in-the-AM-but-been-up-and-alive-all-day smell. Not sweaty, or dirty, just a sweet, barely there smell that was just him. And they've both got it--some part of him that passed down through years and my DNA.
It's cliche to say, "you can never go home again" and in some ways this is true--even if you live in the same building or town where you grew up and first knew "home." It changes and you change until neither is recognizable to the other on a superficial level.
But sometimes, under that exterior, you find a crinkle of memory strong enough to allow you to see it and know it as it was. Sometimes you get moments where its as though childhood magic fills you again with belief and love for this world you grew up in. You experience it again and realize that "home" is where you are--as long as you can remember you.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
I Don't Normally Do This
But I have to post pics of the cake and cupcakes I did for the Howler's birthday party. I got lots of compliments (and comments like "you're so creative" and "you must really enjoy this"). The reality of it is that I can do this sort of thing ONCE a year, and I choose to do it for the Howler.
Yeah. She's that important.
Every year, though, in the midst of being overwhelmed with things like frosting and keeping OPK busy, I regret it and wonder what I was thinking. But every year, I also know that in the long run (or, at least I hope that someday) she will remember and appreciate my stepping outside my lazy comfort zone and see it as proof that I love her immensely.
Yeah. She's that important.
Every year, though, in the midst of being overwhelmed with things like frosting and keeping OPK busy, I regret it and wonder what I was thinking. But every year, I also know that in the long run (or, at least I hope that someday) she will remember and appreciate my stepping outside my lazy comfort zone and see it as proof that I love her immensely.
When I frost a cake, the cake rolls up and into the frosting. No matter what trick or treat I ply it with, this happens. The person in our household who never (or at least rarely) has this occur was an hour away during the frosting process. I don't fault him for working (and I knew it was inevitable) but it did not lessen the Yosemite Sam-like cursing that took place during the frosting.
The bunny cake idea was shared by a co-worker, and my biggest problem (other than the frosting) was underestimating the size of the thing--It's actually sitting on a stove top griddle covered in aluminum foil. Twizzlers for the mouth and whiskers, Hershey's kisses for eyes and nose and jelly beans for the polka dots on the tie. Delitefully edible bunny. Everyone wanted a piece of the ears, so if I had to do it again, I'd make a small head and bow tie, and much longer ears. (The idea of ears alone sounds good, but when you're dealing with 6 year olds, the imagination limits itself, believe it or not.)
The cupcake idea was found on the front of our local paper's Sunday edition at the beginning of the month, and while mine are obviously not professionally done, they are a reasonable facsimilie. Tips, recipes, and instructions could be located at http://www.brightideas.com/ Since I married the "we don't need no stinking instructions" king, I didn't go to the website for instructions on how, exactly, to get the handles (red Twizzlers) into the cupcakes. We muddled through, using toothpicks inserted into the ends of the Twizzlers. The eggs in the baskets are more jelly beans, set on top of light green frosting. I would have made them more green, but the Howler was insistant on light green (apparently the "green food is gross" mentality is starting to kick in.)
So, there you have it. The fully expended culinary creativity of my year.
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