Blogging is for Dorks

Ezra

2012-02-13T17:25:00.000-08:00

This piece I wrote after a particularly emotional weekend of watching the movie Sylvia about Sylvia Plath and reading her poetry and The Bell Jar. It's entered in several fiction competitions so if I happen to win any of them I will have to take it off this site. I would love any feedback you might have and be warned, it's not a very 'nice' piece per se. Read with caution I suppose.

Ezra sat in the bar on his own, he looked creepy and sad. Unfortunately for him and for the uncomfortable patrons that shared the bar with him he looked every single inch the junkie that he in fact was. With his dark greasy head down and forehead parallel to the shiny bar he could watch his reflection ever changing along the grains of wood shellacked upon it’s surface. He himself was unsure why he came to this particular bar but it may have been the only one he could ever remember going to. As a younger man he hadn’t been very much the bar going type.

Starting at around 7pm that evening Ezra rose from his spot at the bar and made as though he were going to leave much to the satisfaction of the other clientele and the bartender. When he stood his clothing uncrumpled around him and straightened like starched garments, bland in color and in fashion. He left a dollar on the bar although he did not order a drink and walked with a lumbering gait to the restroom at the very back of the bar, ten feet away from where he had been sitting. When he exited the restroom he passed up his spot at the bar as if he were on his way out of the establishment and instead upon reaching the large mahogany doorway he made an about face, finally lifting his countenance to the appropriate human angle and took in his surroundings for a short moment. Obviously liking what he finally saw around him or making his mind up about something even unrelated to the environment he then returned to his seat at the bar, head down again, fixed gaze again. He did this about every hour on the hour until last call. Every other time he did this he would with voice exiting directly to the bar below him ask for a draft beer and a glass of water. The bartender later commented that Ezra’s voice was sure and steady, with an almost attractive quality belying his appearance.

If we could peer inside Ezra’s mind, first parting the thick swathes of brown unwashed hair, tangled upon tangles, then making a polite incision in the side of his pock marked face, marked by the uncontrollable picking he did at teenage acne, we could peal apart that marked dotted skin and the blood would flush from the parted piece and it would lay lifeless and limp from his skull, dead tissue opposing the owner’s deadened psyche.

But if we could do all that (and I’m sure that some could) we might then be privy to the fact that Ezra had suffered abuse at the hands of a much older man for many, many torturous years. Ezra was a few months older than 12 when the man his parents trusted and later took blackmailed amounts of cash from first entered him. Sometimes Ezra would be glad for the attention, shut off the pain or the embarrassment just long enough to enjoy some of the hurried caresses on his pimply cheek or equally pimply back. Other times he would black out, possibly drugged and not care until later when he felt sore and misused and sick. Then he would cry in his mother flaccid arms, breathe in the smoke she carelessly blew in his face. She would say, “There, there Ezra. Go to your room. I’m going to work.” And she did go to work, she wasn’t a fat prostitute or a careless junkie abusing Ezra in the strangely forgivable ways. She was just a tired woman who worked and had a tired husband who worked and the combined nature of the two were too uninterested and yes even too tired to care what happened to their son.

Ezra remembered his abuser better than he remembered his own father. He supposed when able to suppose anything at all that he never really looked at his father, just looked through him. He always had ample time to look at his abuser long and hard before the man would mount him sweatily. Ezra would study the man’s thin black hair which was oddly Hitleresque and if it was a toupee it surely didn’t move during this man’s heavy exacerbation upon Ezra’s orifices. His abuser had a Pekingnese nose which sparkled with snot upon ejaculation and a thin drawn mouth which oddly disappeared into the heavy recesses of his ridiculously fat chin and neck with every strange and awkward thrust.

That night at the bar Ezra didn’t think about the atrocities he endured as a child, he didn’t fill his thoughts with venomous clouds of puff for his mother’s inabilities or perhaps joint guilt, he didn’t plot revenge or feel despair.

The whole night he instead thought of a girl that he loved once. A girl that loved him too, if only for a brief moment. She gave him momentary joy and yes, although Ezra was abused and horribly scarred he had lived a fairly normal life, partied with his fairly normal friends, attending school and college with fairly normal results. It was during these college years at an fairly common college party that he met his girl. He fell in love with her almost instantly in an annoying and clichely cloy fashion. He followed her around his own house party all evening long, memorizing the lines of her round body in order to fantasize about her body while attempting to work himself into masturbatory sleepiness. Her face was generally plain but her generous mouth more than made up for it. Her clothes were bright and her shoes very boyish. Her dark hair was as generous as her mouth and stopped like puffs of clouds lingering above her shoulders as if they were threatening to rain on her.

Her friend introduced Ezra to her at some point in that casual way young people introduce each other.

“Oh, Jane. This is Ezra. This is his house.”

“His house! Ha! I had no idea. Well Ezra, thanks for letting us trash your house.” She put her arms around his slouched shoulders and he was so very glad he was sitting because she pulled his head into her breasts and gave him a tight squeeze. Why would she do that?

“Thanks. Well, whatever I mean. You can come here anytime you want. There’s a lot of people who live here.” His face burned on the inside but his pallor never changed on the outside. So strange he was.

And it was true, the giant house was given to him by his abuser to do with as he so fit. He had parties, slept in different rooms, on the floor, on the velvet purple couch with the painted golden tassels, in the top floor’s claw foot tub just because he has seen it done in the movies. People came and went, squatted there. His mother came and cleaned, left without saying a word to him. He would fill up makeshift ashtrays with half smoked cigarette after cigarette, eat whatever was in his path and then left it where he had eaten it, left it sitting discarded and then rotting. He sold drugs, bought drugs, dealt with scary large black men with even scarier larger black guns and didn’t feel one iota of fear. Didn’t feel one thing until he met Jane.

That night she said one or two words more to him but he did notice her every so often peaking her slanted small eyes at him. He had seen that type of interest on many people’s faces before, the ‘what’s wrong with Ezra?’ look, the ‘why is he like this?’ look, the pitying glances from Jane were enough to make him lock himself in the aforementioned top floor bathroom and shoot up enough dope to put him to sleep, take him to that brink of sleeping and dying he loved so much, or thought he loved so much considering he could never really remember the actual physical feeling of it.

Two days after meeting Jane she came around to his house again, this time in the day, this time wearing much less bright clothes but no less boyish shoes. Her hair shot out in two blunt horns off the back of her head and on the very top she wore a big red bow, clipped on to one curl brushed off of her forehead and pinned back the the top of her skull.

He didn’t hear her come in to his house, didn’t hear her rummage through the rickety yellowed cupboards looking for cleaning supplies and food. Didn’t hear her swear under her breath when she couldn’t find any. Didn’t hear her leave and come back again laden with bags of the supplies she had been previously searching for and bags of groceries to fill his fridge which had never seen a piece of fresh fruit once ever in four years. Ezra only saw her hours later at his sink washing the fifth load of dishes since she had started. She had made a makeshift vacuum out of a plastic weed baggy and a rubber band and swept his house with the old red sweeper his Mom had brought over months ago and had promptly forgotten about. She had scrubbed the yellowed cabinets and had found with satisfaction they were white underneath. She had cleaned every bathroom, although Ezra winced at the idea of her wading through the filth and fecal matter, the drug paraphernalia, the festering sickness of it all.

She poured him a gingerale with ice and made him a tomato sandwich with miracle whip and swiss cheese. She sat across from him at the table he never even realized was there before and watched him eat, chin resting in two adorable tiny hands. Although he was aware how ravenous and animal like he must have appeared to her he was always beyond caring what others thought about him. Not for an innate sense of being judged but rather for an innate laziness and the knowledge that people will always despise him in the end, that he was rotten inside. So why even try?

She took his clothes from his house in giant black bags and he doggedly followed her into the street and to the neighborhood laundromat, which he never had once entered. She washed his clothes, folded them, asked a neighbor for the use of some of her laundry baskets because she didn’t dare put his clothes back into the bags she originally transported them.

“Murphy’s Law Ezra. Aren’t you a biology major or something like that?”

He followed her the whole time, watching her little body sway while she sang to herself, head bobbing to the sound of whatever was in her head. She barely said a word to him the whole time but didn’t seem to dislike the fact that he was there following her.

After the laundry, filling the never used dresser like she had the never used cupboards and refrigerator she told him she would be right back and left, closely the door gently behind her.

Although fairly certain she would never come back he didn’t not return to the top floor restroom he had spent the last two days in since the party and shoot up the remainder of the mind numbing drugs. He instead went from room to room to inspect Jane’s work. The phone rang and instead of it echoing from somewhere amidst the hoarded junk and filth the phone rang clear and true from an end table in the front hall of his home. He answered it. “Hello.”

“Is this Ezra Horowitz?”, a stern voice inquired on other line.

“Ummmm....” Ezra wasn’t sure how to answer, his mind was still foggy and suspicious from the drugs.

“We’re looking for the son of Mathilda Seymour Horowitz. His name is Ezra, do you know him? Are you him?” Not so stern anymore but unmistakably impatient.

“Sure, this is Ezra.” Why not?

“Ezra, your mother was injured outside of her workplace in a drive by shooting. Obviously she wasn’t the target but she was seriously injured. She is at St. Sylvester’s on W. Brady St. Do you know where that is?” Now the voice was kinder, still impatient. Ezra wondered if the woman he was speaking with wore one of those folded nurse’s hats. Did they still wear those? Had they ever wore them or was he just imagining that? He made up his mind to ask the voice on the other line if she was wearing at hat when she abruptly interrupted his thoughts.

“Well Mr. Horowitz, your mother’s information shows you are her only contact. You should come and be with her. She’s quite damaged and sadly to say in a lot of pain.” The voice was wrapping up her call, passing the buck now. She had done all she could do.

“Thank you for calling.” And Ezra gently set the phone in the receiver. He had expected to cry upon first hearing the voice’s news but the tears in his glassy and practically colorless light eyes remained orbital, never left his lids or slid onto his cheek. He didn’t blink until they were finally dry and then he laid down on the couch to wait for Jane in the dark.

She arrived an hour later laden with more shopping bags. She had bought Ezra linens and a comforter for his bed, socks and boxers, under shirts and button up flannel shirts and three pairs of cargo pants. One grey, one olive and one khaki. She even bought him a pair of thick bulky pajama pants and a matching fluffy and almost feminine pajama hoodie.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to her. She took it without any argument and put it into her purse.

She made him noodles with butter and basil and parmasen and watched him eat just like at lunch time. She washed the dishes and they went to the only bed in the house with the new linens she had bought and made the bed together. Jane took off her clothes and Ezra took off his and went and took a shower in the tub he thought he would only ever sleep and shoot up in. Washed and fairly hygienic for the first times in years he got in bed with Jane and made her come with his mouth. She rolled and sighed and groaned but nothing was stirred in his continuously slack organ. The only thing that was stirred that night other than Jane’s clit was his heart.

The next morning when he woke up she was gone. There was oatmeal sitting in the microwave with a yellow note stuck the front of the machine. “Eat up. Enjoy your new clean house. Goodbye Ezra.”

He never saw Jane again.

Now he was sitting at the bar, thinking about her. As he stared and barely moved other than to blindly take small sips of the beers or water he ordered every other hour he imagined her like a tiny little gargoyle perched on his shoulder, making some absurd face and grimacing at the smell of him.

“This is going to be last call.” The bartender directed this at the remaining three people, Ezra and a couple at a table as far away from him as they could get and still be in the bar.

Ezra raised his head and smiled at the bartender shyly. He rummaged in his pocket, pull out a crumply and visibly dirty $50 bill on the bar and slowly smoothed it out with one large pale hand, blunt fingers making sure the edges were flattened and the bill was laying out entirely. He stood there for a moment, staring at nothing in particular and headed to the restroom once again.

Later the bartender told the police that there was only two shakes of a lamb’s tail before he heard one loud, ear shattering boom. He ran to the back to find Ezra slumped next to the bar’s one dirty urinal, terrifying black gun lying alien like on the beige and black checkered tile. His head was bloody and misshapen and his neck and back was partially slumped over his sitting body. In his left hand, unfolded and straightened out like the $50 bill on the bar was Jane’s microwave note.

“Eat up. Enjoy your new clean house. Goodbye Ezra.”

Literary Tattoos

2012-01-20T11:33:00.000-08:00

I have spent a bit of time on contrariwise.org looking at literary tattoos and coming up with what line or poem or quote from the literary vaults I would put on my body and where.

Bukowki's 'Bluebird' is perhaps my favorite poem of all time (or at least for this month) but I have found it near to impossible to pick just one or two lines from it. If you happen to know the poem or get the chance to clicky on the link, give me your favorite line or two and let me mull it over.

This guy picked one of my less favorite poems by Bukowski 'my doom smiles at me'...and an obscure line from it as well: But hey, to each their own. I do like the type font though.

Here's another Bukowski tattoo:

Which is an excerpt from Love is a Dog from Hell.

I don't like this actual tattoo but I love the poem:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) -e.e. cummings

One of my favorite quotes is from Henry James, who is also my favorite author. -I've always been interested in people, but I've never liked them.

And of course Hemingway has "There is not friend as loyal as a book."

Just because it's boring me to list these ideas I have I'll wind up with two quotes from Barrie's Peter Pan which has a very special place in my heart.
“Oh, the cleverness of me!” -Peter Pan

Peter: Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.

Wendy: Never is an awfully long time.

When the Short People begat Giants the Sixth Sign was Revealed

2012-01-06T07:14:00.000-08:00

Jeremiah and I are not very tall people. He is around 5'8" if that and I am under 5'3".

We also happen to have very tall children. Granted, three of these children do not belong to me and Jeremiah, they belong to me and my 6'5'' ex husband BUT

...this is my blog and I'll go with whatever fucking logic I want so go jump out a window or something ridiculous like that.

Or don't, which would be fine as well. Better yet maybe you shouldn't jump out a window at all, I think it would be better for both of us if you didn't do that. OK? OK.

Regardless my point is that I have this weird future vision of Jeremiah and I standing at one of our kids' graduation parties or proms, insert family occasion here, surrounding by four giants. Lovely, beautiful giants but giants nonetheless.

Our pediatrician likes to makes guesses on her patients' adult heights and rewards herself when she's right. (Talk about a long term gambling problem) So the other day she took her turn at guessing my kids' adult heights. (Also she gives herself a 2 inch leeway which is bullshit)

Rosey, my eldest daughter got the most specific height 5'8''-5'9''. She'll supposedly be our smallest child...more than 6 inches taller than me.

Olive, (who will be 9 years old on Sunday!) will be 6'0''-6'2''. And actually I might guess taller considering she has two aunts taller than that on her dad's side and she's built just like them.

Maxine Jane who was very underweight and under height (is that even a term?) for the first five years of her life consistently is now approaching giant status with gusto. She will be 5'9''-5'11''.

Elijah will be in the same approximate height category as Olive, 6'0''-6'2''.

Wouldn't it be crazy if I had birthed and raised a gaggle of super models!? I'm not sure if that's the lifestyle I would want my children to lead but hell! They might all be naturally very thin and won't have to do uppers and coke all the time to maintain their weights. Maybe they could all be those natural type thin people like Gwyneth who eat macrobiotic raw foods and do yoga and pilates.

What do you think?

Sam Cooke Says There'll Be No Second Time

2011-12-26T09:38:00.000-08:00

He walked down the sidewalk, head down and straining against the sweeping winds that were seemingly most prevalent on this particular stretch of sidewalk on the Main Street. He was layered against the weather and despite the cold he felt nauseous, over heated and he wished he had worn a lighter jacket instead of the thick green workman's hoodie he had grabbed off the bedroom floor that morning in his usual sleepy fog.

He caught his reflection in a giant glass window of one of the many abandoned store fronts on Main Street and turned his head quickly away from the man he saw there. His eyes were sunken, even more than was usual for his long, thin face. His eyes, usually a light brown, seemed black and hooded. Every full feature on his face had been reduced to bloodlessness with a serious departure of color and lightness. He looked a very stolid sort and felt that way endlessly lately, much to the chagrin of his family and co workers. They walked on glass around him, impervious to the deep, sad reasons for his recent melancholy.

He thought of her constantly and consistently and swallowed every single painful gulp of her absence, bottling it all up in his gut like a chunk of hard tack. He gave excuses to people who were concerned like “I’m just feeling blue”, “I’ll be OK, just give me time”, “It’s a passing thing” and eventually they believed him because he was considered a sometimes mercurial and solitary man.

Waiting at the crosswalk he took at his phone and stared at it, willing it to buzz in his pale lean fingers. He rubbed his thumb across the screen of the phone and winced as he thought of his thumb on the pulse of her neck while he held her face in his hands, rubbing his nose against hers, staring into her eyes that matched his once.

Later in the evening after he was good and drunk on some randomly chosen lager he pulled out the phone and tentatively composed text messages to her. “I miss you” was the only one that made any sense at all but he couldn’t bring himself to send it to her, out across buzzing electronic lines of modernity to wherever she was. He felt a pang of disgust for his emotional state and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

He had told her once in an effort to help her grieve after losing someone she had loved fiercely that it would always hurt but the hurts fades over time from a thumping throbbing pain to a vague aching feeling. His own words gave him comfort this night and although he slept fitfully without dreams he awoke in the morning with the thought of her soft lips on his chin, the strange and loving way she would brush them all over his face.

He had been happy once, fairly certain of his life goals, needs, wants. Things had been cemented for him until she jolted him out of this contented cloud of commonplace existence. A couple words on the screen of his phone, a few conversations that made them entrenched in each other so quickly and recklessly. She was the first to exhibit signs of melancholy, of strain, of sadness at their situation and in the beginning he was oblivious to it, or at least he tried very hard to be. At first he could handle her unhappiness at their situation with words and caresses, stolen moments. Over time she wasn’t happy with those moments alone and became restless and cranky. She pouted like a child and demanded his attentions and the more he withheld them the more she stared in the distance and let the tears rolls down her round fair cheeks waiting without any joy for him to wipe them away.

It wasn’t long until he met her melancholy with anger.

He ignored her more and more, smashed her pleas with silence and made her certain he was a fickle man, that everything he said to her, all the wistful romantic treatises and promises had actually been ploys and play.

They met one more time before she gave up and turned her back on him forever, arms wrapped tightly around herself and shuffling away, her chest heaving with sobs. He watched her leave with regret and a sour stomach, stood stock still and remained dry eyed and resolved.

When she started her car the music that had been blasting when she pulled up to their spot started again. Even at the distance he was from the car he could tell it was one of their shared songs, songs they had picked for one another to describe their non existent relationship, songs they cooed over and giggled at for their blatant romanticism. She looked out the windshield at him, narrow eyes swollen from crying and with one indiscernible movement of her right shoulder, right arm, the music turned off. As she pulled away he saw her throw something out the window and when she was far enough away he trudged out into the parking lot with dread at what she had tossed from her car. It was a silver CD and written on the front in her scratchy childlike scribbling was ‘My True Heart’.

Somewhere in space and time a dark couple is standing in the center of some old wooden building, a secret cold place, cold and damp. Her hands are in the pockets of her warm wool peacoat, her head is on his chest, his cheek and lips alternatively rest on the top of her head, brush her cheek and her neck, his hands are inside her coat, squeezing her waist with his finger tips. Around them are thick swirls of what looks like gasoline in a puddle, the couple oblivious of the polluted bubble thickly circling them within an orb, encasing them in that tender moment forever. A childish gesture like throwing a CD out of a car window carries enough weight to pop the greasy bubble, coating the couple in goo and separating what seemed like an endless embrace.

And like that the spell was broken, their connection was ripped and torn into ragged pieces and there they were to remain for all their separate lives, hoping the pain of being apart would fade over time from a throbbing thumping pain into a vague achy feeling.

Obsessing Over My Hair For Months and Months...so unhealthy.

2011-12-22T06:22:00.000-08:00

Remember when I got my hair cut the shortest I've ever had it and I thought it was a really big freaking deal?

Such an innocent child I was all those months ago...

It turns out that the length of my hair was the only thing preventing me from looking like a total and complete douchebag and/or Ronald McDonald. Because I'm obsessed with myself every once in a while I'll snap a webcam photo of myself and then post it on Facebook to share with everyone how very much I am unhappy with my hair and it's growth progress.

Now if I could only get someone to braid the rat tail growing down my back. And I know you might have just rolled your eyes but yes there is one.

I do have some more fiction posts coming to those of you (all three of you) that emailed me and asked for more but all three are entered in different contests and have to be released before I can publish them anywhere. I suppose I could write some more but then that would be entirely too productive.

The Confusion of Betrayal

2011-12-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

This is my featured post from last month at Studio Thirty Plus, The Confusion of Betrayal. It's short and not sweet.

Her voice was strained and remarkably unpleasant at first, something in her current situation made her angry at everyone, even people completely unrelated to it. I gulped her words down and let the anger roll over me and behind me, felt it’s heat retreating away like a winding trail into the distance.

Angel sighed and over the miles and miles of electronic waves I felt her pain and sadness.

“I’m so sorry.” She began to weep in thick snotty gurgles, the sick kind that get stuck in your throat and make you feel like a child, looking to wipe your face on anything and anyone near you. I imagined her blonde hair sticking in thick swathes to her face, weaving knots in her already unmanageable mane.

“Angel you have nothing to apologize for, none of this is your fault.” I felt the words pouring like waste out of my mouth, how pointless to parrot the cliche words meant to comfort in times like these. Couldn’t I think of something more original, more beneficial?

The sobbing continued and I could think of nothing to say. My flight instinct made me want to just hang up the phone, walk away from her and her situation, pretend like it never happened. Because the one thing about situations like Angel’s that would really get to you; once you examined them you realized that it could happen to you just as easily. I hung on and gave small sentences of encouragement, I tried to be as forthright and strong as she was weak and cowardly.

“Listen to me. I will come to you, just let me finish up my work here and I’ll just pack everything else up and come to you.” I had made a decision, that was a start.

“No! Oh God. What if he comes back?” The sobbing turned into deep and sharp intakes of breath, caught in Angel’s chest like heaving hurricanes of hysteria. She hung up the phone.

I called her back immediately and there was no answer.

I called her husband’s cell phone and there was no answer. The anger that I had dealt with so very well just a few short minutes ago now welled up in me like a surge of bitter bile.

“You fucking worthless piece of shit. You mother fucking dumb ass idiot. I wish your drunk ass didn’t have the excuse of your disease to fall back on. You knew what you were doing and I wish you would have killed the bitch you did it with, in the car that you fucked her in, while you were supposedly blacked out. I wish you were dead too.”

How very sad I was, how low I felt at this moment. I meant the words I said, I did wish he were dead for a minute, but I also wished that Angel and I were dead too. And that had nothing to do with a drunken child cheating on his lovely and perfect wife. It was about the sadness in the world and the strength and possession it takes to live with the bleakness of existing.

I called into work, rescheduling all of my clients and appointments. I felt a chill and an ache like the phantom impending flu I knew I did not have creeping up my spine and laying itself down in the base of my skull. The tears came as I packed up my stuff and continued to the car, in the car, on the drive and up Angel’s driveway. They were dried up by the time I parked the car, took notice of her husband’s car and crept around the house to the back deck, up the stairs and to the outside door to Angel’s bedroom.

I listened guiltily, almost afraid that I was in the midst of some sordid crime TV show, about to become the second victim of a husband’s rage. Instead of fear or panic I heard soft moans and sighs, something I knew from sharing a room with Angel for four years of college meant that she was being screwed by her husband, the only man she’s ever been with.

Instead of hearing her delicate pleas for more of his dick and more of his mouth from across an attic dorm room, her sighs and pants bouncing off wooden rafters in our ancient space, I was now hearing them from outside her grown up home, her house with her husband who had just betrayed her as horrifically as one could betray another. I fled their home and flew back out of the driveway and on to the road.

The tears came once more but this time they were for me alone.

I'll Prove I'm not Dead with a Couple Photos

2011-11-20T16:27:00.000-08:00

I'm not dead and although I've been consistently depressing and morose here at Blogging is for Dorks and over at Studio Thirty Plus I also have been quite busy with the oh so very bright lights of my life.

Olive, this sweet little beast...

dropped my camera last month on concrete two seconds after this photo was taken...

and it shattered all over the ground in dozens of pieces.

Rosey, this dear little girl had four adult teeth removed one day and the stomach flu the next...

she is still pretty gorgeous regardless...

and she took this photo of me that my Mom says makes me look like I have a piggy nose...

Speaking of taking photos and my Momma, she took this photo of my baby sister in the patio of my childhood domicile. I love it...

Jeremiah channeled Luke and Max channeled Yoda...both pretty successfully...

...Elijah was Spiderman for Halloween and also obviously a freaking giant, he's half as tall as me...

and this girl who's name is Maxine Jane...

...makes me proud everyday not only with her consistently excellent straight A work at school but also with the fact she no longer shits her pants and throws fits that cause me physical harm in grocery stores...

Featured Post at Studio Thirty Plus

2011-11-08T06:49:00.000-08:00

Although my blog is much, much less popular than the good old days (damn you work!) I still have a real life freelancing job and also still get the chance from time to time to write some fiction.

The Confusion of Betrayal is a short piece I wrote for Studio Thirty Plus and I'd like you to check it out and tell me what you think, if you have the time of course.

And my Keurig broke and they're sending me a new one but I have to wait three to seven days! OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! French presses every day are a pain in the ass. A delicious pain in the ass though.

Sisters

2011-11-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

They were an odd pair, the two of them. Familial circumstance had joined them in blood but their affections joined them in their hearts. And their hearts had been full.

She missed her sister. She cried at night, swallowing thick gobs of sadness with each deep breath.

She was old and weak. She didn't want to be alone anymore. She didn't want to gather the strength up each day to to pull her body out of bed.

She walked out into her yard with every inch of dignity she could muster in her flowered night gown. She fell to the ground and died with a violent spasm.

Her children mourned and her friends hoped they wouldn't die lying in their front yards dressed in an old pair of pajamas.

She walked with a proud, straight back for the first time in decades across her yard, not even stealing one glance at the sad lump in the distance behind her. She kept strong, quick strides up to the point of the vista in front of her and met her sister in a warm embrace.

They spoke no words and shed no tears. They held hands and walked into the abyss.

I Went into the Wilderness and Survived.

2011-10-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

Packing for a trip is always stressful for me. The promise just over the horizon of whatever relaxing destination awaits me is never enough to assuage the bile of tension that is rising like butterflies soaked in syrup and then put on a rickety conveyer belt that stretches from my pussy to my throat, the butterflies able to move in the confines of the syrup but only in tortured twitches and sticky thrusts.

Yep. It's that bad.

Regardless Jeremiah and I took Elijah on a weekend trip to the mountains. It was mainly uneventful, generally wonderful and very much needed. Jeremiah conquered his fear of horses (somewhat) and befriended a very old horse named Toro that wandered free around the vast acreage of our 140 year old farm house. We fished in a pond and didn't catch anything, had to drive for thirty minutes just to find a farmer's market, hiked through woods along a creek and marveled at the fact that people actually live an every day existence out there away from everything with horses and turtles and strangely the sound of non-stop gunfire all night long.

We cooked out on a bonfire and I was so proud and impressed by Jeremiah's fire building skills, we watched movies by the wood burning pot stove/fireplace thingy and I was again impressed by Jeremiah's fire building skills and we ate apple cider donuts and talked about how very dark it was outside.

At some point something magical happened in my stomach. Right after we put Elijah to bed, after I turned off most of the lights and after Jeremiah made room for me on the couch something went pop in my tummy and the grinding rickety conveyer belt with the sickly, sticky butterflies stopped. I felt Jeremiah's warmth behind me and we watched Pacific Heights on HBO and laughed at the silliness of it. We brushed our teeth together and went to bed together. We made love in the ancient bedroom of this ancient house where generations of love had been made, babies had been born, people had died.

Jeremiah went to sleep and despite the chill I went outside and sat in the pitch dark just to revel in the amazing life I have been granted and the gifts I have been given. Trials and tribulations have come my way but there is always good that comes out of the bad. I sat there contemplating these things until the gun shots resumed again in the distance and I high tailed it inside, locked all the doors and woke up Jeremiah just to be sure that he was aware of my frightening experience.

Love Makes You Crazy in the Head (thus spaketh the six year old)

2011-10-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

And now on to something completely different...

If you've read my blog from time to time you might notice a reoccurring "I have a hard time with Maxine Jane" theme. She's is my six year old daughter, the sometimes bane of my existence, always the love of my life but most often difficult and precocious.

The other day she got in trouble and wasn't allowed to go somewhere with Jeremiah, Elijah and Olivia while Rose was at soccer. She had to stay home with me which is tantamount to being gravely punished. I decided to take her for a walk just the two of us and five blocks away she said she had to pee. We turned around and walked back to the house.

"Maxine Jane, sometimes you make my head spin like crazy." I looked at her and smiled goofily to let her know I wasn't mad, just crazy.

"Hmmm, that just means you love me a lot." She's crazy smiling now too.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep and that means you must really, really love Jeremiah because he makes you the craziest in your head."

Six years old and wiser than I am. I wonder when that wisdom starts fading? I'm guessing 11 because when Max recounted the story to Rosey she just rolled her eyes.

"Making someone crazy in the head isn't going to make anyone like you more ever. They're just going to be annoyed and nobody likes someone who is annoying." Rose speaks these words with the emphasis on words like AN-NOY-ing and NO-body.

Is Rosey more or less wise than Max? Or is it just dependent on personality? It is a dichotomy and maybe even a mystery.

Grief

2011-10-03T09:53:00.000-07:00

The sun glared through the windows and into my eyes but I did not look away. I did not close my eyes. They watered and even hurt a bit and I still did not care. The spots formed and I felt nauseous and faint.

I finally closed my eyes and sat down on the pale yellow window seat, the cool painted wood under me woke me a bit from my state and I tried to form thoughts.

Nothing came.

The days' consistencies meant nothing to me. I spoke words to concerned people and did not know what I was saying or remember why I was saying them. I went to bed, got up and vomited in the toilet and got back into bed over and over again for days on end.

Or at least it felt like days, it could have very well been moments, seconds, fleeting incalculable snippets of time flying over my head like electric beams of fast moving nothingness.

When this melancholy lifted I began to see small random things in focus. The water I drank for sustenance seemed so much better when I mixed orange juice and lime juice in with it, I remembered I loved that so much.

I changed my clothes and got in the shower, used the kids coconut shampoo and scrubbed and scrubbed my body with Dove soap over and over again until the water started to turn cold. Dove soap reminded me of being in the hospital after giving birth. That first tender shower with a nurse outside your door and your mother just beyond her, making sure you were OK. The sweat and the medicinal smells of labor and delivery wash over you and are replaced with Dove soap. Your breasts ache and your asshole aches and you feel like you might just pass out. Thinking the posted nurse outside your door wasn't such a bad idea, gingerly stepping out of the thickly tiled shower without lifting one leg too high.

After the shower things were clearer. I turned on the small cream lamp on a very short table next to my bed and laid myself down. The sheets smelled of spit and greasy hair. I got up, stripped the bed and put new sheets on, took a basket of clothes to the basement and began to do laundry.

The sun outside had turned to clouds and rain in an opposite rendering of my present state of mind. The clouds in my head were clearing, but I was not sure of the weather that would present itself once they did.

I went back to my room and laid in bed once more. I smelled nothing but coconut and Dove soap. The tears came again but this time I did not vomit. I sobbed gently and fell asleep.

When I awoke the sun was again in my face, but this time I looked away. I turned my back to the window and stripped off my clothes, let the warmth play across my naked back. I took another shower, brushed my teeth and drank more orange juice with lime. The bitterness of the first few sips mixed with the remnants of tooth paste made me aware suddenly of the day and the time.

I made phone calls and plans to begin my life over again. I never felt the same again.

Sara

2011-09-15T15:41:00.000-07:00

Bob Dylan was a confused young man who did a lot of drinking and drugging and sexing and then one day he met Sara. He loved her so much he gave up that part of his life and made a home with her. He wrote this song for her:

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

They loved each other very passionately and fiercely which we all know results in some fighting and making up. He went back on tour and left her and how ever many children they had with promises of a clean life on the road and returning to her the same sane good man. He never came home. He started up with the same lifestyle and told her horrible things late in the evenings when she finally could get him on the phone. He wasn't coming home.

He got in a horrible, horrible motorcycle accident and Sara rushed to his side. Some people might think she was idiotic, I think she was brave. She nursed him back to health and they had more children and more idyllic years together in their charming home in Woodstock NY. Then he went on the road again and he didn't come home again. This time she followed him and confronted him. He agreed to let her out on the road with him.

The drank and fought and were messy and unhappy. Sara returned home and he said he didn't want to be with her ever again, he was never coming home. He hated her. She told everyone, even her children that he was never coming home again. Then he came home. She relented and said just one more time. Then he wrote this for her:

I laid on a dune I looked at the sky
When the children were babies and played on the beach
You came up behind me, I saw you go by
You were always so close and still within reach.

Sara, Sara
Whatever made you want to change your mind
Sara, Sara
So easy to look at, so hard to define.

I can still see them playing with their pails in the sand
They run to the water their buckets to fill
I can still see the shells falling out of their hands
As they follow each other back up the hill.

Sara, Sara
Sweet virgin angel, sweet love of my life
Sara, Sara
Radiant jewel, mystical wife.

Sleeping in the woods by a fire in the night
Drinking white rum in a Portugal bar
Them playing leapfrog and hearing about Snow White
You in the marketplace in Savanna-la-Mar.

Sara, Sara
It's all so clear, I could never forget
Sara, Sara
Loving you is the one thing I'll never regret.

I can still hear the sounds of those Methodist bells
I'd taken the cure and had just gotten through
Staying up for day in the Chelsea Hotel
Writing "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" for you.

Sara, Sara
Wherever we travel we're never apart
Sara, Sara
Beautiful lady, so dear to my heart.
How did I meet you ? I don't know
A messenger sent me in a tropical storm
You were there in the winter, moonlight on the snow
And on Lily Pond Lane when the weather was warm.

Sara, Sara
Scorpio Sphinx in a calico dress
Sara, Sara
You must forgive me my unworthiness.

Now the beach is deserted except for some kelp
And a piece of an old ship that lies on the shore
You always responded when I needed your help
You gimme a map and a key to your door.

Sara, Sara
Glamorous nymph with an arrow and bow
Sara, Sara
Don't ever leave me, don't ever go.

Of course he did it to her again, but this time she didn't let him come home. Why this time? What made it different? Did he wear her down? Was he prone to self destruction and she just got in his way? What if he had stopped drinking and carousing? Maybe she wasn't as good and wonderful as I just made her seem and did wretched things to him so he did wretched things back. We'll never know.

I do know that I love those songs. I know that he loved her and she loved him. That they made a happy home and cherished each other. That addiction is horrid and a menace. That nothing is ever simple and things are always changing. People are always changing and then changing again. There is no end and you just have to try and try again. Again and again and again.

You need something to open up a new door, to show you something you seen before but overlooked a hundred times or more. -Bob Dylan

My Garbage Gnome

2011-09-07T07:29:00.000-07:00

Over the years of blogging, networking and making friends a few people have mentioned that I have nice skin. I'm pretty sure that totally and completely jinxed me because around the time of my 30th birthday I started getting zits all over my face. I've tried a bunch of different shit and it seems like nothing works.

There's this avocado mask thingy though that doesn't really get rid of my zits but does make my skin feel very soft, so about 30 minutes before I take a shower I apply the mask and then my kids all go crazy about how funny I look with green shit all over my face. It never gets old for them either. I only shower a couple times a week, so maybe that's why it remains hilarious.

Regardless, last night I applied the mask, sat and talked with Jeremiah for a bit, withstood the children's taunts and then locked the door behind Jeremiah when he left to go skate. I settled the kids into Olive's room with the Wii and apples, got my favorite towel out, undressed and got ready to start the shower. There are two large tall windows in our bathroom facing the street and something behind the blind caught my attention.

Jeremiah had put the garbage out the night before but because of the holiday the garbage collectors were running a day late. A white minivan was crookedly parked in front of our garbage and inside the minivan I could see many, many garbage bags filling the interior.

"What the fuck!" I was kind of startled and ran into my room to grab my robe. Back in the bathroom I peek out the window again and now found the driver of this trash laden minivan going through our trash cans. The perpetrator's appearance was almost as shocking as her actions; heavy and wearing a plum purple sweatsuit, brown hair in a perfect bowl cut, of an indeterminable age somewhere above age 35 and one arm and hand much smaller than the other. I stared in wonder as she began to actually tear open bags and pull out trash.

I don't know if this is exclusive to families with children, but our trash is freaking disgusting. Maxine still wets the bed and there are often urine soaked pull ups in the trash, not to mention Jeremiah's recent sardine fetish and Elijah's recent stomach flu which resulted in two shopping bags full of vomit. And this lady is ripping open these bags and sticking her hand into them.

I could not rip myself from the window but felt I should do something. My avocado green face mask and threadbare robe (which I've had since Rosey's birth 11 years ago) made it impossible to go out and confront my Garbage Gnome. And yes, I very well could have put some clothes on and went out anyways but I am most assuredly a coward.

Instead I called our neighbor and buddy Donnie to go peruse the situation. I see him exit his house and talk to her in low concerned tones. From the window I could see her wipe her mouth with her good hand, the hand that has been rooting through our disgusting filth. Donnie leaves her at it and he calls me a minute later.

The Garbage Gnome has given him a very sad story about how her back was broken, her husband left her and she had no money. She was going around trying to collect cans to hand in for money. She assured him she wasn't an identity thief and he warned her about how potentially dangerous garbage could be. This worry for her was made even more serious by the fact that he espied maggots crawling on her arms. MAGGOTS FROM MY TRASH!

Although I felt some sympathy and at one point even considered running her out some cash, I was still concerned that this was happening. I mean an identity thief wouldn't admit to being one. But my cowardice prevented me from doing anything other than calling my Daddy to tell him what was happening and watching her throw cans into her car madcap. *do not yell at me for not recycling this month, it's a long story*

My Gnome finally finished thoroughly soaking herself with urine and vomit from my garbage and painfully spent another two minutes just getting into her minivan. The car literally lurched off into the distance and I was left with mixed feelings.

She had put the garbage back so it wasn't strewn everywhere, but there were still open garbage bags sitting out in front of our house. I'm pretty sure she wasn't trying to steal information and considering I did see her taking cans kind of confirms this. Also, her minivan was fairly new and in great shape. Except for the mountains of trash inside, of course. This further confused me.

What would you have done? When I told Jeremiah about the incident he half jokingly said I should have called the police.

But then the police officers, my neighbor and the Garbage Gnome would have joined my children in mocking my green face mask and my late onset acne.

Purple is Depressing for the First Day of School?

2011-08-31T07:12:00.001-07:00

This year's first day of school was especially poignant for us because it was one of my Grandma's favorite days. She loved either being here to see them all dressed and ready for school or the phone was ringing while I was walking in the door from the bus stop to hear about who was wearing what and which shoes and how their hair was fixed.

My Grandmother passed away this June and it still is a very tender subject for myself, my children and my extended family, being that she was above and beyond just a Grandma...but alas.

Rose and Max decided to wear purple today to commemorate Grandma because purple was her FAVORITE color. Trust me folks, have you ever seen a deep purple painted bedroom with matching deep purple satin comforter? I read once that purple in a bedroom is depressing and I told my Grandma that. She laughed pretty hard and then said, "I have medication for that."

Olivia didn't have anything purple and said that, "Purple looks better on them anyways, I like pink!" Hot pink it is Olive.

Elijah isn't going to school this year or the next and was pretty sad to see his sisters go. I packed him a lunch last night while I packed the girls' and he's keeping it by his side until lunch time. It's propped up against his bat cave where he is playing as we speak.

Happy First Day of School to anyone out there with children that started today! It will be chaos when they come home and start shoving papers in your face and complaining about how their new shoes hurt their feet. Ah. School.

My Golem

2011-08-15T07:32:00.000-07:00

I sat in the dark, late into the evening on our grey porch shaped like my favorite Tetris piece. Atop an uncomfortable green plastic chair, my short legs wrapped under my body slightly numb from the strange position, I stared out into the night. In my right hand was my Kindle, but my thoughts were not on the fantastical words of a strange, fat man in a cap on the digital page. I was instead thinking of my Love, slumbering fitfully one wall and two rooms away from me. I was pondering on his disposition and his variable thoughts and found myself wistfully longing that I could read his mind. Not every moment and never over intrusively, but perhaps for just fleeting seconds so I could feel how he feels, see how he sees.

It was while I was contemplating this sought after supernatural gift that I noticed the creature perched on our porch ledge like a long, lean gargoyle. Like a gargoyle in stance but more like a shadow in form, it sat still as a dark puddle on a black top in an empty parking lot. I thought at first it was there to remind me of something, like the rubber bands my father wears on his left wrist and yet I could not place what it was that I should be remembering. Maybe instead it was a forewarning, but like the lack of epiphany about the remembrance, I couldn’t decide whether it was a ominous warning or a auspicious one. Not wanting it to grow any larger there in front of me, feeding it with my interest or my fear, I stood up and turned my back on it, walked with a steady gait to our front door and let myself into to our bright house. For no reason I can decipher, I held the door open and let it creep in behind me. I set my Kindle down on the front desk, turned off all the lights around our first floor, locked the front door and made my way up the stairs to bed.

I know the golem is here with me somewhere and I know I let it into our home, but I don’t know why.

Sleepless, Restless

2011-08-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

12:15 AM
I finished watching Mad Men Season One Episode Nine, put the finishing touches on an order and packaged it, turned out all of the lights, locked all of the windows and doors and made my way up to bed.

I went into each of the kids' rooms and checked that each one of them was sleeping comfortably, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Jeremiah had fallen asleep watching TV in a swath of sheets in our gameroom and I hated to wake him so I had the whole bed to myself. After sharing a bed on and off with various small beast like children I finally have a no kid bed.

12:30 AM
I laid down in bed, set the alarm on my phone and carefully placed it under Jeremiah's pillow and turned on the TV. I tossed and turned, flipping restlessly through the channels. Ancient Aliens? No.

Scarface? Again? Really? How many times can one watch Scarface?

Teen Mom? Fuck you.

1:00 AM
I got out of bed, got a glass of water, turned on the lamp and set my laptop up to watch more Mad Men in bed.

2:00 AM
Maxine Jane starts screaming bloody murder from her room. I run in to find her on the floor, wrapped and writhing in layers of sheets.

"Max! What happened? And why do you have so many sheets?"

"I was cold and I went into Rosey's room and then in the closet and got more sheets."

"Max, there's a whole pile of blankeys next to your bed, within your grasp for that reason!"

Why am I arguing with a six year old at 2:00 AM?

"OK Baby, back in bed."

2:30 AM
After folding the many sheets Max had thieved from various rooms around our house, tucking her in with her own blankeys, getting her a drink and kissing and hugging her goodnight many times, I finally am ready to get back in bed. Put away the laptop and realize my Kindle is downstairs. Go get Kindle, see lights flashing in front of the house. The police are across the street and down three houses where there have been many numerous incidents before. Mostly a couple and their drunken friends fighting over indecipherable topics. I become entranced with the hullabaloo, unable to leave my perch at the front window.

3:00 AM
The police disband and I go back to bed. Forgot my Kindle again, decide to try and force myself to sleep with complete dark. End up getting extra pillows from the linen closet and lining them up all around my body. Fall asleep almost immediately, enclosed in a pillow fence, just like as if I had any of my loved ones in bed with me. So much for loving the freedom of a no kids bed.

7:00 AM
Wake up to Maxine perched beside me on the pillow to my left.

"Momma? Why do you have all these pillows in your bed?"

"I don't know Max, why did you have all the sheets in your bed last night?"

The Most Royal Servant

2011-07-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

I went to my Grandma's house to visit my Pappy for the first time since the funeral last month. The kids and I were at the park and I just started driving there like we were going to stop for a snack after running around in the sun and playing in the crick. I pulled up in front of the house and a cloudy veil of tears lowered itself in front of my eyes before I even realized the real truth of the matter. My Grandma wasn't there, she wasn't even still walking this very earth.

I weathered through it so I wouldn't make the kids sad and sat on the couch and visited with my Pappy. I didn't do my customary walk into the kitchen to ransack the fridge, I didn't go upstairs and lay in her bed on the giant silky royal purple comforter, I just sat there and talked and shushed the kids and told them to be calm.

Olive wanted a drink ten minutes in and it had been a hot day, so I went into the kitchen and lost it. My chest shook with sobs and my face burned red. I don't know if I am just sad or mad as well at my inability to get over this loss, maybe I never will. Rosey came in after me and hugged me, my darling serious 11 year old daughter comforted me and told me it was OK to cry. I sat down for a moment and looked around the room and cried some more. I had sat in that room and helped my Grandma cook great feasts, small treats, saltines and butter, pickles and american cheese. She had a TV mounted in the top corner of the room and listened to the news, different cooking shows or religious broadcasts, sometimes I would wake up in the morning in her bed and just listen to her below me in the kitchen, praying to herself or cussing out some stupid politician.

I was snapped out of my moment of grief by a yell from the living room:

"MOMMA! WHERE IS MY DRINK!?!?" Olive is whining to the point of tears herself.

"MOMMA! CAN I HAVE A DWINK TOO?!?!?! WHY DOES OLIVIA GET A DWINK AND NOT ME????" Max chimes in lovingly.

"MAGOO! GET THEM CHOCOLATE MILK, IT'S ON THE FRIDGE DOOR!" Pappy is the loudest of them all...

I guess maybe I have a little piece of my Grandma to carry around with me forever at the bidding of my family. The Most Royal Servant.

Rethinking Working at Home and Another Major Giveaway!

2011-07-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

Right now I am supposed to working on a RUSH assignment in my makeshift studio/office space Jeremiah set up in our bedroom for me. It's cluttered and fairly disorganized and since I work at home it's probably not the best setting. Rose is lying on my bed next to my work area playing DS with the headphones on, Elijah is attempting to make a ladder off of my bed with sheets from his toddler bed tied together, Olivia is in the bathroom down the hall looking in the mirror and singing to herself and Maxine just entered the room arms laden with various bags of cheese, salami and crackers.

"MOMMA! Can we have a picnic in your room?"

No Maxine Jane, you can not.

I'm really rethinking this whole working at home thing. I thought I would save money on food, clothes and gas (not to mention the fact that I have made a conscious decision not to have a car, also rethinking that) working at home. Also I wouldn't have to find someone else to care for my kids, which saves money as well...plus there are enough kids here to be a small daycare regardless.

So when I decided to finally get a job at age 30 and put to use some of the education I worked so very hard receiving, this became my work space:

If you aren't in the 'know' (ha) and are wondering why a translator/transcriptionist needs a thousand buttons and boxes of yarn, I also have a shop where I make custom stuffed animals, baby gifts, blankets and more: Dork Designs

My only decoration is this strip of photos from the wedding Jeremiah was best man in and I just now noticed there is an amp hidden under my desk! Jeremiah!

Lunch. I love owls, I'm so 2010.

Notice some super cute custom stuffed creatures in the above photos? Kristine from the infamous Wait in the Van is doing a beyond awesome giveaway featuring one such stuffed monster from my shop! Go and enter so you can win your own Dork Designs creature handmade by me and some other super fun summer kids items! Cure for the Summer Blues Giveaway!

Not a Whore Giveaway and a Summer Monster Sale!

2011-06-29T07:30:00.000-07:00

Right now Rose is screaming at Maxine to leave her alone, Olive is on the home computer downstairs endlessly using doggelganger.co.nz to find all of our dog counterparts and Elijah is pacing back and forth in front of my desk in my office telling me how hungry he is. Ahhhh the joys of summer.

After I finish my work for the day we will clean the house and take a walk to the store and the library, which will also be excellent and relaxing, I am sure.

In other news Trista is doing a Giveaway for a tee from my shop Dork Designs over at her newly designed site: Tristachio: Just a Family of Nuts

In further even more complicated and involved news I have more stuffies available! A job really complicates stuffed creature making, doesn't it?

I am offering these two monsters to you for a discounted price before I put them up on my website so be sure to tweet this or share this on facebook!
You can buy one for $28 or both for $50! If you would like to custom order a monster with your own colors and input it will be $40. All monsters are made with all natural supplies and vintage buttons. Maxine sleeps with hers every night (photo of her with said monster below)! If you are interested in either one that is currently available or in ordering a custom monster, you can contact me one of many ways. Email me at oliverosetree@yahoo.com, use the custom order form on my actual site or you can comment here with your email and I'll get back to you! I make things so easy for my loved ones, don't I?

Maxine with her birthday monster, it has fangs and a black soul...just like her!

A Brave Hair Cutting Act

2011-06-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

I am by no stretch of the imagination a brave person. I am incredibly afraid of spiders, brake the whole time I'm riding down a hill on my bike, I stand on the sidewalk and motion all the drivers to keep going and wait till the road is clear before I cross...the list is practically endless.

I get my hair cut very, very rarely and when I do it's usually the same medium length, just above the shoulders bob that I've been getting since high school. Under the influence of a very pushy friend I decided to do something I considered brave, I chopped off all of my hair and got the first 'hair style' I've ever had in 30 years. This might not seem like a big deal to most of you out there, but to me it was rather huge. I took in a recent-ish photo of Michelle Williams and told the girl to do to me as she saw fit.

This is the result:

To those of you who are my Facebook friends, forgive the over use of this photo, I haven't taken any others yet!

What do you think?

Maxine, Scarier than Audition

2011-06-21T07:52:00.000-07:00

Some of you might know that the now six year old Maxine Jane is a huge Hayao Miyazaki (Studio Ghibli)fan and a fan of a lot of other kid friendly animation and characters from Japan as well.

But what you and I both didn't know is that when Maxine Jane is alone with a camera she becomes a feared creature straight from Japanese Horror movies!

Steel thyself!

Okay, so this one is not so scary...

In Memoriam: The End

2011-06-13T09:26:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone for sticking with all of my sad and morbid posts regarding my Grandmother and her decision to discontinue the transfusion treatments that were keeping her alive. She passed away on Tuesday June 7th around 6 pm with all of her daughters and two of my cousins with her. Her memorial ceremony was emotional and I overcame the urge (somehow) to grab her urn and run out of the church and hide them somewhere so I could keep her all to myself forever and ever. I'm sure my kids and everyone else there (except for maybe Jeremiah) would have been pretty shocked to see me run headlong out of a very crowded church into the neighboring fields in my funeral garb clutching the urn against my chest.

I had the honor of speaking at the memorial service, 'honor' meaning my Grandma asked me to do while on her death bed, so how could I really say no? It went better than I thought, I didn't blubber through it and I hope she would have enjoyed it very much. I'll share it with you today and then I promise, no more depressing death posts!

Thank you everybody for joining our family today to celebrate my Grandma Bert’s life and the fact that she has a new life in heaven with God, something she’s been looking forward to and talking about all of my life. My Momma tells me that this eulogy is supposed to be more than about my own personal relationship with my Grandma, but it’s hard to see beyond that for me. She was a big part, one of the biggest parts of my life and I feel like most everything I do is contingent on something she taught me, or taught my Mother to teach me.

I have compiled a list of things that your Mother, your Wife, your Aunt, your Cousin, your Friend, your Grandmother, my Grandmother was the best at.

Painting nails. She always had this magical collection of nail polishes on her dresser, flanking the perfumes and the powder compacts, like pawns marching in a perfect colorful order.

Putting up/Taking down wall paper. If anyone in our family, extended family or hell, anyone we knew at all needed help with their wall paper, my Grandma was on hand.

Putting together the perfect outfit. My grandma was always dressed impeccably, she took such pride in her appearance she would usually change into a housecoat as soon as she came home from whatever she was doing to properly preserve her clothes. I’ve seen all of my aunts do this. I know that my grandparents didn’t have much money when their children were small, but if you see photos of my aunts, my uncle and my mother, you would have thought they were very rich. New socks and shoes, ironed smocks and dresses, coordinating church outfits. Pappy Jack’s hair was always cut right, Grandma probably spent more money on her hair and her shoes than I could ever in two or three of my lives.

Act like a lady. She might have been loud and crass with us kids or when she was mad at Pappy Jack, but she was always a lady. “Sit like a lady!” she told me so many times at church or out visiting on our weekends together. I say it at least once a day to any of my three daughters and sometimes to my baby sister.

One of the best things you can do as a person is make people feel good by waiting on them, taking care of them. My Grandma loved my Pappy with a fierceness and loyalty that was unmatched. She might have swore at him, given him a little swack, argued with him more times than I can count, but she still made his breakfast, lunch and dinner, cleaned his clothes, took care of his house and raised his children to the best of her ability so that they became the excellent people who raised their own children with the lessons she taught them. One time when I was pregnant with my youngest child, my son Elijah, Jeremiah and I went to the store and left my youngest girl Maxine Jane with Grandma and Pappy. I was nervous to do this because Max is considered a difficult or spirited child, but Grandma was insistent. We came home a short time later and Max had been bathed and perfumed and was laying in a sea of sheets in front of the TV, one arm propped up on a pile of pillows so that her hand could reach the bowl of cheese crackers next to the pillows with the smallest possible effort. (mimick the scene) The woman fed me till I was 13. She rocked me in her lap until I was too big to hold. I’m sure a lot of people in this room, especially all of my many cousins, know what it is like to be loved unconditionally because of the adoration and attention she gave us all.

Babies are God’s gift to us, take care of them. She taught us all how to swaddle a baby, how to rock a baby, how to bathe a baby. Can I see a raise of hands if Grandma has bathed your baby? She gave my two oldest daughters their first baths and even bathed Katelynn in the hospital because there was a baby boom and they were short on nurses. The doc handed Kate to Grandma and said “Do you know how to bathe a baby?” I can only imagine the brightness on her face at that moment. “Of course I know how to bathe a baby!”

So it’s obvious to anyone who knew her that she was the type of person who could make you feel so special, so unique that you felt like you had her all to yourself, that she was just yours for however long you had to spend with her. I thought this until I would go to church with her, or when we were visiting Great Aunt Lula in the nursing home and it dawned on me that she was the type of person that everyone loved, that everyone wanted in their life, that everyone remembered and set apart as someone special. I learned that I would have to share her with the world and now we all with have to share her with God.

She’s told all of us here that God has been building a giant beautiful house in heaven for her with rooms enough for Pappy Jack all of her children and grandchildren to share someday. I’m thinking of her right now in heaven hanging out with God in the giant kitchen she always wanted, drinking coffee at the kitchen table, making pecan tasseys for me, halupki for everyone and liver and onions for Pappy Jack. It will be a wonderful day when we can all share that house together and get to be with her forever.

Thank you for coming and before you leave, give my Mom, my Aunt Pam, my Aunt Lori, my Aunt Robin, my Uncle Dubby and my Pappy a big hug. My grandma was a loving, hugging person and would greatly appreciate this gesture. Just go up to one of them and squeeze the crap out of them, it be well worth it, considering she taught each one of them how to hug just right.

Straight A Students!

2011-06-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

Well she's not dead yet and it sucks and it's painful. That's my Grandma update.

In other happier and less completely demoralizing news, my three school aged children have finished their 4th, 2nd and Kindergarten years of school with a fabulous splash of success.

All three got straight A's (or the Kindergarten equivalent of 'secure') and I couldn't be more proud.

Rose's teacher was a first year teacher and was more then complimentary in the comments section of Rose's report card:

Your work ethic is just one reason why the rest of the students look up to you. You were an absolute joy to have in class and I am extremely proud of you. Have an awesome summer!

Rose and I were reading this together and gloating over how wonderful it was of the teacher to say those nice things when we both look up to a crying Olivia. The only comment anywhere on her year end report card or papers was:

Have a great summer!

I did my best to cheer her up, but was very conscious of the fact that her teacher had problems with her from the very start of school. I had a few phone calls and notes and finally a conference about the fact that Olivia had a hard time concentrating, listening and following directions. "She's just always off in her own world." I laughed when I heard that, because I feel like Olivia has a mark of an awesome person, a day dreamer...I suppose what might help would be a change in her work ethic and I suppose I'll have to work on that with her. I would just hate to change her any. She's maddening at times, but she's just Olive and that's awesome.

Maxine could have cared less what her teacher said about her and that's kind of a good thing. Her teacher has sent many notes home to me that Max is talking too much, not listening and being too bossy with the other kids in her class. After countless talks with Max about this, I've come to the realization that there is nothing I can do about it. She has no idea what the teacher is talking about at all. Her teacher's end of the year comment was:

Thank you for being a unique and exceptional child. Please work on your bossiness and make me proud in first grade by being nicer and quieter during the school day and by not getting in trouble with your teacher!

I read this to Maxine and she just shrugged her shoulders.

"Momma, I think that note is for another kid. Maybe Brianna. She's the bossy one."

Oy vey.

I used to ask my Grandmother in times of panic about something Max had done or when she wouldn't eat for days or when she would cry for hours for no apparent reason: "What am I going to do with her?!" And my Grandma would say, "Love her, Erin. That's all you can do."

A Special Thanks AND an Update-ish Thingy

2011-05-28T07:29:00.001-07:00

I wanted to say thank you so very much to all the people who commented and emailed me about my last post. It means a lot to me and is so very appreciated.

A special thank you to my kind of boss Jules from Mean Girl Garage for her support.

and

To Logical Libby, the Libster herself, for thinking of me.

and of course

to my B.I.F. Beckerino from Steam Me Up Kid for being kind of less douchey to me lately. I said less, but she's still a complete tool.

My grandmother has stabilized for the moment, but because she can not survive without the transfusions, she could pass away any day. My heart aches and I'm not sure why I can't feel better.

Getting back to some work this week has helped, but of course in my rush to fill my mind with something other than mucky, murky sadness, I double booked all of my time and I've now been working straight through everyday. Jeremiah has been a saint taking over the child stuff. Now if only he could type 80 plus words per minute so I could take a nap.
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I did, however, get back to writing for Sprocket Ink this week and regaled the site with some interesting information on philandering politicians who like to embarrass their families by spreading their seed...over and over again. Check my pieces there and all the other hilarious writers work as well!

As I mentioned before my grandmother has been a very integral part of my life and I've written about her before, if you would like to revisit those posts and see a little bit about this great woman I'm currently losing to death, have at it.

Breakfast Memories

Not so Funny Story About My Grandma

This is one of my favorite photos of my grandma, she bopped me over the head with the pictured wand after I shot the photo of her, mad that I had snuck a photo. But you can see in her face she's not really mad...

They Tell Me My Grandmother is Dying

2011-05-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

My grandmother announced last week that she is right with God and wants to stop receiving the blood transfusions that are keeping her alive. Within a day of hearing this, shaking it off and assuming she'd change her mind, she was entering a hospice and had met with her children and her doctor about DNR's, morphine and just how long she might live. The prognosis was not good, no more than a few weeks.

Despite all this very logical and purely factual information, I'm operating under the belief that she will not die, that her body will miraculous overcome the rare and supposedly fatal blood disorder her genetics have so cruelly bestowed upon her. Jeremiah seems worried about me, about how I feel, about how this type of thinking is harmful to me and to the kids.

The girls have thankfully been at their Dad's house all weekend. Jeremiah, Elijah, Rosey, Olivia, Maxine and I met my ex husband at the hospice on Friday night so the girls could visit Grandma in case she would die over the weekend. Rosey was so brave, laid in bed with Grandma for a very long time, crying silently. Olivia was not so brave, but you can't really blame her. She was inconsolable and even chocolate cookies couldn't cheer her up. Her Dad finally carried her away in a bundle of tears, red splotches and snot covered red tangles. It was strange watching him walk away from that place, carrying that tall, limby 8 year old like a little baby.

Maxine said, "Bye Grandma Bert. Can we leave yet?" She was pleased, however, that my Momma gave her cookies, cheez doodles and pop in the hospice's family room/kitchen area. Just writing this made me cry more than watching Olive in the throes of despair, my Grandmother should have been in the family room feeding Maxine junk with her own hands like a mother bird and a baby bird. This woman literally fed me my lunch until I was 13, would rock me in her lap when I was bigger than her. She's not very old for a great grandmother, just turned 75 on March 4th. Her mother in law was a 100 when she died, still gardened almost until the very end, that of course has nothing to do with my Grandma Bert. Her genetics are tainted by the very early deaths of both of her own parents.

I know I should be glad I've had all this time with her, I know I should be glad that she was there when I was born (and missed Bingo that night too!), I know I should be glad that she was there when Rose was born 11 years ago today (Happy Birthday Rosey!), I should be glad that I got to sing her so many songs, I should be glad that she and I slept together in the same bed and talked for hours on end, I should be glad she was there to talk to when Maxine had colic, or wasn't gaining weight. When I think of my Grandmother, I see her with one of my new babies in her arms, swaddling them tight against her and humming to them in her strange guttural tones. Or waking the baby up so she could see their eyes open, peeling off their clothes and running her painted fingernails across their tummies, just waiting to gaze into their eyes.

Right now I am sitting in her rocking chair, which my Pappy Jack gave her when I was born. "Every Grandma should have a rocking chair." I'm going to ask my Momma if I can have the photo of her rocking me in that chair.

If my Grandmother ever dies, of course. I'm fairly certain she will not.

The Strange Things People Say to Me...

2011-05-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

Going to weddings or even doing brave things like leaving the house for more than a walk around the neighborhood might be a big part of other people's daily existences, but is certainly not part of my life. My fun outings consist of walking to the post office or taking a drive with Jeremiah to get groceries.

So last weekend attending a rehearsal dinner, staying at a stranger's house, spending the day with more strangers and then attending a wedding and reception freaking blew my mind. I also came to realize that people say the strangest things to me. Maybe I look like the type of person who won't be offended, or maybe I look like a good secret keeper? Regardless of why, here are some things that were said to me last weekend.

"OH MY GOD! You're 30? I thought for sure you were no older than 28!" -drunk girl at our reception table of people the Bride and Groom didn't want anywhere near them

"You do have that extra Mom padding back there, good for you!" -older women who befriended me at the wedding, remarking about how I look too young to have four kids

"You're not married? Well honey, if he ain't asked you yet, no way he's going to." -evil 2nd cousin of the bride's 2nd cousin

"Oh yeah, but it's no big deal. Some men don't want to get married to women who have kids already." -another evil cousin

"What's your name again? You're seriously my best friend and the coolest person I've ever met." -drunk groomsman

"You don't do shots? Fucking pussy."-same drunk groomsman

Also, one other weird thing, we went to bed much, much earlier than everyone else that came back to the Bride and Groom's house with us. They were up till dawn doing God know what, but I know it included Heavy D and the Boys and the Charles and Charge TV theme. The next morning I heard the drunk groomsman mentioned above stumble into the bathroom. I happened to look at my phone for the time right after he started peeing. I was laying back down with Jeremiah when I realized that the dude was still peeing! I looked at my phone and two minutes had past. Then I was totally enraptured. Two minutes might not seem like a long time, but time how long you pee next time and compare. He continued peeing for an astounding 4 minutes and 24 seconds. He also grunted ALOT. Poor fellow.

This is How We Do it....

2011-05-03T06:56:00.000-07:00

If you've been keeping up with this site you'll have noticed two things:

1: I'm a total bummer and a whiny turd headed turd. I spent the last two months complaining about going to a wedding, which was this past weekend, and ended up having a pretty good time. Illustrated by my extremely red cheeks:

And no, I don't drink. That's the hilarious thing.

2: My posts have been sporadic and uninspired.

It's because I entered the world of grown-ups finally and have gotten a bunch of paying jobs to supplement our family's income. I'm writing and editing for three sites and working as a transcriber for two marketing companies on top of that.

Oh yeah, I'm still running my site Dork Designs! Be sure to check that out as well. I've had some pretty happy and adorable customers lately. Jen from My Tornado Alley ordered her daughters handmade bunnies for Easter bunnies and loved them! Read all about the bunnies and their journey here: A box of bunnies.

And although not this best photo ever here is my darling Meg, Libby's daughter wearing one of the tees from the Dork Designs shop:

Yes, that is a giant photo. Enjoy every pixel of cuteness.

Finally Maxine Jane turned six years old on Thursday...I was working immediately before the party and Jeremiah was in charge of making sure she was dressed appropriately for the gala (which included myself, Jeremiah, our kids and my parents, so not very gala-ish). This is what she ended up wearing:

Aside from all of that jazz, I'm also writing for Sprocket Ink! I'll have posts going up every Tuesday and Friday, but also just take a chance to peruse the site and read some other pieces, everyone is doing a great job over there and are uber entertaining.

Maxine Jane Turns Six

2011-04-28T06:12:00.000-07:00

Today is Maxine Jane's 6th Birthday. 6 years ago at this time I had already been in labor for 12 hours. 6 years ago at this time I was in a hospital bed and my Doctor was telling me that Max was breech and that I should have a c-section. 6 years ago at this time I was crying and hugging him and begging him to try to turn her. 6 years ago he called his friend, a midwife and together they successfully turned Maxine around. Then more tears when I was in horribly painful labor for another 12 hours.

Below is a repost in honor of my precious angel, the dawn of my day and the demon haunting my very existence's birthday.

I’m sitting in our game room, Elijah in bed, Jeremiah sprawled on the couch next to me, yawning and comfy. The rain outside is pouring down over our street, over our small town, washing away the grimy trash, making the ugly cars gleam under the sheets of effortless water.

I am longing for Maxine, missing her spindly legs lying over my own much less spindly ones, her tiny hands looking endlessly for crevices of flesh to dig in to. The thunder and lightning are beyond my windows, filling the night with a drama much adverse to the calm of our quiet house.

Maxine hated the rain as an infant. She would cry in terror if it would hit her baby head and she would shake and cringe at the cold wet when it would touch her body.

Thinking of her great dislike of the rain makes me keenly remember her first thunderstorm. On a night much like tonight I laid a tiny uncomfortable Maxine, finally sleeping, next to me on my bed where Maxine, Rose and I would sleep every night. I dare not leave the bed, for if I moved my body from the space next to her she would wake and begin crying, the jagged spine chilling cry that haunted my days with infant Her. The lightning began to brighten our room and Rose and I counted the time between the lightning and thunder in hushed tones. Max woke to a considerably loud thunder clap and I immediately started to pick her up before she could wail. Instead of crying she looked curiously around the room, listening to the pitter patter of the rain.

I turned off the t.v. and sat with her and Rose in the dark room, lit by a small nightlight, listening with Maxine to the storm outside. When it thundered again I watched in amazement as a smile began to erase the usual scowl that painted Maxine’s face. The storm outside gathered more fury and soon the gentle rain sounds were replaced by furious winds. Max was still enthralled.

I laid her down between Rose and myself, pulled the blankets around us and soon fell asleep. It was a wonderful experience, Maxine at peace, not strangely tense, or stressed. There was nothing other than a sweet embrace and a gentle slumber, accompanied by a musical storm raging outside.

Birthday Girl Blues

2011-04-26T11:37:00.000-07:00

I am now 30 years old. I though I would feel different or I would sense some sort of change come over me, like mystical bits of sparkly age dusting down upon me from a sailing chariot in the skies above.

The only difference I've noticed now, on this 10th day after my Birthday is that the malaise I was suffering from has finally lifted it's gloomy veil. I feel semi-normal now, although stressed and under pressure, normal as someone as strange and ridiculous as me can be.

Because I was under this veil, I think I ruined my Birthday party, which was so nicely planned by my Momma and although on the weekend, attended by all of my children. I just sat there and forced smiles onto my face like trying to force a baby's fat feet into it's first pair of shoes. Delicately, yet forcefully and with a sense of remorse and regret, I made my way through the happy people, the pats on the back and my many children clamoring for my attention without feeling much of anything at all.

I didn't take much notice of this delightful cake, made special for me because of my love of bows and polka dots:

The usual onslaught of tears did not come when my Momma gave me the bunnies I had been coveting most of my life. She received the Momma Bunny and the first pink baby when I was born, made for her by her Grandmother and then one for each child after that except for Hannah. But we all know that nobody likes Hannah, so that makes perfect sense...

I didn't delight when Olivia gave me a handmade ninja fan with a built-in self destruct button or get mad when Maxine threw a horrible fit and launched herself into a basement bookshelf.

And now I'm feeling regretful and apologetic, with no real reason to apologize. I will move on though, this weekend Jeremiah and are will be away from Elijah for two whole nights, the longest we have ever left him. We'll be attending a wedding, I have dresses to wear thanks to Becky and newly purchased accessories, so there is a little bit of fun on the horizon (I hope!).

Although looking forward to being out of this house and away from my work and motherly duties, I can't help but feel a sense of dread, thick and oozy, sitting on my shoulders, drizzling it's muck into my head. When with this malaise come again? Why is this happening to me?

Fashion Show Debacle, by Me

2011-04-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

If you are a friend of mine in the real world or on the interwebs, you have probably heard me complain, whine, fret and or/any combination of the above about what I am going to wear to a wedding that Jeremiah and I will be attending at the end of the month.

Jeremiah is in the wedding and I know a total of 3 people attending. Should be interesting.

Further cementing her place as possibly the Best Internet Best Friend EVER...Becky (otherwise known as Steam me Up Kid, The Great), my B.I.F. sent me some of her dresses to try on.

Sent me in the mail. From L.A. Yes.

I told her I would take video of this 'trying on of the dresses' and the post them. I hate these videos, hate my face and my fat arms. How come I could gain ten pounds back from losing 60 and it goes directly into my ARMS? Weird and unfair!

Here are four short videos of me and the dresses Becky sent me.

Part One:

Part Two:

Part Three:

Part Four:

Try not to make fun of me TOO much after and/or during these videos. And tell me which dress, if any, that you liked!

Siblings

2011-04-14T07:08:00.001-07:00

Based on this week's writing prompt from Studio Thirty Plus, 'Risk':

A tall man who was once a very small boy
and a small me, who was never very much more so
hunched over a table in our parents game room
shoulder punches
jabbing fingers in ribs
hair pulling
swearing
frenetic waves of giggles
strangely phrased words bounce off the paneled walls

"What the hell? Knock it off!'
Yells our tired Mom from the kitchen
we tire her still

You put your oh so large hands on my small round shoulders
to shake me not so gently

I fall into the table
knock our carefully laid game pieces to the ground
with a ferocious crash
and an even more ferocious yell from our mother in the kitchen,
"I told you to knock it off!"

We've never finished a game of Risk
Not once in all these years.

For all The Milky Ladies...

2011-04-13T08:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I posted an article about breastfeeding in public and ended up getting some really great responses at Sprocket Ink and on my facebook page. A small debate took place on facebook...but I'm still very much interested in everyone's opinion on the matter, so if you end up clicking on a Sprocket Ink link and reading the article Breast is Best: Just not in Public? please leave a comment and give me your opinion!

Also, I received a few emails from breastfeeding mothers, mothers to be and breastfeeding 'fans' or 'advocates' that wanted to hear what else I have to say about breastfeeding and also my experiences. As I mentioned in the post before this one, my time is limited by a new day job, which brings my telecommuting jobs number to three. Instead of writing a whole new piece about my experiences and opinions on breast feeding, I'll be linking them below in a little list.

I am open to any questions or comments you might have and would be more than glad to answer your questions privately via email oliverosetree@yahoo.com if you're not comfortable sharing them here or at Sprocket Ink.

OK, I'm a Breastfeeding Nazi

Being A Woman

What am I? A Cow? Here for your Nutrition?

Who's Weaning Who Here?

Breastfeeding Power

LoL Cat Sammiches for My Blog Readers

2011-04-08T08:42:00.000-07:00

You may or may not know that I work at home and have recently went back to pretty much a full time working schedule. This has obviously left me unavailable for much creative writing and my friend Adam was concerned for my poor neglected blog.

I weeped tears of pitiful frustration and he patted me on the back and said, 'Erin dear, do not worry. I will assemble a team of awesomeness and write a blog post for you that will update your blog and make it a renewed place of enchantment and wonder.'

That's exactly what he said.

His assembled team of awesomeness included himself and Jen from My Tornado Alley. This is what they wrote for us to enjoy, thanks guys!

Adam: Well, Jen, welcome. We agreed to write a blogpost for
Erin's blog and so here we are. Writing a post. We're writing a post,
la de da, whoop de doo. Not that you seem too into it. And what's up
with that? We're supposed to be writing here and yet are you working?
No. Do you seem interested? No. What's with that?

Jen: I'm writing this blog post just as much as you're writing
this blog post, ADAM, I'm just taking my time and really mulling over
what this blog post should be ABOUT. You know? Like, we can't just
write it about nothing. That would be stupid. I'm TOTALLY interested
in writing it, I'm EXTRA interested, actually, as a matter of fact.
MORE than you, I think. MORE. THAN. YOU.

Adam: You're so interested in writing it you're just using
random capital letters to make yourself sound important. Which is
totally sad, Jen. You need to step up your game. We're writing a blog
post here, this isn't trivial. We have to give it our best and our
most and our everything. We have to capture the Eye of the Tiger, Jen.

Jen: Tough words, big man. So, what are we going to do then?
We're obviously going to include an adorable LOLcat, right? I mean,
obviously. Who doesn't love an LOLcat, amirite? And then what? We
could maybe do one of those memes where we list one million things
that no one cares about? And then stick the LOLcat right in the
middle. It'll be like an LOLcat sandwich!

Adam: A meme LOLcat sammich? Is that all you have? You're
better than that. Paint a picture for the epople, Jen. Paint them a
word picture. Here, I'll show you how! We open the blog post on a
sunny day, the leaves are falling and the drug addicts are slinking
away to hiude behind bushes, only noticable by their sounds and
snorfling. Snorfling is a good word. Why don't we use snorfle more
often, Jen? What's that about? I say we bring back the word snorfle.
Snorfle!

Jen: I like where you're going with this. A blog post about
drug addicts and snorfling. It's good, but it could be BETTER. What
with all the stray LOLcats we're going to bring into this. STRAY
LOLCATS, ADAM. Have you seen Cats? Of course you have. It'll be
like that, only LOLier. So, the drug addicts are hiding behind the
bushes, snorfling (naturally), and the homeless LOLcats stroll up to
the drug addicts, non-challantly. So as to not draw attention to
their switchblades. Because...right?

Adam: And then they can dance fight. This will be epic! DANCE
FIGHTING LOLCATS! It'll be called... Meowside Story. No, it won't that
name is a buncha rubbish. What should we call it, besides "Beautiful"?

Jen: GANGS OF MEW YORK! I win!

Adam: You do win. That's it, I'm out.

Red

2011-03-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

He was sick and slumping on the patio on the rickety wooden porch swing he had made for his home when he found out his oldest daughter was pregnant with his first grandchild. My mother later told me everyone was surprised at the surge of warmth that this staunch, upright and generally uptight man had for his grandchildren.

I found myself staring at him as he drifted in and out of a partially medically induced sleep. Not of of pity but out of wonder at what the ravages of disease had done to him. I remembered walking hand in hand with him down the sidewalk of the neighborhood my father had grown up in. He was so very tall and rigid, his voice deep and gravelly. He'd look down at me and even as a child I'd appreciate the general good looks in his face, his shoulders which I had always noticed were broad for his thin frame, his thick lips encompassing the bottom half of his face in what was usually a grimace. He was always dressed impeccably and his closet was packed full with more clothing than I'd ever known any other man owning.

Even now on the bright spring day on the patio together I am an adult but look ragged and ill-dressed across from him in his neat khaki pants, button up shirt and baby blue cardigan sweater, one with the neat alligator on the breast. His loafered feet are crossed on the ground below him and he awakens when his seat swings slightly backwards.

He grins when he sees that I am still sitting across from him. He asks me if I have seen the movie with the lions and it takes me a while to realize which movie he's talking about. I gather the information I have in my brain about the movie he's talking about, Val Kilmer and Michael Douglas battling rogue lions in the African savanna.

We talk about it for a moment and about how much we both liked it and I see that he knows a lot more about animals then I had ever known. I remember the wood carvings of elephants, lions and gazelles he had made when I was a child. He had been a carpenter of sorts, retired at a young age.

He starts to drift in and out of sleep again and looks at me for a moment.

"What's your favorite color then? Erin?" He sounds so much the same but really isn't.

"Red." I whisper because I feel the emotion start to well up in my throat at his strange question.

"Mine too." At this he falls back asleep, head lolling on the shoulders I had so greatly admired.

Hidden Webcam Photos= Not Porno

2011-03-24T07:17:00.000-07:00

I didn't realize that the photos taken with the webcam on my laptop saved without actually hitting any 'save' or 'save as' commands. So imagine my surprise when I found a folder filled full of webcam photos. Some of them I had saved in a separate folder and then used, but most of them were new to me.

All of them decent and not pornographic in the least. Sorry.

There was one glaring theme to these webcam photos...I am obviously obsessed with having facial hair:

This facial hair photo was taken to compare myself with my internet twin, Adam P Knave:
And this photo just makes me happy:

Happy Birthday Jeremiah!

2011-03-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

This week's posts will all be re-posts about Jeremiah or new posts about Jeremiah, in honor of his 33rd Birthday!

Growing up my momma was the sweetest, nicest momma any kid could possibly hope for. She might have been unhappy and stressed at times, but she made the best of everyday for me and my siblings. One of the things she did that meant the world to us was telling us our birth stories on our birthdays. She would often gather us in her bed ('us' meaning whichever combination of children were there at the time, I have four younger siblings but there are some big age differences between us...I'm sure teenage me wasn't hanging out on momma's bed the morning of my baby sister's third birthday.) and then recount the story of the day we were born. Mine ends with my grandma missing a card game due to my evening arrival. The joke is that I waited till just after 10p.m. in order to keep her there past the game's start time of 9:30.

I follow the same tradition with my own children and Rose can now recount all of their stories excitedly and faithfully.

Jeremiah was born in the evening 32 years ago. His mum told me the story of his birth when I was pregnant with Elijah and I will tell it to you (in my own words) tonight:

Teresa was due any day with her fourth child when she slid out of bed one warm March morning. She had already delivered three large bouncing baby boys.

She felt energized that morning and set to work on the many tasks she had planned to finish before her impending delivery. She dusted, moved furniture around, played outside in the sun with her sons. She washed the car, prepared dinner and put her children to bed.

Soon after they were asleep she felt pains coming swiftly and surely. Her husband Dave had a neighbor watch the older children and they headed to the hospital. The short drive must have felt like ages to her in this stage of labor.

After a quick examination the nurses determined she would not labor for long. Jeremiah was born a short time after their arrival. He was around ten pounds, healthy as a horse (or a foal, if you will) and very calm.

His birth story is short and sweet. The love his parents have for him and his brothers is obvious to me and I'm sure his arrival was one of the happiest days of their lives. I imagine his mum holding him for the first time and being completely in love. I feel the same way every time I am near him.

Happy Birthday Jeremiah. Happy Birth Day Teresa.

My Celebrity Buddies: We're Just Friends.

2011-03-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

This week's posts will all be re-posts about Jeremiah or new posts about Jeremiah, in honor of his 33rd Birthday on the 23rd.

Jeremiah is convinced that if I like an actor or musician it means that I want to sleep with that person. I don't ever think about all the different sexual things I would do to the famous people I like (I'm assuming automatically connecting sexual acts with members of the opposite sex is a common thing? What's wrong with you people?), I rather think about how awesome it would be to hang out with them.

Here are some of my famous 'friends'-

Dennis Quaid. I think Jeremiah is suspicious that I have a crush on him. But to set Jeremiah's fears to rest, having sex with Mr. Quaid is not on the list of things I would like to do with him. Playing ping pong is. Can you imagine how fun it would be to play ping pong with Dennis Quaid? He has such an awesome laugh and a enigmatic smile. I'm all about smiles. Oh AND Cranium. I bet Dennis Quaid would be an excellent Cranium partner!

Crispin Glover. Ok. I know he's creepy. But if you look back throughout your childhood and teenage years, some of your best and most loyal friends were probably also a bit creepy. I saw Crispin on Chelsea Lately the other night and though it was an uncomfortable encounter, I saw definite potential in him as a bud. He's definitely a video gaming friend! Or! Even better! A karaoke video gaming friend. I think I nailed that one down perfectly.

Ben Folds. I know, I know. I talk about him a bit. He would definitely be the type of friend you'd go on bike rides with. When you took a break from the bike rides you could wax philosophic about your childhoods, your historical theories about Hitler or the existence of Giants in Ancient Gaul, he'd be thoughtful and make fun of you at the same time.

Marlon Brando. I know Brando died in July of 2004, I've just always felt that he would have been a friend of mine. Sure, he seemed tortured, self absorbed, kind of ego maniacal in nature...but I can see beyond all of that. He'd fly you to some beach, but you wouldn't be afraid he was trying to get in your pants...I have a feeling he'd screwed himself out of commission by the time I was born. He'd talk about his amazing life, the movies he's made, the people he has known and the tragedies he's experienced. He wouldn't listen to a word you would say in response, he would just go on and on and on. And I know I would love every second of it, how about you?

Falcor. You have to believe me on this one, right Jeremiah? I would not want to have sex with Falcor from The Neverending Story. I would, however, want him to fly me all over the world, perched high atop his glorious white and scaly back. FALCOOOORRRRRRRRRR!

Gabriel Byrne. I heard him tell a story about a huge scar he has on his right side on some late night talk show. He said he was in some dive bar on the coast in Ireland and got in a brawl with a bunch of sailors. Whoever was interviewing him said something like, 'I guess you lost the fight.' Gabriel Byrne looked at the interviewer completely seriously and said, 'You should have seen the other guys.' So that right there explains why he would be a good friend. He'll take a shiv for you in a bar fight and keep on going at it! Plus, he's Irish.

If you enjoyed this post and it's pop-culture-ness, check me and the other writers at SPROCKET INK. We're here to amuse. And not just because 80% of us are kind of weird looking.

Why This Week Wasn't Completely Kick Ass

2011-03-19T08:00:00.001-07:00

Last week I predicted that this week was going to be awesome. It turned out to be not so awesome.

Olivia's illness didn't go away and after a visit to the hospital we learned she had a double ear infection. For some reason it took four doses of antibiotics before she even resembled her usual blustery, happy self. Sucked.

I wasn't able to celebrate the warm days by hopping and skipping merrily because I crushed my ankle underneath a giant metal box I was helping Jeremiah carry. I don't think it's broken and I can walk on it, but I look like I have gout or fat foot/ankle syndrome. Look it up.

What was awesome was Sprocket Ink's first week!

Here are links to my posts, but check out everyone else cause there is some hilarious stuff going on over there!

Shocking Song Cover Smash!

The Gaddafi's: All in the Family

The Dork/Geek/Nerd Uprising

We also welcome some additions to our family. Meet Kermie (who was Hermie and I re-christened) and Freddy McGee:
Wow. That's excellent photography!

I also have these three bunnies left at Dork Designs:

Visit them in Our Kid's Shop to check out pricing!

The Quivering Back Path Buttocks

2011-03-16T10:35:00.000-07:00

This post was inspired by Studio Thirty Plus's weekly writing prompt. This week's theme: Serendipity.

For a brief stint in 1997 I got into the habit of wearing my Dad's button-up dress shirts underneath my t-shirts. I had one that said 'Just Call Me Squirt', one that said 'Welcome to Reno!', a super soft charcoal grey Bob Dylan one with the cover of Infidels on the front and many more. Each tee had a corresponding dress shirt to go under it, collar open at my neck, tails hanging way down past the bottom of the t-shirt. Regardless of the constantly rotating t-shirt/dress shirt combos, I always wore the same jeans.

My walk home from the bus stop took me down a narrow path perilously fraught with trees, firewood and local pets' droppings, skirting behind the properties of all my neighbors. One fateful day the right side tail of one of the dress shirts, got caught on a nail crookedly poking free from a pile of wood. I shot around carelessly to rip the shirt from the nail and when I did the nail dug into my forearm and raked itself down about four inches towards my hand. A overflowing creek of bright blood formed and I let out a bit of a squeal.

Which I quickly quashed at the sight of a very white man's buttocks further down the path. I was hidden by the pile of wood that had just so egregiously injured me, but I very much doubt the owner of the quivering buttocks ahead of me would have noticed me anyways. He was very much involved with shaking, quaking and comically grunting.

Despite the bleeding and the pain in my arm, I tried to get a better view of what the hell this guy was doing and more importantly who he was. Unfortunately he was just out of view and I was afraid to bring attention to myself. I could see there were light colored jeans around his ankles and that his hair was dirty blonde and short, but nothing more. I slowly backed up and back down the path just carelessly enough to bump into my baby brother who had just jumped off of the younger kids' bus. Without paying heed to my injury or my existence at all he took off down the path.

I ran after him, excited that he would find the owner of the quivering white mass and I wouldn't have to be embarrassed at finding out who it was on my own. Carefully passing the pile of wood that injured me beforehand, I realized that my brother was already well past where the man had been standing before. I inched forward warily and tentatively looked around the area I had seen the comic happening.

Nothing, no man, no grunting, no naked butt. Nothing except for a $20 bill laid out very carefully on log, one or two feet off the path. Like a offering, a bribe, a gift, a payment? The bill was obviously not for me and although I have always been against all theft in all forms, I snatched it up, shoved it in my pocket and ran home.

After withstanding my mother's complaints at my torn shirt, my bleeding arm and the possibility of an emergency room visit, I looked back at the strange experience on the path and couldn't figure out if it was a serendipitous or villainous occasion. I still can't.

I do know that the $20 bill bought two plates of Grilled Stickies Ala Mode, one pack of Camel Wides, two Super Sodas and $5 worth of gas.

Middle of March Non-Basketball Awesomeness

2011-03-14T09:38:00.000-07:00

5 Reasons This Week is Going to BE AWESOME:

It's supposed to be in the 50's and 60's. Which is progress. Please give me a few days of Spring before the super moon comes and screws the crap out of our planet.
Jerrod and Jules from the famed Studio Thirty Plus have asked me to be part of the crew at their new site Sprocket Ink. It's jam-packed snarkiness with bits of The News, Politics, Entertainment, Celebrities and other awesomeness. See the rest of the crew and check out my posts every Tuesday and Friday!
The other day Elly suggested I get an ukulele so I can make a fool of myself by attempting to play it in my v-logs (especially since Elly plays so wonderfully). Everyone thinks I'm joking but yesterday I ordered a tambourine and I'm totally going to make v-logs with said tambourine. I'm hoping for a collaboration with Elly in the future...she can't hide, I know her web address.
Trista ordered a chubby bunny and some other things for her future niece/nephew and is doing a giveaway on her blog with a t-shirt from my shop fairly soon. The only downside is shipping to The Great White North...why are we different countries? Can't we just be one country so shipping is not ridiculous?
This boy has been ear infection free for six months:

This girl has a bad flu BUT for the first time in three years has not had strep throat 3 plus times over the course of the winter months:
(this t-shirt is available for sale here)

So I guess that still sucks for her. Sorry Liv!

Yay for Awesome Weeks!

I Embarrass Myself and Jon Bon Jovi

2011-03-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

I have been meaning to do a V-Log for a long time but every time I went to do it turned out that I looked like a wretched Banshee from Hell.

This time I don't look all that great AND the voice track doesn't match with the video AND the whole thing goes on way too long at the end...almost to embarrassing proportions.

But alas, I've gotten to the point where I could really care less.

Some twitter friends mentioned in this v-log: @adampknave @mightyhunter @ninjamomblog and @tristachio

Also some of my stuffed bunny friends make cameos in this video and you can find them for sale here: Dork Designs: Kids Shop

In the Still of the Night...

2011-03-06T07:51:00.001-08:00

This post is based on this week's writing prompt at Studio 30+: 'Childhood Dreams', which I mainly disregarded out of ignorance and turned into 'Childhood Memories'.

Nights at my familial home were generally very still ones, the quiet broken now and again by the sound of my Daddy getting a drink from the refrigerator or going to the basement for a smoke while he was reading, playing chess and listening to music. I would spend time in bed, staring at the textured cream ceiling above me, imagining him in his work clothes; button up shirt, khaki pants, dress loafers now replaced with moccasin slippers. He'd be sitting with books all around him, his little portable chess board propped up in his lap or on the table in front of him, chess books with the symbols that always confused me opened to various pages and marked with random strips of paper.

His legs would be crossed and he would be leaning over a book or the chess board far enough so that one sharp elbow could be propped on one thin knobby knee. Two fingers would lie pointing up next to his nose, his chin resting on his thumb, his fat lips puckered, deep in thought. Periodically he would break his sitting position and run his fingers through his dark, thinning hair.

I would toss and turn in my bed, pick a book from my headboard bookcase, read, open the window, close the window, pull out a notebook, put it back, pull it out again. My room was the on the top floor of our home, the whole attic to myself, partially because of my insomnia, partially because I was the oldest of five children. Listless and frustrated I would sometimes get out of bed and sit at my vanity. I would look in the mirror and brush my thick dark locks over and over again until they were glossy and smooth and my scalp slightly ached from pulling and pulling.

Back in my bed I would listen to my family on the floors of our home below.

Depending on the ages of my siblings the night's stillness might be broken by a baby’s cries, or a toddler’s laughter. Sometimes newborn brothers or sisters would waken and I would hear Momma rising from her bed to comfort and nurse the new members of the family. I would spend time in bed, staring at the textured cream ceiling above me and imagine my Momma in her white nightgown, little rosebuds littering the flannel-like material, the neckline stretched and slightly torn from the strains of pulling her breasts in and out of it. She would be back in her bed, baby cradled in her arms, nursing loudly in the night. Sighing, leaning her head back against the knobby oak headboard, in and out of sleep herself. She would sometimes sing:

"Rock me to sleep in an old rocking chair and make me a child again,
sing me an old-time lullaby, one with a sweet refrain...
just lay your head on my shoulder, the angels with keep us from harm,
rock me to sleep in an old rocking chair, safe in my Momma's arms"

and sometimes:

"This little girl/boy of mine, this little girl/boy of mine,
a tiny turned up nose, two cheeks just like a rose,
this little girl/boy of mine, this little girl/boy of mine,
You'll never know, just what your coming has meant,
I'll tell you something though, it must be heaven sent..."

There was silence again as my mother and sibling slumbered, holding each other tight.

I would finally fall asleep listening to the sounds of my family and our house. In the morning, ironically, I was always the first to wake and would descend from my attic abode tip toeing through the rooms. I would sometimes take a moment to look at my peaceful family, devoid of personality and speech, sleeping soundly.

I would often be jealous of them, how easily they lay in repose, how serene they seemed. Other times I would be proud of my secret knowledge: the Keeper of the Night, the Knower of What Happens in the Still.

Feels like the very first time...

2011-03-02T10:42:00.000-08:00

Love involves a peculiar unfathomable combination of understanding and misunderstanding.

- Diane Arbus

They met in an empty parking lot, embracing for many moments atop the black tar lot surface, their combined shadows cast across the space like one hunching spectre. She had gotten lost traveling to the city where she had ironically lived for four years while attending college. He had given up on her until he received a panicked call from a strange cell number.

“Oh thank god!” It was her and she was whispering frantically. “I am at some bar on the Strip, I have no idea where I am. I forgot my cell at home and had to try a dozen numbers before I got you.” Her voice is almost childlike, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed for sure… he thinks to himself, what else might be the same?

He’s slightly pissed off and drops his face into his free hand, runs it through his hair, takes a deep breath. After listening to her blather on for a few moments and then talking to one pissed off bartender, he pin points her location.

"Drive to the gas station on the next corner on the left side from you, it’s beside a Dunkin Donuts. Park there and wait, it will take me a little while to get there.” He takes on a stern tone, forgetting that he is the single man; she’s the mother of three. Three kids that aren’t his, what is he doing?

She’s crying, “I’m so sorry! I had no idea how to get to you.”

Her tears assuage any impatience he was feeling, it’s replaced with an inexplicable need to touch her face. He remembers flashes of feeling her skin, soft and pale, reddening under his fingers. He’s embarrassed for a minute. They were young kids then, it’s sad he remembers it so well. Now his pride and years of her silence have masked any affection he had for her. So why is he meeting her? He ponders this on the drive, still thinking about touching her when he pulls into the gas station.

She’s standing outside of her minivan as he arrives. When he first met her ten years prior she was sitting on the hood of a friend’s baby blue Honda. Tonight it’s a giant soccer mom minivan, how cliché. A tight beanie is pulled down over her wavy thick hair, hair he had once loved to touch. Her head is down, a tattered paperbook in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He watches her blow bubbles with her gum for a minute, smoke leaking slowly like gas from the orbs, licking the gum off of her fat lips, his second favorite thing about her face.

“Erin.” He has spoken more quietly than he had thought; the nearby traffic has drowned at his first attempt at getting her attention. He just stands there, the two versions of her in his minds eye crossing in a frustrating blur and meeting in front of him.

“ERIN.” This time she looks up, casts the book on top of the minivan’s hood and starts towards him. Her cheeks are flushed, her face lit up with excitement. She was always so infectious, regardless of his mood. He finds himself smiling at her but can’t move towards her. As all pretense of nonchalant emotions drops, she folds herself into his half outstretched, half unrelenting arms.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh, no! It’s an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests..and is never shaken.

-Shakespeare

She has a feeling that she may be lost, navigating aimlessly down and up city block after city block. A neighborhood of the city she spent her college years in, a neighborhood she has completely forgotten. After an hour or more of meandering around the streets, looking for some familiar sign, the angst and anxiousness of the evening’s impending meeting plus the embarrassment at being hopelessly lost has begun to well up in her chest. She feels nauseous and overwhelmed, slipping her beanie on and off of her head, not caring that her thick hair is now in serious disarray.

She parks, cursing herself for the millionth time of the night for forgetting her cell at home. She finds a not so scary bar and now near tears tries to convince the greasy haired, scowling biker chick bartender to let her use the payphone, which is oddly stationed behind the bar.

“I don’t have a cell and I’m lost! Can I please use the phone?” She is generally used to getting what she wants, so the interlude with the bartender is perplexing her to excess. The whining, bratty routine doesn’t work on the greasy barkeep but does work on the only patron of the bar, a greatly intoxicated young man with spiky hair and a rumpled cream suit, tie lying in a knotted ball on the bar in front of him.

“Hey schweetheart, I hear ya. You can use my cell…” His head is bobbing up and down while he offers up his phone to her, dropping it on the stool next to him with a clatter. He folds his arms on his chest as his head slumps down into his chest.

Phone in hand, she is relieved but only for a second as she realizes she doesn’t know his number by heart. Sadness sweeps over her body and the nausea comes back. She had to practically beg him to meet her and he had originally outright told her no. After a week of getting over the fact he never wanted to see her again, he called and had set up this meeting. Tonight’s date, the first time they would see each other after 7 years. Although she knows he’s harboring ill feelings towards her from the last decade, she can’t help but be excited to see him.

Spurred on by this excitement, the number forms in her mind's eye and she gets him on the phone. After a pretty tense exchange and an equally cross conversation with the bartender, he tells her where to meet him.

She drives to the gas station where he told her to park and wait for him. She lights a cigarette and stuffs two giant pieces of cherry burst bubblegum into her mouth, feeling guilty about both. Cigarettes were for a quick late night smoke after a horrible day with a colicky baby, she did not consider herself a day-time smoker. She reached into her minivan and pulled out a paperback she hadn’t touched in a year. She pages through, barely looking at the words, thinking back upon the last time she saw him.

She was eating lunch with a friend a hot summer day one week after the end of her first year of college. They were laughing, hamming it up and planning a night reconnecting with high school friends in their hometown. Over her friend's shoulder she saw him at a table across the restaurant, in deep conversation with a man, presumably his father.

“Mindi, holy freaking hell! Jeremiah is sitting over there.” She swore a few more times to add to the seriousness of the situation.

“Are you sure it’s him!? I thought he was in California or Kentucky or something like that.” It’s obvious she doubts my sanity, especially in regard to this particular boy.

“Yes I’m sure it’s him! What the hell!? Should I go and say hi?” The tips of her fat fingers immediately go into her mouth. Gnawing, she sighs deeply as if realizing a terrible fate. “Forget it, there’s no way he’s going to talk to me.”

Later they walk past his table while leaving. She has a burst of bravery and looks right into his face. He’s momentarily startled but does not greet her or return the wary smile. He puts his head down and continues his conversation in gruff tones, low and obviously not for her to hear.

She’s thinking of this moment in time when she hears her name.

“Erin.” His voice cracks slightly.

She knows it’s him and that he’s finally standing in the same space as her but she can’t bring herself to respond. Cruelly she pretends she can’t hear him. A few moments pass and the grinding in her stomach finally stops and melts away. He might leave if she doesn’t acknowledge him.

“ERIN.” No cracking voice this time, perfect, loud and clear. She tosses the book aside and nearly skips to him. A smile matching her painfully large one starts to grow across his face like an unruly, uneven vine. He’s still on guard as she forces herself into his arms but relents soon after the initial contact. He presses his face into her neck, then leans in further against her ear and sighs.

Not a perfect ending, she thinks to herself as he holds her tighter, but better than groping each other in my parent’s basement.

Much better.

Kids can be as funny as swear words and poop...

2011-02-25T06:44:00.000-08:00

I read a lot about the lack of substance in 'Mommy Blogs' and have been witness to a few Twitter skirmishes on the topic as well. I suppose the premise (or at least one of them) of this argument is that strangers don't want to look at pictures of your kids or don't want to hear about them all the time. I think this is a little bit bunk in my case though.

I bet you that my kids are funnier, cleverer and cooler than most everyone. Did I mention 'ridiculous'?
I went to school to be a writer, that has to count for something, right? Give me a degree, I'll give you the world. Wait.

College didn't have a course on Correct Cliche, obviously.

That's all I could come up with.

Below is the obligatory story about Mein Kinder, separated by this glorious line. A Maginot Line, if you will, to protect you from my Mommy Bloggerness.
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Olivia has red hair and we've recently taken to calling her The Ginger, which annoys Maxine Jane to no end. As soon as the words leave my mouth a look of shock and dismay lights up her moppet-face, her hands shoot to her tiny hips, her feet immediately take the preferred stomping stance, her voice reaches almost maximum whining levels and it's becoming obvious that she's pissed as hell.

"Mom. Her name is not that! STOP SAYING THAT! CALL HER BY HER NAME!" She stomps away, looking to take her anger out on some unsuspecting sibling somewhere else in the house.

Against my better judgment I set off after her, hoping to get to the bottom of this. I find her face down in her bed, sobbing into a giant pink and yellow stuffed butterfly. Her life is so wretched and wrought with hardships.

"Maxine, what is the matter?" I try to bring a tenderness to my voice even though I'm half annoyed, half amused.

"You know that *sniffle, gag, cough, cough, sniffle* her name isn't 'The Ginger'." Despair emanates from her very core.

"It's just a nickname, Maxine. There's this old British man that lives down the street and he called her that the other day. I thought it was cute." I actually thought it was a little disturbing, being that the old British man stumbled onto his front porch as we were passing and called out, "Hey Ginger, Come on over here!!! Hey you! Tell your momma to drop you off for tea sometime!!!!" at us.

"It's a nice name, I guess. But I'm just so sad cause you and Jeremiah call me 'Mini-Jerk' and 'Washington' and 'Evil One' and they aren't nice like 'Ginger'." Her face is peppered with splashes of red, snot is running freely from her nose and she still looks lovely.

"Maxine Jane, aw baby. You know those aren't your usual nicknames! We just use those when we're kidding around, I usually call you my 'Angel Face' and my 'Little One' and 'Momma's Baby'..." I'm actually starting to feel sad as well and guilty to boot.

"Ya...I know. Ok, I'm not mad at you anymore, I guess. But, maybe if we walk past that old man's house he'll give me a new nickname too?"

"Maybe, Max..."

I shudder to think.

The Boutique

2011-02-23T06:38:00.000-08:00

Standing in the corner by the front door of the ultra-hip boutique that sells some of my handmade wares, I’m suddenly very aware of myself and caught in a weird hyperspace of shyness and discomfort. There in the newly minted 'trendiest' neighborhood in the city, I've stopped for a brief drop-off, a quick in and out.

At the counter fairly far from the front door are three girls, I think of them as girls although I know that two of the three standing there are older than me. They are currently speaking in a strange flurry of words to each other about who’s coming to this show or that, who’s getting their hair cut and dyed, where they got this brooch (‘it’s so ridiculously modern, yet perfectly vintage’) or what their boyfriends/girlfriends are writing about this week on their style-blogs.

Children and caffeine may have aged me, made my breasts slightly flat and my teeth slightly tinted, but it seems they have also quashed any sense of situational levity I may have had, because when one of the girls, Valerie, finally notices me standing awkwardly in the corner, clutching my goods and starts yelling almost suspiciously over-loud in my direction, I almost turn and run instead of heading into the shop.

"Erin! Oh My God! You’re like a total lurker! Come over here and let me see your super cute face.” She’s wildly gesturing at me as though I’m 100 feet away and not 10. Her arms look shadily spindly exploding from the billowing fabric of the silk blue kimono that is engulfing her waif-thin frame and her bleach blonde hair is shaved up one side to revel a startlingly white skull.

Unfortunately she continues, “Trish! Have you ever met Erin before? She designs and makes that knit shit with her own two hands! Most popular accessories in our shop, you know, Erin. That’s why I’m always IMing you and bothering you to bring in more! I must be such a pain.” As she continues, she reminds me of a way too thin E! News correspondent fawning over Angelina Jolie or Natalie Portman.

Although I am flattered, I can tell her outbursts have brought a flaming spread of hotness across my face and I can’t think of anything to say in response. Trish looks me up and down, smiling all the time in what may be considered an absolutely polite way, if you don’t notice that she licks her lips lustily and kicks Valerie under the table. One of her hands does momentarily shoot to her head, self-consciously for one second, gripping the beanie obviously not made by me that’s loosely hanging off the back of her head.

“Oh yeah! We love all of your stuff here. You so have to work on changing your line’s name though. I’ve had about a half dozen people wrinkle their noses at your too-cute tags. Ultra-Cute Crochet is totally for baby hat designers.” Trish’s long fake eyelashes are entrancing me at this point in the conversation.

“Well, actually, Trish…most of my business in the past has been custom order kids hats, mittens, blankets and scarves. It hasn’t been till the last 4 years that…”

The rest of the conversation goes on something like that for another three minutes. They consider themselves business mavens and tell everything I’m doing wrong with mine, and then they move on to dissecting my personal style.

As I’m finally taking leave of these ladies, Valerie squeals with excitement and puts one hand on each of my shoulders. She looks right in my face and says with supreme seriousness,

“You know, Erin. I’ve looked at you many times on facebook and I’m always trying to figure out what your style is…because, you know things like that really interest me, you know. Until now I’ve never been able to figure it out. But it just hit me out of the blue and it’s made me incredibly happy that I have figured you out!” She gives me a very tiny shove backwards and takes a step back, long spider fingers grasping her pointy chin in what seems to be a very thoughtful repose.

“You are totally boy-cute, but it’s not quite that cause you have a very thin waist, but very un-boy like round hips and your boobs are hefty. Hmmm…” She tips her tiny form to the right underneath her billowing silk garment and looks at Trish, but doesn’t say anything else.

“So you really haven’t pinned down my style then?” I query as I’m stepping away from them and heading towards the door. Maybe this lapse in Valerie’s usually frenetic conversation will give me the out I’ve been looking for. Stepping once, twice, slightly turning towards the door, stepping again, “Bye girls! Hope you have a wonderful weekend!” It looks like I’m going to make my getaway, I reach out gingerly, put my hand on the...

And then as if she waited till I had my hand on the knob of the front door, she leaps towards me with an out of place abandon. I bite back the tiniest bit of fright, being that she is now skipping at me at a surprisingly full tilt speed.

“Oh ERIN! You are totally boy cute! You saunter into the shop like you could care less about what we think about you. Just like a cute boy. You’re wearing plaid pants, just like a cute boy. You’re wearing a pea coat, just like a cute boy. And here you are running out on us without a care of how we’re all fawning over you. Just. Like. A. Cute. Boy.”

Valerie is completely unaware of how strangely dramatic this speech was, and from the counter of the shop, Trish says, “Oh yeah, you’re so right Valerie!” She is obviously also completely unaware of the speeches extraneous gusto.

Now that my escape is permissible and I’ve been embarrassed to the very core of my being, I turn and flee. I get in the car and tell Jeremiah all about my whole experience and about Valerie’s ‘boy-cute’ epiphany. He’s thoughtful for a minute and as he pulls our car out of the parking spot and into the traffic heading home, he says only, “How is your style boy-cute if she kept repeating that you are just like a cute-boy. Shouldn’t it be ‘cute-boy’ style and not ‘boy cute’ style?” He chews on the inside of his lip thoughtfully.

I sit back in my seat and plan on never wearing plaid pants again.

The Thief

2011-02-22T08:10:00.000-08:00

I made a shit load of bad choices in my life; one of them was befriending toxic people. I’m not sure if I wanted to rebel against my happy existence at home, or if I really wanted to help people in need. I thought of a toxic boy that had been in my life from around the ages of 13-16 after watching Rose give a dirty smelly little girl-like creature some change at the bus stop the other day. I wanted to tell her about the lessons I’d learned in my lifetime about people who use instead of give, take instead of help. I didn’t want to make her sad, or take away from the great feeling you get when you help someone out. So I didn’t say anything, I just came home and wrote this:

"I don't care if you're high when you come over, just don't smell like it." I dropped my head into my hands and slumped over between my jean-swathed legs. I was tired of him, tired of his excuses, mostly tired of trying to be this sick boy's friend. I had met him at my Daddy's pharmacy. He was picking up his medication for his ancient disease, hemophilia, and I was in awe of why a 13 year old boy would be at a pharmacy by himself, why he would be anywhere by himself.

He gave me a jovial pat on the back and laughed. "I didn't smoke any...I was just around people who were smoking. You can't get in trouble for just standing there." He flipped a greasy chunk of his black glossy hair off his face and tried to not laugh hysterically at my disapproval. I’m sure he was wondering to himself why I am so much of a square.

I sigh and consider asking him to leave. I had considered it so many times it was almost a novelty. My parents distrusted him, my boyfriend hated his guts and my friends thought he was strange. He made most people uncomfortable with his dingy appearance, his odd looks, his sad and tragic life story.

More than one time I saw him steal things from other people and although I told myself time and time again he would never steal from me or my family, I was still constantly on guard. I would find my eyes rolling to the left or right, watching his hands, other times my eyes would dart quickly around a crowded room to pinpoint his location in it. He was hard to miss, even in a crowd, tall and painfully thin with a mohawk of the aforementioned consistently greasy black hair, a stale black leather jacket complete with studs dulled by age. The jacket was a point of pride for him and he would wear it even on the hottest, sunniest day. He said that the jacket had belonged to his much older brother, but this was never really proven, being that his brother had O.D.ed sometime during the 80’s.

His mouth was too large for his face and he would sometimes drool while in repose, large snaggly teeth protruding, chin oddly melted in with his brontosaurus neck. His ancestors were Native American, his mother in their small dingy apartment drank liquor straight from the bottle like some cliche. His mother was as small as I was and so round it looked like she might topple over at any moment and roll, roll, roll.

“When can we eat, I haven’t eaten for days.” He’s starting to show signs of wear now, often he would be ill for days, not eating, not sleeping, just lying in his dirty bed amongst foul smelling sheets and discarded clothing. Today he was up and about, but I didn’t doubt that he was actually starving. So what made today different? What was it about this day that made me really want to break free from his toxic self? I imagined that it was his smell, my immature side made fun of the stench that wafted from his unclean body all the time. My mature side knew that I was tired of watching him use people and most of all tired of watching him die slowly.

“We’re not eating anything, I’ll give you some money to get something downtown, but I don’t think I want you to come to our house anymore.” I stood now and tried to face him with some seriousness. He made a move to lie down on my bed, he thought I was joking, or didn’t care if I was serious.

There just comes a time in your life when you have to shed weight from your brain. You have to let go of the toxicity and the attachments you make to the people that create said toxicity. I repeated this over and over again in my head and then said out loud,

“Just leave now. Please don’t call or come over anymore. I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore. You just use me and make me sad.”

He isn’t a proud person. He shrugs and rises to leave.

“Can I have $30? I know you have cash in your change purse.” He doesn’t even look apologetic.

“Ok.” I cross the room, rifling through my book bag for my change purse. After 30 seconds, I hear the front door of my house opening and closing. I listen to the clomping of his giant leather boots and the jangling of the many belts he wore around his concave waist as he disappeared from my street and then out of my life.

I drop the book bag, I know the change purse isn't there anymore.

Ok, I'm a Breast-Feeding Nazi

2011-02-19T09:06:00.001-08:00

I was reading some random bla bla bla political bla bla bla this morning, mainly glossing over it for pertinent bits of information when I came across this little gem:

"A 2010 cost analysis of low breast-feeding levels published in the American Academy of Pediatrics' medical journal Pediatrics found that if 90% of U.S. families followed medical recommendations to breast-feed for six months, "The United States would save $13 billion per year and prevent an excess (of) 911 deaths, nearly all of which would be in infants."

Bear with me here, I don't ever think that someone should be told what to do with their own bodies and I am certainly not a bastion of perfection as far as mothering goes.

But- if you decide to carry your child in your body and deliver them with your own strength and power, why the heck wouldn't you want to feed them from your body as well?

I understand that a lot of women decide not to breastfeed and that is their choice.

I just don't understand why not. I'll be the first to admit that breastfeeding is very hard, I gave Rosey a bottle for two weeks because some asshole Pediatrician (doctors aren't gods, you have to trust yourself as well) told me that I didn't have enough milk for her. Her recommendation? Give the baby a bottle of formula before I nurse her. I get seriously red in the face just thinking of this jerk telling other young, naive mothers just like I was the same thing and screwing up their chances of successfully breastfeeding.

Sooooo, if your body makes more milk depending on how often and how long you nurse your baby for, nursing the baby less will make you lose your milk completely. But even though I totally understood the concept, I felt like the Doc must know something that I didn't.

At 20 years old I was just a baby myself and despite my gut feeling, I gave Rose formula and it was horrible. The stuff actually stinks, bottle preparation, cleaning and sanitizing is such a pain in the ass. She was gassy, constantly vomiting and after trying three different types of formula and spending nearly $200 in two weeks, I was at my wits end.

I got a giant black garbage bag, packed up every bottle and every bit of formula and threw it all away. I went to Blockbuster and rented 10 movies. I came home, set up camp on my couch, complete with giant jugs of water and gatorade, snacks, movies and video games. I nursed then two month old Rosey straight for eight hours. She wasn't getting enough milk so I just kept on and kept on. She loved the attention and it was so surreal, just holding her for that long and staring at her.

Finally during the credits of The Ninth Gate with Johnny Depp, I felt this wave of heat flush my face and through my chest. Rose began gulping in surprise and then finished drinking in five minutes. I put her on the other side and the same thing happened.

I looked down at her and for the first time ever she had fallen asleep nursing, one thick drop of breastmilk dripping from the corner of her tiny little mouth. It was one of the most joyous moments of my life. I find myself thinking back on that time and actually yearning for it.

If you are considering breastfeeding and are leaning towards not doing it, or if you are currently breastfeeding and you think it's too hard, just trust me. It is well worth every bit of work and hardship you endure to accomplish your goal.

In two years you'll be crying because it's time to wean!

Dork Designs Launches

2011-02-17T14:42:00.001-08:00

After much anticipation, weeks of planning and designing and tons of whining (on my part). Jeremiah and I are finally ready to launch Dork Designs ! I'm so excited it can hardly be contained.

I've also cast aside my previous business, Ultra-Cute Crochet in favor of this new website and the addition of screen printed t-shirts. One of the shirts for sale actually says 'dork' on it and yes, I'm wearing one right now.

If you are interested in putting a Dork Designs button on your site or if you're interested in saying a few words about the new site have at it! That would be so awesome indeed!
If you're considering doing a giveaway or something like that, please contact me at oliverosetree@yahoo.com or our new site email dorkdesigns@gmail.com. If you send a request to the gmail account...you may have to deal with Jeremiah...and I'm not sure you want to do that! :big giant wink:

My logo design was done by Jodi From Pink Designz and the website was designed by Andy Weigel. If you're in the market for either of these services, don't hesitate to get in touch with either of these designers. They were excellent and easy to work with.

I appreciate all the feedback about the site you can give me! Yay! Hip. Hop. Hooray.

My Stinky Valentine's Day Party

2011-02-15T06:56:00.000-08:00

Rosey called me at 6:30 am yesterday from her Dad's house (this is his long weekend with the girls) to remind me that I am one of the three parents in charge of crafts/activities for the Valentine's Day party at school.

Whoops.

I remember reading the paper sent home about the V-Day Party, briefly speaking to another one of the parents and being perplexed and confused as to why there were three parents to do the activities and crafts for a 45 minute party and ONE parent in charge of the snacks and drinks. I know I tweeted about it once.

And then I promptly forgot, until Rose's phone call.

"Mom! What kind of thing are you doing for the party today? Mom!" She's way too chipper, demanding and awake for early morning.

Elijah, perched on the pillow beside me starts to yell, "Wo Wo on the phone! WOWOWOWOWOWOWO!".

"Hi Rosey. To be honest with you, I haven't really decided what I'm going to do. How about a word search?" I'm fighting a cold and my voice is very hoarse, which sets Rosey into a panic.

"OH no. Mom. Are you losing your voice?! You're not coming to the party, are you? I told everyone you were coming to the party!" Panicked AND whiny.

"Rose. I will be at the party with proverbial bells on. Don't worry."

"Bells? Proverbial? Mom. Why do you have to talk like that?"

I figured out some games, including the 'guess how many pieces of candy in the giant pretzel jar' (supplied by my Momma! Thanks Momma!) and some word puzzles.

I've been to the school many times before but this time, carrying a giant pretzel bin tied with ribbon and filled with candy, I was more excited.

Rose saw me walk into the class and gave me the cool kid 'half wave'. I love seeing her at school, she is a great student and a very social person, so I'm always proud of her awesomeness. Most of the other students, not so cool.

I was accosted immediately by three or four slightly foul smelling little boys. "Hi Rose's Mom!" I'm not sure why they were so interested in me, I supposed at first that maybe they had crushes on Rose or maybe they remembered me from another time I helped out in the class or during a previous year...

Oh. It's the giant, humongous jar of candy! Duh.

"Hey! Rose's Mom? Can I ask you something?'' This boy was particularly smelly. Why are boys so stinky?

"Yes, sure."

"How many pieces are in there?"

"What's your name?"

"Stinky." (I'm protecting the poor, disgusting child.)

"Ok, Stinky. Let me tell everyone this so I'm not assaulted with the same question over and over again."

I cleared my throat, which was still quite hoarse, motioned to the class for quiet. I was, of course, ignored.

"Hey! Hello! Can I have everyone's attention?!" I sounded like a weird, dying, zombie toad. At this point my futile attempts at quieting the classroom actually got a eye roll from a parent in the back of the room. Great.

"HELLO! Everyone listen to me! IT'S ABOUT THE CANDY!" Ouch. Yelling is hard work.

Finally everyone stopped what they were doing and listened to me for a minute. I explained them the rules of the guessing game and then added,

"I have no idea how many pieces of candy are in this jar. My mom helped me put this game together and was afraid that I would tell Rose the number, or give her some kind of hint, so she wrote the amount down on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, sealed it and put it in my back pocket. So you don't have to ask me how many pieces are in the jar. I have no idea." I felt pretty happy with my speech and was satisfied that it would keep the kids off my back for the remainder.

Rosey's hand shot up in the air.

"Yes, Rosey?" Being a teacher isn't so hard, after all!

"So you're saying that you don't know how many pieces of candy are in the jar?"

Fail.

Writing Exercise

2011-02-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

She sits upright, short legs stretched to the maximum length in order to reach the ratty ottoman, a tattered remnant of a dead grandfather. Next to her, perched precariously on the arm of the small beige couch, the skeleton of a pear lies in the center of a pearl colored tea plate, picked clean.

She opens her mouth to complain about the faint ache in her neck, closes her mouth with a decisive chomp and decides to keep her whining to herself. This ailment is simply remedied, no need to bother others with her petty infirmities.

She regrets sitting down to participate in this writing exercise, she regrets staying up till 2 a.m. the night before reading a totally random Val McDermid novel, she regrets drinking four cups of coffee this morning in order to remedy the late night random novel reading session.

One arm reaches up toward the ceiling, the second one follows it as she pulls herself out of her slumping position on the front room couch. She glances behind her with a slight sore turn of the neck and notices her work area is cluttered and messy.

"I wouldn't let it get like this if my neck didn't hurt so bad!" The recipient of this comment laughs and rolls his eyes.

L'enfer est plein de bonnes volontés et désirs!

The writing exercise was to write a short vignette (short, impressionistic scenes that focus on one moment or give a particular insight into a character, idea, or setting). Want to play along? If you write something comment me the link and I will add them to this post.

Mollie, who is lovely and also Ok in the UK has posted her vignette. Thanks for writing with me, Mollie!

Aimee at Pleasantly Demented, who found me through Mollie, also gave this a whirl and did a great job.

A Letter to God

2011-02-10T09:38:00.000-08:00

2/10/2011 12:45 pm
location: my front room's couch

Dear God,

It's me, Erin. I'm not going to ask you for bigger boobs (trust me, I've got that part down), for a billion dollars, or for world peace. I'm not going to beg you to get into heaven (yet), blame you for cancer or AIDS, or bemoan my fate as the possessor of a wide, flat ass.

I am going to ask you for one simple, tiny little thing. I would like to have longer eyelashes.

That's all.

Thanks,
Erin

P.S. I've decided that longer eyelashes aren't really that important, but instead of deleting that and requesting something different, I'm going to leave that request there and just make sure you understand it's my #2 request.

P.S.S. My #1 request is that I'd magically not have to come up with the craft/activity for Rosey's Valentines Day party on Monday. And that whatever parents had to do it would have fun coming up with the craft and then implementing it with the children. I think that's it.

Thanks again, God.

Love Bunches,
Erin

P.S.S.S Ok. Just one more quick thing. You know how mother fucking cold it is today? You might not have noticed, because of how busy you are, etc...etc...

BUT IT'S 8 degrees right now. 8 DEGREES. Is there anyway you can do something about that? Before I have to go to the bus stop in 12 minutes?

Your Devoted Servant (I try, sort of),
Erin

I'm like an Award Winning Journalist!

2011-02-08T11:16:00.000-08:00

The newly redesigned and immensely awesome (yes, I'm laying it on quite thick, but the admins are my buddies!) Studio Thirty Plus used to have a Blogger Q and A section. Each week a blogger would interview another blogger and then that interviewed blogger would pick a different blogger and interview them.

Well, Miss Yvonne interviewed me a while ago and then I interview Kim from Yellow Trash Diaries. It turns out Kim and I broke Studio Thirty Plus's Q and A...because it's not longer there.

Is it possible to break the interwebs? Leave it to us to make that happen!

Here is my interview with the lovely and witty Kim:

Hello Kim. Throughout this question asking extravaganza I expect you to be sarcastic and borderline rude the entire time. I hope you can live up to those expectations.

1) First off, just to make things a bit more comfortable around here (for me at least), let’s get something out of the way. Are you attracted to me? Are your intentions towards me wholesome or completely inappropriate?

Lately I have been asking my husband to wear hats with kitten ears to our bed, does that answer your question?

2) For those of us who don’t haven’t read through your whole entire blog…why the name Yellow Trash Diaries? I just want to let you know that I have read most of your blog.

Well, The Wind In My Vagina was already taken, so....

3) Being a fan of your facebook comic page, Kimmie Haha and your more serious looking facebook art page K.H. Waters Art, I’ve always wondered; did you have any artistic training? Can you make a little cartoon me? Can you do it right now? Like immediately.

Total artistic training: one class in middle school, one drawing class in college, and many, many lonely hours spent with my paper and pencil in my room during my childhood. Thank you for reminding me of that painful period in my life. Thank you very much, Erin.

4) You live in GEORGIA!? I feel damp just thinking about it. We used to drive through Georgia on the way to my grandparents old folks condo in Destin Fl. Is it hot right now? Do you ever think about moving?

Damp? Seriously?

My father was in the army. They sent us from Alaska to here-- 'cause the Army likes to fuck with people like that. Don't know why I've stayed since then, maybe the sweet tea has dulled my senses and will to leave.

5) Now that we’re knee deep in the mire of this horrible interview, are you regretting telling me that you would do this? Do you wish that someone else would have interviewed you instead? Like Vic…or Jules? They’re so much cooler than me.

Vic and Jules are much cooler than you. But really, Erin, that is a long list to get into, and do we really have time to go down that road? Also, I think Vic may be blocking my emails.

6) Ok, here’s the inevitable question, why did you start blogging?

My best friend begged me to. I think she was getting tired of the drunken heart to heart phone calls in the middle of the night.

7) What has surprised you about the blogging experience so far?

The great people I've bonded with.

What? Shut up.

8) You have two extremely adorable children (way to go with just the two…anymore kids than that and it’s out of control stupid), what is your favorite aspect of parenting? What’s your least favorite?

Okay, obviously you are out to completely humiliate me by making me show my soft underbelly. So, my favorite part of parenting, I suppose, is the freedom to completely love another person without holding back for fear of rejection or hurt. I love them without any walls and with such magnitude it humbles me.

Shit. There, happy now?

My least favorite part of parenting? Well, I didn't get high blood pressure for nuthin', honey.

9) I have a sort of weird obsession with bed time routines. Why? I don’t know. What is your bedtime/night-time routine? Do you think it’s strange that I want to know?

The only routine I have is an ongoing game with my husband. It's called Who's going to be last up the stairs and left turning everything off? It's a challenge to see who can surprise the other by retiring first-- we relish subtlety.

Yeah, we're boring. And lazy.

10) Your husband seems cool. Can we swap for a few days?

Depends. How is Jeremiah's credit score?

Our Photo Secrets...

2011-02-04T10:52:00.000-08:00

I was editing some photos for the new website Jeremiah and I are launching soon (contact me soon if you want to do a giveaway on your blog!) and I noticed some discrepancies between the photos that are taken of me by my kids and the photos I take of myself.

This is a photo I took of myself:

And this is one taken by Maxine Jane:

Wow. That chipmunk is staring right at me.

I noticed another trend while flipping through folders. Jeremiah hates my guts with a passion unquantifiable.

That's one hot and very annoyed lifepartner! By the way, the t-shirt in the last photo is one of the new items we will be selling on the new website. I can't wait till it's finally done!

Batman Forever

2011-02-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot time talking/thinking about my five year old daughter Maxine Jane and how to make her happy and comfortable. I spend a lot of time working with eight year old Olive on her school work and hygiene (oh boy...this is a long story and someday she's going to regret hassling me about it, cause I'm going to tell ALL OF HER FRIENDS about it). I spend a lot of time getting ready for my ten year old daughter Rosey to enter the Pre Teen Hell Zone and washing her soccer clothes.

And although I spend the most time with Elijah you would think I actually give him the most time all in all. But not really.

He's a very happy and self entertaining little boy, he likes to watch batman, play batman games, play with batman toys and play various batman video games. He's my only child that's ever been obsessed with something and also my only child that's ever insisted on dressing in character all day and all night long.

He's certainly handsomer than Kilmer and Keaton's Batmans, way cooler than Clooney's Batman and almost as awesome as Christian Bale's Batman (give me a break people, who's awesomer than Bale?).

I mean seriously! Look at that chin. That Jaw! Le sigh.

When I was a little kid I was obsessed with The Loch Ness Monster, World War 2 and Ernest Hemmingway...so I think that Elijah's Batman obsession seems healthy in comparison.

Erin's Awkward Check Out Moment

2011-01-31T09:03:00.000-08:00

After shopping Jeremiah and I usually cruise down the line of cashiers looking for what we hope will be a quick and generally comfortable check out experience. We have some criteria:

1):Old ladies are too slow and often make comments about our appearance or what we are buying. "Oh dear, you don't want to buy the red onions! One giant red onion is the same price as one BAG of little yellow onions!" "Are you sure you want to buy this gogurt!? There is an in store coupon for the large jug of plain vanilla yogurt, might be healthier for these little kids! Less sugar!"

2):Middle aged ladies might be faster than old ladies but it seems like every single one we get at the check out is suffering from recent 'empty nest syndrome' and completely and totally over-dotes on Elijah. It happens so often it's almost creepy. I'm not talking about a nice comment about how cute he is. "Oh my gosh look at this little angel! Just like my Jesse at that age, what is he? About three!?? Are you three honey? Oh my! I wonder if he'd scream if I tried to pick him up?! Is he a shy boy?" And something like this has happened to us more than once.

3): Bitchy, Eye-Rolling Teens are preferable over the previous two groups, but also the most unforgivable. I mean, you're working four hour shifts, you still get to go out and drive around aimlessly with your friends after work, go to the movies without having to take a toddler to the bathroom to 'poop' five times, your mom probably still makes your food, you don't have to work out three times a week and wear underwire, super-shaper bras. Just be fucking nice to me and don't roll your eyes at each coupon I give you. And when I say 'thanks, have a nice day', do not, I warn you, do not, roll your eyes at me again.

We have found that all in all out going super nerdy college students are the best cashiers. Or the mentally challenged ones. Except for the one guy who always tries to touch my boobs.

At least he doesn't roll his eyes at me.

This weekend we did some quick shopping for the week and went to two stores in an attempt to be more budget conscious. The second store we went to was unfortunately, The Walmart. There were three things there that are much cheaper there that our family MUST HAVE: the only type of cottage cheese Maxine will eat, but also one of the only things she'll eat, which makes it worth going out of our way to get. Cheap generic pull-ups. Despite my strongest and most mother-of-the-year-worthy efforts, Max is the last standing nighttime bed wetter. At least she isn't still shitting her pants, I doubt her Kindergarten teacher would appreciate that. Green Tea gingerale, Jeremiah's favorite drink, which is $1.20 cheaper (12 pack cans) at walmart than at other places.

As soon as we enter the mammoth halogen lighted complex we instantly regret our decision to go there, cheaper or not. I've told you about my experiences at Walmart before, you'd think I would have learned my lesson. Finally we're checking out at walmart and the speedy check out girl is a very slight, skinny girl with gauged ears and an adorable pixie do. Because I assume I'm still young and cool I joke with her while she's checking us out, and the most awkward moment ensues:

She reaches up and takes the gingerale off of me to ring it up, accidentally brushes my face. I look at Jeremiah and say loudly, "Do you see that J? She's trying to touch my face!?" like that's funny at all? I don't know why I'm even allowed to speak.

She looks at me oddly and I laugh and say, 'Sorry...just messing around." and she puts her head down, and says to the ground, "I don't have much of a sense of humor when it's this busy. No time."
Which means I've not just embarrassed her, I've also gone too slow at the check out. One of my biggest pet peeves.

Jeremiah is also embarrassed and while paying apologizes for me.

So a shout out to that random cashier girl. I didn't mean to be creepy, strange, or hold up your line.

Dieting Twitter Style-Let's Do It!

2011-01-29T10:47:00.000-08:00

At the tail end of 2009 I set out on a journey to change my weight drastically (I had set a goal of losing 60 pounds) and make my eating lifestyle much more natural. By October I had lost 25 and was really feeling excellent.

By February 2010 I had lost 50 and was weighing in at the not so stellar, but still much healthier, 150 pounds. That's where I got cocky and since then I've gained back 8 of those pounds.

I ride my stationary bike 2 times a week, but other than housecleaning and children caring, that's the only exercise I do. The freezing cold winter doldrums doesn't help anything in this regard either.

It's a lot of fun to ride your bike everyday when you're rolling past beautiful scenery and coasting down hills. It's a little bit different to ride in your gameroom constantly peddling and watching Hello Kitty Theatre from 1987 (thanks instant netflix!).

And this is the rub: Jeremiah is the best man in his friend's wedding on April 30th. I am, obviously, going with him (sans child!) and don't know anyone there except for the groom and bride. Not a soul.

So in order to not be super shy and ruin the night for myself and Jeremiah, I must MUST lose 40 more pounds and find an absolutely perfect outfit. Will you help me? Join with me!

Tweet with me everything you eat, NO LYING, every time you work out and what you did, AND every time you weigh in! We'll tag these tweets #dietingtwitterstyle.

What do you think? I'm posting this post and the tweet pimping out the post on a Saturday afternoon, notorious for the low number of traffic...so retweet me and link me so we can gain some momentum and lose some weight!

Pre-Teen Confessional and A Plea for Help

2011-01-25T09:27:00.000-08:00

After my magazine debut at Studio Thirty Plus, I got a few emails (ok, just one) about how it was possible that I have a ten year old daughter. I am assuming the emailer was referring to my totally young looking appearance! Which is nice...and will be nicer once I'm 37 and someone is telling me I look to young to be ten year old Elijah's mother.

It might be hard to believe that I was doggedly attempting to do course work while half asleep and worrying about inverted nipples while you were attempting to do course work while hungover and doing shots of slippery nipples, but it's true nonetheless and here is the proof, my ten year old daughter, Rosey:

So now at almost 30 I'm starting to have doubts about if I'm up to the task of parenting an older child. I know I'm a kick ass Baby and Toddler and Kid Momma, but Pre-teen and Teen? I spent nearly a ten minutes picking out her first deodorant at the store the other day. Jeremiah was more patient with me than usual.

"I'm sure whatever you pick will be fine, Baby. Just relax."

She's started straightening her hair at her Dad's house and came home last night from the long weekend with her Dad with the remnants of eye shadow and eyeliner on. I noticed it while I was cleaning out the suitcase the girls take to their Dad's house:

"Rosey, are you wearing makeup?"

"Not currently."

"Oh, well it looks like it. Jeremiah, doesn't it look like she's wearing makeup?"

"Mom! I had a sleepover at a friends house and we did makeovers!"

"And you haven't washed your face since then?"

"No."

"Go get in the shower and use one of my face scrubbies while you're in there."

"Do I have to?"

"Of course."

She pouted for the rest of the night, but not disruptively so. I was putting all the kids to bed later and kissing them all goodnight when she started waxing the philosophical at me. I usually kiss and hug her last, because she stays up later than the other kids and is allowed to read, watch t.v. or play the DS:

"Mom, do you know that Carrie (her Dad's girlfriend) has lots of friends?"

"No, Rosey I didn't know that, I don't really know Carrie."

"Why don't you have any friends?"

"I don't have much time for friends, really. I guess. I have Mindi. And Jeremiah."

"Mindi lives far away."

"True, but I can talk to her when I need to. You kids and Jeremiah are all I need for friends."

"I don't think it's the same thing... cause friends know each other. I don't think anyone really knows you, except for Jeremiah. I don't really know what you are like for real." She's kind of rambling on and whiny here.

"Honey, I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Never mind, Momma. Sorry, I'm not sure what I'm talking about. Good night."

What I stopped myself from saying to her immediately was, 'Nobody really knows their parents', but is that true? And is that the type of relationship I want to have with my children?

I'm not sure where Rose is coming from with her thoughts from last night. I know she's had issues with spending all of her time with me from the time she was born to the change of being with her Dad almost half the time. And she's told me before that she's had to get used to sharing me with Jeremiah because her Dad and I never had much of a relationship...but this feels different.

Do you have any opinions about the conversation I had with Rosey? Or how I should approach it with her again? Or if I should just not worry about it? Fill me up with some thoughts not my own!!!

All about the 29+ Woman and Porn

2011-01-20T17:27:00.000-08:00

This post was inspired by the Studio Thirty Plus Magazine Post: All About the 30+ Men by Neilochka. I've also been thinking a lot about censorship and what I should and should not publish on my blog. I reread this post and decided it was a honest and not inflammatory account of my relationship with porn. If you don't want to read about my sex life or read me talking about sex, just don't read this post. Thanks.

Growing up I had mostly all guy friends, so porn was essentially as much a part of my life as it was theirs. Just not in the same way.

I didn’t feel aroused or excited by seeing big fake tits, spread eagle thighs and gaping pee holes. Does that surprise you?

Well, it shouldn’t. I was instantly numb to it all and finally after a few times of shoving a playboy in my face or ‘accidentally’ turning on some D quality porn starring a woman old enough to be our mother, my friends finally gave up trying to shock me and I became even more so then before: one of the guys. Except with banging curves. And much nicer skin. And the squeaky annoying voice was a real ‘girl’ give-away.

Even older and actually engaged in sexual activity I was still bored, for the most part. It was always ‘What do you want me to do?” and “What turns you on?” turning what should be an intimate moment into a light conversation. Looking back on my sexual life before Jeremiah I can’t believe I ever even did it, it all seems like a strange blur, like a thumb smear on the side of a transparency. Sometimes that blur morphs and comes to life, but it's like I’m watching a playback of another person having sex. Someone I don't like that much.

When Jeremiah and I are intimate we’re actually intimate, we do things to each other without talking about it in the moment. We talk about sex so much at other points of our lives, over dinner, on car rides, during movies (bad habit) and often in the morning while he’s getting ready for work. I text him dirty talk at work, sometimes dirty photos, we have dirty mouths and we like to share with each other dirtily.

But when it comes down to business, we’re all business.

So the other day when I accidentally clicked on a porn site (not kidding, really did accidentally click on it) I was all of the sudden brimming with excitement over something not Jeremiah related. There are kids in my house at all times, so I quickly clicked it off, but I just kept thinking about it and thinking about it.

Then I’d cook dinner and think about it some more.

Then I’d put the kids to bed and think about it some more. I wasn’t really horny per se, just thinking about the porn. It was like I couldn’t get it out of my head. I started to get what all those boys and men in my life that I scoffed at were so interested in.

And so at that moment I changed my mind about porn. Maybe it could be interesting and exciting.

So porn, you’re all right by me.

But if I ever catch you with Jeremiah when I’m not 1)sleeping 2)puking 3)feverish 4)menstruating, I’ll never talk to you ever again.

Best Mommy Blogger ryhmes with Best Mommy Frogger!

2011-01-17T09:44:00.001-08:00

I just want you guys to know that I'm not quite 30 years old yet. There are approximately 89 days until that day comes. (I say 'approximately' to make it seem like I didn't really pick up my phone, open up the calendar and count out the days to my 30th birthday, cause who would do something like that?)

Regardless of my actual age, I am a member of the highly esteemed Studio Thirty Plus, a website for bloggers who are over thirty and wordy. I think there is a general consensus among some of the snarkier and jerkhead (I'm looking at you Vic, what the hell!?) members that I preformed sexual acts on both Jules and Jerrod (creators of the site) in order to be a member before the age of 30, but this is not true. I did, however, cry and whine a lot and send them hundreds of thousands of threatening text messages in order to claim a spot on their member list.

Depending on how you look a this I'm either adding insult to injury or a excited and proud blogger today because I am nominated for an Boomerang Award on Studio Thirty Plus!!!

In order to capitalize on what I'm sure was a huge mistake, please go and vote for me there....Here is a handy link to the page where you can vote for me as:

BEST MOMMY BLOGGER!!!

In order to further convince you to go there, sign up (if you're not already a member) and vote for me, allow me to show you some examples of my obvious maturity AND my excellent parenting...

Here I am in one of the hats that are on sale at Pageboy shop in the Lawrenceville neighborhood of Pittsburgh PA. I was supposed to get some photos of myself in my hats looking cute and cool in order to promote the shop and my adorable products (available for custom order right now at Ultra Cute Crochet)...instead I decided to mine for some gold, in order to supplement my business output, of course.

My kids were born in a barn. He was happy standing there, and the heat only kicked on 30 times in the 15 minutes I let him stand there with the door open while we were getting ready to go. At least he has a hat on.

I not only knew about, but also participated in the Great Twister Incident of 2010, with jacked up hair. There were several serious injuries...but I gave the injured children pop and cookies at 10 am. They felt much better.

I let these three questionable characters (3 of my 4 younger siblings) around my children on a regular basis.

So since I have shown you my supremacy in all things Best Mommy Bloggerish, please go to Studio Thirty Plus and vote for me!!!

Jeremiah is a Hot Hello Kitty!

2011-01-12T07:24:00.000-08:00

Tara at Bite The Bedbugs (which is disturbing imagery) wants a teacup piggy. Not one of those random toy piggies but a real live one, which is also disturbing. She animated her discussion about getting a piggy with her husband Arun and I was delighted by it!

So I decided to ask Jeremiah to have an argument with me so I can animate it and put it on my blog. Cause I've never had an original thought in my life.

This is what happened when I asked Jeremiah to have an argument with me:

I'm now seriously considering wearing little yellow bows in my hair all the time. And Jeremiah?! Those overalls are tres chic AND incredibly hot. Boom Chicka Wow Wow!

Quoth Erin, The Cutest Raven

2011-01-04T09:03:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite people on the face of the planet (I am unfortunately usually chocked full with countless exaggerations, but in this case I'm being as understated as possible) is Liz from Mean Mama.

A few posts ago she quoted Nathaniel Hawthorne from a letter to his sister referring to his relationship with his wife. I went to the site she found the letter on, read the letter and began to think of all my favorite quotes/letters from famous men. Men hold a dear and near place in my heart, not just because I'm a heterosexual female, but because of the great impact that certain men have made in my life. Despite their faults as human beings, they've moved me in vast ways.

I thought I'd share some of my favorite quotes from men I consider to be great.

Cliche? Yes, it might be! Wise and true? Yes, it certainly is! - "All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost," J.R.R Tolkien

He might not be as well known, and I've faltered when reading some of his work (i.e. Howards End), but he was wise and wise and wise -“If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country." E.M. Forster

Strange, trans-morphic, sickly. A man who made a whole new literary style to befuddle hundreds of thousands of 11th grade literature students- "I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." Franz Kafka

I could write about Thoreau for days and days. A smart, well-read man, who loved the world around him so much that he became a hermit on Walden Pond in order to embrace it thoroughly. Immersed, finely executed, hard working and humble. - "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost: that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler." Henry David Thoreau

Oddly enough, some of my most remembered quotes were quotes about my favorite author, Henry James. He was elitist, brilliant and well known for his ridiculous long winded nature. He had an unlikely friendship with a much younger Edith Wharton and also Virginia Woolf. Most of his novels/novellas are about Americans traveling or living abroad in Europe and he inspired a whole slew of writers (including Wharton) that began to write on the same subject. I love this quote from Wharton about a moment with Henry James - "Tranquil white clouds hung above it in a windless sky, and the silence and solitude were complete as we sat looking across at the crumbling towers, and at their reflection in a moat starred with water-lilies, and danced over by great blue dragonflies. For a long time no one spoke; then James turned to me and said solemnly: 'Summer afternoon — summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."

Ironically, James was never involved with a woman. I say ironically because of his complex understanding (which a lot of critics see as misogynist) and involvement in the creation of female characters. Regardless, he liked to conjecture about himself, and like me was definitely prone to exaggeration -"I'm that queer monster the artist, an obstinate finality, an inexhaustible sensibility." Henry James

Finally, I'll end with a quote from the arrogant bastard, James Joyce. I loved him as a child, but the older I get the more fed up I become with him...what is genius and how does one accomplish creating works that contain genius? He's so confusing! -"A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."

"I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality." James Joyce

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! I have new items available at my other site, please go and check it out and share the link!! Ultra Cute Crochet

Switzerland and The Sad Girl

2010-12-22T06:16:00.000-08:00

Most normal, well-made American girls would be pleased as a pickle to be spending their 16th birthday on a whirlwind trip around Europe and she was pickly pleased until just 20 minutes prior to this point in time. Right now at this remotely viewed moment she's sitting on the side of a giant bed with a ridiculously fluffy white comforter. She's got a notepad filled with numbers in one hand and the hotel phone in the other.

Her head is down and she's sobbing gently, working up to a more substantial weeping. She's still wearing her traveling clothes from earlier that day, a boys' navy and baby blue striped polo shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. She has a thermal shirt wrapped around her waist carelessly and is wiping her snotty face on one sleeve. Our girl finally raises her head and flicks her thick chestnut hair off of her shoulders in a mindless head cocking motion. She hangs up the phone, distracted by some commotion outside.

Not impressed by the huge glass french doors, the striking wrought iron balcony or the amazing mountain rising before her in white majestic grandeur, she gazes out at the group of her fellow students frolicking in the village many floors below her. They're all participating in a delightful, laughter-filled snow ball battle, American voices raising up to her on the balcony, echoing off the walls of the gothic cathedral flanking the mountain-side.

The phone rings and she scuttles across the room in a clumsy sprint.

"Hello!?!?" She's so breathless with excitement, it's comical.
"Hello Erin! Happy Birthday!" It's her Mom. Not who she was hoping to hear from, but pretty damn good.
"Oh Momma. Thanks. I was feeling weird there for awhile. I miss you guys."
"But not too much, right Erin? Having a good time? "
"Yep! Having a wonderful time, Momma. Just feeling homesick for a minute. I feel so much better now that I talked to you."
"It's strange not having you here for your birthday, we'll have cake when you get home. Michelle and Mindi should be calling you shortly, I gave them all the numbers."
"Oh! Thanks Momma."
"Love you, Erin, be good. Please."
"Bye Mom, thanks again."

She waded through two more perfunctory conversations, two that made her feel so much better, but not the one she really was hoping to get. She hung up from the last phone call, thinking she could definitely go and join her group, finally. A smile was creeping over her generous mouth thinking about the journey she was on and how silly she had been acting earlier.

Before she left the room she checked her international calling card minutes one more time. 6 minutes left. Tensing up immediately she decided to try calling him one more time. She went through the annoying process of dialing out the calling cards numbers, the international dialing codes and finally, checking and double checking his number, she slowly pushed the buttons that would very hopefully connect her with him. On the first ring, her very self-absorbed mind she imagined him waiting by the phone, expectantly, hand poised above the receiver. On the second ring she tried to imagine what he might be doing instead of waiting by the phone for her call...skating with friends? Flirting with some girl? Not thinking about her, for sure. On the third ring she realized it was almost 11 pm in Pennsylvania. Was she calling too late?

"Hello?" A gruff, tired voice answers.
"Hi, Is Jeremiah home?"
"No, no he's not. Can I take a message?" Gruff, but polite.
"No!...No, that's okay. I'll just see him when I get back, I think." Click.

She grabbed some necessities and ran, clumsily again, out of the room. She tried to clear her head so she wasn't consumed by embarrassment or some other basic emotion. Leaving the hotel, she forced a smile onto her face like shoving an ill-fitting piece into a near finished puzzle and ran to meet her group.

The rest of her trip was wonderful.

She didn't talk to Jeremiah again for almost 8 years.

Summing Shit Up Yo.

2010-12-17T10:41:00.000-08:00

Recently Miss Yvonne from Yo Mama's Blog asked me if she could interview me for the Questions for a Blogger section of Studio 30 Plus's website. (As a side note, I am not 30 until April. Jerrod and Jules run the site and happen to think I'm the best thing since sliced pumpkin seed bread, so I'm an honorary member....) Because I knew that this might bring at least a couple more people to my blog I decided to take a little look see around the site and spruce the ol' girl up a little bit.

You know, wax her hairy bits, brush her groady yellowing teeth (groady isn't a word?!) and put on something other type of clothing rather than her usual waffle-knit leggings, giant mohair sweater and knee high sneaker slippers.

I gave up trying to do anything new with her after about two minutes.

I was then distracted by an amazon email and spent a half hour filling my cart with books about Teddy Roosevelt and not actually buying any of them. I finally got up from my work area (an area in our front room on a couch where I pile up all of my work on the side table next to the couch) and started to make Max and Elijah some lunch.

While I was piling chipped chopped ham (disgusting), string cheese and grapes on their lunch plates my mind wandered back to posts I wrote in the past, when I was first filling my proverbial blank pages here on the interwebs. I have been writing fiction and other works since I was a very small child and had been previously only shared my work with a handful of people before I started writing my personal blog. I had submitted some of my work and have had positive results and have worked for a few websites as a freelancer, but mainly in a editing and informative capacity. My daddy has read some of my work and has praised it. A few professors and a couple friends have been subjected to my endless questioning after they read some of my work.

After I had children I was lucky enough to keep getting freelances jobs, and have appreciated the feedback I've received from readers here at Blogging is For Dorks so very much. This thought made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I might write a few more posts before the end of the year, but in this post I wanted to add links to my personal two favorite posts from Blogging is for Dorks (It felt weird writing that sentence, I sound like a douche!) and take the time to thank a few people (don't roll your eyes!!!) who have made this last year better for me.

I wrote this post during a particularly sad night for me and it felt so good to get feedback on it: This Night Rather Than All the Other Nights

The ups and downs I've experienced with my five year old daughter Maxine Jane over the course of her lifetime have been some of the most intense, sometimes horrible, sometimes incredible experiences I've ever had, this post embodies one of the better ones:
Max's First Thunderstorm

My Kids: Thanks for not being assholes. All of the time.

Jeremiah: Thank you for helping me be a better person. I look forward to growing with you and watching our children learn and love together.

Beckerino: I have no idea why I love you so much. You are a dirty slutty whore and you have all of those gross dogs but I appreciate you so much. I am glad we can have our therapy texting sessions and I hope someday I can sit on your face. I meant that in a totally non sexual way. Totally.

Aly-Bear: As much as I am like Becky I am opposite of you. That sentence brought back horrible flashbacks from a particularly awful SAT prep class. It seems like you live in a different world but yet we can talk for three hours straight. Thank you.

Mindi: We barely ever talk but it means so much to me that there's someone out there in the world that shares so many experiences with me. Someone who has seen me in the worst and the best of lights and still wanted to call me their friend through it all. I like to think you saw something in me from the beginning and that's why you've put up with all of my shit. Or maybe you moved far away to get away from me?

Once upon a time there was a me who wasn't a very good person. I am glad that I get the opportunity to make up for all the crap I've done. It make take me many more years of mucking shit, but someday I might have a clean stable.

If that last sentence made any sense to you, or if you thought it was a nice normal statement, you are a huge fucking dork!

A Christmas Tree Blogging Introspective

2010-12-15T16:37:00.000-08:00

It seems this blog has morphed into a introspective about Christmas Trees.

Last post I talked about our familial patriarch and his lack of christmas tree building motivation.

This post I will show you a duo of trees, paired with a background of ugly wood paneling and a super humanly cute group of children that happen to be my own.

Our first Christmas with Elijah at our first house:

Three Christmas's later at our current residence:

What a difference a couple years and an escape out of rental/bad landlord hell will make!

Pre-Pre Christmas Napping

2010-12-07T09:15:00.000-08:00

This is the space where the Christmas tree should go:

A sadly empty space.

This is the man who should be putting the tree in that spot:

See anything wrong with these photos? Mmmmhmmm. I thought so!

Preventable Diseases (have nothing to do with this post)

2010-11-30T07:22:00.000-08:00

You may or may not have noticed that my blogging has not been as prolific lately as it has been in the past. I blame lots of things for this sad lack of blogging.

1: My Damn Kids: You'd think it was my job to take care of them or something!? Elijah demands ridiculous things like food or help getting dressed. What's up with that! Last night I had to make dinner, clean it up and then actually watch a movie with them. I mean, HELLO! It's disturbing how much pressure I'm under from these mini-beings.

2: My Jobs: I love making warm winter accessories for people and I love writing, but do I really have to do things like write invoices, edit, take photos and advertise!? So Much Work. If only I could make enough money to pay something to take care of the kids and advertise for my business. Have you seen my new items?! There is still time to make your custom order for Christmas! Check out Ultra Cute Crochet and help a brother out.

Already have the crocheting thing in the bag? Check out my day job at Crochet Spot for patterns, tutorials and fun crochet related posts!

3: Taking Care of the House/Laundry: Yesterday I washed, dried, folded and put away 7 loads of laundry. 7 LOADS! I also scrubbed the tub, toilet and sink in the bathroom, washed four loads of dishes (no, I don't have a dishwasher...and it's not from lack of funds...there's literally no room for one in our kitchen), cleaned Max and Elijah's room and dusted in the front room. Today I hope to ignore all the house work so tomorrow it will be such a mess that I will cry from the overwhelming nature of it all.

Ok, that's it. I guess it's not as much as I previously thought AND is a bit more sad rather than funny.

Oh

4: This Recent Illness: I guess I shouldn't complain because I've only had this cold since Sunday night. BUT FOR GOD'S SAKE! My eyes are constantly watering, my throat aches, I can't breathe out of my nose and worst of all; I CAN'T TASTE ANYTHING. Eating makes me feel better and this illness has taken away my only joy. My only joy ever in the history of the world. Eating. Well, fuck that, I'm going to go stuff my face anyways.

I'll leave you with this photo of me so you can share in some of my wretched pain:

Rosey Vs. My Piano Man

2010-11-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

Rosey received an MP3 player from her Dad LAST CHRISTMAS and last night brought it home from his house unopened.

She then proceeded to annoy us until we figured it out and uploaded songs onto it. And by 'us' I mean she proceeded to annoy Jeremiah until he figured it out and uploaded songs onto it. It turned out that the brand she had was the same as Jeremiah's old MP3 player and he didn't have to upload a new driver etc...etc...and we were all spared from hearing a few choice swear words during his inevitable frustrations.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!!!" is his favorite exclamation.

Regardless, I was upstairs 'working' in my 'studio' and was listening to Rose and Jeremiah search through my music on the home computer.

Sadly for all of us, out of hundreds of songs, Rose could only pick 20. 20 songs out of all of my songs!!!!!

She loves The Killers and I happened to have a few of their songs, so that saved the day. Two Britney Spears songs (leave me alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), one Evanescence song and some other 'pop' songs that I didn't even know I had.

The conversation was pretty funny to me from upstairs though. Jeremiah was paging through my songs and it pretty much went like this:

"Rose, I'm not sure if there's anything you like on here..."

"Just keep looking."

Jeremiah sighs very deeply and continues, "Ok...Ben Folds...Ben Folds....Ben Folds....Cake...Ben Folds...Bob Dylan....Ben Folds..."

Rose yells up the stairs:

"GEEZ! MOM! You don't have much variety here!" She's so whiny it hurts.

"ROSEY! I wasn't prepared to have a ten year old looking through my songs. MY SONGS being the imperial words."

Jeremiah laughs, loudly,"Erin, you're using imperial incorrectly in that sentence."

"Look it up, Mister Smarty Pants. Imperial is one of those words that can be applied in any sentence, really..." I am obviously certain that he is right.

"Ok ok ok." Rosey begins to acquiesce, "I like a few Ben Folds songs, I just don't know the names of them. Can we play through them and I'll tell you which ones I like?"

Jeremiah is a pillar of strength and patience here. After sorting through five or six Ben Folds albums Rosey picks two songs.

"I'm sorry I didn't pick more...Mom just listens to the rest of them over and over again...I'm so sick of Ben Folds."

I can't hear Jeremiah's response, but I assume his curly crowned head is bobbing up and down in solemn agreement.

So here I am first thing the next morning, searching through Amazon's free MP3's for songs my 10 year old daughter would like. Yes, I'm cheap.

Oh! Look!

There's a deal on the download of Ben Fold's new album! Score!

I guess Rosey is just going to have to learn not to be sick of Ben Folds anymore.

Maxism for the People!

2010-11-12T10:41:00.000-08:00

Max is on from the time she wakes up until the time she goes to sleep.

And she is constantly and consistently at odds with someone or something. This morning I woke up before sunrise to her freezing cold hands on my back.

"Mom! My hands are cold. Will you hold me?"

Thanks for the newsflash and the delightful wake up, Maxine.

Later in the morning we're getting ready for school and I'm pouring her cereal into her favorite bowl and I already have her favorite spoon in the bowl. She dives into the cereal and eats, then looks at the spoon and starts to whimper, first softly and then slowly the soft whimper began to morph into a low, but very loud wail. The huffing and puffing, the coughing and the gagging soon followed. I tried to calm her but couldn't understand what she could possibly be upset about. Rose finally calmed her by distracting her and pointing out the giant crow that had just landed in the backyard.

"HOLY COW! I thought they only had crows that big in Texas!"

Later as I was walking them out the door to the bus stop I asked her what happened at breakfast.

"I know you think that's my favorite spoon MOM. But it's not. And it hurts my feelings that you don't know the difference between my favorite and the one that just looks like my favorite." (Max proununciations: foon for spoon, fweelings for feelings, fave-o-wit for favorite, wooks for looks)

"I'm sorry Maxine, when you get home from school you'll have to show me the difference."

"You can bet your pretty panties I will MOM!"

What!? haha.

Did you notice I'm having a 'free shipping' sale!? Go and check out my site Ultra Cute Crochet for deals and sales on the warmest, awesomest handmade accessories this side of the Mogonoghalawawa! (Another Max-ism)

A Walk with Pappy

2010-11-07T17:02:00.000-08:00

There aren't many times in my existence when I think, "This is just perfect.". I have a hard time enjoying myself because of this. I am always worrying about things that have to be done tomorrow, of what might happen if I do something incorrectly in a certain situation, what could be done to make whatever I'm doing better for not just myself, but for everyone around me. It kind of sucks.

A few weeks ago I had a wonderful experience with my Daddy and Elijah. It was near perfect, except for the fact that it had to ever end. We took Elijah on a mini nature walk, and had to walk some distance from my parent's home to get to the woods, but it was wonderful. Elijah was a real trooper and walked most of the time, but Daddy did bear the brunt of Elijah's weight more than I did, which was nice!

Thank you Daddy, if you ever get a chance (or the inclination) to read this. You're a paragon of patience putting up with me and still wanting to hang out with me after 29 years.

Politics and Facebook

2010-11-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

Today I decided to have a little socio-political experiment on The Book of Faces. I wrote a status that was mainly based on a inside joke Jeremiah and I have here at home. He likes to call me a 'Damn Hippy', 'Tree Hugger', calls Obama 'my man' etc...etc... as a joke.

We also have a joke about his mom and some other people we know who have been known to vote 'straight ticket'. So I combined the two things and was curious to see where it would end up.

Me: "I just voted- straight ticket democrat. What do think about that?"
about an hour ago

Dr. Monkey Muck likes this.

Un-named friend of Jeremiah's: it all makes sense now

Un-named friend of mine: You got a sticker anyway.

Un-named friend of Jeremiah's: I think you're 19? Or a liberal arts student?

My lovely cousin: Retard

Jeremiah: I knew it.

My momma's cousin, my second cousin?: sorry to hear about your accident, must have bee a terrible blow to the head

Un-named Friend of Jeremiah's who also made the first comment: what did your kids ever do to you?

Lovely Cousin's husband: I think everyone's entitled to their own opinion.

Although my status was a joke and I had intended to respond within an hour or so and give my actual opinion and political stance, I decided to leave it as is and not just shoot off pithy comments back at my commenters on facebook, which was my first inclination.

I grew up in a home with parents that had often opposing views on a plethora of different areas ranging from health and home to politics and religion. Neither one ever called the other one stupid or idiotic, neither one told the other that they were wrong or retarded. Even when my Dad begrudging admitted to voting for Ross Perot my Mom kept her giant mouth shut. When I told my parents I wanted to vote for George W. Bush in 2000 my Momma didn't protest. She was pushed to her limits though and later cutely elbowed me some time during in 2004 and said 'I told you he was a dickhead.'.

If you prevent someone from fleshing out their own opinions based on what they themselves come up with after investigating all the facts and options, you're no better than those 'Damn Commies' I read someone bitching about on facebook earlier today.

I have never voted a straight ticket. I have never voted because I was bullied, coerced, bribed or tricked. I have never voted based on someone else's opinion, on who looks the nicest, on who served in which war or on which candidate might own the nicest house or has the most cars. I have never voted without researching my candidates and being aware of what each one was representing themselves as.

Have I mentioned that I've never actually voted? Which is also my right.

I'm Raffling Off Children. Get a Ticket.

2010-10-29T11:15:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before...but I have a lot of children.

Four.

That's a lot.

My parents had five and I still feel like I have many many more children here at this house then were ever at my house growing up.

I suppose that's because I'm in charge and responsible for all these beings here, when in stark contrast I wasn't responsible for shit growing up.

(I didn't know how to do laundry or how much tylenol cost when I went to college. I was the butt of many jokes.)

Also not helping things is the fact that all of my children have such different and complex personalities.

Rosey is uptight and brighter than a ten year old should be. She's nosy, interested and an excellent conversationalist. She's also dramatic at times and takes everything WAY to seriously. Between school, soccer and shared custody, I rarely get to see her.

People have told me Olivia would be trouble from the day her white hair turned red. I suppose redheads have a bad reputation? She was a late talker and then when words started actually flowing from her mouth, the flood gates were permanently flown open. She sings, she flits around like a flighty lanky flamingo, she cries foul at her siblings thousands of times a day, stays up too late, laughs incredibly loud at funny movies and is afraid of the dark. Oy vey!

Maxine Jane is the most difficult, temperamental, awe inspiring, incredible, dichotomous person I've ever met in my life. I think about her all the time, she's embedded into my brain like a poem you loved as a child or a scene from a movie you've seen a million times. She loves animals, loves movies, loves everything...until she's not getting her way and then she hates the world and will stop at nothing to make everyone around her as miserable as she is. Ah. Max.

Elijah is the child of my heart. I've never loved anyone as much as I love Jeremiah and I'm in awe of the fact I get to raise his son. He was an easy baby, a great sleeper and a great nurser. At three years old ("I'm going be free!" as he would say) Elijah is a strong bodied, strong willed boy. He jumps and climbs and conquers.

Ok. So now that you know a little bit about each one...which one do you want to take home with you!?

Super Fly

2010-10-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

Jeremiah has been annoying me lately with his excellent coolness and his busy-ness.

I feel the need to retaliate by posting photos of him he would not want me to post.

I just have to do it. And he's at work.

So he can't stop me.

I just 'previewed' this post and he still looks cooler than me! Why oh why!??

Be Aware and Be Cautious. Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

2010-10-20T09:34:00.000-07:00

I am always floating above serious conversations, waiting to lighten things up with an inappropriate joke or a snide remark. It's my protection against bawling like a baby and telling my secrets to someone who might judge me. I don't want to burden them with my problems, don't like to seem like a dramatic mess, etc..etc...

I am, despite all appearances (and my big freaking mouth), a good listener. I 'listened' to Tara's story I'm a One in Four at Bite The Bed Bugs and felt the bile rise up in my throat. I want to be as brave as Tara and tell a story to make any girl out there do the right thing and run far far away from any man who might hurt her.

I also know that if I were 15 again and I was reading this post I would be callous and unconcerned. Even though I had experienced the terror of abuse first hand, I would have assumed that it was my fault and that my experience was completely separate and unique compared to anyone else's. I felt it was my fault because I messed with a practically grown man who was obviously unstable, even though I didn't really have much romantic interest in him.

I was in love with a man who didn't love me on and off for most of my teenage years. I thought we would eventually end up together when I was older, thought he treated me badly because he was so much cooler and adult than I was, thought he loved me as much as I adored him underneath it all. I treated people badly in response to his treatment of me, boys who gave me their hearts, friends who trusted me and most of all my family, who I lied to and used in order to be with this man. He used me and abused my trust, but he never physically hurt me.

Ironically the person who ended up bruising my body and mind was one of the boys I mistreated in response to my mistreatment.

I met him at the record store I worked at from time to time as a teen, which was owned by one of my friends. There was a tattoo studio upstairs and James worked there. He was lean and of middle height, covered in tattoos and spikes in every place it every place possible to be pierced. He had a very gravely voice, clear blue eyes and long dyed black hair with blond roots peaking from underneath. I admired his looks, liked his strong jaw and perfect teeth, thought that there was something underneath all the trappings of his outer appearance.

He drove a white convertible with as many metal band decals as he had tattoos and a sound system that shook the cement around us. I could tell from the first time we met he wanted to take me out, I led him on and teased him embarrassingly. Looking back I realize I was longing for attention but I have no idea why.

After weeks of leading him on, I finally let him take me out to get coffee after the shops were closed on a Friday night. We walked to the coffee shop and afterward he walked me up to my Dad's pharmacy and said goodnight. He was so polite and so gentle. I was starting to feel a bit more for him than I originally thought I would. The next day I was excited to see him and after work we drove around our small town with the top down. He dropped me off at home, this time kissing me very softly on the mouth. I skipped up the walk to my house with my fingers tracing my lips and the tiny pricks James's lip piercings had left there.

I spoke to my on and off again boyfriend later that night and learned that I was again in his good graces. He wanted to spend the next day with me, all day after school. I quickly forgot James.

I didn't go to the record store after school the next day, or any day for the next few weeks. I gave all my attention to my boyfriend, who was being so much more wonderful than usual. Later I learned someone had told him I had started to see another boy.

I didn't return James's phone calls, ignored him when he yelled at me out his car window (how did he know where I was all the time?), didn't pay any attention when I noticed he was parked outside my parents' house.

I went to a concert with some girlfriends a few weeks later and he unexpectedly cornered me outside a bathroom. He put his face inches away from mine and although the band was incredibly loud, I still heard every single word he spoke to me.
"You fucking bitch. I told everyone I know about you and then you ditch me for no fucking reason. I love your face so much. I wish I could rip it off and wear it all day long." I wasn't as afraid as I should have been and wondered how long it took him to come up with that speech...

He punched me in the gut and pushed me through the door of the bathroom. He kissed me and pushed his tongue through my pursed lips. I could feel his hands all over me rough and hurting. I yielded and began to cry. He stopped his assault immediately and stared at me, head cocked to one side like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. I think he was surprised I didn't fight back.

Just like Tara, I never said one word. One of my friends saw me with James and saw him being 'weird' with me. When she persisted and continued to ask me what happened I said he was a 'total freak of nature' and that we needed to 'stay the fuck away from him'.

I became wary of my movements, over thought where I was going and who I was with. I had a bunch of much younger siblings and didn't want them to get hurt, especially since James continued to follow me and park outside my house. But I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone. I didn't want to get blamed for the way he was acting, didn't want my boyfriend to know that I was such a colossal child, not able to deal with some random metal-head.

Eventually James 'gave up' and things went back to normal. My boyfriend started ignoring me again (later I learned he was dating someone his own age) and I was going out with a boy who I went to school with. He was taking me out for a coffee before I had to work at a teen center concert (I worked as a barrista at a teen center during my high school years). We pulled out of my parents driveway and started down the bouncy brick street when I felt my legs quiver and the seat start to vibrate. I can remember that exact feeling to this very day, the real terror that swept through me at that moment has never been replicated.

To make a very horrifying story shorter and less painfully cliche, he chased us downtown, right on our tail and yelling at us out the window. All of your classic psycho phrases plus one extra frightening one, "I have a fucking gun, you fucking bitch!".

My poor date was shaking and afraid. I suggested we park outside the teen center and make a run for the door, which I could immediately lock behind us. Plus, we always had security for the teen center's concerts and they would already be there setting up. James parked madcap directly behind us and because he was scrambling in his car (for what I at the time assumed was a gun) we made it inside and locked the doors. Security called the police and James stalked the outside parking lot until moments before the police finally arrived.

Once again, just like Tara, I refused to press charges. I made it seem like it was not a big deal. With the adrenalin gone, I was just embarrassed more than anything else.

He left me alone after that.

A few years later I was home from school on break and attending a party at a good friend's house. James walked in the house a few hours after me with some mutual friends and although it was clear he was not there because of me, I panicked. But instead of leaving I just smiled carelessly and said hello to him. He smiled at me every time I met his eyes all night long, but left me alone. I was creeped out but drunk enough not to be concerned for my well being.

Later that night, everyone was sharing stories about teenage love and he told our story. A very strange and twisted version of our short relationship. He even told the whole group about the car chase and everyone in the room became super uncomfortable. I laughed to lighten the mood and said, 'Holy Crap James! I thought you had a gun, that you were going to kill me!'

He looked right at me, serious as sin and said, 'I did. I was going to.'

After a few moments of silence he laughed heartily and said, 'Oh Geez, Erin! Lighten up, I am just kidding!'

And everyone believed him, except for me.

This month is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Please be aware of the seriousness of stories like mine and Tara's. We walked away but very well might not have. Listen to the women and girls out there and help prevent tragedy from happening. Share your stories and reach out.

Joy

2010-10-18T12:22:00.000-07:00

The other day Jeremiah and I bought Elijah a new set of sheets. When we came home I ran them through the washer and dryer. At bedtime while Jeremiah was dressing Elijah in his PJ's, I made up his bed with his new sheets, white with multi-colored stars.

When Elijah was finished being dressed and spied his new sheets, his whole face lit up with a giant grin. His tiny toddler fingers came up to his mouth and garbled Elijah language flew out of his perfect toddler mouth:

"New bed for Lijah!?"
"All for Lijah?"
"Not my berfday!"

He settled down in his new sheets, pleased as a plump round peach. How could such a simple thing as new sheets bring him such joy? Where do I get some of that?

I have been thinking about it ever since.

Today while listening to my usual rainy day songlist something hit me in the back of the head with a strange violent blow. Lots of things bring me joy, I just don't realize it. I'm too busy looking for the next bit of excitement, wonderment or entertainment to appreciate the bits and pieces of perfection I'm getting everyday.

Joy came into my heart listening to my song list, Ben Folds singing about a sad man, maybe himself, maybe not. Bob Dylan singing about the simple way his woman has brought out the real man inside of him. A melancholy girl singing about a melancholy boy, his mouth, his eyes, his body.

Joy came into my heart laying in a shadow filled room with a man with dark hair and an easy smile. His warm fingers on my bare hip. His warm breath on the back of my head. Quiet.

Joy came into my heart this morning when Elijah said 'Thank you Momma' as plain as day.

What do I have to complain about? Nada. Niets. Rien. Nichts. Niente.

Nothing at all.

Also bringing me joy; finishing Steam Me Up Kid's order. See it at my new site Ultra Cute Crochet!

Mizzle the Flying Cat

2010-10-15T07:26:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a sad cat named Mr. Mizzle. A little boy told me he was named this because he looked grey like a rainy day.

Mr. Mizzle was poorly cared for and often abused. I knew a tall blonde boy/man who got joy from launching Miz from his high hilltop porch into the traffic below. I saw this happen many times, much to my own chagrin Mizzle would run back up onto the porch after his near death launch.

I would sometimes consider stealing the cat away and giving it a nice, clean, happy home. But I was too young and too careless to give it any real thought. If it were me today, the grown up me, I might have done something. The little girl me, the teenage me, watched in terror as Mizzle suffered abuses from uncaring 'owners'.

And sadly, a few times, I may have even laughed at those random porch launchings.

Mr. Mizzle was murdered in a horrific manner at the hands of two dumb, drunk, coked out men on a windy rainy October night 13 years ago. I'm not sure how Miz's owners felt about this. They may have laughed, internally processed it, felt sad or remorseful. I never asked.

Thankfully I didn't witness the cat's death, but it did mark the last time I set foot in that hilltop house.

R.I.P. Mizzle. You were a real characterization of one little boy's grey view on life.

Erin, Sex and A Trashy 80's Novel

2010-10-07T06:32:00.000-07:00

Warning! This blog post is about sex. If you do not want to hear me talk about sex or are uncomfortable reading about blatantly unnatural sexual positions, please do not read on.

There. You have been warned.

This post isn't really about blatantly unnatural sexual positions. Sorry for the build up. It is instead about the book I am currently reading for the fourth time (the first being when I was 12, way to drop the ball Mom and Dad!), Lace by Shirley Conran. I have no idea why I insist on reading this book, which is essentially a romance novel, when I would usually make fun of anyone who would read anything from this genre. (Except for Wuthering Heights, all the Bronte homeys get a free pass).

I don't particularly connect with any of the characters, four women with various intertwining backgrounds who all met at a Swiss boarding school (I have, however, visited Switzerland...but not to go to school there, just to visit and walk around a village, tormenting the locals with my brash colloquialisms). But there is a lot of sex in this book and therein lies the rub!

The men in this novel are characterized as either rigid and horrible in bed or smooth, wonderful lovers who also happen to be tremendous assholes. Oh and there's also a slimy obese porn director as well.

And a transvestite husband.

And an Arab Prince (who was trained for weeks in the art of lovemaking).

What is repeated over and over again is that women aren't satisfied if they don't have an amazing partner who can expertly make her come every single time they make love. It makes me mad that intimacy is so trivialized in this book when it could be capitalized on in so many excellent ways.

I like some of the sex 'scenes' in this novel. But as soon as So and So's french paramour is a two pump chump, she's given up on him completely. She cries, blames herself for her dissatisfaction, and he tosses her to the wayside because she's frigid. It happens several times in several different sections of the book. So she 'gets revenge' later in life on men by using them for gratification and not giving them any (is that even possible?).

I don't know about you and your sex life but I wouldn't be satisfied if Jeremiah and I were making love and only I came. And I'm sure I can speak for him as well.

Do women really want the same thing men supposedly want? To have satisfaction sexually without the attachments? Does it really really feel as good when you're not in love?

Or am I thinking entirely too much about a bloody Shirley Conran book published in the 80's?

My Horrendous Parenting Revealed!

2010-10-05T07:06:00.000-07:00

My writing/humor mojo has been smashed to pieces by a visiting force I can barely compete with...

My ex mother in law.

Now now now. My mom is literally shitting her pants right now because I'm actually talking about this in a public forum, but Beta Dad has given me the balls to do this and doing it is what I'm best at.

A month ago my ex husband called me and asked me to take any videos of our daughters off of my blog, especially one in particular you might remember of Olivia dancing to 'All the Single Ladies' but also including their piano recital videos. After a short phone conversation where he stated his position and I promptly disregarded them, it all came down to two final points:

1: His parents were very 'upset' upon reading my blog. They think all videos and all photos should come off the blog.

2: They think I'm exploiting my daughters for my business, Ultra Cute Crochet.

After throwing a tremendous fit in my kitchen after speaking with my ex about this, calling my daddy and cry baby bawling for a half hour (while he was busy at work, Sorry Daddy!),calling Jeremiah at work and bawling at him for another half hour (Sorry Jeremiah!) and then finally writing a very scathing post and then not posting it, I decided to take down the 'All the Single Ladies' video of Olivia and leave it at that.

(If you're interested in reading aforementioned scathing post, let me know. I'll send it to you post haste!)

I wrote that super small so my ex mother in law wouldn't be able to read it! I am incredibly clever.

Now all the time I feel like there's a shadow looming over me and my keyboard. I feel unable to share stories and photos of my very delightful children, who I am so proud of.

The truth is, I'm pretty sure that I will never be able to do anything good in my ex's or his parent's eyes, so fuck it! Here are some images with examples of my horrendous parenting:

I'm letting Jeremiah pummel Maxine Jane with balloons! Oh the Horror!

Max and Elijah are eating lollipops AND are about to devour cake and ice cream as well. At Elijah's third birthday party! Shame on Me!

Yes, those are chips. AND both my Mom and Jeremiah's brother Craig have their elbows on the table! We're all going to hell!

Olivia's life is surely at stake... Call in The Marines (or the State Police)!

Once again, I'm taking a photo while all of my children are precariously balanced on top of a PLAYGROUND APPARATUS! For Gosh Sakes!

Did I mention that my shop now has it's own blog?! Please go check it out: Ultra Cute Crochet! There's a pretty swell October Sale going on there and there will soon be updates on the custom orders I'm doing for Steam Me Up Kid and Angela from the Eat Here Eatery.

Ultra Cute Crochet

2010-10-02T08:23:00.000-07:00

After much cajoling and procrastination I have finally set up a separate site for Ultra Cute Crochet! Instead of being bombarded by sales here at Blogging is For Dorks, go be bombarded with them over there:

Ultra Cute Crochet

Look at the "They Love Me!" page to see if you're included. If you're not, please tell me so I can include you!

If you promote me on your blog and tell me about it you get free shipping!

Happy Birthday Elijah!

2010-09-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

This is a repost from last year's birthday post for my son Elijah. He turns 3 tomorrow and the story below is the story of his birth. It's not gross, don't worry.

Painfully waddling down the hot city sidewalk I finally reach my destination and entered the airconditioned Dr.’s office. My abdomen is swollen with my son, my first son, Jeremiah’s first child, my fourth and final baby.

I’m still a little sad that people were staring at me while passing by. I supposed they just wondered if maybe I was carrying multiples, which is becoming more and more common. I'm bigger than any person I've ever known carrying one baby, my whole stomach shakes when Elijah moves.

I’m weighed by the nurse, she smiles and pinches me. I’ve gained 2 pounds in one week.

The Dr. checks me, grimaces. 2 cm dilated. I’m only 36 weeks.
I worry, my face flushes and I glance at Jeremiah beside me. He’s calm, unworried…

The day before I had an ultrasound. Today the Dr. is telling us our son is already 8 pounds, but it’s most probable that his lungs have not developed. The Dr. wants me to keep my feet up and rest as much as possible.
We make a date for induction. Sept. 25th. 38 weeks gestation..

At 26 weeks I woke up early in the morning with contractions. We went to the hospital and the nurses could not stop the labor. Finally after hours, medications and threats of life-flighting us to childrens hospital my labor stopped. All was well.

Things go smoothly for the next few weeks after the Dr.’s 36 week visit. I rest, the girls are anxious and want me to play. I’m tired of being pregnant, of not being able to lift anything or play with my daughters. I’m tired of people staring at me.

I want to meet my son, my first son, Jeremiah’s first child, my fourth and final baby.

Jeremiah is anxious, but sweet. He loves us and shows it everyday.

The night before the scheduled induction we take the girls to my mom’s house, visit, then tuck them into bed and head home. I get into my P.J.’s , Jeremiah tucks me in (because I insisted and he couldn’t say no) and then the contractions start.
They started low like menstrual cramps and then spread in warm circles across my abdomen. My whole body started to react. I felt flushed, nauseous, then full of frenetic energy and finally as the contraction ended, surprisingly calm. I had pre term labor many times and assumed (for some odd reason) that’s what was happening.

Jeremiah became amazingly excited when I called for him from across our home and told him about the contractions.
Practically bouncing off the walls, he told me, “This is it, Baby! I can just tell.”
I got into the shower and after a few minutes smugly told him that the contractions had stopped. I guess regardless of my physical status, I always have to be right.
He waited for me and handed me a towel as I got out of the shower…and the contractions began again.

We got ready and went right up to the hospital. The nurse checked me and confirmed that we were indeed in labor. I was 4 cm dilated. Then she asked me if I wanted an epidural.

I looked at Jeremiah and he said, “Whatever you want, Baby.”. And for some odd reason I said yes. I’m not against epidurals and had even had one after laboring 12 hours with Maxine (it went on to last 26 hours total)…but I’ve never been a fan either and had been assuming I would not have one.

The Dr. came in, did the epidural and then Jeremiah and I spent the next five hours watching t.v., talking, relaxing and drifting in and out of sleep. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with Jeremiah, as long as he’s in the room with me I’m good and good we were.
The lights were low, just us and the occasional nurse. I was in labor, but it seemed like a surreal blur. A picture in time playing back slowly and smudged with cloudy marks…

Any calmness was abruptly ended around 3:30am. I was on my side and all of the sudden felt like the baby was coming out. I asked Jeremiah to look and he didn’t see anything. He went and got the nurse and the Dr. (who was just about to come into the room and check me). They rolled me over and Elijah just started coming out. I was scared, afraid because of the urgency of it all.
No stirrups, no set up, no ‘tools’…the Dr. was just putting on gloves as Elijah’s whole head was out. It was messy and I was sitting upright and could see everything.

Jeremiah was flushed and I could tell he was worried too.

The Dr. was laughing when he told me to give a little push.

Elijah was born on the sheets in front of me, close enough to touch and caress at 3:55am, September 25th, 2007. The nurse and the Dr. were loudly giggling and talking about how big he was.

To me he looked tiny.

And blue.

Despite the lack of concern from the Dr. and the nurses, Jeremiah and I panicked a wee bit. We kept asking if he was okay, looking anxiously at the nurse suctioning his mouth.

He was fine. More than fine, he was 10 pounds 14 ounces. 20 inches long. He had dark brown hair and those classic dark blue newborn eyes. He looked at me briefly the first time I held him and anxiously nursed with no problem for a few moments before the nurses took him away to clean him up.

Elijah Christopher. My first son, Jeremiah’s first child, my fourth and final baby.

Dead Chipmunk Revelations

2010-09-20T17:56:00.001-07:00

The other day my momma and I were cleaning (i.e. throwing out and donating tons and tons of stuff) my house. We have a habit in my family of doing a very thorough 'fall cleaning' instead of spring cleaning to get ready for the colder winter months. It's horrible being cramped in a messy, cluttered house with four children all winter long.

We were taking things out to her minivan and the curb when we came upon the corpse of a freshly deceased and very much intact chipmunk lying about three feet from the curb in front of my house. The chipmunk was splayed out on it's fluffy stomach and all it's adorable limbs were spread out around it in an almost comical, but still very poignantly sad fashion.

About an inch away from it's tiny outstretched right paw was a peanut, still in it's shell.

The many possible death scenarios are all perfect for an after school chipmunk special extolling the dangers of abusing nuts and running in the busy streets amuck.

My momma and I argued about what we were going to do with the sweet 'munk for a few minutes before getting busy with our current tasks and promptly forgetting all about our deceased rodent friend.

Later that day I looked out the window to see if the bus was coming around the corner (it passes our block to go around to the next street down first, giving me time to run out and watch the two older girls walk home from the bus stop) and I noticed that the chipmunk was no longer on the street. I walked out to investigate and couldn't find a trace of it or the nut anywhere. Figuring someone must have cleaned it up, I went on about my business again.

About an hour after this I looked out again to spy a small squirrel sitting on the curb, directly in front of where the dead chipmunk had been lying.

It was just sitting there, staring out into the road.

I immediately began to have thoughts of the two rodents being friends in life, perhaps an inter-species couple...maybe even a sad Romeo and Juliet type scenario with the chipmunk taking it's own life out of frustration for not being allowed to love his dear squirrel companion. Or even better yet! A angry jealous squirrel lothario had murdered the chipmunk in broad daylight in a fit of rage!

Ahhh, young rodent love. (You're probably doubting me and my reference to chipmunks and squirrels as rodents. Yes, I looked up to make sure that squirrels and chipmunks are in fact, part of the rodent family. You learn something new every day.)

Weirder still, the next day another squirrel (or perhaps the same one!) was sitting on the curb again. Same spot.

I am now certain that this is the place where they meet their nut-dealer for illegal nut transactions. Something must have gone terribly wrong for our dead chip, he may have even gotten greedy or messed with the wrong nut-thug

Go ahead, look up rodent nut abuse. It's prevalent in suburban areas like ours. Horrible stuff, really.

I googled 'chipmunks doing drugs' to get this photo. Yes. I. Did.

Life Lessons with My Momma

2010-09-13T05:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my Mom 40-something-ish birthday. I'm not being smart trying to hide her age like she's bothered by being old, I just don't know how old she is. Older than 46, younger than 50.

Today's post is going to be a homage to her, of sorts.

LIFE LESSONS FROM MY MOMMA:

Scott toilet paper is the only toilet paper you should ever buy.

Every once in a while I stray from the preferred brand, looking for something softer, a better sale. But those brands never last as long and always clog up the toilet. Oh momma, you are wise.

Don't talk about bombs in the airport.

This piece of advice was left for me on a piece of paper positioned strategically so it would be the first thing I saw upon opening my carry-on before one of my trans-atlantic flights. This was before 9/11 but after the bombing of several airports in France and Germany. After reading this it took all of my might not to talk about bombs in the airport. I did, however, show everybody that note. And we all thought about bombs and my mom for the rest of the morning, I'm sure.

Make your bed every morning, it's a good start for your day.

Organization of the mind and of your surroundings is very important to my mom. Starting your day by straightening up the place you spent all night making a mess of is an excellent way to start your day on the right foot.

Shower at night, then sleep-in in the morning.

I don't sleep-in anymore, but I always shower at night (when I actually shower at all...). I feel like it cleanses your body from the yuckiness of the day and you're all clean when you get in your jammies. When I was a teenager, however, I slept in until 8 minutes before my bus would come, get up, brush my teeth, grab my bag and run out the door. I didn't eat breakfast until I was in college. If I hadn't showered at night then, I would have never showered.

Do as I say, not as I do.

My parents have made mistakes in their lives and I'm sure they'll continue to do so, just like all of us do as human beings. My mom wanted us to learn from their mistakes and not repeat them.

She also didn't want us to swear. Which she did, fairly often. My mom has a dirty mouth.

Think about what you're going to say before you say it.

There are soooo many times I wish I would have listened to this piece of advice more often. I can't even begin to count how many times she told me this while I was growing up. I had a big dumb mouth and got myself and others into a lot of trouble with it. I lost friends, hurt feelings, took advantage of others. I work really hard now at giving all of my thoughts and spontaneous actions a hard once over before I act on them. Being a more thoughtful person is something I really aspire to.

Breastfeed your baby, no matter how hard it is.

My mom had five children and nursed four of us. My brother Joshua was born at 26 weeks gestation, before she had produced enough milk for him. She gets teary eyed just talking about her inability to nurse him. When I had problems nursing Rosey, my first child, she told me to stick to it and I did. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done and one of my greatest accomplishments so far in my life. I was able to give my babies all of their food, helped them grow and excel right from my own body. And that brings me to my last piece of advice via my mom:

If it's not at least a little bit hard, it's not worth doing.

My mom spoiled us rotten, so this very important lesson didn't really make sense until I was a parent and homemaker. Easy tasks come and go and usually don't teach you a lesson or have any lasting value. Breastfeeding, learning to be a better mother to my children, partner to Jeremiah and daughter to my parents have been my hardest life lessons so far. And as my mom would say, "Some things just suck, so get it done and you won't have to do it again for awhile."

Things that my mother taught me that are not true:

Tom Cruise is hot.
Patrick Swayze is hot.
The Other Sister, Radio and I Am Sam are the best movies of all time.
My pumpkin chocolate chip cookies are gross.
It's smart to vote straight ticket Democrat (or straight ticket anything for that matter).
It's ok to be a fair weather Steeler fan. (We should all bleed Black and Gold all season long!)
Lifetime movies are awesome.

Smooth Sailing and Saling

2010-09-07T17:48:00.001-07:00

The kids' first whole week of school has come and gone. They're already not perfectly groomed or up and rearing to go each morning before they leave for the bus stop, but that's ok. I'm slowly starting to cope with Maxine Jane's daily absence, Olivia has so far not annoyed any teacher enough to warrant a phone call home (the last two years have featured one phone call and one note home within the first month of school beginning) and Rosey hasn't over-analyzed her homework to the point of breaking down in tears, yet.

I have already started working on Christmas orders and my new job at Crochet Spot is keeping me pretty busy. Angela at Eat Here has ordered a bulk order of Boxer hats (see her lovely husband rocking their previously custom order hat here). And here are some other things I've been working on:

This shawl (worn here wrapped around like a cowl) is available in hypoallergenic acrylic yarn for $40 and luxury merino wool for $70. The shawl in the photograph is available for sale (and quick shipment) for $45 and is made of the merino wool.

This cowl is so warm and chunky. I can't wait to make one for myself in raspberry or some funky ass yellow! It's available in hypoallergenic acrylic yarn for $30 and luxury merino wool for $50.

This cabled headband is made of a cotton/linen/silk mix yarn and can also be worn as an earwarmer! It's $25 and available in an awesome array of colors.

These washcloths are made of 100% organic cotton and are completely all natural. They come in sets of 5 for $20, but can also be purchased in bulk at a discount.

Remember all of these items can be ordered in any color! This goes for the star washcloths as well, if they are ordered in a color I will use organic cotton that has been naturally dyed. Contact me at oliverosetree@yahoo.com with any requests, questions or ordering info. I'm a prompt responder!

Don't forget to check out this SALE if you're interested in ordering for this holiday at a discount!

From Oddity Grows Sincerity

2010-08-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a few strange catch phrases and odd cliches that pour out of their mouth from time to time. I had always considered my grandma Jean the Queen of Strange Quotable Nonsense with her perennial favorite:

"I haven't see you since Hector was a Pup!"

And no, I have no idea where that phrase came from, who Hector the Dog is or if he is actually even a dog.

But the other day I was listening to my Dad play with my children and I realized that is actually he who should be crowned as the Royal Strange-One.

"Olive! Get thee behind me Satin Sheets!", he jokingly yells at Olivia, who is playing too rough with him in the gameroom. I immediately recognize this phrase and at first don't think anything of it. Laughing, I leave the room and it hits me.

That's a weird thing to say! I know that it's a play on 'Get thee behind me Satan!' but I also know that it gets weirder than that. The phrase '...satin sheets and pink pillowcases...' is where he gets the last part from and it is from some random song he heard in the late 70's.

Other gems from my family's vernacular:

"Okay, we're off like a turd of hurdles!" Which is a twisted version of my another one of my grandmother's sayings, "We're off like a herd of turtles!".

We all call showers 'shou shou' or 'shou shou shou'.

We sometimes refer to my Daddy as 'Dadda Wuv' courtesy of my sister's childhood name for him.

The nicknames my Dad has for some of us are generally strange, most of which we still use.
My babiest sister Hannah is known as 'Hambone', 'Hambone Legbone' and my favorite 'Han, Shan and Abednego' which is (I guess) a take on 'Shadrach, Mehach and Abednego' from the Bible?
My babiest Brother Benjamin was known as 'Ben's Jammin' ' or 'Log Jammer'.
My brother Joshua was 'Jehosophat' and the shorter 'Fats'.
My sister Kate was "Katelynn Screwloose' or 'Screwloose' because I called her my 'Twisted Sister'.
I had a very boring nickname that barely stuck through adolescence, 'Sweetpea'. As a young couple my parents' favorite movie had been the Robin Williams version of Popeye. My mom would sing me the Olive Oyle songs from that movie all the time and they called me 'Sweetpea' after the baby in the movie.

I'm sure there are a million more to sift through and write out for you, but for the time being I'm done here.

I feel that it is a sort of homage to my Dad to be odd at least 40% of the time. Oddity (within some confines) is something to be loved and embraced. It makes clearer experiences and more unique memories, secret strangeness that knits families and friends together in a tightly wound fabric.

For more of my Dad and our family quirks read Here and Here.

Plastering Photos on The Interwebs

2010-08-26T07:19:00.000-07:00

I told myself that I must not rush home from the bus stop and immediately plaster photos of the girls' first day of school all over the interwebs...but I just couldn't help myself!!!

I came home, poured a cup of coffee, went upstairs with Elijah and we made the beds together. I came back downstairs, set him up with coloring books and markers and sat down to work some work that is soon due.

Before I knew it my memory card was plugged in and I was uploading like crazy onto the Book of Faces. Then I realized that there were lots of friends and family not on facebook that just HAD to see these photos!

Elijah usually hates having his photo taken, but this morning he wanted in every photo.
He kept repeating "I say cheese for Poppa!", which is what I say to him when I'm trying to take a photo of him to send to Jeremiah on the phone.

Maxine wasn't nervous, but she did hate me constantly taking photos all morning long.

Olive seems to think she's a supermodel, I tend to agree. I can't believe Max is wearing a backpack and off to school!

Three little girls walking to the bus stop and then finally, my baby girl getting on the bus and going to Kindergarten. I know she'll do fine, but I have this fear in the back of my head that she'll be bullying everyone at school. I guess we'll find out soon enough.

So Jeremiah is off the hook this week. Embarrassing photos of him have been replaced with lovely photos of my lovely children.

For the BirdDogs

2010-08-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

As you may well know, I'm not a fan of animals. I respect everyone's ridiculous need to be covered in dog spit, cat vomit and loads and loads of animal hair...

I just don't roll like that. I'm from the school of, 'If I didn't give birth to it, I'm not going to clean up it's shit'.

Of course (because I am Damned), my children adore animals. Olivia writes little essays about how her life is not complete because she does not have a pet. Maxine literally convulses with delight every time we see a dog or cat on a walk. We visited a pet shop the other day and Rose pouted for hours afterward from being denied her request for, 'an animal for her room, any animal'. Elijah is a little more nervous around dogs than the Olivia or Max, but he's constantly pretending to be a puppy, complete with panting, butt shaking, licking and barking.

Jeremiah also loves animals. And because I am Damned, like I mentioned previously, he loves cats in particular.

Which means I am eventually going to have to add 'care for an animal's needs' to my already bursting at the seams list of chores and duties. If I have to take one for the team (There is No 'I' in team, but there is an 'I' in dogshit), I would prefer getting a dog.

I know you're thinking this is a crazy speak, but I grew up with a lovely dog who was in my life for 18 years. I have never liked another animal as much since, and although she was a huge pain in the ass at times, she was really a part of our family.

So here are my criteria for the type of dog I would be kind of sort of okay with.

Big enough to withstand my offsprings' youthful enthusiasm, small enough to pick up, sturdy enough for outside activity.
Little to no shedding. And I know that there is no such thing as a hypo-allergenic dog, but the closer to that impossible status, the better.
A smart, easy to train dog, but not too smart that it's constantly going to get away with sneaky things all the time. Like Max.
Cute. Very cute. It really has to be worth the extra effort and I want to show it off on walks etc...etc... Like Max.
An even temper. My kids will be all over this thing. All over.

Any suggestions? Salutations? Ideas for a more efficient way to make my life a living hell?