Donut Eating Surrender Monkeys


Have you heard about this? How fucking ridiculous can you be? I mean, seriously. Rachel RAY. Rachel “I own the rights to the word Yummo” Ray?? Promoting terrorism by wearing a keffiyeh. Which isn’t really a keffiyeh, but don’t tell that to Michelle “The Terrorists Are Coming, The Terrorists Are Coming” Malkin.

What a tool. And shame on Dunkin’ Donuts for pulling the ad.

Do you even know what a keffiyeh is, Michelle? It’s a headdress worn by Arab men. It’s not a terrorist scarf. It’s a useful piece of clothing – it keeps the sand out of the mouth during a sandstorm. It keeps you warm in the cold weather, keeps you cool in the heat of the desert. The US and British military is using them right now in the desert in Iraq and Afghanistan. Are they also terrorists?

By Michelle Malkin’s extrapolation, we should also not wear Irish sweaters, brown shirts or anything with a red star on it.

Rachel Ray. Ready to unleash her unbearable perkiness on an unsuspecting, unprepared world.

My eyes, they roll.

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Busy As A One-Armed Paper-hanger

I love this song. I’ve had it on repeat for an hour now, in an effort to defrazzle.

Today was hectic with a capital Hec.

I got up, wrangled the Shriek Sisters into diapers and clothing and shoes and why is there always a shoe missing? Always. Toasted English muffins (why English? The English don’t even know what these things are.), made myself some hi-test coffee, packed a picnic lunch and herded the Shriek Sisters and their big sister, O, into the car. We were on the road by 8:30.

What is normally a 90 minute drive into Boston, to Joslin Clinic, took me 2-1/2 hours. There was a car stopped dead in the middle of the Mass Pike. No idea why, but oh mah holy hell, did it back up traffic. Then, on Route 9 (or as I prefer to call it, That God-damned Piece of Shit Excuse For A Road), they were doing construction. Construction season in New England sucks ass. First of all, we have these paved cow paths as opposed to a real infrastructure of highways and surface roads, so they twist and turn and there’s never a damned street sign on any of ’em (Hello, welcome to Massachusetts. Now fuck off.) and then when they decide to re-pave these things, they put them down to one lane of paved cow path as opposed to two. Of course, by then I had finished my coffee and was on a self-imposed no-spending spree, so I couldn’t even pull into one of the thousands of Dunkin’ Donuts that speckle TGDPOSEFAR and replenish. I had to drink water. The horror.

I got to Joslin at 10:52. O’s appointment was at 11. Actually, I got to the Pilgrim Street parking garage at 10:52. If you’ve ever parked there, you know my pain. If you haven’t, it’s like a habitrail. Only darker. Horrible.

Finally, we were done with the medical stuff and I sped back to my nest behind the Tofu Curtain. I remembered that I’d promised to meet elizasmom and TT at the park around 3-ish. Raced upstairs, changed two little butts, bundled them back into the car and went to the park, where, I think, the mothers needed the playdate slightly more urgently than did the children. It was a nice break, though. I felt moderately less frazzled.

Although that all flew out the window as I drove back to the house to make dinner. I’d half forgotten that O had a choir concert tonight at the middle school. Two and a half hours parked in a plastic chair will give you a sore ass, no matter how ample the padding. But I brought my book (Water For Elephants, if you’re keeping score at home) and when O wasn’t actually singing, I read. That’s probably bad, right? Whatever. The book fucking rocked and I finished the rest of it when I got home tonight.

I’m exhausted. And tomorrow I have my first therapy appointment. I’m nervous. Ridiculously nervous, actually. I don’t quite know why….

So, to finish up, I shall leave you with some more tranquil pictures, taken in M&T’s garden yesterday. My sister had been visiting from California for the past three weeks and yesterday was her final day here and it was glorious.





Warts And All

I was thinking of posting this in The Basement, but decided to put it here instead.

Things have not been going well at all around here. Last week was hell on wheels between me and the two girls. I am completely frustrated by Boo and she seems to know how to push every. single. button. I have. Repeatedly. 90% of the time, I can handle it. Not well, not prettily, but I manage, clinging by my fingernails to rationality and sanity. The other 10% of the time, I lose my shit. Last Thursday was definitely a Losing Her Shit day.

No matter what I said, Boo wouldn’t behave. If I told her to sit in her chair, she ran around the house. If I told her to stop standing on the couch, she’d start jumping on it instead. She took defiance and oppositional behaviour to a whole new level, one I’d only heard of until last Thursday.

And I am not proud of the way I reacted. I screamed, I hollered, I came thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis close to spanking her, hard. It was ugly with a capital Ug.

Once I got her to stay in bed (after two hours of peeling her off the windowsill and putting her back in her bed), I sat at the computer and cried. For two hours. I sat here and I looked for help online. I finally found something, but they only meet once a month over the summer and I missed the first meeting.

On Friday, I called her pediatrician, called a parent help line and called a therapist (for myself). Of course, no one called me back, so I spent the entire weekend as well as Monday and Tuesday beating myself up and working very hard not to lose it. I went to the gym a lot, logging 19 miles on the treadmill, which helped a little bit. I spent a lot of time breathing in thru my nose, out thru my mouth, again and again and again.

I finally talked to the pediatrician, who recommended the same book I already have (and haven’t finished yet). And I got a therapy appointment for next Thursday.

I’m really hoping that all of this helps because I’m at my wits end. I feel like I’m drowning.

A Couple Of Political Links

This made me tear up as I was driving my daughter home from school today. Why? I’m not gay. I don’t think I’m going to become gay, although it could happen. But I’ve never understood why a man who loves another man or a woman who loves another woman shouldn’t be allowed to get married, to be allowed the same rights that a heterosexual couple is allowed. I’ve never understood why people are so threatened by gay marriage. What, exactly, does it threaten? Is it just that they don’t like gay people and this is one of the only socially acceptable ways to let that dislike show? It baffles me.

Anyway. I’m thrilled that California has had the great good sense that Massachusetts did and hope that other states follow suit.

I read a post today on a blog called Whisky In My Sippy Cup. It made me want to stand up and cheer. She’s a fantastic writer and she’s got one hell of a post today. And she referenced Keith (My Boyfriend) Olbermann. So, go, read. She said it way better than I could ever hope to.

What I Sound Like When I Talk To Myself

I’ve been going to the gym lately. I know, it’s shocking, but it’s true. What’s even more shocking is that I kind of enjoy it. Only kind of. Mostly it’s hell, but I feel better when I’m done, so I’m trying to convince myself that I do kind of enjoy it, in an effort to keep myself going.

Anyway. I load up my ancient iPod shuffle with Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, Car Talk, Fresh Air and This American Life and I can wile away an hour on the treadmill without too much angst. Ira Glass, for some reason, makes for a really good workout. Probably because I want to hear what’s coming up next. I’ll keep walking that extra five minutes or extra half a mile to finish a segment. I’m a TAL addict.

But I do have a constant battle with myself. It goes something like this:

“OK. iPod on, treadmill set, water bottle full; I’m ready, I’m good, let’s go.”

Five minutes later:
“I really should have brought a towel. My face is getting sweaty.”

Two minutes later:
“Fucking hell, why didn’t I bring a towel?”

Seven minutes later:
“Jesus, who’s farting? I think I’m going to puke.”

Six minutes later:
“This is killing me. I want to stop.”
“You can’t stop, you asshole, you’ve only done 1.25 miles. Suck it up and keep going.”

Ten minutes later:
“I’m dying. This SUCKS. I don’t want to do this any more.”
“Listen, you cow, you can do this. Look at that lady over there. She’d older/heavier/more arthritic than you and she’s slogging away.”

Five minutes later:
“I wanna stop now.”
“Nope. Five more minutes. C’mon, you can do five more minutes. Look at the old biddy on the bike. She’s, like, 90 and she’s having at it. Are you going to be shown up by a 90 year old woman? Wuss.”

Ten minutes later:
“Calves. Burning. Face. Sweating. Please make it stop.”
“Nope. And because you’re pissing and moaning so much, I’m upping the incline to 5%.”

Five minutes later:
“Whimper.”
“Just do five more minutes. You can handle five minutes.”

Five minutes later:
“OK, my five minutes are up. I’m gonna stop now.”
“Really? With only five minutes to go until you hit an hour and you’re gonna stop now? What the fuck, girl?”
“Oh, fuck you, you bitch. FINE! I’ll do five more minutes. Fucking pain in my ass, that’s what you are, a fucking PAIN in my ass.”

Five minutes later:
“Oh thank fuck.”
“Baby.”
“Fuck off. I did 60 minutes. 3.75 miles. That’s not chump change, you know.”
“Nope, it’s not bad at all. How about some Nautilus now?”
“How about I come in there and kick your ass? Huh? Nautilus. What are you, nuts?”
“No. But hey, it’s up to you. You’re the one who wants to lose the weight. How do you think it’s gonna come off, huh? Magic? Who’s the one who’s nuts now?”
“…..”
“See. You got nothing. Nothing. Get your ass on those machines now. And no wussing out at 8 reps, I want the full 12.”
“Bitch.”
“Damn straight.”

Why Am I Not Surprised

Another Mother’s Day gone. My mother gave me a book. My husband? Nothing. Nothing from the kids (well, a cute card Boo made for me at preschool), nothing from him.

No sleeping in. No breakfast, in bed or out somewhere. No cute little card. No silly little present. No nothing.

I don’t know why I’m not used to this total lack of ability to show appreciation. You’d think, after 8 years of it, that I would be. But every year, it’s like getting kicked in the head all over again. I’ve talked to him about it, I’ve explained that I don’t need a big gift, but I need to at least feel appreciated. Like maybe what I’m doing matters a little bit. And he nods and he says he understands and he says he’ll try harder next time and then the next time rolls around and I get the shaft again.

I’m tired of always being disappointed by my life. I wish I could figure out how not to care, how to just shut off that part of me so that I wouldn’t have to feel so hurt all the time.

I keep thinking there must be some fundamental fault in me that lets others treat me that way. That somehow I must show that I don’t deserve to get treated nicely, that I must be doing it all wrong otherwise people would appreciate me a little bit. I know I can’t be fucking it up entirely – my kids are healthy and mostly happy. So why does it continue to be OK to treat me like I’m a nonentity? Like what I want or need is so low on the list of priorities that it may as well not be on there at all? How come the only people who ever show me any affection are all under 4 feet tall?

That Baby


I have a review up on my other blog of the DVD/CD set of That Baby. Go check it out. It’s a fantastic set – I can’t recommend it enough.

And it features this song, coincidentally, Boo’s favourite. I swear, I did not exert undue influence over the child…..

All A-Twitter Over BFF

(Not that Twitter. I have not succumbed to that particular addiction just yet.)

I’m going to BFF. And I’m going to meet daysgoby, whom I’ve known (but never met) since our days on BabyCenter – over four years now. And I’ll get to meet lots of other cool bloggers, some I know and some I don’t.

And I’m going to have 87 different kinds of freak outs before I go and I will probably talk myself out of going at least once, but I’m booking my train tickets this week so that I can’t talk myself out of it. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s a freak out.
I’m too fat.
I’m too dorky.
I’m too shy.
No one will like me.
I’m too clumsy (good lord, am I clumsy).
I’ll get tipsy and I’ll never shut up.
I’ll get tipsy and morose in the corner.
I don’t have nice clothes.
I’ll spill something down my front, sure as shootin’.
I need a pedicure.
I need a hair cut.
I need to develop some social skills.
Fat. Always back to the fat thing.

But, goddammit, I’m going.

I can’t wait.

Niagara Falls had just better watch out.

(I Wish ) Every Day Is Like Sunday

Today…..
A drive thru the misty rain here:

Where we got some of these:

and some of these….
And a pound of this:

And we cooked and listened to music and smiled at each other.
And then we came home and wrangled these for a bit:

But they finally slept and I was able to read this:

And do this:

And now, Boo and I are going to make these:

And I might actually get thru the day without killing anyone.

(Except Blogger. Which sucks ass and keeps
fucking up the layout of this post. Blogger may die.)

Well, That Was Disappointing

1. The Orpheum needs to get its shit together and get some fucking ventilation in there. It’s kind of hard to enjoy a show when you’re sweating so much, it’s running into your eyes.

2. They also need to upgrade their sound system. It’s kind of hard to enjoy a show when you can’t hear half of what’s being said.

3. They also need to upgrade their seats. It’s kind of hard to enjoy a show when your knees are jammed into the seat in front of you.

First of all, the heat. I swear, it was 90 in there. Almost 3,000 people + no circulation = Knowing Why It’s Called Beantown. Jesus. Horrible.

Second of all, the sound. Mr. Izzard could have been a fucking laugh riot, but I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t hear half of what he was saying. What I did hear was very funny, however.

Third of all, the seats. I am 5’8″ tall. That Canadian Boy I Married is 6’1″. It was worse than sitting on an airplane. My legs were on fire by the time we left, just from being jammed in one spot for two hours.

Also? Some renovations would be nice. There were hunks of paint peeling off the ceiling and I was a little concerned with some of the plaster medallions – they looked precarious, to say the least. The tickets had a $10 building restoration charge added in – they maybe ought to start using that money before someone is killed by falling debris.

All in all, it was miserable, punctuated by shouts of laughter.

I’m very disappointed. The tickets were expensive – $75 a piece and money isn’t exactly thick on the ground over here at Chez Bedhead.

If there ever is a next time, I’m going to NYC to see him at Radio City Music Hall.

On the flip side, I went to see the This American Life movie tonight, with my friend T. It was very, very cool and if you missed it, you’re out of luck. It was a live feed to movie theaters. And if you’re not listening to This American Life on NPR, what is wrong with you? It’s a great show, quirky and interesting, sometimes funny, sometimes sob-inducing, but always fascinating.