So, Tell Me…

What are you reading right now?


The Help by Kathryn Stockett. It’s fantastic.

Also, The Sins of the Wolf by Anne Perry because I love her mysteries.

I got a $100 gift card to Barnes & Noble from my son, so I have a stack to work thru, but I’m always up for hearing about what the rest of teh internets are reading.

…There Are Simply Too Many Notes….

Today is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s birthday and the local classical radio station was doing an all Mozart day. I love classical music, although I’m not very well-versed in it, tending to be one of those people that says “What’s this piece called?” and then humming, badly. But I do love me some Mozart.

First they played this:

So I was grooving along in the front seat, humming and whistling and just generally geeking out enjoying myself when, during a break in the music, Boo’s voice pipes up from the back and says “Mama? I don’t like violins. I wanna hear Soul Butter.”

Obviously I’m failing at their musical education. My kids are fixated on one band and one band only.

Why I’m Happy, Why I’m Not Satisfied.

Her Bad Mother tweeted this earlier and I’m posting it here because it is fantastic. It was originally posted at IllDoctrine.

The First Family

I can’t even get my head around it. I wasn’t sure this day would actually come, but now that it has, I can’t stop grinning.

There Has Never Been Anything False About Hope

I’m keeping Boo home from school tomorrow so we can watch the inauguration. I know she’s only 4 and will probably drive me nuts begging to watch Blue’s Clues or *shudder* Lazy Town, but I want her to see this, to witness this event. I want her to see an African American inaugurated as our next President.

Mostly what I want is for her to think it’s not a big deal, that by the time she’s old enough to understand politics, a black man being inaugurated will seem commonplace. That anyone, literally anyone, can be President – man, woman, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, green, whatever. That this will be the new normal.

I am giddy about tomorrow. I know that Obama is going to have a very tough road ahead of him, that this country is well and truly fucked in so many ways and that he can’t do it all, but in spite of all of this, I still have hope, still have faith that things will change for the better now, that things will improve and that we can recover as a country, as one country, and hopefully as a country that isn’t so radically divided politically.

I remember when Michelle Obama was slammed for making a speech when she said she was finally proud to be an American. Today, on the eve of this historic event, I’m feeling the same way. I’m feeling proud of this country. But mostly I’m feeling a hope that I haven’t felt in years, hope instead of disgust, hope instead of despair. I feel hope. And that feels wonderful.

Send Vodka

We woke up this morning to no heat. I knew we were getting low on oil but was hoping to eke out what was left until tomorrow, when That Canadian Boy I Married gets paid. Alas, no such luck. Fortunately, you can put diesel into an oil tank, so that’s what I planned on doing.

I got the girls up and dressed and out the door to school. The house was cold – 50F – but I figured it wouldn’t take long to warm up once I got the fuel. Dropped the girls off and The Bug and I went to the bank. On the way home, The Bug started complaining about being hungry, so I stopped at the house to get her something to eat.

Since they don’t plow my road worth a damn, there’s a five inch layer of ice and snow built up and as I was pulling into my driveway, I skidded into the snowbank with a big crunch. Fuuuu-huh-huh-huh-huck.

Upon stepping out of the car, I noticed a trail of green. Dammit. I thought I’d either ripped the hose off or damaged the antifreeze reservoir. When I saw exactly how much green, I figured it was the reservoir. I rushed The Bug into the house and phoned TCBIM to tell him he had to come home and pick Boo up from preschool and oh, by the way, fix the car. As I was talking to him, I looked out the window and noticed that my front bumper was smashed all to hell. Great. Just great.

He attempts to crawl under the car but it’s too low to the ground. However, he thinks I punched a hole in the radiator and maybe damaged the compressor.


So, the car has been towed to the repair shop, which is just down the road, thankfully. It’s probably going to cost $700 to get fixed which, in the greater scheme of things, isn’t a huge sum of money, but still. We are living paycheck to paycheck and money is very tight around here and this throws a real wrench (arf!) into things.


I need a Mulligan on today, please and thank you.

Not A Morning Person

I hate getting up in the morning. I much prefer the slow, gradual wake up, with periods of dozing and stretching and just generally taking my time getting adjusted to the fact that I have to get out of the warm, comfy bed and face the day.

Sadly, my children are not of this mindset, try though I might.

The Bug wakes up very early every morning. 6 a.m. is sleeping in for her. Most mornings, she wants to get up, go downstairs and “have beffast, mama, time for beffast.” Bleary-eyed, I follow her toddling little steps down the stairs and get her some beffast.

But some mornings, like this one, I manage to convince her to climb into bed with me. If it’s still dark out and she doesn’t hear That Canadian Boy I Married rummaging around, she can be convinced to lay in bed with me, snuggling.

So this morning we snuggled. She fitted herself into the crook of my arm but she was soon wiggling and rustling around and finally told me that she wanted to lie on my tummy. She does this sometimes – lays herself out on top of me, one arm crooked so she can suck her thumb, the other twirling her hair. She fits her head under my chin, snooks herself into place and we doze, me loving the feel of the weight of her across my body, rubbing her back, and murmuring soft reassurances.

Finally she was done. Usually she whips the covers off and clambers out of bed but this morning was different. This morning she lifted her head, and even in my dozy state, I felt her moving, felt her head come up. I opened my eyes and she was smiling at me and very softly, she reached up and patted my cheeks and said “Goo’ mornin’, mama. You want to get up now?” And then she gave me a little kiss, patted my face again and slid away and off the bed.

I know these days are fleeting, that soon she won’t want to snuggle, won’t want mama’s arms around her, won’t need to have me near her all the time. And part of me looks forward to that. But part of me will miss this, miss these hugs and kisses and pats on the face.

As much as I complain about how difficult it is to parent two toddlers, this, these moments, are what make it all worthwhile.

Vanity Fair?

I don’t think I’m a vain person. I don’t walk around thinking others are drooling over me. I’m more inclined to think that people are viewing me askance, possibly even with horror rather than assuming they’re thinking I’m cute. I do spend time looking at my face in the mirror, but only so that I can stare in bemused wonder at the fact that I have a lot few grey hairs and acne happening at the same time. What the fuck is that all about? What kind of cruel joke is this?

But lately, I’m starting to feel positively invisible. I’m in the process of losing weight and thus far, am down 23.4 lbs. That, in my book, is not chump change. I haven’t been ballyhooing it around because I’ve been down this road before and I don’t want other people dwelling on it, but dammit, that’s a nice amount of weight to lose. And no one has noticed. The other night, I demonstrated for my husband how I could now remove my jeans without undoing them and his comment? “Huh. Neat.” That’s it. No one at work has noticed, neither of my parents have noticed and only one friend has said anything to me about it (thank you, T, you made my night). I think I’m officially nonplussed.

This, of course, sends me into a tailspin of “Jesus, I must be huge if 23 lbs isn’t even showing.” Then I head right for the biscotti I have hiding in the back of the cupboard.

In an effort to outwit the grey hair that is taking over peeking thru the brown, I dyed my hair today. Red. It’s not flaming red, but it’s definitely different than my normal mud brown. And no one noticed. Not my husband, not my kids.

I’m seriously thinking of piercing my nose, just to see if they’ll spot that one.

And apparently it’s delurk day. So if you read but never comment, please feel free to leave one. It’ll make me feel less invisible.

Just Write Something, Dammit!

I feel like I’ve been stuck, mentally, for a long time now. I don’t feel like I have much of interest to say anymore. I read other blogs (a metric fuckton of them) and then I come here and I’m all, duh-duh-duh-duh, what do I say, how can I compete with all. those. other. writers? Writers who are more talented (and more coherent) than I am.

So I don’t write much. I don’t write here, I don’t write at the diabetes blog I get paid to write, I just don’t say anything.

And I’m not sure why.

I know a lot of it is the depression. It’s kicking my ass. I’m in therapy and it does help, but only for a little while, maybe a day, if I’m lucky. I know going back on antidepressants will help a lot, but at the moment, we don’t have health insurance and I can’t afford the massive amount of money that Cymbalta runs every month. Even with health insurance, it was still $45 a month. Without health insurance, well, I have no idea, since CVS doesn’t seem to list the cost of their medications online. I’m sure it’s a lot of money. More than I can afford right now.

So I don’t write. My fingers stumble on the keyboard when I open the Blogger thingamahoojy. I have no fucking clue what to say, or even if I have anything to say. And it’s depressing. I love to write. I love reading the written word, I love playing with the words when I’m the one writing them, to move them around on the page until they convey exactly what I want them to, and this utter inability I have to write right now is really pissing me off. I feel like I’ve been deserted and I’m really angry about it.

That’s why I don’t write much here anymore. I don’t like what I have to say, I’ve convinced myself that no one wants to read the blitherings that I can come up with, so I say nothing. Things happen here – nothing dramatic, nothing earth-shattering, but they’re funny or intersting or just plain what-the-fuckedness – but I can’t seem to get the words onto the screen in any kind of sensible order.

This is one of the many reasons I hate depression. It’s robbing me of the things I love. Reading, writing, talking with friends. I just can’t summon the interest. There’s no spark there. I hate it. I hate being wordless, although I’ve managed to write paragraphs about said wordlessness. Whatever. It’s all blathering. All mouth, no trousers.

I’m not looking for a vast audience on this blog. I stopped deluding myself that I could be a big blogger a long, long time ago. I do this for me, really, to scoop the crap out of my head and give it somewhere else to reside for a while. But I can’t even seem to do that any more. It’s the cruelest cut thus far in this epic war I seem to be waging against myself.


This post, by Movin’ Down The Road, had me howling and thus, is awarded a ROFL. Wax on, wax off, man. It’s not for sissies.

What are the ROFLs?

Well, cruise on over to Oh, The Joys or Chicky Chicky Baby for more information and to see a list of this month’s winners.

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