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Archive for March, 2009

The big one is on a talking rampage today.  Narrating.everything.loudly.  There was dancing too, and banging on a plastic baby toy.  She’s talking to fish in a toy aquarium now.

And we’ve only been up for about 40 minutes.

But I have challah for breakfast, so at least there’s that.

The little one is chanting “potato” which means he wants to eat.  “Potato” is food, and “biday” means he’s thirsty.  I choose to spell it with the “ay” rather than “et” because I don’t want y’all to get the impression I’m letting him drink from the toilet or nothin’. 😉

Today promises to be a just-so day.  I’m in that sort of mood, so I’m gearing up for many cups of tea, some reading (school) and writing (pleasure) plus reading (pleasure) and writing (school).  Lucy and I picked out some incense yesterday and a new burner so when she gets home this afternoon we’re going to test out the rose scent she chose.  I may even take the baby out to the good grocery for a big fruit shopping trip if I’m still up for it later.  We desperately need fruit.  And if I double-feel up for it, I’m going to do a veggie roast tonight.

So, yeah.  Just-so today and then tomorrow I’ll do my running around.

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This  morning my son woke himself up by clapping in his sleep.  Loudly.  He then sat straight up in bed and asked for the phone.  “Call? Call?”  As we began to get up, he leaned over to the nightstand and proclaimed, “Ball!”

This is how our days are going lately.  He has other words (in a grand nod to his Irish roots he calls all food “potay-toe”) but for the most part, he wants to talk on the phone or play ball.  All.the.time.    It’s cute, though.  For the first 7 hours at least.  Right now?  He’s dribbling a soccer ball around in the living room.  He’ll do this for hours, and honestly?  I expect his obsession with soccer to pay for C and I in our infirmity.  Either that or he will use his grand meowing skills to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a cat.  You never know.

We lived through St. Pat’s and are down to a reasonable number of shamrock plants (15.)  I replaced 14 out of the 20 bought from those bastards but I think most of them were going to make it.  Thank goodness that the one I took in which was not-so-great looking had new buds and thank goodness the little girl who got that one was thrilled when I showed them to her because I felt really bad taking in a straggly plant.  Aside from that, it’s sprout city in here.  We’re planting some wheatgrass this weekend I think and then keeping the rest of the seeds until Lucy’s spring break.

What else?  Hmmmmm.  I’m using my time this Spring Break (still haven’t flashed the worms) to put away all of the crap that has collected in various ‘where the eff does this go’ bins.  I cleaned off my dresser and C’s dresser, have almost-completely-clean bookcases in the foyer and even cleaned out all of our old condiments from the fridge (you can’t imagine how many satay sauces and marinades we had crammed in there.  Seriously.)

And this brings us to right now, which involves much less cleaning out and much more writing.  Hey, any excuse to get out into the Real World–there’s a burger and cup of coffee with my name on it at the pub.

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Suckage and Money

So I heard back from the garden center from whence the shamrocks came.  They told me to cut off any dead or damaged parts.  Needless to say, this has left me with several (7 so far out of 20) plants that are in really sorry shape.  Plus I am furious that the company hasn’t addressed the fact that they were shipped in such craptastic fashion.  Seriously, a one line email when someone writes to tell you that an entire box of plants came upside down?  Fuck y’all man.

I bought an additional 7 plants today at the grocery store and am hoping I can salvage the rest before Tuesday because I seriously don’t need this hassle.

This serves as warning though.  If you are thinking of ordering from Hirt’s Greenhouse and Flowers?  Think again.  Not only do they not know how to package plants for delivery, they can’t be bothered to address their fuck up.  If I had more time I’d haul all fucking 20 plants to the UPS store and send them back but alas, I can’t replace them all by Tuesday.  Oh, and they charged $2 more per plant than a grocery store in NYC.  Total rip-off.

Oh yeah, it’s the first negative feedback I’ve left anywhere.  Because seriously?  They are plants for little kids and close to half of them are in too sorry shape to give to anyone.  Two are completely dead.  And these people clearly couldn’t give two shits about their customers.

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Oxalis Assistance!

So I ordered oxalis plants for Lucy’s classmates’ goody bags on St. Pat’s Day.  The place I got them from didn’t exactly pack them thoughtfully so a bunch look really grim.  Does anyone know how I can get them looking decent by Tuesday so I don’t have to either drop another chunk of $$ on plastic crap or give a five year old a mangled shamrock plant?

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One of my assignments for this week was to write a one-scene continuation of the Glass Menagerie.  It ended up with a happy ending.  I gave a happy ending to Tennessee Williams.  This is a clear indicator that I have reached pessimism overload.  It didn’t start out happy but that’s sure as hell where it ended up.  WTF?  I am so not a happy ending sort of person.

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As I was waiting for my yearly exam with my midwife, standing in the gown rewriting my history midterm essay on the counter next to the swabs and speculum, I realized that I may have gotten myself in over my head every-so-slightly this semester.  Four classes is definitely too many.  Or more specifically, four classes and two children is too many.  It’ll be ok and I’ll make it through–this isn’t one of those angsty freakouts–but in the future I must remember that school is a lot of work, kids are a lot of work, and the two together are massive.  Fun, but massive.

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Sprouts are still sprouting.  Flowers blooming.  Geranium plant has taken over the entire window-area and needs desperately to be repotted.  Next week, if all goes well, I’ll be planting my pickling cukes, nasturtium and marigolds.  How’s that for Spring Break?  Don’t worry, I’ll flash my tits at the worms or something.

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Late to the party as always, I just discovered both Regina Spektor and Feist.  Is there anyone else I should be listening to?  I’m trying to listen to mostly women artists for a while so I’m back in the Ani-Indigo Girls-Etta James groove but am always looking for more.  I feel a playlist coming on as soon as I get through midterms.

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Nothing to See Here

See, once upon a time a family member said about me, “She’s often wrong but seldom thinks it.”  Or something to that effect.

This has stuck with me ever since I heard it, like a psychic bitch-slap.

And ever since, I have made every effort to ensure that I do not speak with any sort of authority on any subject on which my authority could be doubted or on which I can  not provide footnotes and citations and shit.

Well, fuck this.  I mean, really, fuck it.

I’ve been blogging for between 8 and 9 years and I’m tired of carefully measuring my words to make sure I’m leaving room for other viewpoints or for the chance that I have misunderstood or misinterpreted something.

Because you know what?  I’m seldom wrong and I can admit it when I am.

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So, this morning we wake up at 6 with Lucy hacking up a lung.  A few weeks ago, the school sent home a letter saying that parents shouldn’t send kids in who are coughing excessively.  So we got the cough relatively under control and called the school to find out if we should keep her home.  They said to use my discretion.  So I did.

She went to school.  She was bouncing all over the place, happy as a damn clam, with naught but a cough that was subsiding.

And then this afternoon, I was greeted by her grim-faced teacher saying she was coughing too much and needed to ‘stay home or something.’  We made it a full two blocks in the frigid before even a wee cough escaped her lips.

And now I’m mad.  Now, I don’t begrudge the school their desire to keep sick kids home.  We kept her home yesterday, and would have done so on Monday had it not been a snow day.  But this kid is not 3-sick- days-sick.  I mean, she will be because we’ve been told not to send her in tomorrow, but hell, this is playing hooky.  And frankly, she may not be done coughing on Friday either.  Sometimes she gets the cough for WEEKS, because she’s a little kid.

And on top of that, they sent home a reminder to pay for gym when the check was in her folder.  And double on top of that, they have our parent-teacher conference scheduled for the day *before* the conference day on the week C and I both have fucking midterms right smack in the middle of our dinnertime and moments before he has class 45 minutes away.  And to think, we pay for this privelege.

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