I want you to be my first rat
want you to be my horse
yeah, I can do it
You're gonna get scratched by the cat
want to be this way
you can
yes, sir, you can
Singin' in the shower again
-Lyrics by Bugglegirl, July 2009
2 years ago
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Beauty school dropout
I know what you're thinking. But no, I'm not having a Britney moment. And my new vacuum cleaner, even though our romance is tenuous at best, is performing acceptably.This, dear readers, is what happens when you entrust a four year old with a pair of child-safe scissors during quiet time. Fortunately, the hair is not her own; rather, Bugglegirl sheared it from the mane and tail of the fancy American Girl horse that she got for Christmas. She'd tried to conceal the evidence in her secret stash spot behind her toy basket, but the little tufts of black hair strewn about her beige carpeting betrayed her.
Me: What have you done?
Bugglegirl: Nothing, Mommy.
Me: Did you cut your horse's hair?
Bugglegirl: I made it pretty, see?
Me: Give me the scissors. Where is the hair?
Bugglegirl: Here.
Me: You know this hair will never grow back.
Bugglegirl: I know, Mommy. It will never grow back. It's OK.
Surprisingly, there's still a good deal of hair left on the horse, though now it's styled in an unattractive, asymmetrical blunt cut that might set Kelly Osbourne back a few hundred bucks.
Hmmm. . .beauty school. A double bonus: Not only could I blow the college fund on a downpayment on a Tuscan villa, but I'd have great hair - for free - doing it.
Monday, July 20, 2009
He's definitely Irish
The other day while cleaning my desk I came across this artistic specimen. I'd written on the back and set it aside to upload here back around St. Patrick's Day. Which was, alas, in March.
Bugglegirl: Look, Mom, he's coming down!
Me: Yeah! The leprechaun is sliding down the rainbow.
Bugglegirl: No, that's God.
Me: That's not a leprechaun?
Bugglegirl: No, that's God. And there's the pennies.
Me: God is going to slide into the pennies?
Bugglegirl: No. He's going to jump off right here.
Me: OK.
Bugglegirl: Look, Mom, he's coming down!
Me: Yeah! The leprechaun is sliding down the rainbow.
Bugglegirl: No, that's God.
Me: That's not a leprechaun?
Bugglegirl: No, that's God. And there's the pennies.
Me: God is going to slide into the pennies?
Bugglegirl: No. He's going to jump off right here.
Me: OK.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The end of an era
I should've known it wouldn't last. Maybe I was too demanding. Too unappreciative, too compulsive. Whatever the reason, our relationship is finished - forever. And now I have to kick the dirty, broken bastard to the curb.
'Cause I ain't coughing up two hundred and thirty-five freaking dollars to have the damn thing repaired, AGAIN.
About two weeks ago, my vacuum just died. Right in the middle of a caffeine-inspired fit of housekeeping. Unlike last summer, there were no dramatic pyrotechnics. The spirit of a trusted, humble appliance simply snuffed out in an otherwise uneventful instant.
It wasn't even that old. And it was a Kenmore, for God's sake. Before I made the leap from hip, single-apartment-dwelling owner of a cheap Target upright to mom-bob, raspberry-jam-shirt-stain sporting owner of a pricey canister contraption, I researched back issues of Consumer Reports. I listened to my mother. And where did it get me? Up to my kneecaps in dirt-studded piles of dog hair.
So this afternoon I fired up Stevie. Bugglegirl was ecstatic: Can I touch it, Mommy? Buggledog was indifferent: Check out how much hair I shed just flopping down on the floor! Buggleboy was terrified: [insert crying and outstretched arms waiting to be cuddled here.]
He was fine as long as I was holding him, even giggling a bit when Stevie bonked into a wall or the dining room chairs. After a potty break and his favorite song, he lay down for a nap.
Not ten minutes later, Buggleboy was crying hysterically. Stevie had crashed into his closed door a couple of times. I went in to comfort him, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of:
Me: Did Stevie scare you?
Buggleboy: (nodding)
Me: It's OK, baby. Stevie just bonked into your door.
Buggleboy: Stevie come get me.
Me: No, honey. Stevie can't open your door. He has no hands. He just cleaned outside your room and he probably won't be back.
Buggleboy: (silence)
Me: Are you all right now, honey?
Buggleboy: Hold me.
I think I'm gonna run Stevie every afternoon for, like, ever.
'Cause I ain't coughing up two hundred and thirty-five freaking dollars to have the damn thing repaired, AGAIN.
About two weeks ago, my vacuum just died. Right in the middle of a caffeine-inspired fit of housekeeping. Unlike last summer, there were no dramatic pyrotechnics. The spirit of a trusted, humble appliance simply snuffed out in an otherwise uneventful instant.
It wasn't even that old. And it was a Kenmore, for God's sake. Before I made the leap from hip, single-apartment-dwelling owner of a cheap Target upright to mom-bob, raspberry-jam-shirt-stain sporting owner of a pricey canister contraption, I researched back issues of Consumer Reports. I listened to my mother. And where did it get me? Up to my kneecaps in dirt-studded piles of dog hair.
So this afternoon I fired up Stevie. Bugglegirl was ecstatic: Can I touch it, Mommy? Buggledog was indifferent: Check out how much hair I shed just flopping down on the floor! Buggleboy was terrified: [insert crying and outstretched arms waiting to be cuddled here.]
He was fine as long as I was holding him, even giggling a bit when Stevie bonked into a wall or the dining room chairs. After a potty break and his favorite song, he lay down for a nap.
Not ten minutes later, Buggleboy was crying hysterically. Stevie had crashed into his closed door a couple of times. I went in to comfort him, explaining that there was nothing to be afraid of:
Me: Did Stevie scare you?
Buggleboy: (nodding)
Me: It's OK, baby. Stevie just bonked into your door.
Buggleboy: Stevie come get me.
Me: No, honey. Stevie can't open your door. He has no hands. He just cleaned outside your room and he probably won't be back.
Buggleboy: (silence)
Me: Are you all right now, honey?
Buggleboy: Hold me.
I think I'm gonna run Stevie every afternoon for, like, ever.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Di-a-wee-wah: A Haiku
Laughter, sunshine, breeze
Blissful moments pass, until
Two kids crap their pants
Blissful moments pass, until
Two kids crap their pants
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Yet, (hopefully) not halfway there
OMG.
As if there weren't enough signs bombarding me with the fact that I am now old. Among them that my butt now has more dimples than the prepubescent Shirley Temple. But I digress. . .
People, The Matrix is celebrating its tenth anniversary. I might actually be a relic of the cretaceous period.
Which brings me to this week's (month's? What is time, anyway???) mantra:
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
As if there weren't enough signs bombarding me with the fact that I am now old. Among them that my butt now has more dimples than the prepubescent Shirley Temple. But I digress. . .
People, The Matrix is celebrating its tenth anniversary. I might actually be a relic of the cretaceous period.
Which brings me to this week's (month's? What is time, anyway???) mantra:
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON. THERE IS NO SPOON.
Friday, March 13, 2009
I could've put the crib in the backyard
I just happened to be cruising around some baby-related websites and came across an article on letting newborn babies "cry it out" in the middle of the night. Written by a PhD from Children's Hospital in Philadelphia, it talks about how "sleep training," her term for allowing infants to cry for half an hour at two in the morning, teaches them (in just a couple of nights) the self-soothing skills they need to fall asleep on their own.
Isn't that special?
Immediately I had this flashback to early spring, 2005, when I was propped up in my bed at three in the morning flipping through my paperback copy of Babywise, trying to decipher the print through my hormone and fatigue-induced fit of tears. It's a strict, schedule-based sleep-training book complete with graphs. Full of facts: sleep statistics, success percentages, the requisite troubleshooting section. I followed its advice, TO A TEE. Problem was, my kid wasn't in any of its two-hundred-twenty-something, whip-cracking pages.
Then there was the first time I showed up at the hospital-sponsored Mommy and Me class when Bugglegirl was six months old and still not sleeping through the night. When I lamented to the instructor that "crying it out" just didn't work with my baby, she coolly responded, "Oh, it works if you do it right." I almost invited that bee-atch back to my place for a two-hour, middle-of-the-night screamfest, but instead I just never went back. I also never let Bugglegirl cry for hours in the middle of the night again. I didn't need some wannabe Dr. Spock to tell me how to handle my kid. Intuitively, I knew that my little bundle of joy was destined to be the exception to every rule.
[Sorry - I just glanced up through the French patio doors to glimpse Buggleboy streaking through the backyard. Bugglegirl in her panties, carrying a purse and chasing him. Excuse me for just a moment.]
My point is: experts, schmexperts. It took Bugglegirl ten months to sleep though the night completely (my pediatrician's assessment: some babies just get hungry). And Buggleboy woke throughout the night until he had tubes put in his ears at fourteen months.
It was a frustrating, exhausting process, but now both of them sleep regularly from seven to seven. Sleep training, indeed.
Isn't that special?
Immediately I had this flashback to early spring, 2005, when I was propped up in my bed at three in the morning flipping through my paperback copy of Babywise, trying to decipher the print through my hormone and fatigue-induced fit of tears. It's a strict, schedule-based sleep-training book complete with graphs. Full of facts: sleep statistics, success percentages, the requisite troubleshooting section. I followed its advice, TO A TEE. Problem was, my kid wasn't in any of its two-hundred-twenty-something, whip-cracking pages.
Then there was the first time I showed up at the hospital-sponsored Mommy and Me class when Bugglegirl was six months old and still not sleeping through the night. When I lamented to the instructor that "crying it out" just didn't work with my baby, she coolly responded, "Oh, it works if you do it right." I almost invited that bee-atch back to my place for a two-hour, middle-of-the-night screamfest, but instead I just never went back. I also never let Bugglegirl cry for hours in the middle of the night again. I didn't need some wannabe Dr. Spock to tell me how to handle my kid. Intuitively, I knew that my little bundle of joy was destined to be the exception to every rule.
[Sorry - I just glanced up through the French patio doors to glimpse Buggleboy streaking through the backyard. Bugglegirl in her panties, carrying a purse and chasing him. Excuse me for just a moment.]
My point is: experts, schmexperts. It took Bugglegirl ten months to sleep though the night completely (my pediatrician's assessment: some babies just get hungry). And Buggleboy woke throughout the night until he had tubes put in his ears at fourteen months.
It was a frustrating, exhausting process, but now both of them sleep regularly from seven to seven. Sleep training, indeed.
Monday, March 9, 2009
What if they grow up to be Picasso?
I'm sitting here at my desk and the smell of Barbasol is overwhelming. Right next to my laptop, at the apex of a toppling pile of preschool masterpieces (merely one of many such piles dotting my household landscape), sits an eleven by seventeen sheet of paper covered in a smelly, puffy, mint-green concoction of shaving cream and glue. And while I'm confident that Bugglegirl's preschool instructors could offer up a ten minute treatise on its developmental necessity in promoting tactile stimulation, fine motor skills and right-brain augmentation, one reality remains: I haven't the foggiest idea what the hell to do with it.
I'm drowning here, people.
How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.
The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.
So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.
PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.
But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.
So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.
I'm drowning here, people.
How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.
The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.
So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.
PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.
But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.
So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
It's downright nauseating
So I've come down with a minor case of pregnant envy. Let me just peel off the Bugglehubs and explain that, no, I'm not really interested in actually being with child at the moment. What I mean is that several of my friends are currently expecting and each of them still appears to be a fully functioning, normal-looking human being.
I went walking this morning at the Rose Bowl with my friend who's due in June and she's finally looking the part. She is tall - exactly the height I would have chosen for myself, if anyone had bothered to ask - and is gracefully pregnant, whereas I appeared for several months to have a basketball lodged in my lower esophagus. Earlier in her pregnancy I kept drilling her during our strolls: Any cravings to report? Not really. How about nausea? Hmm, not too bad. Shooting pains? Nothing so far.
Damn. I don't want to see anybody suffering, but COME ON. Can somebody throw just a smidgen of acid reflux her way, please? It did occur to me that perhaps she's just not a complainer - that maybe she's been totally miserable but just doesn't want to spread it around (which, I know, would make my pregnant envy even more despicable). But then she tells me today, as we're talking about cooking and eating, that she overindulged this week. FINALLY, I thought, anticipating the worst: an entire chocolate lava cake? A family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos? No, people. It was these chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe's. ALMONDS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I wouldn't have eaten almonds if they'd told me my kid would pop out reading. When I was pregnant with Bugglegirl, for dessert I used to chase a half a pound of spice gumdrops with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.
OK. You know how sometimes you write something down, and all of a sudden everything appears in perspective? Like where heartburn and fat thighs come from?
Damn.
I went walking this morning at the Rose Bowl with my friend who's due in June and she's finally looking the part. She is tall - exactly the height I would have chosen for myself, if anyone had bothered to ask - and is gracefully pregnant, whereas I appeared for several months to have a basketball lodged in my lower esophagus. Earlier in her pregnancy I kept drilling her during our strolls: Any cravings to report? Not really. How about nausea? Hmm, not too bad. Shooting pains? Nothing so far.
Damn. I don't want to see anybody suffering, but COME ON. Can somebody throw just a smidgen of acid reflux her way, please? It did occur to me that perhaps she's just not a complainer - that maybe she's been totally miserable but just doesn't want to spread it around (which, I know, would make my pregnant envy even more despicable). But then she tells me today, as we're talking about cooking and eating, that she overindulged this week. FINALLY, I thought, anticipating the worst: an entire chocolate lava cake? A family-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos? No, people. It was these chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe's. ALMONDS? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I wouldn't have eaten almonds if they'd told me my kid would pop out reading. When I was pregnant with Bugglegirl, for dessert I used to chase a half a pound of spice gumdrops with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.
OK. You know how sometimes you write something down, and all of a sudden everything appears in perspective? Like where heartburn and fat thighs come from?
Damn.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Who you calling "Toxic"?
I can't seem to recall exactly how the stars aligned recently to allow me a few spare moments to peruse an old issue of People magazine. Probably has something to do with the fact that Oprah was taking yet another vacation. At any rate, I managed to catch up with the likes of Jennifer Garner (battling a stalker!), Nicole Richie (debuting a jewelry line!) and Michael J. Fox (not cured!).
I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).
But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?
I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).
Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.
So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.
I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).
But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?
I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).
Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.
So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
FREE: Super cute offspring
I'm sorry, did I have the audacity to imply that I was having a bad day, sitting around on hold with the insurance company?
AT LEAST THEY DIDN'T SPIT ON ME. OR SWAT ME IN THE EYE.
One of Bugglehub's cousins has this clever little saying about living with preschoolers:
"You've got the terrible twos, the horrible threes and THE FUCKING FOURS."
Then you've got the assholes who volunteer to combine any of the above, then complain about it.
Let's have them two years apart - it's ideal. It all seemed so quaint at the time.
AT LEAST THEY DIDN'T SPIT ON ME. OR SWAT ME IN THE EYE.
One of Bugglehub's cousins has this clever little saying about living with preschoolers:
"You've got the terrible twos, the horrible threes and THE FUCKING FOURS."
Then you've got the assholes who volunteer to combine any of the above, then complain about it.
Let's have them two years apart - it's ideal. It all seemed so quaint at the time.
Monday, February 9, 2009
I'm kinda partial to Double Cross
As of this moment, I have been on the phone with the the Prince of Darkness - Anthem Blue Cross of California - for forty minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You) Muzak is tinkling annoyingly from my speakerphone. Normally, I'd be multitasking right now - job hunting on Craigslist or folding laundry, for example - but I can't. I'm too pissed off.
A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?
I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):
Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*
*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:
Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.
I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:
Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .
This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.
So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.
I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.
This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).
Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:
I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?
Then there's this classic gem:
You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.
But I digress. . .
I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?
My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.
A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?
I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):
Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*
*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:
Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.
I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:
Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .
This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.
So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.
I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.
This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).
Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:
I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?
Then there's this classic gem:
You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.
But I digress. . .
I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?
My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sushi, anyone?
I know I said that there would be additional installments of the other day's CSI: Buggletown entry. I lied. Well, not so much lied - more like changed my mind. I realized that there really isn't much suspense or intrigue inherent in the barf bash that gripped the Bugglehouse last week.
I thought we were going to get off easy, after Bugglegirl upchucked bits of clementine all over her bed in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. Miraculously, nobody else got sick. That is, until five days later, when Buggleboy spent last Tuesday morning puking on every spot on the couch that wasn't covered by a towel.
Wednesday was my turn. I'm still not sure how I managed to pick up Bugglegirl from the co-op and fix her lunch without falling down. I kept having to take breaks every thirty seconds or so, crouching randomly in the parking lot and assuming the fetal position on the floor of the den. Really, you haven't lived until your kid peers right down into the toilet bowl while you're in mid-vomit and exclaims, Mommy, you throw up just like I do!
Even Buggledad, a.k.a. Stomach of Steel, succumbed on Thursday night. But like a true warrior, he rallied Friday night for martinis and steak. It's mind over matter, he gloats. So I have this idea: next time you see him, sidle up close and whisper gently in his ear, Canelloni Porcini and see what happens.
I thought we were going to get off easy, after Bugglegirl upchucked bits of clementine all over her bed in the middle of the night a couple of weeks ago. Miraculously, nobody else got sick. That is, until five days later, when Buggleboy spent last Tuesday morning puking on every spot on the couch that wasn't covered by a towel.
Wednesday was my turn. I'm still not sure how I managed to pick up Bugglegirl from the co-op and fix her lunch without falling down. I kept having to take breaks every thirty seconds or so, crouching randomly in the parking lot and assuming the fetal position on the floor of the den. Really, you haven't lived until your kid peers right down into the toilet bowl while you're in mid-vomit and exclaims, Mommy, you throw up just like I do!
Even Buggledad, a.k.a. Stomach of Steel, succumbed on Thursday night. But like a true warrior, he rallied Friday night for martinis and steak. It's mind over matter, he gloats. So I have this idea: next time you see him, sidle up close and whisper gently in his ear, Canelloni Porcini and see what happens.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
She lives on love street
This is the medical night, oh, this is the medical night
This is so much time, oh, this is so much time
Early in the morning, early in the morning, early in the morning (repeat)
When she got the kittens for the parade,
Oh, you're not having so much spiders
Oh, have a beautiful night
Dee da lee, dee da lee, dee da lee dee (repeat ad nauseum)
I know what you're thinking, people. I delved deep into the Elektra archives and discovered some of Jim Morrison's unpublished and arguably, most haunting early lyrical poetry.
Then Bugglegirl memorized it. And belted it out from her bedroom during "quiet time" this afternoon.
This is so much time, oh, this is so much time
Early in the morning, early in the morning, early in the morning (repeat)
When she got the kittens for the parade,
Oh, you're not having so much spiders
Oh, have a beautiful night
Dee da lee, dee da lee, dee da lee dee (repeat ad nauseum)
I know what you're thinking, people. I delved deep into the Elektra archives and discovered some of Jim Morrison's unpublished and arguably, most haunting early lyrical poetry.
Then Bugglegirl memorized it. And belted it out from her bedroom during "quiet time" this afternoon.
Monday, January 26, 2009
What did you think I was talking about?
I don't know about you people, but I sure am glad last week's hullabaloo is over with. Seemed like one endless torture session, like having Mr. Blonde shove bamboo under my fingernails with The Carpenters playing in the background. Here's where it all started, Sunday evening, just as I was about to polish off a bottle of pinot and a leftover log of herbed chevre. Feel free to gloat about your lazy garbage disposal, your mountain of dirty laundry:
Is that poop? I believe I said aloud. But I already knew the answer. Bits were strewn across the floor of the den at intervals, tiny increments of excrement that temporarily defied explanation. I grabbed the L.L. Bean crank-powered flashlight (thanks, Santa!) and shifted into CSI mode (not Vegas, or even Miami, but perhaps more akin to Omaha or Pacoima): Is it human?
I'll cut to the chase: turns out our intrepid black Lab, Buggledog, trotted through her own backyard freshie and paraded the offending paw through the den, the kitchen, living room and back 'round to the den - a crap lap, if you will. Depositing shit bits o'er the hills and dales of carpet, prefinished bamboo, throw rug, oak floor and back to carpet again.
After tender-lovingly ushering her out to the backyard to await sentencing, I crisscrossed the crime scene with my bottle of Nature's Miracle and an empty vial to collect samples for further analysis back at my blue-lit, slightly smoky lab. Buggledad quarantined the carpeted areas with the always-handy baby safety gates. The site was secured, credits rolled, wine once again flowed.
CSI: Buggletown will continue. . .
Is that poop? I believe I said aloud. But I already knew the answer. Bits were strewn across the floor of the den at intervals, tiny increments of excrement that temporarily defied explanation. I grabbed the L.L. Bean crank-powered flashlight (thanks, Santa!) and shifted into CSI mode (not Vegas, or even Miami, but perhaps more akin to Omaha or Pacoima): Is it human?
I'll cut to the chase: turns out our intrepid black Lab, Buggledog, trotted through her own backyard freshie and paraded the offending paw through the den, the kitchen, living room and back 'round to the den - a crap lap, if you will. Depositing shit bits o'er the hills and dales of carpet, prefinished bamboo, throw rug, oak floor and back to carpet again.
After tender-lovingly ushering her out to the backyard to await sentencing, I crisscrossed the crime scene with my bottle of Nature's Miracle and an empty vial to collect samples for further analysis back at my blue-lit, slightly smoky lab. Buggledad quarantined the carpeted areas with the always-handy baby safety gates. The site was secured, credits rolled, wine once again flowed.
CSI: Buggletown will continue. . .
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
We are so dead
I need to get one of those handy (and stylish!) belt attachment things for my iPhone, or maybe just keep a Post-it note stuck to my pant leg, so that I can faithfully reproduce herein the outrageous emanations spilling daily out of Bugglegirl's mouth. Considering that I am now middle aged, I find myself forgetting much, in particular those things that I vow, in the moment, to commit to memory and thus foolishly fail to write down.
What I'm getting at is that, last week, Bugglegirl combined the words frickin' booby in a sentence and, because I'm such a booby, I can't frickin' remember exactly what she said. I do recall the following:
1) Her blatant denial of having done so, insisting that she'd said freaky something (again, the memory fails).
2) My blatant denial of having inadvertently laughed at her doing so, insisting that I was only smiling on the outside because Buggleboy was doing something funny.
What I'm getting at is that, last week, Bugglegirl combined the words frickin' booby in a sentence and, because I'm such a booby, I can't frickin' remember exactly what she said. I do recall the following:
1) Her blatant denial of having done so, insisting that she'd said freaky something (again, the memory fails).
2) My blatant denial of having inadvertently laughed at her doing so, insisting that I was only smiling on the outside because Buggleboy was doing something funny.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Look out, ladies
Buggleboy has started singing. It began last week, in the middle of the second verse of Twinkle, Twinkle - where I plug in na, na, na, na's because I don't know the words. He prefers this glorified humming to the actual lyrics of the first verse, often interrupting my singing with an insistent, Na, na, Mama!. And now he sings along, sometimes sweetly, sometimes (like tonight) in his super-low, scary monster voice. The other day I overheard him lying in bed after his nap, crooning to himself:
Tinta, tinta nana tar,
Na na na na na na nar. . .
And though I generally eschew sentimentality in favor of sarcasm, I have to admit that he is unequivocally the most adorable creature in the Milky Way.
Tinta, tinta nana tar,
Na na na na na na nar. . .
And though I generally eschew sentimentality in favor of sarcasm, I have to admit that he is unequivocally the most adorable creature in the Milky Way.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My BFFs
Just wanted to give a little shout out to my loyal fans. The four of you really brighten up my spirits when the blogging gets tough.
You probably see through this, right? You realize that, in spite of having once built an entire website, I'm pretty much a technological moron. What I'm getting at, people, is that, although I greatly appreciate your comments and want to respond to them directly and individually, I haven't the foggiest idea how to.
So this is like my group web hug to you. If I could stick in some animated candy and flowers, or maybe some kissing noises, you know I would. You're so worth it.
You probably see through this, right? You realize that, in spite of having once built an entire website, I'm pretty much a technological moron. What I'm getting at, people, is that, although I greatly appreciate your comments and want to respond to them directly and individually, I haven't the foggiest idea how to.
So this is like my group web hug to you. If I could stick in some animated candy and flowers, or maybe some kissing noises, you know I would. You're so worth it.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Pray for me, Gregor Samsa
In the spirit of Oprah's recent, dare I say, groundbreaking (no pun intended) new year's revelation regarding falling off the weight control wagon, I hereby declare, people, that I'm off decaf.
I know, I know. This blog is appearing more and more to be merely a tragic vehicle for social alienation.
It all began with my request this Christmas for a French coffee press. For years, I've been making my decaf espresso via a countertop Krups machine that no longer froths milk (despite quarterly, invasive prodding with a bent paper clip). Recently the seal began leaking as well, belching steam out the top instead of through the grounds. It was time to say farewell.
Like the dutiful, clever husband that he is, the Bugglehubs colluded with Santa: boxing up an eight cup press and filling my stocking with flavored coffee. Caffeinated coffee. Peppermint, truffle, pumpkin spice. I had to try it - just this once. After the unwrapping chaos died down, as the kids were nestled in their beds for a (hopefully) long winter's nap, I brewed my first pumpkin spice latte, mixing a bit of egg nog into my one percent milk.
I thought I'd died and gone to Starbuck's.
I've had one every day since, metamorphosing in mere days from a jittery, uber-productive mess into an outright, headache-prone addict. I'm hoping the eggnog runs out before I wake one morning to find myself an upturned, twitching cockroach.
I know, I know. This blog is appearing more and more to be merely a tragic vehicle for social alienation.
It all began with my request this Christmas for a French coffee press. For years, I've been making my decaf espresso via a countertop Krups machine that no longer froths milk (despite quarterly, invasive prodding with a bent paper clip). Recently the seal began leaking as well, belching steam out the top instead of through the grounds. It was time to say farewell.
Like the dutiful, clever husband that he is, the Bugglehubs colluded with Santa: boxing up an eight cup press and filling my stocking with flavored coffee. Caffeinated coffee. Peppermint, truffle, pumpkin spice. I had to try it - just this once. After the unwrapping chaos died down, as the kids were nestled in their beds for a (hopefully) long winter's nap, I brewed my first pumpkin spice latte, mixing a bit of egg nog into my one percent milk.
I thought I'd died and gone to Starbuck's.
I've had one every day since, metamorphosing in mere days from a jittery, uber-productive mess into an outright, headache-prone addict. I'm hoping the eggnog runs out before I wake one morning to find myself an upturned, twitching cockroach.
Friday, January 9, 2009
2009 lifestyle and decorating trends
As many of you know, I never slow down to gawk at gruesome freeway accidents, nor do I indulge in the unimaginable debauchery on YouTube. Instead, dear readers, I subject myself regularly to a grueling perusal of the Pottery Barn catalog. It makes me want to slit my wrists - and yet, I just can't seem to take my eyes off of it.
Recently I received in the mail my first catalog of 2009. Only fifty-seven (give or take) more to go! I'm pretty sure the reason their furniture is only partially wood is because they've ground up all those discarded glossy pages into an overabundance of particle board. Anyway, they are having a winter "sale," which no doubt means that they've shaved a few bucks off of their three thousand dollar, distressed-veneered multimedia solution wall (as pictured, $5,999).
Dear God: I need it all.
Anyway, this "fresh start" edition is simply brimming with sage lifestyle and decorating advice, both explicit and implied. Here are a few of the tidbits I gleaned:
Never give up, folks. Keep pushing on, keep searching for perfection, for the pottery and the barn. I know it's there somewhere.
Recently I received in the mail my first catalog of 2009. Only fifty-seven (give or take) more to go! I'm pretty sure the reason their furniture is only partially wood is because they've ground up all those discarded glossy pages into an overabundance of particle board. Anyway, they are having a winter "sale," which no doubt means that they've shaved a few bucks off of their three thousand dollar, distressed-veneered multimedia solution wall (as pictured, $5,999).
Dear God: I need it all.
Anyway, this "fresh start" edition is simply brimming with sage lifestyle and decorating advice, both explicit and implied. Here are a few of the tidbits I gleaned:
- Discard everything you currently own.
- Relocate to a five thousand square foot home with wood floors throughout.
- Change all upholstery and bedding seasonally. If necessary, convert garage into "seasonal storage."
- Receive no actual mail. Instead, purchase postcards (preferably vintage) from around the world and address them to yourself.
- Your desk is not, in fact, a workspace. It is a showcase for overpriced nicknacks and a chance to imply that you're organized.
- Pencils are never to be used as writing instruments. They must be unpainted and unsharpened at all times.
- A home library is essential. However, create it entirely from books with covers that are the same color. If you must, devote time each weekend this year to covering your books with unbleached, recycled paper.
- Give pets up for adoption.
- Transpose all of your family photographs from color to black and white. Hire an architect to arrange them on your walls.
- Cultivate a monochromatic, exotic cutting garden. You may need to convert a bathroom into a greenhouse (try citrus trees!).
- No children allowed. Particularly in the outrageously expensive dream rooms pictured herein.
- Despite conventional wisdom, enormous butterflies plastered across your duvet cover will not induce nightmares.
- Always have attractively-presented cocktails and appetizers handy. Never prepare or consume them in-house.
- Try to appear as though you never watch television, movies, or listen to CDs.
- Never use a vase for something as mundane as fresh flowers.
- Display only coordinated, stylish items. Hide the unsightly things you use everyday in one of your spare walk-in closets.
- Decant, decant, decant.
- Transform one of your six bedrooms into an oversized, marbled bathroom.
- Incorporate moss into your everyday experience.
- Toss your dentist-recommended electric toothbrush in favor of a manual, faux-tortoiseshell one. Rest assured, the Christmas 2009 catalog will debut PB veneers.
- Stop trying to cure cancer. Accept the fact that keeping your home environment pristine is ultimately the noblest of pursuits.
Never give up, folks. Keep pushing on, keep searching for perfection, for the pottery and the barn. I know it's there somewhere.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I'm practically tasting ash
About twenty-four hours ago I started reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I went to bed early and thought I'd just start it. About a hundred pages in, I looked at the clock and it was nearly 11:30. And of course I couldn't sleep, too profoundly disturbed by the fact that my "emergency" kit is irretrievably buried in the garage and contains only a roll of paper towels and an economy pack of Ivory soap. My poor kids would have no chance in the event of an apocalypse. Then again, maybe I should be grateful for that.
Right about now, The Real Housewives of Orange County is looking pretty damn uplifting. So much for laying off television.
Right about now, The Real Housewives of Orange County is looking pretty damn uplifting. So much for laying off television.
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