Mandajuice

Trading Species

Did anyone else catch Trading Spouses last night?  Dave and I were actually on our way to bed, but hatred came over us and we couldn't peel our eyes off the screen.  That vegan-thumping, holier-than-thou, insane bitch of a woman needs to be shot.  And then eaten.  But only after being deep-fried.  I mean, if you use her logic, she'd definitely come before an alligator in terms of who deserved to be eaten first, right?

I'm nice.  Honestly.  I really am.  It's just been a long time since any human being, on television or otherwise, has so irked me.  And I have no tolerance for people who are so intolerant!

I kept pausing the Tivo over and over again just to prevent my head from exploding while she was talking.  Those poor, poor kids. 

Listification

1.  There is only one downside to not being quite so fat anymore:  The. COLD.  I am freezing my petunias off.  And I can expect to stay this way until April.  I am seemingly unable to maintain a normal body temperature.  No amount of fleece can protect me from the evil California elements.

2.  I just thought of another downside: weight regain, which is far, far worse than plain old weight gain.  One must have already lost weight in order to regain it, no?  Gaining weight after losing it only serves to remind you how good you had it when you were all skinny and hotshit.  I swear, I gain five whole pounds and those size tens are taunting me from the closet.  Evil biatches.

3.  Something happened over the weekend that was very, very bad.  I woke up on Saturday and it was 1952.  While my husband slaved away at the office, I slaved away in our kitchen, cooking my heart out.  And, I must confess, I still have it.  Whatever it was I thought I'd lost.  Here's a sample of what my better bigger half got to enjoy this weekend:

Sausage stuffed mushrooms  (I. Baked! An. Appetizer.)

Capellini with garlicky onion meat sauce (you know, the "homemade" kind of sauce)

Beef Wellington (Armageddon could've come last night and we'd've died happy)

Peanut butter chocolate pie (from scratch, people, scratch.)

This was very, very bad for two reasons: 1) see item number 2 above and wonder no more at its cause, and 2) I've set a terrible precedent for what can be expected in our kitchen.  This escapade only served to remind my husband what he's missing out on.  In our house, withholding good food is a crime worse even than withholding sex. 

4.  Alex has learned to "say" pretty.  It sounds like prrrrr.  My dangly earrings are prrrr.  My sparkly shirt is prrrrr.  Almost anything that he's not allowed to touch is prrrrr.  Which is why he always shakes his head and adds "nononono" after every "prrrrr".  'Tis very cute.

5.  We saw a movie on Saturday night.  It was The Incredibles.  And it was incredible.  Did I mention that we, Dave and I, parents of a wee toddler, saw a movie?  It was incredible!

6.  Last night I sat in the rocking chair nursing my sweet, sweet monkeyboy.  He was tired from a long day of watching airplanes land, playing on over-sized bulldozers and chasing me around the kitchen with matchbox cars.  So I asked him, "Is my sweet boy ready to go to sleep?" and he responded with a single deliberate nod.  When I laid him down in the crib, like I do every night, and said "Goodnight.  I love you,"  he looked up at me with his shiny brown eyes, waved at me and said "bye bye." 

Guess you had to be there.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was generally relaxing and laid-back.  Dave went and picked up Carol from the hospital and we all met up at John and Lynne's house for the day.  Lynne was kind enough to baby proof, so the day wasn't as taxing on me as I'd expected it to be.

Unfortunately, Dave wasn't really in a thankful mood lamenting the time he should've been spending at the office.

But Alex made up for it:

Lynne's turkey was superb:

Alex's ham was hilarious:

And the highlight of the day?  The BUCKET 'O TRUCKS:

Thanks, but no thanks

As we break bread each Thanksgiving, our family tradition is to go around the table and share what we're most thankful for.  Everyone arrives well-rehearsed and we all look forward to a generous helping of sap and wit.  This year we aren't getting together with my side of the family, formally at least, until Christmas, so it will have to wait.  I've been thinking all along that I'd post my thank you list here instead. 

But seriously?  It would be redundant. 

I look at my life almost daily and realize how unfrickingbelieveably fortunate I am.  Health, family, love, friends, a roof over my head, three Target stores within a 15 minute drive.  I mean, honestly, what more could a girl ask for?

I know I've been a sourpuss lately, whining about traffic, heart attacks, funerals, saddness, that bitch dog Pandy, my lazy ass, etc., but really, truly, honestly?  I've never been happier.  Sure, I have a lot on my plate and I tend to dump most of it here, but, lest you worry, I don't let any of it get me down.  I'm not only lucky, but lucky enough to KNOW how lucky I am.  I don't need Hallmark to remind me.  Life itself is Prozac enough.

Seriously

What does it say about me that while in line at the grocery store just now, I could not decide whether to buy Lucky or Family Circle?

There's a new bitch in town

Pandy, Carol's infamous Shitzu, has been staying with us since Sunday.  Otherwise referred to as "Bacterius Maximus", she's not a dog we are particularly fond of.  And don't get me wrong, we LOVE us some dogs, but Pandy is, well, Pandy.  She's olfactorily challenged.  The mutt smells like ten kinds of ass.  There's just no way around it.

And she's mean.  I know, you wouldn't think a tiny (I'm being kind here, she's a 20 lb tub of salami) Shitzu capable of viciousness, but this dog has an evil temper and a diabolical growl.  If it weren't so annoying, it might actually be funny.

Herein lies the problem: ever since I put Pandy in the backseat with Alex on the way to our house, he thinks she's HILARIOUS.  He imitated her annoying whine the whole drive home.  Even funnier?  Chasing her around, cornering her and smacking her on the snout.  He's like Cruella-de-toddler.

(click to enlarge - I highly recommend it)

For the first time ever, I may actually have sympathy for the poor little beast.  When we lived with Carol and Alex was a wee lad, I swore I'd kill the bitch every time she lunged in his direction (which was more often than felt safe to a new mom).  Now?  I almost HOPE she gives him a piece of her mind.  Better to learn a healthy fear of dogs from a tiny Shitzu than from a German Shepherd, no?

Seriously, though.  Has anyone dealt with this manner of toddler angst before?  He's usually quite nice to Harry, our kind, adorable, sweet-smelling pooch.

My professional opinion

Suze Orman is a sellout. 

Distractions

This weekend played like a symphony of contrasts. Of extremes.

After working away my Saturday afternoon, I found myself on a pew in a Unitarian Church that was so stark and devoid of ornamentation as to make you question the actual glory of god. No stained-glass masterpieces, no intricate architecture to gawk at, only one lonely flower arrangement trimmed the altar. The service, however, was anything but stark. My client, The Man Who Loved His Wife, will be sorely missed by just about everyone he ever touched. He was kind and gentle and good and the service did him justice.

It was all I could do to keep my composure. No one wants to hire the financial planner who bawls like a baby. So, like men often do, I tried to think of anything that would distract me from the topic at hand – the dishes in the sink at home, the smell of the dog in need of a bath, the frizz of my hair, whether or not my car was safely parked. And then it dawned on me why the church was so barren. It worked. I couldn’t help but stay tuned to the lecture. Which was a beautiful tribute to a man who was absolutely not ready to leave his wife behind. He did not “go gentle into that good night.” He fought for every. single. second.

On my way home I stopped by a friend’s house to drop off a gift for her one-year-old. She had cancelled the birthday party last week without giving any explanation and I’ve been worrying about her ever since. She’s been fighting a relentless battle with post-partum depression. We haven’t stayed in touch as much as I’d like, which is my fault.  I feel so utterly ill-equipped to help her. Motherhood has made me happier and more fulfilled, while she has been lost in grief and despair. It’s unfair. We both spent our pregnancies in giddy anticipation. She was sleeping when I arrived, but her husband assured me that she is improving. Slowly but surely. I hope he’s right.

Finally home again; I spent the next hour soaking up my monkey boy in all his savory goodness. There is something about him sitting next to me on the couch that makes him seem more real. Like he’s a boy and not just a gangly, adorable appendage. The day had rushed by as if I’d blinked one too many times and he grew up while I was gone. Another stark reminder that life is short.

An hour after I put the boy to bed, Dave rushed to the hospital to be with his mother. She wasn’t feeling right at the restaurant during Lynne’s birthday dinner, so Johnny drove her to the hospital to be safe, even though it was “just a little chest pain.” The heart attack wasn’t diagnosed until Sunday and then we all crowded in to her tiny room to hear the diagnosis.

She seems to feel fine at this point, aside from being a bit shell-shocked and scared. She’s scheduled for an angiogram on Wednesday, which should provide some insight. Really, though, she knows the answer. She needs to take care of herself.  She’s not fighting for every. single. second. She hasn’t even arrived at the fight yet; instead she’s stalling, packing her bags and waiting for her time to come.

The hospital room was the polar opposite of the church pew – clamoring in its own high tech glory, tangled wires everywhere, nurses rushing in and out. It was a hyperactive toddler’s dream. Watching Alex climb around on the bed, lowering and raising its foot, pushing all the TV buttons; it occurred to me that maybe hospitals are loud and obnoxious for a reason too.

Written last night on my way home

I'm stuck here in the middle of six freeway lanes, waiting for an accident to be cleared from the road ahead.  We've all been stopped, as in not moving, for six minutes.  I'm trying to be zen about this time I fritter away every day in traffic and be grateful that it's not me up there in one of the undoubtedly mangled cars.  But more than anything, it has me thinking about my life and the decisions I've made that have led me to do all this sitting in traffic.  And why I even bother.

[ah! Movement!]

And I can't give a good reason.  I spend two hours a day, away from my family, getting to and from a job that I hate.

[Ten feet!]

My mother is raising my child.  If we stay here, in this crazy place we were born, all of my children will be raised by my mother.  And don't get me wrong, she's a superb raiser of children, bar none really.  But she's not me.  Even she notices the difference.  It's not really fair to any of us.

So, as much as I try to live in the moment and be thankful that I even have a job in this economy, thankful that my mother is energetic enough to chase after my boy all day, thankful for our dinky condo, thankful for our health - I look to the future all too often for relief. 

[Ten more feet!]

We have to move somewhere sane. 

Somewhere my hardworking husband (a Cal grad! a lawyer!) can support us on one income without having a coronary before turning 40.

Somewhere I won't have to sit in traffic every day.

Somewhere the average home price isn't four times the national average.

Somewhere we won't have to share walls with teenage girls who blast techno at bedtime.

Somewhere with a yard.  And a swing set. 

[People are starting to make up their own traffic lanes.]

I've been fighting this idea for a while.  I've never been happier than I am right now and I'm afraid to change anything.  I love being so close to my family.  This place is my home.

But life is about trade-offs. 

Moving means seeing my family a few times a year, not every single day.  But it also means being there the first time Alex puts two words together.  The first time he reads a book.  His first day of school.  Hopefully, it means he'll stop saying 'bye bye' every time I ask him for a kiss.

[It's taken me 48 minutes to drive the final six miles home.]

So it's really not a choice at all.

Just thought I'd share

I'm wracking my brain to think of something creative to say, but, seriously? I've got nothin'.

I'm tired. 

And I can NOT seem to pee in the company toilet without getting splashed.  As if the fact that I have to flush three times to hide my busywork isn't bad enough - no matter how I hover above the porcelain, the angle is always wrong.  Stupid low-flow crap!  What's so wrong with those all-mighty American Standards that can hide a dead body with a single flush? 

And what is with the people who don't wash their hands?!?!? I KNOW you're in that other stall peeing on yourself.  I can HEAR you!  I've worked here for over two years and not once managed to keep it all in the bowl.  Handwashing is NOT optional. 

And one last thing!  I understand how important you are, Mrs.-Realtor-in-your-fancy-St.Johns-suit, and I know that sure, we ALL pee and make other assorted potty noises in the bathroom, since that's why we all made the trek down the hall.  And I rarely suffer any stagefright in these situations.  But, seriously, your client does NOT need to hear me doing my business.  Have a little respect for your stallmate and turn off the cellphone!

Apparently I did have something to say.  And I'm in such a stellar mood.  Can't you tell?