The margarita is completely Paleo so it balances out

I am currently snacking on animal crackers that I found in the bottom
of my purse.  I chaperoned my son's zoo field trip yesterday and one of the little boys decided he was completely done with his snack and so here, lady, hold this for me and also buy me an icee.  (I didn't buy him an icee.)

I call this one 'Sebastian at the zoo.'

I blame the (totally non-paleo) animal cracker consumption on my current coma-like state, which I blame on my husband.

He was out of town for the past few days and so hasn't been home to tell me to put down the margarita and go to bed.

I kind of like staying up late.  It's quiet, I'm alone.  I can sew in peace without my daughter 'helping' by holding the little wheel turny thing (the scientific name, obviously) that makes the sewing machine sew, thus stopping any progress.  Or without my son randomly switching out my bobbin thread because "blue is my favorite color, Mom."

Last night was probably not the best time to stay up extra late as I'd already stayed up extra late the night before.  But I didn't listen to myself because I was soclose to finishing a project.  So I ignored my exhaustion and set up the kindle to play episodes of Ripper Street on Netflix and sewed one and a half shirts.  (The half was already halfway finished before I started yesterday.  Because I'd already stayed up extra late the night before working on it.)

I told myself the entire time I was sitting there that I would regret staying up, that I needed to get to bed because tomorrow (now today) would be so much harder and also I'd have to face getting two kids ready by myself plus I needed a shower and couldn't fake it by just putting up my hair because I'd already done that one day and couldn't do it for two in a row.

So I went to sleep at 11:30 and woke up before 5 for no reason at all other than my body hates me.  Or maybe it doesn't hate me, maybe it's like a dog that can sense storms coming and woke me up early so I would be prepared for the horrible hail/wind/rain/thunder/lightning episode we were blessed with at 5:06 a.m.  My daughter woke up scared from the pre-storm lightning so I brought her downstairs and then the hail slammed against my bedroom window so loudly that I seriously thought it was going to shatter all over us.  I didn't want to leave Adele to go get Sebastian, who I was sure was peacefully sleeping and oblivious.

Once it calmed down, however, I checked on him and found him up and scared and so felt like a horrible mother.  I brought him downstairs, too, so we all cuddled together for about 20 minutes that were filled with kicks and jumps and hugs and kisses until  I couldn't take it anymore and got up to take a shower.

So really I can't be blamed for the animal crackers, is what I'm saying.

Or for the copious amounts of caffeine I will be partaking in today.

(I'm currently listening to Lou Reed's Walk On the Wild Side and it makes me feel things.  Probably because I'm in a coma.)

(Here is a picture of one of the shirts I finished last night.  It's the Tiny Pocket Tank by Grainline Studio.  I'm only showing you now because I want you all to admit that I am the queen of Me Made May photos as I take them in poor lighting using my dirty bathroom mirror, which I like to refer to as 'the artistic way'.)

Doctor Who comes to call. At the gym.

So I've started watching Doctor Who.

I guess that puts me in the dorky-but-totally-cool 'in' crowd, right?

I usually spend my cardio time at the gym listening to an audiobook I download from the library, but as I wait ever so long for the next Harry Potter book to become available I've been making do with books that don't even come close to sparking the kind of interest that Mr. Potter and all the Wizards do.

I know, I'm a little late to the whole Harry Potter Craze, but at least I'm here now.  Don't judge me.  I spent most of that time when I could have been enjoying learning about Quiddich and Muggles turning down my nose at THOSE BOOKS and considering them to be beneath my "I only read literature' persona that I'd convinced myself was true.

I was an absolute joy, of course.

It's hard work being this alternative. 
Note the battered guitar case, the long
denim shirt, the little makeup ...

Actually, it's not that I didn't read other books that weren't assigned by my English professors - I did.  It's just that for many of my younger years I thought that the only right way to be was outside of the status quo.  I wasn't going to read those intensely popular books precisely because they were popular.  The same thing applied to other aspects of my life - I didn't like popular music.  Or I didn't want anyone to know that I liked some popular music.  Whenever I was driving and heard the song "Livin' La Vida Loca" (oh - you know you can still sing all the words) I would listen to it and sing along, but also be terrified that I would crash and the people who came to help me would hear that song playing on the radio and judge me and find me incredibly unhip.  It was always a bit of a relief when the song was over and I could switch the station back to something I considered subversive and cool.  Like classic rock.

My teenage years were mentally exhausting.

I couldn't find the senior portrait I wanted, which was black
and white and included a black turtleneck and an old
camera, so I'm giving you this self-portrait instead. Laugh
amongst yourselves.

So I never read the Potter books, until now.  And I love them.  I'm completely hooked.  I'll listen to them with one headphone in my ear while I clean and take care of my children - half listening to whatever they are mumbling on about.  (But not really - my kids talk nonstop.  I have to tune some of it out.)

I'll listen to them when I'm trying to force Adele to take a nap by rocking her to sleep because we all know that if she doesn't take a nap then the afternoon will go to hell in the form of yelling and spitting of food and kicking.  Thus the books keep me distracted and calm.  We all win.


And most enjoyable of all - I listen to the books at the gym.  But because of a weird glitch I've been waiting an extra long time for The Order of the Phoenix.

And it's horrible, the waiting.  It's filled with depressing books that I have to stop a third of the way in because I'm trying to use them to get me energized to exercise, and listening to a story about a woman who has lost all of her family and is about to be swindled by some stranger is not my idea of energizing.  And then there's the cliche-filled book about wives getting even with their husbands for cheating - which I thought would be light and funny but in the end became annoying and just plain boring.

And so I've given up the books for now - until the next Harry Potter one, of course.

I'm much less annoyed and don't roll my eyes anymore while I'm working out, which can be a little disconcerting to see someone do multiple times in the gym, I'm assuming.  They probably think I'm having a seizure, much like the time another mother told the daycare workers that they thought Adele was having a seizure because she crossed her eyes.  (Did I tell you that story?  If I didn't then let me assure you that there was no seizure.  She just crossed her eyes.  The end.)

I don't know why I didn't think of watching Netflix on my phone before now.  It seems like the perfect solution.  I've often thought that if there was just something interesting on television at the gym my workout would be much easier.  Because there's only so much Fox News that I can handle watching - evening if I'm not listening to it.  I can just tell by their facial expressions that they are being extremely biased assholes.  (Yes, I totally see the irony in me being a biased asshole by putting down all of Fox News.  But COME ON.  They allowed Glen Beck to happen.)

So back to Doctor Who.  Remember when I brought it up many, many words ago?  I've been hearing a lot about it in the last couple of years.  So I thought, why not?  And I like it.  I don't love it yet, but I'm only three shows in so I have faith that our relationship will blossom and I will finally be a part of the group.  It's like, now everything is ironic and what's dorky is dorky in the best way possible.

The Doctor

We can all embrace ourselves and our love of science fiction without everyone thinking we live in our parents' basement and eat pizza and stare at a computer screen playing World of Warcraft into all hours of the night.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Guys.  I'm finally cool for not being cool.

It's what I've waited my whole life for.

Pretzels. And the zoo. And dinosaurs made dead by other dinosaurs.

You’ll have to excuse me, because I’ve only got a few minutes.  This one will probably be all pictures.  During a bout of insanity I decided to make a batch of homemade soft pretzels.  I think it was because the children were playing so nicely with colored rice and beans in the kitchen that I thought it would be the perfect time to bake.

(Also, I’m sort of on a diet, or maybe not really a diet, just a let’s-not-eat-all-that-Easter-candy-in-one-setting-mkay?-type of thing.  I’m also trying to cut back on the amount of breadish things I eat, which may be why the recipe caught my eye when I was trying to find something for supper.  Apparently I like torture.)

But how could this entire situation end badly, right?

The bat costume has made another appearance.

 

Adele decided to dump her box of beans on the floor a couple of times, then Sebastian thought that looked like an awesome idea, but he did his slowly by dumping cup after cup of rice all over his head.  I’ve swept my floor four times.  I’m still finding rice and beans.

But it’s time for me to shape the pretzels, but I wanted to take a minute to tell you about our trip to the zoo last week. 

He insisted on having his picture taken here.

We had a perfectly lovely time, with only two small meltdowns, one from each child, that were nothing I couldn’t handle, with a little help from my mom.   

I may have over packed on the snacks.

We saw all the animals, including an orangutan who seemed to enjoy staring at people up close.  I admit it was pretty awesome, but I don’t think I enjoyed it as much as the man in the second picture wearing the hat.  He was having a moment with the animal and refused to get up and move and let small children look.  This is why I did not apologize when my children booted him to try and see the animal better.  And it wasn’t like he’d just got there.  He’d been there awhile.

But the most exciting thing we saw, and pretty much the reason we went, in Sebastian’s eyes, was to see the dinosaur exhibit.  My 8-year-old niece really enjoyed it, too.  And I admit, it was pretty cool, and would be especially neat for young kids.  The dinosaurs moved, made noise, and one even spit.  Both my kids waved to them and said hello.   

Everything was great until we got to the end of the exhibit.  This is what we saw:

Would you like a closer look?

Now, really.  Was that necessary?  I know I’m overprotective, but surely the people who made this would know that small children would be walking through and maybe the parents of those children are not ready to explain death to their 3 year old yet.  The blood was a nice touch.  As was the flailing and moaning triceratops, which just so happens to be Sebastian’s favorite dinosaur.

Assholes.

If he asks, Sebastian thinks that the triceratops got up to go find his mom.  After, of course, the t-rex killed him and made him dead. 

That was really the only negative part of the day, besides the poor decision I made to ride the carousel with my kids.  I forgot that they make me dizzy.  I did not throw up, but it took me a minute to find my head once the ride was over.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shape a bunch of pretzels, then boil them, then bake them before Adele wakes up from her nap.

I'm kind of an idiot sometimes.

College, and the communal bathroom, was a very difficult time for me

Bathroom time has always been a personal time for me.  You don’t dilly dally, you do what you need to do and then you get out, without informing the whole world what you’re doing.  I have obviously had to ease up on those restrictions since having children.  If I don’t leave the door at least cracked Sebastian will just open it anyway.  And if I lock it he sometimes will scream and cry and bang on the door until I come out.  Or he just says “I can’t open the door, Mommy.  I can’t get it!  Can you help me?  Please?  Mommy!  Mommy!  Fireman Sam!”

It used to be that anytime anyone tried to talk to me while I was in the bathroom I would just tense up.

But I didn’t realize how much of a problem I had until the summer between fourth and fifth grades.  

At the end of the year someone came to our school to talk up how awesome Conservation Camp was.  There was boating and archery and crafts.  It sounded like so much fun!  So I convinced my parents that it was a good idea and they finally set me up to go.

We bought all the stuff I needed, including a matching set of a purple tank top and shorts and a blue set too, just for good measure.   (It was 1991. I also had matching socks and banana clips.)  

I was thrilled about being away from home and excited when I saw the cabins.  They were big communal cabins with about 10 people to each.  

I think the first day I was probably fine.  

But then the counselors informed us that we had to always have a buddy when we went to the bathroom.  I realized that I wouldn’t have any privacy.  

Let me repeat that.

I WOULDN’T HAVE ANY PRIVACY!

I couldn’t understand why no one else was bothered by that.  Does everyone just go willy nilly no matter who is around?

So in between archery lessons and learning about Beverly Hills 90210 for the first time, talking with my decidedly more, um, developed,  friend about how she was sure her period was starting, and swimming, I tried to find time to sneak away to the bathroom by myself.

It never happened.

Which means I didn’t poop the whole week I was there.

I met with a leader there who was informed about my ‘stomach ache’ by my friend (who didn’t know the real reason I didn’t feel well) and he asked me if I wanted to go home.  My mouth said no when every part of me (especially my stomach) screamed ‘yes, YES, OMG YES!!’

I stuck it out because I wasn’t a quitter.

I did not go back the next year.

(Remind me to tell you about losing my swimsuit top while taking lessons at that same camp.  It’s not an embarrassing story at all.)

I still have that tank top and it still fits.

Isn’t every story supposed to have a moral when you’re 12?

As a kid I was an avid reader. Just about any book I could get my hands on would find its way open with my nose stuck in it. And because of this I had a very vivid imagination. I also fancied myself a protégé in the writing field. I was going to be a writer - no doubt about it. And by sixth grade I was sure that everyone would feel that absolutely I should follow that path – if only they could read something I'd written. 

So I sat out to create the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL at 12 years old. Or at least the GREAT AMERICAN THREE-PAGE HANDWRITTEN SHORT STORY. 

Now along with my dreams and ambitions I also had a strong sense of morality.  Things were either black or white and prejudices fell most definitely in the black (evil, obviously) side.  And so I took a strong stance against this sort of thing and apparently at this age my feelings centered most decidedly on Native Americans issues. 

My GREAT AMERICAN THREE-PAGE HANDWRITTEN SHORT STORY would be about a couple - the man would be white and the woman would be Native American. In order to show how serious I was I had to have drama (some might call it 'melo') and developing conflict. I decided that the way to do that was to have the man be super-crazy prejudiced against Native Americans. He was not, however, aware that he was married to one.  In order to make it socially relevant I set it in the 1800s of course. His wife lived in fear of him finding out what she was. 

I don’t remember everything that happened in my magnum opus, but I'm pretty sure I fleshed it out with paragraph after paragraph on how afraid the woman was that her husband would discover her secret. 

I’m sure many of you can see where this is going what with my exceptional foreshadowing skills.  Alas the husband found out what his wife was and in a fit of rage he rage shot and killed her. 

I was so proud of this story and felt that it was powerfully meaningful. I just knew that whoever read it would worship my talent and possibly, if they knew the right people, find me a book deal and I would experience my DREAM! 

So I started with my friend. Surely she would be impressed, right?

Ahem. 

She laughed. In case I didn’t give you enough detail to ascertain for yourself, this was not a comedic effort.

I let my teacher read it. I was sure that my friend was just the tiniest bit jealous of the fact that I had created something so amazing at such a young age.  (We were always competing against each other, you see.)

She made strange face that at the time I couldn't quite decipher, but that I knew wasn't all that encouraging, and said ‘Oh!’ 

And I now realize that the look my teacher gave me was actually her trying so hard to keep from giggling at her misguided student. 

I was not exactly crushed at their lack of response, but I did step back and start to reevaluate my plans.  I may or may not have written in my journal about how misunderstood I was.

In their defense, however, I did end my GREAT AMERICAN THREE-PAGE HANDWRITTEN SHORT STORY with 'And the moral of the story is...'

He lost me after the prison toilet

There’s this show that comes on sometimes during the kids’ naptime called ‘Prison Wives.’  It’s on the Oprah Winfrey Network, so you expect it to be classy, I guess.  (Anybody else irritated that she has her own network?  And that it’s called ‘OWN’?  And that she puts her ‘own’ photo on the cover of her magazine each month?  Just me?  Okay.  Moving on.)

The premise, in case you can’t figure it out from the title, is women who have married men in prison, either before or after then went there.  It shows their lives now, which mostly seems to be spent finding ways to visit their husbands or trying to get their ‘wrongly convicted’ husbands out of jail.

Don’t ask me why I watch it.  I’ll watch pretty much anything.  Except shark shows.

So yesterday they had a man who was married to a woman who was in prison for life, no parole, because she was part of a shooting/dismemberment/crazy murder.  The man, her husband, was older and married to someone else when he started writing her (she put an ad online, naturally).  Apparently she was just too irresistible and so he divorced his wife and moved from Seattle to Tennessee to be close to prison lady.

Now, all throughout this he actually seemed normal and sane.  He was a retired pilot who liked to canoe, had a ‘good Catholic faith,’ and just seemed to truly be in love.

But then they showed the creepy mannequin.  In a wedding dress.  Set up in front of the window of his house facing the street. 

He just wanted a female presence in the house.

And then.  AND THEN, toward the end of the show, so close to it that they kind of glossed over it, they showed his bedroom.  And his shiny, metal, working prison toilet that he bought just so he could feel close to his wife.

So now I think that his wife, the one in jail for helping dismember a 19-year-old kid, might be just a little bit more in possession of her senses.  Not by much though.

I think I might stick to HGTV from now on.