Pocket Aces

Greetings, Earthlings.

Do you know what I just did? It was the craziest thing. Marc and I were driving home from work late this afternoon (yes, I work now.) (yes, I work at the same place as my husband.) (yes, I know that is a recipe for disaster - more on that later.) and I was feeling BAD - queasy stomach, headache, that droopy-bone tiredness. As we were driving home, I thought back to 2004, the last time I worked in the city. I was working at Maryland General, and Marc and I would commute into Baltimore together from where we lived in Annapolis. I was pregnant, only 8 weeks or so in, and feeling terrible. The whole ride into the city in the morning would consist of me nibbling graham crackers and sipping ginger ale, a walking cliche - it really was the only thing I could stomach. I would get to work and moan at my desk and be so happy I had a student to go do evaluations for me because my usual iron stomach that allowed me to stand the smell in some of those hospital rooms was long gone. And by the end of the day, when I would drive down to Fell's Point to pick him up, I was so bone tired that I would stumble over to the passenger seat and invariably fall asleep five minutes into the trip home. For about four months, it went like that. And if I didn't know better, I might have thought that I was pregnant today given how I felt. But I do know better, and no, I'm not.

Anyway. I was feeling pretty inexplicably awful and Marc and I were plotting what to do about dinner - I had some steaks planned, which he could easily handle, and I would muster up the energy to boil corn, then go lay down. He lamented briefly that I had forgotten to get some shortcake to go with the strawberries I'd gotten at the farmer's market this past weekend. I mumbled something and pretended to not care about it when suddenly all I wanted to do was make sure those strawberries got eaten while they were still in their prime, and the next thing I knew, I was digging through my vast cookbook collection for a cake recipe that I could make with the limited contents of my pantry and my small reserve of energy.

You should know - I don't make cake. I don't really bake. Sometimes I try, but my results are always, in varying degrees, subpar. It's all too precise for me, the girl who loves to read recipes but refuses to actually use one. So I found a cake recipe - Lightning Cake, it was called, perfectly - and was pleased that Marc didn't bat an eye at this strangeness because it was indeed strange. And I made that cake and do you know what I just did? I was feeling like I was coming down with the plague, and next thing you know, I made a fucking AWESOME PERFECT LITTLE PIECE OF PERFECTION of a cake. It was the craziest thing.

And then I felt tired again, and went and lay down.

But then! Oh, hi! I felt like sharing it, and what do you know? I know someone who used to blog, and she looks a lot like me. Well, actually, since it's been about 3.2 years since last she blogged, you should know that in that time she's lost 15 or so pounds, started earning paychecks, has shinier hair and whiter teeth, ran a marathon, planted some semblance of a vegetable garden and found the cure for the common cold. In her spare time, that is. (I'll let you wonder if any of those are actually true.) (Sorta, yes, no, only a 5K, yeah, and if only.)

I'll bet you were at the point where you were like, "That's it. There's no point in coming here anymore. I'm so happy that checking her lame ass site is one less thing I have to fit in my day." No, I'm not talking to you, but I am talking to YOU and YOU over there, the only 2.4 people who bother coming around here anymore. See, and now I've pulled you back in. A little nonsense from my fingertips, and you're mine again. Oh, the power.

When I logged into TypePad (helloooo, old friend!) there was a little article winking at me on the main page. "How To Increase Traffic To Your Blog". TypePad, why must you mock me?

So, yeah, I'm a working girl now. Not THAT kind of working girl. The other kind. I have a nice little part-time flexible gig that only remotely relates to anything I used to do in my former life and that is to say that I can no longer wear scrubs to work. Which is bittersweet, because while scrubs are hardly flattering, it's tough to beat going to work in your pajamas. It also means that I spend a good deal of time scared to death that I don't ruin this big new thing I've taken on while on the surface trying to have all the confidence in the world that of course, I can do this, why would you ever think I couldn't? And I'm not trying to be cryptic - I'm not sharing details of my new job because while it's not likely I'd be dooced, there is still the whole matter of this blog containing my political opinions and the occasional tendency of my fingers to hit a pattern of keys that comes out F-U-C-K and there's nothing I can do to stop it, and let's not even mention the drunken photos of myself or that one shot of my kids in the shower. Wholesome, world-saving people they are, over there in that place where I sometimes work. Why risk it?

Besides, I'm not going to be writing about work, because that's boring. The only reason you needed to know anything about it was so you could understand that it is what has been keeping us apart. But no longer! We have much to discuss, you and I.

I don't really remember what I was talking about when I started this post. The frog has descended on me again. I should go back and reread it, edit it, likely cut it all out. Yes, I meant to say "frog" up there. I said it because I sometimes substitute "frog" for "fog", like, "It's so froggy outside". I do this only around people from whom I have no expectation of being taken seriously. Obviously you are a subset of those people. I'm sorry I had to admit this to the 2.4 of you. Aren't you glad you don't have to speak to me in real life?

I'm going to lay down now.

Distracted.

The whole way home, I pictured the worst, and tried to determine if I had been careless.

Upon entering the grocery store, Riley noticed, for the first time, that mass of little vendor machines by the door. You know - mostly gumballs, a few huge gobstoppers, plastic bubbles holding fake spider rings. He was interested. I searched for something appropriate - yes, bouncy balls. Perfect. I thought back to being allowed the occasional gumball as a kid

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The above blurb is the first urge I have had to write something here in... well, I don't know how long. You can check the archives and count for me. But the small amount of time I tried to grab for this has been stolen by my children who have decided that naps are for pussies and were only willing to sit for two paltry episodes of the Backyardigans and just spilled A LOT of dried beans all over my kitchen floor (with gleeful cackles while doing so) and are now screaming about going outside to jump on the trampoline and I have relented, feeling guilty, so I have to go find pants (for them, not me) but I can't find any underwear for Riley because he has pooped or peed in I swear to God every pair he owns because he has forgotten that toilets exist and oh shit, now they are in the basement with me literally tearing things apart.

So I have to go do all that and dinner and baths and all I really want is a shower and to go to bed. But if you must know the ending to the story I was going to tell, you will have to be satisfied with knowing that it involved Riley chasing a dropped bouncy ball (yellow and pink!) into the middle of the parking lot where a car was being driven toward him, very slowly and about 50 feet away, but I calmly freaked the fuck out anyway, but that's over. More important is that after all that trauma, our bouncy ball survival rate since coming home a few hours ago is only 50%. So while I've convinced myself that CPS is not about to come knocking on my door, I am pretty sure that the Bouncy Ball Protection Agency is giving me the serious stinkeye.

You know what? I'm pretty sure the story came out better that way.

Where I say nothing negative.

I love Stephen Colbert. (Yes, even more than Jon Stewart.) The End.

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Rap Battle
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Careful what you wish for.

Because you just might get it. ON MARCH 2ND. A full two months after you wanted it. And on a day when you children are sick, one with a lovely ear infection and draining motherfucking eyes, so they CAN'T go play in your pretty fluffiness, thanks, though I'm sure our imaginary snowman would have been beautiful. Also, how much does it suck to have to ask other kids not to sled in your awesome sledding yard because your poor pitiful children will look out the windows and cry and YOU WILL FEEL LIKE THE WORST MOTHER EVER? A lot, is how much that sucks.

Yes, be careful what you wish for.

At least I've got good help. I hear that's hard to find. (He shoveled while also sick - because, you know, it always ends up that I'm the only healthy one around here. Anyway, whatta man. Love you, baby.)

Two.

Dear Mason,

Yesterday, you turned two. And suddenly, right before my eyes, you grew up. Gone is the baby who needed to be in a stroller, and in her place is a little girl who runs holding hands with her brother. You got a brand new potty for your birthday that you are already excited about sitting on, and though you still sleep in a crib, you don't need to anymore. A big girl bed is in the works.

As should be expected, I'm both happy and sad at this development. I cheer your independence, love that you are determined to do anything your brother does - only better. I love that you ask me (ask me!) for more juice in the morning, and that you're learning how to play hide and seek. I love that, even though I am hardly a morning person, you never fail to make me smile with your cheery play when you wake up. I love that, after waking, the first thing you want to do is go find your brother and play. I love that when I put you down to bed at night, after a requisite snuggle and book in the rocking chair, you lay down in your crib and turn over and - all by yourself - close your eyes and lay quietly till you fall asleep. I didn't know such a thing was possible, until you.

But there are things I'll miss. It's very likely you are our last baby, and these days I find myself a little sad looking at clothes you've outgrown. Toys you're done playing with. Sippy cups abandoned for bendy straws.

Enough of that - this letter isn't really about me. It's about you, and how I never want to forget that right now you are a beautiful, energetic little angel who loves Mickey Mouse and the Backyardigans and coloring with crayons and eating yogurt with your very own spoon and your Lambie and climbing on all the furniture in the house and shoving all the wooden food into your toy microwave until the door won't close and dancing with your brother and your daddy and your mommy. And french fries. Oh, how you love french fries.

I may not be much at predicting the future, but I'm willing to go out on a limb and say that while some of the things you love will change, those french fries are probably here to stay. So are your mommy, daddy, and brother. We all love you very much.

Happy Birthday, Mason Angelina.

Love, Mommy

What the 'L'?

Wow. What a terrible title. And you know what? I'm not gonna apologize for it. Live with it.

So it's a meme-y time of year, it seems, and they just go 'round and 'round. I like them, particularly for the kind of day/week/month when I don't have anything topical to ramble about. This one is about listing 10 things you love that start with a particular letter. I grabbed it over at Jambalaya, and the lovely wordnerd assigned me the letter 'L'.

I gotta say, 'L' was hard. I had to get Marc to help me out. I should have had 'B'. 'B' would have been a no-brainer. Here we go, in no particular order:

1. Lilacs. Not my favorite flower, visually - that honor goes to the short-lived peony - but hands down the best smelling.

2. LOST. Oh, come on. Too easy.

3. Licorice. Specifically, red. Specifically, Twizzlers.

4. Lipstick. Clinique, Raspberry Glace. I've worn the same color since high school. I'd think that was a little sad, maybe, except that I can't seem to find another color I've liked as consistently.

5. Louisville and Lafayette, CO. I wasn't born there, and I've lived other places since, but this is my hometown. They are two distinct little towns, with rivalries and everything, but really it's all one place. A certain someone I know who uses a lot of exclamation points will likely jump in the comments to list the differences between them like I don't know them, but I will just say that with time and distance, in my mind they are one now. It's where I grew up.

6. Libraries. What's not to love about a library? Stacks and stacks and STACKS of books. In college, I loved those little study carrels. Like a little private world with your books. Trouble was, then, I wasn't always reading for pleasure. I think I need a study carrel now.

7. Lennon, John. Looking purely at the Beatles years, I'm a Paul girl. But John's solo career, despite (or maybe because of) being tragically shortened, certainly packed more punch.

8. Liquor. Yes, there, I said it. I like this, and this, and sometimes even this. And just to show that I'm an equal opportunity boozer, I drink more than my share of wine and beer too.

9. Literature. Well, duh.

10. LISTS! Of stuff I love! Top 10 lists! Top 100 Songs of Any Year lists! Top 10 list of all the lists I've ever made! Bring 'em on!

For posterity's sake, here are some 'L' items I considered, and discarded: lollipops, limbo, lampshades, Louisiana, love, little things, lemonade, Little Debbie Nutty Bars, laughing, linens, and life. Not that I don't love those things, of course. Life is great and all, just - zzzzz.

Also, Marc lobbied hard for lesbians. When I resisted, because, you know, it's not that I don't love lesbians, it's that I don't LOVE lesbians, he tried to appeal to the wordsmith in me by going for the double word score with lipstick lesbians. I was so tickled, I almost gave it to him. Almost. Besides, I told him, I already talked about lipstick.

Wanna play? Consider yourself tagged. Ask me in the comments, and I'll give you a letter.

My dungarees make them hungary.

Why I'm not watching "Flight of the Conchords" is beyond me. This is not new stuff. I've seen "Business Time", I've seen "HipHopopotamus & Rhymenoceros", ('cause my Nana's tea party don't stop!). And now I've seen "Sugalumps":

Wait, I know why I'm not watching it. We don't get HBO. But we do get Netflix! Marc, put Season 1 at the top of the queue. Or no business time for you.

Backlash.

Marc, yelling down to me in the basement 5 minutes ago:

"Hey Robyn, I'm having a harder time shoveling than I thought I would. Since you're from Colorado, you must be great at it. How about you come finish?"

I laughed and went back to refereeing the cage match between my children. Smartass.

Oh! (Or, I am a lying liar that lies.*)

SNOW!!

 

Words cannot fully express how happy I am to get some snow this year. It's not much, but I'll take it.

 

 

I loaded the kids in the car and we went to the store. Needed chili supplies. And sleds.

I really, really miss snow. We get maybe one storm a year here, on average. I miss driving in the snow. I LOVE driving in the snow. Being from Colorado, I possess a fair amount of skill in it - not that I am better than other people who know how to drive in the snow - just that I don't have a problem saying that I'm better than most people in Maryland. There's something about it that makes me really miss driving a stick shift. It makes me want to get stuck, and then get myself out. Second gear, reverse. Second gear, reverse. Keep going, slowly, till you roll out. I really miss that. Driving an automatic has its perks, no doubt, but it's also drained some of the lifeblood out of driving. I really can't explain that one.

Side note: Marc is a wonderful human being, but without realizing it, can get a bit sexist on me in regards to driving in the snow. He'll pull that, "No, I should drive." And while I respect the courtesy in that, it also makes me enjoy reminding him of the time, years ago, when we were driving down from Winter Park. It had been snowing all night, all weekend probably, and was still snowing the following morning when we set out. It was going to be rough over the pass, and until we hit 70. I offered to drive - he gallantly refused.

Somewhere on the way down, on the tiny 2-lane road that is Highway 40, he pulled to the side and asked me to take over. Marc may jump in and deny this in the comments, as he often insists I remember things wrong. But not this one, sweetie. This is not a knock on you - you are an excellent driver, exceeding me and many others in myriad ways. Just not that day. Not in that weather.

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A snow day here is a great time to run errands, because nobody else is out. And the world is just so much prettier with snow all over it, don't you think?

 

Mason agrees.

 

Riley was about to agree, but was distracted by the UPS man. Rain or shine, indeed!

And my feet (and red scarf!) make it unanimous. Hooray for snow!

*My misinformation campaign worked, it seems. I knew as soon as I publicly announced I'm taking a break from the blog, I'd have things to say. Victory is mine!

Don't bother me tonight.

Yeaaahhhhh, baby.