Oct 31, 2005

Happy Halloween

So, the big plan for the costuming of the chicks didn't work. I wanted to dress Jenna as an organ grinder, and make Clairey her little monkey. It just seemed fitting, since Jenna's so bossy and is always saying things like, "Dance! Clairey, Dance!" Just substitute "monkey" for "Clairey" and you've got a bonafide organ-grinder/monkey combo. I was even going put Clairey in a pink tutu and a fez (over her monkey costume). Well, my plans never came to fruition. A couple of weeks ago, my mom asked Jenna what she was going to be for Halloween. Jenna looked down, pouted, and said, "I'm going to be an organ grinder, but I REALLY want to be a black cat..." Just stab mommy in the heart, little girl. Cripes. Of COURSE, she's going as a black cat now--I mean, how can I deny her of that? I just don't want her to end up on a psychiatrist's couch, 15 years from now, saying, "I didn't know! I didn't know! It's just, ever since I had to dress up as an organ grinder, I've had these thoughts about cornbread and hula hoops..." I want NO part in that. Coming from my stock, she'll most likely end up on the couch anyways, but it will mostly be for separating her M&Ms into different color-categories, then having to eat them in an even number. I'm just saying...

So, Jenna's a black cat. That left me with the daunting task of finding a costume for Clairey. You'd think it would be easy...not so much. Yes, she's 2, but she's the size of your standard 18-mth old. You know what kind of costumes they have for babies? The huge, furry, I-look-like-a-stuffed-animal kinds. The ones that have full feet, because the babies that wear them are not walking on the filty pavement. Plus, those costumes are so damn hot, and jeesh, I live in TEXAS. I mean, it's been a lovely 76+ degrees the last few days, but still, it could jump up to 90 tonight and I wouldn't be surprised. Anyways, I spent hours looking for a damn costume for Claire. I finally found something that looked like it might fit her--it's an orange leotard with an attached, orange tutu. It came with a ring of leaves for around the neck, and a stem headband. It's supposed to be a pumpkin. Pardon me, but I've never seen a pumpkin with a tutu. Maybe I'm blind. Who knows. So, I bought the pumpkin thing. She looks adorable in it. Not very pumpkiny, but cute. It's more like we're putting on a rendition of The Nutcracker for Halloween, and she's the pumpkin fairy. I should've just saftey-pinned a kitchen towel around her waist and called her "baby wearing kitchen towel." Why the hell not?

I won't be dressing up tonight. Eh, what the hell, I might. I usually throw on one of my old cheerleading uniforms and take the girls out. There aren't very many nights in the year where you get to relive your childhood--unless you're really, really lit, but that's not too often, and even then, people still think you're weird for wanting to play "Blind Man's Bluff." They're just no fun.

Happy Halloweening to everybody! Give my kids the Reese's--they can't have them since they're allergic, but I can!! Woo hoo!!

Oct 27, 2005

Life is good

I'm at my friend's house, sitting to her left, while she boobs her newest kid. The girls (my 2 and her 1) are upstairs, making lots and lots of noise, and causing us to look up towards the ceiling every once in a while to ensure the sheetrock isn't coming down. Little voices are echoing down the stairs, yelling, "Come on!" And, because we're mothers, we're discussing the variable costs of daycare, wherein I interject, "Shit, I could buy a pimp for that much," and because she so knows me, she just continues on with her conversation.

We've already discussed Matthew McConnaughey, Harry Connick Jr., and my Harry Potter fetish. --Not sure exactly what it is about Harry Potter. Could be the schoolboy looks, or that he's hiding something under that robe of his. Rowr. He could be my little bitch.-- So, one of the kiddos is screaming--it's not mine, but I go check because I'm sure one of mine caused the tears. I go upstairs and my small one is nowhere to be found. I hear giggles, walk into the master bedroom, and Clairey is jumping on the bed. Nice. It's a king-sized bed and Claire's, like, 22 inches tall--she looks like a little elf. Hilarious. Shoulda got a picture.

Rough drafting

Blue like hope
they rescue me.
Artesian wells of grace
drawing me into new life.

Ellipses arching
softly curving
into a symphony of autumnal hues,
calling me home with a sunlit stare.

Through shadows come color
broken onto the ground in
a pattern of prayer.
On bended knee

I'm called to worship.
Look to the South
and tell me with
cathedral eyes.

Oct 18, 2005

I am my mother

Last Thursday, my house got really, really quiet. That either means that (A) the girls have strangled each other until they've simultaneously passed out, or (B) they've done something very, very wrong. Now enter scenario C: They know that they have done something for which mom will have cardiac arrest, seize, die, then get back up and spank their asses. I tentatively crept towards the playroom and cracked open the door.
[Stage directions: After viewing playroom, grab heart, stagger backwards, and choke.]
The playroom was a disaster. Every toy, from every cubby, was dumped into a large pile in the middle of the room. It was a cacauphony of My Little Ponies, Weebles, stuffed animals, and Dora the Explorer. The talking Elmo was engaged in conversation with The Little People, and the basket 'o monkeys was emptied and tossed in the corner. Playroom, indeed. I caught my breath, and after finding the kids under a pile of discarded "Learn Spanish with Dora!" cards, cried out, "What in the name of Jesus H. Christ happened in here?!"

"Nothing?! Look at this mess! Everything is in the middle of the floor!"
"Oh...that? Yeah, those are all my toys."
"I see that. Why are they on the floor?"
"Hmmm...I don't remember--but look! I found my little Simba!"

As excited as I was about the rediscovery of "little Simba," I gave the chicks an ultimatum: One hour to clean the room, or all the toys go in the garbage. Honestly, you know I'm not going to throw away their toys--I mean, cripes, that's 75% of my take-home salary sitting in that room. Regardless, I told them I was going to toss the toys if they didn't pick up. One hour later, I waltz into the room, and the only thing that has changed, that I could see, was that one of the monkeys was shoved into the shopping cart and was dressed for an outing of some sort. I walked out to the garage and grabbed a "contractor-sized" garbage bag--useful for tossing sheetrock pieces, metal scraps, roofing materials, and a plethora of toys for children of ages of 1-5. Really people, I have to commend those crafters of contractor bags at Hefty--that bag held 85% of the toys in their room, and even stretched to accomodate an entire My Little Pony Paradise Park--without breaking. Now THAT'S quality.

The screams that ensued when I appeared in their doorway--arms on hips, contractor bag lying at my feet, backlit by the nightlight--was earth-shattering. Funny, the kids don't play with 85% of their toys, but as soon as I pick up a random nothing off of the floor, it has become their "favorite" and Oh-my-God-I-must-have-that-toy.

It's been over a week, and the bag of toys is still in the garage. We walk by it every day, and every day, they ask for their toys. I tell them that they can have them back when they start acting more well-behaved. Shit. Those toys are going to be in my garage forever.

Oct 14, 2005


My sister lives in Brooklyn. She is single, and is hot. It's a total "Sex in the City" scenario. What a bitch. I've been to NY once, and really, it was enough for me. As a germophobe, it's just not a place you want to be. The first time I ever rode on a subway was in NYC. Nothing like starting at the top, right? I was wearing my new leather jacket, and was totally grossed out with the prospect of sitting on a public subway, wherein, if I were to lean back against the seat, my lovely jacket would soak up all the germs into the leather. Totally grossed me out. I sat, straight-backed, for the majority of the ride. I'm sitting there, scoping out the ingrained filth, and the back door of the subway opens. In steps a man, I believe. At first glance, I thought it was some sort of marsupial escapee from the Bronx Zoo. He was tall, and very black. His mane/hair, was grey and extreme. It shot from his head like a halo--very Einsteinish. His face was hiding behind a thick, silver beard and mustache, which had, what appeared to be, mustard caked in it. He was carrying a popcorn cup, and was begging for change. He smelled of piss. It was gross. However, I couldn't help but notice how the people just ignored him. I followed suit, and ignored him, too.

That's the one thing I regret about that trip--that I ignored the life-size marsupial. I think about it all the time.