Life is funny

I’ve been spending this week sporadically packing, both for the beach and for the Big Move, and even though I was (in my mind) dedicated to this task, I sit here looking at what I’ve accomplished and see a mere two taped up boxes (”Winter Coats”, “Vases”) and a reusable grocery bag full of pantry odds and ends.  This seems ludicrous to me, since I had child care help this week (courtesy L’s sister, who deserves great thanks in the form of bags of cash or possibly bottles of high quality vodka, but who instead got a multicolored heart, which while ripe with sentimental value is not an accurate reflection of how incredibly grateful I was to be able to spend my week having conversations about something other than Traffic Rules and How Far I Just Shot That Rubber Band) and therefore should have been a productivity machine. However, the standards for productivity have been lowered considerably with the addition of another family member, which is unfortunate because said addition seems somehow magically to have quadrupled our Stuff To Get Done quota.  A day where a load of laundry gets 1. carried to the kitchen 2. put in the washing machine 3. washed 4. moved to the dryer 5. dried 6. folded and 7. put away comes around about as frequently as a solar eclipse.  Or perhaps Halley’s Comet.

So I did get some laundry done, I guess.  And I got to go shopping for an afternoon, which was really nice, and also sort of surreal.  Nice because I was by myself and able to peruse the clearance racks at my leisure and surreal because I was by myself and able to peruse the clearance racks at my leisure.  It’s crazy what you can observe at your local TJ Maxx when you’re not keeping your eyeballs on two small people.  For example, I am fairly certain that the Keeper of the Try-On Rooms is required to be a.) Russian and b.) associated with the mafia.  I made two trips to the fitting rooms and even though one woman’s shift ended and the other’s began in between the two times, the level of iron-fisted rule enforcing was not lowered one iota from the first employee to the next.  I barely made it to the entrance before the first lady barked “SIX ITEMS ONLY. YOU HANG HERE.”  I thought maybe I would take the time to hang everything I had and choose the six items based on type of clothing etc, but clearly I have a naive view of my freedoms when it comes to fitting rooms.  “PUT REST IN CART THERE,” she said after I had hung the sixth item up.

“Oh, I thought I might hang up the rest first so that -”

“YOU HAVE SIX. GO IN ROOM. REST IN CART THERE.”

“Yes ma’am.”

While in my fluorescently-lit stall, two teenage girls entered the one directly next to me and had the following exchange:

“Oooh girl, yo’ feet STANK.”

“Yo’ MOUF stank.”

“Yo’ BOOTY stank.”

“Ooh girl, you nasty.”

“Whatchoo think about these pants?  Look at my behind.”

“Girl you look GOOD in dem pants.  Yo’ ass is FINE.”

“Whatchoo talking about?  My booty hangin’ ALL out these pants.”

“You right, I was playin’.  You look like a ho.”

“Girl you shut yo mouf.  I’m gettin’ out of here ‘for I die from yo nasty FEET.”

I really kind of wanted to get their opinion on the shorts I was considering, but I was pretty sure that those nasty feet they were smelling were mine.

As I exited, a woman was trying to take some hats into the dressing room (the horror!) and The Keeper of the Try-On Numbers was not having any of it.

“NO HATS IN DRESSING ROOM.”

“But see, the reason I want to take them back is -”

“THESE ARE RULES. NO HAT IN DRESSING ROOM. YOU GO TO MIRROR THERE.”

“Yes but, I would really prefer-”

“YOU NO ARGUE. RULES IS RULES. NO HATS IN DRESSING ROOM.”

I scurried past with my selections, fearful of Hat Woman’s fate and eager to stay out of the eye of the Merchandise Mafia Matron.  I thought in the checkout line how I would have maybe paid money to have seen the interaction between her and the two girls that had been in the stall next to me.  Comedy gold, I’m thinking.

THREE DAYS UNTIL THE BEACH.

This might feel like a little bit of deja vu from the last post, but I try really hard to be accurate in my depiction of our life here and these days that’s going to consist of a lot of posts about sitting around and staring at my kids. Until next week when it will  involve sitting around and staring at my kids and some other people at the beach.

Those two scenarios sound the same, but that’s pretty deceptive, because we all know that one of them involves a lot of alcohol.  Plus, the other one’s near the ocean!

Yeah from racher on Vimeo.

BACKSEAT DRIVER

Noah is KILLING me in the car these days, and I don’t mean like slaying-me-’cause-he’s-such-a-riot killing me, I mean literally I want to stop at the nearest corner and leave him there with a sign that says FREE KID.  He is obsessed with the rules of the road, how to get from point A to point B, and the quality of my driving.  If he’s not questioning me on Driver’s Ed textbook information (”We can turn right even though we have a red light, right Mom?  But we can NOT turn left on a red light. Right?”) he is critiquing my driving (”GO, Mom.  Mom, why are you going slow? Mom, we are turning! Put the blinker on! MOM!”) or policing the roads for Evil Rule-Breaking Other Drivers (”I just saw that white van go through a red light.  I did. He should not do that.  Right Mom?”).  It’s like having a teenager who is about to be a driver and therefore is keenly interested in all things road-related, but without the filter that teenagers have where they absolutely will not look interested in something because that is So Totally Uncool.

Relatedly, Noah, who is particularly well spoken and says few words incorrectly, thinks that the mph that you are required to stay under while driving is called the “Spimit Leed.”  L and I feel somewhat robbed of Cute Kid Mispronunciations and so have done nothing to correct this.

If you live anywhere in our vicinity, I suggest you watch your back and go the spimit leed or Noah will totally call out your bad-drivin’ ass.

______________________________

WOULD KICK ASS AT THE PHYSICAL FITNESS SIT AND REACH TEST

(Plz ignore filthy carpet THNX.)

Sit and Reach from racher on Vimeo.

_______________________________

YOU HAD ME AT BATHTUB

I’ve been having trouble thinking of enough activities to entertain Noah this summer, or at least thinking of enough activities that don’t involve Nutter Butters and Super Why.  But then I came up with a BRILLIANT PLAN: why not fill his time with packing up every single thing in our house and moving it to another house? I know. I’m a genius.

Seriously, we have stumbled into some Divine Residential Providence by way of family friends whose house became available right at the time that we were trying desperately to think of ways that I could keep from losing my everloving mind next year as L starts law school and my single parenting quotient goes way up.  Not only will this give us more space so that we are not all up in each other’s business all the time, but (you know what’s coming…) GREAT GOD ALMIGHTY THERE WILL BE A BATHTUB AND A DISHWASHER IN THE HOUSE I LIVE IN.

I’m trying really hard to remember that having these two things back in my life does not necessarily mean that all my Life Problems will be solved, but come on seriously guys, I’m not entirely convinced that they won’t be.

Joseph - HAPPY 21st BIRTHDAY LITTLE BRO!  My gift here to you today is *not* telling that one story from when you were little.  I know you know which one.

Rachel D. - I so enjoyed getting your email the other day and fully intend to write you back.  It may not happen until Rosie is old enough to take dictation, but I will do it!  Your various bits of news made me happy and sad and excited for you.  And the bit about your verbal slip and A’s response (”To three more years!” “Great! We’re halfway there!”) during your anniversary toast made L and I laugh out loud for two, maybe three minutes.  It just goes to show that even the smartest brains can turn screwy once you throw a fetus at them.

Kate - I’m sad you’re moving.  But also happy for you.  I hope I get to see you before you leave (if you haven’t left yet).

Beth - I hoped maybe I’d see you before you left for Miami, but alas, it was not to be.  Here’s to smooth transitions, never broken AC, and sexy Spanish-speaking men.

Allen - Did you raise enough money for the kitteh’s leg?  When I got your email, we were poised to leave town for Mississippi, but Noah got sick and we stayed and I promptly forgot all about it.  I hope people were in the mood for thrifty finds on folding tables in the scorching heat this weekend.

Elissa - I got the recipes you sent me.  Unfortunately for Father’s Day I washed all our dishes (No for serious. Every last one.) since that’s usually L’s job and I was giving him a break, and it took such a long time that I vowed I was never going to use another skillet, utensil, plate, cup, or saucepan ever again.  So I don’t think I’ll need them.  But thanks anyway.

MP - It was really nice to talk to you the other day, and I got your text.  I definitely want to go see UP, and plan to take Noah when I do. I’ve seen the previews though, and wonder if we might be taking his fear of dogs straight to Phobiaville what with that menacing pack chase scene.  I haven’t seen it though.  Maybe it will induce a fear of heights. Or Boy Scouts.  I just never know with this kid.

Mary Alice - You wrote me a very nice email a long (loooong) time ago and told me how you enjoyed this blog.  If you are still checking in, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry I never wrote you back and thank you for letting me know, it meant a lot to me to hear that.

Ben and Lane - Dang, you guys are getting married in like 18 days.  Did you get the ribbon in the mail?  I am currently working on my teleportation skills in order to make it.  If you see a disembodied pasty white leg at the wedding, it means I was mostly successful.  (BTW, my leg RSVPs Yes for the reception, will take the chicken dinner, thanks.)

Dad - Happy Father’s Day!  Um…yesterday.  I got you the same thing I got you last year: Grandchildren.  You’re welcome!

______________________________

This concludes my Mass Public Correspondence for today.  Many more could have been written, but will have to wait until next time…

If the amount of love he had for these two kids

Could be quantified in some ordinary way

Using inches or feet or pounds

There would be no way of even attempting the feat

Without using the likes of the metric ton

Or the acre

Or quite possibly even the light year.

(To L, Happy Father’s Day. Love R, N, and R.)