My Life as a Kung Fu Fighter

2007-05-16T18:24:00.000-07:00

When I turned 12, my sister and I took a course on how to babysit. She and I learned the tricks of the trade: how to change diapers without getting poop everywhere, how to save a choking child, how to be the afternoon's entertainment.
What the class never touched on, however, was how to send the kids to bed and sneak junk food out of the pantry without getting caught. This was an artform, one that was perfected over time. One that I still put into practice at my parents' house when we visit.
I had to teach Adam the Way last week when we had the munchies before dinner. My mom was taking care of our daughter, and my dad was out of the house altogether. The perfect opportunity.
Adam immediately went for the chocolate.

"No, no, no - you can't just take THAT one. There are only 3 Reses Peanut Butter Cups left - he'll know someone took it."

He reaches for the York Peppermint Patty.

"That's better because it's under the those plates. But you can't throw the wrapper away because what if he sees it in the trash can? You have to stuff it in your pocket.
See, you can eat some of these marshmallows because the bag's already opened... and those Craisins on the top shelf. But not too many, because they'll KNOW. You can get a few of each. But put them back EXACTLY where you found them."

I want something big, something substantial.

"See that pudding? There are 2 stacks, 3 in each one. There's a different kind over there, just one though. But I really want THIS kind. I think I can eat one of those, and then put the other kind in the same stack. It gives the illusion that nothing has changed. I'll wash the spoon and put it back. No one will ever guess. Good thing I brought in my bag for the container."

2007-05-15T20:09:00.000-07:00

After too many months of thinking that I was going to sit on the couch throughout the remainder of this pregnancy, I had a breakthrough on Cinco de Mayo. I cleaned my house. It was no stellar Merry Maids job, but I made an attempt, I set some goals, and I accomplished what a bachelor in his mid-twenties might assume meant "clean."
So then I thought to myself, "Oh my GOD. If I can clean, I can BLOG too!!"

But then there was more TV watching, and here we are ten days later, and instead of blogging, I've only gotten better at the cleaning.

Really it's just that my brain has gotten lazy, and I always think, "Geez, what in the world would I blog about? Maternity clothes? Cellulite? Dancing with the Stars? I thought back to when I used to blog, about the stuff that people aren't REALLY supposed to discuss in actual conversation. Like farting. And placentas. I figured out that all the television has sucked the sick thoughts from my head, and all I can think about is, "Oh MAN. It's 8:05, and if I don't hurry, I'll totally miss who is in the Bottom Two."

So here comes the sacrifice. Less TV, more sick thoughts about my life as a Kung Fu Fighter. Thank goodness the season finales are almost here. I'll be alone with my thoughts again.

2007-04-10T17:01:00.000-07:00

Remember how one time I wrote that my daughter figured out how to match the mood of the day with the type of music we should listen to? Of course you do, because you're avid readers.

This week? The Beach Boys. Everyday. Every. single. day. Sometimes twice a day.

It really is the very perfect 4-year old music: easy to dance to, easy to learn the words, simple concept. For most.

Adam and I recently discovered that even though our daughter is some sort of super-hero reader person, she has big lack of street smarts. When we went to the playground last week, she told me beforehand, "I bet I can find some really good girlfriends here!" And so she directly said to one little girl, "I bet you'd be a really good friend to me!" The little girl touched her arm and yelled, "GOOD! You're IT!" Meanwhile, Amaris slowly, happily, naivly crossed the bridge where the other kids were trying to escape her. And here we are yelling at the top of our lungs, "You have to RUN after them! You have to get her back! It's like chase, but where you GET people!"
Our only hope was to take her aside and explain step-by-step the rules of the game and gave her a full question-answer period. By the time she fully understood the ins and outs of Tag, the kids were on the swings.

After having listened to the Beach Boys for the 1000 millionth time since the CD was found in her easter basket, Amaris had to know exactly WHY the Beach Boy wanted Rhonda to get her out of his heart. "Do you mean that his heart was broken in half and spilled?" The conversation lasted about 15 minutes, included question after question, each one expecting a detailed account of the relationship between the Beach Boy and his ex-girlfriend. Just SING the song! It's not deep! It's fast! Just dance! Enjoy its simplicity!

I'm convinced that my next child will be lazy, not at all inquisitive, and will most likely occupy some future profession where he can hone his street smarts, such as a gambler, undercover agent, or thief. But at the same time as being very good looking and enjoying his role as a mama's boy.

2007-03-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

I keep hearing these little voices that say, "HEY - it's been since February that you haven't updated your blog." They just appear. Mostly from my good friend Lisa.

It's been a long stretch, this last month. I've turned into a weird science experiment. I have weekly ultrasounds because I'm now in some sort of "danger zone." My doctor said to me, "Oh, don't let that term bother you. It's mostly for insurance purposes so that we can monitor this weird fluid sac next to your baby."

Huh?

So they've ruled out any problems with the placenta, and also that I don't have 2 uterine cavities. That second guess would have been kind of neat, because it was featured on Grey's Anatomy once. Oh, well. The most likely cause of this sac, and therefore intermittent bleeding, is because there may have been a twin at some point.

WHA??

Despite the "danger zone," the baby looks good. And it likes to show off on camera, which is fun. It's out-growing most babies at this stage, so I'm hoping for a real fatty. With my first pregnancy, I was hoping for an Asian. But this time I don't prefer one race over another; I just would like to see one big fat baby.

2007-02-28T11:21:00.000-08:00

It's amazing to me just how little I care about these days. I care about the couch, the TV, and the blanket to keep me warm. And things are starting to bug me, too. Like when people wear perfume, when they eat in front of me, when they are being too positive for anyone's benefit. I've made an effort to say as little as possible throughout the day, because that's energy wasted that could be invested in watching TV. So when I DO say something, consider it very thought-out and important for your well-being. Such as, "Gee, I'm not feeling very well today." And I'll get a response like, "Awww, you're not? Poor you. Well, it's all for the good of the baby! Isn't that great?" "No, you idiot. I've never thought of it that way. Really? The BABY is making me feel this way? Take your positive thoughts and shove it, because you have no idea how I'm feeling right now."
Or when someone's in the middle of gossiping about a person, and I throw in the benefit of the doubt, and then Miss Gossipy tries to compensate for her own negativity by agreeing and then adding something nice about the person herself. "Excuse me, are you trying to out-positive me? Are you trying to OUT-positive ME? Because you're wrong. You're mean."

The moral of the story: don't piss me off when my hormones are raging.

2007-02-24T11:30:00.000-08:00

I woke up to my daughter trying to convince my husband that Cat Power was "too sad" to listen to this morning. It was sunny, Adam was cooking breakfast, and Amaris was drawing. There's no sad anywhere in the picture.

Hooray! She's caught on to the notion that music fits a certain mood we're in. Last night on the way to a gallery reception, she wanted to listen to very upbeat, singable tunes. In the backseat, she's beating her hand against the door like a drum, and shouts periodically, "Let's get slammin', GIRL!"

And when she was dressing up like a princess and began awarding Adam and I with treasures (coins and jewelry), Adam played what Amaris considered the most inappropriate music of all. Loud, fast, hardcore. And this is what came next:

"Not THIS music! My TALENT! I have to do my TALENT! MYYY TAAALLEEEENNNNNTTT!!!"

I'm not sure if harcore will ever fit Amaris's mood in the future, but her firm stand against it now suits me just fine. When trying to decide between eating, sleeping and regurgitating, I'm almost never in a loud, fast mood.

2007-02-10T09:08:00.001-08:00

Last week proved to be the most exciting Super Bowl Sunday I've ever experienced. Both my sister and I announced that we're pregnant. WHAT? Is this a TV show? It felt like it for about an hour, but then my mind wrapped itself around the idea that I AM PREG.NANT.

Do I sit a certain way? Are my hose too tight around my abdomen? I'm totally obsessing about sleeping only on my left side - it's the safest, right? Should I REALLY be lifting that? BLAH!

These are the thoughts I keep mulling over day and night. Then I wake up to pee, stay awake with the thoughts again for another hour, then get too hungry to sleep, repeat. I actually tried to think of a list of things that I've been productive with. I folded clothes Thursday and showed up for work this week. That about sums it up. I've proven to myself that one can really get by in life by being a complete lazy ass.

But, good news from the ol' doctor's assistant yesterday. It looks like everything is going much better than the last time around, so I have something the size of a sunflower seed inside me, that looks like a tadpole, that is developing a brain. This is crazy. And... fun.

And with that bit of news, I can concentrate again being creative, spend a little more time figuring out exactly which Luna Bar sounds good, and prepare myself for a week with the in-laws.

Dinosaur Jr. ...

2007-02-09T19:46:00.000-08:00

they're still grunge.

And Slayer?

Lame.

2007-02-03T18:11:00.000-08:00

With the help of my friend Matthew, I determined that I can be a little judgmental sometimes. I realize this more now that my daughter and her classmates are beginning to make her own judgment calls. One little kid at her school actually said that he didn't want any Spanish-speaking kids to come to his birthday party, because he wouldn't be able to understand what they're saying.

Yikes.

More so than that, though, I figured out that I use other people's judgment calls as my own. It's all in friendship and support, really, based on their own actual experiences instead of my flighty, judgey whims.

Today I went to my friend's baby's birthday. Of course the whole family is going to be there, including the crazy part of the family. After story upon story of how exactly these people have proved themselves to exist on the insane side of the spectrum, I practically own the rights (by association) to make judgments against them, right? Right. Periodically, I overhear their comments and the evaluation begins.

"baby, baBY, BABY! It's your book! LOOK! It's your BOOK!"
**put the damned book down. she doesn't give two shits about the book.**

"Do you want to say goodbye? Yes! Let's say goodbye!"
**stop smothering her. plus, if she wanted to say goodbye, she would have by now.**

After present opening, "We bought her this, TOO!"
**so? my present is cooler.**

But by the time I made that last remark in my head, I realized that they can sound perfectly normal and grandparenty, and I will always think, sometimes out-loud, "Did anyone just HEAR that??? What the fuck?" This is wrong of me! So wrong! But there are some people who will always need to be judged carefully, lest we slip up and start thinking they're normal again. They might just catch us by surprise one day and say something completely off-the-wall, and then we'll regret all that niceness we wasted.

This might be a fucked-up mentality, but I can pretty much estimate that it's not as fucked up as those clothes you're wearing right now.

Certificate of Merit

2007-01-31T20:06:00.000-08:00

I graduated from Course 1 of The Wilton Method of Cake Decorating. I have a real certificate that proves it. I plan to laminate it soon. It's currently on my fridge, announcing to all who see it to bow and kiss my feet.

And the teacher said that if we complete all three courses, then go to work in a bakery, we'll be paid more than the other damned fools who didn't sign up for those classes at Hobby Lobby.

Goals in life up to this point:
1. MASTER the art of cake decorating.
2. Develop a personal challenge with other classmates, even if one of them IS my mother.
3. Own a bakery, or if I don't make it that far in the agenda, pretend that my boss is really my apprentice.
4. Somehow get on the Oprah show, pass out samples of my baked goods, then become famous.

Hey, the certificate doesn't say you have to be GOOD to get through the course.

2007-01-26T15:07:00.000-08:00

It's winter, my least favorite season of the year. This is the time in which my ultimates goal are to shave as little as possible for an extra layer of warmth, and to dream up springtime projects so that it seems like spring is tomorrow instead of whenever the groundhog decides it is.
In addition, this year I have actually made the decision NOT to shower everyday. I'm an every-other-dayer. I'd like to believe that I'm either
a)a hippy
b)a crust punk
c)European.
The fewer times I have to be naked in my 60 degree house, the better.

I thought this plan was working out fine, until yesterday.

Friends came over to eat pizza last night, and after they left I went to brush my teeth. I looked in the mirror at the nastiest, dirtiest hair I've ever seen. "Ga-rOSS! Did they notice? I thought ponytails were fine for day 2! Gah!!"

European or not, I have GOT to bathe more. Everyday it is.

But just to make me feel better, here is a list of things more greasy than my hair.
- as delicious as they are, Sonic's tater tots... I mean, you feel kinda gross after eating them
- my dogs, though Adam says they're supposed to be that way in the wild
- the movie about grease, which is just lAme
- Michael Jackson

2007-01-24T19:14:00.000-08:00

Yoga is so good to me.
And this is weird, because I'm not the yoga type. I'm the high-strung-obsessed-with-my-ovaries-wish-i-could-eat-a-pound-of-sugar-each-hour-on-the-hour-type.
I'm good at tree pose, and my downward facing dog really IS turning into a resting position.

But I fart every single blasted time.

I go into class thinking, "hey, self, just do some kegels, tighten up the buttocks, and breathe."

And then I fart. Not one of those, "hee hee, I hope no one smells that even though it was quiet."
It's a low, rumbling kind of fart.

And then there's laughing. Not from the other yogis - NO, because they're totally fine with the meditation and the breathing and the posing. It's ME. I giggle and can't stop. So then I have to look around to see if anyone has noticed my awkward behavior. Last week my teacher threw her sweater at me.

Then later? I tooted when she corrected my position. So there's more giggling and an apology.

Next week's mission is to focus on my chi. Somehow my brain will convince my body not to let out the excess gas until AFTER class. In the car, where it's perfectly normal to fart and curse and pick your nose.

Army of Clowns

2007-01-22T19:30:00.000-08:00

That's right... IIIiiiii made these.
And why so many pictures? Because they're pretty.

I wonder what the teenage years will bring.

2007-01-21T18:28:00.000-08:00

ME:
spring and gardening
clem snide
staying up late
yoga
tv and a good cry
making cakes pretty
argyle socks

HIM:
fall and frisbee
mastadon
midday napping
bikes
people with guitars
cake for breakfast
throwbacks

HER:
summer and swimming
le tigre
waking up early
dancing like a banshee
charlie and lola
eating only the icing
cowgirl boots EVERYday

Biological clocks are REAL.

2007-01-17T18:41:00.000-08:00

I've come to determine that there are actual priorities to be met in life. While this old ticker is still shedding minutes away, there are many things that I'd rather PAY someone to do... when I can afford it.
- clean up dog puke. This is probably the #1 most disgusting task anyone should have to do. Especially when it's the dog's instinct to regurgitate on the rug. Then there's double the cleaning.
- iron. For real - when will wrinkles become socially acceptable?
- clean the tub. I will seriously clean 1,000 dirty toilets before I become interested in cleaning the tub. There are fancy tools and gadgets JUST so that you won't have to come near a toilet. For the tub? You have to SCRUB that sucker. A lot.
- make lunch for the next day. It's a daunting task that won't go away. We always need lunch, we can't afford to buy lunch, we have to transport the lunch, then there's the heating of the lunch. I'd rather drive home to eat than to have to bring my lunch to work.
- bring the dogs in from outside when it's 20 degrees out there. Taking the dogs out is not so bad. But when I have to stand in the freezing cold for an entire two minutes while I wipe their paws? No good. I'll someday have a doorman. Or live in a place where it's always above 70 degrees.
All of the above are wastes of time. Vacationing, gardening, ovulating, and blogging. These are important.

2007-01-15T19:52:00.000-08:00

I don't read directions before I dive into a project. For my first week of the cake class I was signed up for, I made all of my frosting "thin" consistency, then had to add about a pound of powdered sugar to reach "stiff." Also, my teacher (who should also perform live in infomercials) directed us to make a one layer cake for this week's lesson. I made two. With a lemon filling.
Because I had no more "thin" icing, I couldn't add more to my crumb layer. I made lemon frosting to match my lemon-filled lemon cake, and then fucked the whole thing because I had to borrow my sister's vanilla frosting to finish the rest. I was afraid to use too much, so you can see part of my cake. I compensated with polkadots.
This week we learned how to make pretty, perfect, uniform stars. My icing started to melt from the warmth of my hands, so it's a good thing we're not graded on uniformity. I compensated with the writing. I really wanted to write, "Screw you, ununiform stars," but then remembered that my 4-year old can read.

2007-01-14T19:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite sure when this happened exactly, but I've become obsessed with the time of day, and which events should occur at which time. I am very much a believer in routine and a schedule, to the point where I refuse to go to bed before 10:30pm. There are too many productive things to do before that magic hour. And when I've run out of productive things? I eat too much and google things that don't really matter.
Tonight, it's 9pm, and I've finished everything I had planned. But it's not yet 10:30! So should I read a book? Write a letter? Naaah... Google!
I keep thinking of this reoccuring conversation about Girl Scout cookies and the name changes. Why aren't there any more Samoas and Trefoils? What about Do-Si-Dos? The only one they kept was Thin Mints. That's not so special, Thin Mints. I guess it's self-explanatory, unlike Tagalongs. Were the names keeping sales down? If the client can't immediately tell from the name of the cookie EXACTLY what they're going to ingest, I guess it was just better to change the names altogether. Apparently, there are two different bakeries that have the same recipes. Some scout troops sell from one bakery, some from the other.
Seriously, this is the most absurd thing I've heard of. But from my days as a Brownie, I think I might have to order next year from those who sell the traditionally named cookies. It's too late for 2007 - we already have a stock of Peanut Butter Patties and Caramel Delights. They're half gone.

2007-01-12T21:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was one of those days when it was about to rain at any moment, and every ounce of my attitude was caught up in that negative energy.
I made my daughter cry like 6 times before 9:30 am. I made her take the hot pink lip gloss off before school, I brushed her hair too hard, I rushed us out the door, I forgot her blanket and animal to sleep with, I didn't let her pack the lunch. Okay, 5 times.
After feeling quite guilty, I'd periodically call home and find out if her day at school was okay, if she was happy, or if I had destroyed her entire being in a matter of minutes. I hugged her about 80 times when I got home from work and made up for things with glitter. And mazes. And 3 stories instead of the standard 2.
The universe is telling me now that things are getting better. It really IS raining now, and it's so quiet and nice here. My 100 pound lab is snoring, I'm the only one awake, and it's now one of those nights where creativity comes very easily.
Also, Girl Scout cookies help EVERYTHING.

2007-01-11T21:52:00.000-08:00

It's 2 weeks into the new year, and I've conciously tried not to make any resolutions.
But there are certain signs that I NEED to make some, otherwise I'll forever feel like Miss Havisham, stuck in a rut without time.
- dog hair will overtake my house, and we'll have to swim through it to get out the front door
- one of these days, the first words to my daughter won't be, "can you just read a book for a little while so mommy can sleep some more?"
- "I need some fruit. Hmmm, pears, kiwi, bananas.... CHOCOLATE. YES. Chocolate will do."
- instead of speaking the Spanish I've promised to teach her since last year, I constantly hear very dramatic Spanish soap opera "spanish," complete with flailing arms and worried expressions. "Cobleeba sopleka TANOUSA! Sepauda combleeby panOTA! Mommy, roll your tongue again. Pleeeaaassse...."

So far, yoga is doing the trick. It's getting me back on track. If only I could muster up the energy to shave my legs. Sigh.

2006-12-04T17:52:00.000-08:00

me: "Are you still in Miami?"

my mother: "YES! We're on the beach right now, and I'm trying to decide if I should get a yellow or a red rose tattooed on my ankle."

"WHAT???"

"YEAH! But then I just told your dad that I REALLY should get a daisy since those are the flowers I carried in my wedding!"

"You're going to get a tattoo. On your body."

hysteria.

"YEAH! You know, from that show..." in the background: "Gene, what is the name of that show?" "Oh, yeah, Miami Ink. We passed by it three times already! We saw one of those guys sitting outside!"

"Your dad says, 'Now WHAT are you going to do with a TATTOO?'"

more hysteria.

"So I think we're going after the beach, but he doesn't want to come in, so he's going to drop me off and drive around a few times until I can decide. I'm just going to ask them about prices. And maybe I'll just get a t-shirt instead."

2006-10-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

My friend Lisa had a baby recently, and in preparation for the birth came the discussion of several baby-related topics between me and my daughter. Weeks in advance, she'd sit down to the dinner table and begin with, "What's the umbilical cord again?" So then came the explanation about how exactly babies eat before they're born. She seemed intrigued by the talk, and naturally I kept talking.

We're in the middle of Joann Fabrics when, from the buggy, Adam and I hear a pretty rockin' song from our 4-year-old.

"PLACENTA, PLACENTA... placenta... PLACENTA, placentaaaAAAA...."
"Um, Amaris? Are you singing about placenta?"
"Yeah!"
"Do you know what a placenta is?"
"Hmmm - no? PLACENTA, PLACEN...."
"Wait - don't sing about placentas here. I'll tell you what that is later - then you can sing in the car."

2006-10-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

I'm selling chocolates for my daughter so that her dance costumes don't cost the price of my right arm sold in the black market.
I think I hate the act of begging for money from people that don't associate with her on a regular basis because of the door-to-door experiences I had as a kid.
My mom would help my sister and I come up with a script that we would absolutely stumble over on each stoop. "Hello, I'm from Davy Crockett, and I was wondering if you'd like to buy some popcorn. It helps my school because.... You don't have to pay me now. Carrie! There's a sign that says NO SOLICITING on that house!"
The very first memory I have is going to the neighbor's house who lived at the top of the hill. I rang the bell and heard her cocker spaniel barking. So there i am, stumbling again over exactly what to say between yells to the dog, and my neighbor sticking her nose through the 3-inch gap she allowed. "HOLD ON. I can't HEAR you. WHAT?" When she let her door open just a smidge more, the dog burst through, and I was left standing there in blame. "do. you. see. what. you. DID."
And there were tears and no more going to that house ever again.
So I'm sticking with the annonymous guilt approach. There's a picture of my tiny dancer in her leotard, tapping her heart out. This is glued to the box of candy with a note that says "Please deposit $1.00 via the Honor Code, in exchange for momentary satisfaction and endless good karma. Thanks!"

I MADE this.

2006-08-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

So I'm a proud person. I'm glad when I produce something that I like. I'm working on invitations - real ones - that someone is paying me for. A commissioned piece of work. It's no painting, but I'm liking the idea. Get money from people that like what you make.
I also like it when I put together a halfway decent outfit for the day; you know thOse days. Those days when you spend an extra amount of time ironing and getting the right shoes and you're hair is absolutely perfect. And then someone says you have a sense of style. I'm not one to hide my enthusiasm. In fact, I never understand those who try to act like they're not totally flattered by thOse comments.
And of course when my daughter has the most rockin' party of the year because I mAde the invitations, and the pinata, and the caterpillar cake that took 5 hours, and gave her the new Olivia book when no one else realizes just hOw important that is.
I made that little 4-year girl who is now 3'7," who can read and write and now practices the art of manipulation. I just figured out that she tells me "Sorry, mom," not because she's really sorry for something she did wrong, but instead uses the phrase to keep me from reprimanding her. She inherited my hair and my attitude, and I'm the happiest ever.

Who knew that miscarriage would bring presents?

2006-08-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

In any sort of event at the Werner household, you can bet that I'm going to research it right away. For the 4th birthday coming up, I've Googled the Butterfly cake image gallery 1,000 times to find THE ONE. In the case of coughing and sneezing last winter when Amaris was sick every single month, we have a chart saved on the computer for the differences between allergies and colds, remedies, and a guide on when to take kids to the doctor. Recently, I've had to do my own reading on what exactly is happening with my body and this miscarriage. The one thing I didn't come across in any article was "What to gift a woman with upon learning of her miscarriage."
Here's a list of the stuff my family has benefitted from:
- ICE CREAM
- soap and hand stuff to make them beautifully soft
- chicken soup and the company that it takes to eat it
- a book of "Sudoku puzzles for stress relief"
- pizza and a blog about me on August 8
- many kind words
- many insensitive words from the fucking nurse that I now hate
- more good well-wishes to cover up the bad ones about the nurse

"Do you know what kharma means? It means that she owes me one."

2006-08-03T11:15:00.000-07:00

7w1d. It's hard to believe, especially since I'm suffering absolutely no morning sickness. So yesterday I did the horrible self-diagnosis search on Google, "7 weeks pregnant and not nauseous???" As it turns out, I'm perfectly fine but simultaneously anxious to see the good doctor on Monday.
One symptom I'm definitely aware of: HUNGER. Every two hours, I have to eat. It's good practice, I suppose, for those feedings that will soon come.
So I must have done something right in my life, because I walked into the office on Tuesday with a gigantic mound of food piled on my desk. AAWWWW, my coworkers either a)LOVE ME, b)are sick of hearing me bitch about how starving I am, or c)are hoping for a chubby baby. Maybe it's a good combo of all three.

My Life as a Pregnant Kung Fu Fighter

2006-08-01T20:02:00.000-07:00

So here I am at about 5 1/2 weeks pregnant. Prior to these pictures, there was a lot of freaking out and trying to figure out the Spanish instructions in the pregnancy test literature. Husband: "Are you sure? The lines look really faint.... Oh, yeah - it looks just like that picture." And then coming to the realization that, "OH, thAt's why my pants don't fit anymore and why I'm in a constant state of hunger."

Now I'm contemplating the reality that there will absolutely be 6 beings living within 1200 square feet.

Here are some of my hopes for an inevitable life-change:
Money will grow on trees.
Yoga, in the end, will pay-off, and I'll be the poster child for natural labor.
Fairies will magically appear on a weekly basis to clean my bathroom and floors.
A shell of good karma will envelope this house and everyone in it.

2006-07-01T18:33:00.000-07:00

I drive through a pretty rough neighborhood on my way home everyday. Only during the sunlit hours do I feel comfortable driving among the lot of people drinking beer in their front yards, dirty kids, jalopy cars and stray animals. The convenience stores have bars on the windows, and I get very close to praying for the girls who walk by themselves along the street.
All yuckiness aside, it's a pretty fun place to people-watch.
Today I saw a trashy white guy carrying the shirt that should have been on his back into the convenience store. So then Trashy White Guy got me to thinking. Is the "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service" rule still in effect? I remember reading that sign on the doors of lots of places as a kid, and I guess that must have been a real problem for businesses in the 80s. People got hot, took off their shirts, and stepped into the air conditioned buildings while they ordered their McBurgers. Someone decided that Etiquette simply says, "NO." They must have had about a decade of getting a handle on things, and it must have really worked out for them. I haven't seen the signs recently upon entering the gas station, or even the local library.
I just hope that Trashy White Guy doesn't ruin it for them.

2006-06-24T20:12:00.000-07:00

Word of the day: SNARKY

Funk and Wagnalls: n/a

Answers.com:
snark·y (snär'kē)
adj. Slang., -i·er, -i·est.
Rudely sarcastic or disrespectful; snide.
Irritable or short-tempered; irascible.
[From dialectal snark, to nag, from snark, snork, to snore, snort, from Dutch and Low German snorken, of imitative origin.]

Correct usage:
"Don't you fuckin' get snarky with ME!"

Why dogs suck

2006-06-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

I've only met one cat in my entire life that I actually like. His name is Chopper, and he lets my little girl get very close to his head without freaking out or hissing. He doesn't poop in my yard, and because of that I let him hang out in my rocking chair. In fact, I think he's Protector of the House or just territorial, because since he's been around, no other annoying cats have been in our yard - ones that DO freak out and hiss. Ones that I throw pinecones at because they piss in my garden right as I'm trying my damnedest to get them OUT of my yard.
Before Chopper, I'd always been a dog person. I still was until yesterday. Here is an order of events that make me reconsider becoming a cat person.
Baxter and Coco feasted on every scrap in the garbage from two rotisserie chickens while we slept. Every scrap except for ONE bone.
Coco, the 90-pounder that she is, seemed to handle the grisle and bones just fine. But Baxter, on the other hand, had gas that filled my house, thus causing me to light candles in every single room. The candles that I only bring out for special company. The ones that smell like freshly mown grass, snickerdoodle cookies, and cranberry cider. The most potent ones known to man.
After enjoying an evening of swimming and having dinner out, we come home to the mushiest, smelliest shit on my new rug - the rug that is in the bedroom that was closed off to the dogs, that Baxter figured out how to push his way through. This resulted in the cleaning of the rug.
Upon deciding to clean my whole house, I discover my newly soaked bed from Baxter's decision to Christen my newly purchased comforter. More cleaning and banishing dogs from the bedrooms.
Baxter wakes me up at 4am to poop and eat grass.
On separate occasions, I find the dogs in the GARDEN. The sacred place that USED to have plentiful growth, that now has ONE zucchini sprout instead of an entire bed of vegetables, that I so foolishly blamed squirrels and birds for.
Finally, this evening post-water-the-garden and pre-popsicle, I discover that the dogs are really very cute and forgiveable after having had a walk and are too tired to destroy the rest of my life. Cats can't do this. They have claws and arch their backs for reasons unbeknownst to me.

2006-06-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

I pass through Security Land everyday. When the door opens to the World O'Fun (otherwise known as work), I have exactly two seconds to make a very important decision. Should I take the elevator, or should I take the stairs?
For the average Joe, this might seem like a thoughtless commitment, especially when Joe is dealing with only ONE flight of stairs. But no matter what I'm thinking about at the time, my mind makes an immediate shift for, "Will you choose to be lazy, or actually make the effort to use a few muscles?"
As often as I pass through the door, the angel of exercise appears on one shoulder, and the demon of sloth appears on the other. The demon usually wins. "Drinks aren't allowed in the gallery, and you, my Friend, have a cup of water... no matter that you're an employee!" Happily I walk into the elevator, arteries hardening all the while.
Without a water, the decision is a little more complex. I hear whispers of, "Take the stairs... circulation is important... you have bad genes and this would help reverse the signs of aging...."
When my chi is balanced with that of the earth, I leave my decision to the gods of health and well-being. If my fate is to exercise, the elevator light will come on and the doors will not open. If I'm allowed, just this once, to enter the elevator free of guilt, then I'm not even punished with thoughts of disappointment for the entire ride.

2006-06-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

Tonight my daughter made up a song about how she loves me and has fun when we play together. We were in the bathroom getting ready to brush our teeth. I watched her 3-year old hands squeeze the toothpaste on and listened to her little voice.
I love, love LOVE when she is happy and saying nice things and gives hugs instead of runs the other way and shuts the door screaming, "MOM - give me some PRIVACY." 3 going on 13.
But anytime, literally every single time she says something nice about me, the sick part of my brain says, "Stow these thoughts for later when your daughter doesn't think it's fun to sing about happy things." So I stow and then hug the crap out of her little body and kiss her until she's annoyed and eventually runs away. Or kicks me.
Whoever said a little smothering isn't good for the soul?
I read or heard once or made up the thought that kids develop the ability to accept/give love by the time they're 3. So this is a big year. This is the last year she has to develop this concept. I'm either raising a cynic or an optimist. And she'll develop her memory more clearly. And I'm freaked out of my MIND.
So this is my solution: subliminal messages.
My plan is to record my voice with sounds of waterfalls and birds singing in the background. While she sleeps, she'll hear phases such as, "Mom is a GOOD person. You will finish college. Surround yourself with creativity and goodness. Don't join the armed forces...."

2006-06-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

What happens during a phone discussion between bored women when their kids are asleep and their husbands are not around:
*Compare notes on poop, boobs, and blogs about poop and boobs
*Express sheer delight when one finds french fries in the freezer (and then admit on the other end the jealousy of having found such a snack)
*Attempt to clean with phone lodged between the right shoulder and ear (switch, repeat)
*Squeal when the other realizes that she, too, has french fries in her own freezer
*Brag about creative personal endeavors with a balance of confessing bad parenting moments, tactics, habits
*Fight sleep and stay up to talk simply because there is actual free time to be had
*End the conversation to eat the steaming mound of french fries dipped in cold ketchup

2006-05-30T18:57:00.000-07:00

There are certain unwritten rules that one, as a member of society, should obey:
1) when one gossips, bring the conversation to an uncomfortable halt and stare sort-of sideways at whoever walks within hearing distance
2) no farting in public, and if one does so, walk away quickly from the situation
3) apologize insincerely and give a brief explanation after which one says any of the following words: retarded, midget, fat (I'm sorry, I shouldn't even be typing this - I had to actually ask for help in coming up with these words)
4) Identify oneself outside the normal job description, marital/family status, acceptable extracurricular activities

I realized today that I am a self-proclaimer. Too many times do I think to myself, "Man, I'd be freaking AWESOME if I ________."
People aren't really supposed to talk about the image which they hope to project to society. These are the thoughts that, when asked, are consciously hidden away in hopes that no one actually finds out the real reason for which they do things. For example, if one chooses to wear cowboy boots, is this because one is really a cowboy? Or because one wants to be the fashion cowboy boot-wearing art person? Or because one's role model once wore cowboy boots?

This evening, I actually filled-in-the-blank with "was an art film expert." I should be embarrassed rather than boastful of my visions of being the girl who knows everything there is to know about independent films, FIRST. What is wrong with me that I actually admitted that this is my goal? To imagine myself studying and catching-up on what I've missed already and wearing certain clothes to fit the personality that I will portray? But I'm going against all standards in admitting that "I want to be that girl who's cool because she knows about cool stuff that not everyone knows, but only few other cool people."

2006-05-26T17:28:00.000-07:00

Last night at work I looked up from my desk and noticed a lady rushing to get outside. She's a person that works in another department who is apparently addicted to smoking. At a rediculous pace, she made her way out the door with her hand clutching the cigarrettes inside her pocket. Nothing could have stopped this woman! Her body said, "Get the HELL out of my way! I have exactly 4.75 minutes left for this smoke break, and dammit, that's exactly what I plan to do!" The second her hand and her smokes emerged from her pocket, it only took three short, slow steps to light up.
Watching the nicotine slow her to a normal pace, I thought of the second grade when I could talk to NO ONE on the bumpy bus ride home because I had to pee so badly. Breaking my concentration or even uncrossing my purple legs (from lack of circulation) would result in a huge mess and much embarrassment. Nothing could have replaced the sense of relief I got from finally sitting on the toilet. aaaahhh.
Work, work, work, and then you can do what brings pleasure. That's the jist of growing up with my parents as followers of the Buddhist faith? Nope - the Heads of Work Ethic in the Schroeder household. Nowadays, I can justify my rewards for working all day and then spending nearly every waking moment working at home. No down-time between the hours of 6:45am and 11:30pm. Go, go, go until I reach the breaking-point of my own body saying, "If you do not stop right this second, you will spontaneously combust into either 1)freak-crying mode, 2)involuntary spasms of some sort, or 3)an overwhelming need to become a minimalist and sleep on a rice mat for the rest of your life."
Instead, I have learned to listen to my body and reward myself with a huge bowl of ice cream. Slowly scoop perfect little round balls of ice cream into the bowl and let it melt just a little. Sit on the couch with the snoring dogs below, and enjoy every single bite. This, to me, is nirvana.

2006-05-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

Several of our friends happen to have pets. And several of those friends regard their pets as gods and goddesses. I listen to the stories of how little Chan is kept in line by Lizzy, how Sammy is going through his rebellious teenage years, and how Oskar was taught to take a shot.
I, on the other hand, have a child, who is my own personal fairy princess, complete with the sparkly dust and a wand. And I often think about how kids and pets are SO not on the same level.
But then I catch myself speaking to my dogs the same way I speak with my little girl, molding them into the creatures I think they should become - fun, smart, and not peeing on various pieces of furniture.
So the other day i walk into the house and start talking to my dogs. I find out that Baxter yet again scaled our fence to further explore our front yard. With disappointing eyes, I explain that this is not good - he could get lost or hurt. Then I tell Coco that it's her responsibility as an older sibling to be a good example for her brother.
Later, I think, "This is not how I'm supposed to talk to the dogs! This is how I talk to my daugher. I'm a people-person!"
After re-thinking my natural tendencies to mother both dogs and children alike, I feel that it's important to define the difference between the two: loyalty comes only at the price of how well you treat them physically. Feed, water and exercise them, keep them bug-free, give them a comfy bed. As an added bonus, it's not the words you use as much as the tone of voice you say them in. So I can call my dogs stupid if I say it nicely and pet them at the same time.

2006-05-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

Every night this week I've been building the Ikea furniture that we purchased last week. My family all goes to bed at 7:30, so I have a lot of free-time for such ventures as construction. Around 10, my mind begins to warp, yet I persevere, because dammit, I WILL finish this project TONIGHT.
Here's the thought process at 11:
My friend Shirley told me about another company like Ikea, but it's from Norway. Man, what's the name?

11:45:
I hate building furniture. Why is this piece upside-down?
Norway = Norwegian.
Norwegian furniture design must RULE.

11:50:
Norwegian furniture. From Norwegia. Furniture from the Nor-ish part of the world.
Nor furniture.

12:15:
For the love of god, please can I now quit? I don't care if this piece is upside down. One day I will travel to Nor.

Damn the Ants

2006-05-13T12:35:00.000-07:00

There are ants in my kitchen and ants in my bathroom. Little black ones that like to scurry up and down the wall to no place in particular. I can't seem to think of any real reason for their presence, except that my home is also particularly inviting to flies, moths, and even the occasional cockroach at the open of spring.
Once, my friend told me that her dad is some sort of expert communicator with animals and bugs and such. When her family had a problem with anthills in the yard, the ants decided to relocate because of the conversation held just the day before.
I refuse to call the bug professional people. They're expensive, and I have a compulsive need to DO IT MYSELF.
So this is my solution until I get actual ant repellant: WILL them to be gone. I summon all of my negative energy and send the ants lots of bad karma. And when that doesn't work (after a frustrating minute or so), I make an announcement in a slightly rebel/latino accent, "For coming into my house, you must now die. Tell your friends." Then they're squished to death.

2006-05-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

I watched a very important episode of the Amazing Race tonight. The final 3 teams are going to compete next week for a million dollars. I have mixed feelings of excitement and jealousy, because my life-long goal is to be a winner of a large sum of money. Because of the husband and child aspect of my life, it's only fun for me to imagine myself winning, let alone participating in acts such as the lotto or even some sort of illegal operation. So then picture me with a bubble-like cloud coming from my head, daydreaming about actually having the time and energy to do something good with the loot. This is what I came up with.
1) Buying everyone I know a pair of Rainbow sandals, which someone once described as "walking on butter."
2) Paying my way into becoming one of Erykah Badu's backup singers.
3) Doing something lovely for the nations, something Oprah-ish.
Being that I'm motivated to better the world while also maintaining a strict budget, I decided that today is the day I start my blog. Namaste.