Step away from the status updates

By Juli

I am suffering from rapid onset of personal technology obsolescence. I can smell it in the static electricity coming off my old iMac. The scary thing is that I’m not caring as much as I think I should, which has me wondering if I’m destined to be that grey haired curmudgeon instead of the hipster grandma I always assumed I’d be.

Now, there was a time, not so long ago, when I was up-to-date on most everything. Not so much anymore. I reached a saturation point. De.lici.ous? I don’t even use bookmarks. (And no, I don't care if I put the periods in the right place.) Twittering? It sounds like something you run to the bathroom for. Flikr? Friends get those annoying holiday postcards with our pictures plastered on them, isn’t that good enough?

The technology obsolescence plaque forming around my little personal bubble is being fed by “status update overload.” It’s like when you were at prom, and those freaky people start seizuring on the dance floor. You have to step off and lean up against the wall. For one, gawking is best done in the shadows. Two, you’re in shock. You don’t trust your own instincts. Do other people think this is cool? Am I the only loser that thinks this is stupid? It just makes you not want to dance at all when you see how some people can make it such an unholy spectacle. Okay, you’re right. “So don’t watch.” Part true, but this is my PROM. They’re invading my prom!

Enter Facebook. Daily prom. Daily 20th high-school reunion. You just go to see who got fat and bald, right? I admit, I really do like Facebook. Creepy as it is. Once I convinced myself we have no real privacy anyway, I signed right up for the data mining and intrusive advertising. With gusto.

I’d like to figure out how to secretly unfriend a few people without causing a commotion though. Not because of anything too juicy, but because it’s taken me a while to realize how I want to use Facebook and who I’m comfortable with in the audience. For instance, that guy I used to work with but don’t think ever really liked me and is just connected with me to boost his “friend numbers” (you know those people). I don’t think he needs to have a private inroad to my holiday pictures. It freaks me out.

But have I unfriended him? No. Because I’m a hypocrite. It’s voyeurism with permission. And I can snicker at him and his antics just like he’s probably secretly snickering at mine. Or not caring about me at all (worse?). Or whatever. It’s sick and twisted and addictive, and I love it. Viva la frenemies on Facebook!

So, if you’re familiar with Facebook, you know you can update your status. Love that. Most of them are funny, cute, informative, whatever. Little conversation starters with your friends. But I draw the line, you know? This shit gets annoying at a point. Every godforsaken narcissist or wannabe talkshow host who updates his/her status every five minutes. I mean, let’s be real, it’s ridiculous. I can see having a shitty, boring-ass day. Triggering off a few random updates to let off some steam. Hey, if you have the wit, I’ll serve you up a laugh. But don’t clutter my newsfeed every single day with shameless minutia. That makes me cranky.

Jane Doe just woke up and made coffee.
Jane Doe just chose the red dress.
Jane Doe tripped over her cat.
Jane Doe’s kid just puked.
Jane Doe is watching a movie.
Jane Doe is still watching the movie.

Holy shit, are you for reals? It takes me a couple cups of strong coffee, a trip to the bathroom, and some warm up stretching before I have the wherewithal to even push the power button on my computer. I have this image of people in the shower, scrubbing their privys with one hand and updating their status on a BlackBerry with the other. Or driving down the road, ready to cause a fifty-car pileup because they just have to let their three hundred closest friends know they just passed a McDonalds with the biggest indoor playground they’ve EVER seen.

Back to my bubble. I don’t want to be that person. So over-connected to technology that I’m totally out of touch with reality. So I’m going to do the mature thing and laugh at what I don’t understand. Make fun of people behind their backs. Check out and take up something old school. Like chess. Or reading.

Until one day when I overhear my kids whispering how lame I am because I don’t know the first thing about techsa-whatsit-widgets. Yeah, then I’ll have only myself to blame.

My Mama said there'd be days like this

By Juli

So, here's how it is. With all the expected bad news on the financial front this week, the economy is about to be flushed down the global toilet (according to the media), and I will be circling down along with it unless the fates intervene as I enter God-knows-what-week with just not nearly enough work.

The NSF issue added an extra facet of dread to the normally un-fun appliance repair experience this morning. And I called everyone in the tri-state area looking for a reputable yet reasonably priced service company to rectify the oven gas-leak issue (the one the gas company said wasn't a gas company problem). Did you know there are appliance repair companies that charge 200 bucks just to SHOW UP? I should add that to my gig. Next writing assignment, I'm going to try tacking on a service call fee and see if it flies. Not.

Let me back up. The oven. I have it from a reliable resource that, these days, appliances are made to last only seven years. (Jack from this morning told me. He seemed credible.) I don't know about you, but we've had at least one $200 to $300 repair on each of the major appliances in our kitchen, and they are ALL under seven years old. I'm not sure what kinda funny math (maybe it involves credit default swaps) those jokers use when figuring out the cost benefits of eating out vs. cooking in, but I'm certain they don't factor in the costs of appliances, purchase nor repair. Big, loud, exasperated sigh.

Verdict on the oven. Faulty ignition switch. "Common repair." $204 with a coupon. I give him the official head nod to proceed with the repair; he says it will take fifteen minutes.

Anyway, as a happy bonus with the purchase of my oven repair, I learn that the pan drawer under the oven pulls ALL the way out so you have access to the electrical and gas goodies behind it. I couldn't give a shit about the access to the gas/electrical, but I stare in awe at my service technician like he is a Cirque de Soleil performer as he yanks it out. Why? Because I've been down on my belly, amidst the animal hair and the crumbs, hundreds of times with a ruler, a Swiffer, a stick. . .retrieving everything from Matchbox cars to brightly colored plastic jewelery and crinkly cat toys from underneath that Pandora of a stove. I've lived here for five years. How did I not figure out the drawer was removable?

Okay, back to the main plot. The big toilet is flushing, and I'm up to my eyeballs in the day's chaos. Lola is locked in the basement barking her head off, Rico is huffing and flopping on his dog bed reminding me that breakfast is late, AGAIN. The cat is just plain fucking in the way, I am watching the guy put in the new oven ignition and quizzing him about every other appliance in the house (trying to get my money's worth) when I remember I forgot to take the kids' lunch to school when I dropped them off. Lunch is in twenty minutes. To boot, I am midway through an online application for some job I don't really want but desperately need, and the phone is ringing. I do not answer it. I hope it's not Publisher's Clearinghouse.

I pay the guy, see him to the door, lock the door. Call the husband and let him know I wasn't a serial murder victim. Throw lunches together, race to the school, race back. Feed the animals, clean Rico's ears (purebreads have issues, beware). Take carrot juice (my fav) out of the fridge and notice the pan drawer is still pulled out, exposing all the horrors under the stove. Clean under the stove (priorities!) and put the drawer back after having to remove all the glass pans and such so I can lift it. Some are dusty; I really have to dig deep not to wash them all.

Ahh, day is half over, and I've done NOTHING. Nothing I'm going to get paid for anyway. So, I pick up my carrot juice and give it a good shake as I plan my "get some work" antics for the day.

I'd loosened the cap before I put it down to clean under the stove. NO SHIT.

Carrot juice is orange. Bright fucking orange. And it goes EVERYWHERE. All over me, the counters, the fridge, the stove, the cupboards.

For the love of God. My horoscope said it was going to be a good day, but I swear I just heard the burp at the bottom of the bowl, and it was in STEREO.

At the liquor store tonight

By Juli


E: Let me carry something.

J: (with an armload of beer, Mikes, and fru-fru mixed drinks) No! Don't touch a thing. You have an out-of-state ID. If I get sent away empty handed, you're walking home.

E: They won't take my ID here?

J: No, it's out-of-state. They don't have to. It's on the damn door.

E: What is?

J: A sign that says they don't take out-of-state IDs.

E: My money's not good here?

J: You're not paying for anything!

(At the counter, Juli checks out with one clerk while Em chats with the other who is bagging.)

E: So, is it true you don't take out-of-state IDs?

(Juli gives Em the evil eye.)

Clerk 2: Yes, it's a store policy. Out-of-state IDs don't scan, so lots of stores won't take them.

J: I told you so.

E: Wow. So, I couldn't buy alcohol here?

Clerk 2: Probably not. We card anyone who looks under 35.

J: (who was not carded, to Clerk #1) Hey, thanks a lot buddy. Next time I'm going to Wine Country.

E: Burn.

(Arguing, laughter, chatter.)

Clerk 2: Hey, I would have carded her.

J: See, thank you. (to Clerk #1) Thrrprppptt!

(in the car)

E: Geez, no out-of-state IDs. They close at 10pm on a Saturday. There would be a riot in Michigan.

J: Welcome to Blue Laws. You need to get your new driver's license. (starts car)

One month of Em, according to her Facebook status updates

By Juli

The first is the most recent. We share a gene pool. (Moment to reflect.)

• Em still hates old people.

• Em put the lime in the coconut and drank um both down, say wooo hooo.

• Em is wasting her youth on alcohol, drugs and fast guys...HAHAHA, I wish.

• Em is trying to center her Chi.

• Em is reeking havoc and causing chaos everywhere she goes... dun, dun, duaaahhhhh!!!!

• Em hopes that her future children will lock her up when she gets old, so she can't terrorize the public. Like all old people do.

• Em is listening to her sister's lecture on the evils of Jiff peanut butter.

• Em is actually hoping the little mouse playing on the subway tracks makes it.

• Em hates having 10 different bosses reprimand her every time she does something wrong.

• Em is watching The Road Warrior on mute and listing to Weezer, waiting for inspiration....Say it aint soooooo

• Em is rethinking the whole procreation thing after seeing James Franco's GQ cover.

• Em believes spending 20 min at Bank North Garden after Disney on Ice let out has killed any desire to procreate.

Wasabi in my eye

By Juli

I have a new resolution. Not a New Year’s one, just a garden-variety resolution that I’ll file along with the many others in the “self-improvement” area of my psyche. (Where I’ll revisit it from time to time when deadlines loom, and I can’t Swiffer anymore to procrastinate).

It’s to do less, and do it better.

I know, not mindboggling. Not even original. But new for me. Because I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake (more turtle than hare), and well, I’m finally at that place where Captain Obvious has handed down the mandate. I need to FOCUS.

I started down this path, in part, because I’m a list maker. Compulsive, with good intentions. It comes with the proverbial territory when you’re just a wee bit anal-retentive (euphemism), run a business, have a husband, an old house, two young kids, two big sloppy dogs, and a young cat that thinks he’s a big sloppy dog. That’s not counting the trials and tribulations of extended family, and believe-you-me, you don’t want me to even start on that.

So, I make these epic lists, because they at once calm me down and freak me out, and I must like that duality of it all. Things seem so neat and tidy all written down just so (until they hit the double digit pages). When I start to “prioritize,” I think I can tackle so much more than I can. So, I try, and I don’t. Rinse, repeat. Remember, I said I’m a slow learner; this has been going on forever. Ask my best friend from high school.

Where was I? Yes, and so I sign on for too much, and bail on half, and generally wind myself into a tornado until something like THIS happens:

It was in the afternoon, not too long ago, as I was working on “my list” (eat better, lose weight, run every day, serve the kids less processed foods, try new things, remember to turn music on, call so-and-so, write so-and-so, have a playdate with so-and-so, read a new book, pay more attention to the animals, don’t snap at my husband, start sorting receipts for taxes, find some more work, clean the litter box, pray I win the lottery to pay all those bills, and on and on).

So, there I am in the kitchen, in workout gear only appropriate (in polite circles) for the basement treadmill, because I hoped to run while the kids were napping – if they napped. They’re sitting at table in the kitchen, half-served lunch (Mommmeeeee, can I have some jooooss), while I field a client phone call on my day off, trip over the cat (not fed yet), and start slicing strawberries (organic, thank you). I hang up with the phone call exasperated, pour milk (sorry no more juice today honey), yell at the dog for licking food off the floor (not fed yet either), pick up the Swiffer to swat around the dog hair, and eye the kids’ veggie chips, which I had recently learned were potato chips diabolically disguised as healthfood with a dash of veggie powder for color. Evil has no boundaries.

“No calories left in the day for chips!” my newly righteous, nutritionally fit self bulldozes over my (much more likeable) ring-ding loving self. So I head for the pantry and begin to forage for something crunchy to curb the chip mania, that had, by now, firmly taken hold. Because, to complete the triumvirate of hunger, I had not been fed yet either.

Mmmmm. Wasabi peas. Good enough.

So, I stuff a few into my piehole right there, half in the pantry. The phone rings, I dust off my hand on my running shorts (yes, gross) and lunge for the phone as the next chorus of “More of This, None of That” commences from the progeny. Five (or ten, or fifteen) minutes later I hang up with that same client. And the day would have progressed as per usual if not for the eyelash that had thrown its lemming-like self into the pit of my eye.

Halfway into rubbing it out, I realized that being a) hurried and b) half unsanitary would have its price.

MY EYE.

Oh, the burn. The kids rallied in support. “Momma, do you need a band aid?” Big hugs around the legs. Can’t get to the sink with kids strapped to my legs. . .help. . .My son tries to fight me for the sink. “Me first! Me first!” Ahhh, the allure of handwashing for an almost-three-year-old. I hip check him, gently, and commence flushing my eye.

After the fire subsides, I look up and around our powder room, a space the size of a small broom closet. All three of us are crammed in there. I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. My right eye is red and swollen. To my left and right, two little cherubs are looking up at me, worried, expectant. I am somewhere in that strange place between laughing my head off and crying my heart out. I have a parental epiphany. A mental elbow from The Captain.

I need to FOCUS.

As in on the here and now. I mean, I made the tough decision to freelance and work part-time, take a pay and benefits cut, and straddle that no-woman’s land between working and stay-at-home mom, because I wanted to really savor these early years with my family. I wanted to find a better balance for myself. And what was I doing?

Engaging in insanity, that’s what.

I’ve been given wonderful choices, I realize. And I’m not really making them. I’m playing chicken with the big ones, hoping for a blink. I’m starting to learn, maybe a lot later than I’d have hoped, what being truly empowered means. It does not mean “being able to do it all.” Because, screw it, I can’t. For me, it means picking a couple things and going for it. It means not giving a rat’s ass whether other people think I’m good or talented or have what it takes. It means, you there, get to the back of the line and stay there. I’m sorry your feelings are hurt and I forgot to call you back. It means get off my list. Get out of my brain. It means I will decide not to go there, and I will not regret it.

So today I will start a little letting go. So I can have a whole lot more of what I really want and need. The recipe for my success will be simple: divine intervention, conscious living, and wasabi in my eye.

Straight from the chatbox: Part II

By Juli

J: terminator two is on tv
em is watching it

C: is she there right now?
didn't you get her an apartment?

J: lol
why are her grey institutional pants pulled up SO HIGH?
yes, sitting on the chair across from me. she's doing her laundry.

C: you forgot to get her laundry facilities
Hi Em! Tell her to flush the doritos. Do it, Em!

J: seriously, no bra, and her pants are pulled up six inches above her belly button

C: TMI!

J: no, not EM!!!
linda hamilton in TERMINATOR TWO

C: LOL
Phew. But she's got some big "guns"

J: sorry
can't stop
laughing

C: Have some doritos
cure for laughing

J: you thought i was talking about em, lol

C: well, yes you said she was doing laundry

J: lol

C: I thought maybe she was out of bras and normal pants

J: she says she will never be that comfortable around me

C: you changed her diapers

J: but not now she says

C: ungrateful wretch
okay you, I need to go to bed
good night, Juli
Good night, Em
Good night, B-

J: me too. need to drive em home.

C: Good night, John Boy
you didn't get her a car?

J: xo, lol

C: xoxox

Straight from the chatbox: Part I

By Juli


C: hope I can lose some finally
the working out is key, I think, not the eating so much
eat healthy, don't go nuts, exercise lots
that's my plan

J: what a crazy concept! me too. i have to do both, and concentrate on the diet portion

C: I feel like I'm starving if I concentrate too much on the diet
Primal instinct to survive

J: see, i have this "accidental" eating habit

C: so I'm just trying to establish an exercise habit without eating extra calories to compensate

J: oops, stuffed in four bites of chicken nugget
oops, half a chocolate bar

C: LOL
I actually do okay if left on my own
watching the points helps keep me honest
but I'm not like, "oops, I tripped and accidentally ate a danish pastry."

J: me too. i have to carefully record points
lol

C: I can say no to the pastry
I like me some pastry
but I can deal
what's hard is when I go out or go to someone else's house
I can control my own environment, but when someone else is plopping a pan of lasagne down on the table, well, I'm gonna eat it. It's the law.

J: lol. i can say no too, but i can be talking to B- at the kitchen counter and eat a couple of his doritos before i realize i'm NOT supposed to be eating doritos

C: why do you HAVE the doritos?

J: because. . .
because they're on SALE!!

C: Oh, okay
that's totally all right, then
ahem
:-)

J: damn

C: ?

J: I need to stop buying shit
like that
dammit

C: you ok?

J: (sobbing softly)

C: pat pat

Car talk

By Juli

J: Who's this singer?

E: I know who it is, give me a sec.

J: Is it the guy that sings the "I wanna be a Rock Star"?

E: Yeah, Chad Kroeger.... Nickelback.

J: I really like them.

E: I know you do.

J: What, you don't like them?

E: Noooo. The guy looks like a girl I used to work with.

J: What, he looks like a girl?

E: No, she looks like a man.

J: Is she a good looking man?

E: No.

J: Oh wow, that's unfortunate.

E: Yeah, they both have this curly that they part down the middle.

J: Curly hair, parted down the middle. . .you mean, like Weird Al?

E: Oh yeah, JUST like that, except blonde.

J: Does he have a horse face too?

E: Yeah and a big hook nose.

J: That's wild. He has a very sexy voice. I would guess he's very good looking.

E: Not.

Cat divination

By Juli

There’s a stupid anthropologist stuck inside me. Without real effort, I lean toward ethnography. My days are two steps back, one off to the side, down on my haunches waiting for the natives to do something interesting so I can scribble in my little notebook.

This gets tricky when the indigenous population wants to interact. Say, like during meal times. We have a no-fat-animal policy in this house (after nearly going to debtor’s prison because of two new dog knees, but that’s for another time). Anyway, the zoo animals FREAK OUT during mealtime. Hungry, hungry, hungry. There’s fur flying everywhere, and while a good “Get the hell outta my way!” will send the dogs running out of leg swiping distance (like that euphemism?), the cat is a wholly different entity. He's all offense.

The cat, in my little world of observation, gives me such great fodder for reflection and self-learning. Now, I usually have this strange but not uncommon tendency to think “the natives,” with their simple ways and paired-down existence and such, have it all figured out. It’s that whole, “you know everything there is to know when you’re born and then spend the rest of your life forgetting everything” way of thinking. The self-hating colonialists indulge themselves in. Yeah, that’s usually me. And for the most part, it works. If I could be more like the kids or the pets, I’d probably tack on a few years in “Real Age” due to stress reduction if nothing else.

But anyway, then there’s the cat. The godforsaken cat. Sometimes, he's just plain stupid.

Here’s the deal. Mealtimes, I’m juggling a couple of slimy dog bowls, heading toward a narrow rickety staircase that leads to our basement wonderland of storage, treadmill, the cat feeding zone, and the animal food vaults. The SECOND I pick up the dog food bowls the cat is on high alert. RACING around the house, meowing obscenities, knocking over things, running in to me, the dogs, the kids, the husband. He one-hundred-percent loses his shit.

So, my first step on The Stairs of Death, he comes zooming around from his last loop of destruction around the first floor, and he cuts me off at the ankle, racing down ahead of me. And if I don't give him a good hiss and a gentle physical reminder that I outweigh him by a whole helluva lot, he will try to trip me down every last stair all the way down. This happens every single time. Without fail. The odds are against me. One day I’m toast.

Now why, my post-enlightened, Starbucks-swilling, opposable thumb self wonders, why in the hell would you try to kill someone who is just about to give you what you want? WHY? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to explain this to the little “Id,” but if he trips me down the stairs and kills or paralyzes me, the little fucker is NOT going to get fed.

I lift my pencil for a moment and apply this object lesson to myself, looking inward. Am I too guilty of this same irrational behavior? Gripped by whatever unbridled emotion that takes over when I realize I’m finally, finally, finally about to get what I want. . .do I, meaning to or not, try and trip the Great Benefactor down the basement stairs?

I’ll have to think on that for a bit. I’m sure I probably do.

Pick pockets among us

By Juli

Way back when, after my husband and I had only been dating for a few months, he made the surprising commitment of a road trip halfway across the country to visit my family. I don't remember much of the trip, or the visit itself for that matter, but I do remember he got hit with his first wave of midwestern cultural awareness.

After twelve hours of driving, we stopped to get gas somewhere just over the border into Michigan. Now, in Michigan, gas stations aren't just a couple of pumps and a register hut like that can be out here in the east. In Michigan, they're THEME PARKS. What seems like dozens of pumps with protective shelters, video games, heating lamps, jukeboxes, a grocery store, rides for the kiddies. Gas stations sell alcohol in Michigan. If you can't do it or buy it at the gas station, it can't be done or bought.

My brave boyfriend jumped out into the world of the supersized everything, pumped the gas, and went off to check the park map for where to pay. I sat in the car vacillating between excitement about being "home" and nagging worry about this man's first glimpse behind the curtain of the Oz that was me.

Who knows how long he was gone, a long time that's for sure. When he did return, he looked really, really agitated. Oh no, this basket just got its ticket to hell. I could see it in his eyes. And he hadn't even met my mother yet.

"Omigod, what's wrong? What happened?"

He sat there silent for a moment. Opened his mouth, and let it spill.

"Well, I went in and stood in line. I was only the third person. But it took forever. Everyone in there was looking at me, talking to me, smiling at me. Like they were planning to pickpocket me or something. It was soooo weird."

He went on, throwing up his arms in the air and slouching back in his seat, exasperated.

"Then I finally got up to pay, said 'How are ya?' to the guy, and handed him my card."

He looked at me hard, suspiciously.

"Juli, he stopped what he was doing and spent the next five minutes telling me all about his morning, his breakfast, his family, his customers. Juli, he told me about his ulcer. What the hell? He just wouldn't stop. . ."

I smiled, pinching my leg hard so as not to laugh.

"Honey."

"Yes?"

"You asked him how he was doing."

"Yes?"

"Well, you're in Michigan. He answered your question."

He stared at me for a moment. Maybe questioning the love match with someone outside of his geographical species. I saw the gears working, trying to make sense of it all.

"Oh," he said. And he put the key in the ignition and started the car.

Starting over

By Juli

I’m sitting here faced with a sad choice. Begin again, or give up.

Sometime over the holidays, I lost my orange coupon book. YES, I said “coupon book.” I do financial writing, for chrissake; it would be unconscionable for me to not take advantage of slashing the family bill with strategic coupon usage (combined with in-store sales, coupons can help get you free stuff!).

Anyway, months of Sunday papers and sorting through receipts to weed out the coupons, searching Target for the perfect coupon holder, labeling the little tabs, sorting them all by grocery store department, LOVING it. NEEDING it. Using it with glee!! (maniacal laughter)

I’d only been Zen with it for a few weeks. There was a long slow build up to making it part of my shopping experience, but we’d made it. We’d finally made it!

Somewhere in the shuffle of fifteen different stores in the two weeks leading up to Christmas, it disappeared. Gone. Vanished. I looked everywhere. Under my seats in the car, in my workbag, in the old diaper bag I haven’t used in nine months (the one that still freeloads in my cargo area and will be useful only if my kids suddenly shrink two sizes and need a change of clothes).

Nothing. Not in the hallway drawers, my office, the junk drawer (as if!). No, the kids didn’t scurry away with it; it didn’t get thrown away. Where in the hell? Where is that effing coupon book??

I called Target lost and found (not kidding). Stop and Shop. Market Basket. Macy’s. Old Navy. I even called the emergency room where my son got the six stitches under his chin (I have no shame). Each time I carefully described the coupon book and its contents. They all think I’m insane. But really, there’s a lot of money to be saved in that garish bungee corded thingymabob! And (omigod I just remembered), I even had a couple $10 LL BEAN gift cards in it. ShIT!

It’s been long enough now that I know it’s just plain gone. Even if it’s tucked somewhere in this house, day after day a coupon or two expires. Never to be used. Another month or so, most will have passed to the other side. In six, nothing will be left.

So here I sit, new coupons appearing in various piles in my office, and I ask myself "Do I have the strength to rally them all together and try to start again?"

Twelve centimeters

By Juli

My “To File” pile has reached new heights. 12 centimeters. I’m an inch-girl myself, but the only ruler I can find is an old wooden one that has centimeters (as if), so there you have it. And that measurement is after a pre-sort where I’ve recycled all the circulars and junk mail, greedily siphoned off the coupons, and tucked the bills into the “Bills to Pay” folder. This is just stuff that needs to go into the big metal filing cabinet that looms, figuratively and literally, right over my shoulder.

Filing is my LEAST favorite job. I’d rather scrub a toilet bare-handed any day. Or change a poopy diaper. Or answer “Why?” creatively ten thousand times.

Hence the leaning pile that occasionally spits a receipt or a document onto the floor near my feet.

I just counted, and a centimeter is roughly 20 things that need sorting. Times twelve, that’s 240 things that I need to put in manila folders, tucked in one of five drawers, all of which need to be desperately sorted through and cleaned. Shudder.

So, the kids are in bed, and I’ll do the logical thing. I’ll grab an ice cream pop and see what’s on BBC America.

G’night.

When people say they miss the early years of parenting, this is what I think of

By Juli

My kids are now 5 and almost 3, but as we enter into a new year I like to focus on thanks vs. resolutions. To that end, I am so thankful for being past THIS point during my maternity leave with my youngest.

I had just hung up the phone with my husband (at work) after a typical round of schedule and logistics tag (all in hushed voices on his end, which I can barely hear, since he’s in “cube land”). I tell my daughter (who is, ballpark, 2.5 a the time) that I’m going to let the dogs out to go poo in the backyard.

She runs to the back door "Me come, Me come!" She has her shoes on the wrong feet and is falling all over the place. "Honey, your shoes need to be switched around. They're on the wrong feet." (Repeat four times.) The baby starts to cry. My daughter drops down, right in front of the back door, to change her shoes. I pick up the baby.

After jumping over my little helper to get out the back door (dogs push by/half trample her), we head out for a family poopfest. "Lola, Rico, go potty." (Repeat 14 times.) Rico, dutifully, goes potty. The biggest of four turds rolls downhill in our sloping backyard, neatly under the next place he's going to step.

Squish.

Lola is standing in the middle of the potty area, staring at me like she's been frozen in time. She likes her privacy. Yeah, her and me too. Tough shit. "Dammit, Lola, GO POTTY." (My daughter repeats the "dammit" part. Lovely.) Rico, in response to the stern tone, RUNS past me, nearly knocking my feet out from under me, and leaving a neat little crap print on every other step and on up to the back deck. The more I beg him to "Come Rico, sit," the more he runs in circles, panicked he's in trouble. Poo, all over the deck. My daughter, on a clean little island, is trapped in the middle.

He’s panicked, I’m panicked, the kids are panicked, and yes, I admit, Rico’s in all sorts of BIG trouble.

Lola remains unflappable, in her deer-caught-in-headlight pose. Insufferable!!

"Lola, GO POTTY." Lola casually loses my gaze and starts to wander around sniffing, giving me hope. "Honey, go stand over there, there's dog poop on the deck. Don't step in it."

She starts chanting "Rico, no poop in yellow house. Rico, no poop in yellow house."

(Keep in mind, I'm still holding a screaming infant.) I run over to the hose and turn it on while using one-legged blocking moves to keep Rico, the big black absent-minded lab (inbreeding?), near me and away from the old pile of dog poop right at the bottom of the stairs, lest he try to eat it or step in it. It’s my husband’s job to clean it up. I start to smolder.

It’s been a long time since my anthropology studies, but I’m still good at dating things; that shit has been there for DAYS.

So, while I'm preparing to hose off Rico’s foot, I check for Lola, who has, by now, made it to her favorite “secret-shitting spot” at the bottom of the yard – where the kids play – nowhere near the designated “dog run.” She’s starting to do that hunching thing dogs do.

"LOLA!!" I bellow in the most ungodly fashion I can muster.

Rico drops down on his side into the mud I've been making with the hose. His “submissive” pose. Lola runs, elegantly, in a fine canter, across the length of the yard, back to me, like she was just out for a stroll. "You called?" her big brown eyes blink out in Morse Code.

"Lola, go potty over here now. I don't want you crapping on the deck later too."

My daughter, from above on the deck: "Lola, no crap on deck." Lovely.

Holding the baby (stupid?), I hose Rico off, while keeping on eye on Lola (frozen again, stage fright or insolence?). I send Rico back up to the deck, put the baby in his bouncy seat, and shepherd the two-year-old away from the Rico poo-prints polka-dotting the back deck.

"Lola, go potty, for the love of God!" Our neighbors must think I'm nuts.

Lola waits until I'm done hosing off the deck (afraid I'm going to spray her? Hmmmm, tempting. . .) Then. . .gloriously. . .she poops.

Never go to Costco with a Scrooge

By Juli

Em is a bit (cough, cough) younger than I. We grew up during vastly different parental development periods. I had to break our mother and father in, suffering the strange mix of behavior that came from clinging to 1950s standards, enjoying too much '60s, while confronting 1970s parenting and poverty. Conflicted parenting. Paradoxical upbringing. You get it.

I always thought I had it much worse off than Em, but I’m learning that while our parents emotions and behaviors mellowed like a fine boxed wine over the years, other things stepped in on cue to fuck her up just as bad.

Take the house plumbing for instance. Heck. Let’s start with the whole house. I have no doubt in my mind the place is the epicenter of lead, asbestos, and God knows what else. I just hope I spent enough nights sneaking out to parties to tip the scales in my favor, avoid mesothelioma or some such other horror.

What I never had to contend with (thank you, small favors) was the deep seeding plumbing issues that have permanently scarred her. Dinner prep and clean up time you’ll find her circling around my kitchen, cawing warnings of what may and may not go in the garbage disposal.

(I’ve recently read that garbage disposals are incredibly un-green. That I will go to enviro-hell if I continue to use mine. To that I say, it is on my LIST to start composting, and that I mitigate my sin by running the water only as much as is absolutely necessary. So don’t you dare preach to me.)

Anyway. She’s flapping and making bird noises. THREATENING to call my father and tell him I’m putting spaghetti down the drain. LECTURING me about the plumbing bills she sees as she peers into the crystal ball of my home repair future. No rinds, no pineapple parts (I caught my husband trying to put the top of a pineapple down once, BTW. Em would have had a heart attack.). . .no coffee grounds, no this, no that. What in the world was it made to dispose of then? Please tell me. I’ve searched the manual, save my understanding that one shouldn’t pour grease down the drain, I think this is the stuff of urban legend. Next she’ll be hanging garlic on my windows and sprinkling holy water on my sheets.

Hellloooo, appliances have evolved. Em, disposals have advanced since mom and dad’s prototype model from the ‘20s. And, while I’m at it, I’d like to tell my husband that we in 2009 no longer have to scrub our dishes clean before we put them in the dishwasher. And, I don’t care what his mother used to do, why does he think it’s helpful to open the oven after we done using it? To air it out? To let the heat out? Huh? With two young kids, that’s called a trip to the burn center, not good maintenance for the oven.

I think I might be ranting. And digressing.

The problem is, Em has brought me into the web of her twisted plumbing upbringing. . . .long term. A couple of trips for paper products ago, she bitched and complained enough that wiping her butt at my house made her feel like she was using a down comforter, so I switched to the store brand. It was fine. A little rustic, but it did feel somewhat less creepy than that super soft stuff. I felt a little guilty flushing that. Like maybe I should be making bedspreads with it instead.

But the LAST time we went, she pulled out the big guns. THIS stuff over here is what we buy in Michigan (like Michigan residents set the gold standard for toilet paper selection. . .actually, now that I think about it, they just might. . .). Seeeeee, it’s totally septic system safe. Breaks down RIGHT away. Blah, blah, blah. I gave in. I was weak from chasing down the kids chanting “Don’t touch that. Don’t run. Don’t hit. Don’t yell” for an hour.

WEEKS (maybe months?) later, it seems we’ve made hardly a dent in this bulk buy of toilet paper from hell. Single ply. SHEER. And, apparently, with regenerative properties, like a lizard or something. You cut off one roll from the herd, it grows another while you’re sleeping, or trying to scrub the crap off your three-year-old's hands. You have to use about fifty times more of the stuff than anyone who has ever loved a tree could feel right about, but the stuff actually seems to have water repellent properties too. There’s no way around wrapping your whole arm in it before you go back for the deed.

I’ve been up at night trying to figure out other uses for it, but I’ve come up with nothing. Anything, anything to get it GONE and move back to that luxurious Kirkland stuff (yes, the kind you can see the little splinters in). So I can start tending to the callous on my ass, stop running to double check the kids “work” in the potty. God, save us!

Em’s going to find me half crazed, wound up in institutional TP, stuffing whole rolls of the stuff down the commode. See Em, you can take things too far. It’s called the law of diminishing returns. And you have so broken it.

Beware of sweet things in cute packaging

By Juli

Picked up some mints in a cool little metal tin at Whole Foods. It’s all I can afford there anymore. Retro metal tins always get me. Why is that?

Anyway, I ate half the tin waiting at the auto shop. (In my defense, I was there two hours longer than I expected and hadn't eaten lunch. I was also resisting the Dunkin Donuts next door.)

Then I realized they’re energy mints. Not breath mints? What the hell is an energy mint?

Back of tin says 500% RDI Vitamin B12. But it doesn’t say what the serving size is. I’m going to take a wild guess it’s not half the tin.

Even if the serving size is two mints, I just stuffed down roughly 3,000% of what I need in Vitamin B12 for one day. Right in my gob. In ten minutes. Google B12 overdose anyone?

Dr. Seuss was a doctor, but he was no OB/GYN

By Juli


E: I made a doctor’s appointment today.

J: It’s about damn time. Who are you going to see?

E: Some lady here in town.

J: You’re not going to see someone in Boston? What the hell is wrong with you? I spent hours putting a list together of doctors who had openings in the city. All the best hospitals in the country a few minutes away, and you’re going to see some hack out here in the boondocks?

E: Listen, this is a doctor recommended by my HMO. That way I won’t have to wait six months to get an appointment.

J: Oh, well THAT clears it all up. If your HMO says she’s good, she must be GREAT. Let me break it down for you. If my child severed a limb, I would slap a turniquet on her and drive her to the city before I’d hand her over to the ER here in town. Seriously, remember that OB/GYN who used to live next door to me? The hoarder with the two dogs she never let out of her house? Remember the six inches of dogshit they had to scrape off the floors when she moved out? You want that sort of quack sticking her hands in your hoo-hoo?

E: Omy God Jules, yuck. Stop it.

J: Make sure she washes her hands, and don't you dare whine to me if she's a total moron. *shudder*

Perception is a bitch. Yes, that's you Em.

By Juli


J: How do you see yourself?

E: Laid back 20-something.

J: How would you describe me?

E: Soccer mom.

(silence)

J: I just don’t know if I love you anymore.

(pause)

E: Does that mean I can’t come over for dinner?

Next year you're all getting Holiday JPEGS

By Juli

I spent two whole days early in the week annoyed at a friend who lives out of state. It started because I read a comment on Facebook (eeevil Facebook) that his holiday card was cute. A comment made by someone I don’t know, but who is, clearly, a more favorite friend than me.

Hey, what holiday card? WTF? Why didn’t I get a holiday card? I know I sent him one of ours. HELLO.

So, as I was tossing out this year’s cards yesterday, saying a last goodbye to each little group of progeny we parents like to slap on our holiday wellwishing. . .

Quick commercial break here. YES, I throw away holiday cards. I don’t care if you think I’m horrible. All those cute little family pictures, little poses of our friends’ kids in matching sweaters, matte, glossy, fancy, not. It feels wrong, but I can’t help myself. Who are these people who save cards? Do they exist? Do they have a dedicated room in their house (the one they won’t let you go in) with floor to ceiling plastic bins full of organized baggies of holiday cards from years past? I think not. Y’all toss ‘em too. Don't lie.

Where was I? Correction. I was RECYCLING this year’s cards, and there it was. My friend’s card with those adorable little twin cherubs. Cleverly embellished with his designer touches (because he’s a designer). And then it hit me. I’m an idiot.

I used the return addresses from everyone who sent us a card this year to send mine out. OF COURSE he sent me a card if I’d sent HIM one. Doah!

That late night stare at the ceiling wondering if all my friends hate me for some secret reason. . .the conspiracy theories. . .the two donuts I stuffed down my pie hole. . .yelling at the dog for no reason.. . .all because I have a shitty memory. Or something. So, I smiled, exhaled, released the tension. And tossed the card in the bin. Bye kiddos, see you next year.

Anyway, sorry J. Even though you never knew I was mad at you.