Fun with Condoms

Cola flavored condoms were a hot topic here at work this morning.
We got a shipment in last week. We were all kinds of curious, but we acted very professionally about it, nonetheless.
"Cola flavored," we said, matter of factly. "This is new."
We had seen just about everything else already: Blue berry, black berry, strawberry, banana, you name it.
But these cola ones had us intrigued.
"I wonder what they taste like?" we wondered out loud.
"Maybe we should open it?" someone suggested.
Someone sniffed at it. Pulled a face.
Eventually, someone agreed to be the taste tester.
We were briefed on it this morning.
"Doesn't taste like Cola at all," we were informed.
"Is it like Diet Pepsi?"
"Worse."
"No name Pepsi?"
"Worse."
Someone offered, "maybe you could mix it with Rye."
We all laughed. When someone added "That would be one stiff drink," we all erupted into laughter again.
"But you have to drink it 'on the rocks'!" someone else chimed in.

Anyways.
It's Friday, which is probably a good thing.
We've deteriorated into a bunch of sixteen year olds, apparently.
Have a good weekend.

Shit I've Said

"You want to know how to Train A Dragon?" (To the kids when they asked if we could purchase the DVD)
"You kill him," I say, without waiting for an answer. "Best way is to chop his head right clean off. When he's dead, he'll be nice and tame. Headless, but tame. Very tame. They should make a movie about that."
I look at them. They look slightly terrified.
"All right," I say, tossing the DVD into our cart. "We'll get the movie."


"You can kid a kidder but you can't shit a shitter." (to Gage, 12)
Gage: "So- what are you in this equation- a kidder or a shitter?"
Me- "Uhm, a shitter, I guess?"
Gage-"And that's supposed to be a good thing?"
Me- "Whatever. We don't need to pick it apart. Just don't lie and stuff like that."

Geoff: "I spent twenty five dollars today on my hair cut."
Me- looking at said hair cut. "What are they, charging a dollar per hair? How can they get away with that?"
Geoff- evil glare.
(Note- Geoff's hair=very sparse)

Anyways. On a somewhat unrelated topic.
 I've been thinking about something, want to run it by you.
Parenting with Pop Tarts- I mentioned it in this post, sort of as a joke, but I kind of like the sound of it.
I've been thinking of 'rebranding' this blog- since I named it "Here we Go Again" back in the day when it was a pregnancy blog.
What do you think??
Which name do you like better?? Does it even matter??
(And yes- I do like to double up on my question marks. I feel like I'm posing the question more seriously that way, more intently like. Think grade school teacher, pulling her glasses down, eyes boring into you.)
Do you think that there's an Coalition for the Eradication of Pop Tarts who are currently lobbying the government to have them banned? Who possibly are also working on a new bill, perhaps with the name "Sara's Law" or something like that because of some girl who later went on to develop Juvenile Diabetes from eating too many pop tarts, that any parent who feeds their kids PopTarts for any one meal of the day could be found legally negligent, let alone all of them??
Will I get hate mail?
I think that's only a matter of time, anyways.

Honestly, some people take parenting so seriously.
Like, for example. Since Alex is getting older, he no longer likes to cuddle with me. He writhes away from me and tries to bitch slap me and stuff. Ya, it's awesome.
But I have a secret weapon that makes him putty in my lap.
I tell him there's thunder coming.
"Thunder!" I tell him.
He jumps, runs to me, wraps his arms around me, buries his head in my chest. "I cared," he says- which means he's scared.
I think it's kind of endearing.
But some people, when I tell them that, they just look at me, like maybe I just admitted to locking him in the cold storage room from time to time so that I can shoot up my other kid's Ritalin, which I now have abbreviated to "R"- which, seriously, I don't. I don't even have a cold storage room, first of all. Secondly, my older kids aren't even on Ritalin. Unfortunately.
And then they say "Are you serious?"
And I'm like, "well, it's harmless, anyways."
And they're like "do you think that might be why you're older two kids have a phobia of thunderstorms?"
And I'm like "I wouldn't say that they're 'phobic' just because they need to be medicated for it. I mean, then you could say that any one's phobic. That guy right there. He's on blood thinners. Is he phobic? Probably not."
Again, some people take it all too seriously.
Don't they??

How Not to Relax

I wanted to relax tonight, after having a busy Monday.
So I thought it would be good to have a foot spa.
Problem was, I didn't have one.
So I took the kids to Wal Mart to buy one.
I also bought some really nice peppermint foot soak, scrub and lotion.
I know, I know. "No unnecessary purchases."
But me feet are, like, really sore right now, so this constitutes necessary.

An hour later and I'm home again.
I read the kids "Love you Forever" by Robert Munch, and "The Playhouse" as well.
I turned on their night light, kissed them good night, and left the room to be alone with my new foot spa.
I dismissed the instructions at first. But then I thought I should give them at least a cursory glance. I skipped through to the Frequently Asked Questions.
"How long should I soak my feet for?"
Ah. Good question.
The answer "Ten to fifteen minutes, under advisement of your physician."
Physician??
Fuck.
I haven't even gone back to the doctor for a pap test for three years or so.
I'm not going to go there to ask about a foot spa. I could only imagine my doctors notation in my chart.
"Paranoia getting worse. Has total lack of common sense. Possible mental impairment."
Scew that. Ten minutes should be fine.
But then I started to worry about that pap test.
Has it really been three years??
How long does it take for cancer to form?

Anyways.
I discarded the instructions. Bloody useless.
I filled my foot spa up with warm tap water. Stuck my feet in.
Screaming erupted from the bedroom.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOMM I NEED AN ICE PACK!!"
"What? Why?" I yelled.
"I hit my eye ball on the corner of my bed."
"Can you go check her eye?" I asked Gage.
"What, exactly, am I looking for?"
"Just make sure it's still in it's socket," I said, and tried to soak my feet.

Then I looked at the table.
The candle!
Yes, this would be so much more relaxing with a candle.
I dried my feet, tip toed into the kitchen to find a lighter.
I rummaged through several drawers. Reminded myself that I really must get my licence renewed when I came across the notice from SGI, unopened.
Had to go out to the garage.
Finally came back in, to find the kids out of bed again.
Usher them back to bed.
Light the candle. Put my feet back in the soak.
Now the waters cold.

I took my feet out, tiptoed across the floor, emptied it and refilled it with as hot as I can stand it water.
I stick my feet in.
Way too fucking hot.
Dried my feet off. Tip toed to the kitchen again, poured a glass of ice water, added it to the soak.
Now the water is just above the fill line. I wonder what could happen if it's over filled.
Probably nothing, I tell myself.
But, then again.
What if it explodes?
What if it short circuits the wiring?
Could I get electrocuted?
I should dump out some water, just to be safe.
I take the cup, ladle out a cup.
Sit back down.
That's better.
But still- it's missing something, I think.

And then I remember, my Peppermint foot soak.
Yes! This would be so much more relaxing with the soothing aroma of peppermint!
Out again, getting the peppermint foot soak. I read the instructions.
"Pour one capful into running water."
Sigh.
I take the tub, empty it and refill it again, adding the solution.
Sit down again.
The smell of peppermint is nice.
Reminds me of peppermint tea.
That would really be nice, I start to think.
In fact, I don't think I can properly relax without some.
So I go to get some, without taking the time to dry my feet thoroughly this time.
I notice that there's a little puddle of water beside the spa.
Great. Not I have to clean the floors.

Anyways.
This whole business of relaxing is very exhausting.
I think I'll stick to Chardonnay.
Have a good night.

Lessons Learned from a Recovering Alcoholic

When I was sixteen, my uncle moved in with us.
He was "in recovery," apparently, as people politely and quietly termed it, which does sound nicer than 'trying to quit getting blotto every day'.
He started having weird, bearded people over, holding "table meetings" talking in hushed voices over the "big book" and drinking copious amounts of coffee.
He started saying weird stuff. "Let go and let God." "Easy does it." "One day at a time."
The whole thing, from my vantage point, was very odd.
But kudos to him, he's still sober to this very day.


It seemed strange to me that that very phrase "Let go and let God" popped into my head earlier today.
Get out! I told it. I'm not in recovery! I don't want to be! My motto is that binging is okay, in moderation.
But yesterday when I was on query tracker, I saw that someone posted a new comment on Trish's profile.
I clicked on it, feeling excited.
I think now that  I must have been expecting, or maybe even hoping, that someone was writing to say that she had rejected them.
Perhaps something like this:
"Query: October 1st 2010. Form reject: October 20th. Oh, well. Onwards and upwards."
To which I would feel quite smug and satisfied and superior, and try to resist the impulse to reply "Sucks to be you, she's reading mine right now, maybe as we speak, or type, or whatever."

So when I saw "She requested my full, fingers crossed!" I felt, inexplicably, a frisson of- something. Irritation?
Annoyance?
Jealousy?
She was requesting a full from someone else!
How could she!
I hate to admit that I felt that way, even for a second, or a fraction thereof.
I talked myself out of that really quickly, though.
Try to think of it this way, I thought: her and I are in the same boat right now. She's not my competition, she's my ally. Trish might sign both of us. Her and Trish and I could all become best friends!
Or Trish could reject both of us, and we could console each other.
Obviously, there's a third alternative, though I prefer not to think of it.

Anyways, I sent a quick reply saying congratulations and keep me posted.
And later, at home, I had a glass of wine.
And then, suddenly, I felt a lot better about it.
It may well be true that I've learned a lot from a recovering alcoholic, but not exactly everything.
I mean, you can't believe everything they say in AA.
But then I started to wonder, when should I send a follow up to Trish?
Some people say six months.
Some people say one month.
Some people say never.
And then if I do write a follow up, what do I write?
I don't want to come across as a pest.
But at the same time, I do wonder if she even received my submission, especially in light of the fact that she said that my original email was found in her spam filter.
So I fretted over it.
And that's when I heard it: a little voice in my head that said 'let go and let God.' I know, hearing voices is bad, right?
But it seemed like good advice, even if a sign of probable psychosis.
So for the moment, I've decided to just leave it alone.
Focus on my next project.
And I've set a goal to complete Deal Breaker on or before I leave for Mexico, which is on January 14th 2011, which is 84 days away.
It's very doable, since it's currently at the half way point.
However, I will have to make certain sacrifices.
Yes, that means you.
I will probably post less frequently- once or twice a week, to keep you updated.
Because I'm a friend of a friend of Bill W., and I know what he would say:
Easy does it.

The End of an Era

Maybe, without really knowing it at the time, I've already changed Alex's last diaper.

I hadn't really thought about potty training Alex.
Maybe it's because he's the third kid, I don't know.
With Gage, my first, I had given potty training a great deal of thought and consideration. I read about it, talked about it, bought sticker charts and pull ups and gotchies and training pants and potty chairs.
With Alex, I was a bit more laid back about it.
When he's ready, he'll basically train himself, I thought.

But honestly, I wasn't expecting him to be ready just yet.
I still look at him and see a baby.
A baby that can tell you shut up and throw a soother at your head, but a baby nonetheless.

But, yes, there were signs.
The day he climbed into bed with me in the morning, shimmying his little but up against me.
"Where's your diaper?" I asked him, sleepily.
"I took it off," he said.
"Why?" I asked, kissing his head.
"Because I pooped."
My eyes snapped open.
Oh, I know- eyes don't really snap.
I'm just saying- that'll wake you up in a hurry.

But over the weekend, he insisted on wearing gotchies.
All right, I thought, rolling my eyes, envisioning a day of heavy mopping.
But he actually didn't have any accidents.
I wasn't sure what would happen at daycare yesterday.
But when I picked him up, he was still sporting his Backyardigan gotchies.
"No accidents," Tassia reported.
"It can't be this easy," I said, feeling- almost disappointed.
I had just bought a case lot of diapers.
He could at least be more considerate and use them up first.
And there was something else nagging at me.

"Now all we have to do is get rid of his soother," Geoff said.
"I wouldn't do that just yet. It'll be too hard on him to give it up and potty train at the same time."
Geoff looked at me.
"I'm thinking of him," I said, feeling defensive.
"You're thinking of yourself," he said.
"Why would I...even want..."
My voice trailed off.
I guess, there is a part of me that doesn't want to let go of these last vestiges of baby hood I have.
It seems like so much of my identity has been consumed with either trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, or having a baby on my hip.
Who am I if not a caregiver? A nurturer?

Sometimes, Geoff and I think of this while watching our children grow.
I project myself into the future, see myself watching the children, in turn, children graduate from high school. Help them fill out college applications (hopefully not applications for bail or probation), go wedding dress shopping with Payton, all that stuff.
So ya, there are more milestones to come.
But I will still miss the baby days.

What I Read This Weekend

I spent yesterday reading "Too Close to Home" by Linwood Barclay from cover to cover.
There are few times in my life when I will devour a book in one sitting, mainly because I have other responsibilities that I'm supposed to, technically speaking, be looking after- and not just putting "How to Train Your Dragon" on a continuous loop and feeding them pop tarts at random intervals.
Parenting with Pop Tarts, I should patent that as a potential book series- perhaps with the sub title: How to Have Your Cake and Eat it, Too.

Anyways.
My husband came home from work at 4:00.
"You're still in your pyjamas?' he asked.
I looked. "Apparently," I said, barely looking up from book.
"And the kids, too?"
I looked at them.
"Apparently."
I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not.
Didn't really care.
Honestly, I don't see why he would be.
It's called 'conserving laundry', and it shouldn't kill him to act happy about it.

I finished the book just before midnight.
I realized just how immersed I was in it when I made myself a glass of lemonade.
I don't usually drink lemonade, but I had suddenly a strong urge to gulp back a glass of it.
And then I realized why.
The MC in the book, Jim Cutter, drinks it or mentions it in quite a few places.
And the description of it- the beads of sweat that rolled down the glass, coupled with the scorching temperatures described in the book, made me suddenly thirsty for lemonade as well.

Anyways, here's a list of 5 things I love about the book:

1. The characters name, Jim Cutter. I didn't realize it until about half way through book how fitting the name was for someone who, as a living, mows lawns. When I caught that, I felt as the author was letting me in some private joke.

2.The opening line: "The night they killed our neighbors, the Langley's, we never heard a thing."
I was hooked immediately. For some reason, the idea of neighbors being slain in the night appeals to me.
I don't know what that says about the kind of person I am.
Probably doesn't make you want to be my neighbor, though.

3. A scene in the book where a character brings his literary agent to a funeral and flaunts her about.
He doesn't outright say in the book that the character is an egotistical ass, but that does it right there.
We get the sense that he's maybe just ever so slightly self absorbed.

4. The pace of the book.
I kept on thinking, I'll just finish this chapter, and then I'll... whatever whatever...brush my teeth, feed my kids, respond to the fire alarm.
But then the end of the chapter would bring a new twist and I'd be like "Oh screw it, I can always brush my teeth tomorrow. And I'm sure that most fires can put themselves out."
Honestly that plot was more twisted than Ozzy freaking Osbourne.
And I mean that in a good way.

5. The fact that there's a book within a book.
"A Missing Part" is a book that sounds, on the one hand, totally absurd- about a man who wakes up with no penis.
And then yet again, it sounds like it just might be the kind of phallus glorifying piece of work that critics would love. I was going to say "eat up" but I wasn't sure about how appropriate that would be used in conjunction with 'phallus'.

6. I know what you're thinking- I said 5, but I can't help but add:  The author is Canadian.

Not Feeling the Flow

I don't call it 'writers block.'
I call it: not feeling the flow.
It sounds nicer that way.
And I have this superstition like if I say I have writers block, then I have it. If I don't say it, then I don't have it. It's like- say, OCD. If I say I don't have it, and say it three times fast after tapping my nose three times in a row with my left pinky finger, then I don't have it.
It's called magical thinking, and I love it, don't care if it's a sign of mental illness or not.
Google it. It's a thing. For real.

Besides, I don't really consider myself to be blocked.
I mean, I could write, if I really wanted to. I'm writing right now.
But I simply don't want to- in either of my WIPs.
Writing isn't always easy, and I think that this is where I sometimes feel misunderstood.
People have said to me "I wish I could do that! Just sit down and write a book!"
Well, ya. You and me both, baby.
I can't just sit down and write a book. It takes weeks and months of dedication, of commitment and sacrifice. Of blood, sweat and tears.
OK. Maybe not blood.

But it can be long, and it can be lonely-- shutting yourself away from the TV shows people you love.
And this is a difficult thing.
I used to put a lot of pressure on myself to write. Even if I didn't feel like it. I would make myself. "Just one page..."

But lately I have let a lot of that go, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
On the one hand, I tell myself that I should focus on the things that are real in my life.
By real I mean- the things that can give back to me.
Like my kids.
Like my husband.
Like my job.
If I become successful at writing, I'll look back all those months and years I spent writing and call it 'perserverence.'
If I don't become successful, I'll call it what?
A waste of my time?
Time that could of been better spent with my kids? Or my family? Or my friends?
Or, perhaps, more importantly- finally getting acquainted with Jersey Shore??
Honestly, I feel like such a loser sometimes at the water cooler. I don't even know who Snooky is!!
"Oh, sure you do!" my coworkers insist. "She's the orange one!"
"Oh," I say with a slow nod, although this does nothing and I mean NOTHING to clarify things for me. The orange one- what the fuck??  How am I missing this??
They take in my expression and then exchange quick, wary glances. I can practically hear their thoughts: "she hasn't got a clue...Just drop it."
And then they change the subject, ask me, sort of sadly "How's the- erm, book, coming?" (like they're scared to say the word 'book', like maybe they don't believe that there even is one) and then exchange other, nervous glances, that seem to say to me "just indulge her on this."

Anyways.
I don't know.
First of all- who says what "being successful at writing" means, exactly.
Does it mean- simply the act of completing a manuscript?
Finding representation for it?
Getting it published?
And if it gets published, and it tanks, are you successful still?

Maybe.
I don't know.
It just seems that there's always another hurdle.

How do you define being successful?