Happy Sunday

Today we went to Mom's for what shall now be known as the traditional Labor Day weekend dinner -- turkey! Mom and Herb invited us over for the yummiest meal in the history of this holiday. It was the perfect Sunday afternoon.









Please note, Nico is using the ever-fabulous Snoopy spoon I so loved as a child. More proof that he has the world's best Grandmom. And yes, Aunt Liz, that is sausage stuffing your nephew is feeding himself with said spoon. Check this out... am I crazy or did having a second child actually make me thinner? Why thank you, I think so, too. * Brown tank top photo is from summer '07, when Nico was in his hat phase. The white shirt photo is from this past weekend. *

Showers? Short. Posts? Long.

Just noticed... posts lately have been way long. Either I have more to say, or am just having trouble paring down.

Other news... An exciting turn of events, I have officially mastered the art of the five-minute shower. The bath tub used to be my "me time" haven. I can still enjoy extended bathing time on the weekends once in a while, but lately I just want to get in and get out. There's no charm in it anymore.

And still more excitement... I have been up since 5:30 this morning and finally see fit to go to bed. On food shopping night, there are always plenty of snack combinations so it's tough to stop stuffing my face and get to sleep. Luckily I did get that afternoon nap, but f*ck naps unless they're longer than an hour. Anything less is just a tease.

The hurtin's on me, yeah.

I think everybody fights with their significant other. Maybe I fight with mine more that the average bear, so I have it in my head that it's normal. Often times I wonder if we argue because we're too different, or because we're too much the same. I don't know. Somehow we found each other even though he was born and raised three thousand miles away. Maybe I'm a sucker for a dude with an accent, who knows? Shoot.

What was once my ability to drink beers has, in my 30s, translated in some odd fashion to a skill I never really possessed in my mid 20s. Back then, my best strategy for winning a fight was (shame on me) crying. Hubby fell for it every time. I know that losing to a cryer is completely unsatisfying, but I didn't care. How selfish of me! As I matured, so did my way of putting up a fight. It's a weird game, this arguing thing. Today I can proudly say that, while it takes one drink for me to get wasted, you'd have to break one of my bones or poke me in the eye to get me to cry during a standard verbal disagreement.

After explaining that I felt The Hub was bullying his way through the morning, I hopped in the car and drove off to run errands with the kids. Just to let the mundane details take my mind off my anger, and to try to forget just how irritated I was. We also stopped at my mom's house for a little while. When I got home, Frank was making a late lunch -- chicken, rice and beans, and fried yucca. For dessert, a sincere apology. *Forgiven!* After family nap time (which almost never happens these days) we went to Wegman's for Cheerios, pears, and juice and wound up doing a week's worth of shopping.

I'll preface this last part by saying that Wegman's has, hands down, the best supermarket music ever. I challenge you to show me the ShopRite that plays "Roots, Rock, Reggae" and "This is Radio Clash". Snap, I thought so. Ok so we were walking through the cheese aisle when "These Eyes" by The Guess Who came on. We both busted out simultaneous "Superbad" Michael Cera impressions, and I swear I almost peed my pants laughing. So I guess we, brown boy and white girl, are not so different after all.

What the Christ?

When I say I've got the house to myself, it doesn't mean I'm here alone. It just means Frank is not around. Anyway, I've got the house to myself tonight. It's one o'clock in the morning and I should be asleep. What the Christ am I still doing up? I keep checking my email, but I still don't see that personal invitation (or e-vite, as the case may be) from my bed, saying "La Rivera, you're invited... to get some much needed rest!"

My challenge mate Swisscake Mama has retired early tonight, both from her part-time data entry work and from our IM blog challenge. And now I cry for you in the style of my beloved Mr. Wong. A-boo-woo-wooooo. I'm trying to silence the static in my brain and make myself peaceful enough to actually lie down in bed without grinding my teeth. That's a tough one. I've been gnashing my choppers all night lately, and this is finally beginning to wear on both my teeth and my head in general. Ow and ow. Since I plan on living into my late 90s - early 100s, and would love to still have all my own teeth, I should probably reschedule that appointment I canceled in April to get fitted for a bite guard. Before all my teeth crack in half. I'm trying to replace the gnashing with some other fitful habit, but nothing seems to catch on. Making tight fists, pointing my toes for extended periods of time, pushing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, flexing my abs, crossing and uncrossing my big toe and my pointer toe, and even gently tapping my front teeth together... still haven't found a suitable replacement for the painful jaw clenching.

I bet you the solution is a decent night's sleep. Sha-zam! Good night, sweetheart, good night.

Mrs. Pill Popper

I have the worst headache in recent memory, so tonight I took one of the painkillers I saved from when Olivia was born. These things come in handy from time to time, and they last a lot longer when I A) hide the bottle from my hubby and B) write on the bottle the number of pills left inside. 'B' actually helps keep me from popping all the pills at once (there's like four left in there, big whoop) on really difficult days.

Oh yay, Obama speech. I can't take this stuff tonight. Hang on a minute while I try to find some "Flight of the Conchords" on demand. Poo. No Jermaine and Bret. WTF. Alright, "Sex and the City" it is. Yay. But I can only stomach one episode tonight.

Since my chats with Jen have fallen by the wayside today, I'll tell you about some other word-related happening... my stay-at-home moms group's monthly newsletter. Every month there's a "Getting to Know You" page whereon two club members are spotlighted and they both fill out a questionnaire. Last month I was one of the participants. One of the questions was "What is your dream job for your children?", to which I answered: Nico - gourmet chef, and Olivia - artist. So far there have been three other spotlightees and all of them have said their dream job for their kids would be "whatever makes them happy". I think this goes without saying, so I took the time to come up with an actual creative answer to the question instead of using the obvious blanket response. Is it wrong of me to be disappointed that the other moms didn't do the same?

Now I know for a fact that my mom couldn't ever possibly be disappointed in us if she knew we were going after what we want. When I was little she actually said to me, "You could work at Burger King for the rest of your life and I'd be proud and love you just the same. Be what you want to be and do what makes you happy." It's one of the things that has always stuck in my mind and helped me listen to my own heart. So much so that I tried to use it on The Hub back when he was just The Boy. When he was trying really, really hard to start working in New York, either right before or right after graduation, I tried to say the same words to him and let him know I supported him 100%. I was trying to give him a pep talk and got as far as "Burger King" when he cut me off and said, "Take that sh*t out of your head right now. I'm never working at some punkass Burger King bullsh*t. F*ck that. NYC, baby, I'm a city dog!" That's Frank for you.

So I guess for some, any kind of reassurance involving a fast food chain is the spiritual equivalent of a backwards shove down a flight of stairs. The point is that I meant well. All I could do after that was grumble to myself. I guess some people want to hear what they already know to be true, and that gives them all the power they need. Some people are looking for something more specific. I used to think I knew which one of those I was... and now I'm not so sure. Maybe the point is that whatever you choose, it should be your heart's desire whether it's flipping burgers or drawing or raising children. You have to have heart to give heart, I guess. I must be surrounded by loving people then, 'cause I think my heart just grew three sizes. Aah, look at that, my headache is gone!

He's not a bear, he's a-wearin' a neck-a-tie.

Yes, yes, the famous Rorschach ink blot test. If there's one thing I love, it's some psychoanalysis. Being Irish, I, myself, am impervious to such things but as a tool for peering into the minds of others, there's nothing finer. Not an argument passes between me and The Hub where I'm not accused of some kind of witchcraft of the mind. What can I say? *huff, huff, buffing my nails on my shirt* I'm just that sick.

So this image above is one of my favorites, and here's why: my old Abnormal Psych professor, Dr. Zillmer, lectured once about someone giving an honest to God crazy answer for what this is a picture of -- a bear dancing with a map of Africa. Oh, Dr. Zillmer, if I had any real brains back then I might have hit on you during that time when I was one of your research assistants. But instead, I poured my efforts into chasing Dr. Colamosca and look where that got me. Oh I'm SO joking, and any of my old college friends can vouch for that. Dr. Colamosca is so not my type. But anyway, ink blots. A funny little way of seeing what's going on behind the scenes. Maybe I've got blot-on-the-brain because I have truly been going a little bit out of my mind. This is from this afternoon's chat:

Swisscake Mama:
Are you having half of this conversation in your head?

I was going to include what led up to this, but really, does it matter? It will suffice to say that we had about ten minutes of chatting where I got lost and confused several times along the way. I've been dismissing it as pure spaciness, but what if there's something else going on several layers beneath the surface? I've resolved myself to not worrying too much about it until I'm in my 80s or 90s, by which time people will kind of expect me to be a little eccentric. Yes, that's it... I'm not crazy, I'm eccentric. But when I'm 85 you can just tell your friends you know this granny who's "a little off her rocker" and giggle at how that's true on so many levels.