And so it begins...

Kindergarten starts today.

I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.

I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "screeeeech... Puffffff" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.

I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.

I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.

He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."

They are silly, I tell him.

I don't tell him I'm silly, too.

The bright side. Or rather, through the dark side.

In an effort to stop griping so much about the Dorothy situation, I'm going to limit myself to one whiny-Dorothy moment per every 5 posts. Hopefully I won't have that many gripes, but realistically, I'll simply be writing more often. If I need to vent every week, I'll just have to put some good stuff out here, too. Good - meaning nice or something that makes me laugh, not the kind of good like I promise it'll be interesting.

So this week's bright spot comes in the form of a silver lining.

I had to give Dorothy a shower. That's the cloud part. The dark-middle-of-a-storm-cloud part is while I was bending over to dry the back of her legs that she said (yelled) she couldn't reach because she can't bend over... she bent over. I was confronted by a 77 year old hoo-ha. Blech. As if merely scrubbing her back wasn't gross enough.

The silver lining, you ask?

After seeing her in the buff, my personal body image has skyrocketed. I can finally look in the mirror and think, "it's not that bad." I'm almost sure it has nothing to do with blurry vision after having scratched out my eyes.

Anger-shopper

It's not often that I actually want to shop. For anything. I was never one of those women who relished the thought of a new wardrobe or had to freeze her credit cards in a block of ice to keep from overspending.

Don't get me wrong - I love shoes and purses, but I only buy them if I can't live without them AND they're on clearance. As for other stuff? I can almost always live without it.

Some women shop when they need a pick-me-up. It's like an anti-depressant for them. Me? I'm good with food. No need to get out of my pajamas when I can simply spoon-feed myself an entire jar of nutella or consume the occasional stick of butter dipped in sugar.

But lately... lately, I feel this pull towards the store. Any store, anywhere, that sells anything. It's weird and different and altogether exciting. I find myself surfing Amazon, e-bags, Overstock and countless other online shops (because again, I can stay in my pajamas). It doesn't stop there, though. IRL places like the Coach store call my name - I just want to go in and hug all those beautiful purses!

Another strange thing is happening with me lately, too, and I think the two may be connected. See, I'm usually a pretty laid back (or at least as laid back as a high maintenance girl can be) person. I've learned to breathe through my frustrations, vent in writing, call my friends to get things off my chest, and physically run to keep stress at bay.

Ever since Dorothy moved in, though, I've been on edge. It's mostly the gross-factor. I can handle gross in small doses, like at the park when some kid picks their nose and then wants to hold hands with my son, or if Monsoon crawls around on the floor and forgets to sanitize his hands before eating his chicken fingers, or even when the dog occasionally poops in the house.

The thing about Dorothy is, she's gross all the time, and I'm always here. I'm always thinking about where her crusty fingers have been before she rifled through that bag of pretzels (and then I end up throwing out the bag of pretzels). I'm constantly saying, "No thank you, I don't want to feel how cold your hands are" because you've just spent 40 minutes in the bathroom and not washed your hands before you came out (and then she goes ahead and swipes her nasty paws against my FACE so I can feel how cold she is in our 70 degree house).

I'm not depressed. I'm angry. And I want to shop. I think I'm an anger-shopper.

6WS: I may never get laid again

Husband had to bathe his grandma.

To participate in Cate's Six Word Saturday or to read a few more (less disgusting) entries, visit her here:

Why am I wearing a diaper, you ask?

Warning: if you do not find the humor in poop and/or vomit, you will likely not find this post enjoyable. You also likely do not spend much time with children.

Poor Monsoon. He came down the with the stomach flu right as I was calling him for dinner... at my parent's house. With my sister and her family. Oh yes. So many family members, so much vomit. It probably didn't help that as soon as he started it, I picked him up and ran him into the bathroom. We left quite a trail.

So now we're home. Husband has returned from two separate trips to the pharmacy, collecting first airborne for himself, and then Pedialite Popsicles for Monsoon. Before the second trip, however, Monsoon had an accident in his pants.

"Oops," he said. "When you have the stomach flu, sometimes you vomit out your butt?"

Yes. Yes you do.

Add pull-ups to the list, dear husband. The boy's gone without diapers for over 2 years, but it's night time. Likely he won't wake up and move to the bathroom in time. I am not cleaning that up again. Not today.

So when we pull them out of the package, Monsoon thinks we're joking. Husband, dear loving husband, promises that if Monsoon wears one, Mommy will put one on, too.

So I did.

It's over my underpants, of course, but still. It's under my pajamas. It's completely uncomfortable and I'm beginning to rethink the whole "old age" thing entirely. I am not cut out for diapers.

6WS: I'm feeling nauseous and sexy, simultaneously

"Lost five pounds with stomach flu."

Join Show My Face for Six Word Saturday.

6WS - Sick sick sick sick sick sick

Two festivals today = double tummy ache.

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Golden Goddess of Running

This is week 8 of the 9-week c25k program. That's 2 months of running. Two months of feeling like I might throw up and pass out - and hoping I don't do them at the same time. BUT I'm still waiting.

Still waiting on that Running Goddess body to appear, bright and shiny like a golden statue, everything put back in it's rightful place (ie: boobs no longer hiding in my underpants), freedom from the jiggle-butt syndrome, maybe even longer hair and fewer grays.

Am I asking too much? I even gave up cookie dough and along with that part of my sanity.

Fine. At this point, I'd settle for feeling less like a massive squatting toad. Still, the golden statue effect would be super.

sidenote: My IRL friend, Miss Scares-me-a-little, has a fabulous story about a lady who's boobs did actually hide in her pants. For the record, mine do not. Yet.

SWS: Up-down-up-down-up-bluck!

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"Now I know: always bring Dramamine."

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On Vomit & Sleeping Bags

Hubs is at a meeting, I'm washing strawberries (i.e. throwing half of them out because somehow the ones that looked fine IN the store are all grody by the time I get them home) for our camping trip, Monsoon is playing in his room. Or so I thought.

"Uh-oh, Mommy. I got my shoes dirty!"

Odd, since he is in fact inside our house and although I'm not the best housekeeper, there's nothing I can think of that could dirty his shoes unless he's stuck them in the toilet. Crap, he's probably stuck them in the toilet.

Nope. I walk into the living room, which is now covered in tiny shoe-print shaped mud. Nope, not mud. Dog vomit.

So I mentioned that I'm not a great housekeeper... I managed to keep the profanities in my head (how hard it was), clean him up and go back to packing. 20 minutes later....

"Uh-oh, Mommy. That fing fell in there!"

CA-RAP. I'm an idiot. I cleaned up the boy and went right back to packing - leaving the vomit tracks all over the living room. Seriously, I forgot. How does that happen? It happens sometimes in circle houses where there are two routes to the kitchen and I take the one where I don't look at the vomit tracks. So what fell in where, you ask?

My husband's sleeping bag fell into the pile of vomit. It didn't so much "fall" in as I'm pretty sure it was pushed. Profanities not so much only in my head anymore.

What am I doing about it? Told the boy to go play in his room while I cleaned it up, and came in here to blog about it. Yeah, I should probably go clean up the mess before Hubs gets home.

I'm going to miss THIS!?

So I wake up around 2 a.m. this morning with a sad sappy country song in my head. You know, the one that goes, "You're gonna miss this..." talking about missing the trials and tribulations of young kids once they're grown.

I don't know why I've got that song (the one bit of line that I know) running through my head and can't get back to sleep.

Then I get a good kick in the eye and realize Monsoon has crept in bed with us and is sleeping with his feet on my pillow. I turn him around, eye throbbing, all the while hearing, "You're gonna miss this...."

Ten minutes later, still trying to get that song out of my head and go back to sleep, Monsoon sits up and whines and I'm all, "Can you breath?!" because it sounds like he's having trouble and he has asthma so I'm freaking out until finally he gets out, "v-v-v-omiiiit."

"You're gonna miss this..."

Whew! He can breath. OH! We have to get out of bed! Quick, grab him, run (or stumble dazedly), don't knock his head- crap, sorry about that - into the hallway - "BLAGH" all over the carpet.

"You're gonna miss this..."

Scrubbing out smelly orange puke at 2:30 in the morning.

"You're gonna miss this...."

Monsoon telling me, "You're such a good Mommy." when I finally make it back to bed, and him patting my face in the dark, where I can just make out the tiny smile on his sweet little face.

I am gonna miss this. Is that weird?

(He was fine after that. I think it was a touch of food poisoning. Not from my cooking.)

Really? At a Garage Sale?

I haven't been "garage saling" in so long, I had forgotten how much fun it can be, especially with my sister. We had a wonderful morning hanging out, found many like-new child-entertainment-contraptions (a.k.a. toys) for cheap, and even came up with our very own list of "When is it ever okay?" inspired by the one and only DiPaola Momma of Chicken Nuggets of Wisdom and THIS particular post, which is humorous in a mind-boggling/cackle-and-snort kind of way.

When is it ever okay to display these items for sale in your garage? (and yes, we saw ALL of these things):

1. Underwear. No, not in the package.
2. A butcher knife. I might be concerned about children... and psychos.
3. Mouse traps. Rusty ones, at that, and a whole big box full of them.
4. Mostly-cloth baby-teether, used. So obviously used.
5. Deodorant. Trial size, not sealed.

It's not a long list, and I'm not sure if I'm more relieved or disappointed about that, but I'm looking forward to the next afternoon with my sistah.

What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen at a garage sale?

On Edge

Well folks, I'm a bit on edge lately, some things going down around here (my world, not my blog).

June 1st is a round-about date for word on something important to me, and while I'm not hopeful, I can't help but feel nervous about the possibility. So... if I haven't heard anything by the end of the week, prepare for some crap-slinging foul-moody blahs. (If I DO hear anything, you will be notified immediately. A celebration will follow... if only in my head).

I'm also planning to start a gluten-free diet for a few weeks, just to see what kind of difference it makes in the way I feel. I'm hoping it won't be painfully difficult, but we're big on whole wheat everything. If anyone has some pointers or what-not, please share. You can comment or e-mail me. Giving up some of the things I've gotten so accustomed to eating will be... well, kind of like breaking an addiction.

I'll also be job hunting. Blech. Thought I had something semi-lined up, but it seems to be falling through. If all else fails, I hear Walmart is booming. Please stab me with scissors now.

On a brighter note, the lovely Michelle "Lady Bug" from Welcome To My World has bestowed One Lovely Blog Award upon my crabby self. Any of you wishing to have your spirits lifted after this dismal attempt at a post, definitely check out Michelle's Daily Quotes. This quote most particularly seems to fit the bill for me today. Thanks Michelle!

**Since I have been honored with this award and passed it along before, and I think anyone who comes here and listens to (okay, reads) my complaints is worthy and lovely, I hereby pass it on to YOU.**

TAT: Push It

Please visit The Secret Life of Tova Darling for more Totally Awkward Tuesday posts - and come on, participate! Quick, before she stops hosting.

Aah, middle school, the age of awkwardness (as if it ever left me). At the time, it seemed like just being in the same room with my dad was awkward - we didn't have much in common, he seemed uncomfortable with me, too - or maybe it was just my projection of being uncomfortable in my own skin. Maybe it was my "becoming a woman" syndrome running head-on into his "this is my little girl who I must protect always" mentality. Who knows, but for a few years, things were just plain weird between my dad and me - but we occasionally managed to find ourselves in the kitchen or watching tv or in this particular case, in the car, just the two of us, listening to the radio, which was always tuned to AM. This time, though, maybe he was trying to reach out to my unfamiliar world of tween-dom, but he changed the dial to a station all the kids were listening to those days. And what should come on the radio immediately but...

Eegads! Please tell me this is NOT the song I think it is?! Oh no, he's turning it up. Oh, please be over, stop singing, interrupt this program, have a tornado drill, emergency broadcast warning... something! Pa-lee-hee-hee-heeeease! But no, he squinted his eyes like it would help him hear better or something, and asked me, "What are they saying?" I shot out a muffled, "I don't know" like I didn't listen to that song allll the time and dance around to it with my friends singing the "lyrics." He started tapping his hand on the steering wheel, to this beat...
(there's a 12-sec commercial in the beginning, sorry - I got this from MTV.com - but keep listening)

Salt-N-Pepa - New Music - More Music Videos

And just in case the video isn't working - cause I don't want anyone to leave here feeling cheated - you can go here to watch it and listen: http://www.mtv.com/videos/salt-n-pepa/115153/push-it.jhtml#artist=1181

Monsoon on a Stuffy Nose. (warning: gross post)

My baby's got a bit of a cold, so I was rocking with him near bedtime and we were have such a nice cuddle fest that I didn't bother to stop rocking when he started falling asleep. Before he could totally conk out, though, he had a massive slurpy/stuffy/snotty-nose sniffing attack. You know, when you need to blow your nose but instead just sniff and snuff for a long moment to suck it all back up.

I whispered: I can get you a tissue, Honey Pot.


Monsoon whispered (half asleep): No, Mommy.. I just like the taste of boogers.

I never thought I'd miss the days when he handed me a green slimeball after a particularly juicy sneeze.

Chick Chat

What is it that girls talk about? The answer may very well be absolutely everything. Topics frequently range from husbands, to kids, to friends, to family, to politics, to fashion, to celebrities. Nothing is sacred.
This same “anything goes” approach also seems to apply to the blog world. Blogging is a means that allows women to declare to the world what they are going through and to find others in a similar situation.
However, what if we could take the connections that we have formed with one another as bloggers one step farther? What if we could finally see and hear the people behind the posts that we read?
That’s where Chick Chat comes in. Chick Chat is a semimonthly post where the ladies from the Three Bay B Chicks and Hot Chocolate Caramel Mocha will film themselves chatting on a particular topic. To make things more interesting, we will be linking to three different blogs who have also filmed their own video segment in response to our conversation.
We kick-off our video series today with a discussion on the blog world. The Three Bay B Chicks, Hot Chocolate Caramel Mocha, Pooba, Optimistic Cynicism, and The World According to Me will be sharing everything on their mind about the blogosphere.
So have some fun and get clicking. Each site has a unique video, so you will have to visit all five blogs to hear and see what these ladies have to say.

It's been so long since I was on the receiving end of a moving picture, I had almost forgotten how freaked it makes me. Instead of putting fruitless effort into being normal, we just went for all-out... something else entirely.To help with this little problem, Monsoon worked up a good sweat applying purple make-up with all seriousness until finally..."There! You yook yike a cyown, Mommy!" He figured out (when I snort-laughed snot onto his forehead) that "clown" wasn't really the look I was going for. "Oh, just teasing, Mommy. You yook beautiful. I'm almost done wiff your appoimpment." Also, it's about time you all know how I hate to be seen without my feather boa. Add that to pink cheetah pajamas and forgetting to do anything with my perma-ponytail, and I'm glad it's dark in that screen.

Now it’s your turn. Want to turn the camera on yourself and participate in an upcoming Chick Chat? Let us know by sending an e-mail to contactchickchat@gmail.com. We are looking for both participants and topic suggestions. Our plan is to rotate the participation not only among ourselves, but also among all our friends in the blogosphere. We want to hear what everyone has to say.
We’d also like to thank the wonderful sites that linked to us today as part of the Chick Chat kick-off and encourage you to take a moment to visit these bloggers. Their tales, tips, humor, and support are something we should all aspire to…

Scary Mommy * I Need a Martini Mom * Suburb Sanity * Scribbit * A Nut In a Nutshell * SITS

It's not as much fun as it looks

My husband got a gag gift of electric nose hair clippers for Christmas one year. He got it out of the box and asked if I wanted to try them out. Gross, I don't have nose hair - I'm a lady! ...and if you ever get to the point of having to use that thing in any orifice of your body, we will no longer be cosleeping.
It lay there for days... on our dresser, stuffed hastily back into the box... a few jokes cracked here and there about the vibrating cutter... Every time I passed the thing, I was more intrigued. Getting past the whole "old-man-ear-hair-and-long-freaking-nose-fur" idea, and wondering (much like the electric shaver in 5th grade) how it worked without cutting the tender skin underneath the furry grossness.

Wondering, wondering, wondering... hmmm... is it just like the shaver, which ended up being such a big relief after 2 years of hearing Janet Hopling talk about how it rips the hair out at the root, only to find it didn't even give a close cut? Or more like that innocent-looking car lighter my uncle just haaad to sniff... up close.

Come on, I'm not that weird. You've all experimented with things that should not have ever been invented (ehem... pool-foolery/vomit-flavored jelly beans/spandex...). For the record, I do not have nose hair, nor will I ever admit to any neeern-nnnt-tz-tz-z-z-ttz sound coming from the thing as the poky part tried to escape through my upper nostril. But OH! the blood. It tried to kill me! There was blood everywhere - and by everywhere, I mean all over my... uh, well, probably the inside of my nose. It was red, though, definitely red. And scary.

Which brings me to the photo up top, which ties in nicely with the nose subject, as you can see right up it. Thanks to Xazmin of This Is The Year for being such a stickler for rules and leaving me with a loop-hole so that I may appear here, as per the "keep it real" tag, in a photo-taken-right-away-at-this-very-moment-as-you-read-it-here with NO "fixing" yourself up first. Poor Sprinkles begged me to make it look like she had at least applied make-up today. I will actually cheat now ('cause the photo-shop clown doesn't count as cheating) and not pass this horrid thing forward. You may all thank me in the comment section.

**Thursday's Big Thing Is Coming....!**

SWS: Breathe. ? Okay.

Update: "Made it: Number 232 of 405"

"I hurt everywhere, but I ran."

Six Word Saturday!

*Visit Cate for more short & sweetness

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"5K Today. Updates Pending Lung Function."