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.

Finding the funnies

Feels like it shouldn't take twenty minutes of staring at a blank screen with my fingers hovering quietly above the keyboard before I can think of anything to write about. This blog is all about me, and I'm right here having new experiences every day. Why is this so hard? I'm trying to think back to when I wrote a post every day. I always had something to share, some horrifying story turned humorous. Something that should have made me want to crawl under a table and suck my thumb, but ended up making me laugh instead.

That's just it.

I'm stuck in the thumb-sucking/table-crouching mode. I know I've missed it here in the blogosphere, but I think more than just something fun to pass time, it was a way to reorganize my thought process.

What's the old prayer, "Lord, grand me the something-or-other to do some-thing-or-other... and to accept the things I cannot change." That part right there. Blogging forced me to find humor in the things I couldn't change. To enjoy them. To conciously look for them and hope they came my way. Let's face it, if everything was good all the time, nothing would ever be funny.

So my problem right now seems to be that I'm stuck looking at the ridiculousness that is reality. I've forgotten how to flip the switch; how to find the funnies in the newspaper of my life.

Today, I welcome myself back to cathartic blogging. Let the humility begin!

Wow. It's been so long since I've even thought about writing a post that my own computer didn't recognize my website and I had to type the whole thing out. And then remember my password. And e-mail address. No wonder I haven't been back. I can't keep track of such things.

I believe - and no, I won't check for certain because I can barely remember how I got to this "new post" page to begin with.... and I'm lazy - but I believe my last post went something like "if I can't say something nice at least 5 posts out of the week, I won't say anything at all."

So maybe you can guess how I've been. Maybe you can relate?

No, no. It's not all bad. There are lots of great things going on, but none of that stuff is interesting enough to write about. For instance, I've played Candy Land a dozen time in the last week. I have a new career. I talk on the phone a lot. I meet new people. I play with Monsoon. Nice things.

I also clean poop off of the floor, throw out soiled diapers, disinfect my house three hundred times a day, wash an old lady, hide my knives (yes a few of them HAVE gone missing) and forget to do laundry most of the time. Not so nice things.

So in leu of all the undesirables, I've been spending more time doing happy stuff to make up for it. Blogging is happy, yes, but it's another thing that takes time away from Monsoon. Time he needs for "just us." I'm here, I'm just not here. For now.

the calendar

My mom always had THE CALENDAR when we were growing up. Between three kids, dance classes, baseball practice, soccer games, piano lessons, school functions and anything else thrown into the mix, she needed it to keep her sanity. Actually, I'm still not sure it helped with that, but at least we knew who went where and when (you know, as long as she looked on the calendar and reminded us four or five times).

I never gave the calendar much thought. As I said, we barely paid attention to it, even then - it was just a landscape picture with a bunch of filled-in squares that met us at the refrigerator before we opened the door to scrounge for snacks before dinner.

Now, though, between the husband's wonky work schedule, Monsoon's baseball practice (yes, my baby started his first season this week) and new preschool hours, Dorothy's doctor appointments and visits with her kids, my every-other-week as worship teacher for Monsoon's class at church, and whatever else we throw on top....?

I've moved our calendar to the front of the fridge, and the once-blank squares just don't seem nearly big enough to accommodate all of our plans. It happened so suddenly, yet I'm quite certain this is simply the tip of the ice burg.

The dog ate my pregnancy test

I share multiple addictions with millions of women across the world.

Chocolate? I can't remember a day when I haven't had chocolate.

Coffee? Some mornings, I feel like there aren't enough hours before bedtime for me to keep drinking the caffeinated warmth.

Hot showers? If we had invested in one of those endless water heaters instead of our small tank a few years back, I'd venture to guess our water bill would cost more than our house payment.

Pajamas? There must be more of us out there who could absolutely live in pajamas. I can't be the only woman to run to the grocery or pharmacy in them (they rarely look surprised when I do that).

Maybe they aren't addictions at all. Just creature comforts. Normal, justifiable, cozy comforts.

The other day, though, I realized I may have a problem that classifies in the complete opposite category than normal.

When Sprinkles took off with my home pregnancy test in her mouth, the primary thought in my head was "Eww, gross. That's got pee on it." Not "crap, now I don't know if I'm pregnant or not." Because honestly, I already know I'm not. It's a habit. Not a normal one, I'm fairly certain, but one that has been going on for a decade or so in our bathroom.

So on my list of improvements I want to make this year, avoiding the planned parenting aisle at the pharmacy is going at the top of the list. Not wearing my pajamas to the pharmacy, at this point, will have to wait.

Family movie night w/ foxy Jason Schwartzman

I love movies. I'm always on the look-out for family movies that I can watch with Monsoon while we cuddle on the couch with popcorn and hot cocoa for our very own family movie night, or even movies that make this frugal mommy want to pay full price to see at the theatre.

Fantastic Mr. Fox is one of those. I have been watching out for it since we saw the previews a couple of months ago. When I got an invitation to participate in a phone call with Jason Schwartzman (Ash in the movie), you can imagine how I screamed and jumped up and down (and subsequently tripped, bumped my head, bruised my leg and jumped right back up to scream some more) out of excitement.

Let me tell you, foxy Mr. Jason did not disappoint. Down to Earth and very real, I thoroughly enjoyed the entire phone conference. His description alone of this film made me want to jump up and cheer.

I asked if he could relate to his character, Ash, and how. Turns out this guy - who at least two of my friends want to marry - was a small kid with self-esteem issues, too. If he had seen this film as a child, he believes it would have helped him cope with some of those issues that most kids deal with at one point or another, like feeling too small and unimportant to go for the girl or try out for the team.

I think Mr. Schwartzman is quite an example himself. He may have been a small kid then, but digging in the dirt and playing around like an animal with the likes of George Clooney, Meryl Streep, & Bill Murray... that's big kid stuff, boys and girls.

Even better than all that, he got to talk to me (I already told you I'm famous). He was totally impressed with my blog name, and even asked how I came up with it. Who cares if I stumbled over my words and said nothing coherent or meaningful at the time - I can think of plenty to say next time we talk. I'm sure he'll call. We're best friends now, after all, even if he didn't say it. I know what he was thinking, "Wow, that's Ashley... she's the coolest stranger ever!" Well, right back at ya, buddy. Right back at ya.




Don't forget to check out my giveaway for a FANTASTIC MR. FOX tail tie, where you can also read the full synopsis of the film.

Celebrity by association?

Apparently, I'm on the list. The very important person list. Of very important persons to invite to phone call interviews with celebrities. Yep, I'm on the inside now. I'm practically a celebrity myself. I am. You're here aren't you? It must be because I'm a VIP in the circle of CPI (celebrity phone interviews - come on, catch up with the lingo, would ya?).

Never mind that when I got on the line with Uma, she kept hanging up and I never got to ask even one single question. She's the one who missed out. Because I'm almost famous. She's totally sorry.

Forget that my husband threw up in front of Anthony Edwards. Mr. Edwards was still happy to speak with me. Over the moon excited, I tell you. He might have a crush.

Don't even think about Friday, when Jason Schwartzman will be laughing it up with me and my thought provoking interview questions (the likes of, "how do you spell your name?" and "Did you live in a fox hole for a while to prepare for your role?"). Yep. All this VIP/CPI fabulousness just keeps getting better.

And by better, I mean that instead of being ignored and hung up on, or having to fumble for the mute key in the midst of wine-sickness, I'll be driving my dad (who will likely be cranky/hungry/murderous - you'll see why) to his colonoscopy appointment (see? I told you) while I participate in this phone call. That should impress Mr. Schwartzman, no?

I'm totally gonna be famous by the weekend.

My very own SITS Feature Day!

Welcome SITStas! Thank you all ever so much for stopping by. If you are here for some other lucky reason (lucky for me, of course), be sure and hop over to The Secret is in The Sauce - a wonderful community of bloggers spreading comment love and graciousness.

I had so many eloquent notes in my head to put here today, but somehow they've all gotten lost. I probably ate them along with that package of cookie dough for breakfast this morning. So here we are... in awkward silence. Which is kind of ironic.

As I read through some of my posts, trying to decide which ones to feature, I noticed something. I'm awkward. Everywhere I looked, I just kept finding awkwardness.

I was an incredibly awkward child - and unbelievably embarrassed in THIS particular moment.

I am still awkward as an adult - and rather clumsy HERE.

I seem to have passed on this awkwardness to my 4 year old son, Monsoon. He asks some very awkward questions, to which I answer THERE.

Despite all these awkward moments, I'm feeling pretty lucky today. It's Friday the 13th, after all. I also want to send out a big thanks to the SITS girls for all the work they do to promote sisterhood among women. They are amazing.

Now tell me something awkward or embarrassing about you. Come on... you know you want to.

Blackout List

As if turning 30 weren't traumatic enough, the day after my birthday? We had a hurricane. In Ohio. I can't help but wonder if the two events were related. We spent an entire week without electricity, and I spent a lot of time taking notes. Here is the top ten list I wrote (over a year ago, btw) about things I discovered while the electric was out.

10. At night, when Monsoon is sleeping, I just want to sit on the couch and be mindlessly entertained. I miss TV.
9. I do not miss cooking. Well, baking cookies maybe... but nothing else.
8. I still don't understand how my closet is full but I have nothing to wear b/c everything I like is dirty so I'm feeling the need to pile up most of my stuff for Good Will while I can't see it and I'm wondering how on earth does laundry pile up so fast?
7. Hubs does not like me without "electronic buffers." (that would be: tv/ computer/ radio/ etc... things that he can really pay attention to while he pretends to be paying attention to me)
6. I hate washing dishes. It's just gross!
5. I don't mind using candles and flashlights. I suppose if I was dating or a newlywed it might be romantic, but mostly for me it's just great not to see all the dirt around the house that I don't want to clean.
4. After the last hour and a half of scrubbing, I've come to the realization that my fridge was in desperate need of bleach... and I was right not to want to clean it when I didn't have to. In fact, I'm pretty sure it would have been more efficient to just fork out a few hundred bucks for a new one. (yeah, there's still bleach stuck in my nose and my brain might be currently affected).
3. I'm prettier in the dark (or maybe that's the bleach talking?). Mirrors aren't so bad when there are no horrible light bulbs illuminating every flaw.
2. I HATE washing dishes. Worth repeating, 'nough said.
1. Dresses with sequins still sparkle a little in the dark. So yeah, those dresses you see in the pictures of my birthday party? I've been wearing them around the house singing "Dancing Queen" by ABBA.

So this post might be outdated, but I needed something to be finished by the time my coffee was ready this morning - and I can't use my left index finger b/c I cut it. So there ya go.

The deal with my name

Question #3 of Mama Kat's writing prompt: How did you parents choose your name? What does it mean? What would you change your name to if you could?

Way back when I was born (circa 1978) there were no fancy ultrasounds to tell mom & pop which side of the boy/girl pool to bet on. Nope. So you might think, given my first name (Ryan for those of you who aren't paying attention) that my folks were indeed hoping for a boy. That is not the case. They had no boy names picked out. They only liked Ryan for a girl. Actually, at the time, Ashley was a boys name, as well. It was before the 80's Ashley bomb. So they liked boys names for girls. Eh.

Except not quite. The original name they picked out for me was.... Christy Bliss. Super girlie, I know. Weirdos. So how did I go from cutesy feminine to what-where-who-is-this-guy? Somebody apparently told them Christy Bliss sounded like a stripper name. Boo.

I really like the name Bliss. It means happy. As for my name, I don't know what the heck it means, other than boy.

If I could change my name...? Okay, so I kind of did. By 4th grade, I was so tired of confusing teachers with my boy name, I made everyone start calling me by my middle - Ashley. As an adult, I like Ryan better, but it was tough being a prissy princess girl with a macho name! And my parents threatened to disown me if I ever changed it back again.

Profile of a Superhero

Super-name: Mommymommymommymommymommymommymommymommy. (You can just call me Mommy.)

Super powers: Child wrangling; stain removing; tantrum prevention; crayon confiscating; and of course, hiding an extra set of eyes in the back of my head. I have also recently perfected "THE LOOK" with my front eyes.

Hobbies: I enjoy running cartoon interference and playing the 'nighty-night' game.

Annoying habits: I often find myself "Sshh-ing" when no one is around. This might be annoying if anyone actually were around, but I am a superhero here, so annoying habits are off the table.

Alter-ego: Make-up wearing sophisticate who can always find clean clothes and a nice pair of heels. The original prototype for this woman was 30 pounds lighter, but has unfortunately been forced to pack on weight for a more realistic disguise. She also never EVER wears furry houseshoes outside, nor does she still secretly wear maternity underwear 4 years after giving birth. There is never spit-up on her shirts and her socks always match. She does not forget to wear a bra on occasion and always remembers to shave her legs. Her hair has zero rat nests and she doesn't even own a hair-tie.

Catch-phrase: "It's pony-tail time!" This is derived from numerous attempts at letting my hair down, only to be called back to duty by an unruly child or contaminated toilet.

Who is YOUR inner superhero?

What parenthood means to me

Ahh, parenthood. Bumps and bruises, cries in the night, pee on the floor and squash-mashed curls - not to mention what the kids get into. Imperfection at it's finest.

Some days are so full of giggles and holding hands that I just know tomorrow will bring double the tears and slamming doors.

Parenthood. It changes things.

Lessons I never thought I'd need to teach: "fishing is for the pond, not the toilet.... underwear are for your bottom, not your head... licking windows will make you sick..."

Thoughts that would never have occurred to me: Ten hours of sleep might actually be too much. I would give my life for you without blinking an eye. Sticks hurt - ouch!

Emotions I never realized I had: I love you more than chocolate ice cream with potato chips. Your giggles have the same effect on my stomach as big hills in a fast car. When your feelings get hurt, mine are hurt worse.

Questions I never thought I'd ask: Will you still love me if I put you in time-out? Is it normal to cry when you want to hold my hand? Am I completely screwing you up?

Parenthood, to me, means letting go of those perfectionist ideals, embracing my own inner child, and laughing in the face of insanity - even when that face is smeared with peanut butter and staring back at me in the mirror.

The inspiration for this post is brought to you by the upcoming movie MOTHERHOOD. I have been invited to participate in a conference call with Anthony Edwards and some other fabulous mom bloggers on the subject of - you guessed it - the meaning of parenthood. I got so excited just typing that last sentence that I sucked jello down my throat and nearly needed the Heimlich.

They don't call me Princess for nothin'

Standing on top of the slide, physically underlining each syllable with a stomp of my foot, "It's my birthday and I can do whatever I want!" They had to hear it sometime, my parents. What did they mean, why did I push my sister off the top of the slide? I think I was 6.

Yesterday, on my 31st birthday, my dad gave me permission to bark at anyone I want. Miss Kitty said I could be a diva anytime I needed to be. My mom relinquished her throne and title, warning me that it's not easy being Queen. My husband rubbed my feet, and Monsoon saved me a pancake with sprinkles.

Now that I'm allowed to do whatever I want, it doesn't seem quite as necessary.

My husband is an evil genius.

Dear Con Artist Husband,

When you announced your plans to take Monsoon away for the weekend, I was more delighted than should be allowed at the prospect of having an entire weekend of nothing so that I could spend endless hours writing away. Yes, I was happy to do everything all week so that you would have every available moment to finish all your homework and be able to leave me to myself. I might have even sung your praises.

When Monsoon got sick as you packed everything up, I'm pretty sure you did it on purpose. Somehow. Because then you suddenly had plenty of homework to keep yourself busy while I cared for sick boy, who was obviously more whiny grouchy needy than regular boy. All weekend. In fact, I know you had something to do with it because miraculously, sick boy was once again regular boy the day after you were supposed to return home. Suspicious, no?

Today, you had way too much homework to do and couldn't go with us to get Monsoon's picture taken. Fine, I understand, school comes first. Sure, you could have planned ahead, but whatever.... You went out last night with friends, but you have a huge load and it's end of quarter, you've been hitting the books hard, you deserves to wind down a bit. Fine. Except... when our (unexpectedly horrendous) photo appointment is half over, I call you to whine vent inform you that I'm pulling out my hair. You do not answer. You text me that you are out golfing with your buddies and can't talk on the phone. Hmph!

Tell me, dear husband, how can I get in on this con and who can we mark?

With gripes and awe,

The nearly bald lady across the living room.

Why I don't write: real life scenarios

• My house is disgusting, Sprinkles is attention deprived, husband wants my help, but I don't care. Monsoon finally took a nap for the first time in 7 months and I know I have at least 45 minutes to scribble out the story idea that's been on my mind since last Tuesday. I'm picking up the pen!
• Husband, wonderful husband, is taking Monsoon with him to a family event out of state. They will stay all weekend! I'll have mid-Friday through mid-Sunday to revise/edit/write new material AND take a break for poker night. I even cleaned the house on Thursday.
• Woo-hoo! My parents offered to keep Monsoon overnight. We'll order take-out and Hubs can do homework while I write. Perfection.
• Hubs is working on the truck, Monsoon went to sleep early, I have a couple hours left of the day before my head turns to mush. Hello paper, hello pen, hello warm summer evening on the deck with wine. I'm ready.

These are only a few examples from the last two weeks. I get off to a great start, but inevitably the dog will throw up on my pants or hubs will rent a carpet-cleaner or my baby will get sick or something, SOMETHING will happen before anything is written.

Blogging? Blogging is different. It's fast. It's real.

I can't sit down and come up with a couple hundreds words of fiction in twenty (or two) minutes. So I blog, because I have to write something. Right now, though... it's just not enough. I'm frustrated and pissy and all the ideas in my head feel like they're going to explode in there if I don't let them out.

It's UP!!

It took an extra day to get there, but my short story is up on our local paper's website. I won honorable mention in the 13th annual poetry & short story contest held by Dayton Daily News. If anyone would like to read it, you can find it here: http://bit.ly/GFHzA In case you're thinking you don't want to read it, I will not be offended, but let me tell you my grandmother LOVED it. (She's the one that calls me sugar lump and lets me sit on her lap). If that doesn't convince you that I'm brilliant, well... maybe you're the one who's brilliant.

Thank you all for your fabulous comments from Saturday's post. I'm not a professional, but this contest is a big deal for me. I appreciate everyone's support.

I'm P.O.S.ing

I found something interesting over at Sassy Britches today, who found it over at Life, Liberty and the Pursuit...

This is for those of us who have been too busy to post or comment due to the excitement/anxiety of cramming all our warm-weather fun into three short months. I certainly haven't been posting regularly, and not for lack of subject matter. We've been OUT. We've been DOING stuff. We've been SEEN! It's all very nice and, because I'm so interesting and you're salivating for juicy "australia" stories (eww) and potty humor, you'll hear all about them when I'm tired of looking at the sun (not directly, of course) or if Hubs decides to take Monsoon on that camping trip without me AND my house gets cleaned. Okay, yeah you're right - the house won't be clean. I'm still here every day, but for far fewer hours.

I promise to get back to commenting around the blogosphere like a cyber-hooker again when things cool down, but for now, I'm probably on the corner like a real hooker down the street chasing after the ice cream truck.

Go here to read Em's oath and join the the P.O.S. (prisoner of summer) Blogger Alliance with one of several fab buttons she has arranged for us.

My first gluten-free day

I wasn't expecting to start the whole thing today, but woke up this morning and realized one box of cereal on top of our fridge (the one way back in the back that I can barely reach? The one that's been there for maybe a year because nobody will eat it? That one) is gluten-free. Add that to an overabundance of fruit that's plenty ripe and won't last - thanks Hubs for the overstock - and I've got my first start on a gluten-free day.

Why stop there?

By 3, I was ready for some bread. There's nothing quite as filling as bread. Let's face it, a gigantic bowl of fruit might squelch my sweet tooth, but I'll still be hungry in ten minutes. So...

Dragged Monsoon to the health food store (without a list), grabbed some things that looked good enough to eat from the gluten-free aisle, and let him pull me out the door. Unpacking my purchases, I realize there is only one product that is NOT dessert. In the whole bag. *shrug*

So here I sit, laptop covered in gooey-sticky chocolate brownie and I am one happy girl. Oh, and seeing as how I didn't actually buy anything for dinner, we ended up eating a pizza from the local gluten-free restaurant - which was delicious! - and picked up a loaf of GF bread and some (more) GF chocolate chip cookies while we were there.

All in all, the first day was less painful than I anticipated. After all, I can still have chocolate.

6 Happy Things

My friend Jennifer at Mamma Made It Look Easy tagged me to list 6 things that make me happy that aren't really important (although it has been pointed out that simply making a person happy is quite important in it's own right). Jennifer also mentioned she'd rather have done a list of 6 things that piss her off, which I think would be fun as well. Anyone wishing to participate in either game, please do.

1. Remembering to bring my reusable grocery bags to the store, and hearing Monsoon remind other people that "plastic bags are not healthy for the Earf." Yeah, it's probably only funny to me.



2. The end of every Group Therapy with Grandmas session.
   


3. Listening to a saved voicemail from Monsoon when he was 18 months old and figured out how to call me. It mostly consists of giggles and "no" repeatedly and the sound of running while Daddy's in the background trying to get the phone from him.



4. Looking at all the flowers I've just planted. Before they wilt and die.



5. Reading! To Monsoon, to myself, whatever. Today he asked me, "What are you reading in your brain?" I was reading silently to myself.


6. Tricking Monsoon into eating something gross by telling him it's candy. (Harry Potter jelly beans - they make a great minute. Don't forget your camera)

On Feminism

I can honestly say I've never really thought of myself as a feminist. I know, I know: *GASP*


My best friend, The Fabulous Miss Weiner, has always proclaimed herself as such. She went to college and minored in women's studies. She came home on school breaks, haughtily throwing down photo-copied pages of offensive women's magazines and high school home-ec books from the 50's, all encouraging women to do right by their men, if they did nothing else in their life.


There were a few years where we seemed worlds apart, and neither of us really understood the other. I'm using the two of us as an example because, while we were so close all through middle and high school, we wanted completely different lifestyles.


You all may know I got married at 19. I wanted to be a wife and mother, cook and clean, and leave my husband to do the dirty labor outside our home. I realize, now, that it was a naive take on life, but let me be clear. I didn't plan on staying home for my husband's sake. I didn't just want to take care of him. At the time, it was what I wanted (never mind that I won't EVER do dishes by hand and we didn't have a child until 8 years later).


Yes, I've changed over the years. My needs and goals are different than they were a decade ago, and the same has happened for Miss Weiner. Priorities have been swapped, wants have been compromised, and wisdom seems even more elusive. Thankfully, I still have my best friend.


So here I am, at 30, thinking about feminism and what it really means. To me, it's simple: Doing what makes me happy and not conforming to anyone else's beliefs about what I should be doing simply because I am a woman. It also means being responsible for my own success. I am a feminist, after all.


What does feminism mean to you?

**You'll really want to check out THIS extra-short post about Miss Weiner**