Monday, June 30, 2008


I feel the need to explain my last post-lest anyone think I’m bi-polar. 

Once a month or so I develop a severe personality disorder that stems from natural biological circumstances.

The title of the  previous post stemmed from the joke that is as follows:

“Do you know why they call it PMS?”

“No, why?”

“…because ‘Mad Cow’ was already taken.”

Get it? 

I know-not very funny.  But here’s another one for ya.

“Why do Eskimos wash their clothes in Tide?”

“Why, Sugar?”

“…because it’s too cold out tide.”

Ha! That one kills me!

…and one more before you kick me ‘til I’m dead.

“What did Tarzan say when he saw the elephants coming?”


OK, I’m done now. 

However, I do have another arrival to report.  Bryce Asher came into the world less than an hour ago.  I don't even have particulars yet.

This one is Joy's first great-nephew.  And so by default and the fact that I've wormed my way into the family by pretending to be fascinating, he's my first great-nephew also.  In fact, I'm off to the hospital right now to have a look see.  I'll go to the basement and check in on John and Ben too. 

...three pound monsters that they are.

Friday, June 27, 2008

...because 'mad cow' was already taken.

I'm wound tighter than an eight day clock.  

I have a bizarre other-worldly surge of energy today.  I’ve kicked ass on multiple projects, sent emails, done research, developed spread sheets.

I can’t be stopped.

I cut my walk short, didn’t leave my desk to eat and have been keying like a woman possessed.  I’m a car engine continually revving.  I’m trying to shift, but my psyche won’t allow it.

Ha!  Did you get that carrevvingshift?   I’m so funny.  Everything is so funny!

Will this euphoria soon coming crashing around me? 

Ha! There’s another one!  Crash! Get it? I’m brilliant!

I’m crazy!

Huh?  What did you say?  You did so say something.  I heard you muttering under your breath. You agree I’m crazy?  Who are you to tell me that I’m crazy? Huh?  This is my blog and by God, I’ll write whatever I want!  You’re the big stupid head! You cross me and I’ll kick you into next week you worthless piece of …

OhGodOhGodOhGod. I'm so sorry.  I don’t know what came over me. Have I hurt your feelings?  I’m so sorry.  Please forgive me. Kiss, Kiss, Kiss.  I hate it when I'm like this. I just go off on a tangent. Sob. I’m a mess.  Sob, sob, sniffle, snort, blow. Please don’t hate me!  Please!  I’m so sorry.

OK breath

OK breath

OK breath

What I meant to s...


…what was I talking about?

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Not Tonight

Ya know.  I have three nights off in a row.

Prime blogging time.

I could write missives and/or amusing anecdotes.   For God's sake, I could proofread this rot for a change.

But I got nothing.

Big Daddy's daddy is in the hospital recovering from a harrowing illness.

Prissy is in a depression.

Ben and John, I am happy to report, have both reached two pounds and ten ounces.

Another friend brought beautiful baby Isabella into the world just last night.

Too much time spent at the hospitals, 'homes', and works.

So tonight is for me.

But...on the way home from a visit to Prissy's this afternoon I sang my heart out in the car.  It was for my own amusement.  God knows no one else would have wanted to be with me.  I was listening to Martina McBride cover old country  classics.  I kept coming back to this one.  No matter how powerful it was, however, you can't beat the original.

So here's Tammy, Y'all.  And maybe we'll have something tomorrow.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Too Little Too Early

I have a friend who recently birthed twins.

If she had had her way, they would have made their entrance after a nine month term as originally planned.

John and Ben couldn't wait that long however and sneaked unexpectedly into our company at 25 weeks-weighing 1.14 lbs. and 2 lbs. respectively.

Today was her baby shower.  It was a baby shower that was intended for several weeks prior to the babies' births but instead, featured them as guests of honor.  Even though they attended only in spirit from their incubators at the local NICU.

I can't imagine anyone more equipped to handle this challenge than my friend.  She is vivacious, strong-willed, intelligent, and surrounded by people who adore her.

Do you detect a hint of jealously?

Yes, actually you do.  Because I'm small and petty.

...are you just now getting that?  

But I wouldn't trade places with her right now for all the tea in China.

(Does anyone really know what that phrase means?) 

Big and Little both banged into this world healthy, hardy, and screaming for their first meal.

Big had a some problems making his entrance because, as his name suggests, he was, well, big. I'll spare you the gory details, but lets suffice to say that I had a reputation on the maternity ward for being the young woman who had the episiotomy and the Cesarean section. 

Little arrived as nature intended, slipping out of the chute and into the doctor's hands.  I remember being told to not look into the mirror at my feet to witness the arrival of my boy, but to look at it 'real time'.

I'm glad I did.

I felt the 'pop' of his head break through and saw Little writhe his way out of me and into our presence.

I have never known a more earthy, primal moment than that.  And I mourn somewhat the fact I'll never know that feeling again.

My babies ate well, were never colicky, and slept through the night at six weeks.

Yeah, I know. 

 I suck.

Little had frustration.  He didn't talk as early as he wanted and often communicated said frustration by screaming and banging his head on the floor.

But that was as a toddler.

My friend has many worries to overcome before she can experience these joys.

Her joy comes from the babies accepting pumped breast milk-from an eyedropper.  It comes from getting to see them side by side on Father's day.  It comes from every ounce that is gained and every day closer they come to getting rid of the PICC lines.  It comes from seeing them poop for God's sake.

Her joy will come when she finally gets to hold her babies.

Tonight Little went to bed before the rest of us.  I went in to give him a kiss good night and leaned over him and put my ear to his chest.  I've done this before so it came as no great shock to him.

I love to listen and feel his heart beat against my ear.  It is strong and steady and robust.  It screams health and power and miracles.

We pray daily for the miracles that will continue to happen for John and Ben.

...and simply, we won't accept anything less. 

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Killing Them Saltly

Dinner tonight is Swedish Meatballs.

Dump a bag of frozen meatballs in the Crock pot.

In a bowl, mix together a can of golden mushroom soup, a can of cream of mushroom soup, a can of beef broth, and one package of brown gravy mix.

Dump all of that on the meat balls.

If you are adventurous, which I am, dump a package of fresh sliced mushrooms on top.

Cook all day on warm.

Whoop up some egg noodles when you get home and you are all set.

Yummy stuff, Ya’ll.

However if you are worried about killing your family with preservatives, sodium, and fat this probably isn’t the dish for you.

It’s great though for a mom on the run.

...and I'm running to the pub just as soon as I hit 'publish'.

Monday, June 16, 2008

The British Invasion

Here at the garment factory we are battling a new addiction.

We are currently at war with the Discovery channel. Although, Dirty Jobs and Mythbusters still cause us much temptation.  Collectively as a family we've decided to ignore Ice Road Truckers and The Deadliest Catch, but the other two are still causing us issue.  

For me especially-Dirty Jobs.  For no matter how dirty he actually gets, that Mike Rowe is still just a damn handsome man.

You just don't see many handsome men anymore.

Don't get me wrong. There are many a fella I find hot, sexy, good-lookin', fine, cute, gorgeous, and Sawyer. (Yes, I use it as an adjective, not a noun.  When a feller is just all hotdirtysexy, we gals at work call him a Sawyer-try it!  Of course, you'd have to watch Lost to get it.)

But I digress.

In this day and age there are just few men you can describe as handsome.  The word seems to be dying out.  I think to be considered handsome there is an air of elegance needed.  Maybe? Somehow I don't think Mike Rowe is elegant holding freshly castrated horse testicles, but still.

I digress again.

Our addiction is now transferred to BBC America.

I am so ashamed.

We don't watch the dramas.  No Robin Hood or Torchwood for us.  We are all about the reality.

An intervention will soon be needed for my love of How Clean is Your House.  I could watch Kim and Aggie scrub toilets all day.  I have made my own air freshener from vodka and essential oils and I now put a capful of bleach in my dishwater.  I need to do research into what the heck biological washing powder is.  But I have gotten used to them referring to dish soap as washing up liquid.

I need to just say no to You are What you Eat.  Gillian has no qualms about calling a fat-ass a fat-ass and will shame you for feeding your kids crap. She examines everybody's poo and makes you eat Aduki beans.  

Aren't they the same thing?

But as we speak all three boys are watching Top Gear.  The road tip across the desert was watched every time it came on all weekend long.  Even though it ends the same way each and every time.

No Cash in the Attic, and I think Gordon Ramsey is a jerk, but we will watch reruns of The Office and Ab Fab. (See?  I'm even using the abbreviations)

Methadone, anyone?

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Rope Burns

I’d skip through the halls with my little friends.

I’d sing out a cheery hello to our principal Mr. Wessells-he of handlebar mustache fame. (I can still conjure up the smell of mustache wax) 

I’d look fondly forward to my lunch of PB&J, Fritos, and a fruit cup.  I’d sit with my friends and conspire to ride bikes down the ‘busy’ road when our Mothers’ backs were turned.

And then, after lunch, we’d have gym class.  I loved gym class!  Sometimes we would learn folk dances. We would become giddy with excitement when we saw the old turntable sitting up on the stage of the gym.  (The Mexican Hat dance was always my favorite, followed closely by freestyle dancing at the end of class to strains of the Hawaii 5-0 theme song)  

Causing even more excitement would be entering the musty gym and seeing the parachute spread out on the gym floor. (Run left, turn, run right! Snap the parachute upupupupup aaaaaand let it fall down around you.  We loved that fort feeling under the gently falling silk.)

Sometime the mats would be laid out and we knew tumbling was the order of the day.  (I could turn an aerial cartwheel back in the day and also perform a back walkover by walking my legs up a wall and then flipping myself over.)

Hula Hoop day was big fun, too.  I was killer with a hula hoop.

However several days a year I’d enter my little elementary school gym and my heart would stop cold. My palms would sweat and the bile would rise in the back of my throat because there, hanging from the ceiling, was The Rope.

While other children would begin to squeal with eagerness, I would suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to puke.

I could not climb The Rope.

I would put myself last in line, hoping to run out of time before my turn came.  But then Mr. Maurice our gym teacher would rearrange us in alphabetical order-by last name.  So invariably I had to go close to the front. 

It was always a race as to who could climb up the fastest and then come back down without falling to their death.

Malora was always in front of me alphabetically.  Malora was an athlete.  Malora would grab that rope, spread her feet out instead of wrapping them up in the rope for support, and shimmy up using only the strength in her arms.

She was always very gracious when my turn was next.

Go on, Sugar. You’ll make it this time.

Somehow I doubted her sincerity because she’d always give me that snicker/snort through the nose kind of laugh as she passed me and then double over with more laughter when she went to the back of the line.

But I’d step up to the mat, by God!  I’d be buoyed with sudden confidence.  I knew this would be the time I’d make it to the top.

So I grabbed the rope, swallowed the bile, and hopped myself onto the knot tied to the bottom.  I’d stretch, I’d grunt, I’d try pushing with my legs with all my might. I’d pull until my arms hurt.  I wrapped the rope around my legs trying to get support.  I’d jump down and try again and again.


OK, Sugar.  Thanks for trying so hard!  Go on to the back of the line.

Yes, Mr. Maurice.

Oh the agony of defeat.

Granted, I wasn’t the only kid who couldn't climb the rope.  There was Lara B, but she had a learning disability and John-John the pee-pee boy never made it very far either.

I would comfort myself knowing I had august company in my lack of rope skills.

This horrifying childhood experience only prodded me to vow that one day I would be able to scale a rope to any height required.  And guess what, Kids…

I still can’t climb a rope.

Now, if you want a good solid base for a human pyramid, I’m your gal.

I was always picked first for Red Rover, because I could hold anybody back from breaking through my link in the human chain and I charged through the opposing team's chain like a bull. 

Get the Hell out of my way, Bitches.  Who's coming over? Sugar’s coming over!

It was a pity, really, the day I burst through Malora’s link and she had to go home with a dislocated thumb.

It was a damn pity, indeed.

Ah, the thrill of victory!

Monday, June 9, 2008

Gossip with a Romanian

Sugar is there!


Sugar.  Is there.  She promise lunch to me!

Oh, yeah.  She said she’s ready when you are.

I come now!  She be ready!

So five minutes later, Carmen came by and we went to lunch.  Hands down, she has the most beautiful face of any woman I have ever met. She’s four years older but looks ten years younger than me so of course I intended to hate her. 

Alas, I cannot. Even if every thing that comes out of her mouth sounds like a command.

Where Kasey?

She called out sick tonight.

Oh I wordy ‘bout her.  She call out too motch.  She get coaching!  Coaching in computer!

I’m sure she’ll be fine. Hey, how’s your son faring?

He good.  He email me yesterday.  It very hot in Iraq you know.

Her husband drives over the road.  Before they married he worked with a Romanian guy and when said guy was going home for a visit, Carmen’s future husband went home with him to experience a new country.  And there he met her.  She has a son who came over with them and when he turned 18 he became an American citizen and joined the army.

I need to lose weight.

Carmen, Honey you’re gorgeous.  Where do you need to lose weight?

My stomach!  Look!  I gain weight here in US.  Chemicals in food! In Romania no chemicals in food. I lose five pounds in week I want.  But you have no tea here.  I have my Mother send the tea.


Yes, You drink one cup a day and lose five pounds in week.  But no drink too motch or you go to bathroom.

She worries herself to death about everyone’s comings and goings.

She clock in too early. She get coaching!

He take too many breaks. He get coaching!

You back from lunch?  When you go home?

You clock out too late you get coaching!

How would I feel living in a country other than my own?  The thought excites me, but would I miss the most?

What do you miss about Bucharest, Carmen?  I mean other than everything.

Oh, I miss my Mother and sister.  I miss the city.  There is so motch to do there!  Here, I miss my husband. I only see him on weekend.

I was thinking this must be really lonely for her-with no family in the country.

But, I go to mall on Saturday with mother-in law. 

I felt better immediately knowing she had company.

Good!  You’ve got some family.

No.  I no like her!

…some things are universal. 

Thursday, June 5, 2008


It's 6:15 in the morning and I'm already sitting in a pool of my own sweat-and the only activity I've engaged in so far is a shower.

I hate the thought of turning the AC on so early in the year, but the humidity is starting to climb and that is the real issue.

When you can sit perfectly still and yet sweat runs down your back, there is a problem.

Don't throw rocks at me, but it's not the heat, it's the humidity.

...sometimes it really is.