My thoughts and prayers are with…

the folks in Louisiana and surrounding areas. Mother nature is indeed a stunning force that always causes me to question whether I’m giving enough to the world at large because in the end life is so short.
For now, our kids come first, what better gift to the world than compassionate, smart people, but then I think of all the things Bill and I used to do to help people before the kids were born and it brings me down.
They were all small things, working directly with a few families and people, but we saw the results of our interactions on their faces and in their homes. We still do what we can, but it’s not the same. I know someday, when the kids are little older we can do more…til then…

I took a quiz that discerned the type of sense of humor I have.
According to the test, I am slayed by clean, spontaneous, dark humor. Exactly.
According to my sister-in-law, I’m just a jerk.
Not her words and not what she means exactly…but my siblings, father and grandmother find nothing funnier than a fall down some steps,
we don’t mean to laugh, it simply, comes.
Said sister-in-law thinks justice will only be served if one of us meets our demise in some type of “funny” falling/tripping/ embarrassing accident. She may get her wish as my having multiple sclerosis causes my leg
to drag unexpectedly when running…I have yet to see someone busting a gut from seeing me fall, but I always laugh, after I check for injuries that is. I never can erase the image of what I must have looked like out of my mind.

This brings me to last nights television viewing: Entourage and The Comeback. Entourage was okay, but because it was so great all season, it’s held to an incredibly high standard…so last night it was only okay. Jeremy Piven rocks–no one funnier on TV, but some of the humor is slipping where “the boys” are concerned. Bag the Mandy Moore brooding thing for the love of God, please.

The Comeback is getting better and better or it’s simply sinking into my psyche, like a song you can’t get out of your mind. It made me laugh out loud a few times, but most notably the end when Valerie socked the Grande Obnoxious Pauly G. in the belly causing him to throw up the entire pizza he wolfed down, which in turn made Valerie puke. It makes me laugh even now. Good stuff. At least my humor is clean…I have that…

So how does all this fit with the fact I can’t pass a homeless person on the street without giving him money, have housed homeless folks under my front porch, bought really bad, but very doted upon artwork from the homeless? Could it be the universe compelling me to make up for laughing at the guy who took a spill with five bags of groceries in his arms. In front of the girl he was on a first date with… Maybe I am a jerk.

My Husband took the kids to a football game…

and I figured I had two hours max to exercise and pick up the mass of toys strewn around the family room. But, two hours creeped into three, then four…still no sign of them, no call from Bill. I kept thinking that I should write, revise, begin my final push to finish the novel I’m working on. But I knew as soon as I sat down and got in the groove, I’d hear the garage door going up. So I cleaned and fussed and made darn sure I didn’t place any calls of inquiry to Bill, because all though I was sure they’d be home any second, I didn’t want to offer any encouragement. After all, Bill had been in California for six days…he needs that kind of alone time with his doting children…Anyway, 6 1/2 hours passed (he had been at his mothers as I suspected) and the house was cleaner, clothes were put away, the Housewife Cafe was opened for business, but I hadn’t done a lick of writing or revising. So, use me as a lesson, my writing friends–write every chance you can–you never know when one moment will slide into hours and you actually get something done. Moral of the story–don’t assume your husband will bring the kids back as soon as humanly possible…ask the question…get the work done.

Goodbye Victoria’s Secret, Hello White Cotton Hanes

It’s official.
I’m completely out of anything that might be considered “nice,” underwear.
That’s right, last week while shopping–grocery shopping–with my friend Lisa, I plucked a pack of white no-name underpants off the display and bought them.
I think I saw her cringe as I did, though she didn’t SAY she thought it was an odd grocery store purchase.
But it was only today as I sorted the laundry that I found myself rifling through my drawer, white cotton Hanes here, a generic flowered pair there, old maternity pair buried at the bottom.
No, no, no.
Hadn’t I even been awake the last four years I had been getting dressed?
Oh, yeah. I wasn’t awake.
Barely, maybe, sometimes.
How had I fallen so far in so few years?
Alas, this post could go in Calm Before The Stork, but really, this is simply another weakness in my Housewife persona–Lost in a Sea of Cotton…Will I ever return to the shores of Victoria’s Secret? Will Bill withstand the drought? Stay tuned.

Sweet Sweet Music

While exercising this morning a song from long ago filtered into my ears. “I want Everything,” by Cracker seemed bring to mind the dilemma of the modern mother and also memories of a girl and boy in love. Yes, back in the early dating days my husband Bill and I went to HFStival in Maryland–moshed around in the pit, drank some, and suffered early spring sunburns. Hearing that song brought feelings rushing back–of being young and optimistic, completely unhampered by anything other than work. That feeling–if only I could bottle it. Sniff a little here and there when I’m in the toddler trenches. I don’t know. The calm before the stork, it seems like a good thing now. But really, when I imagine life thirty years from now, I know the insanity will have been worth it.

Recipe of the Week

It’s Saturday August 27th and I have no recipe of the week. Just another indication of my houswifery weaknesses. A recipe–Anyone? Anyone?

Revise? Who me?

Thank God for my friends at fatplum.com. Having finished the sequel to my first novel–one I now have an agent for–I went back to book boot camp thinking I was way further along in my writing than I turned out to be. Well, that’s half right. Most of the content I needed was there, but there were issues with timing…Boy what the writer can’t see herself…

Toilet Paper

Toilet paper is a funny thing–it tends to run out. This is a glimpse into why I am a poor representation of a housewife. You can be assured that I will run out of lightbulbs and toilet paper as sure as I will take my next breath. My dad used to stock our entire basement with paperproducts and daily use items. When we went off to college, he would send us with bags and bags of staple items. So why I didn’t inherit this particular compulsive behavior, I don’t know. In our kitchen we have two overhead lights with three bulbs each. One of the lights went out on Monday. Rather than change those bulbs right away I decided to wait until the other light’s bulbs burned out. It is summer after all–lots of natural light to be had. Five days later both lights are burned out and with two trips to the grocery store behind me, I’ve still forgotten to get new bulbs. I don’t make lists. I need to make lists. Reason number two I’m a bad houswife–no grocery lists. Anyway, my heart skipped a beat this morning when at the early hour of 6:30 AM I was out for a walk/run and one of my neighbors–a very good housewife was on her way to the store for…toilet paper. If she could forget, then I can’t be that bad off, can I?

A Little Bit of the Devil Never Hurt Anyone…

I created this category to get at the times when kids are irrepressibly impossible to stomach another second, let alone an entire lifetime. Also, posted here will be the times the pendulum swings in the direction that heals all parental wounds–when I see the big picture and know that children and their innocent ramble through life could teach most adults a lesson or two. So here goes.

After a month of meltdowns, fueled by stimuli invisible to the naked eye, Jake (almost four) has been fully acredited in the field of Parental Torture. Seriously, his papers arrived in the mail yesterday. The steady build up of time-outs for Jake and calming self-talk for me was beginning to make some headway in his behavior–until a half hour ago. From the kitchen where I was slaving over a difficult breakfast of frozen silver dollar pancakes and grapes, I caught a glimpse of Jake “riding” the leather recliner for the fiftieth time today. It’s only 9:23 AM.

Knowing he wasn’t aware that I was watching him, and tired of “teaching” good behavior I let him ride it out, sister Beth (2 1/2) cheering him all the way. His small face plastered with a giant smile, hair wipping in the wind he was creating as he stood gripping the back of the chair, yanking it back and forth, unglued all my motherly instincts and I shuddered with laughter. Trying to contain the laughter, I choked and pushed aside my safety concerns–yes he could potentially torpedo backwards off the chair into the coffee table. Yes, I’d have to explain this in the emergency room…”but he looked funny and happy and I couldn’t stop from laughing, Doctor…”

Thrust asunder were the warning thoughts of a broken and expensive chair, Bill’s facial expressions when I explain we need another one four years into its 30 year life span. I was struck by the complete sense of bliss on Jake’s part. Finally I rationalized that he’d get it out of his system if I let him do it (not that he knew I was letting him) this one time. Yea right.