The Flu-Fighters

Like Sigourney Weaver wielding her make-shift flamethrower against a malevolent extraterrestrial creature in the 1979 sci-fi film Alien, I have armed myself with bleach water and sponges against the evil stomach flu that has attacked my family. I’ve also smeared black eye liner under my eyes and tied a ripped bandana around my forehead Rambo- style, so the virus knows I mean business. Every time bodily fluids are expelled (at force) over sheets, the bathroom floor, or the toilet, I grimace and mutter, “Eat this, you bastard,” while destroying the microscopic alien flu virus with my lethal bleach concoction. I am only minutes away from going completely McGyver and turning the Lysol canister into a flame thrower. (Actually, I saw on Mythbusters that using aerosol cans as flame throwing devices usually results in explosions, so children? Do not try that at home.)

The Super Bowl party we had planned for Sunday has been officially cancelled. Our guests need to save themselves. Meanwhile, I? Am going in. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me, then maybe I can help you…I am A-Mom.

(Bonus points for anyone else who can combine 80’s trivia with fighting the flu.)

Actually, I've also glued on a fake mustache, started sporting hawaiian print shirts, and driving a red Ferrari 308 GTS so I can go incognito in my quest to save the world from flu. Below is a home video. The fake chest hair? Itchier than one would have thought. (And you thought I would be Higgins, didn't you?)

Clearly, People Were Not Listening...

...to a post I wrote last week.

Russian Obama Stacking Dolls?

Try to keep your eyes from rolling straight back into your brain.

However, these dolls in no way compare to these "extraordinary gifts for your home." Kuj found these and, I'm fairly certain, is STILL howling with laughter.

Insert the Jimmy Choo's

You know that feeling you get when you start an anecdote you THINK a group of people will appreciate, but part way through your tale you realize that they are looking at you quizzically, clearly unimpressed with your story, and maybe a little put off? But you are already part way through the story and it feels awkward to simply stop, so you continue speaking, even though you desperately don’t want to? So, faced with indecision, you continue telling your crappy anecdote, only you speed up the pace because you want the torture to end? And you become even more animated because—well, damn!—they’ve just got to see the humor in the story at some point? And then, against all rational thought, you begin adding exaggerated facial gestures and hand gesticulations in a final desperate attempt to win your audience over to your side?

You know that feeling?

That’s the feeling I had when I tried to explain to my Creative Writing class why I had a deep fear of poetry for a number of years after high school.

And now? I have a deep fear of public speaking.

From now on, I will only communicate with people through grunts and clicks.

(Oh well. It could be worse. I could have done this while wearing my thong inside out with the leg hole around my waist…Cheryl.)

Spring Cleaning

There is an OBAMA LAVA LAMP??

People, I am just as excited to see a change in administration as the next person, but this flood of kitsch Obama-related knickknacks has. got. to. stop. The multitude of Obama memorabilia has reminded me yet again why baseball cards are single-handedly responsible for the clutter in people homes.

(Side note: Why isn’t anyone/anything ever double-handedly responsible? The phrase “single-handedly responsible” seems to place a great deal of unnecessary blame on people missing a limb. You know what that is? Prejudice. And I will have no part in that. From here on out, responsibility knows no number of limbs in my vocabulary! Hazzah!)

I have seen enough Clean House episodes to know that people often hang on to things they don’t need because they believe that these items will be of value some day. You know why this is, right? Because someone once decided that he would pay an astronomical amount of money for an original Babe Ruth baseball card, even though a brand new exact replica of that Babe Ruth baseball card could be created for a handful of pennies. (Which is in no way similar to paying top dollar for a pair of Jimmy Choo’s, so don’t even go there…Sue…Denise….) And so a culture of clutter was born.

The truth is that 99.9% of the junk we keep in our closets, basements, and attics is just that: junk. It is the detritus of our lives and the lives of our family members who think they are doing us a favor by donating to us the things they are afraid to throw away themselves. My guess is that people purchasing the Obama Lava Lamp must think that these floating wax blobs hovering mere inches over a light bulb with a plastic presidential seal of our new president plastered to the base will eventually be worth something some day.

It won’t.

(And if it is, then my vintage Jimmy Choo’s better wipe the floor with your presidential lava lamp.)

This means twenty years from now two people will stand over a box of soon-to-be refuse in their basement trying to decide whether they should keep or toss the dusty Obama-fire-hazard-in-waiting-lamp. And you know what they will probably decide to do? They will probably decide to give it to their kids because they won’t want to throw away a perfectly good lava lamp. And these people will probably be my in-laws.

Crap.

Things You Shouldn't Discuss....

There are two things you aren’t supposed to discuss in mixed company: politics and religion.

(Ironically, that leaves hyper-realistic descriptions of personal illnesses wide open, which explains some of those Christmas letters I get from relatives with long narratives documenting their various surgeries. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone sends me holiday themed x-rays next year.)

However, after yesterday’s inauguration, politics is a steak served well done. This leaves religion wide open. So, here I go….

Sometimes-- when there’s too much to do and not enough time, when the paperwork on my desk threatens to topple me, when my students are a little too pushy, when the laundry pile approaches knee height, when my husband is a little too grumpy, and when my children are a little too talkative—I wonder if I mightn’t become a nun.

(I should pause while my sister-in-law, Michelle, chokes on her cabernet as she reads this.)

One of my harried coworkers and I came up with a list of reasons yesterday why being a nun is appealing.

Here’s the draw:

*We look good in black.

*We like to wear hats.

*Nuns have a lot of “quiet time.”

*No need to worry about financial issues.

*Nuns get to meditate.

*According to films involving nuns, we would be able to fight crime. (I don’t know why nuns fight crime when people in the law enforcement profession seem to have that covered, but you can only watch so many films involving nuns solving mysteries before one starts to wonder if there isn’t something to that.)

*Lots of reading time.

*International travel to Rome every once in a while.

*We are pretty sure that there would be a lot of freebies. There’s a good chance the baristas at Starbucks might just comp us our tall mochas.


The thing is, I couldn’t be part of those convents that take a vow of silence. I mean, I could maybe pull that off for a day or two, but I know I’d start whispering things about organizing a writing club, or arranging for facials and make-overs. The real kicker, however, is that I can’t sing. Every film I have ever seen involving one of those crime-stopping, mystery-solving women of the cloth has the nuns singing. The fact that I can’t sing, not to mention my inability to keep silent for longer than four minutes and my happily married state, are probably deal breakers for joining a convent.

But I might just rent the costume for my next trip to Starbucks.

On Dating....

My husband and I have started doing something new lately: dating other people.

Come back in off the ledge, folks; we don’t have one of those kinds of marriages. What I mean is that we’re dating other couples. Hang on, that doesn’t sound quite right, either. Let me be blunt: we are looking for other couples to hang out with.

Within the past two years or so, one of our favorite couples moved over ninety minutes away and another divorced. (You know who you are.) While the argument might be made that the only commonality among these situations is us (Scott and me), I don’t think we are the ones who drove these people away. I mean, that would have necessitated a lot of energy and reallocation of finances if that were true, just to be rid of us. Besides, we all still hang out together, albeit less often.

Initially, our loss of couple contact wasn’t so bad because we were dealing with some ill family members, a difficult pregnancy, and the ensuing year of solitude parents endure during a child’s infancy. Now, however, we have pulled through our “underground years,” as I like to call them, and have emerged to find ourselves alone on the beach of couple friendship.

Sure, we each have friends of our own--there are people I hang out with and people Scott hangs out with—but we miss that couple camaraderie we used to have: the impromptu barbeques in the backyard, the last-minute Saturday dinners while watching a newly released rental movie, the uproarious board games where we mixed competition with wine and chocolate. So, we’ve been looking for a couple that meets both of our friendship needs at the same time. And it has been harder than I thought.

Couple dating is much, much harder than regular dating, I have found. The more people involved, the more complex the relationship, and the more potential for trouble.

Example 1: There was one couple introduced to us through our recently divorced friends. Let’s call this couple John and Sally. John and Sally seemed very nice…until they dropped the bomb on us part way through dessert: they were obsessed with Cabbage Patch Kids. Both of them. Obsessed. Once they started talking about the dolls, they couldn’t stop. It was like a dam broke, and Xavier Roberts’ brain spilled out. Their last vacation had been to a place that makes the dolls. Apparently, this place looks like a hospital, and an employee in a white lab coat brings you your doll wrapped in a blanket, like a newborn. John built special shelves in their bedroom to house some of their collection, which was way in excess of 200. Sally spent a great deal of time shopping for baby clothes to fit their dolls and lamented that the six-month-sized outfits that usually fit often look too childish on the Cabbage Kids, which she felt had the personality of three year olds.

Dude, they are dolls. They don’t have personalities. Strike one.


Example 2: There was another couple with actual real children, which we took to be an improvement. This friendship seemed promising, so we went on a mini-vacation with them. Our kids liked each other. We liked each other’s kids. The husband was really, really nice. The wife? Issues. Lots of issues. She would go on and on about her issues. And she was right about them. She told me how she has a tendency to be very controlling. She was. She told me how she has a tendency to be judgmental. She was. She told me she was OCD. She was. She told me she was easily offended. She was. She told me she had a phobia about driving to new places. She did. She told me she was clingy. She was. She told me that her parents were very messed up. They were. It was like she wanted me to take her on as a project and fix her, and there was no way that was going to happen. Even if I had the wherewithal to help her, her identity was completely consumed with her emotional problems. She didn’t want help; she wanted attention. And there wasn’t enough attention in the world to make her happy.

Strike two.


Luckily, we’ve had some good experiences, too. We’ve hung out with a few couples who were absolute pleasures to be around. And we hope those relationships continue and grow. (God, I hope they haven’t put Scott and me into their own “weird, doll-loving, emotionally-fragile” categories! I would probably be “shoe/interior design girl,” and Scott would be “technology-freak boy.”) But being put in this position has made us realize that dating, and friendship, can be hard. When you are looking for it, it is no where to be found.

Couple-match.com, anyone? Perhaps e-couple-harmony.com?

"What. Are. You. Doing. Trish?"

Got a Wii Fit?

We do. This device, something like a cross between a talking bathroom scale and a balance board hooks up to the television and provides routines meant to improve balance, conditioning, and muscle strength. It's a clever idea.

If it weren't POSSESSED BY THE DEVIL.

It begins by giving you a fitness test. After putting you through a few simple exercises and taking your height and weight, the perky little program announces your "Real Age."

And it LIES.


I mean, there is no way that my fitness level, scant though it may be, puts me at the same level as someone 30 years my senior. Unless that person is Clint Eastwood or something.

Worse, that little bucket of bolts talks about you behind your back! It started asking me questions about Scott:

"Hello, Trish. Have you noticed any changes in Scott's appearance lately?"

"Trish, Scott hasn't done any fitness work in the past four days. Where is he?"

"Trish, would you consider your marriage to Scott as being strong?"

"You know, Trish, Scott may not be good enough for you. You know what they say, once you go digital, you never go back."


The creepy little bugger reminds me of the Hal 9000. (shiver.)

Ever read Epicac, by Kurt Vonnegut? I think we have something similar going on here. Where are my wire cutters??

Suburban Safari

You know how I said that Jon and Kate Plus 8 has inspired me to brave the wilds of the grass off our patio once the weather warms up?

Well...

It turns out I had been watching one of their older episodes, from back when they were slumming it.

More recent airings of Jon and Kate Plus 8 show that they have progressed far beyond camping out in the backyard and roasting marshmallows over a fire pit. In their last episode, they were taking their brood to Disney World and then jetting off to Hawaii. Not that I am envious. (I am.)

While I am all for scrapping the sleeping bags and heading off to a pacific atoll, Maui is a little beyond our reach at the moment. Instead, we are looking at a stay-cation this summer while we implement the next phase of our home improvement goals. However, that doesn't mean our backyard camping foray has to be entirely without luxuries. I took into consideration all of your cautionary advice and matched that to my clinically low pain tolerance. The result? The tent pictured above.

I'll probably get a hot stone massage the afternoon of the camp out to prep for the event. And a pedicure will probably be in order, since it is quite likely I will have to wear my Kate Spade flip flops as I traverse from the pavers to the tent. Also, I know my limits; I will only take baby camping steps. My plan will ensure that I won't be more than ten steps away from my back door the entire time-- in case I need to use the bathroom or check what reality shows are airing that night on cable. (My remote works from the patio, so technically I could watch television from my air mattress.) I will also have my cell phone and iPod charged in case I need to call for emergency help or drown out the sound of crickets. The best part of the plan involves deterring the vengeance of the raccoons. While googling "how to slaughter raccoons," I stumbled across a website that sells 100% pure coyote urine. (http://www.predatorpee.com/) In fact, according to the website, not only will I be free of raccoons, but any stray iguana in the area will avoid our yard, as well!

I can't help wondering, however, how this company collects the coyote urine?

Post-Merry Monday

Wait.

It's the end of Winter Break.

Those cries must be from students and teachers groaning the night before school resumes.

(And that sound of rejoicing? That's from the parents.)

L.L.Bean Me Over The Head Before I Do Something Stupid

This addiction I have to reality television is getting out of hand. People who care about me should perform an intervention. (And if they don’t know how to do it, there is a reality show called Intervention that would provide a good model. You see how addicted I am??)

The sooner this intervention takes place, the better because my favorite “big family” show, Jon and Kate Plus 8, has me actually considering purchasing a tent and camping out in the backyard with the boys when the weather becomes warm. Someone help me. Please.

The rational part of my brain screams that this urge is absolutely ridiculous. I am not a camper. My Michael Kors heels get stuck in the grass and my lip gloss attracts bees. But something inside me is whispering that if a family with eight young children can do it, I could do it, right? They made it look so cozy when they roasted marshmallows in their little backyard fire pit, played with glow sticks, and cuddled up in their sleeping bags. The whole episode smacked of “making family memories.”

Here’s what I see our family memories looking like: The minute a mosquito stings Scott, he will scream like a girl and run around blindly swatting at the air with his fists; I will end up getting a rash from the grass; Joshua will stay awake all night, clinging to my side and asking what each noise is; Noah will eat a great deal of sand out of the sandbox; and the raccoons that tore apart a bag of garbage last fall will eat our faces off while we sleep in revenge for depriving them of sustenance by firmly locking our garbage bins.

Still, why am I contemplating purchasing the grass-friendly Kors wedges instead of heeled sandals this summer??

Seriously, an intervention is needed. I’ll bring the wine.

Happy New Year!

The year in review...in no particular order. Because I am hungry and the leftover lasagna is calling to me....


A scooter!! It's just what I wanted!


A baby! It's just what I wanted!


A nana! It's just what I wanted! ZZZzzzzzzzz....

A brother! It's just what we wanted!

T-Ball medal. Go Team Thunder!


Inside on a rainy day.


Finally! Lunch alone with Scott! We're DATING! (As we were walking out of the restaurant, I pointed out one of those rubberized dessert displays to Scott. "This one looks so real!" I exclaimed before sticking my finger through an actual slice of cake--on a non-rubberized, non-dessert tray that had actually been on its way to someone's table. Oops. Think he will ask me out for a second date?)

Uncle Bob is in from New York!


Glad to be home for the holidays.

Yoda Noah.

Bundled up to get a Christmas tree. (Scott doesn't shave in the winter. Neither do I! Mu-wah-ha-ha! I kid. I kid.)

A Flyer's game is just the right speed for baby Noah....


Team Thunder!

Christmas Tree Farm

Going to see dinosauers at the museum!

Mommy's elf, Noah!

Josh's gingerbread creation! (Daddy was helping.)

This snowball thing is COLD!

Great. Clothes for Christmas. Anyone have a pink bunny suit for me to put on, too??

From our family to you and yours, may 2009 bring you health and happiness! 2008, despite its challenges, had many good times. Here's to even more wonderful experiences in 2009!

(There would be even more photos from the past year inserted here, but I can't get the darn thing to work....)