Happy Birthday! Clean the bathroom, would you?

I think I aged a year, this past week, not Aidan, LOL.

My sunny, funny middle child, turned 8 last Saturday! He had a wonderful birthday...I hope.

The thing about birthday parties, actually being on the birthday? How can I do my usual completely and totally anal melt-down, over the state of the house, and decide an hour before people arrive that really, the molding around the bottom of the walls, really needs a second scrubbing, if I have to make sure that one of the kids has a great birthday?

Birthday are a BIG deal, around here. HUGE. I have an entire week, myself. Except for my last birthday, The One We Will NOT Name. I grew up in a home, where my mother homecooked meals, EVERY night. It was a very exciting day, when we would get to eat fish sticks, mac and cheese, and green beans, on the occasional Saturday night for dinner. While cooking away, she also managed to have a totally and completely spotless house (seriously, I swear, it looked like a damn model home), and (this one is the kicker), SEWED ALL OF OUR CLOTHES. Seriously. Dresses, skirts, blouses, t-shirts, even JEANS.

Let's just say, that's a tough yardstick to have laying around. Though, in my case, you're more likely to find it laying in the middle of my lawn, after one of the kids have taken it outside to play with, and never brought back into the house.

I find myself eyeing up my house, with a drill sargent's eye, taking in where the cats have played "let's climb the wall", using their claws, usually only making it halfway up, before just kind of sliding down. Because really, why just let go, when you can leave little kitty claw marks all the way down the wall?

Say what you will, my cats are not under achivers.

As are my children, considering I found the "hiding" spot for boogers. None will confess as to whose boogers they actually are, which I find slightly comforting. I don't think I really want to know, who is wiping them on the wall, right beside the molding, in the upstairs bathroom.

I'm afraid it may be the large one, and then I'll have to divorce him.

I'm...

tired.

I just thought y'all should know.

zzzzzzz: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Momma, don't let your babies, grow up to be....

gay, repressed cowboys...

*sigh*

Jen and I went to see Brokeback Mountain, figured that this way, we wouldn't have to, A: find sitters for the sprats, and B: defend a beautiful love story, to two men, who, while they may be comfortable in their manhood, revert to middle school boys, who think it's funny to wipe snot on a seat.

It was beautiful. It was SAD.

Jen, however, lost her SHIT, she started sniffling, then it progressed to hands on the face, to full-on, shaking in her seat, making noises, sobbing. It was a lovely movie, I highly recommend it. Heath Ledger, and Jake Gyllenhaal's performances were astounding, especially given that in every other movie I've seen Jake in, I can't shake the image of Frank's head in the mirror, in Donnie Darko, LOL.

It makes me sad, for all the people who end up, so disconnected, from that which they really want, in life, because of society's conventions, or fear of what others will think. Why *do* we care so much for other's thoughts? As if our self-worth can be measured by a stranger's second glance, or friend's opinions of our mates, outfit, house, or life choice? Why do we spend so much damn time, trying to just be "normal"? I would love to say that I never fall into that trap, but I do. I suppose it's human nature. I'm just glad, that it's never cost me, a life of happiness with the person I truly love.

Because, he's upstairs, very much, NOT wiping boogers on seats.

waste no time: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

You know that thing I said yesterday?

Ignore it.

I fucking hate it.

I actually have to psch myself up, to get out of my chair tonight.

Billy Blanks is an ASSHOLE.

Shhh!

Don't spread this around or nuthin', but I think, that I just may...

be enjoying exercise.

ruining my street cred on Krispy Kreme Lane: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

All Hail the powers of inconsistency!

For their powers are mighty!

I swear. If I live to be 100, I will NEVER be able to fathom my mother's motives.

The last time we saw each other, she was freaking out about not knowing which drawer I keep my kitchen utensils in. Seriously. As if, not knowing where I store my sporks, is a metaphor for our relationship. Which, granted, blows, but sporks? C'mon.

The last time I talked to her on the phone it was:

Me: "hey mom"

Her: "hang on, I'll get your father"

My father dropped in earlier this week, where I was treated to a rather lengthy treaty, on how all things in the World of Bob, suck. The end of which, was...'Just to give you a heads up, your mom is PISSED at you".

Me: "Why?"

Him: "I dunno."

How informative.

So, when my cell rang this evening, and I read the display, I seriously thought about not answering. Then, I thought, "you know what? BRING IT ON SISTA!"

Her: "HI!!"

Me: "Um..hi." (What the fuck?)

Her: "So, 8:40 tomorrow morning. You can just drop the boys at my house!"

Me: "um, okay."

Her: "It's much nicer, now that they changed the morning service time, it lets you sleep a little later."

Me: "uh, yeah, it does. Sleep is nice. It's good. Everyone loves sleep"... it was as if a sheepdog momentarily took over my brain.

Her: "Okay babe, you have fun tonight, and I'll see you when you come pick up the boys tomorrow afternoon. Bye!"

WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING HELL?

See, normally, we follow a routine. We start the board at "You are so totally fun to hang out with!"..this leads to: "Now that we are hanging out, how about I beat you with a bible?? Doesn't that sound like FUN?!?!?!?! This, invariably leads to the weepy: "Why won't you trust me? I know what I'm talking about! I would rather that you hated me, and loved him (him, being god)" phase. Then we leap on over into Frosty disappointment-land. From there, you head around the block to: "You know what, I RAISED YOU BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER".

Now, she's skipping steps in a game we've been playing for years.

Apparently, she DOES have something left to teach me.

*sigh* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Delurk, dammit!

I may be setting myself up, for colossal disappointment here, but it's come to my attention that someone in blogger land, has appointed this week, as de-lurk week.

So, any and all, who read blogs, on a regular basis, read them occasionally, or you know, just, read, are hereby, commanded (okay, requested?) to delurk yo' ass, and leave a comment, on those blogs. So, humor me. It's been a rough week.

Even, if it's a big, fat, YOU SUCK.

Who decides these things, anyway? drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Okay, SERIOUSLY??

I'm frustrated.

Actually, I don't think that frustrated, covers it.

I spoke to my youngest son's teacher today. He's 4 1/2, with a will of iron, and a control freak to boot. This is the kid, who, as a toddler, would scream to get out of his crib in the morning, and when you'd go to pick him up, he'd drop like a stone, and cling to the bars. So, I'd then leave the room, wait a few minutes, and try again.

Rinse and repeat.

Some mornings, it would take an hour just to get him out of the damn crib.

He's a challenge. As well as excellent birth control.

I adore him. I do, he's funny, and can charm your socks off, when he's not being so infuriatingly difficult, that you'd like to strangle him with your socks.

Now, I had spoken with his teacher, a lovely woman, named Mrs. Baker, last week, about his progress. The first time we met his teacher, he performed. In rare, and humiliating form. My husband had some sort of freaky virus that had given him headaches, so sudden and severe, that we had spent the whole weekend in the hospital, while they tried to figure out if it wasn't an aneurysm, or a stroke. So, Momma operating on about...4 hours sleep, in a 48 hour period, and Lucien, who smells weakness the way a bloodhound senses...well, blood, I guess, performed. He twirled, he wouldn't sit in the chair, he whined, he slumped, he like to got strangled by his own mother, who, fortunately, was too tired to summon the upper-body strength .

Now, after this less-than-stellar introduction, he actually settled in quite nicely, enjoys school, listens well, etc. He's a good kid. You just have to prove that you are, in fact, the boss of him.

So, last week, she calls to tell me that she's concerned. He's inconsistent, with what he knows. Somedays he can pick his name off the board, others, he can't. Somedays he knows his colors (one of my other son's is colorblind, so this was a concern with Lucien), and other days he doesn't. Then...she says the magic words.

"When I'm working with him, one-on-one, he'll say to me, that he doesn't want to do this anymore."

*TA-DA*

I explained to her that she was going to have to prove to him, that it was in his best interest to work with her, and do his best, because I know for a fact that the little crapper knows ALL of his colors, and can pick his name out of a line-up. He just didn't want to.

She said that she was still concerned about his fine motor skills, so she was going to have the school OT, take a look, and do a quick eval, to see what her thoughts were.

I know the school OT, she works with Aidan, my 8 year old, who is dyslexic.

She met with Lucien today, and then Mrs. Baker called me...Apparently, given the family history (after Aidan's diagnosis, we discovered that virtually all of the men, on my mother's side of the family, are dyslexic, both my uncles, 2 out of 3 great-uncles, etc.), and what she saw today, she has some major concerns, and wants to do a full evaluation. The upshot of the conversation, was when his teacher told me that after informing him, that if he didn't finish up his work, when they're working together, he wasn't allowed to go play at ALL, he suddenly had a whole new skill set, LOL.

However, he's having trouble with directionals.

fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE.

That is exactly how Aidan first presented. I don't want this for him. I didn't want it for Aidan. Selfishly, I wonder how much more this will take out of me. Aidan is doing really well, thriving, even. His tutoring has helped immensely, he's almost at grade level, and is starting to enjoy reading, even if it is, just a tiny bit.

But, he tutors for an hour and a half, twice a week. Between that, sports for both older boys, how the hell am I going to find time, to have Lucien tutored as well??

I realize, I'm borrowing trouble. Nothing definitive. No way to know. If it even is the case, that's what moms DO. They do what needs to be done, so their children can thrive.

But damn.

I thought, at some point, I'd have enough of my own life, my own time, to finish my degree before 40. Like 40 is all that unreasonable of a goal?

But I don't WANT to be the grown-up! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

You're a doctor, not a detective, dammit!

Oh, how I love all things, Quincy.

He was my first crush, and will always have a place in my heart...

There's just something about the way he calls his long-suffering galpal, Lee, "Honey", so much, that I actually thought that was her name, his wild gestures, his ability to write out prescriptions on bar napkins, how he's ALWAYS right...

*sigh*

Long live, Jack Klugman.

Bring me proof! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

"No pain, no gain"

Were his last words, eyewitnesses on the scene reported.

Apparently, while his wife, walking gamely, if extremely slowly, up the steps, to tuck in their children, after two straight days of kickboxing, he made the tactical mistake of saying, "No pain, no gain!", while shoving a 5 ounce hershey bar, in his perpetually thin, face.

Amazingly, she found not only the strength to move at an alarmingly fast pace, but to choke him to death.

She'll be acquitted.

"and step left, that's right, lift your arms at an unnatural angle to your torso, while kicking forward with the left leg, and sideways with the right! Just two more!"

*BANG* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

When state delegates have too much time on their hands...

You get crap like THIS:

http://leg1.state.va.us/cgi-bin/legp504.exe?061+sum+HB187

I'm vehemently pro-choice, I make no bones about it. It's *my* body, it's *my* choice, and neither you, your neighbor, or anyone else for that matter, gets a damn say.

But, SERIOUSLY? This is worth the time and money of our elected officials? Delegate Bob is the same manly man, who attempted to pass a law, about a year ago, that would have required, that's right, REQUIRED, women to report miscarriages to their local law enforcement officials, within 12 hours. Under penalties of actual jail time ( http://democracyforvirginia.typepad.com/democracy_for_virginia/2005/01/legislative_sen.html ).

Seriously.

Because the blob in my toilet is any of your fucking BUSINESS?

I've had a miscarriage. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pretty, and it wasn't anyone's business but mine, and my husbands.

P-E-R-I-O-D

But, I digress.

I get it. He's pro-life. However, apparently, all those poor little cells, waiting to find a nice, warm, snuggly uterus to climb into, that there is a movement within the pro-life community to adopt (once again, not teasing: http://www.nightlight.org/snowflakeslanding.asp), are not valuable enough, to go to an unmarried woman.

I'm awed by the hubris.

put THAT in your pipe and smoke it: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Take my word for it. Really.

You need The Donna's new CD.

Seriously.

Worth every penny, and that's not something I say about most CD's which have buttloads (see! Still no "profanities") of filler crap.

Cry and beg for mercy: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Now, normally, I'd be the first one to call these a crock...

...of poo (I've been chastised for the prolific use of profanity in my entries, so there's your token). However, this year, I've actually made up a list of so-called "New Year's Resolutions". Now, since I'm inclined to think that most resolutions are just fun things you toss out while toasting on New Year's Eve: "This year, I'm going to lose weight, stop smoking, stop banging my secretary, volunteer at the soup kitchen, go to church every Sunday, AND cure cancer! Another round?"

However, as much as I've bitched, and moaned, and drug my damn feet about turning 30 this year, it's been, dare I say...liberating?

I'm a grown-up now.

a grown-up.

Now, you may read that and say, "But you've been married for over 10 years, have 3 kids, 3 cats, a dog, and a mortgage! How is that not being a grown-up?"

My answer?

Beats me. It just didn't really feel like being a real, live, adult. As opposed to being a dead adult, LOL. Seriously though, I sort of fell into my life, so to speak. Biology dictated (along with some Jim Beam), the creation of my first-born. That huffed the train on down the "yeah, I'll marry you", track, he insisted that we buy a house, even though I didn't think we could afford it, he's the one that busted his ass, and now makes a great living. I...stayed at home, popped out a few more sprats, currently in the process of attempting to raise them to be at least marginally normal adults, started about 4 SAH jobs (all of which I still have, thank you). I've yet to finish college, though I've finally settled on a degree...life just seemed as if it was living me, not the other way around, you catch?

So, in the spirit of a real, live, grown-up, I decided that New Years was as good a time as any, to make some life, resolutions. So, here they are, in all their attainable-if-I-get-my-shit-together, glory.

1-I will work out on a regular basis.

To explain that one, I used to be fat. I mean, FAT. Not like, need a forklift to get out the door fat, but big. I lost about 70 pounds, and I'm a fairly normal weight now, though I'd still love to lose about 20 pounds, but that is not what this resolution is about. I carry my weight in my midsection (however, I feel compelled to add, I have KILLER legs, LOL). My father is a brittle diabetic. I, don't want me, none o'dat. With my genetic history, and the way I carry my weight, I'm more likely to develop it. So, this isn't about looking good in a bathing suit, it's just about being more sensible, and getting more exercise, on a regular basis.

2-I will finally learn how to knit. To that end, I bought myself a little starter kit, and a nice roll ( wait, skein?), of pretty black yarn, and will attempt a scarf. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on here, I'll post the probably, laughable attempt. I tried to start it last night, but got distracted by all the pictures of the models, in their ever-so-lovely matching sweater vests, with big 80's hair, and frosty pink lipstick. My husband, could not see the humor, as I cracked the hell up. My friend Jen, however, like to peed herself when I showed her, LOL. Really, they're great pictures. The poses are lovely. I digress.

3-I will take a class, for real college credit. Even if it's the pathetic, "math for losers who can't help their 5th grade son, with his math homework" class, that is only worth about 1/2 a credit. I also feel compelled to add, that he is in GT math classes.

4-I will write, diligently, at least every other day, and make at least marginal progress on the damn book (and there's no cussing in it! Well, not much, LOL) I've been working on for about...10 years? No, just 9. I think. Even if it's crap, it's progressive crap.

5-I will pin down the damn artist to help me finish the layout of the children's book I wrote (that one, really doesn't have any profanity, of any type. I swear.). The book has been done for 2 years, just been dicking around with picking an artist, layout, etc.

6-I will flay my fingers, at least twice a month, on my guitar, on which, I can play a wicked, "Old McDonald had a Farm", but that's about it.

7-I will find books that Aidan (my 8 year old, who is dyslexic) enjoys to read on his own. His reading is so much damn better, it's not the constant struggle it used to be. He's beginning to discover how great books can be. It is so over-the-top important to me, to impart a love of books to him. I love my husband, but damn if I'm not totally having an affair with the written word.

8-I will figure out a way to make a fondant that doesn't taste like elmer's glue, rolled out on a cake. Seriously, that stuff tastes like shit.

I think that's about it. Oh wait. One more. We're adopting a person at the nursing home that I worked in as a teen. It was a disgusting job, but I met the most fascinating women there! It's small, run by polish nuns (literally, from Poland), the convent is on the grounds. I want the kids to have that same opportunity.

I'm not sure that's really a resolution though.

I really wanted one that said I got to eat more cake, but, I'm thinking that directly counteracts the first one, so I crossed it off the list.

Eat me! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net