ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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Sweet Pea was in the tub the other night, and since he still cannot be trusted to wash himself very well (he rubs the washcloth over himself lightly for all of 30 seconds and says he’s done) I was there to scrub him down. He was lying on his elbows and started to turn himself over and over like a turkey on a spit, so that I was washing the front, then the back, then the front, then the back, then the front of the boy. This inspired me to sing.

“There were ten in the bed and the little one said roll over, roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. There were nine in the bed and the little one said…”

“Why did the little one say that?” Sweet Pea interrupted

“To make one of the others fall out so there would be more room for him,” I replied.

Sweet Pea frowned. “Why did he keep saying that?”

“So more of them would fall out.”

“Then what did he say?”

Time for a change of management. )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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Back when I first worked for the Toll Road Authority, Priss was the receptionist. She was, without a doubt, the worst receptionist I’ve ever met. She was not a people person, and she hated the telephone. Since greeting people and answering the phone where the two prime components of her job, I got a kick out watching how bad she was at it. It’s not she couldn’t do a good job; she simply didn’t care to.

The phone at the front desk rang non-stop because the calls from the public to ask about getting a Toll Tag or to check on their Toll Tag Accounts were routed through the main switchboard. Priss answered it in a monotone. “Toll road authority can I help you one moment please,” and transfer the call. If it was an EZ Tag call, she would put them in a voicemail loop where they would sit until one of the 10 or so people working in the EZ Tag store at the time picked it up, or after 20 minutes or so it would ring back to Priss.


One Caustic, One Long )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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Sweet Pea was sitting in the bathtub, lounging with his back against the edge and his knees pressed up against the side next to the wall. He is still small enough that this is comfortable for him.

“What if I could make girls’ clothes invisible?” he asked. “That would be embarrassing for them, wouldn’t it?”

No colors for you! )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I wasn’t getting near enough sleep. As a result of this, the areas under my eyes were swollen, like my face was providing little pillows to invite my eyelids to drop down and take a snooze. It looked awful.

I read somewhere a long time ago that there is a very simple and effective remedy for this. Maybe not as effective as getting enough sleep would be, but available over the counter (extra time to get much needed sleep still not being available without a prescription): hemorrhoid cream. I read that it works wonders. But I did not immediately run out and buy this magic elixir because of the imaginary 6th grader that lives in my head. If I were to walk into a pharmacy and purchase that particular product, the 6th grader in my head would mock me and say, “ASS cream?! Why are you buying ASS cream?! Are you going to put it on your face?!!!!”

Since the answer is yes, that’s exactly why I would be buying it, I would refuse to answer the 6th grader, who would then exclaim, “Ha! I knew it! Ass-face! Ha-ha! You’re an ass-face!”

I hate that kid, but I hated the bags under my eyes even more. So I punched the 6th grader in her imaginary face and purchased the hemorrhoid cream. For my face. It worked like a charm. I have no regrets. I may have an ass face, but it looks presentable again.

Even the 6th grader in my head agrees.


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ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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I was driving Sweet Pea home from school the other night when he started telling me about the family of one of his Kindergarten classmates. The dymanics of this little girl's family are a bit surprising, to say the least.

Read? More. )
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The last New Year’s Resolution I ever made was to stop making New Years Resolution. A few years ago, I broke that one, but the incident served as a reminder about why I gave up on the whole idea of the NYR in the first place: the best way to doom a goal to failure is to actually resolve to get it done, and to make this decision while I still have the remnants of the previous night’s champagne coursing through my veins.

I do, however, have goals from time to time that I set in January. Goals involve less of a commitment than a resolution. This year my main goal is to get the huge rotting corpse out of my front yard, because the neighbors have stopped making eye contact with us and this makes me sad.

A Creepy Feng Shui )
ninanevermore: (Bite Me)
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My son's IEP Meeting (or as they call it in Texas, an ARD Meeting) is next week. Going through all of this during the holiday season has inspired me to write a Christmas carol about the whole IEP process we have gone through since the school year began. I think I will print this out and hand out to all the team members as a parting gift, once we hash out the details of just how special my son and his needs are. You know, since this is happing at Christmas and all.

henseforth, I will call this The Year of the Acronyms: IEP, ADHD, SID, etc. etc. )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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My husband called me this afternoon to let me know that our son had a pretty good day at school.

“Well, there was one trip to the office, but just one.”

“Just one?” I asked, “No one got hurt? No need to restrain him? The police and fire departments weren’t called? I call that and excellent day!” To be fair, the police and fire department have never been called, but sometimes it’s fun to wallow in hyperboles.

“No police, you’re right. It was a good day.”

“But mommy got pulled over by a policeman,” I heard a sweet voice say in the background. Suddenly, I was no longer a part of the conversation, just the subject of it. Jeff’s voice sounded a little further away as he spoke not into the phone, but in the direction of my beloved 6 year old snitch.

Daddy Never Stays in The Dark )
ninanevermore: (Bite Me)
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I signed my first ever report card today. Well, that is if faking one of my parents' signatures on a report back in the day doesn't really count. I don't think it should, anyway. Rather than A, B, C, D and F, his kindergarten class is graded using the E-S-N-U system. E is for excellent, S is for satisfactory, N is for needs improvement, and U is like S but with an un on the front of it.

First the good news: my son has perfect attendance. The faculty and staff may have hoped and prayed that he would get sick and give them a few days of rest, but he’s remarkably healthy and keeps on showing up, day after day.

Read More? )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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The discipline report in Sweet Pea's folder yesterday was blank, except for a note saying that there was a substitute teacher who was supposed to leave notes for his regular teacher, Mrs. F.

"You had a different teacher today?" I asked Sweet Pea as we drove home.

"Yeah," came the answer from the back seat.

"Was she nice?"

"Yeah…but she talked boring." That explains why he went to the office on at least one occasion (that he fessed up to).

Time marches on, and it does it across your face…wearing boots. )
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My local, independently-owned, new-and-used bookseller had a book signing on Saturday. At our monthly book club meeting a week ago, the owner of the store begged us all to come to it. The main reason I went was to buy the selection for next month’s book club meeting, which was not available the night of the meeting the way it usually is. She really wanted the event to be a success, even though she was less than enthusiastic about the author after having met him.

"Yeah, the d.b. came in yesterday to drop off copies of the book and make sure everything was a go."

"D.b.?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know: douche bag. When you meet him you’ll know what I mean." If you knew Kristen, you would know that it is very out of character to have her talk about someone this way. I met the author myself on Saturday. Sure, there are other, less icky ways to describe a person like him: twit, dweeb, jackass, and goober, to name a few. But the phrase that sums him up best is: “a total douche bag.”

Depends of how you define the word Masterpiece. )
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The week my boss was on “vacation,” his office was kept locked. We all suspected he might not be coming back, but none of us were sure. I have the key to his office, so I opened it once to forward his phone to my extension so that his calls could be taken care of, but I locked it behind me after that.

You can’t always get what you want (unless no one is looking). )
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After breakfast, I snuggled back into bed for a few minutes with my husband.

“I just wanted a birthday cuddle,” I told him.

“Mmmm. Happy birthday,” he said.

“Do I look any older?”

And I will not trim it nor pluck it out )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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I apologized to my husband this morning for what I said to him on Saturday when he felled a tree onto the Mercury Cougar that used to belong to his mother and that was servicing us as our back-up vehicle. A loving spouse doesn’t roll her eyes and say, “That was really stupid, hon.” But I did.

This was wrong of me. In marriage, you are allowed to think your spouse is stupid, but it’s not something you ever say aloud. You are only allowed to say it with a look, and everyone who has ever been in a long-term relationship knows the look I am talking about: raised eyebrows, half smirk, and bald-face incredulity. It is a look that says, I love you, but you are an idiot. Women are better at this look than men, who generally respond by showing their palms and saying, “What?!” When men give it women, we tend smile sadly and look at them big sad eyes so they will go all soft and mushy inside and forgive us.

Wet Hair and a Crushed Cougar )
ninanevermore: (Default)
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Given the exact same set of circumstances, a man and a woman will chose different actions. Take, for example, the case where a husband (full disclosure: my husband) locks himself out of the car while dropping our son off at the babysitter’s house. It is the old Mercury Cougar we bought off his mother some years ago, circa the late 1980s (when you open the console between the front seats, it has an analog phone attached to the car by a genuine cord ). The doors have keypads that you can enter a 4 digit code on to open them in the case that you lock yourself out. Many moons ago, I carried this code around on a scrap of paper in my wallet. I threw that scrap of paper out seven or eight years ago, but my husband called me in desperation hoping I might still have it.

“No, not any more. You can call triple A, though. Since we have a membership, they’ll send someone out to unlock the car.”

“Mmmm. Okay, fine.”

At least I don’t have to change his name to Shirley now. )
ninanevermore: (Bite Me)
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From a nutritional standpoint, I don’t approve of those fast-food restaurants where the kids meals come with a trinket toy and where they have a giant Habitrail for kids to crawl through in the back room. From a Mom’s Mental Health standpoint, however, I love them. They are a great place for me to sit and get some reading done while my darling little Sweet Pea scrambles around with other smallish people. I can’t read at home. He craves interaction and begins talking to me and climbing all over me until I give up and put the book down.

Somebody beam me out of here… )
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I’ve heard it said that only the good die young. It has occurred to me that this is a mixed blessing in my case. Since this rule protects the mediocre as well as it truly evil, I’m still here and in pretty good health. On the other hand, this leaves me surrounded with a lot of mediocre and bad people who also don’t seem to be going anywhere soon.

*sigh*


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ninanevermore: (Default)
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My husband says he has always been attracted to “the girl next door,” and always found women considered to be classically beautiful to be sort of bland, he claims. He turns up his nose at the women in Playboy magazine, for example.

“They all look the same!” he complains, “And they’re so airbrushed that you can’t even tell what they really look like, anyway. Real women don’t look like that. Real women have stretch marks, and curves to their tummies, and thighs. I don’t see anything attractive about them. They look like plastic Barbie dolls. I like real women. I like women like you.

Of course, as a woman, I interpret this to mean, I only love you because you’re ugly. Let’s face it: whatever a man says to a woman about her looks, he’s wrong.

What if the beholder is blind? )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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Sweet Pea told me that when he is older, he wants to have a rock band. It will have 3 people in it, he told me. He will play guitar, and of course he will need someone to play drums. He is 5 years old, and busy making plans for the rest of his life.

“But what instrument should the third person play?” he asked me.

“How about a bass guitar?” I suggested. “In a 3-piece band, I think the third person usually plays bass guitar.”

“But I’m going to be the guitar player! I don’t need another guitar!” He was very upset.

If there's gonna be bass around here, you better be serving me fish. )
ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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When I am traveling with my 5 year-old-son, Sweet Pea, and listening to music, it has been requested that I limit the music to bands that "rock out." He is not into easy listening, folk, new age, classical, jazz, country, folk or any of that other stuff I like. He only likes rock and roll.

Last night we were listening to the song Jenny Says by Cowboy Mouth and Sweet Pea was listening closely to the lyrics.

"I guess they’re leaving," he said.

"Why do you think that?" I asked him.

"Listen," he said. You beat yourself up 'cause you love it )

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