mrtl

The Artful Playdate

Over the weekend the girls and I went up to visit my parents, pick some crabs, and meet up with my college roommate Jen and her son, whom I'll refer to as "Art" since he had some mad drawing skills, who is between Bug and Jem in age. We had lunch out, and then -- since we saw that we'd be pressing luck to keep them at the table longer -- took the kids back to my parents' house for dessert.

Art endeared himself to Jem pretty quickly. She ripped her menu opening it, and he didn't hesitate not only to give her his, but to unfold it for her so she wouldn't tear it.

I've known Jen since we were Bug's age. I don't think I ever imagined how she would be as a parent when we hung out. She was the fun friend, the lots of laughs, which may be why it was hard to think of her as one to "settle down." She's still the very laidback chicka, but takes her role as a mother especially seriously. I'm glad we've reconnected, and love seeing that same balance -- being serious but not taking himself too seriously -- fostered in her spawn. He's got a great sense of humor, but drew the line when I called his Mommy a dork. It's funny also that I see traces of his father's goofball personality in him as well.

A funny exchange happened at lunch between Art and our waitress, who had a tongue piercing. Art asked her what was in her mouth. The waitress hesitated, looked to me (I guess because I was sitting closest and Jen was engaged in tic-tac-toe with Jem), and when I gave her nothing, said to Art that it was a mint.

Art blinked at her. You know what I mean? He blinked that blink that a kid blinks when he's on to a lying adult. Besides, he already knew what it was, and in asking her he was doing another thing that kids do, which is starting a conversation (i.e., interrogation).

"Shouldn't that be in your nose?" he asked her.

Our waitress smiled awkwardly, said something about getting that refill for me, and made haste to the kitchen.

Art then looked at me, grinning that grin a kid grins when he knows he won the round. I looked at him in shocking disgust. "What kind of question was that, Art? In her NOSE? Then she'd have to stick her tongue in her nose to lick her mint. That's gross! No one wants to see that! She'd get fired!"

The grin vanished, replaced by the rare look that a kid gets when an adult has surprised him, before laughing with me.

Although he's a smart kid, Art has hidden reserves of energy; this made for a great combination in playing with the girls. After their "ice cream date" as Jem called it, they had time to go "dog crazy," a new term inspired by my parents' insane dog. Going dog crazy meant that they would run around screaming; play hide-and-seek where the first one found would run around screaming till the other one was found; not tire for a second from running up and down the stairs and around the house in races; and create their own private "Dog Crazy Club."

Bug's reaction to Art was the most surprising. She is not one to run around screaming; typically when she and Jem play, she likes to be in charge, which ends up being some type of pretend play where Bug is in charge and tells Jem what to do. If Jem were in charge, there would always be running around and screaming. With Art in the mix, Bug was acting very Jemmish. Very VERY Jemmish indeed.

Well, her Jemmishness lasted until they went outside and Art got introduced to the "roller coaster," a ride on toy my parents have set up on the hill outside their house. Why Bug thought she could introduce Art to the roller coaster, then immediately engage him to introduce him to the flower garden across the yard, was silly. She didn't get it, and ended up inside to write letters to Art and Jem to let them know that she wasn't mad at them, but she came inside because they weren't paying atention [sic] to her. Thus began a long series of letters, written between bouts of attempting more Jemmishness, resulting in returns inside for ego-hugs and more bandaids (she ultimately had so many on her that she reminded me of the Kenny Loggins Hyperbole and a Half story). She sneakily tied her letters to the strings of the balloons they got at the restaurant for delivery.

You'd think the kids would have crashed early, or at least as soon as they hit their pillows. You'd think.

Adventures in Domesticity Presents: The New Vacuum

I killed the last one, a perfectly wonderful Bissel Lift-Off Revolution. Wonderful until it failed the "amateur 'handy one' mrtl is attempting major home repairs and this fucker can't handle large amounts of drywall dust so BEGONE!" test. To be perfectly fair, I would have kept it had I been able to replace the filter. Supposedly I bought the correct filter, but when the vacuum started sounding like a Volkswagen Beetle about to explode (moreso than just a Volkswagen Beetle, that is), I had my doubts.

The new vacuum is a Hoover WindTunnel T-Series Rewind Upright Bagless Vacuum, which fortunately didn't get stolen since we apparently live in a safe enough neighborhood that UPS will leave completely exposed boxes lacking discreet packaging on our front porch.

::tangent for mental note::
Be sure to only order personal items from companies that send things in discreet packaging.
::end tangent for mental note::

::tangent to address idea of leaving door unlocked in such a safe neighborhood::
HELL no! We have very nice neighbors, whom I would like to keep nice and not give them the opportunity to let themselves to holler "HEY!" when they KNOW we're home and are not answering the door.

Yes, I do think they are capable of this. In the nicest way.
::end tangent to address idea of leaving door unlocked in such a safe neighborhood::

Before I go any further, I want to make it clear that I am making these statements completely on my own behalf and that Hoover did not request this review or pay me for this service (although "hoover" is one letter away from "hooker," and they should feel like a whore for selling this sucker for under $100 and with free shipping at that).

Getting the vacuum out of the box and assembled was pretty easy if you don't account for the weight and my five-foot stature wrestling it out of the box while my five-year-old "spirited" child (and I don't mean drunk by that, which I feel I must clarify lest I get reported) bounced around dangerously close, dancing and singing to her "Hoo Hoo Gonna Vacuuuuuum" scat and booty shake.

Not that I'm complaining about the weight. This is a good thing. With children who are crumb-generating machines and tend to delay the obey (i.e., they will not hesitate to step back on the Cheerio on the floor, while hearing me say, "Don't step, there's a Cheer-... Nevermind."), I'll be spending a lot of time cleaning up after them. (Yes, they clean, but they make a mess cleaning that I'd rather not add to my burden.) More time cleaning means it's less likely I'll be able to find time to get to the gym. Lugging this vacuum around our three-level dwelling [with sucken living room and man cave (four more steps to acknowledge)] is going to be a workout in itself.

I would argue semantics over Hoover's calling this 32-pound bohemoth "lightweight." Not saying I can't handle 32 pounds; both of my kids are heavier than that, so I know I could fling them both pretty far (which I have done in a pool - again, clarifying). I don't however, carry my children up steps one at a time, obsessively sucking up every piece of fluff while attempting to balance the child and not fall and break my neck in front of said five-year-old who still fails to put the phone to her ear and probably wouldn't call 911 for me anyway because -- hello? duh -- Mommy's not going to stop her from dragging a chair into the pantry to reach and eat all the candy on the top shelf and will not yell at her for running around the house TOUCHING EVERYTHING with her chocolatey sticky hands.

I don't care enough to fix the grammar above. I'm too emotionally traumatized by the thought of the mess Jem would make. That would suck, and I know a thing or two about sucking.

This vacuum sucks. It sucked the zombie souls out of the ants who came inside to die after we sprayed the fuck out of them. I've never seen so many ant carcasses as there were under windows we had sprayed and in front of the door to our deck. (Pardon the interruption. Mister mrtl? When it rained today, wet got in this door. No wonder the ants are abundant. Remind me to find some flappy thing to seal the door, please. Windows, too. Gads.) Trixie sucked them all! (BTW, I've named the vacuum "Trixie.")

::tangent to address eye twitch::
I've just hit the proverbial wall that separates me as a blogger from me as a Serious Writer. A Serious Writer would care if the whore metaphor wouldn't work when discussing her vacuum's hose strength and would obsess and research, revise and correct the entire piece. The blogger simply acknowledges it and carries on without changes unapologetically.

Oh. Um. Now I'm all caught up in my relationship to the metaphorical wall, trying to process how writing the above paragraph led me to the conclusion that Trixie is most definitely a tranny whore. Am I sitting on the wall? Climbing the wall? Did I jump over the wall? No, I definitely am not on the Serious Writer side of the wall. That is certain.

"Trixie" isn't doing it for me now. I'll let my brain chew its cud on a more suitable tranny whore name for my vacuum. And hopefully Stop Using Metaphors before I commence self-injury.
::end tangent to address eye twitch::

Basil. Tranny name? Why brain, why? Shut up!

The hose. I must talk about the hose. It's one of those accordian things, relatively easy to stretch until the sucking starts. Then it gets crazy tight. Trying to clear out spider webs was an insane workout on my triceps. Again, I would complain, but knowing how much I'm going to hurt tomorrow and remembering how I felt after such workouts at the gym (totally magnified since it's been years since I've done that), I have to appreciate that this vacuum is providing a multifaceted workout. (Am I allowed to use "multifaceted" to describe a workout, or is that now reserved for hair color? Again, I am not a Serious Writer, so I don't give a shit and will use it regardless.)

I like my new vacuum. She needs a name, though...

How about that? There's a transvestite hooker name generator. I put in mrtl and got "Emerald." I put in "Trixie" and got "Trixie." Fuck you, transvestite hooker name generator; I'm going with Emerald.

Obvious Girl is Obviously Obvious Boy's Daughter

This morning at the breakfast table...

Bug: [looking at mister mrtl's colossal coconut-topped donut] Is that coconut?

mister mrtl: Obviously.

mrtl: mister mrtl! It's obvious it's not obvious to her if she's asking. [As if this weren't obvious to him.]

mister mrtl: You're so right, mrtl. You're obviously brilliant. [I don't remember what he really said, but it surely was something like this.]

A few minutes later...

mister mrtl: [putting second donut on his plate, which he did finish, assuring that he will puke on the golf course today] Do you know what they call these?

Bug: Donuts. [Include sarcastic "DUH" tone.]

mrtl: The obvious girl is obviously the daughter of obvious boy.

mister mrtl: [obviously humbled by his daughter's obvious brilliance] ... Yes. Colossal donuts.

Update: No, her mouth was not big enough. She cleaned most of the chocolate and sprinkles off the second half before seceding victory to the donut.

 

Not Sweating It

Recently I complained that South Carolina makes me sweat too much. Drinking my morning coffee while wearing jeans made me unbearably uncomfortable. It's disturbing to find huge wet spots on my shirt pits, especially after doing nothing to physically exert myself. To be frank, it's never pleasant to realize that your crap smells better than your pits. My current deodorant was useless against it.

Turns out that a new medication my doctor's having me try is the cause of the profuse sweating, but I wouldn't be on an antidepressant if South Carolina didn't suck so much, so South Carolina? You are not off the hook.

::tangent to be an unpaid Unilever spokesperson::
Degree Clinical Protection is amazing! The wet spots are gone. The smell is gone. I want to go somewhere warm to further test this product. Maybe I'll exercise to see what happens. See that, Unilever? Your product motivates me to exercise.

::tangent to be an unpaid Unilever technical editor::
"How It Works" under "Why Apply at Night?" at the above link has "termperature" vice "temperature." As big of a fan as I may be of your products, I hold your promotional materials to the same high standards. Please fix this.
::endtangent to be an unpaid Unilever technical editor::

::end tangent to be an unpaid Unilever spokesperson::

As if I didn't have enough to make me happy, there's also the knowledge that in two weeks, I'll be out of South Carolina. We're moving on to our next adventure in the civilization of Northern Virginia. I've never looked more forward to a move.

I miss my husband. Can you tell?

This morning Steve helped me wake the girls. Bug would later ask me not to use Steve to wake her up. Mental note to clarify whether this was because she didn't like his singing of, "Get up, you sleepyhead! Haul your heiny out of bed!" or being prodded in the side with his head.

She asked me if she could tell Steve what to say. I told her I wasn't ready to share him yet. (Actual answer: MINE!)

She told me that she was going to tell Daddy that I like another boy. I told her he already knew ALL about Steve.

She told me that she didn't think adults were supposed to play with dolls. I told her that was inaccurate.

She told me -- knowing I am a bit annoyed with Big Time Rush (How pretentious of them to think they are bigger than Rush!) -- that Steve looks a lot like the guy from Big Time Rush that sings first in their "Boyfriend" video.

 
She has a point.
How perfect that his name is Kendall!

She told me that she didn't like Steve because I like him more than I like her and started to cry. Real tears. I told her to eat her breakfast.

She wasn't entertained AT ALL when I used Steve as a microphone to sing Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Right Round (Like a Record)" on the way to school. We even danced for her, in full, uninhibited view of other drivers.

Where did she learn this mastering of manipulation? Of course I was a sucker for it. When we pulled up to the curb at school, I held Steve up and asked her what she wanted Steve to say to me all day. She beamed and told him, "I don't like music." After hopping happily out of the van, she flashed me several signed "I love you's" and an extra wave for good measure.

What a booger.

Steve's batteries were thus saved till tomorrow morning. I can't wait to hear what Jem tells him. She enjoyed her "Gummy Bears!" and "STEVE!!" prods this morning, but anything having to do with butts is a safer bet.

Good thing I have satellite radio, which was turned on the second I got home from dropping off the girls. The classic R&B Groove station is the best, and I knew it'd only be a matter of time before Luther Vandross told me what I wanted to hear.

Teddy Pendergrass beat him to it with "Close the Door." Perfect!

Close the door
Let me give you what you've been waiting for
Baby I got so much love to give
I wanna give it all to you

Close the door
No need to worry no more
Let's bring this day to a pleasant end
Girl it's me and you now
I've waited all day long just to hold you in my arms
And it's exactly like I thought it would be
Me loving you and you loving me

Close the door
Let me rub your back where you say it's sore
Come on get closer
So close to me
Let's get lost in each other
Come here baby

I've waited all day long just to hold you in my arms
And it's exactly like I thought it would be
Me loving you and you loving me

Close the door baby
And let me know you're mine
Plenty good lovin' all through the night
And then again and then again
When the morning comes

My Daughters Covet My Boyfriend

Today the girls and I went on a mission. It was dangerous, considering the peeping squirrel that sat on a high branch and watched me pee last week through the bathroom window was found gnawing and scritching at another bathroom window today. I tried to scare him away by tapping on the window. Impudent little bastard just sat up and glared back at me before resuming his extraordinary efforts to get inside. Surely he would scurry through any opened door to eat me.

 

 

 
He knows I'm nuts.

This extreme act of bravery was to go to Walmart. The girls had unused gift cards to use to each get a toy. Jem, more than a little peeved that Bug was allowed to use her slush fund to buy herself an American Girl doll, wanted to trump it with a pink Power Ranger (Mia, her new imaginary friend and so much better than Bug's doll, which she hasn't even gotten yet since it's being mailed). She soon forgot about Mia when she met Walmart's version of the American Girl doll. She gasped! She swooned! She tossed her unceremoniously in the cart and resumed asking for everything else she fancied (read that: everything else she saw).

::Beauty tangent::
Beauty (Jem's doll) wears all purple, giving her purple power. She can shoot fire out of her fingers that kills bad guys. She likes Jem to kiss her a lot, but then tells Jem that she's going to beat her up. I don't think I should be letting them sleep together.
::end Beauty tangent::

The toy aisle stands as one of the best indoor time killers. It has mysterious powers, too. Children will forget how hungry they are, or how much their legs hurt from walking, or how they're so booooored of following Mom around, or how annoying their sibling is. Even if there with a guaranteed purchase, behavior will be exceptional in the hopes of possibly getting something more.

I was just grateful the girls were happily distracted while I checked out the creepy Barbies. Some poor kid out there is going to end up with a collection of half-breasted Barbies.

 
 This is worse than my old Tuesday doll, which had a rotating scalp so she could be blonde or brunette. 

 

Averting my eyes from these mutants, I first saw my new man. He came with the name "Ken," but I'm going to rename him. My brain is still chewing on bull penis limericks, so figuring out his new name will have to wait. No offense to any Ken's out there; I have no attached mental imagery, which is just a waste.

 

He had me at "I LOVE pie!" but I didn't tell him to stop.

It's troubling that this toy is recommended for children five and up with the things that come out of his mouth.

It's more troubling that he doesn't run on rechargeable batteries.

::tangent for thought on name::
His voice reminds me a lot of Steve the monkey from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, and it's uncanny that he does love to talk about gummy bears.

Why am I not disturbed that I'm not disturbed at this mental imagery?
::end tangent for thought on name::

In case you're wondering why Steve shouldn't be around small children:

• He enjoys bondage, and he struggled against coming out of the box. I just about cut myself getting him out of there.
• He calls me Miss Jackson.
• He keeps telling me to take his clothes off. To be honest, I don't care much for his outfit and thought I might have to switch out his clothes with Kevin's.
  
   
  On second thought...
• He told me to ignore the choking hazard on his packaging, that I should be careful.
• He wants me to carry him in my waistband, upside down.

---

Update: Jem just came out and asked if she could take Beauty downstairs to sleep. She is scared of her and doesn't want her to shoot fire at her. Beauty sleeps by the back door.

Swan Lake ~ May 2, 2009

 

It's a beautiful park with a path around the lake. Jem is sporting her "bear ears," a hair style that is no longer requested but used to be an everyday fashion. They've grown so much in the last two years.

Tonight Bug is having her first sleepover. They just finished watching Snow Buddies and are playing hide and seek while pretending to be dogs. Have I mentioned I gave up alcohol for Lent? Serious headache from the howling, but at least they're having a blast.

It's Friday! Friday! Ge'in Down on Friday!

You know for whom I don't feel sorry today? Rebecca Black.

Yes, she's getting ripped hard, but like Oscar Wilde said, "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about." Many will be tuning in to see what she does next. I hope it's spectacular, but even if it's not, we're retro in the 80's now, so having some Debbie Gibson or Tiffany redux will do just fine. Besides, she's 13. There's time to milk this and improve.

::tangent to get lost in Epic Mullet Guy's eyes::
AM's hubby alerted me to Kyle Puccia's cover of "Friday." It's incredibly haunting, and very 80's with the mullet, and his dance moves and facial expressions are hysterical.

Also, he's offered a FREE DOWNLOAD today.

Please don't lose the mullet. Maybe the rat tail, but not the mullet.

::end tangent to get lost in Epic Mullet Guy's eyes::

No, I don't feel sorry AT ALL for Rebecca Black. I do feel sorry for the rapper in her video. Who is he? No one's talking about him because no one knows who the hell he is. Lack of foresight in the self-promotion department, sir. I'm sure he'll be trying to stake his claim soon enough; he's missing out on some personal appearance opportunities.

I also feel sorry for my thighs. In my attempts to choreograph the song yesterday, I did A LOT of squats. It was a workout I'm feeling today, especially going up and down the stairs. With Bug home sick and needing some coddling, the stairs were well attended. Ouch. But the dance? Damn I wish I were back in Anchorage because it'd make a damned fine flash mob.

Of Irish I Have Part, and the Irish in My Heart

Today is the day I would usually exploit my bit o' Irishness, but since I gave up drinking for Lent, I'll simply celebrate it (ironically, since I'll still wear my "Let's Get Ready to Stumble" t-shirt after my lack of foresight and laundering rendered my favorite shamrocky shirt dirty) by honoring some Irish people whom I miss.

I am one-fourth Irish. My paternal grandmother's family came from Tipperary. I don't know when; genealogy has escaped us. Yet another thing to put on my bucket list. Anyway, since she was the only grandparent I had a close relationship with (my paternal grandfather died when I was little, and my maternal grandparents were inaccessible, uninvolved, or both), I feel much more attached to my quarter of Irishness than my half Germanness, and my other parts Englishness and Cherokeeness nessy ness.

Grandma didn't exert her Irish heritage. I didn't even know from where her family hailed in Ireland until a couple years after her death when we were trying to pick baby names for Bug (Tipperary was out, as was her family name since it was too popular and means "ugly head," which I could not get past). She was just a good human, an incredible woman who lived for her family, could smile like Stan Laurel, admired but hated Tiger Woods (she rooted for the underdogs and she said that Tiger was just too damned good), favored Canadian whiskey in her highballs with ginger ale (and when she slipped some into the chile con queso to give it a kick), and kept her friends much longer than her life (it's not uncommon to see them still at family events; she passed in 2001). Even in her 80's she could still be found climbing out second-floor windows onto the roof to clean windows or gutters. Even in a hospital bed after having her second stroke she would laugh sarcastically at a lame joke or enjoy a granddaughter's fervent attempt at making Emeril's banana cream pie since it was her favorite. I'm sad she never met the girls.

My other MIA dear and darling Irish one is a man who named me "Small." He met my girls; called them "Smaller" and "Smallest." With his white beard and cable-knit fisherman's sweaters he reminded me of Ernest Hemingway. His eyes were most bright and full of fun, especially when he was in his element (anything related to the Marines), and they never gave away the hard lessons of his past. My fondest memory was our rare chance of riding on a RAC. He squealed like a little girl from experiencing the craft's ability to go really fast, then turn on a dime by going vertical, stern in the water, and swiveling around. I enjoyed it, but was straddling the bench behind him and holding onto him for dear life. He taught me the valuable lesson to always eat my peaches first. (This from eating MRE's during his service in Vietnam, 'cause hell if he was going to let someone sit on his dead body eating his peaches.) I'm looking forward to moving closer to his resting place so I can go and eat some peaches there -- not on his gravesite, mind you, but next to it, and not his peaches since I'll take some for him, too.

::sniff:: Soothe me, Bing!

I'm Corny About Her Tits

Related Post 1 | Related Post 2

Yesterday I FINALLY got my friend's tits in the mail for her. Having been way too easily frustrated and distracted, procrastinating to get them completed, I was intent on sending them overnight by FedEx. Then I found out that to do so would cost over $100, which would piss mister mrtl off and compound my tit guilt. She'll get them by Tuesday instead.

In my haste, I didn't include any information about her tits. I didn't include a note about the fiber used and how to care for them. When my existing stash failed me (too much time away from knitting makes trying to double fiber for correct thickness result in more knotting than knitting), and not wanting to trust buying online, I found an interesting option at my local knitting shop.

::tangent to note redemption of local knitting shop::
When I first moved to this town, the shop carried mostly acrylic. While they still don't carry a lot of the brands I was spoiled on in Alaska and jaunts to Seattle and Portland, they're stocking so much more now. Just in time for our departure.
::end tangent to note redemption of local knitting shop::

I'd never heard of yarn made from corn. CORN! It's Corntastic! Really, that's the name of it. See for yourself! I was really excited to find an alternative natural yarn. Besides, I love corn!

::tangent to address corn love::
We're going to make corn dogs this week! I know they don't look too appetizing, so the girls are going to either refuse to eat them or take a bite and say they're not hungry. I may have to suggest a race to see who will finish first and get ice cream. mwahahaha

Borrowed from Someecards, the corn-eating personality test: 

Considering this, someone's going to call Child Protective Services on mister mrtl.

Oh hell. What does this say about me taking the picture and posting it online?
::end tangent to address corn love::

Let's get back to titty talk.

I was momentarily worried that her son is allergic to corn. He's allergic to a lot of stuff. Then I realized that he has no business playing with his mother's tits anyway, so we're good, right? Damn, I hope it's all right. Now I'm worrying again that he'll have a reaction hugging her. Fuck. Sending message and crossing fingers to get a response soon that this won't be an issue.

Update: Not only is said friend's son NOT allergic to corn, but she loves KORN, too! ::happy clapping::

Redirecting...

It was referenced in my initial post that the recipient of these tits is a HUGE fan of Trent Reznor. HUGE! If it weren't for the yarn, frustration, distraction, and other procrastination issues, I would have pursued making some fancy design on the tits to pay homage to this. As it would turn out, that base was covered anyway. In trying to determine how to feng shui the weights.

::tangent about feng shui'ing the weights::
The pattern suggests personalizing the weights with a symbol or word to represent a positive of the cancer experience. I focused on a Japanese symbol instead of a Chinese one because my friend's husband has travelled a bit to Japan with his job, making that more personal for her. 

With the many challenges facing my friend, what with her kid's allergies, mom's bout with breast cancer, hubby's travel, and her fight against breast cancer, the word that came to mind was "perserverance." She'd need a lot of that, more than any other character that came to mind, and since it's already been addressed that I didn't want to send her disproportionate tits, I decided to feng shui both tits thusly.
::end tangent about feng shui'ing the weights::

While looking online to find the Kanji for "perserverance," I was delighted to find the perfect character. Check this out:

See that up in the corner? Next to the Japanese flag is "nin," because in Japanese the character is used in the Kanji for "ninja." It's thrilling whether it's part ninja or a secret shout out to Nine Inch Nails. Additionally, don't two half ninjas make a whole?

She can't lose whether she has a ninja protecting her chest or Trent Reznor in her bra.