When gremlins strike

Fifteen weeks of development.  Fifteen weeks.  Something to celebrate?  Not this time.

For the past week, I've been having the dreaded pregnant headaches.  I had a few when Amos was snugged into my belly, but these are more frequent and achy.  It truly feels like Marmot is stabbing me in the skull.  I imagine a little softball-sized baby standing over me with an icepick, not unlike the gremlin in Twilight Zone: The Movie that terrorizes John Lithgow on the wing of the plane. 

Stabby stab stab goes the little softball-sized gremlin, while I stare in horror from seat 13A.

For that reason, I'm a little (okay, a lot) cranky when the headaches strike.  I've missed some great outings because of them.  I drape myself across the couch with a hand over my forehead in very much a "woe is me" kind of way.  Noise, any noise, yes, even that one you are making right now over there SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!, is bothersome.  Daylong headaches:  they should be a defense in murder trials.

A tiny dose of Tylenol and a wee dram of coffee seem to help, but I'm not willing to go beyond that, as I'll be tarred and feathered by the parenting community and pointed at menacingly by the uterus cops for poisoning the gremlin that is stabbing me in the brain.  It's really unfair, this pregnant business.  Napping all day in a comatose manner seems to be the only cure.

So, anyhoo, another one struck me today.  After taking my standard "woe is me" position, Amos decided to go about his usual toddler business with the noise and the movement and the clanging and the banging and the stomping and the general madness.  I wasn't a happy camper.  I said various things that I'm not proud of, such as, "Get off this couch!  Go away!  Leave!  ARGH!"  Phil, being the wondrous man that he is, decided to take Amos down to the basement, where Amos has a carpet-padded dungeon of delights filled with toys and plenty of room to run around like a madman.

I was grateful, mind you, but the gremlin was making me do and say things that were not under my jurisdiction.  Amos was still running around up here and causing me stress, so I said, "Just GO AWAY!"  

I immediately felt bad.  Really bad.

Then Amos said, "Okay, I'm going away now," in just about the cutest, most mother-killing voice I've ever heard.  I died on the spot.

After recovering from my death, I asked Amos to come over.  I apologized and asked for a kiss.  He giggled and whispered, "Heheh, okay," and planted one on me.  "I'm going to the basement!"  And off he went to have fun in the toddler dungeon.

I called after him, "Have fun!"  Then I rolled back into "woe is me" to lament about my bad mothering.  He didn't seem affected at all, but I added one check mark to the imaginary Wall of Parenting Shame that stands beside me.

Perhaps if I confess these times that I take out headaches and aggravations on my son, then I won't progress to Defcon Mommy Dearest stage.  I won't end up in the garden at 3am, slicing the roses off of their stems while Amos watches in horror.  I won't scream, "NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!" or give his gifts to orphans while I smear lopsided lipstick across my face.


He is likely, however, to walk around our home saying, "I know how to make drinks for all my uncles."  That one is NOT my fault.  Blame it on Phil for buying me a gag set of "childrens' books" entitled such things as "Baby Mix Me a Drink."  Amos already knows how to make a gimlet, an old-fashioned, and something he calls a mardardita in da blender.

Somewhere, Joan Crawford is smiling fondly at us.

Epic journeys and breeding

That pretty much sums up what life has been like the past few months.

Oh, hi.  Is that you?  Yeah, I know.  It's been awhile.  You look smashing in that frock.  Oh, stop!  No, YOU stop!

So, um, yeah.  I moved.  About 1,700 miles, give or take.  There's a lot I can say about traveling this great expanse of country we have, but I'll save those sweet ditties for another post.


So, um, yeah.  I did something else.  Well, Phil and I did something.  We got it on, and then something, or someone, is the result.  Yes, we are breeding again.  It is a good thing, Martha.  A very, very good thing.


Say hello to Marmot, Baby Binky #2.

Also, welcome to my uterus.  You're welcome.

This ultrasound was done at 12 weeks.  As the medical establishment was quick to tell me, this was a necessary part of this pregnancy as I am now "advanced maternal age."  Thanks.  Now go away.  My old eggs are watching "Matlock," and they are pissed that you didn't put your tea cups on a doily.  And get offa their lawn!

Ah, where was I?  Yes, back to my uterus.  Isn't it lovely?  Here is Marmot, shaking a fist at you (because you still didn't use that damn doily, now did you?!).  This kid is sassy, just like Mom.

Marmot almost seems to have giant lips in that pic up there, but I'm going to set you straight and tell you that those are teeth.  Although, it would be pretty hilarious to birth a child with adult-sized, Angelina Jolie lips.

Just to be nice, here is Marmot and a little hand wave above the head.  See?  My kid has manners.  But you don't.  If you left a ring on that table, my old eggs will tan your hide.

So, there you go.  You were thinking that, all this time, I was just wasting my days and nights with nothingness and not writing.  Right?  Well, aren't you put back into your place.  I traversed the nation AND made a baby.  I'm a ding dang Dust Bowl pioneer, all knocked up and singing songs of wagons and cholera.

And that's what I did on my holiday vacation.  The end.

Shake it like a Polaroid picture

I don't know about you, but I think I already know how to do this exercise.

*insert other witty dick jokes here*

Eighteen piles and a dozen roses

If you know the song I just bastardized, well, kudos, my friend.  It gets stuck in my head sometimes, much like another bizarre country tune that my childhood pals in East Texas and I would shout out as we were swaying on a tree swing.  

I know.  It will haunt you forever.  You're welcome.

There's a point I was going to make with this.  Let me remind myself.... Um... Ah.  Okay.

So, yes.  We are moving, as mentioned in my previous silly rant.  As of today, I have roughly two months to get my butt in gear and to pack all of our precious collections.  Collections become less precious when you find out just how much it will cost to haul that junk across state lines.  Very much less precious.

We've decided to employ the help of a moving company, a sort of you-pack-it, we-haul-it situation.  Considering we have one child and cat in our inventory, it seems better to stuff all of us in the car and let someone else drag our cargo to the final destination.  We've done the whole rent-a-truck-and-frighten-yourself-to-death routine with the driving and the hauling and the driving and the driving.  I know that driving with a cat while following your husband who is driving a Penske truck (without his CDL or a chaw of tobaccy in his mouth) seems romantic, but adding a child to the mix creates a new dimension of terror and excitement.  Being a trucker just isn't high on my list of priorities these days.  My old bones aren't up to the challenge anymore.

So, this creates a different problem.  We will be charged by the foot in this giant tractor trailer.  Can you look at everything in your house and say, "Hmm... it looks like we have 13 feet of possessions."?  Well, I can't.  I'm trying to learn the process of turning an entire household into a miniature Borg ship of cubic dimensions.  Don't even get me started on how painful it will be when we assimilate and become cybernetic organisms.  I know, I know.  Resistance is futile.

It's much easier to rent a moving truck and start out with good intentions, with the careful packing of items into boxes of the same size.  As you start the process, you congratulate yourself on how nicely you've stacked your items in the back of the truck.  Then, as the hours drag on and the random crap is still rolling around your house, you begin to stuff things haphazardly into baskets and bags and hobo bindles, cursing yourself for every little thing you've ever purchased in your lifetime.  When you're sweaty and throwing garbage bags full of junk into the truck, desperately trying to close the door to your U-Haul, that is when hindsight kicks you right in the balls.

I really don't like that guy, Hindsight.

I think you see my dilemma.  How does a very unorganized person become organized enough to create  X-amount of space in a tractor trailer to minimize the freight charges?  I can rent a moving truck that is 26 feet, and then proceed to shove my garbage bags into it without problem.  But, can I turn that loosely (and probably dangerously) packed 26 feet into a quaint and dainty square of 13 feet or less?  And before you answer, can I do that without having every single item break in transit?  Ha HA!  See?  It's not so easy.

It's one thing to accept this challenge when the distance is only across town.  It's quite another when you cross an entire continent.

I guess what I'm saying is that we are very popular right now with the charity organizations that drive around and pick up clothing and household donations.  Every few days, one of them calls.  We have the Lupus Foundation and the ARC folks battling it out over who gets my legwarmers and acid-washed jeans.  It's not a pretty sight when diseases and the underpriviledged engage in hand-to-hand combat in the streets over "vintage" clothing.  I'm just trying to help, people.  I'm just trying to help. 

So, keep us in your thoughts as we try to pry ourselves free of our possessions.  Perhaps I will try to assemble the 13 foot (or less, please) Borg ship before we slap it into the truck.  I suspect, however, that the whole thing will fall on me in a very disastrous way.  I should leave this to the professionals, me thinks.

Good thing I'll have the Rubber Duck taking care of things in his convoy.

Convoy!  Convoy!

I'm movin' on up, to the east side

Pennsylvania, to be exact. Yes, dear reader whose face I would try to delicately read with my hands but cannot because I would never let you into my house when you're dressed like a tart and smelling of cheese, I am leaving Colorado and my beloved Denver for the literal greener pastures of southeastern Pennsylvania.

Folks who know my exploits on other various things I spout upon are already aware of this, but I figured the world at large should know, since I'm sure my absence of late has been a large worry. Or not.

I've hesitated to talk about this, which caused me to basically seize up and refrain from saying nary a word on this here ol' Binky. I'm like that, you know. All chatty chatty bang bang, and then when craziness smooshes my bits, I clam up that trap of mine and just smile and nod. I know, I know. That's not exactly the hallmark of a blogger who happens to discuss juicy personal deets, but such is the life of this lady. After all, why talk about something when it's only in the decision stages, and get people all worked up about it with delight or pounding their chests with fury? That's what Fox News is for.

Now for the question and answer round of this program.

Why, you ask. Why would you do such a thing? Well, if you've been any sort of reader of mine (and I do love you and pet you and call you my Squishy for being so), then you are quite aware of the Disaster of All Disasters to Ever Strike a Binky. Otherwise known as leaving for Texas to take care of two parents at two separate times during one year, only to have both of them die up on the cabin floor (as Woody Guthrie would say). These events, while sad and tragic and such, caused the adults in this household to reexamine our lives. We realized, well, I realized first and then Phil realized because I told him so, that our son should grow up around family.

And that's how it will be.

Come December, these people of mine will pull up stakes and head east. We'll be north of Philadelphia in the land of Bucks County. No, I won't tell you where, you perv. It dawned on me one day that this decision was made partly because of the loss of my father, who would protest loudly if he were alive and knew I was doing this. You see, it was bad enough that his daughter married a Yankee. Now she's going to BECOME one?! Egads. Or ding dang, if you're Southern. See?! I don't even know who I am anymore! Damn you, dirty apes!

So, what's done is done. The check is in the mail, the lease is signed. Too bad, Dad. My kid needs grandparents. You could have stuck around for the interview.

Would I make this decision if I didn't have Amos? Tricky, tricky. Phil and I have been happy nomads all these years, living out on the high desert plains and supping upon the feasts of the Rocky Mountains. I'd probably pick Istanbul or Prague or some other exotic and probably dangerous location, if one was to poke at me and demand that I leave Denver. As it turns out, the fruit of my loins has more say in this even if he never said a thing at all about it.

Sigh.

Ah, but turn that frown upside down, mon friend. Pennsylvania is a land of many contrasts, I've been told by those who took PA history in school. Indeed, Pennsylvania and Bucks County in particular are quite spectacular. I have always enjoyed visiting there, seeing the lush forests and greenery, and making fun of all of the delis and such that proclaim "Steaks and Hoagies" on their front windows. The first time I saw that, I asked Phil, "Jeez, are these people meat eaters or what with all their steaks?!" Silly silly me. I didn't know that it referred to cheesesteaks.

Ah, cheesesteaks. Pennsylvania's state bird: the cheesesteak. Pennsylvania's state motto: The Cheesesteak State, Land of Many Contrasts and Toppings and Cheese Whiz.

Did I mention how great Phil's relatives are? Yeah. Anyone who causes me to pull roots and travel over 1,700 miles better be darn great. And they are.

In my neurosis, I actually had to sit down and think long and hard over a pro versus con list of why we should go there. It turns out that big changes kinda make me wacky these days, as you might imagine after having all the death and the dying and the croaking and the such. Makes a lady batty, y'know? There were more yeas than nays, but I know I will still have a few problems with the negatives. Maybe that's where you can help me. Let's get all Oprah on this and treat it like a national crisis that I must overcome these obstacles. And then write a book about it.

Cons

1) The accent. I know. I KNOW! It's hideous! (Except for you, of course, dear East Coaster, I'm sure you don't sound as awful as I think...er.). There are many accents that I can take, some that I dare say I find charming, but I tells ya and I tells ya, the southeastern Pennsylvania accent with its ca-ozy instead of cozy and ha-oagie instead of hoagie?! UGH! It makes me shiver and shake and twitch and twitter. Any "oh" sound in that region is mangled into something that inserts an "ah" sound in front of it. It's wrong, Pennsylvania. It's DEAD WRONG what you did to those words.

(No, I will not defend the various Texas accents in this debate since I am from there. I don't sound like that. You, Texan, will have to live with yourself for creating those sounds.)

(See? I'm even-handed here. I don't hate the player, I hate the game.)

2) Hoagies. Yes, I said it. Hah-oagies. I've never disliked a word before as much as I dislike that word. I'm pretty sure it will prevent me from eating one. Maybe that's not so bad, you think, but the little towns around where I will live are cornfed on these sandwiches. Hah-oagies are the bread and butter of that area, and I won't be able to swing a dead whatever around without hitting a hoagie. I'm sure they are tasty, Pennsylvania, but the way you say that word and keep saying it and then keep posting it on every window everywhere to ever exist, which in turn reminds me of the way you say it? Oh, boy.

(Yes, another set of parenthesis. Now, understand that I am somewhat pulling your chain here. Tongue in cheek, my friend. I'm not actually all bent out of shape here, you dig? What else do I have to write about besides random things that may or may not be ridiculous?)

3) The problem that shall not be named. No, don't even ask. I mean it. Stop. I said quit!


So, there you go. Or, there my go, as Amos would say. Eh, I guess that's not so many problems. As you can see, I doth protest too much. I will suck it up and try to plug up my ears whenever the vernacular offenses occur. I will be a Pennsylvanian. I WILL be a Pennsylvanian. I'm not sure if I'll get gussied up in a Quaker outfit or the undergarments of the Amish as part of my initiation, but what the heck. I'll do it, Pennsylvania, for you. And for my kid.

Aw, shucks. And I think you're kinda cute, too. Heheheh. No, YOU stop.

Do you remember me

I said that to you over and over tonight, as if to jog your memory a little bit more about our past.

Sixteen years it's been, between you and me. And here we are, on the precipice of your 40th birthday. I was just 19 when we met, and you were a deliciously pervy 23.

I remember it all. I remember meeting you in June of 1993, after many months of very difficult times I had in other various relationships. I met you, that June, and all of the past melted away into trifles of boys versus this MAN. This MAN who suddenly showed up in my life, at my place of work, and in my consciousness that I couldn't escape.

And just now, you slipped into bed, and we joked that I'm writing so late at night. I said, "No! You can't read it!" And you said, "Well, I took my glasses off, so you'll have to adjust the point size quite a bit for me to see." And that, my love, is just a bit of the love we have between us. I can write drippings of love stories about you, or scandalous untold nothings, and you wouldn't care. You just know.

You remember me.

I remember being with you for such a short amount of time before your birthday suddenly appeared. I hadn't known anyone like you before. How the HELL do you shop for someone as odd and perplexing and utterly fascinating, and might I add sexy?, as you?! I had no idea how to please you. If I had only known that it really didn't take much, then I could have saved myself the trouble. Ah, but that's the rub. That's where we diverge and where you understand me.

You know that I never make it easy.

I drove around that week, not knowing what would please you. For Pete's sake, I had lost so many BOYS so recently in my life, that I couldn't lose this MAN that I had suddenly found. I couldn't fuck up his birthday, right? I was just a college girl in a rural area. What the hell did I know?

I drove around, and thought and thought. I drove and drove. I don't think you'll ever really know how much I thought and drove, and then drove and thought.

And then I saw it. I don't think anyone will understand, really, what stopped me that day. I can imagine your mother being appalled by what stopped me in my car. I can imagine my friends scratching their heads and trying to figure out which medication I should be on.

It just made sense.

I saw it in the window. I was in downtown Seguin, across from the biggest pecan in the world. I was across from a slew of antique stores, who SHOULD STILL BE THERE, SEGUIN! IF YOU WOULD ONLY LEARN TO SUPPORT SMALL BUSINESS AND WHAT IT MEANT TO YOUR COMMUNITY.

But I digress.

A week or so later, I parked the car and walked to the antique store. I remember being very nervous, as I had never been in an antique store before. Fer Chriss' sakes, what do you expect from a nineteen year old?

I asked the woman if she still had the item I had seen in the window. No, she said. And then I wondered, really? How many of these things are in demand? Are they flying off the shelves and causing farmers to knock each other over in panicked pandemonium?

And just now, you snored a little, just like you always do when you're flat on your back after a little bit of wine and good times on a Saturday night. Normally, I would nudge you and say, "Turn on your side."

But not tonight.

And then I went to the store next door. She had one, she said. I waited and waited, as the clerk went to the back of the store to find this thing, this large and precious gift that I had so wanted to give you, even if it didn't make sense.

And then I had it.

I don't remember if I wrapped it. Could I have? What an odd thing to wrap with paper. I remember driving forever, from Seguin to my home, and then to your place. I remember your reaction. You loved it. You absolutely and truly loved it.

And that's when I knew. I knew that I could please you, and I knew that I wanted to go out of my way to find that impossible SOMETHING to please you for every year to come. I knew, from that day forward, that this freak of a man that I had stumbled upon was exactly the man I needed.

I remember you.

And I want to remember every bit of you, and us, and the three of us, from this day forward.

Forever and ever.

I love you, Bert. You are my man. You are my fish. You, in every way, are the best thing that ever crossed my path.

Happy Birthday, Bert. Happy Birthday from me, your son, and every year we've been together. I remember you. And that, my love, is the best gift I could ever have when I think about us.

Bang your shell

I love this video better than bread, paper, rock, or scissors. I seriously hope those are the actual sounds of the turtle.

I can't even begin to dissect why this is so friggin' hilarious. The look on the lady turtle's face is priceless.

You're welcome.


(Many thanks to Daily Shite)

It's been a long time coming

But I'm back. Sort of.

To celebrate this day of return, let's take a look at dead baby skeletons as they get a milky shower from a cow and then suck directly from its teets. It's French. It's crazy. It's exactly what this blog should be about.

Nice to see you, too. Is that a new shirt you're wearing? You look fabulous.

In accordance to section 10.b of the contract

I write this post.

Hey, there. How's it going? That's great. Wow. Have you lost weight? You look fabulous! Is that a new shirt, I mean, blouse, I mean, garment? It's wonderful and makes you very shapely in the most appealing sort of way.

Denver is hot today. And I still mean hot at 10pm. I have fans whirring about like crazy, and the temperature-o-mometer tells me it is 76 in here. What, 76 degrees, you say?! It's true. I've become a delicate flower that requires a misting of water, fans powered by the thin arms of servants, and grapes peeled and poisoned by those wishing to be in power. I hear tell of people who start to shiver and shake at the thought of 76 degrees *cough* elderly and/or residents of Texas*cough* but we people of the Mile High City have become accustomed to cool air and good times. It is not acceptable for me to be warm at 10pm.

Hmm. What else, what else, what else...

There are other things I could tell you, but I won't. Ha! I'm so cruel.

I'm trying to drown out the sounds of "Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!" Amos is bonkers for this show. If it isn't "Little Bill," "Jack's Big Music Show" or this show, forget about it. The kid has standards. Unfortunately, I am not able to revert my standards to toddler age, so I groan and moan and hope for time to pass so that I don't have to listen to Wuzzleberg talk anymore.

AND YES MY SON IS UP AT 10PM AND IF YOU GIVE ME ANY LIP ABOUT IT I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE TIT.

Hey, did you do something to your hair? That's it, isn't it? Wow. It really suits you. I fancy it.

All of your neuroses, available today on Facebook

Facebook, I love you, but I kind of hate you. No, I don't hate you in the way that other whiny computer geeks hate you. I'm not in love with Myspace and having pissing contests over the two of you. I'm not all caught up in your format and yelling, "Wah wah wah! I don't like how you are trying to be Twitter!" I'm not even a member of "Bring the Old Facebook Back!"

Why? Because I'm not a whiny jerk.

What I am, however, is a wine-y jerk. Sometimes a vodka jerk.

And that's where we have a problem, you and I.

You're freaking me out, man. And not in a good way.

Just because I've been drinking a bit of vodka just about, oh, maybe every night or so for the last week, it doesn't mean that you should display ads for Americana vodka because I've tried EVERY other vodka brand and import, or so you say in the ad.

How do you know what brands and how much I've been drinking? I'll have you know that I'm enjoying a giant bottle of Costco vodka, and Costco vodka don't need no justification. You buy it because it's big and will break your leg off if you drop it.

Look. Just because I talked about drinking vodka with juice box from Costco (which, by the way, is the smartest parenting cocktail I've seen in a long time) and then pairing it with a Ralph Fiennes movie, it does NOT mean that you should taunt me with Facebook ads for additional vodka. You do not need to remind me that, on occasion, I am overdoing it with the nightly vodka/juice box. You do not need to remind that even more vodka is available to drown my sorrows, and guess what?! It's American made vodka! Wave your patriotic flag, eat your Freedom Fries, and drown them in a vat of Americana vodka! Add some juice box squeezed by American hands!

Facebook, I've been going through some hard times. Hard times that I don't talk about to NOBODY. And no, I don't care that I had a fit of bad grammar back there. I'm a backwoods East Texas girl, and I'm lucky I can spell my own name, much less understand that Ralph Fiennes will punch me in the tit if I call him RALF instead of RAIF. So, stop taunting me, Facebook. I don't need to know that America makes enough vodka to drown my secret sorrows. Costco already provides this information in bulk.

You can also stop taunting my 30-something lady friends with your wrinkle ads. Honestly, I don't need to know that Mary Whatsherface from Sheboygan found a great home cure for hemorrhoids, wrinkles, and teeth whitening, and you can cure them all with one vat of Mary-made cream! The ladies at my playgroup were not pleased with having to face your wrinkle ads on top of unwanted invitations from old high school acquaintances. We have enough things that remind us how old and infirm we are.

Also, you're like a really bad friend who wants me crash and burn. Honestly, why are you posting "Hybrids by the hour" and green grocer ads right next to the vodka ad? Really?! You want me to drink your American vodka and THEN rent a car to go to the store, just because the booze was made by some schlump in Walla Walla and the car is environmentally friendly? Wow, Facebook. You've really found me out. You know how to reach your target market of moms who are home alone at night but need to get crunk, only to find they are out of wheat grass juice and couldn't POSSIBLY drive to the health food store unless it's in a hybrid.

Well done, Facebook.

Oh, and this ends my nonsense rampage that has everything to do with avoidance and shaking of fists and a great deal of boredom.

You're welcome.