Being productive is difficult when the TV is on all the time. Just sayin'

So... as part of our New Year plan, The Boyfriend™ and I decided that The Trolls needed more structure by way of a weekly chore list. A chore list can seem rather daunting to even the most clean-freakish of a child, when there's a pile of stuff getting in the way of the thing you need to clean.

Did I mention that The Boyfriend™ and I are packrats? He won't admit it, but he is.

So, part two of our grand plan involved busting butt this weekend and completely organizing the house from top to bottom -- putting away Christmas stuff, putting the baskets and basket and baskets of laundry away (doing some laundry) and other general organization. Especially in our bedroom, which is just a godawful mess. No, seriously. It's bad in there. I think I picked up this trait from The Nancarita, who uses her bedroom as a catchall for the stuff she doesn't want in the rest of her house.

As you can see, I'm not making it very far in the whole cleaning endeavor. Part of it is because I'm wicked tired and just want to be in bed, but the bulk of it is because I'm constantly being distracted by one of the four million TVs that are constantly on in the house.

Before The Trolls and I moved in with The Boyfriend™ we didn't have cable. I liked it that way. TV time was limited to one DVD (usually of the educational variety), which was usually on in the background, because we'd seen it so many times that we didn't want to watch it. Once we moved in with The Boyfriend™, we had cable again and, despite my best efforts NOT to, have become hugely addicted to it. The Boyfriend™ is still worse about it, though. Turns it on first thing in the morning, as soon as he wakes up, and it doesn't go off until I turn it off after he's fallen asleep.

TV kills motivation. It kills intention. It kills thought and imagination. It kills attention. TV, in my opinion, is directly responsible for the demise of civilization. Some of the greatest innovations happened pre-TV... and we were certainly healthier before TV was part of our daily lives.

I'm starting an initiative here, at home, and I hope you'll join me -- less TV and more reality. I'm going to have to be subtle about it, because kicking an addiction is hard work, but it'll be worth it

So, as it turns out, The Boyfriend™ needed stitches...

We're hosting Thanksgiving at Casa de Our House this year. Originally The Boyfriend™'s idea (though he'll never admit it), I ran with it like the wind. Because, really, it was kind of my idea -- insofar as the direction I was turning the topic of conversation was most decidedly heading in the "Let's have the parents over for Thanksgiving" direction.

...Because I'm nuts.

So, because The Boyfriend™ and I would rather hang out watching horrible television, while completely pretending that we don't have stuff we should be doing instead (see The Boyfriend™! TV is bad!), our house had kind of, sort of gotten rather... let's call it "lived in." Not that our parents would be all judgey about it or anything, but still. I'm not comfortable sitting in seven year's worth of someone else's dust; I wouldn't want to do it to anyone else.

...And also because The Nancarita ingrained the whole "when having company, one must clean every possible surface EVAR" thing in me. The bitch.

So, The Boyfriend™ was doing the dishes last night and gashed hand WIDE open (well, the webbing between two fingers). Like, I could see his shoulder, the gash was so deep. I told him he needed stitches, but The Boyfriend™ thought it would be a MUCH better idea to make the gaping wound in his hand talk to The Trolls. Totally gross.

Flash forward 24 hours -- past the point of safely stitching the wound closed (unless you want to run the risk of massive infection) -- and we're at an urgent care clinic getting the talking wound checked out. The doc said The Boyfriend™ should've had stitches (while implying -- really strongly -- that The Boyfriend™ was a jackass for not getting Handy, The Talking Gash checked out sooner). I gloated. The Boyfriend™ got a tetnus shot. It was awesome.

And in other news, the cleaning-in-preparation-of-cooking festivities continues. Ironically, I'm not mad about doing most of it myself. It's the price I have to pay for being right. Totally worth it.

It's not The Boyfriend™'s hand, but this picture is another from the bajillion I unloaded from my camera. I don't know why, but I heart this picture so much. It's The Nugget, being unusually camera shy.

Getting my shit together

The Boyfriend™ posed an interesting question to me last night. He asked me what I want REALLY want to do with my life. My answer was immediate, albeit grandiose: I want to change the world. And I do.

I spent the remainder of the evening trying to figure out how I would even begin to accomplish this. I'm scattered and kind of flaky. I want to try everything immediately and simultaneously. Most people that change the world are hyper focused to the point of obsession and hyper focusing is just not my bag, baby.

Then I remembered that my great-grandmother changed the world. A Fulbright scholar and Guggenheim Fellow, she is now celebrated in Australia. People in the states, who wish to, can now receive a degree in Folklore because of her efforts. She wrote a couple of books. She graduated Suma Cum Laude from NYU in 1934, when few women even went to college, never mind graduated with honors.

I remembered my nana, who went to Harvard where she received her masters degree in education, which she used to teach generations of school children who still honor her to this day.

I remembered my mom who overcame a lot of adversity to start her own business which is, by all accounts, very successful.

These are my models. This is the blood that flows through my veins. These women broke through barriers and wouldn't take no for an answer. So, really. What's holding me back? Not a damn thing!

That old saying, "change starts at home" rings particularly true right now. A LOT of what I want to accomplish starts right here. It starts with my life list. It starts with teaching The Trolls about compassion and making a difference. It starts with filling my home with love and tolerance - for myself and my family. And I've already accomplished much of that, with no small amount of assistance from The Boyfriend™.

The next step is to make sure that I am brave enough to share it all here, in this space and to make sure that I am frank about it all, despite the level of embarrassment I may experience. I'm not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, so I really shouldn't pretend to be.

After that, I need to make sure that I insist on love. Because changing the world requires love. A lot of it. Self love (not to be confused with selfish love), love for your neighbor and love (for the sake of conversation and to eliminate resistance to the idea, we'll call it tolerance) for your enemy.

It's about honoring processes and the ups and downs that come with the journey. It comes from not resisting but going with the flow. It also means that I'm going to have to learn to live with things thatbmake me uncomfortable and learn when it's time to let go of thosenthings that are no longer appropriate for my journey.

And I realize that I sound like a lot of self help gurus out there. I also sound like a whole bunch of other bloggers out there that want to make a difference with their story. My joining my story with theirs, I believe there's a greater chance for success for the world to tranform into a beautiful, loving place.

Cheers to the first steps on this journey.

Namaste

And The Best Friend will always be two years older than me

It is my birthday today, and I spent a glorious day of doing whatever the hell I felt like doing-- which really wasn't all that much. I napped... A lot. I went out to lunch with my beloved, and got more birthday greetings than I could count on all my fingers and toes. It was a GOOD day.

It occurred to me that I was grateful for just the remembrance from family and friends, and didn't care that I didn't have minds and mounds of gifts to open. The gift of friendship and love from so many people reminded me how truly blessed I am, and all that love meant so very much more than all the gold in Fort Knox.

The thoughtfulness in the arrangement of flowers and 33 balloons from my mom, the book and camera that The Best Friend got me two months ago, the scrumptious edible arrangement from my ever thoughtful uncle John, and my Brion Box of goodies all delighted me to no end. Then gestures, so filled with love and thoughtfulness meant so much to me, that my heart is near to bursting with gratitude and love.

The Boyfriend gave me a kick ass Hindu yoga poster - ever aware of my passing and lasting fancies - and with it, gave me the gift of rearranging the house so that our energy can flow better. He's treated me like a princess all day and I have wallowed in his adoration and love.

Even The Trolls remembered my day, and sang happy birthday all the way to school. The Nugget, who tends toward misbehaving at school, suffered through being haved all day so he'd have a sticker to show me. The Monkey was disappointed that nobody got me a cake, because a person shouldn't have to buy her own cake on her birthday. I had to remind him that I'm allergic to eggs and really don't like cake all that much just so he'd stop worrying so much.

I am damn lucky. My nana's prophecy that 33 is a very good year to be is already in existence, already manifested. It IS a good year. With all this loving kindness, there isn't anything I can't do. Heck, there's even a meteor shower tonight, as if God said, "here. Make all the wishes you can think up, cuz I'm gonna grant 'em all."

Right now...

I am snuggled up on The Boyfriend's lap, enjoying the quiet companionship as we both individually surf the net.

...planning tons and tons of projects and...

...feeling very ADD about it all.

...feeling amazed and grateful as I explore the boundaries of my artistic comfort zone.

...I'm missing my babies but am thankful for the break.

...debating the wisdom of showering tonight and sleeping in in the morning or staying snuggled up with my beloved.

...I am considering kicking The Boyfriend in the head, for being a wise ass. (added after he called this entry creepy. Most people would find a post expounding their love SWEET, but not The Boyfriend. He has to be COMPLICATED...and annoying)


Thank you to SouleMama for the "right now..." topic

This post brought to you by the letters "Pro" and "Crastination"

OK. So I have a laundry list of things to do -- which actually includes doing literal laundry -- and I was all gung-ho to get it done and then, well, my nature kicked in and I decided that updating my blog was a better idea.

The Best Friend(R) also has a blog. Well, she has the bones of a blog. But she announced her blog on her Christmas cards and has dedicated herself to actually blogging (Oh, hey! G... time to start blogging!). And she even set up a schedule (pronounced shed-yule) to do it.

I'm inherently competitive and so took her idea and made it my own. I've decided that my shed-yule for blogging is any time I don't feel like doing what's on my laundry list of things to do.

Yes, I realize this is all very self-defeating. Did I mention that self-defeat is one of my hobbies? It's all part of my charm, really. Oh boy! Does The Boyfriend™ ever have a wake up call comin'!

Anyhoo... I digress (shocker there).

So here's what's new-ish in my world.

The Nugget has this daily agenda thing that his teacher fills out to let me know what kind of day he had at school (usually "not good"). The Nugget is also supposed to write down his homework assignments for the day in said agenda. I'm supposed to read and initial something that says I've read it. I'm not very good at initialing -- mostly because The Nugget tells me if he had a good or bad day, so I kinda feel like my his work  is done, and I don't need to do the whole initialing thing.

Well, now I have a handy-dandy excuse to initial. The Nugget's teacher, apparently, took her teaching methods straight out of George Orwell's 1984, and insists that all children tow the line. The Nugget is not one for towing any lines, much less one made by a teacher he doesn't like, so Mrs. Bitch-Face (that's my pet name for her) has taken to writing snarky comments in his agenda. I've taken it upon myself to snark back. It's fun!

Some excerpts:

Now that The Nugget has all his work turned in, he needs to work on his behavior. The Nugget is not paying attention, he does not focus on his assignments, he talks at the wrong times, and he twirls his hair. ~Mrs. Bitch-face.

It took every ounce of will power I had to not point out the her inability to write coherently. Mostly because I was distracted that TWIRLING HIS HAIR is a behavior issue. Really? Really?! So I responded with:

Thank you for the note. We will work on The Nugget's behavior at home. However, the hair twirling tic is genetic - I do it, too - and it helps him calm down. So, I won't disallow him that one concession. Thank you, ~"You're pissing me off, Lady!"

Apparently that pissed her off enough to start giving him a black dot (indication of a bad day) for every infraction from not turning his homework in, to being late, to, apparently, twirling his hair. Right after Thanksgiving, I get another note home:

Please be aware that school starts at 7:45 AM. The Nugget has been late the last 3 days. (Her underline, not mine).

That level of snark was crossing the line. So I called The Nancarita up to get some advice about writing a nice, but firm, note back to Mrs. Bitch-face. Here's what we came up with:

Dear Mrs. Bitch-face (notice that I actually addressed the note directly to her, rather than rudely getting right to the point?)

Your reminder was unnecessary. I am aware of what time school starts. I have been dropping The Nugget off with more than enough time to make it to class on time.

That being said, The Nugget is currently in the midst of a growth spurts and is constantly hungry (he's eating anything that's not nailed down). My guess is that he's going in search of a second breakfast.

Since I can't walk him directly to his classroom, I don't know how to rectify this problem. Any suggestion you have would be welcome. 

Thank you ~  "Seriously, you need to get the hell over yourself."

So today, because she couldn't leave well enough alone, and because she peppers The Nugget's agendas with black dots like it's her sole purpose on this earth, I had to address it. Also, I had to address the issue because I know The Nugget did the math assignment he supposedly didn't turn in. Why? Because he did the assignment twice -- once on the wrong day, and the other time on the correct day.

Her: Math homework page 84 has not been turned in.

My response:

Dear Mrs. Bitch-face,

What is the policy regarding giving black dots? By looking at his agenda, it seems that The Nugget is incapable of achieving a good day, but I have no knowledge of the why. For instance, last week, it appears that you penalized The Nugget for being late. The week before, it appears to have been a homework issue.

If you would, please provide detailed explanations for his black dots, each day, so that I am better able to address any specific issues that you may have. Otherwise, I would ask that you be less seemingly arbitrary in your daily assessments.

Thank you ~ "OK. Now I'm REALLY pissed."

That was this evening, so we'll see what she has to say. Needless to say, it may get interesting.

And in other news... moving during Christmas sucks. Between work, packing, cleaning and work, I don't have the energy or desire to really decorate. I'm forcing myself to put up my tree because it's what good moms do. Also, despite my desire to have a real, honest-to-God Christmas tree this year, I'm going with my fake one again. Mostly because I just learned that one acre of Christmas trees produce enough oxygen for 18 people. The environmentalist in me just can't ignore that statistic.

The sexiest women in the world? Really??

As I may have mentioned, I don't have cable. As such, I'm not subject to as much commercialization as the bulk of America. For this, I give thanks.

But I do have internet access, which means that I am kinda sorta aware of what's going on in the world around me. I guess, earlier this week, Victoria's Secret had some sort of runway spectacular, where a bunch of emaciated-looking, scantily-clad women trotted around making approximately 99.74565% of the women watching this thing feel like utter and complete shit about themselves.

It didn't help that the show advertised that the sexiest women in the world would be modeling.

Really? Really?! These are the sexiest women alive?

This is a rhetorical question, really, but when in the hell did Victoria's Secret become the standard to which all beauty must be held?!

When did this become beautiful?!

Image taken from http://ednosgirl.wordpress.com/thinspiration/

Seriously, I want to take this girl home and force feed her a sandwich.

But it's not her fault. Not really. She's just as much a victim of fashion's pervasive hold on our aesthetic psyche.

And when Victoria's Secret touts this as one of the sexist women in the world, the world is clearly sick. As far as I'm concerned, this is socially sanctioned abuse of women.

Worst of  all, we allow it to happen. We allow ourselves to be abused.

As a student of history, I know that women have almost always been expected to shape their bodies to someone's ideal of perfection. We pluck, we tuck, we paint, we dye. All in the vain attempt to look different from ourselves; to be desired not for our inner worth, but our outward appearance.

Even the Rubenesque ideal, as more honest a depiction of real women as it was, was still not attainable by the average woman of that time:

Paul Rubens - The Three Graces

Ironic, I know.

I spent the last 11 years of the 13 I spent with The Ex concerned about how I looked, lest I get too heavy for him to love. I knew -- intellectually -- that I was better than that, but still allowed myself to feel less than because I couldn't get rid of the baby weight. I knew that I was intelligent, beautiful, witty and charming. I knew, on some level, that I was, in fact, sexy. But because I was heavy; because I didn't still possess my swimmer's body, the value I gave myself was close to nothing. Any worth I had was closely tied to his opinion of me.

It's bullshit, really, but it's a mindset that isn't easily shaken. Even now, I have an adoring loving boyfriend, who finds me ridiculously sexy, and I still won't let him see me naked because I don't look like a Victoria's Secret model.

I even have a hard time finding this picture of me sexy, because I know that I deliberately positioned myself so my mom apron wouldn't be in the picture. I made Miguelito take the picture using the whole depth of field trick so my stretch marks wouldn't show. I wore the shirt so my droopy, saggy boobs wouldn't be too obvious:

Yup, this is me. Picture taken by Michael Barnard

I don't find this picture of me really sexy and yet, this is The Boyfriend™'s favorite picture of me.

What's worse, is that I still have a hard time finding myself intrinsically valuable despite all indications to the contrary.

There is something inherently wrong with that. Fo'reals... how am I not one of the sexiest women in the world? How is The Best Friend (R) not? How is The Nancarita not?

Fact is, we are some of the sexiest women in the world!

I can't change the world over night (until such time as I become the ruler of the world, which will happen. Mark my words), but I can change how I view the world -- and myself.

All of you fabulously un-airbrushed women out there! Those of you without personal trainers and personal chefs. Those of you that stay at home raising your children, or are out in the world working your heinies off to feed your children. Those of you without children, or with grown children, or with grandchildren. Those of you who can comfortably wear a size four and those of you who squeeze into a size fourteen. And everything in between -- all of you, join me in declaring yourselves THE SEXIEST WOMEN IN THE WORLD!

Because YOU ARE the sexiest women in the world! Let your light shine through and LOVE YOURSELVES. Turn off the TV and go stand in front of the full length mirror and love the hell out of those curves and stretch marks and saggy boobs. Worship yourselves for the goddesses you truly are!

Then, when you're done, remind yourself that it's what's INSIDE that makes you truly beautiful!

12 Things - I learned this week

1. I am not a good patient in the hospital -- well, I am when I have to be there, I think (like when I had meningitis). But when I don't have to be there? I am a whiny, crying baby.

2. I have a malfunctioning gallbladder -- because my gallbladder didn't want The Monkey to have all the fun, so it decided to be disobedient, too.

3. A malfunctioning gallbladder and a hedonist personality do not mix -- Because now I can't have chocolate. Or bacon. Or chocolate covered bacon. For the rest of my life.

4. I can have chocolate and bacon... if I want to be in a LOT of pain -- and I'm not down with pain.

5. My spirituality goes all to hell when I'm in the hospital -- I just couldn't bring myself to be kind of compassionate when my roommate was snoring like a buzzsaw, which prevented me from sleeping, but DID make me cry like a baby.

6. My spirituality comes right back when I'm home & can reflect on my blessings -- I am incredibly grateful for all the love and kindness that was sent my way over the last couple of days. I am wholly blessed and loved, which goes a long way toward the healing process.

7. The Nancarita is precious -- she was all freaking out that she couldn't be with me in the hospital, despite being the one that was taking care of The Trolls while I was in there, ergo, relieving me of any worry I had about their care.

8. The Boyfriend™ is a blessing -- I don't think I can ever adequately express how good he is. I'll spare y'all the schmoopiness.

9. Everything has fat in it -- and having to live a mostly fat-free lifestyle now, I am becoming increasingly paranoid about anything I put in my mouth. My gallbladder has turned me into one of Pavlov's dogs.

10. I am a mama bear when I can't be near The Trolls -- those are my chicks, y'all. And even though I know they're being well taken care of, being forced to not see them does not make me happy.

11. The Best Friend (R) is adorable -- home girl hung out until she was absolutely sure I was being discharged... despite having much more amusing things planned with her kid-free evening. That's friendship right there.

12. There's nothing more restorative and therapeutic than a kiss and hug from The Trolls.

I may be dying from a Victorian - and appropriately tragic - disease... like scurvy

So I bring you some randomness. This is an actual, honest-to-God conversation that I had today, with The Nancarita. And you wonder where I get it from:

Warning: I mention "tragedy," "appropriately" and chaise lounges about 150,456 times. It's because I absolutely REFUSE to be suffering from something as common as a cold. Because that wouldn't be tragic... or appropriate... enough.

 Me: Speaking of shocking, in case you were not aware, I am dying. From something appropriately tragic 
The Nancarita: What a coincidence!  I, too, am dying of something appropriately tragic.  I'm spending my days in bed.  I've discovered that I really like spending my days in bed.
 Me: Maybe I'm having a symbiotic response to your dying. And it will be all Little Women and stuff... except that wasn't very Victorian.
Me: And damn you, BTW, for dying. Now I can't whine and beg and plead for you to watch The Trolls tomorrow.
The Nancarita: Of course you can!  There's nothing about my dying that precludes me spending time with my angels.  I'll just enconse myself on the couch rather than my bed.  I'll make The Monkey bring me peppermint puffy candy.  It'll be fun.
Me: The Nugget will gladly do your laundry, too (no. Really. He will... he likes it)
 The Nancarita: I'm liking this plan better and better.  And yes... I've noticed that he likes laundry.  He's fascinated with our washer.  He likes to measure the laundry products for me.  It's adorable.  He even helps me sort the laundry.
 Me: AND he loves doing dishes. I don't know whose son he is, but he's not mine.
 The Nancarita: He's my grandson.
Me: I reward The Nuggets's good behavior at school with laundry and dishes. He couldn't be happier.
Have I mentioned how much I love my trolls? Because, fo'real, it's insane the love I feel.
 The Nancarita: I loves me some grandsons, too.  And I MISS them.  It's really pissing me off that your life is interfering with my grandson time.
Me: LOL! My life is interfering with your grandson time? What life? I sit at home and mourn my youth while simultaneously amusing myself by making my children do chores.
The Nancarita: I just ate about a hundred puffy peppermints and now have to slip quietly into a sugar coma.
Me: ROFL! Oh, look! You're being all tragic, too. That is fabulous!
The Nancarita: Aw, fuck.  No sugar coma.  I have to give The Sister a ride.  Well.. I don't HAVE to, but I can't think of a single good reason not to (other than preferring the whole tragic coma from puffy peppermint idea), so I need to go find a clean bra.
 The Nancarita: And, bee-tee-double-yew, do you not totally love the notion of a puffy-peppermint-induced coma?
 Me: I love it so much, that I am now officially dying from a puffy-peppermint-induced coma. Tragically.
 The Nancarita: Don't you need to actually eat some puffy peppermints first?  I'm not an expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure that you can't die from the mere *idea* of puffy peppermint.
 The Nancarita: Also... I fully expect to see some of this conversation on the wall of instant message infamy on your blog.
Me: You absolutely can die from the IDEA of eating puffy peppermint!! It happens ALL. THE. TIME.
Me: I will post this on my blog. Why? Because it amuses me so.
 The Nancarita: I have GOT to get out more.
 Me: I've also decided that I need one of those chaise lounge-thingies so that I can die tragically and appropriately.


Edit: The Nancarita seems to think that excerpting a conversation exactly how it took place needs to be cleaned up and refined before you post it, and so she asked me to edit this post. So I am... in my own way.

The Nancarita: Me: You absolutely can die from the IDEA of eating puffy peppermint!! It happens ALL. THE. TIME.
 The Nancarita: Really?  I have GOT to get out more.
 Me: I've also decided that I need one of those chaise lounge-thingies so that I can die tragically and appropriately.
 The Nancarita: Edit the existing as precedes.
 The Nancarita: Also, I would have wound up that discussion with "And let's not forget the whole LIVING tragically and appropriately -- or at least *lounging* that way."
Me: Oh nononono... there will be no editing. Well, NOW I might edit, but only to include this part of the conversation as the postscript.