Tuesday, November 25th, 2008: The Night of Nights; the series finale of my beloved "The Shield" comes on in a mere 10 hours. Caleb and I are having a Shield party that involves the last packet of microwave popcorn and 90 minutes of pure, uninterrupted AC, AS, AL, N, S, and V. My observations and predictions in no particular order:

 

 

I guess I spoke too soon the other day when I said we were all fairly healthy; I've come down with what can only be Ebola. I haven't felt this crappy in years, morning sickness included.

 

Merrick has officially started crawling. He doesn't do it much, but there was one point where he moved his knees and then his arms in a crawling motion--I count that, even though he's gone right back to picking himself up with his arms and throwing himself foward with his legs. Either way, the boy can move. He's fast. And he's grabby, and he only wants what he can't have, and he wants it bad. His "stationary" walker? He drags it across the room like an ox. An ox, I tell you.

 

Mia is excited about Thanksgiving. I am, too, but I think that she thinks there's a lot more too it than food. I'm afraid she's going to be disappointed, just like on Election Day. No presents, no balloons, no twisty slide.

 

Cheyenne went to another dance last weekend with her friends. This time I didn't have to twist her arm, and she even sort of allowed me to do her hair and make-up. And by sort of allowed I mean she protested and protested and when I finally got out the straightener she didn't say anything. She just let it happen. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. I used to hate it when my mom tried to tell me how to wear my hair. I get it now. I've been saying that a lot lately. But I do get it.

 

Caleb is still liking Staples. I guess it doesn't hurt that he has to investigate business leads like Centerfolds and XXXtasy Ranch. What the hell kind of office supplies could they possibly use? Nobody answer that.

 

I'm off to wallow in my diseased misery. If you don't hear from me in the next week, it means I've overdosed on Dayquil. Happy Thanksgiving!

 

It's Saturday. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing. The girls, and the boy, and I are hanging out in the house trying to stay warm while Caleb works at his "second" job (hitting up car dealerships across Oklahoma for accounts...or something like that). I talked to my mom this morning and it seems we're not the only ones freaking out about money and getting the bills paid. I don't really like to talk about it, but man. These days I can't think about anything else. Our "good" car (The Alero as opposed to the Saturn) needs fixing, the heat in our house is not working like it should, and we get a $100 doctor's bill in the mail everyday. Cheyenne needs new glasses. All the kids need new shoes and winter clothes. The dogs need to go to the vet.  AAAAARRRGGGGG! It's always something. Always. And I don't even want to get into Christmas issues. Caleb and I are constantly at each other's throats--little things set us off, but we both know what the real issue is.

 

It helps to remember how fortunate we truly are. Caleb finally has a job; I am so grateful for that. The cost of living here is one of the lowest in the country. We've never led an extravagant lifestyle, so it's not like we feel like we're missing out. We are relatively healthy. And you know what? We're not alone. This is happening to everybody, all over the place. (some more than others, but hey.) Our friends and our family are so understanding and supportive. My father-in-law gave us a Thanksgiving fund. Inka had that garage sale to help us with medical bills. One day I hope we're in a position to repay the favor or help out someone else in need. For the record, everyone we know and love is officially invited to live with us on our future commune, help us grow food, raise chickens, ride bikes and do insane things with compost.

 

Back to the heat thing--winter is seriously jacking up our plans to keep Merrick in the closet for the next 2 years. His "room" is the coldest place in the house. At night, when I go to pick him up, his little hands are ice-cold. In fact I think that's what's waking him up in the first place. So, since Mia is usually in our bed anyway (she sneaks in around 2:00 a.m. without fail) I've been taking little Merrick to her room on the other side of the house, and laying down with him in her warm bed. He's zonked back out in no time. My idea? Make the girls share a room and move Merrick to Mia's room. It's not an arrangement Cheyenne would be thrilled about, but I think that's where things are headed. Ah, well. They'll just be very close when they grow up, and that's something money can't buy. And that's just all there is to it.

 

Found out those car robbers stole a bunch of guns out of this one guy's truck. Brilliant. This doesn't neccessarily make sleeping at night any easier, but it has made us less complacent and we've been locking every door and turning on our lights. I'd teach our dogs to "Kill!" but I'd probably regret it since I'm pretty sure they hate me and would take me out if they had the chance.

 

 

 

Today was Merrick's 6 month check-up. His head is looking righteous and he no longer ranks in the 95th percentile for anything. His growth is finally tapering off, which is a huge relief. I was worried I'd be carrying around a 30-pound one-year-old at the rate he was going. His pink eye is completely gone but he does have this tear-duct problem that should correct itself in the next 3 months. I just have to massage the corners of his eyes and clean off the gunkiness from time to time. Eh. He had his shots, all 3 of them, and then...

 

It was time to go. And then...

 

Um...

 

I, um...

 

Stole a magazine while no one was looking.

 

Southern Living, August 2007. Just dropped it in my diaper bag and walked right out of there. I feel bad about it. I even considered driving back to the doctor's office, pretending like I lost my cell phone or some kind of crap like that, and putting the magazine back in its original location. I can't even look at the thing without feeling this gut-wrenching guilt. It's been eating at me ever since I left, so much that I'm considering switching to another pediatrician. I know they know it's gone, and I know they know I took it. I can't bear to go back there and face them again in 3 months.

 

I don't even know why I did it. I hate myself for doing it. I can't believe I had it in me to do it. What kind of monster am I?

 

(Insert tearful sigh of self-loathing here.)

 

I'm sure that now the question will be raised again among people I know as to whether or not I had anything to do with that stolen Picasso 7 years ago...

 

(I did not.)

 

(Insert heavy-hearted groan here.)

 

It seems social deviants tend to raise children that also break the rules. Mia was chattering away this afternoon while I was changing Merrick's diaper, and I caught the tail end of a monologue I'm pretty sure I should've listened to from the beginning: "...but he pushed away from me every time I tried to do it! He just doesn't love me!"

 

"Do what? Huh? Who pushed away from you?" I asked.

"Keegan." She says with a smile.

"Oh. Who's that?"

"A boy that I love. He's in my class."

"Oh. What did you try to do?"

"I wanted to kiss him on the cheek!"
"Why?"
"Because I like kissing boys that I love."

"You don't need to kiss boys."

"But I love to kiss boys."

"Your teacher might not want you to kiss boys at school."

"Oh, it's okay. I do it when she's not looking."

 

My stomach hurts. I think I ate too much Karma.

 

My kids.

 

Cheyenne--made the Honor Band. Out of 150+ students, she made the cut--12th chair out of 14. Go her. What will this involve? An overnight trip on Feb 6th to a town 45 minutes away, a whole day dedicated to learning new music, and a concert put on for the parents that very night. I think we can handle that.

 

Mia--is officially done with soccer for the season. How did it end? Not well. I'd like to strangle the coach. Remember in the beginning when I was just sure the coach wouldn't take these girls seriously and that her number 1 priority was her son's football team? And I said we'd stick it out and give it a chance and maybe, just maybe, I'd be proven wrong? I wasn't. The season unfolded exactly as I was afraid it would--they had a total of 3 practices on a grassy/gravelly patch of parking lot near big brother's football practice. Half the games--including the very last trophy-handing-out game--were cancelled on account of THE COACH bailing out in order to watch big brother's football, and when the poor girls did actually get to play (on a real field for a change), the coach would get so pissed off at them for not knowing what the hell they were doing. It was all I could do for that hour every Saturday (or every other Saturday) not to punch that woman in the face. Oh, the girls looked good, for sure--with their pink outfits and matching socks and cute little handmade matching bows and their embroidered bags--but they were all frosting and no cupcake. And they still don't know a thing about soccer.

 

Caleb and I have decided to coach next season, because A) I've mentioned before how we like to torture ourselves, right? B) We feel bad complaining about the coach when we hadn't volunteered to do anything and C) We're not complete control freaks, but we just don't trust anyone but us to coach our daughter. And I think if you're going to volunteer to coach, then you should be dedicated to those kids. What kind of message did these girls get from the coach this year? That the boys and their football is more important? That girl sports don't count for shit? UGGGGGGGGGGG. I hate the way that woman ran the team. I'm tempted to name names and list phone numbers. 

 

Merrick--is so close to crawling he can almost taste it. The boy can move. He gets up on his hands and knees and concentrates so hard. With this comes an obvious downside--now I have to start paying attention to where I lay him and what he can reach. It came too fast.

• My kids are on their own for college. Their asses better have scholarships, and they're going to have to suck it up and take out student loans, and get jobs, and live in hellholes, and eat ketchup and spam.
• Retirement? Retirement? Retirement?
• Really? Retirement?
• I'm not buying an SUV because I can't afford one. Period. I can't afford to make repairs to my already-paid-for little bitty car. I can't afford to put cheap gas in it. I'm going to drive it until it blows up. And in that event, I'll either be riding my bike or driving my husband to work. I have a feeling we're not the only Americans in this situation; giving $50 billion dollars to the automobile industry is not going to bring back all the broke-ass customers they lost in the first place.
• It makes absolutely no financial sense right now for me to go to work, only to fork over twice my paycheck on daycare.
• I've never been concerned with getting my nails done or my hair professionally cut or anything like that. And I'll take that a step further: when you've got only so much to spend at the grocery store, and it comes down to spending $6 on Cheerios and bananas for your kids' breakfast or $6 on razors, guess what? You have hairy legs for a couple more weeks.
• Who the hell buys a five-hundred dollar purse? Ever? (Even when the economy wasn't in the shitter?) The priciest purse I've ever owned was $30.00 at Steinmart, and that was a gift from my mother. Now, I look longingly at the $14.74 Walmart variety. And then I walk away. I don't even bother going to the mall anymore. I imagine a lot of people doing the same thing, thus helping to make everything worse, but what are we supposed to do?
• The dog we just adopted? Well, yes, that was our bad. Keeping this new dog wasn't the smartest thing we've ever done. We can't really do the vet thing when we're still working on paying off Merrick's little trip to the hospital. Most people are getting rid of their pets--which, coincidentally, is exactly where I think our new dog came from. I can't imagine having to do this, but I won't say we'll never be in that position.

When Cheyenne was a baby, I sold my own plasma for grocery money, pawned jewelry to pay rent, and paid for her Christmas pictures in rolls of pennies. I don't want to go back to those days, but I'm proud at how thrifty I've become. I'm amazed at what I can get for my money, even though food costs have just about doubled in the last 2 years. Lentil soup is cheap to make and it lasts forever. Chicken legs costs a small fraction of what skinless, boneless chicken breasts cost; and it's still chicken and it's still healthy. Frozen ground turkey instead of fresh ground beef, $1.50 per pound vs. $3.00, and that makes a huge difference when you tend to buy a lot. Spinach leaves vs. baby spinach leaves. Brown rice in bulk. Spagetti. Chili. Generic brand everything. And if we've got to give up our cheap, watery beer so that the girls can have fresh fruit, so be it. Sigh.

I'm not bringing all this up to complain. Making these small sacrifices makes me feel like a responsible adult, but I am by no means deprived. Tough times can't last forever, and even if they do last for a while, I've got my husband and we've got our kids, and we'll do what we have to do, and go where we have to go. No biggie.

I just wish the decision makers in Washington would get a clue.

 

So. Barack Obama.

 

Neato.

 

I watched the news last night--I watched the play-by-plays, the projections, and all those people with all their opinions. I watched The Shield, too. I watched the speeches--they were great. I was just glad to see McCain and Obama being so sweet to each other. Made me feel all warm and toasty inside.

 

But the thing that stands out most in my mind was the music: more specifically, the music that was played at the end of John McCain's concession speech--did anyone else catch that? Poor McCain, walking off stage with his wife and a teary-eyed Sarah Palin...an emotional crescendo of string instruments--is that?...Could it be? It is! Star Wars! Why, it's the very music that was played when Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vader, and Obe-Wan Kenobi went into hiding. It struck me hilarious.

 

I crack up just thinking about it.

 

I took Mia to the polls with me. She was excited at first, but when we rolled up to this little wooden shed in the bumfuck middle of nowhere to cast my vote, she was pretty pissed. Apparently she was to understand there would be balloons and a twisty slide. I don't know. She was even more pissed that the Braveheart CD had mysteriously disappeared. That didn't stop her from asking me to tell a story to the tune of Night Ranger's "Sister Christian".

 

Cheyenne--God bless her--reminded Caleb and I yesterday about the Oklahoma Honor Band tryouts this Saturday. The problem? The tryouts are being held in a town almost 4 HOURS AWAY. The bigger problem? We can't really get mad and blame the kid, because technically we were informed...3 months ago. I vaguely remember signing the papers and thinking, "Wow. That's a long way away. Oh well! Anything for my little princess!"

 

Merrick has pink eye. It was just a matter of time. Luckily his doctor just went ahead and called in a prescription for eye drops without us having to schedule an appointment and drive all the way into town. I heart our pediatrician.

 

Noah is getting bolder. This can only be bad. The newness of our house is wearing off and I'm worried I'll come home someday and find the trash can knocked over, or the couch ripped to shreds, or dog poopy all over the wall. It's happened before.

 

I'm in a major predicament...actually, no, I'm not. Not really. I was debating whether or not I should skip The Shield tonight in order to keep an eye on the news, but Vic Mackey needs me. The future president will be there in the morning.

 

KM--Been reading "Queen Bees and Wannabes". You recommended it some time ago, but I just picked it up at the library last week. It's amazing--all the stuff you'd think us moms should already know, having been girls at one point in time ourselves, but I feel so enlightened. I'm trying to convince Caleb to read it as well. Good stuff. Thanks for the suggestion.

 

In the interest of not putting a strain on my wrist and saving time, I will be abbreviating some cusswords today. Trust me--it's not because I feel bad about using foul language.

 

It's been awhile since I've been able to complain--I mean, really complain--about our family pets. But something has happened over the weekend that's sure to fill me full of inspiration for weeks and months to come.

 

We adopted a dog. (Read also: Not the smartest thing we've ever done.)

 

Yes. Partly to cement our place in heaven, but mostly because we're suckers, we took in a stray that had been roaming the neighborhood for the past several weeks. It had been casing our house and zeroing in on our family, and Friday evening, it came in for the kill--literally. It hunted around in our blackberry bushes for a couple minutes and came out with 2 rats, just for us--nice, no? Caleb and I pet it. We scratched its ears. It rolled over. I told it to sit, and it sat. I told him to shake, and he shook. He knew how to stay, how to fetch, and he got along so well with Darcy and Smokey. He was very gentle with Mia. Caleb and I looked at each other.

 

"No," he said.

 

"Fuck no," I said.

 

And we promptly went our separate ways--he, to fill a bucket of cool water for the dog to drink, and I, to get the dog a little bowl of food. We just didn't feel right sending him on his way with an empty stomach. We also didn't feel right sending him on his way without a little...bath. So we bathed him. And checked him for ticks. And gave him a big honkin' bone to chew. And pet him some more.

 

And let him inside the house.

 

And allowed Mia to name him.

 

Noah.

 

GD MF DA dog. As if we don't have enough problems. We certainly can't afford another dog; we can't really afford the dogs we have. Hell, we can't even afford to keep ourselves liquored up enough to deal with a new dog. Shit shit shit shit shit. Shit. There's no turning back now.

 

He's cute. Noah is cute. He's gotta be around a year or a year and a half old, and you can tell he's been someone's pet before. My guess is that his previous owners couldn't keep him for whatever reason, and so they dropped him off in our gated, family-friendly neighborhood. They then snuck into our home and put crushed-up pushover pills in our Cheerios. Our friends think he might be part Short-hair Pointer. He looks very similar to Darcy, only skinnier, but give it time--we'll have him nice and fat within 2 weeks, tops.

 

Sigh.

 

Oh, speaking of my wrist, (I did speak of my wrist, remember?) I have a CYST on it--a wrist cyst! I googled it and I'm pretty sure I'm not dying of hand-cancer or anything. Caleb thought it would be fun to squeeze the hell out of it, which didn't feel all that good, and it came back the next day anyway. It doesn't hurt but it does look pretty freaky.

 

I've been flipping through the TV today and I've come to several conclusions: