2011 Best & Worst

Around this time of year, I like to take stock. I like to take stock of how my year went, overall...am I shaking my fists at it and stomping around, cussing like a crusty old sailor? Or just giving it the middle finger raised defiantly up high, in a really indignant manner? I'm certainly never hugging it. I don't think I've hugged an old year going out and a new year coming in since 1982. There's usually something in the past year that has really made me put my hands on my hips in a very annoyed manner and say out loud to no one in particular, "Really, Insert name of year here? Really?? What the freaking heck."(Full disclosure: I might--or might not--use much swarthier words than freaking and heck. It would just depend on the issue, and the year.)

Another thing I do is come up with Un-Resolutions. This is a very Alice in Wonderland thing to do, and I prefer it because I know I'll be 100% successful at these. For example, in 2012, I unresolve to spend less time on pinterest.com. And, in 2012, I unresolve to spend half of each Saturday lying around staring at the ceiling feeling guilty about all the things I really should be accomplishing. Also, in 2012, I unresolve to clean my toilets more (though I did find a really earth-friendly, economical, most awesome solution of part vinegar/part water/Dawn dishwashing liquid you can make at home that can supposedly scrub blood stains off the inside of a person's body).

But I also like to review my personal year's Best & Worst. Just like they do in People magazine and on E! News, except without the paparazzi pictures:


Best Kid Moment: Potty training accomplished! No more poopy diapers, no more diaper bills, no more worrying about contributing to the land fill diaper problem in America but being too 21st century lazy and harried to actually switch to cloth diapers and do something about plus that would involve more laundry and I'm really anti-more laundry....woohoo! No more diapers!

Worst Kid Moment: Realizing potty training isn't (1) fool proof or (2) consistent. Most embarrassing example of this: the infamous McDonald's Poop Explosion of 2011.

Worst Job Moment: Volunteering to leave the dream teaching job I adored to venture forth into unknown waters. Teaching (the Education field in general, actually) seems to be in a bit of a scary and massive upheaval these days, and so who knows where I'll be at this time next year? Upheavals can be both bad and good, but I am never a fan of change. Even and especially when I instigate it.

Best Job Moment: Finding out teaching 3rd graders is surprisingly a breeze. Jolly Ranchers and lead pencils and the ability to place a "I Actually Don't Find You Funny At All" look on my face in a mere 1.5 seconds really helped that. And the change in focus turned out to be fairly good for me...after teaching 1st grade ESOL for about 10 years, I could pretty much do that with my eyes closed. It's stressful to have to locate, plan, and coordinate new lessons, and I wish I didn't end up staying until 5:00 pm most days. But it keeps me on my toes. And that's a good thing, because I'm the kind of person who really needs to be kept on her toes. Otherwise, I spend way too much time staring at a ceiling for half a day feeling guilty about all the stuff I could be accomplishing.

Best Health Moment: C got a new knee. It's a lot of work right now, and his body is still adjusting. But in about 6-8 weeks, I predict he'll be walking around like Melissa does when she gets a new bouncy ball: "Mommy! Look at meeeee! Look at me and my new bouncy ball! Look at how good I am with my bouncy ball! I can bounce my bouncy ball really, really high! No! You can't have my bouncy ball! It's MINE!" (C, of course, will not be bouncing as high as he can, but I do suspect he won't share his new knee with anyone.)

Worst Health Moment: Well, I got skin cancer. That was the worst. But it was a fortunately/unfortunately kind of thing: Unfortunately, I got skin cancer. Fortunately, it turned out to be the unscary kind, harmless little Basal Cell that can sit on your skin for years and years and never make a peep (except you should get Basal Cell off of there ASAP if you do find him sitting there, because occasionally he can turn into his big older brother, Malignant, Scary Carcinoma. Scary  Carcinoma is a really crappy bastard, and even his own mother ignores him on his birthday). Fortunately, it was an easy procedure to remove. Unfortunately, I'll be at a dermatologist's office annually for the rest of my life. Fortunately, this will quickly help us meet our insurance's out of pocket maximum so C can get another new knee next year and we don't have to pay a thing. See? Fortunately/Unfortunately.

Worst Celebrity News: The Kardashians are really getting on my nerves. I don't understand them, and I don't understand the nation's love/hate relationship and fascination with them. I'm just glad they're in cahoots with Sears. If I had to see them and their sweat shop clothing line every time I bought contact lens cleaner at Target or Wal-Mart, I really think I'd lose my mind.

...Except I have to say, I do begrudgingly like Khloe. Khloe seems like someone I could have over for dinner and laugh with. Oh, okay...and Kourtney, too. Her little boy is too, too cute. As long as she left the icky boyfriend/father at home, I think we could hang out and talk.

Fine, fine, fine. It's really just Kim I'm having an issue with. But I think everyone in America is too, and so. Good.

Best Celebrity News: Apparently, Atlanta is quickly becoming the new Hollywood. This increases my chances of bumping into Gerard Butler at Target or Wal-Mart or Kroger or Publix  by 1,000%. Obviously, in 2012, I'm going to have to never leave the house without full make up and hair, and I'll clearly have to hire a personal stylist. Oh, and the gym. I guess I'll have to bump up my gym schedule from 0 times a week to at least 1 or 2. Man. That's going to be a lot of work. I may need to set my standards a little lower and hope to bump into one of the Real Housewives of Atlanta's ex-boyfriends.

This is not what my chicken avocado parmigiana looked like.

Worst Cooking Moment: The avocado/parmigiana chicken dish I got off pinterest.com. It seemed like a good idea in theory. I mean, who the heck doesn't love chicken parmigiana? And avocados are just healthy for you--full of good vitamins and the type of fat your body doesn't use to make you look 6 months pregnant. But in actual practice? It did not execute well, and I apologize to all who came into contact with it (namely, C and Melissa) (C took 3 bites and Melissa declared hers "icky," dumped it in the trash can, and proceeded to demand chicken nuggets instead).

Best Cooking Moment: The fact that I cooked most nights of the week. The week right before Winter Break and the week of Knee Replacement surgery were pretty rough and full of McDonald's happy meals. But other than that, I've been a cooking fool throughout 2011. Please note: I do not enjoy cooking. Slow cookers make it a tad easier. Unless you have someone who doesn't enjoy slow cooker food, like I do, who (after 3 slow cooker meals) asks you to lighten up on the slow cooker meals. That can really throw off your whole game plan, if you have that. I also don't enjoy the following: menu planning, grocery shopping, food prep, cooking clean up, dishwasher put away, and pantry organization. But the point is, I have learned to overcome all of that, in a very Chariots of Fire kind of way. And I like looking up recipes and conducting recipe experiments. I'm a Chariots of Fire Kitchen Scientist is what I am. And C and Melissa are my lab rats.

Worst Gift of 2011: There were none. Every gift is awesome. If you give me a gift of any kind, you are permanently on my Favorite People list forever. Unless your gift is the flu or a cold. And then you're on my People to Avoid at All Costs list.

Best Gift of 2011: The Keurig. Do you know about them? Next to the Internets, these are one of humanity's most helpful and evil-at-the-same-time inventions ever. You put some water in the holder. You stick your coffee cup under the thingy. You stick a Keurig coffee cup thingy ($9 per box, more expensive at Bed Bath & Beyond) in the thingy. You press a button. Sixty seconds later? You have a coffee (in a variety of flavors, including but not limited to hazelnut, french vanilla, and fair trade decaf) or tea or hot chocolate or espresso or cappucino. It's technology magic. The evil part comes into play because the coffee maker is always right there. On your counter. And if there is water in the water compartment, in a mere 60 seconds you can have your 1,000th cup of coffee (or tea or espresso or hot chocolate or cappucino) of the day. For example, as I type this, it is 10:00 am and I'm enjoying my 6th cup of coffee (an Italian Donut Shop bold that is clearing out my sinuses in a most effective way...I predict the caffeine in this thing will keep me up well past 1:00 am).

Starbucks is also pissed at the Keurig guys. My yearly $25,000 donation to them is probably going to be reduced by about $24,990.

Worst Book of 2011: Did Kim Kardashian write a tell-all book about her 72 hour marriage yet? If not, get ready to put that on your "Worst Book" list for whatever year she writes it.

Best Book of 2011: Tina Fey's book Bossypants. I would like to be Tina Fey's friend and confidante. I would like to start a religious cult that worships all that Tina Fey says, writes, and does. (That sounds a bit stalkerish, I know. But honestly, the fastest way to become a billionaire is (a) invent the computer or facebook, or (b) start a religion and get Tom Cruise on board). I have many, many new worldviews because of Tina Fey, and many, many new awesome quotes to throw at people haphazardly when they least expect. Here's one:

But I think the first real change in women’s body image came when JLo turned it butt-style. That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty. Girls wanted butts now. Men were free to admit that they had always enjoyed them. And then, what felt like moments later, boom—Beyoncé brought the leg meat. A back porch and thick muscular legs were now widely admired. And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful. Ah ha ha. No. I’m totally messing with you. All Beyonce and JLo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful. Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.

See? Ladies, wouldn't you like to be friends with Tina, too? Let's get together every Friday and pray to her. (Please bring $25 as a Fey Love "donation.")

And last (but not least):

Worst Overall Moment of 2011: The angry, judgmental Target employee and my emotional breakdown about her (including tears) in front of a store manager while standing in front of Target Cafe's pretzel machine. I've finally managed to successfully shop (tear-free) in this Target again. I've gone back to placing Melissa (in a really defiant way I must add) in the back of the cart (minus the seat belt AND allowing her to stand up). I've also managed to once run into that same angry, judgmental Target employee while Melissa is standing up in the back of the cart (mihnus cart seat belt) and look at that chick with pointy, dangerous daggers shooting out of my eyes in her general direction in a really passive aggressive way. I'm sure she senses when I've entered the store and becomes very nervous. Obviously, I've clearly won.

...Really, this experience has kind of turned into a it was the best of times/it was the worst of times sort of thing. But I'm still shell shocked about the initial experience, and so I'm making it my Worst Moment of 2011 (there could have been a worse worst moment of 2011, but my memory only goes back to about July of each year, and nothing worse happened to me from July-December than that).

Best Overall Moment of 2011:  We are all still alive. C and I both have satisfying jobs, a roof over our heads, nice clothes (Old Navy recently had a 70% off sale that I hit just right), good food in our bellies (as long as it doesn't involve chicken, parmigiana, and avocados), a sweet girl who only goes to time out 3 times a day, and we are cancer-free (knock on wood), surrounded by family we are on talking terms with who we actually find amusing and fun to be around. Is there any kind of a moment that would be better than that? I don't think so, and I'm positive Tina Fey (blessed be her name) will agree.

Happy 2012, everyone!

christmas tree ninja

  I have completed........a craft. Way back around Thanksgiving, I found a cute felt Christmas tree craft idea at pinterest and threw that into my ::kids are like rainbows:: board.

Fast forward to December 14th-ish. I am slowly losing my mind with each Christmas decoration that is pulled from the Christmas tree and smashed on the ground. Melissa attempts to blame the cat each time and it's driving me insane.

Listen--the cat is part of the problem, no doubt. She's the equivalent of 150 human years according to cat time, but it doesn't stop her from wandering all casual-like under our tree and batting at stuff hanging from the bottom. Every other morning I'm picking up the wooden toy horse ornament or the crocheted gingerbread girl and sticking them back on the tree. Sometimes I have to wipe off the cat puke first. And that's always nice.

There are three key words in that last paragraph I'd like to draw your attention to at this point: bottom, wooden, and crocheted. I don't have a great many ornaments. But the ornaments I've placed toward the bottom of the tree, right at 3 year old girl and cat eye level, are ones that (a) don't matter much to me and/or (b) are practically unbreakable. Because, I don't know if anyone knows this or not, but I do like to think of myself as pretty clever during brief moments of sheer clarity, or at the very least intensely pragmatic. So as I decorated, I said to myself: "Self, make sure you put all these wooden/crocheted/unbreakable ornaments at the bottom or this could get ugly."

Pragmatic be damned. So far, to date, I have swept up broken, shattered, jagged remnants of the following: one heart ornament a friend from long ago gave me--I've lost touch with the friend, but I'm a sentimental psycho, and so I was deeply saddened to the point of teary eyes when it shattered all over the wood floors below it (because I'm so very dramatic with symbolic messages the Universe tosses my way now and then).....two cheap ceramic snowmen holding cheap ceramic candy canes I just really, really liked, I don't know why......and one "World's Best Teacher!" ornament that simply will not glue back together no matter how frantically I try (let's all pause for a moment of silent reflection as we offer pleading prayers to the Universe that It was not sending any cosmic symbolic communiques with that one).

I don't know how Melissa gets to them--honestly, it's nothing short of a Christmas miracle. They weren't at the top of the tree, but they also weren't at 3 year old level. She's like a Christmas tree ninja. I suspect most 3 year olds are, and having wood floors only exacerbates the problem. I really prefer wood floors to carpet, 11 months out of the year. Carpet involves lugging out a vacuum cleaner and dragging it around every week, and cat puke is practically impossible to get out, and cat hair is like glued into it forever. I love having wood floors. Love, love, love. But in December? Oh man, how I long for carpet.

In addition (and more concerning), The Infamous Christmas Tree Debacle of '11 has also advanced warned me: basically I'm raising a 14 year old in a 3 year old's body.

How do I know? Because the last time Melissa got caught manhandling the tree I snapped, and I snapped really hard. Go ahead, judge me; I do not care. I'd had quite enough of the tree manhandling that had been going on that day as it had reached a zenith of really ridiculous, outrageous proportions. And so I snapped. I snapped and it was not pretty.

And here's another thing about my little Christmas tree ninja: Melissa's in a weird phase right now (and there are so many of these I hear, from the time they turn one until they're packing for college) in which she slaps when she gets mad. She slaps at objects, she slaps at walls, she slaps at herself, she slaps at thin air. I'm not concerned about the slapping or her slapping at any of the the above--you wanna hit the sofa? Go for it, kid. Here's a pillow, too. It needed reshaping anyway.

But she's also slapping at other people, and we simply can't have that. She generally doesn't slap hard, just hard enough to express her "you are not the boss of me" attitude. But we don't hit other people, and we don't hit each other in our house. I think people who go around slapping and hitting each other when they're angry have childhood wounds in desperate need of healing. That, or they need a larger vocabulary to express their feelings (which is why 1 year olds bite and 3 year olds slap, of course).

This time however, she did slap pretty hard. She slapped me, and there was a definite SMACK sound to the slap.

I put her in time out. She was all indignant about it, and now who wouldn't be? You're already so mad you're slapping and making satisfying SMACK! sounds, and suddenly someone's taken away your primal rage outlet and plopped you in, essentially,  a padded cell void of things that are satisfying to whack. So I parked her little indignant, slap happy butt in her padded cell/aka our time out step, and she sat there and cursed me out the only way a 14 year old girl trapped in a 3 year old body knows how to do:

HER: I'm! Not! Going! To! Time! Out!

ME: Yet here you are. 3 minutes, m'am. I'll be back.

HER: I'm! Putting! YOU! In! Time out! Mommy!

10 seconds pass

HER: You're in! Time out! Mommy!


1 minute later...

HER: You're JOINING me!

30 seconds....

HER: I hate! Time! Out!

and so on and so forth until 3 minutes were up.

When her 3 minutes were up I walked over and asked if she understood why I put her in time out. Here's where the 14 year old totally reared her sassy little head: "Yes," she said, "Because you used your mean voice at me. And I hit you. You don't! Use! Your mean voice at me, Mommy! And I mean it!"

So yes. You see what I'm dealing with? A 3 year old who possesses the reasoning abilities of a wayward teenager. Because I used my mean voice, she just had to slap me. Mommy made her. Because people who use their mean voices just need a good slapping.

I laughed that one off this time, because she's 3 and it's pretty cute. I did let her know in no uncertain terms was she to ever, ever slap at anyone, even if a mean voice was used. We don't hit, ever. But I did heartily chuckle at her while letting her know all of that. But I chuckled in secret, where she couldn't see, and I chuckled in a sort of nervous way. I can tell: in another 10 years, this is going to get tricky; there's an ability to process and analyze I'm almost positive I didn't even develop until my mid-20's. I could be doomed.

But I'm also very impressed at the abstract reasoning ability my offspring is utilizing. Most child development researchers will tell you it's all concrete thinking until about age 10. And I've been given a child who, clearly, could make Jean Piaget scratch his head.

Which brings me back to my first seasonal craft project: Obviously, little Miss M does not have enough to do. And so we went to Michael's craft store and picked up some craft glue and a whole lot of felt. I cut a tree out of green felt and some tree decorations out of other felt colors. And now? Melissa can decorate her own tree to her little 14 years-in-a-3 year old heart's content:

I'm fairly certain this is the look she aims for each time she attempts to re-decorate our family tree. It's avant garde, yes, with a touch of irreverent whimsy. But I have real Christmas tree ornaments that whimper whenever she walks by; I've sworn to protect them. And anyway, we're a pretty modern family and all, but we're just not an avant garde Christmas tree family at the moment. But we do have a tree ninja. (The Dora pj's are just her weekend ninja uniform. She has others.)

the internet: it's an issue.

I have one last confession. I meant to put this in my confessional blog post last time, but my other other confession (this means I actually have two last confessions) is that I have small dash of adult onset ADD and I can't remember what I told myself I would be doing from one second to the next. Which is why the internet is so perfect for someone like me. While on the internet, I can completely stay focused (translation: eyes glued to a computer like a zombie taking a nap) yet jump around like a complete maniac. I am a completely insane maniac while on the computer, and to look at me, you'd never know; on the outside I'm certain I exude pure zen.

A typical hour (that turns into 3, sometimes an entire afternoon if I'm on vacation and M is at school) looks like this: I'll hop over to facebook, then to a news site, then to some blogs, then another news site, then I'll do a google search on some random topic I thought of 2 weeks ago but suddenly just remembered, then I'll spend 40 minutes looking up some teaching ideas, I'll head back to facebook, back to another news site, remember another thing I was curious about and google, back to facebook.....

The internet. Such a wonderful tool, yet such a source of great evil and large piles of unfolded laundry.

Now that I've made that confession, my other other confession is that I'm addicted to this website called pinterest. Do you know about it? You have to have an invitation to join, but it's not exclusive; if you ask, they let you in (the complete opposite of my brief flirtation with sororities in college from which I still have PTSD).

Basically, it's like a picture version of all your internet bookmarked sites. See something you like while surfing? Pin it from your toolbar (they give you a pin tool for this when you join), pick a board (you create as many different themed "boards"as you want), and then as you surf the net, if you see something you like, click "Pin It" and some picture choices will pop up for you to pin along with your boards so you can choose where to pin it...and pow! Now you have the picture (a visual reminder) on a board in one easy to remember location that directly links you back to the page on the website you wanted to remember while surfing.

Too lazy to surf? Go to pinterest's "Everybody" page and start looking around--you'll find stuff that you didn't even know you wanted on there. You can spend (if you're crazy, like I am) hours finding things to pin and/or ogling what other people in the world think is really rad (and please know: some people have extremely questionable taste).

Here's the issue: because of all that, I'm on on that site all the time, and if you're one of my board followers, I deeply apologize to you. I'm sure on more than one occasion you've logged onto pinterest, taken a quick look at what your followers/those you follow have pinned in the last 5 minutes, seen my recent 1,000 pictures and thought: Wow, that girl has a problem. I do! It's true, I do. And I also apologize for all of the inspirational quotes plastered with profanities that I love to pin to my ::inspirations:: board. I do try to make up for it with some gooey, chocolate-y desert ideas for you.

I'm not sure what it is about that place, because half of the stuff I see when I head over to the "Everything" link so I can see what the rest of the world finds funny, interesting, yummy, sweet, cute, awesome, cool, etc., makes me roll my eyes. Just judging from what I've seen, there are an awful lot of overly princess-y weddings being planned, with way too many cutesy wedding poses that far too many unsuspecting bridesmaids are forced to be a part of. And there is simply too much country for my taste out there in America. Sorry country fans, but I think there should be a limit on how much distressed hillbilly one is allowed to decorate a house with. I'm also getting ready to blast that place with some Islamic, Hindu, and other world religions sayings that insinuate anyone who doesn't agree with those religious doctrines can kiss my Islamic and/or Hindu butt. (I am neither Islamic or Hindu, of course; it's just I don't like it when I feel I'm somewhere the playing field is uneven, and I have a tremendous, natural inclination to try to balance that out in the most passive aggressive way possible.)

And then there are the fitness freaks. The fitness freaks on that place are a real point of contention for me. (Full disclosure: I have a fitness board at pinterest. I call it ::health mania:: but I really should call it ::health mania daydreams:: because I pin a bunch of stuff to it but never do a single thing on it. No, not a single thing. I figure eventually I'll put it to some type of use...some time. Maybe. I say if you're going to dream, dream BIG.)

It just seems there are so many (so many!) women out there who also have their own versions of ::health mania:: but instead of just sticking in pictures of green fat-burning smoothies and treadmill workouts they have absolutely no intentions of ever completing, so many of them fill up their fitness-themed boards with images like this to aspire to:

Whereas I would be quite happy with this:

A perfectly healthy person, with muscle tone, who can still eat a plate of spaghetti and not feel as though she needs to punish herself by finding pictures like the other one to aspire to.

I think what I'm trying to get at is that pinterest seems to be one gigantic issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, the 1960's version, and somehow I've managed to get myself hooked to it. This feels very similar to my secret, in-the-closet readings and viewings of the Twilight series. (See last post, toward the end.)

On the upside, I've gotten some good recipes out of it. And some really cute crafty things. For when I decide to be crafty. Some day. Maybe when I'm 80. And I've found that many women spend a lot (a LOT) of time on some fashion website putting whole outfits (complete with accessories) together and then pinning it on to pinterest. I have more wardrobe options in my ::stylin':: board than I do in my own closet. Yes, yes. It's very sad.

But then there are the teaching ideas (desperately needed some days), inspirational quotes peppered with the F word, and this one time? I found out how to clean an entire microfiber sofa using just a little bit of rubbing alcohol, water, and some white sponges. It does have its breathtaking moments.


So I don't know. I'm just spewing right now; I have absolutely no intentions of trying to curb or eliminate this particular addiction (which I lovingly prefer to call a distraction) (plus, my television is tuned into Nick Jr. whenever it's on...every time The Fresh Beat Band comes on, I ponder how bad it would really hurt if I poked my eyes out with a fork and/or poured acid into my ears--anything but that Go Bananas song again...pinterest is a much safer option, I say). I mean, I've discovered how I'll renovate my bathroom (after I win the lottery):

 

In January, we'll be studying fossils in 3rd grade, and pinterest has helped me find a plethora (plethora) of useful and cute tools to use:

 And apparently, if you get a bunch of rocks and paint them with glow-in-the-dark paint? And then line them up along your sidewalk so they can soak up the sun? Voila! At night you have glow in the dark rocks! (I can hear Mr. F down the street in my neighborhood furiously typing up a complaint letter to the HOA right now, woo!):

And then, of course, I make finds on pinterest that pretty much validate the entire reason I exist. And/or give me some good ideas. Like this one:

shopping confessions for a black friday

Confession #1: I have embarrassingly crude thoughts about fellow shoppers at grocery stores. I have yet to find a grocery store to shop at that has aisles big enough. Big enough for what, you ask? Big enough for everything, I say. I think mostly it's that I just don't get why, in a world consisting of a billion people, 999 million of them don't seem to understand that (1) when parking a cart in an aisle to make food purchase decisions, a cart should (a) not be parked smack dab in the middle of the aisle or (b) parked horizontally at the end of an aisle, as both choices not only completely trap one's fellow shoppers in an aisle, both choices also cause an elevation in blood pressure of certain fellow shoppers (ie, me), causing her to imagine taking a cart blocking her way and slamming it repeatedly into, say, some egg cartons, thereby officially losing her mind and possibly getting arrested. Most definitely getting strange, horrified stares. At the grocery store. Usually in the cereal and canned foods aisles, but often in the dairy section. Because her fellow grocery store shoppers seem to be completely unaware of the fact they are not the only ones who are trying to buy food and exist in the world.

The other grocery store pissed off confession I have is having to wait for a fellow shopper standing, sometimes for a full 10 minutes, in front of the very area I also need to grab something from, and having to wait for them to make a decision and watching them do so in a most oblivious manner. If I had to think hard for 10 minutes, or even had 10 minutes just to stand and wait patiently for their thinking processes to reach conclusion, this would only be a minor irritation. But this is not the case. I want to grab their shoulders, shake them, and scream into their faces: "YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE!! YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE!!"  And then run away, leaving them shocked, confused, and (most likely) still oblivious. Most often in the produce section, but sometimes in the frozen food area.

Confession #2: About 6 weeks ago, I totally lost my mind at my local Target. I've been shopping at this Target for going on a decade now, with nary a single emotionally crazy peep. But 6 weeks ago, I'd had a really frickin' long day at work, was dealing with an outrageous amount of hormones, and on top of all that was generally in a big hurry. I'd plopped Melissa in the back of the cart (not properly seat belted and not in the proper front seat not like the properly behaved angel the Target employee I'm about to tell you about apparently demands all strange children who are none of her business be) and was swinging through (in a general, hormonal hurry) to get what I needed from the office product section.

Target Employee with a Terrific Need to Condemn and Control sees us, and says in a haughty tone of voice: "You better put that baby in the front seat like you're supposed to. She needs to be sitting down." I looked at her long and hard and said, "Excuse me?" And she repeated what she'd said again, this time in (what was clearly) a nastier tone of voice. And so I looked at her even longer and harder and then said slowly (because I was so enraged I couldn't even see straight and was convinced if a brick happened to be nearby I would throw it at her head), "Ooookaaaay. Well. She's not a baby and I think I can manage my own child." And then I stomped off. Target didn't have what I needed anyway. What kind of a stupid Target was this?? With their rude, control-y employees and not having what a person needs anyway.

So I was furious and in a bad mood for the rest of my time in Target. And at check out, I think I scared the quiet, sweet cashier wearing a headscarf when I abruptly asked to speak to a manager. And when the manager came, I told her what had happened, apologized by saying I never do stuff like huffily demand to speak to managers, but I'd had a really long day and what was said and the tone it was said in was an incredibly inappropriate way to speak to a customer and I'd like to know that the manager was going to let the employee know that. And then before she could even lay out her action plan for me, I burst into tears and left.

Here's the confession part: I avoided going back to that Target for 4 weeks straight and when I did go back (on a Wednesday, around 5 pm-ish), and ran into both the nasty employee and the manager I'd had a psychotic melt down on? I glared at both of those chicks in a very "You think you want a piece of this?? Bring it." kind of way. And now I only go to that Target if it's the weekend and/or before 4 pm. And every time Melissa is with me now, I put her in the front seat and tell her she has to sit there in case we run into the "mean lady" again. Which means now I'm passing on my hormonal imbalance-y thinking to my daughter, and when she's in talk therapy years later as an adult, she'll spend so much time working out her strange, irrational fear and belief that female Target employees are all "mean ladies."

But mostly, every time I sit her in the front seat and buckle her in, I feel like I'm letting the mean Target lady win. And this is Christmastime, when mean Target ladies should not be allowed to win.

Which is precisely why I've decided the next time I have to go to that Target, I'll go (a) at 5 pm on a weekday and (b) let Melissa ride in the back of the cart, standing up, possibly holding a sign that says "You think you want a piece of this?? Bring it."

Confession #3: I've also started frequenting (please make sure you're sitting down before continuing)........................... Wal-Mart. Anyone who knows me well should be sitting with a really stunned look on their face after reading that, because historically I'm very anti-Wal-Mart. I'm not convinced they treat all of their employees fairly, and also the aisles are too narrow (see confession #1). And the other customers freak me out occasionally. I will note, though, I haven't run into one inappropriately condescending employee. And they have an organic section. Who knew?!

Confession #4: This has nothing to do with shopping, and I tagged it on at the end in the hopes you'd get bored and stop reading before hitting Confession #4. Confession #4 is that not only have I read all of the Twilight books, I have consistently taken myself (alone, in secret, hidden in the dark recesses of my skeletons' closet) to see each Twilight movie as they come out.

I read the first book while on bed rest and pregnant. It was horribly written, but I could tell: if I was a teenage girl with angst and social acceptance issues (ie, if I were 14 all over again), I would be on these sparkly vampire people who don't hurt people like white on rice. And then I read the 2nd book, which was written even worse than the 1st. But I couldn't stop. I had to know what happened next! Each book, in succession, was plotted, conceived, and written worse than the last.

But that's not the worst part of it all. Liking poorly written, gushy romance novels about vampires is one thing. Liking poorly written, gushy vampire romance novels involving helpless heroines is something else. I feel about myself like I feel about my child loving pink and Disney princesses: Oh, Amy. No no no. Where did I fail you?? (Bella, the female protagonist, spends every book pining for a boy and begging for rescue). I feel like someone who accidentally changed the tv channel and landed on a perverse reality show (that is so obviously scripted and simply put there to control and then destroy the very soul of America) but after 15 minutes has to keep watching because now I've invested 15 minutes of my time and have to see what happens at the end. Even if the end is sort of like, "That's it?"

Confession #5: I go see the movies because (a) the quality is always questionable, but (b) I still really want to see the books put into action, and (c) I'm on Team Edward. Because he has really red lips and nice amber eyes (after slurping down deer blood, of course) and sparkly skin and when he's not in the Twilight movies he has a British accent and I love those. I was a high school freshman when the actor who plays Edward was born and so it's just incredibly inappropriate but not really, since Edward is technically 110 years old or something. Imagination and reality get blurry for me when Twilight is involved.

Not to mention very weird, since I'll be a 40 year old woman on my next birthday with a lot on her plate to worry about right now: a new job, maintaining a household, raising an independent girl who hopefully will trend toward Harry Potter rather than glittery vampires...which may be precisely why I'm drawn toward being rescued by the undead. As long as they sparkle and won't munch on me (at least not in ways I don't like), it's a release from the day to day reality of crazy.

I think a lot of the people in the audience with me on Tuesday morning I went to see Breaking Dawn are in this for similar reasons. There were 10 other people in the theater with me and the audience make up looked like this: 4 ladies in their 40-50's, 4 teenagers, 1 lone man who looked like he was in his 70's, and a couple (I suspect the husband was dragged there) in their 60's. And me. Dressed head to toe in black, like I was channeling a stealth ninja. A stealth ninja weakened by an irrational love for imaginary spangly vampires to rescue her, completely forgetting that, yo, she's a frickin' ninja. A stealth ninja.

Confession #6 (another non-shopping confession): I think only about 6 people regularly read this blog (hi Michele, hi Mom!), so I'm feeling fairly good about this Twilight secret staying securely in the back of my closet. (I also think it's pretty telling that I'm more comfortable with many in the general public knowing about my irrational rage thoughts toward other shoppers in grocery stores and outlandish emotional breakdowns in Target than admitting--out loud--that I'm on, you know, Team Edward.) (Although Team Jacob can be fairly stunning in his shirtless moments.) (No no! I can't, mustn't, betray Edward!)

I'll be so glad when they release Breaking Dawn part 2 and I can shove this Twilight nonsense into my basement, right next to my Hello Kitty collection.

tippy toe walking through year 3.

Dear Melissa,

Today, you're three. Three! Can you believe it?? Man, this time three years ago, I was pushing. And pushing and pushing. Who knew I was such a good pusher?? We had a really sweet mid-wife, but now I can't remember her name. I remember she had blonde hair, a sweet and soft voice, and looked like she participated in beauty pageants with titles like "Southern Miss Tater Tot Queen." But she turned out to be so much stronger than that; never ever judge a book by its cover.  Because when it was time to really get serious and push you out, she was anything but sweet and pageant-ly; she was completely in command and in control. And I really, really needed that, three years ago today (and also, apparently: a seriously big oxygen mask...you were sucking the very life out of me).

Anyway, I needed cool, calm, collected people around me as I had no idea what I was doing. (Confession #1: I still have no idea what I'm doing, with this parenting gig; but it's cool. I like flying by the seat of my pants...unless we're in the car and well, I know you know how mommy feels about that. I can see you're already walking around, nursing a healthy amount of pre-school road rage toward strange drivers on the road, and so I know driving lessons in 13 years are going to go absolutely smoothly...other drivers are crazy, and that's pretty much all you need to know before venturing forth onto Atlanta's freeways).

You've grown so much over the last three years. Some times I think about how you were when we first brought you home, which, if I had to use a summarizing, over all, very generalizing word? Overwhelming. Sorry, m'am, but you were. You were absolutely, completely overwhelming. You made all these little drunk guy faces (highly amusing), you were unpredictable (not as amusing), and your need for breast milk was constant and unrelentless (absolutely,  completely the opposite of amusing).

When we left the hospital, I remember the nurse wheeled us downstairs, into the beautifully sunny, chilly October Sunday afternoon air, and said, "Congratulations, good luck!" And I was all: "Holy moly! They're just letting us take this completely helpless little thing home with us? Like we're baby raising experts? Geez, I hope nobody gets hurt." And then, later, sometimes, late at night, I wondered: what the holy heck have I just done to myself?? And then other times, we'd lay together on the sofa and I'd watch you sleep, and I'd think: "Wow. I kind of made you and stuff. That's so frickin' amazing."

Confession #2: Sometimes I watch you sleep at night, 3 years later, and still can't believe you and I were once one; that you were once a part of me and I was a part of you. And that I, you know, kind of made you and stuff. So frickin' amazing.

And now here you are! You've mastered crawling, you're exiting Phase Toddler, you're walking and running and skipping (like a ballerina, mostly, insisting on getting around the world on your tippy toes, almost exclusively). Hopefully, we won't have to, like, slit your achilles tendon to stretch out those heel muscles like the one physical therapist lady your dad bumped into several months ago said we'd have to do if you didn't start walking flat on your feet...what was up with that chick anyway?? Why the heck would some stranger think it was okay to send your dad into fits of neurotic fear thoughts about the slitting of feet when everyone in the Universe knows how he is about that body area? Plus, now that woman has both of us and all your teachers constantly saying things like: "Walk on your feet, honey." and "Flat feet, remember: Flat feet."

Which is just so flippin' silly because I can so see this from your viewpoint: Uh, hello, mommy and daddy, I AM walking on my feet. Yes, Ms. B, I'm ON my feet. My silly tippy toe feet!) (Though I do think you may end up with some awe-inspiring calf muscles in a few years) (and please know: I often consider tippy toe walking through life right with you--awesome calf muscles are nothing to turn one's nose up at).

Oh, and you are absolutely, without a doubt potty trained now...no more mortifying, unhygienic moments at McDonald's playlands now. (Though I do sincerely wish you would stop being afraid of empty bathrooms in our house and learn to go by yourself...while I'm thankful I can finally do my own business solo, now it's flip flopped, and I'm sitting on the bathroom floor while you do your business. And I'm doing bizarre things like talking to your tummy, begging your pee pee to stop hiding and I say goofball things like come out come out, come out wherever you are, Melissa's silly pee pee) (Though I must say you appear to have amazing Kegel muscles).

What else are you doing now as a big, grown up three year old big girl? Oh yes. You're a critic. A natural-born, argumentative critic who gets indignant about quite a lot. If I say the sky is up, you insist it's down. If I note out loud what a happy girl you are, you yell "NO Mommy! I'm a MAD girl!" And you get so ticked off if someone looks at you at just the wrong moment, and no one can tell when or where or why that moment will be. For some reason only you know, you think being a mad girl is going to get you places. And you know what? You go, mad girl. Because sometimes I wish I had more mad girl in me, too. Saying "No" is not a fear for you, being a people pleaser is simply not part of your repetoire right now, and I like that about you.

You are afraid of Tasha, for some odd reason. You know: Tasha, our gentle, ancient, aging black cat who sleeps 15 out 24 hours per day and is afraid of bugs. The one who walks through the house at 3 am mourning her life and occasionally throwing up on everything. I suppose she's the closest thing you'll ever have to a sibling. Tasha is basically just your big, dorky, annoying, little sister. And sometimes you'll sit on our couch, look over and see Tasha licking herself, and you'll let out a blood curdling scream. And when we ask you, "Melissa, why are you screaming at Tasha?" you usually respond with, "Because I scared of Tasha. Tasha is the big bad wolf." (Okay, fine. She is kind of spooky--especially when all the lights are off and she jumps out of a corner at you and you had no idea that was coming...or when all the lights are on, but she's lying in a dark corner of the hallway and all you can see are her ghostly yellow eyes...wow. I think the next time I see Tasha I'll scream in her general direction, too.)

Man, Melissa. The Big Bad Wolf...this is a running theme for you right now, and you have a love/hate relationship with this scary guy. You love to act out the 3 Little Pigs story, and you're getting so awesome at the re-telling of Little Red Riding Hood. But now...now you're reluctant to go anywhere there's even the remotest chance of bumping into the Big Bad Wolf in a dark corner. And apparently, the Big Bad Wolf runs our house once the sun sets.

Or even after the sun rises: this morning the sun was shining brilliantly but the bathroom simply wasn't quite bright enough; you were sure the Big Bad Wolf (aka Tasha) was waiting in the depths to pounce on you.

But please know: I so totally get you! Because honestly, I can't go into that bathroom either without  flicking on a light. What is up with that room? And YES! The upstairs part of our house IS totally creepy! I don't know what that is. It could be some weird vibes from your dad's office area. Or maybe on one of my ghost hunting adventures I inadvertantly brought something home. We'll never know, and your dad says we can't move right now, the timing's wrong and the housing market bubble bursting has made our house worth cat poop. So we'll do some spiritual cleansing rituals up there when it's time for us to kick you out of our bed; I'm not sure these actually work, but at this point, anything will help. I'm tired of waking up with your feet in my face.

Also, some nights, when your dad is out of town on a business trip, you know: we sleep with almost all the lights on in the house. I'm sorry, sweet girl. I've totally passed on my irrational fear of ghosts and bumps in the night on to you. Plus, I watch way too many episodes of Ghosthunters and Ghosthunters International. Though I do stay away from that over the top stuff, like Travel Channel's Ghost Adventures. One day, after you've conquered all your irrational fears, we'll watch it together and talk about scientific ghost hunting vs. travel channel crap ghost hunting. There's a huge difference.

Today, I'm taking you to the Fox Theatre to see Brobee, Foofa, Tootie, Plex, Muno, and DJ Lance of Yo Gabba Gabba. You love these bizarre monsters and I have no frickin' idea why. I mean, I get DJ Lance--he's kinda funky, a coolio hipster kind of guy. But that one eyed red monster-y guy? And the green unibrow dude? Who you're absolutely in love with? Oh dear.

Also, you're obsessed with Dora, Diego, Elmo, and several Disney Princesses and Fairies. I'm currently most concerned about your fascination with the Princesses. The red phallic-like and unibrow monsters I can deal with; even the fairies I get. Fairies are sort of cool, with their magical powers and sparkly wings. But pink tiaras, Melissa?? Seriously. And princesses??? I'm worried we're only 3 years in and I've already failed you...who frickin' introduced you to Disney's version of a princess??? Don't say it! Do not say it. I totally have that daycare kid's name and face in my head right now. You are SO not going to her next birthday party, I don't care if she has 10 pinatas, free pony rides, and a real train. Wrong-headed peer pressure: it starts so early for 21st century kids.

But I'm glad you're a 21st century kid! You're going to have an amazing life. And what I want most for you, what I imagine for you at this point, is really just a life filled with curiosity, being unafraid to ask questions and take risks, make mistakes and learn from them, take stuff apart and learn how it works. And I want you to try anything you want to try--even if you want to wear pink tutus and dance ballet. And don't even worry if the genetic pool you got has you ending up with the opposite of a ballerina's body (because who the heck is really happy in a ballerina's body anyway...I'm sure you could poll any ballerina and they'd be really sad about how many cupcakes they consistently miss out on). And! Tippy toe walking could be our sign you are actually headed to the New York City Ballet (just please: not as a princess).

You're smart. You're sure of yourself. You're independent and--other than bathroom trips--fairly self-reliant. You're going places, and I'm so glad the Universe picked me to be your mommy to guide you through it all. Oh, and you're an obsessive milk drinker (it's the only thing you want to drink right now), so I know you'll grow up with really calcium-fortified bones. And that's good.

I love you, sweet Melissa. And I'm so proud of you and all you've learned and accomplished over the last 3 years. I know you're proud of you, too. You're growing up into a really awesome kid who's going to do great things, and I'm really happy I get to go along for the ride.

Happy birthday and love,
Mommy