You’ve all seen it by now. In fact, it’s old news and I’m way behind the times — clearing the buffers out of my brain that are filled with apple sauce, toy tractors and soy milk. It takes me a few days to clear my head, wipe the oatmeal from my eyelashes and say… What does that say? But the ‘Mom Enough Time Magazine’ cover that was released ever so obnoxiously, Pre-Mother’s Day weekend. Yeah. THAT ONE. The one that forces all to look where most try not to out of a little thing called PERSONAL SPACE. Because– not only is she sending a message about how awesome your arms can look with daily Pilates, but hello? Camouflage on a 5-year old? GROUNDBREAKING. My son has been wearing the military pattern for years, much to the chagrin of his leftist Preschool (Not that there’s anything wrong with that political standpoint. Get over yourself.) It’s FASHION, people. Even TIME MAGAZINE agrees.

Really TIME? You had nothing better to do than to sift through the Goddess files to find the one 26 year old, self-righteous (in her own right, because I’m non-confrontational) woman that wanted to stand up, say F-YOU, I BREAST FEED to the universe? Never mind the rest of us that — in one massive uproar, sheltered our cubs under massive butterfly wings and said, “ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?!?!” Because women, MOMS in particular, are not defensive at all. Go team YOU.

Admittedly, I didn’t read the article, so while I feel the need to write this post — I can’t speak for the content beyond Time’s cover. Apparently, you have to buy the issue if you want to read in detail and by the time that I reached the newsstand, the angry mobs of Moms had already had their kill. All I could find was a trampled issue of Saveur Magazine — the Bread Issue, which — half-gnawed on must have served as substance to one of the blood seekers. I would go into detail over what they did to the Vogue Scarlett Johansson issue, but really — the images are too graphic for my descriptive ability. HOWEVER, I did read the online interview with Miss MOM ENOUGH (in capital red letters) on Time’s website — I don’t know, aside from the weirdness of shoving her boob into a her kindergarten-aged children’s mouths, she seems okay — a little loopy, but what Mom isn’t? And whatever, if that’s your thing — DO IT. Obviously, someone at Time Magazine is happy that you did — sitting in an accounting room, counting dollars upon dollars where the once dilapidated and tired magazine was, just yesterday, scrounging for pennies…MUHAHAHAA, WHO CAN WE PISS OFF NEXT?!?! While many would have been perfectly fine not knowing, and NOT getting angry over imagery and words that point and accuse. Blood pressures would have remained normal — and those of us with a sense of humor wouldn’t be wondering if we need to be careful about our boobs and what mouths they end up in. But whatever, who’s to stop those that feel compelled to share — in all seriousness, or not.

via the lovely blogger lateenough

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I’ve also continued to work on projects, managed to read The Hunger Games at rapid speed and get myself all wrapped up in a self-deprecating diet that IN NO WAY reminds me about being anywhere near a South Beach. Bastards — WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME? Although reading about the avoidance of starvation while starving has made for an interesting juxtaposition. Perhaps Katniss, (die-hard main character of THG, for those of you that are in denial) should have considered the South Beach Diet before heading into the arena to face the possibilities of going hungry… then she TOTALLY would have known how to starve. The book is supposed to be eons into the future — safe to say that SOMEONE wasn’t paying attention in history class. And, whatever, I know she is victorious (TOLD YOU!) but it wasn’t until the Gamemakers decided to allow two people to win that the book really begins to sink down into the depths of teenage romance. Which is about as deep as a pint of Ben & Jerry’s…. which I would totally go Hunger Games all over the place for right about now and I don’t even like ice cream. Dammit.

And now I’m hungry again.

So, as you can imagine, I’ve been rather busy these past few weeks and therefore don’t have very much to write about. Hence my internet absence.

But while I’m here….

There. There it is. My son throwing the largest rock he can manage into the bay next to our house. Impressive, right?

Well. Whatever. I’M IMPRESSED.

But do you know who really isn’t impressed?

Josephine. She turns one and suddenly has NO REASON to smile about rocks. While I’m all “YAY, NICE ONE!” she’s scowling at me like “OMG, Can we GET ANY LAMER!”… in the driest sense possible. In fact, after chastising me for wearing my hoodie hood OVER my jean jacket this morning, it was apparent that we are all in for a major lashing of the vanities. That is, if she ever allows us to be seen with her. Plead with her for a family make-over and maybe she’ll smile….

While she silently judges… That’s right…. At least that’s what we keep telling ourselves.

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This wasn’t the case, I didn’t lose them on purpose, but it was rather convenient that only a few days prior I received an invitation from my Eye Doctor to get my eyes checked. He missed me, apparently — and it had been 2 years. I have a bit of a phobia when it comes to anyone doing anything anywhere near my eyes and tend to spasm with fists of lead — kind of like The Incredible Hulk but instead of making me mad as a set off, just don’t touch my eyes. But I liked this Optometrist. He was calm, smelled good and even when coming close to that optic nerve that might launch my fists of death — I would instead melt into a puddle of silly giggles.

Obviously, for those of you that don’t know, my Eye Doctor is a rather attractive man, and although I am not one of those married (mind you) women that seek out attractive men to… well, whatever… I do allow myself to acknowledge and appreciate the FACTS that are right in front of me. Staring, oh so deep into my eyes.

But I digress…

My glasses took their exit on Thursday night. Feeling misused, under valued and tired of sitting on my face, they simply slipped away into the night as I wandered around in the dark. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized they were MIA. A complete and total frenzy ensued until I was certain that I had actually become John Wayne  — my tortoise shell spectacles were really Natalie Wood, and this was the 1956 thriller The Searchers. Only so much more intense.

The situation escalated to the point where I enlisted the help of the 4-year old to help me find them. Pulling out every toy-power tool that he owns, strapping on his headlamp and turning over his stocked toy box was the first order of business. Clearly they had to have fallen into this box, and he wasn’t cleaning up until he found them. Obviously, asking for help was a mistake. I had spent most of Friday looking for my glasses — the ones that I wear for more than half of any given day. I was tired, I couldn’t see anything and there were toys EVERYWHERE. I picked up the phone and made the call—the appointment was on Saturday.

Arriving at the appointment early, I picked out a pair of new frames. These are the ones that are going to guide me through… perhaps for THE REST OF MY LIFE — the thought occurred to me as I stuck with tortoise shell but decided on a new shape. Something new… “RYAN” — a strange voice called from the optometry office — “11:30 am appointment for RYAN” — WHAT? Who was this skinny feeble man calling my name? WHERE WAS MY EYE DOCTOR? I had waited TWO years for this and WHERE WAS HE… I turned to inquire. “Yes, I have an appointment with Dr…..” The response was uncalled for, “He doesn’t work weekends. I’m Dr. Smell Fest.”

My head was about to spin off into another dimension. I brought this on myself by losing the glasses to begin with. Then there was the selfish ENTITLEMENT to a new pair. And NOW I have to trust my eyes to a complete stranger that I can only compare with Marty McFly. Yes McFly… ARE YOU IN THERE McFLY?!?! I felt ill and was about to run for the door when I noticed a small older woman at the reception desk crying. The nurse/receptionist was trying to calm her down and, being the only other person in the room, she turned to me with an explanation. The woman was crying because someone had anonymously come in earlier in the week and paid for her prescription– her $600 lenses in about 4 different pairs of glasses that she has to have reconfigured every few weeks because of the effects that her chemotherapy is having on her eyesight.

Naturally, I joined in and helped to console her as she worried about who she was going to thank and how she could find out who it was. Dr. Smelly Head had returned and asked if I was coming in. On my way into his office I made sure to grab hold of all of my ugliness while I welcomed in my conscious to beat the shit out of me. My awareness of the world had been lost — only to come at me with high speeds, throwing me right back into reality as I clamored for grace.

I returned home, and having ordered my new glasses, I was told I could expect them on Tuesday. I started to look for my old glasses again and eventually found them under the couch — drunk and partying with a toy bulldozer — those dirty little things. It’s good when life opens your eyes a little bit wider — especially when you’ve lost sight for a while.

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In other news — take a look at this nice little pluggy plug from Studio 30+ — Doesn’t it make me sound a-m-a-z-i-n-g? The praise isn’t going my head. Nope. NOT AT ALL.

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And not in the that drowned out, head hits the desk before the vodka bottle kind of way. No. This has all been purely therapeutic — because it’s all been done FOR FREE. That’s RIGHT…. no invoicing. No management. No eons of cash spilling out of my ears — what? It isn’t 2004, PEOPLE. No. This is 2012 where most live in fear of, well… everything. And so, I’m open. Open to helping out. Open to taking on projects that, in 2004, I would have charged ungodly amounts of money for. Dammit. Damn it all. And it FEELS GOOD. Although, this isn’t to say I’m whoring myself out to just anyone. GET OVER YOURSELF. Their are reciprocal perks — I’m not that kind of girl.

It all started with the revamp of Studio 30+ — I’ve mentioned them before, and I used to stop by the old site occasionally to peruse the worlds of other bloggers. It was nice, but kind of like yelling echo into the winds of the Grand Canyon. Alone. Very, very alone. Since then, the management of such changed, things were afoot and they held a logo contest a few weeks ago for the new and improved site. (You can go there, but then come back… rudeness.) It was the announcement of said contest that made me glance around, realize that my muck boots were stuck in the succubus. WHERE WAS I?!? Grasping for the site of any shoreline, the fog began to swirl around me until there was nothing. Even my hand in front of my face was starting to grow dim. I was all about giving in and letting the high tide take me away when Steven Tyler gave credit to cocaine for Aerosmith’s ability to play every state in the country, nine times in seven years. I then sprung out of my stay-at-home-mom-day-dream to a repeat of the Ellen show, ran like a crazy person to my desk and churned this one out…

IT WON, YAY ME! And the new site is live. It’s all very exciting… BUT.

While this was going on, I was also in the midst of designing a logo for another friend… Isn’t it FUN?!

Yes, you can go to her site too. RUDE!

At any rate, this has all been unbelievably refreshing  — kind of like spring, without allergies. Or kittens, before they become cats. It’s making me all hopeful and whatnot — you know, like there’s NOTHING wrong with oblivion. Look. It works for Steven…

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You know the blog where I feel weird about sharing too much about my kids… Yes, that one. Don’t let your heart explode, you know, because of the love.

And it only took me 30 hours to add this clip to my post. What? It’s not like I own a ukulele and post ridiculously cute videos of myself on a weekly basis. That design company I owned came with it’s own PROGRAMMERS. This is all jam and jelly cake to me, YO. Lay the hate down.

But whatever… I hear you. BIG DEAL. The cute kids run and crawl back and forth, laughing, smiling… EMULATING. But…but, but… DON’T YOU SEE IT? They’re both HUGE, and moving around and making noises and attempting to play with each other. It’s called INSANITY, and I am now on the cliffs of thensuch. See you never.

I’ve been busy this and last week with design projects (can I get an AMEN!) and my new passion for becoming a film-maker. Yes. Maker-o-Films. I’m sure all of this excitement will result in mass quantities of manic behavior in the weeks to come, which can only lead to blog abuse. Hold tight.

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Yes — she written for gobs of publications and even authored a few books, and therefore yes, she is relatively famous.

And Yes — I tend to shy away from bloggers that have somehow “made it” in the blogging world, by… you know — BLOGGING and writing books. Not for any real particular reason other than the fact that I am a relatively unheard of blogger… And therein lies some sort of crazy ball of rubber bands.

Because — a few hundred might read this… and I’m quite astounded by that. Whereas Alice Bradley has to worry about … Oh, thousands upon thousands. And I’m not so sure that I could handle that kind of pressure. But here I am. Going against the unwritten rule of bloggers blogging about bloggers… but that’s okay. Because just like my friend Gretchen Rubin, whom I pounced on over the summer of 2010, Finslippy is also unaware that I know her, and she’ll probably never know because I am not that person. Nope. Not me. I’m that other person that reads her blogs and books and whatnot and never comments or makes myself known. Because what she writes is almost too good. Too funny. Too true. And therefore too weird for me to be all HI LOOK AT ME, I LOVE YOU. Because, that would be a little odd, right?

But lately Alice (in my head she asked me to call her that) has been writing posts for a cause — “DonorsChoose.org allows donors to directly fund projects for teachers in struggling schools. Any amount you can donate will make a huge difference for these teachers! To date we’ve helped fund FIVE classroom projects. Donate any amount up to $100 and enter the match code FINSLIPPY at checkout, and your donation will be matched. Thank you!” — In doing so, she has been going over her personal experience for each grade-school year and last week she wrote about fourth grade. And as I read her post from last week, about her teacher Mr. Klein that didn’t like her because she was messy, I found myself transported back to third grade (fourth seems to me missing from my database — must have been a stellar year!) when my teacher was Mrs. Cos.

Mrs. Cos didn’t dislike me, she just didn’t like kids very much and definitely hated my best friend. She would spy on us and if she even caught wind of any after school plans, she would find a reason to keep my friend after school… always staring at me in defiance as she lay the punishment. It left me feeling defeated, like I should have done something to save my friend, but obviously I was weak and powerless. She was mean and picked on people, like a bully — but only so much worse because she was THE TEACHER (echo echo echo). There was crying in her classroom everyday, if my memory serves me right. But that was neither here nor there because, best friend aside, it seemed that I was flying low on her radar.

That is until my family went on a little trip to my Grandma’s house and our luggage flew off the top of our orange Dodge Colt, and into the dark of night while driving on Interstate 287.

And it was scary. My Dad playing chicken with the traffic — IN THE DARK — attempting to retrieve whatever belongings he could…. items that were not worth his risking his life running around on the highway as my Mom, sister and I peered over the backseat. Items, that in retrospect as we laugh at the situation, meant nothing but did include my school books and homework materials. And while I could have been all like “SCORE!!!” to the fact that I was unable to complete any and all assignments — the dread and fear of having to explain this to Mrs. Cos was immediately stifling. But, my Mom wrote a note.

Handing the note to Mrs. Cos, my hand was shaking. It isn’t until now that I can remember this vividly… it was warm out — the windows to the classroom were open and the kids playing outside on their recess made for excess noise that was only fueling my anxiety. I gave her the note and ran back to my desk, hiding my head in my arms. The howl of her laughter burned through my head, setting my ears aflame. She read the note aloud. My classmates were confused — was this funny? They laughed a little, but hesitated probably out of fear since the woman in charge seemed to be spinning off into another dimension. The rage of her antics caught the attention of other teachers in the vicinity as they were called in to partake. Mrs. Cos was in her limelight, what could be funnier? The dog eating the homework, or a brutally honest note from Ryan’s Mom stating that pages 6-12 were laying lifeless on the side of 287. The other teachers reacted with hesitation as well. Why was this woman laughing so hard when, clearly, I didn’t think it was funny. The tears pouring from my eyes as some tried to comfort me.

But it is a sad, sad story. The ability of one homely little woman to create a memory so vivid that the smell of the day remains some twenty eight years later. That day went on — although I can’t remember the rest. And onto the next, yes. I have totally gotten over it, although I’ll never tie a piece of luggage to the top of anything, ever. Reaching back, finding the memories of what is funny now but what was once perceived (i before e except after c) traumatic, is indeed an experience in itself.

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I have the flu. THE FLU. Influenza…(insert prescription medication commercial voice– I call her Linda) is commonly referred to as the flu, is an infectious disease caused by RNA viruses of the family Orthomyxoviridae (the influenza viruses), that affects birds and mammals. The most common symptoms of the disease are chills, fever, sore throat, muscle pains, severe headache, coughing, weakness/fatigue and general discomfort…. — Just in case you were wondering, and thank you Linda. I’ve been entertaining both Linda and the Flu since Tuesday — or at least that’s when they decided to tap me on the shoulder and notify me of their presence. Now, every time I get the chills, Linda monotonously chimes in “Chills or rigor is a shaking occurring during a high fever. It occurs because cytokines and prostaglandins are released as part of an immune response and increase the set point for body temperature in the hypothalamus. “Rigor” is sometimes considered a synonym for “chills”.” Because I needed to know.

And, I hear you. WHAT DO YOU MEAN? But, YES. I did get the flu shot — months ago. WE ALL DID. Even Allergy Boy was allowed to get one this year. We aren’t anti. In fact — WE LOVE to be vaccinated… HOWEVER, apparently the FLU is just like people and comes with many different faces, or as Linda calls them “Strains” (variants of plants, viruses or bacteria; or an inbred animal used for experimental purposes) and what people are vaccinated for is really just the BIG FLU. Not this little flu, of which I only have a mild touch of– making me cringe at what it must feel like to have the BIG FLU…. As I lay around freezing and sweating — every part of my body screaming “JUST TAKE ME NOW”, as I grab my own shoulders yelling “MAN UP!”. It’s a delicate dance and it really doesn’t help that Linda sits around here laughing and dropping bits of popcorn all over the house. The dog won’t eat popcorn.. so now I have to clean.

Add to this that the baby is teething. Which isn’t only a comedy of errors, but also a juxtaposition of fate SO UNFAIR that one can only sit at the edge of their seats in frozen horror. One must COMFORT the baby that won’t sleep because a pain larger than any adult human can stand is attacking her very being — but not too close, you have the FLU!…. I know you’re watching.

Shut it, Linda.

But the good news is that I’m on the “upside” of this little touch of flu… Now if we can just get that tooth to appear, maybe sleep will reenter our lives as well. AND Speaking of something that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the Flu, but could be relatable to teeth in some zoned out health starved mind, is that over the weekend we discovered FROZEN BASIL. Which, to say we discovered it is a bold and, albeit beautifully brandished lie — Because Not Martha told us about it first.

We freeze our own Basil at the end of each summer, so when I first saw the Dorot packages in the grocery store freezer I was overcome by the sillies and laughed my way through the shopping aisles like a mad person. Even the guy that talks to his pocket protector while he stocks the shelves looked at me like I was Dr. Evil. But by this time of the winter, nearing Spring, our Basil supply is gone and the scraps are rather freezer burnt, so we hang our heads and wait — over salting and turning to the dried out options. I had honestly forgotten about the freezer aisle incident until about a month or so ago when Not Martha was brave enough to try.

The end result of our throwing a few cubes into our sauce over the weekend was really, quite pleasant — AND it’s nice to know that there are a few little cubes of fresh love in the freezer should we need, you know… Basil. But I do recommend that you head on over to read Not Martha’s review, because– not only are her pictures filled with slightly more deliciousness, but Linda is worried that you’ve been here a while now — and who knows if I’m still contagious…. “The boundary between contagious and non-contagious infectious diseases is not perfectly drawn….”

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And, yes. That is me… running around like a weirdo in front of Le Petit Trianon. “Petit” because of it’s tiny scale next to the other Trianon, the “Grand”. It is also important to note that Versailles is referred to as a “château” — not because it is a castle, but because it is located in the countryside. Got that… NOT because it is a castle. Because, CLEARLY, Versailles is NOT a castle. NO. You’re WRONG.

I told you. NOT A CASTLE.

Now you are confused. Not in the sense that I’m a weirdo that likes to run around like a goofball in front of historical grandeur, but because you thought this post was going to be about Versailles. Which it sort of is, but not really.  No. This post is about Birth Control.

Yes. That’s right. Another annoying post about Birth Control. And people calling each other sluts and whores. And advertisers pulling contracts out from under ugly words that should never have been said. And the Jehovah’s Witnesses I just kicked off my front porch. Because, looking back at the world and all of the things that have gone on over and over again… Marie Antoinette was only 14 when she was expected to produce an heir to the French Throne. Her husband was only 15. And, oddly enough, the very last thing that either of them were interested in was sex. It took them YEARS to figure it all out. Freaks.

So, while I understand that the news is news — and we live in 2012 where the media RUNS SOCIETY, I’d really like it if for once, when I turn on the the tellie in the hopes of catching a glimpse of this week’s forecast — I’d REALLY LOVE IT if the end result wasn’t my FOUR YEAR OLD asking me about BIRTH CONTROL. I mean… One can only assume that if there were teenagers out there NOT thinking about sex — they are clearly lying, but with all this talk about birth control, WHAT ARE THEY THINKING NOW? As we sit around hoping that they aren’t thinking about IT, while all we do is talk about IT. No. They didn’t get any ideas from us. HOW COULD THEY?

So — can we tone it down a bit on the whole TALKING ABOUT IT stuff? Clearly we aren’t getting anywhere anytime soon. And lots of people are getting really angry….. Slamming the door in the Jehovah’s face as she said “These are really angry times…”. NO KIDDING. But I’m not going to sit around TALKING ABOUT IT. No. Instead, I’m going to just sit here thinking about those poor kids at the Château…. that never really even stood a chance.

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Me (without hesitating– an immediate response): But what if we have to get out?

Mr. Sal: Get out of… the boat?

Me (starting to panic): No. Just out. What if we have to get out? There’s no way out of there. It’s all Earth — all high and no way to walk straight up without having to climb. I’m not a climber — are you? I mean I guess I could climb. I’m not completely out of shape, but I’d hate to run out of breath — it doesn’t look like there’s a lot of air down there. There’s no “release”. But what if we run out of water? We’d need a supply raft. My Aunt goes on these rafting trips all the time and I know she packs like four extra rafts full of drinking water.

They have vultures there too you know.

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