There's a Wocket in My Pocket

And $210.00 in library fines on my card.

Until this morning, I was the only member of our family who was even eligible for a library card.

Oh, how I flaunted my stoopid-fresh book borrowing powers, ever-taunting the P-dog with my esteemed status as sole Rama household library card holder.

You see, the V-meister and J-dog are not yet old enough to wield library cards, and the P-dog was banned from our local library system back in 1985-ish, when his mom discovered his dresser drawers stuffed to the gills with a couple years worth of overdue library books.

They had to rent a U-Haul and drop them into the outdoor book return bin under cover of darkness.

The replacement fines were never paid, and the P-dog relinquished his book borrowing privileges.

Until The Year Two Thousand, when the two of us were joined in holy matrimony and my untarnished reputation as a stellar library patron, and the card that came along with it, were at his disposal once again.

Those days are over, my friends.

Because I just found out I am being charged $210.00 in fines for overdue books that are now considered lost or stolen.

TWO HUNDRED AND TEN SMACKERS!!!!!!!!

(I knew I shouldn't have checked out the Magna Carta.)

No, no.

It seems that I am being charged a replacement cost of $30 apiece for seven books which are currently sitting on my side table.

Oh, I'll admit I have a bad habit of disregarding those pesky little library e-mail notices. You know the ones:

"Dear library patron, this notice is to inform you that overdue fines are accruing on the following materials blah blah blah boring boring boring . . ."

(Delete.)

It usually takes me a few days to click the link that would enable me to renew them online (because that would entail walking across the room to get my account number from the swipe card on my key ring), but I always do, just in the nick of time.

However.

This time, I swear on all that is good and holy, they never sent me the gosh-diggity-darned warning e-mail, and now all of a sudden I'm on their Most Wanted List!

The replacement cost for There's a Wocket in My Pocket alone is THIRTY BUCKS!!!! (Is it really possible that a wocket could be worth that much?)

My only hope is that the actual overdue fines (which I am too chicken to look up at the moment) are less than the replacement cost (did I mention that it's TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS?).

Either way, it looks like the P-dog and I are going to have to don the old ski masks once again tonight and do another book deposit drive-by.

After that, I can only assume it's the Witness Protection program for us.

I'll still blog, but I may have to change my URL.

Sorrowful J-Dog, Sinking Santa

Perhaps you have been wondering why news of my beloved Jazzercise class has not been forthcoming?

It's because I haven't been going ever since I signed up for the monthly automatic credit card deduction payment option (naturally). The P-dog pointed this out when he saw our last few credit card statements, although I am reminded every morning when I try to zip up my jeans.

(Incidentally, I did not drop the ball on my bill paying duties, it's just that the P-dog gets nervous when he sees unopened billz laying around the house. He feels compelled to pay them, even though they are probably not coming due for a good day or two.)

I also haven't been going because the classes are in the mornings and I've been dreading leaving the J-dog in the in-house child care room. I just KNEW he would flip out. I kept picturing myself happily bustin' my Jazzercize moves, only to have the class interrupted when my hysterical toddler is brought to me by a stern and frazzled babysitter.

But I finally sucked it up and went today. I have to give the little guy credit - he fared pretty well, all things considered, and the nightmare scenario I had envisioned, in which I do side kicks with the J-dog attached to my lower extremities, did not play out.

He was playing quietly with a little Tonka truck when I came to retrieve him after class, although the sitter told me that he had cried on and off the entire time.

When he saw me, the little dude began sniffling/hiccuping again out of the sheer trauma of the memory of being left to fend for himself in a room full of toys and snacks for the last forty-five minutes while I exercised in the next room over.

The sitter gave him a jumbo pretzel stick as a consolation prize and I swear he is already using food as a comfort mechanism because he shoved that pretzel down his little gullet practically whole, all the while staring me down with the most doleful and accusatory look.

You will pay for abandoning me by standing helplessly by while I inhale this choking hazard, Mother.

I can only assume he was using that pretzel stick to fill the mother shaped hole in his little toddler soul.

In other news, my mom called me up this morning to let me know she had somehow misplaced the unopened envelope containing the name of her Secret Santa giftee. She had already called all the other members of the family to see who they got in order to glean the name of her person by process of elimination, and needed to know who the P-Dog and I were buying for.

It turns out the name she had opened on Thanksgiving and wanted to pawn off was actually my grandmother's pick.

It's unclear at this writing whose slip of paper Grandma was passing around the room on Thanksgiving Day, but it will be a miracle if everyone gets an actual gift on Christmas.

The irony is that this whole Secret Santa gift exchange deal was my mom's idea. And of course, the P-dog is disappointed that the fact he picked his own damn self has been blown out of the water.

Finally, I'd like to warn you all to steer clear of Bulgarian honey. I just had some in my nighttime cup of chamomile tea and it tasted like an old tire full of stale rainwater and maybe a used syringe or two.

How to Ensure a Post-Partum Psych Evaluation

1. Swear like a trucker at the orderly who wakes you at 1:00 AM to check your vitals.
   
   
2. When the nurse brings your newborn in for the third nighttime feeding in as many hours, go apesh#t on her with a friendly, "Are you effin' kidding me? There is no effin' way this effin' baby is effin' hungry again!!!"
   
   
3. Tell the resident who comes in at 5:30 AM to check your incision that it's too bad they don't sell Clearasil in his homeland, yo.
   
   
4. Make sure you are either weeping uncontrollably or swearing like a trucker at your dear, sweet, beleaguered husband any time a nurse enters the room.
   
   
5. Repeatedly call the food service department and threaten to have them shut down after a missed meal delivery.
   
   
6. Swear like a trucker.
   
   
7. Ask to speak to the manager of the nurse who doesn't arrive within five minutes of your buzzing her for pain meds.
   
   
8. Swear like a trucker.
   
   
9. Ask the lactation consultant, "Whose boobs are they, anyway, bee-ach?"
   
   
10. Shut your door in the face of the social worker who comes to check on you.
    
    
11. Tell the newborn photographer who wakes you up in the middle of a nap to f*ck off and ask him how he'd like to be awoken from the first twenty consecutive minutes of sleep he's had in three days by an a$$hole with a camera.
    
    
12. When your attending stops by for a visit and says, "I understand you've been feeling a little depressed," rip his clipboard clear out of his fat pudgy hands and scream, "WHO THE F*CK TOLD YOU?" in a defensive tone of voice.
    
    
13. For bonus points, when the psych resident arrives to conduct your evaluation, tell her to take her damn questionnaire and shove it.

Step off, A-holes. I just had a baby.

I had a touch of PPD after the kids were born. These directions are loosely based on my post-partum hospital experience.

I'm better now.

This post was my contribution to Monday Missions, hosted this month by Painted Maypole. This week's assignment was to write a post in the form of directions.

Secret Santa Shuffle

In the spirit of simplification, my extended family has decided to do a "Secret Santa" style Christmas gift exchange this year.

I was all for it.

After all, who wouldn't rather receive a single, high quality Soap-on-a-Rope than an assortment of Christmas applique dish towels, a commemorative cookie platter, a year's subscription to L1thuanian Heritage magazine, a jumbo mug full of Brachs hard candies, a pocket book of notable quotes, and a pair of foot gloves? (For instance.)

Problem is, the Rama clan are rookies when it comes to the name selection process.

While sitting around the table digesting turkey and finishing off the wine last night, we set to the task of assigning giftees, and it's just possible that Middle East peace accords have been negotiated more swiftly and efficiently than our gift exchange procedures.

"Do couples count as one person?"

"Hell, no, couples gifts su-uh-uck! Dude, do you really want another coffee table book?"

"No, seriously, couples gifts suck, you guys. I'd rather go giftless than get another freakin' couples gift." (hiccup)

"Calm down, Rimster."

"Are we supposed to keep our person secret?"

"But how will the people who aren't here know who to buy for?"

"I'd imagine someone would give them their slip."

"Fine, Einstein, but if someone draws for them, that person will know who they got!!!"

"You put the names in an envelope, dumbass."

"Is there a price range?"

"That's a retarded price range."

"I'll show you a price range, kids."

"What if I pick myself?"

"No, seriously, guys, what if I pick myself?"

And so forth.

A few hours later, the following conclusions were reached:

• Couples are individuals.
• It's a secret.
• Those not present for the drawing will receive their giftee's name in a sealed envelope.
• It will be delivered by armored vehicle.
• Price range is $20-$50.
• No one is allowed to go to Big Lots or the Dollar Store.
• If you pick yourself, well then Merry freakin' Christmas.

Oh yeah, and for God's sake, don't open your envelopes here in front of everyone.

Three seconds later:

"What are these envelopes for?" (My dad)

"Can someone read mine out to me, I'm not wearing my bifocals." (Grandma, passing her opened slip of paper around the table.)

"Darn it, this person is impossible to shop for, do you want to trade?" (Mom to Grandma.)

"I don't care, honey, but how will the person I picked know they're supposed to buy me a gift if I'm not allowed to tell?" (Grandma to Mom.)

"Where's my envewope? I want an envewope!" (V-meister)

When we got home last night, the P-Dog triumphantly waved his opened slip of paper under my nose:

"P-D-O-G"

was written in big, bold font.

He spent the remainder of the evening singing "Merry Christmas" to himself and talkin' bout all the shopping he needs to do.

Anyway, we'll see what happens come December 25th.

Rose Tinted Ramblings

I've been known to gripe and groan in this space about the trials and tribulations of life with small children.

I'm (mostly) all talk.

The V-meister, the J-dog, and their father are the best thing that's ever happened to me.

At this moment, I have everything I've ever truly wanted in life.

When you have small children, people whose own kids are grown and out of the house often gaze fondly upon your babies, replacing their faces with fuzzy, haloed memories of their own.

They admonish you to cherish this crazy, hectic, joyous, innocent, and fleeting time.

I always smile and say I'm trying.

This week alone, I was reminded by three strangers on three separate occasions to treasure it while it lasts.

Was it the V-meister and J-dog's guileless delight as the clerk at the European import store rang up the tiny chocolates they had picked out themselves that compelled her to warn me of time's swift and sure passage?

Or the way the J-dog looked at me with a proud sense of accomplishment after pressing the correct elevator button that prompted our fellow department store shopper to impart the same advice?

Was it the way the V-meister called after her dawdling little brother as we left, then returned to take him by the hand?

Maybe it was just their bare and honest joy.

Despite all attempts to freeze them in time, I know these years will soon recede behind the gauzy veil of memory.

I don't want to be the woman shaking a graying head wistfully at the young frazzled mother wrangling her tots through the supermarket line.

But one day, I will be.

Is it ever really possible to live fully in the moment and yet capture for posterity the true essence of these most poignant frames of life?

I want to push aside the grouchy, tired, and ever-anticipating part of myself, the better to recognize what is lovely and winsome about this time that one day soon will be a long time past.

I need to remember this.

Weekend Update

The choir concert went off with nary a hitch this weekend.

I say "nary" because at one point, I almost came to blows with the soprano to my left, who failed in her duty to lead the first row of singers into the circle formation in which we were to sing an a capella number around the periphery of the church.

I had to step in and save the day by leading our row out in the opposite direction. The entire encounter, during which I can be seen wildly gesticulating, then throwing my arms up in resignation before exiting stage right was recorded for posterity, and if I ever get a hold of the footage, I'll be sure to post it here.

I was also apprehended by the Fashion Police for wearing gold lame (la-may) and a polyester cape. (The photo above does not do this outfit justice.)

I must have skipped practice the day we voted on uniforms.

But I am happy to report that illness was successfully thwarted and I was able to sing with passion and gusto. After the show, several fans approached me not to complement my lark-like singing voice, but to mention how entertaining it was to watch me.

I took it as a complement.

In all seriousness, the concert was lovely. An extraordinary group of musicians accompanied us on strings for several pieces, including the Mozart Mass, and there were several phenomenal soloists from our own choir ranks, whose performances were all the more impressive because most of them are not professional singers.

We sang several pieces a capella (without accompaniment), one of which was a Gregorian Ave Maria chant and the other a haunting "Our Father" arrangement. Since we began as a church choir (we now also sing secular music by modern Lithuanian composers, as well as traditional folk pieces), this particular concert featured only religious music by mostly Lithuanian composers. Some pieces were sung in Latin, others in Lithuanian.

Unfortunately, none of the photos the P-dog took from the back of the darkened church came out. The group shot I'm posting here was taken a few weeks before the concert. I'm in the first row left, next to the choir director (looking not a day older than sixteen, I might add).

If I ever figure out how to post sound files, I'll post some of our recorded pieces.

There's No "I" in "Team"

I've mentioned here before that I sing in a non-professional choir.

Tomorrow is our big twenty-fifth anniversary concert extravaganza and, wouldn't you know it, the little germ squadron that has been plaguing the V-meister for the past three days is now attempting to penetrate (I said penetrate!) the fortress of my immune system.

I'm not actually sick yet, mind you, but I can feel it coming.

Which is why I've been chugging expired packets of Emergen-C all day long in an effort to stave off illness. Let's hope the homeopathic warrior antigens win out, because have I mentioned that the success of this entire performance is hinged on my participation? It takes a special kind of talent to lip sync those really high notes in such a way as to leave the audience none the wiser.

Lithuanian choir is an extreme hobby, my friends. You don't just sit it out if you're feeling a bit under the weather. You hook yourself up to some IV fluids, offer up a little prayer, and hope you don't fall off stage.

Why, I sang in our twentieth anniversary jubilee concert five years ago with only half a functioning larynx, thanks to a nasty case of laryngitis. I was unable to speak for the entire week after the show, but that's what you do when you're a church choir supah-stah.

Just last night during rehearsal, an elderly alto almost passed out during the Mozart Mass in D. We had her lie down on a pew for a few minutes while someone took her blood pressure and fed her some Werther's Originals, and she was back on her game in no time at all.

Anyway, in between Emergen-C cocktails, I took my mom up on her offer to babysit the kids for a few hours and had a blissfully solitary lunch at a local cafe.

I was going to be all high-tech and post from the coffee shop, but I experienced some connection issues. Unable to get online using the cafe's network, I went balls-out and hitched a ride on some random unsecured wireless network named "Killer" that popped up on my screen.

Then I started sweating bullets, because isn't that like the equivalent of hacking into the FBI mainframe?

The connection was dropped after about two minutes (they were on to me) and I wasted the remainder of my lunch spree debating whether I should go ahead and turn myself in to the police station around the corner.

OK, not really, because I also have outstanding parking tickets.

But I did feel a bit criminal.

The End.

(And I hope I don't get sick.)

If I Had a Million Dollars

I take it back about the blow drier.

Bad hair day today. The ions are conspiring against me.

No, U cannot haz pikchur.

The V-meister stayed home sick from school today. We boomeranged around the confines of our little hovel all the livelong day. I'm always amazed at how a kid can have a temp nearing 104 degrees Fahrenheit one minute, then be somersaulting off her bed wearing nothing but a tutu and tiara one half hour and a dose of Motrin later. She only got ornery around sevenish and asked us to "please put the J-dog away" so she could go to bed.

Speaking of hovels, the P-Dog and I almost lost our marbles yesterday and actually considered bidding on a foreclosed house that was up for auction across the street from my parents. It seemed like a brilliant idea - the kids could skip over to bake cookies with their grandparents at a moments notice! The P-Dog and I would go out every weekend night while my parents babysat! We'd have an extra bathroom, a family room, eat-in kitchen, and attached garage in a crack-free neighborhood! All of our problems would be roundly solved for just pennies on the dollar!

But then we realized we'd be living across the street from my parents. There's a reason why a very successful situation comedy was borne of just such an arrangement, and while it might have made for excellent blog material, we just weren't up for the challenge. There were a few other obstacles - a cash deposit, our current mortgage, the fact that we'd never seen the inside of the place. You know, like that.

The V-meister overhead us talking about how much we'd like to move, though, and suggested we go to the Home Depot to get ourselves a new house if we want one so badly.

She's smart like that. Back in October, when she announced she wanted to be a butterfly for Halloween, I told her I'd have to think about where we could find a butterfly costume. She looked at me as if I had three heads and said, "Mama. You go to the butterfly. costume. center."

She thinks she's all that, but I'm the real genius. 'Cause I told her we can go to the School Bus Store and pick one out just as soon as she has one quarter of one million dollars in her piggy bank.

Rimarama Recommends

The other day, the Vidal Sassoon hair drier I've been using for the last ten years finally blew up. (That's right, Vidal - you don't look good.)

Its death was a long time in the making though, since it was already missing a few parts (like a filter and a thingamahoohoo that fell out awhile back), but the final blow (A PUN! DO YOU SEE?) came when it sucked a good handful of my coiffure into it's gaping hole of doom, then sputtered and smoked for a few seconds before kickin' it.

Vidal's demise propelled me to go forth and purchase a top of the line tourmaline hair drier with ion technology.

I'm not exactly clear on what an ion is, or how hair driers and ions became bedfellows, and I'm pretty sure tourmaline is a banned substance that went missing in Russia a few years back, but I will say that I have not had a bad hair day since I began using it.

This is what my hair looked like before (uh, fifteen years before, towards the tail end of a dorm party):

I Can Haz Ramen Noodlz?

As you can see, I had yet to be introduced to anti-humectant pomade (or the concept of brow maintenance.) Or a brush. In those days, all we had was mousse and gel and we liked it.

This is what my hair looks like today:

See How It Shines?

It is full of body, swing, and lustre! There is not a fly-away hair in sight! The ion/tourmaline technology locks in moisture and repels the chunks of food, dirt, dust, and insects that might otherwise become entangled therein.

It's as if I'm wearing a virtual helmet.

I paid around thirty bucks for this item at my local discount retailer. (FYI - you do NOT need to show the cashier your ID and/or proof of citizen ship to purchase this device. Shocking, I know, because of the tourmaline and all, but whatever, le Tar-jay. Don't come crying to me when the feds are a-knockin.')

And I'll admit, it was not without a little trepidation that I prepared to flip the "on" switch for the first time.

Would I develop superpowers from the ionic blast?

Would the tourmaline technology enable me to see through walls? Scale buildings?

COUNT BACK CHANGE?

To be quite honest, the blow drying itself, when it finally happened, was kind of anti-climactic, except for the fact that it took me exactly half the amount of time to complete the deed than it had with old Vidal.

I could not be more pleased with my new toy.

And therefore it is with great enthusiasm that I recommend space age ionic blow driers. If you have wet hair that you would like to make dry (yet healthy and lustrous) within mere minutes, you need one. (Unfortunately, I cannot tell you which particular brand I purchased myself because I am not getting paid even one red penny for this glowing endorsement. But they have them at Tarjay. It's the third or maybe fourth one from the right end of the display. Don't pay more than thirty bucks.)


Note to Readers: This post is what I call "scraping the bottom of the barrel." There is NOTHING going on right now. Hopefully you can look forward to a post of substance sometime later on this week. Or next.

J-Dog Manifesto

Yo, yo, yo!

J-Dog here.

I hijacked the short tempered mother figure's laptop while she was busy picking lint off the couch.

While I'm at the helm, I'm taking the opportunity to lay down some ground rules for the mutha.

Perchance all of y'all could pass these on to her for me?

********************************************************************

I, J-Dog Rama, speaking on behalf of toddlers the world over,
Address this Manifesto to all people of good will and short fuses, (but especially MamaRama),
Declare my unwavering commitment to uphold the tenets set forth in this document, and
Invite all the childrenz of the world to join me in my effort at achieving the goals outlined herein.

I hold the following principles to be essential, and maintain that I have the right:

• To feed mySELF. No need to be all up in mah' grill with yer dang spoon anymore, mama.
  
  
• To nod off in my car seat whenever the moment is right, afternoon naps be damned. Don't be trying to stop me with your incessant chatter, your yawn-inducing rounds of the Lithuanian National Anthem, and your perpetual rolling up and down of the car window, woman.
  
  
• To run screaming in the opposite direction at shoe and/or coat donning time, then drop to the floor squirming when you be comin' at me with that sleeve, yo.
  
  
• To take a dump the minute you zip up my snowsuit.
  
  
• To smear my foot in my poop filled diaper, then flip over on the changing table and perform a nose dive onto the floor.
  
  
• To sample the occasional mouthful of dirt from time to time.
  
  
• To turn the storybook page whenever I see fit, and not when the written word dictates.
  
  
• To stand up in the tub.
  
  
• To pee in the tub.
  
  
• To poop in the tub
  
  
• To lick the shopping cart handle to my heart's content and don't be crampin' my style with no pimped out cart cover, betch.
  
  
• To be told I'm loved every day and held whenever the need arises.
  
  
• To melt and break your heart a million times over and do it again.

Note to the Mutha: To remove the oven safety guard, keeping tab firmly pressed down with one hand, use the alternate hand to snap lid free (she has a hell of a time with this, people.)

That's it for today, my peeps. I'll try to post again soon if I can get online. If any of my fellow macro-cephalic folk would like to add items to this here manifesto, I would be happy to oblige.

Oh, and a special shout out goes to In the Thick of It, who was the inspiration for this post. I hear you have a cute and feisty sixteen-month old daughter. (Call me.)

Peace out, my friends.

The Family That Blogs Together

Ladles and jellyspoons, (Are there any jellyspoons reading this blog? If yes, Please! Make yourselves at home! There is Lithuanian microbrew in the fridge and some pistachios in my cupboards. However, leave the toilet seat up and die.)

I have an announcement to make. The truth is that, even though I am not drinking the NaBloPoMo Kool-Aid, I have lately been having a heck of a time posting here and reading/commenting as much as I would like.

Reason being: THE P-DOG HAS ENTERED THE BLOGOSPHERE.

That's right, folks. My husband, having carefully observed the actions of his dedicated blogger-wife over the past few months, has decided the time is ripe for him to foist his own two cents upon the world-at-large.

Now, before you get your panties all in a knot, let me just say that the P-Dog is not yet ready to out his baby. He is still busy crafting a backlog of posts, calculating potential Google Ad Sense earnings, and seeking my sage advice on all things blog-related, from rudimentary skills such as the creation of embedded links, to more complicated endeavors, such as why does his blog not come up in Google one whole day after he listed it? And why, pray tell, has his counter only increased by one digit in the past day? And why hasn't anyone left him any comments yet when his blog has been up for a whole dang week?

I'm sure that when the P-Dog's blog is finally unveiled, all of these things will be quickly made right. Because the P-Dog's blog has a smart premise (if you like money) and he is a very smart guy. Even if he does overuse air quotes.

In short, I've been fighting tooth and nail for the laptop lately. Why, I can hardly get online to pay the billz anymore! I've even had to resort to prank calling his cell phone, just to get a couple of comments in edgewise.

I fear there is not room enough in the family Rama for two bloggers.

Thank God the V-meister has been doing her blogging on the (don't tell her it's fake) V-Tech laptop she got as a birthday present.

She seems to be unable to get any of her posts online and cannot, for the life of her, figure out why.


"Wait till you mofos' find out about my blog."

Let's Talk

After subjecting the little J-dog to the torture that is having his hair cut while sipping apple juice, nibbling hors d'oeuvres, and watching an interactive Nemo DVD on a jeweled throne at the local salon, I had some time to kill, and so we headed to the nearby bookstore to wreak havoc on the train table.

I sat down next to the life size Elmo doll to sip my coffee and scope out the scene, while the J-dog set to the business of dismantling the Groovy Girls display. (For the record, I did put everything back in its place, thankyouverymuchforasking.)

There were two other women there with toddlers about the J-dog's age, and a tortoise shell glasses and North Face pullover kind of dad who was reading the paper. One woman was perusing a tabloid, the other one was watching the choo-choo go 'round and 'round the track in the same detached manner that I assume whenever forced to watch poker TV with the P-dog.

All looked to be bored out of their gourds.

Let me say right up front that I was not looking for a new BFF.

I am a bad enough BFF as it is. (Happy belated birthday, Beck! I have this really funny card for you that I just didn't send out yet. It's these two old ladies playing cards, see, and one of them says to the other one that she's thinking of getting her belly button pierced, and the other one is like, Oh, really? and then the first one's all, Yeah, that way I can put a hook in it to hold up my bra. Hahaha!)

So, while I am not looking for love at the bookstore, I am all about making small talk with utha muthas because, yo, we're all in this crazy mothership together, right? Since everyone is just sitting there, sipping her latte and counting down the hours 'till naptime, would a little back and forth about the latest episode of John and Kate Plus Eight be too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

I tried to start up a conversation with the mutha to my right. I inquired as to the age of her little rugrat, I commented on her cuteness (the kid's cuteness. GOD!), I made jokes about the lead-tainted train the child was gnawing on. You know, the usual.

But I got very little by way of response. Very little, indeed.

I will also mention here that I do not have BO or an undecipherable accent and I was not wearing an Air Supply tee shirt or anything like that, although I may have been humming quietly under my breath. (I must confess to accessing my October archives on a regular basis just to cop a listen to that one song. I can't help it. It's like when you have a Sharpie marker in your pencil case and cannot refrain from taking it out for a quick sniff every now and again.)

No luck with tabloid mom, so onward to metro dad.

It's possible he might have thought I was trying to hit on him in an awkward let me show you what's in my diaper bag kind of way, but, again, no dice.

I started feeling like the train table parent equivalent of the chatty airline passenger you fake sleep to avoid talking to.

It's not the first time I've felt this way after making friendly attempts at conversation with mothers around me in a child-centered setting. And I would be very hard-pressed to recall a time when a mother in a place like this tried to strike up a conversation with me. I'm always, without fail, the one to stick my neck out. And although I will admit to being prone to making lame jokes and occasionally speaking out of turn, the last time I checked, I was a card-carrying member of Planet Earth.

While I do understand that we all sometimes just want to zone out and read about Brit-Brit's custody battle, I can't help but notice that, in general, a lot of the mothers I come across in public, child-oriented places like this, just don't have an interest in conversing with one another at all.

Is a bookstore play area really akin to an airplane where having your nose in a magazine is the universal code for please don't bother me? It's not as if I grabbed the airline pillow out from under any one's head and demanded they have a heart-to-heart with me, or tried to tell them about my appendectomy when they were only ten pages from finishing War and Peace.

So often, I hear mothers, especially those who stay home with young children, talk about how out of touch they feel with their peers, about how hard it is to make true, lasting friendships anymore, about being lonely.

And I have to wonder where those mothers are, because they are most definitely not at the train table near me.

Local Couple Calls It a Night

An area couple called it a night and put their two children to bed at seven PM instead of their usual eight o'clock bedtime Sunday evening.

P-Dog and Rimarama, both 34, started thinking about moving up bedtime when their children, V-meister, 4, and J-Dog, 18 months, removed their clothing and began running back and forth from one end of the house to the other, bouncing off the walls as they hit them.

"The situation began to quickly deteriorate from that point forward,'" stated the P-Dog, "and we knew it could only end badly, especially after the V-meister tied the little J-dog to the stair rail with a length of knitting yarn."

There are conflicting reports as to what happened next, as there was difficulty in deciphering statements made by the children, but Rimarama is on record as stating that "The little J-Dog lost it when I turned off the Baby Einstein DVD, let out a howl of protest, and tried to climb into the TV cabinet. My husband went to restrain him, but the little J-Dog was quick to retaliate by assuming the 'wet noodle' position, making it darn near impossible for the P-Dog to retain his grip."

After each child pounded a sippy cup full of warm milk, the show was moved upstairs, where the V-meister was instructed to put on her pajamas with a quickness. When she was found ten minutes later still in the buff, talking with Mr. Potato Head about her girl Carrie's upcoming birthday party, her mother tried to speed things up by offering assistance, to which the V-meister replied, "I can do it ALL BY MYSELF, MAMA!", but totally lost it when the zipper of her footed bunny pajamas became stuck at the same moment that the J-dog busted into the room chewing on the end of her new pink hairbrush.

Once the children were in bed, the Ramas retired to the living room where they were seen high-fiving each other while enjoying adult beverages and pilfered Halloween candy over shouts of "Da-DEE! MaMA! Kaka! BWAAAAAAAAAAAA!" emanating from the J-dog's crib.


This post is my contribution to today's Monday Mission, which will be hosted by the lovely Painted Maypole throughout the month of November. The assignment was to write a post in the form of a news story.

Another Sign of Aging

Yesterday evening, as the P-Dog prepared to go out with a friend, I noticed that the bottoms of his jeans were rolled up in a way that was not pleasing to me.

"For the love of God, P-Dog, will you please unroll those jeans? That is so totally 80s!" I chided, pointing my eyeballs to the heavens.

As the P-Dog adjusted the hems, I took note of his shoes, stumped as to how they had previously escaped my attention.

(They don't call me "eagle eyes" for nothing.)

"And those Docs!" I practically fell off the couch. "Those are so 80s, it makes me want to spray my hair pink and go to a Smiths concert! And smoke a clove! At Denny's!" I yelped. "What's next? A safety pin nose ring?"

"Aren't you going to comment on my leather jacket?" P-Dog said, as he pulled his collar up around his ears and stepped out the door.

I shouldn't be so hard on the P-Dog.

After all, I'm writing this post in a Depeche Mode concert tee and some chunky Mary Janes.

But the only safety pin I'm sporting is holding up my pants.

About Last Night

Yesterday's post did kind of make it seem as though I live in an inner city 'hood, did it not?

Nope, we live in the 'burbs.

Complete with park, tree-lined streets, and a Starbucks, no less. Ours is a working class, "inner ring" suburb (meaning it shares a border with the city), but still.

It's not like there's graffiti on the walls, gangtas on the corner, or Nikes dangling from the power lines, you know?

Which is why the whole idea that people are conducting drug transactions just a stone's throw away is that much more disconcerting.

But the neighborhood's going to hell in a hand basket didn't stop the family Rama from trick-or-treating last night.

Despite the fact that, wouldn't you know it, the J-dog's getup turned out to be more of a female zebra costume (the purse it came with did not give it away for me, folks) and, let's face it, the V-meister's butterfly outfit was more fairy duds than anything else, a good time was had by all, once we finally hit the streets.

Five Minutes Earlier

While I did stoop duty, the P-dog took the kids to a few houses of people we knew whose background checks had come back from Quantico in time for the festivities.

They stayed away from electric fence guy and can lady.

Is it just a 'hood phenomenon, or are the kids by you also no longer finding it necessary to say "Trick or Treat"? Because everyone who came by our house, save for the very smallest goblins, just stood with bags outstretched, waiting for the goods.

I demanded every one of them say it (with feeling) before giving them their penny.

But my heart sank, then curled a little around the edges when I saw the V-meister stare longingly at the glow-sticks and plastic pumpkin candy buckets it seemed the whole universe was parading around with.

She herself was toting a plastic grocery bag with the words Thank You! emblazoned across the front. (Poetic, if I do say so, myself.)

The thought that these accessories were now de rigeur for anyone who's anyone among the trick-or-treating set just never crossed my mind.

And as I thought of our only Halloween decoration, the forlorn little pumpkin with the drawn on face sitting on the stoop, I became rather disappointed with myself for my general lack of fervor when it comes to decorating and buying for the bulk of the manufactured holidays.

I just don't go all out the way most people (it seems) this side of the equator do, and the V-meister is reaching the age where she is taking notice.

Dangit.

Not sure what to do about that, exactly. I don't want to be a slave to the retail industry, but I don't want my kids to feel cheated, either.

Then again, a grocery bag full of "fun size" candy bars is nothing to sneeze at.

You can pack mo bettah treats into that sucker than a plastic bucket, yo.