You know it's pathetic when....

You know that loneliness has "set in" when you hit yard sales looking for more than chipped and mismatched sets of glasses and broken toys. This is where I found myself this past Saturday. My neighborhood had their annual community-wide yard sale, and I had my annual pity party. After 6 days of flying solo with both kids, and a lack of conversation involving more than pirates and the Backyardigans I was starting to "lose it". The first stop was at my friend Brandys and yielded a lightly used brand Floppy seat and baby clothes. The second stop was the "motherload" of all yard sales, it boasted previously viewed VHS classics such as: The Wizard of Oz, and Bambi. Within minutes we loaded up our treasures and trekked back home. My son immediately went for the movies (he is his mothers child) and then for the bouncy balls purchased for a mere 10 cents. Those damn choking hazards went missing (and hopefully forever) within the first 2 minutes of returning home.

I remember hazy Saturday mornings spent parusing numerous yard sales in search of unclaimed "treasure". As a child, it always struck me as odd that we would be at a strangers house without a formal invitation nevermind an introduction. And each house, had it's own strange smell. For some it was the heavy aroma of cat urine, and others it would be chemically manufactured roses. It was a good day for me when I could "score" a set of smurfs figurines or a Fashion Plates playset complete with missing outfits and colored pencils.

What still seems to surprise me the most, is how antiquated the concept of yard sales really are, and yet how popular a concept they continue to be. There are not many places left in the US that allow for that type of marketing or bargaining.

Today my hubby returns from his travels, and I return from a yard sale down memory lane.

Me, Myself and Flies

I made a terrible error in judgement last week, when I plucked a pretty white flower from an obliging bush. Apparently, I had made a home for more than the bloom itself. Within two days my kitchen sink was swarming with fruit flies. You know the kind that hover with the deception that you can actually end their lives with the smack of your hands. I have poured every brand of toxic cleansers available to the general public down the drain in the hopes of their extinction, but to no avail. My 11 month old daughter thinks that my "execution" style is a cue to clap her hands to the beat of my frustration. They are true to their menacing nature, and hang out in my bathroom like a group of miscreants. Lately, I have come to think of them as that annoying family member that stays just a day or two longer than they should. Today I have made a decision to take them out....that's right I'm calling an exterminator. They're GOING DOWN!!!

The sound of banjos beckons...

So I have had my head up my fannie trying to make "a go" of writing professionally. I would like to say that I work for peanuts, but AT this point I would settle for any legume. The highlight of each day has been spending hours at the pool with my kids. They love the water, and I love how it passes the time and wears everyone out.
I can't lie....I do sometimes long for the days BK (before kids) when it took me 30 seconds to walk out the door with a beverage and a good book under my arm. Today's poolside adventure found me face to face with impostors. Apparently the cast of deliverance had descended upon our little "cement pond". They had what appeared to be 4-6 kids with them, some cigarettes, and sugary drinks and snacks for the youngin'.
They were friendly, but ill-mannered at the same time. Allow me to elaborate...they were quick to greet us with a half-toothed grin, but offered my kids pool toys to their own kin without asking. Every parent knows the rules. If your own offspring makes a break for an abandoned pool noodle, raft or whatever, you always scan the area for the owner. In most cases the owner finds you. Anywho, the afternoon rolled on without incident. I gotta run, I think I hear banjos playing.

Broke as a Joke

It's been a week of things "breaking down". It started with the car and ended with me. In an effort to save fuel we are selling our Ford Expedition aka "The Lead Sled". Then, in a fit of jealousy, Camille (my Volvo) decided she wasn't getting enough attention, and turned on her "check engine light". For those of you toying with the idea of this particular brand of automobile, I invite you to spend the many hours that I have at a Volvo service center. Ask for Curtis, he has 2 kids, his favorite food is Mexican, and he dreams of visting Rome one day.

The next item to "break down" was my brother. He ended up in the ER this week, doubled over in pain. I'll spare the details for his sake and yours. So far, he is doing well and feeling much better. My grandmother got in on the action, and spent a few nights in the hospital as well. She has since been released, and is resting at home. Not bad for a woman in her nineties. Although some would argue that heaven won't have her, and hell is afraid she'll take over.

Somewhere between (a last minute) field day at my son's school, and family illnesses I had my own breakdown. Hey, I was overdue for a good cry. It takes a few BIG deals to appreciate how small the other ones really are.

Banging Cinderella

Last night I decided to treat my kids to a movie night at home. I would like to call this a tradition, but I am hardly vigilant about baths so for argument's sake we will just call it a movie night whim. So as the popcorn was emitting possible deadly fumes from it's microwaveable bag, I went through our Disney movie collection. I was doing this in the hopes that my son would pass right over Cinderella. Not a chance! For the third time in a row, he reached for that worn case with it's popular princess on the cover. I tried distracting him with Shrek but to no avail. As I popped in the tape (yes, I said tape as in VHS tape) it occurred to me that he might want to BE Cinderella rather than just BANG her. My mind flashed to scenes of us walking with arms locked giggling about men. He is trying to talk me out of purchasing "old lady shoes" and gingham kitchen curtains with patterns of roosters on them. Not a bad vision to have except for the rooster curtains. If I have learned one thing from the gay people that are in my life, it's that "being gay" was not a choice for them. It was just the way they woke up from puberty.

By the end of the movie, all he could talk about were the animals, and how pretty Cinderella was. And all I could talk about was how much therapy she might need after living her whole life unloved by her step-mother and step-sisters and how running off and getting married to staive off the pain of her Father's death would come back to bite her in the ass one day. My son gave me a puzzled look, and I pretended like I didn't just say that. It's amazing to me how very different our perceptions change as adults. All this time, I had him pegged for wanting to be a princess and he just wanted to see some mice sing, dance, and dress humans. As of 4pm today there has been no mention of Cinderella or her rodent friends. Tomorrow, who knows. Sleeping Beauty anyone?

Mother's Day Shout Out

First off, Happy Mother's Day to all you mommas out there. I know, I know...Mother's Day was yesterday. But I was too busy spending the day with my children to even notice my blog. It was a day made for good memories. We headed out to a restaurant called the Park Tavern, which sits directly on Piedmont Park (Atlanta's lame answer to NYC's Central Park). And I took the trouble to bother with beauty. Most days in a fevered fury, I might hurriedly apply mascara to tired eyes, and hope for the best. But on Mother's Day I wanted to feel as appreciated and beautiful inside and out. I am staring straight ahead in the mirror, my wet hair is clinging to the sides of my face as I brush on concealer to tired eyes. My son is darting nervously from my bathroom to his bedroom. A practiced ritual from watching me get ready to" leave" him for an evening out. He is questioning me about where we are going, and my answer is the same. "We" are going out to have breakfast with Mommy. Grey is not quite 4, and is still trying to grasp the concept of Mothers Day. I am finishing my hurried makeup job, and he is standing in the doorway of our bedroom. His eyes are bright and eager and search to meet mine. Within seconds, he is greeting me with a clumsy hug that envelops my legs. " I love you Mommy", he says. I am dizzy from emotion, and push back stubborn tears. There is something so primal about your children uttering those words, and I dare any parent to stave off my same emotions after hearing them. I am scrambling to pack the last few items in my "saddlebag" before leaving the house, and I can tell that my husband is especially patient with me today. I can't blame him. Most days or 50% of time, I only use 12% of the crap in my bag. But God forbid, if even 99.9% of the time those items are not on usual expeditions to the shopping mall or restaurants. But I would rather spend 25 bucks on physical therapy session copays from the weight of those supplies than 25 bucks on character licensed pants any day of the week. These are the hardships that make motherhood. We arrive at the restaurant, and my husband is in "daddy mode" as he puts together a palletable plate of breakfast fare for both our children. I am in awe of what my life is, what it has become, and how unselfish and self-sacrificing it really is. These small moments, in my small world, are what love is made of. Happy Mothers Day!

Motherhood in the Raw....: 2nd Annual Betty Ford Clinic Retreat

Motherhood in the Raw....: 2nd Annual Betty Ford Clinic Retreat