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Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Well, yesterday was a bit interesting.

I sold off a few of my books, but they weren't dearly important ones...the guy at the Dawn Treader didn't want half of what I had brought with me. I suppose I shall trundle down to David's Books a ways farther down the street from the Dawn Treader and see if they want them.

I cried a bit as the dude went through the boxes, but silently, and so forth, since I didn't want to make a spectacle of myself. Well, more of a spectacle than usual.

I found myself slightly torn between gratefulness and indignance that the guy didn't want more of the books. Like, 'Hey, these are great books, and in great condition, dammit. Why wouldn't you want them?' And then, 'Not that one, please don't pick that one, I can't bear to part with it, you asshole.'

Sigh. Sometimes I think I am mentally imbalanced.

But I like to think this is a bit understandable under the circumstances.

Anyway, I've got a list halfway made up of all the other books I have, so, when I finish that, I'll post it and you can read it, and buy some or something, and support the Save the Zombie Fund. A Zombie in your chat area desperately needs your help! For the price of a cup of coffee a day, you too can help save the life of a Zombie.

Hm. Maybe I need Sally Struthers to make that more upstanding.

Or a cardboard sign that says 'Will Sell Books for Money.'

On a side note, Ophelia and I were cruising down Dixboro (I think it was Dixboro. Correct me if I am wrong, Ophe, since you know I have no idea where I live.) and then all of a sudden, cop car lights are flashing behind us.

Ye gods, they're pulling us over. We both frantically try to figure out what we could possibly have done wrong.

'Were you speeding?'


'Do you have drugs?'


'Me either. There's an empty beer can on the floor over here.'

'Hide it!'


'What the hell did we do?'

'I don't flippin' know!'

Cop comes to the window. Ophe turns on the 1000 megawatt smile. 'Hello, officer.'

'License, registration, and insurance, please.'

Crap. Not a friendly cleavage-loving copper, that's for sure. She forks over the stuff, and we're informed that the tags on the car had expired...3 days ago.

And if that weren't bad enough, the cop says:

'Don't you have an ashtray in the car?'

Ophe says, 'Yes...'

'Well, why don't you use it?'

Oh. Whoops. I had pitched a butt out the window a few minutes before we got pulled over. I apologise, and the cop informs me that he doesn't like having his car hit with burning cigarette butts as he's driving down the road. I act properly penitent, and then silently freak out, thinking he's going to ticket us for littering, which is a huge fine.

Thankfully, we only ended up with a fix-it ticket, which costs no money, and no fine for me flinging the cigarette butt out the window.

I dunno about you guys, but I've never been in a car that got hit with a cigarette butt from the car in front of me. I think that the wind drags the butts down to the ground almost immediately, or something.

But it's the end of the month, and the cops have to get their quota.


link | posted by Zombie at 2:47 AM | 0 comments

Sunday, July 27, 2003

Well, today was infinitely depressing.

I spent all day packing up my books to sell, and crying the entire time. I realized that I haven't voluntarily parted with a book in something like seven years. This is like a physical pain. I am a complete book junkie. I feel like I am selling my children.

But I need the money badly. I can get the much needed apartment (this has become an emergency situation, as some of you know) if I can just come up with enough money. Selling the books isn't going to get me anywhere near what I need...but it's a start. I'm running out of time. Sigh.

Used bookstores are notorious for not paying what they should for books, but I guess I've got no other alternative at this point. Wee. If any of you would like to give some of my books a good home, and help out my worthy cause at the same time, come find me. We can call it the Save the Zombie Fund.

Ugh. I hate myself right now.

My books! Fuck.

Okay. Sorry.

I should go now, and put my head in the garbage disposal.

link | posted by Zombie at 11:34 PM | 0 comments

Friday, July 25, 2003

Okay, so I took a short break from blogging. This is chiefly because I was busy on holiday in NeverNeverLand (that is, you know, my apartment) and doing other such important things as 1) staring blankly at my computer screen, and 2) Absolutely Fuck All.

I have grown, over the past few years, quite proficient in the doing of Absolutely Fuck All. If that's ever to become an Olympic sport, I've got the gold, hands down. The staggering heights I have attained in the pursuit of sheer laziness is just amazing. I will understand if you all need to take a moment to breathe, since it's really rather overwhelming at times.

Done, then? Okay.

So, my son's birthday was on Wednesday. If you read the post below, you know I baked him a cake. What you don't know is that after I mixed the batter, I was faced with A Dilemma of Grand Proportions. The Dilemma of Grand Proportions went as follows:

Our Heroine, the Goddess of All Things Domestic and Quite Clearly the Best Mother on the Planet, Not to Mention Incredibly Attractive and Lust-Inspiring, As Well As Charmingly Humble and Full of Vim and Vigor (that is, you know, me): All right, time to put the batter in the pans and put the pans in the oven at a nice 350 for 25 minutes, and then voila! Chocolate cake.

Our Heroine rummages about in the cupboards where she keeps the baking pans for a few minutes, producing not the expected TWO round 9 inch cake pans, but ONE round 9 inch cake pan.

Our Heroine: Hmm. It seems that I have lost a cake pan. How does one lose a cake pan?

More rummaging ensues, this time in every cupboard in the kitchen, as well as the two closets in the kitchen, the closet in the living room, and the linen closet. No cake pan is found.

Our Heroine, to The Son: Have you seen Momma's cake pan?

The Son, after a thoughtful look: No. We eat mah birthday now?

Our Heroine: Well, we can't eat it raw. That's just not proper.

Our Heroine rootles through the toy box, since everything in the house somehow ends up in the toy box at some point, including, but not limited to: toilet paper, the keys, cameras, power tools, a lamp, all the silverware, and on one memorable occasion, Our Heroine's favorite garter belt (the black lace one with the roses)...No cake pan.

Our Heroine: Now what will I do? *hand to forehead* My domestic skills are in peril.

A lightbulb goes off in Our Heroine's head. She will craftily use a rectangular 13x9 inch pan, rather than the two round 9 inch pans to bake the cake. Problem solved!

And so, she does.

The allotted 25 minutes pass, after which Our Heroine takes the Gently Steaming, Perfectly Baked Chocolate Cake Capable of Ending World Hunger and Cultivating Peace on Earth With the Sheer Force of Its Chcolatey Goodness out of the oven. She is pleased.

She waits while the cake cools.

After that amount of time has elapsed, she returns to the kitchen, arms herself with a butter knife, and prepares to frost the cake. Too late does Our Heroine realize that the largest plate she has in the house, while perfectly suited to support a double layer round 9 inch chocolate cake, is TOO SMALL for the rectangular creation that the oven has spewed forth.

Our Heroine stares with dismay.

But she will not be defeated!

So what does she do?

She chops the cake in half, and stacks it up.


Feeling rather pleased with herself, she frosts the cake and All is Well.

So what if it was a bit deformed and leaning to the left?


So, we had a small party for the boy's third birthday, complete with the Leaning Tower of Birthday Cake, which, I'll have you know, tasted JUST EXCELLENT, despite the fact that it looked terrible. Aesthetics aren't everything, my dearies.

The party went well. I had Ophelia over, as well as Rick and Dan (two of Ryan's friends). Asher was pleased with his presents, and then it was time for the cake. So, I bring the cake out from the kitchen, candles a-glow, and we commence with the singing of the birthday song. Asher is perched majestically in his high chair, awaiting the delivery of his 'birthday.'

Two lines into the song, he shouts, 'SHUT UP!' at the top of his lungs, complete with a thunderous expression upon his small face.

I thought I had taught the boy manners. Apparently, I failed.

Ah well. The cake was good.

link | posted by Zombie at 3:26 PM | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

So, tomorrow is my son's birthday. I still can't believe he's going to be three.

How the hell did I end up with a three year old?

I was in the kitchen a bit ago, mixing the batter for his cake. He stood beside me patiently, watching me make his 'birthday.'

'Joo makin' mah birthday, Momma?'

'Yes, buddy, I am making your birthday cake.'

'We eat mah birthday right now?'

'No, bud, we have to wait til tomorrow to eat the cake. Okay?'

'No. I wanna eat the birthday right now, Momma. Okay?'

Me, laughing, 'No, we're going to wait til tomorrow. Sorry.'

He looked at me for a minute, then looked at the bowl I was stirring the batter in, and said, 'Okay. You doin' good job, Momma.'

Vote of confidence from the nearly-three-year-old. Score!

I spent most of today cleaning the walls. Since my kids consider themselves to be artistes of some sort, my walls are covered in marker and crayon. This would upset me if it were my own house, but hey, we just rent. They can paint over whatever I can't get off the walls. I'm so friggin' kind like that.

Anyway, armed with a sponge and this little bottle of stuff I got from the hardware store called Goo Gone, I put on my best superhero outfit (for effect, you dig) and battled the forces of evil (Crayola). Here is me, looking superhero-y:

BatZombie to the rescue!

I got all the crayon off the walls, and most of the marker, before my arms tired to the point where I was convinced they were going to fall off.

The rest of the marker can just stay there, I think.

I have a bunch of updating to do to Chaos in Motion, so I think I will go do that now.


link | posted by Zombie at 7:12 PM | 0 comments

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Ahh, hello.

I noticed the other day that I passed 10,000 hits here on the blog. That makes me happy. I think. I worry that you people felt the need to come back here 10,074 times to see what the hell I'm prattling about, but I suppose that's your problem. I'll keep up my end of the bargain by posting random incoherent nonsense, and you can just keep coming back to read it.

I do still wish I had been able to save my archives...and the new blog here doesn't seem to be archiving at all yet. Curiouser and curiouser.

Oh well. I won't think about that now. I'll think about that tomorrow. (This concludes the Scarlett O'Hara portion of our evening. Now on to some other portion of our evening...)

Today I...

...did fuck all. It's surprising how accomplished one feels when one has done absolutely fuck all. I mean, I feel exceedingly satisfied with myself.

Okay, I did do SOME stuff. I updated Chaos in Motion. That's something.

And I built forts out of various objects of furniture and blankets with my kids, after which, I proceeded to crawl around on the floor with a pot on my head, pretending we were in WWII. My son was fascinated. I don't think he counted on having to grow up with such a demented mother. I didn't count on having to grow up with myself, either, so I think we're in the same boat.

Building forts with my kids today reminded me of when I was quite young and still living in Scalp Level, Pennsylvania. (Yes, they named the place Scalp Level. And you wonder why I am so messed up.) My cousin Brandon and I spent one entire summer building various forts all over the neighborhood. We built forts on the ground, forts in the trees, forts on top of the garage. We stole wood from other kids' forts to make 10 room mansions in the woods, and then knock them down as soon as we were done and build a new one. We even managed to build a fort with two stories at one point, but the teenage boys in the neighborhood found it and apparently used it for a party, during which it was destroyed with, judging from the litter Brad and I observed the next morning, a golf club and about 7 cases of Heineken. That was sort of depressing, since Brad and I had worked tirelessly on that thing for a week, only to have it smashed apart by someone that wasn't us.

That July, I woke up one morning, and Brad was at the screen door, grinning his lopsided grin. I was dragged down towards the creek by the highway, where Brad informed me we were going to build a fort UNDERGROUND.


The plan was to dig a hole underneath this half uprooted tree, pack the dirt down to make a nice floor, and use mud to shore up the loose dirt on the sides of the hole. We'd make short mud walls around the edge of the hole, and then cover the hole with branches and so forth weaved into a mat, for camouflage. Presto. Secret underground lair that the teenagers couldn't destroy before we decided to destroy it, because they can't destroy something they can't find, now can they?

So we dragged down a shovel and some industrial mop buckets, and set to digging. We got an acceptable hole dug out, and then stood around for a bit, leaning on our shovels.

Brad said, 'Now we need to make the mud.'

I said, 'I don't want to sit around stirring mud all day.'

Brad said, 'What? So we just spent three hours digging this hole for no reason?'

I thought for a moment, then said, 'Wait here.'

I travelled around the neighborhood til I found what I was looking for: little kids. Little gullible kids. 'Come on,' I said to them. 'Only you can help us.'

I returned to Brad with something like five 6 year olds in tow. He eyed me suspiciously. I was breaking an unwritten law. I had let Little Kids into Big Kid Territory. I sat them all down in a semi-circle and gave each of them a stick. Then I went and filled the buckets with water from the creek. I told Brad to shovel some dirt into the buckets. He eyed me some more, but did as I asked.

I looked at the little kids. 'Now, here's what you do. Stir the dirt into the water. Make mud. Mud is good.'

They nodded and started stirring.

I went over to where Brad was leaning against a tree, and said, 'Problem solved.'

So, yes, I was a terrible child that got little kids to stir mud for me all day. But when they were done making mud for us, we built the walls, and shored up the sides of the hole, and the next day when it was all dried, we had a pretty fucking cool underground lair.

Of course, we destroyed it a week later.

But you have to admit that's pretty ingenious. Delegation of responsibility and all that. Getting the Little Guy to Do the Grunt Work. I was an aspiring candidate for global domination at the tender age of 11. Hanging upside down by the knees from a branch 30 feet off the ground with a hammer, installing a spiral staircase to the upper level of the tree fort when everyone else is too pussy to do it, is good and take charge, but getting a bunch of little kids to do the dirty work for you is better. 'sides, the little kids were just happy that the big kids were paying attention to them. And I did make my mom give them popsicles when they were done.

Clearly, I would make a benevolent leader while ruling the world with an iron fist.

Keep that in mind when I start my Campaign to Rule the World.

Vote for Zombie!

link | posted by Zombie at 7:10 PM | 0 comments

Friday, July 18, 2003

Ophe and I went to the Ann Arbor Street Art Fair thingie yesterday.

I took the kids with me.


Because I am a masochist.

All things considered, the day went well, but let me get into a bit of detail in just exactly how I insist on torturing myself exquisitely for the sake of art. Let's face it: That's why you're all here anyway, isn't it? To revel in my misery? I thought so, sports fans. I thought so.

So, Ophe showed up promptly at late o'clock, because she's rarely on time. (I said 'promptly.' That's a joke. Get it?)We've already established that before on the blog, though, methinks. The girl will be late to her own funeral. I forgive her for this. I understand that some people just can't help but be perpetually late. It's a genetic thing, or something.

Anyhoo, the kids were already in foul temper, because I had to wake them up and put clothes on them. They don't generally like having clothes on. I let them run around in diapers, because I don't like doing laundry. Not wearing clothes = not as much laundry, hence, they run around in diapers, and unless I am going somewhere, it's lounge pants and tank tops for me. Naturally.

So, kids are upset, but I coax them into shutting up with the promise of Ophe getting there any minute now (hah!), and they love Ophe, so I was able to keep them semi-calm til she did finally show up. We pack some kool-aid, Ophe has taken care of snacks, and off we go.

Now, it's hot outside, and I don't deal well with heat. We have to park out in Assfuck, Nebraska, because all the lots closer to the fair were full, and the ones that weren't entirely full cost 15 bucks. 15 bucks to park the car? Fuck you. We'll walk. And so we do.

In the blinding, glaring sun.

With small children.

And Asher won't walk at a normal pace.

In fact, Asher took it upon himself to walk as slowly as is humanly possible, therefore breaking what I like to think of as the reverse sound barrier. Instead of a sonic boom, you get a deafening silence, and a mother with sky-high blood pressure. And we hadn't even gotten to the fair itself yet. I coaxed. I cajoled. I begged. I got indignant. I threatened. I stomped a foot. I shook my fist. The boy would NOT HURRY UP. Turtles were passing us at what might have been Mach 20 for all the faster my son would move his little ass.

In a stroke of pure genius, Ophe offered to buy the child some ice cream if he would get his ass in gear. We were able to trail him across the fair in this fashion. 'Come on, Asher! Want some ice cream? Hurry the blue fuck up! Thatta boy! Woo woo!' You get the idea. In a humourous twist, we lured him back to the car with the promise of a hot dog. And yes, he got the ice cream and the hot dog. I may bribe my kid, but at least I follow through. (That's Zombie's Parenting Tip #457, by the way.)

The fair itself was really kick ass. I love art. I love seeing what other people do with their creative urges. I won't say I understand all the time what people are doing (like the booth we saw of animals constructed out of musical instruments. They were neat-o, but what the hell would possess someone to wake up one morning and say, 'Y'know, I think I'll start making elephants out of French horns.'...?), but I still love to see it. We saw some excellent metal work, in particular some guy that had made nude torsos with wings on them...they were really fuckin' cool. Too bad I didn't have 500 spare bucks laying around, or the female one would be hanging over my computer desk. Le sigh. The guy also did some pottery. He had these pots with the surfaces peeling off, and faces peeking out. Very strange. Right up my alley.

I think my favorite bit of the fair was all the non-profit organizations out there. I got a free book on Eckankar, which I have never heard of outside the Internet. After I read the book, I'll let you know how silly it is. I also got a bunch of stuff from the Inhabit Mars guys. And Ophelia scored a sticker from the legalize medical marijuana guys that says 'Thank You for Pot Smoking -- The American Cannabis Society' in the style of an American Cancer Society logo. There was also a lot of anti-Dubya stuff out there, and the Christians were all over the place, too. The feminists were out, as well as the socialists, the Planned Parenthood people, a bunch of politician stuff, child mentoring groups, the Libertarians, and on and on. Good show!

So, all in all, we had a good day, but for My Son, the Slowest Child on the Planet. I can't really blame was stifling hot. I was all sweaty and sticky, and I don't like getting that way outside of recreational bedroom activities. Consequently, I was fuckin' beat when I got home, but then I had to clean the apartment, so no nap for me. Curses.

Last evening, I attended a chat with Massimo Pigliucci at BookTalk. That makes my third chat with smart famous folks thanks to the BookTalk guy. I've now met Howard Bloom, and Richard Dawkins, along with Massimo. Woo woo, Chris. You rock.

And Michaelangeloglossolalia just PMed me this link and told me to pass it on. So, go look.

Or somethin'

Til later, my pretties. I must go now to organize some closets.

link | posted by Zombie at 11:25 AM | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

So, the other day, Ophelia and I were in the car, on our way back to my place. We're stopped at a red light, waiting for our turn to go, when this...woman...walks across the street right in front of the car.

Ophe and I looked at each other, and then back to the woman.

It was amazing!

She had on something that looked like Candies sandals...the wooden heeled ones with the pastel leather strap-thingies? You know the shoes. And this...dress. Huge flower print, obscenely short skirt, real tight in the bodice...but the worst part was that the skirt of the dress was...poofy. Like out a foot from her legs poofy. The kind of skirt that's stuffed with something to make it poof like that. She also had the elusive bleach blonde female mullet with huge fluffy bangs, and a tan that can only happen when you lay in a tanning bed for 10 days straight, slathered in cooking oil. She had a little purse clutched under her arm, and I think she was wearing Ray-Bans, too.

It was horrid.

She was Trapped in the 80s.

Now, if the outfit weren't hilarious enough (which it was), Ms Michigan 1985 was followed closely behind what we thought at first was her pimp.

Young black dude in black shorts, white wife beater, black short sleeved dress shirt over top, and a black hat with a yellow band around it. There may have been a feather in the hat. I can't remember for sure.

Anyway, as we're watching this interesting parade, we both were laughing, and the dude looks at us, then points a finger at the woman. He looks at us, then looks at the woman again, then back to us, and gives us a look like, 'You see this shit?'

So of course, that made us laugh all the more. I guess he wasn't her pimp after all.

In Other Ridiculous News:

In the mail today, I received a promo pack from Marlboro. Well, it was actually addressed to Ryan, but he doesn't smoke anymore, and I think Marbs taste like ass, so I just let the kids have it. Marlboro has a habit of sending us glossy brochures full of pictures of rugged men on horses. My kids like horses, so they get the junk mail.

However, today's package contained a SPECIAL GIFT. I pulled out a few small silver envelopes. Looking at the back of the envelopes, I read the following:


Extinguish cigarette first.
Then place cigarette butt
in envelope (max. 3 butts)
Fold over top of envelope twice
and close tightly.
Dispose of envelope in
nearest trash receptacle.

Uhm? Tiny cigarette trash bags brought to my door courtesy of the Marlboro Man and the US Postal Service?How...bizarre. I'm pretty used to just smashing my cigarettes out on the ground, or flinging them out the car window to mingle with the used condoms and dead bodies on the side of the road, when no ashtray is available. I don't know that I could get into the habit of packing my butts up in a special tiny silver trash bag so I don't litter or something.

Besides, they only sent me six of the damned things, and each bag is only supposed to hold 3 butts, so that wouldn't even last me one day, sports fans.

Phillip Morris says, 'Give a hoot! Don't pollute!'

I wonder what new lows the cigarette companies will have to sink to next in order to appease the anti-smoking Nazis that are taking over this godforsaken country.

Maybe next time I will open my mailbox to discover that I've received my very own AntiPollution Smoking Containment Unit suit, complete with space age bubble helmet and a filter to let all the bad air in, but none of the bad air out. After all, my smoking is so much more terrible than the lady with fifty gallons of Obession for Women on.

If I get one of those, I'll definitely take a picture of me wearing it and post it on the blog.

In fact, I'll take a series of pictures.

1) Zombie With Shocked Look of Joy as She Opens Box Containing AntiPollution Smoking Containment Unit Suit.

2) Zombie Putting AntiPollution Smoking Containment Unit Suit On.

3, 4, 5, 6, and 7) Zombie Strutting Around and Striking Various Poses in Aforementioned Suit.

8) Zombie Taking Suit Back Off

9) Zombie Holding Lighted Match Aloft with Fiendish Grin On Her Face

10) Zombie Setting Suit Ablaze

11) Zombie Giving Phillip Morris and the AntiSmoking Nazis the Finger as She Lights Five Cigarettes At Once and Proceeds to Smoke Them All with Pleasure Over the Smoldering Remains of the AntiPollution Smoking Containment Unit Suit.

Gawd, I'm so fucking adorable, I make myself sick.

link | posted by Zombie at 10:43 PM | 0 comments

Wella-well, Chaos in Motion is up and running. Woo hoo. Go see it here.

link | posted by Zombie at 9:40 AM | 0 comments

Friday, July 11, 2003

So, yesterday, Ophelia and I took the kids to the farm center thingie at Kensington park.

My son still won't shut up about the animals. When he saw the first sheep, he nutted out completely, and that was excellent.


He's such a chipper kid.

So, we had a good time, even if the pigs stank to high hell. I forgot how much pigs stink.

When I was still living in Pennsylvania and in foster care, I lived with this family out in Sandy Lake. Sandy Lake is a tiny podunk town with horse hitches at the Safeway for the Amish to park their buggies. This should go far enough to demonstrate to you where I was living.


Okay, maybe that's going a bit far.

Only parts of it were hellish.

Oh yes, it was picturesque. The family had a nice white house on a nice large lot of land with a garden and so forth. We grew corn, for fuck sake. And pumpkins. And any other vegetable that would grow in the bit of land we had set aside for growing vegetables. This is where I learned to can and make jelly and all sorts of things like that.

(On a side note: Canning is dangerous business, and I never liked doing it, but my foster mother needed help, and I was the only kid in the house over the age of 7. Lucky me. I used to have visions of the pressure cooker exploding and shards of glass and wax beans flying everywhere to impale me in the eye. On a further side note: If the pressure cooker had ever exploded, I would only have been slightly appreciative if it had gone while we were canning tomato sauce, since I bet THAT would make for some spectacular special effects.)

Once a week, I would take the tractor out and mow the grass on the upper acres, with my headphones planted firmly on my head and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. (Yet another side note: If the chance ever arises, do not wear leather pants to mow in the summer. Things get real sticky real fast, and not in the fun way.) This was a meditative experience. Hours and hours of driving a tractor around in a circle. Lots of time to think, or not think, depending.

I miss tractors. I don't suppose Public Works would like it if I acquired a large John Deere and drove it around town?

Anyway, I was like a farmer or something. I even had a black straw hat to protect my fair complexion from the ravages of the sun. It was kinda neat. I wanted to create a bondage version of overalls, but my foster mom frowned on that, so I gave it up.

The fact that we lived in the middle of nowhere didn't really bother me until school started up and I had to sit on the friggin' bus for an hour to the school and an hour back. Or more, if there was snow. Sometimes, we didn't get out of the house for school at all. Sometimes, we got sent home early because of the snow.

Fuck, was there a lot of snow.

The really hellish part came in the summers, when the pig farm up the street (okay, it was a dirt road, really) started baking in the heat and the humidity. We're talking STENCH like I have never smelled before, and hope to never smell again. And pigs make hideous noises in the middle of the night. (Coincidentally, this is how I got from taking my kids to see farm animals and on to nostalgic ramblings of foster families past.)

Moral of the story? Don't live near a pig farm, and if you have to, move away in the summers.

Now I'm all reminiscing about Sandy Lake.

When school started up, I was appalled. All these 4H kids, preppy kids...and me. I was like a black spot in a sea of khaki. It was disturbing. I tried keeping to myself, but apparently, if you're new at Lakewood, EVERYONE has to come say hello to you and then eye you as if you had grown another head. It didn't help that I already looked funny to the rest of the kids. Bleh.

Anyway, I ended up making friends with a few other local misfits.

There was Bill that lived down the road in a trailer with a burnt out houseboat in the front yard. Upon inquiry, I learned that Bill had accidentally set the boat ablaze in an unfortunate incident involving Bacardi, fireworks, and morbid curiosity. Bill also had several dirtbikes (RM 125s) and a goat in a shed out back. We passed time dirtbiking through his grandfather's cornfields, poking the goat with a stick, and playing chess.

There was also the hippie kid (damn me, I've forgotten his name) that lived a ways up from Bill, on Three Sisters Farm. His parents had huge greenhouses, and I suppose I don't have to ask you to guess what they were growing in there...It was not uncommon for me to mosey down to Three Sisters and see his parents flying kites in the yard when there was no wind...

There were a few other miscellaneous persons that I spent time with, but I don't need to list them all.

Suffice to say, we whiled away the days smoking large amounts of marijuana and playing wild games of hide and seek in the cornfields in between chores back on the homesteads.

If it weren't for the pig farm stench, and the small annoying foster siblings I had to put up with, I'd have liked it there a lot.

All right, I guess that's enough time spent wandering down Memory Dirt Road.


link | posted by Zombie at 2:34 PM | 0 comments

Tuesday, July 08, 2003

You may have noticed by now that I have children.

At the moment, my beautiful daughter and darling son are sitting in the middle of the living room floor, fighting over half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It matters not that there is another perfectly good half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting on a plate beside them. No, they each must have the one half, and thusly, a tug-o-war ensues.

Actually, it's not your regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It's a Goober sandwich.

You know Goober. That stuff that's peanut butter and jelly swirled together in the same jar. That stuff that personifies everything that is wrong with the world and nothing that is right. Yes, my friends, I have come to believe that Goober is perhaps the most foul thing ever created on this godforsaken planet. Not only does it have a terribly disgusting sounding name, but it's peanut butter and jelly swirled together in the same jar. That's just wrong.

And, unfortunately for me, my kids love it.

This means that at least once a day, I hear the cry, 'Momma! We want Goober sammich!' Then I have to enter the kitchen with trepidation...reach into the fridge...and remove the horror. A freshly opened jar of Goober is not so gross. It's just peanut butter and jelly stripes in glass. It's after you make a few sandwiches that it gets gross. It starts mixing together and looking like a science experiment. It looks like it may, at any moment, leap from the jar like some sort of space alien, and grab me by the throat, choking off my oxygen supply with peanutty goodness. The horror. The horror.


My son is going to be turning three this month. This shocks and amazes me. How did he ever manage to make it to three years old with a mother like me?

More importantly, how did he manage to make it to be an intelligent three year old? He's rather sagely for such a small boy, I daresay.

Earlier, we were jumping on the bed together, and he rammed his head into my knee. He stopped, stood up, put his small fists on his hips, and glared at me.


Well, sorry. Like it was my fault.

Before that, we were playing hide and seek, and he cooed from the corner of the room, where he was hiding under a blanket:

'Mo-o-o-mma, where a-a-a-are me?'

'Oh, no,' I said. 'Where's Asher?'


I found that pretty funny. Rather than 'I'm right here,' it was 'there' he was somewhere else, trying to trick me.

Kids are pretty cool. I love my kids to death. They are both bright, active, and adorable.

This isn't to say that sometimes the routine of parenting doesn't turn into something closely resembling the Bataan Death March for me, but all the same...I wouldn't trade them in for anything.

I look back and remember the fat baby he was when he was brand new. Kid was flippin' huge, people. He was incredibly clingy, but always smiling...a happy kid. He's still happy. That makes it all worth it. It's funny how I can get so completely frustrated with him, because honestly, he can be such a terror. He's very stubborn and refuses to give in a lot. He's fiercely protective of his sister and his toys (which he sometimes treats as if they were one in the same), and when he wants something, he doesn't like to wait. He's also prone to breaking anything of mine he comes into contact with, and has an unholy obsession with putting things in the toilet and taking things out of the fridge (sometimes taking things out of the fridge to put into the toilet, no less.) But then...he smiles, and says, 'I love you, Momma,' or 'You pretty' or something else adorable, and then I can't be angry anymore.

I've come to think that kids are programmed to be fuckin' adorable so we don't kill them...but that's just a theory.

So, sometimes I think about all the stuff I could be doing right now if I didn't have kids...but then he comes over to me with a Matchbox car and wants to play highway, and I get down on the floor, and we do...and I think there's nowhere else I'd really rather be.

I can't believe he's almost three.

link | posted by Zombie at 1:03 AM | 0 comments