tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18247458900002106782024-03-13T12:04:47.639-04:00Frogs in my formulaI'm a mom. I have some idea of what I'm doing. I live in Mulletville Lite. And my family is crazy.Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.comBlogger838125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-26999819824111450592023-07-14T20:55:00.000-04:002023-07-14T20:55:08.659-04:00How to tell your third kid from your first<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMd1DEGWySKr5goFX4ZIr9gg_tSu-kXShThuCSaRBiCB0QzNP6cekQMH9-DAMysGG_Be6O9nEXBD_fUB08Bk-XBHfSv6kVwGbeCJE32GMt19xhj0uDa8U8xTOP-7v7tl883pw3vFB2DamElf4FQNsKimvWux-g1LIaFZpK_BGzo9gzbmq2hJZLyu-DBDOE/s4032/IMG-8499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMd1DEGWySKr5goFX4ZIr9gg_tSu-kXShThuCSaRBiCB0QzNP6cekQMH9-DAMysGG_Be6O9nEXBD_fUB08Bk-XBHfSv6kVwGbeCJE32GMt19xhj0uDa8U8xTOP-7v7tl883pw3vFB2DamElf4FQNsKimvWux-g1LIaFZpK_BGzo9gzbmq2hJZLyu-DBDOE/w300-h400/IMG-8499.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Note the appropriate response here is: "When did THAT happen?" because let's be honest, life is moving so fast, there's no other question to ask. <br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-7547296606872405842023-07-09T21:35:00.001-04:002023-07-09T21:35:09.041-04:00When Nature Imitates Life<p>Every time I look out my dining room window and see these growing on the hill, I think, <i>This is my household</i>. <i>My three sons. </i> </p><p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVTJwuETI7R5wYyUw4ZfOo7aNcKXFhjxlC4yJVrCMICt96342BI0aaf7YqPWatSdr7tR77gexVw3tbNqVdZSpogvNtZV1vdj1Yw_8AOt5aHJU3E3KOiiSOa1OnmQ5kRMB3MO-GyrIibAagCDmjc8uL-N17jRYwL4Ki7q53hTB9ze7qwCAdCYer0Ju_Nsy/s4032/IMG-2494.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="521" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVTJwuETI7R5wYyUw4ZfOo7aNcKXFhjxlC4yJVrCMICt96342BI0aaf7YqPWatSdr7tR77gexVw3tbNqVdZSpogvNtZV1vdj1Yw_8AOt5aHJU3E3KOiiSOa1OnmQ5kRMB3MO-GyrIibAagCDmjc8uL-N17jRYwL4Ki7q53hTB9ze7qwCAdCYer0Ju_Nsy/w391-h521/IMG-2494.jpg" width="391" /></a></div><p></p><p>I can almost hear them bickering: Bruh, you're standing too close to
me. Yo, let me squeeze in. Ouch! You're on my foot. You just elbowed my
groin. Stand still. Why can't you ever just listen? Dude! Let me stand
in between you guys. Guys!</p><p> Etc. Etc. </p>And for the love of all that's holy, one more etc. <br /><p>They're tall and lanky, these guys on the hill. And now so are the guys inside my house. </p><p>One son — Junior — is 16 years old and six feet tall; one — Everett — is 12, almost as tall as I am, and stuck in tweenager awkwardness; and one — Cam — is eight years old, trying desperately not to get left behind. <br /></p><p>Junior was seven months old when I started this blog; in a few short weeks he'll round the corner towards his driver's license. I don't know where the years have gone but at the same time, I feel like we've lived 100 lifetimes since. </p><p>Five years ago, w<span class="c2">hen we first moved into our new home near New Haven and I first saw the plants in our yard, I thought we had accidentally planted corn. Really thin, oddly kerneled corn. I'd never seen them in Mulletville; then again, we only had 0.25 acres of crabgrass. </span></p><p><span class="c2"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlRsdYYIYCNiClOUW3ZcQO1V2-Hl9H86xDJZK8MD21Qe_Mk0O3bDGs-qWt0ewRIsoBD-oVF-Q6mikDORDZFetgL62o4C2NMvldA8Imc-4NQ7yQJwlM_HOhGI9KB7-ZmlYTCapA3c7CKTwldxARgAxF1PQLbcFMbVVt5kDpWoXiM_FYj0tVGXxrp_XCIuR/s631/Verbascum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="366" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIlRsdYYIYCNiClOUW3ZcQO1V2-Hl9H86xDJZK8MD21Qe_Mk0O3bDGs-qWt0ewRIsoBD-oVF-Q6mikDORDZFetgL62o4C2NMvldA8Imc-4NQ7yQJwlM_HOhGI9KB7-ZmlYTCapA3c7CKTwldxARgAxF1PQLbcFMbVVt5kDpWoXiM_FYj0tVGXxrp_XCIuR/s320/Verbascum.jpg" width="186" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span class="c2">I found out the</span> strange, stalky weeds are <span class="c2">actually common mullein. </span></p><p><span class="c2">That summer, and every summer since, I hacked them down but this year I let them proliferate, and I kind of love them. </span>The weed is delicate, with its rosette wreath of leaves, but strangely phallic. It's a little schizophrenic-looking, as if the top and bottom of the plant can't agree on who it wants to be.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg78VePrImL8CCmi6UDgRs_MozoYi6FX0rPAk3X7uzkxPWmFgQo8bcc2aCXtsui1bzEYN_EmFrJIP2cAMsBAxzeCOvFZptVfNqbLoW6MhkV59qgEpXGG_Z1-rJXe44ZN6wvhKMgrB2i4B3axHEynutQPTdK_FdEDIK0j-necIavOLVMy4DTfNDk3G0MYc5/s464/mullein_basal_rosette_5-22-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="464" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg78VePrImL8CCmi6UDgRs_MozoYi6FX0rPAk3X7uzkxPWmFgQo8bcc2aCXtsui1bzEYN_EmFrJIP2cAMsBAxzeCOvFZptVfNqbLoW6MhkV59qgEpXGG_Z1-rJXe44ZN6wvhKMgrB2i4B3axHEynutQPTdK_FdEDIK0j-necIavOLVMy4DTfNDk3G0MYc5/s320/mullein_basal_rosette_5-22-14.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span class="c2">It's said that </span><span class="c2">mullein can be used to</span> treat respiratory issues, to reduce inflammation, and in
salves for burns or rashes. Mullein's velvety leaves were once used as toilet paper, hence its nickname, Cowboy Toilet Paper.</p><p>Interestingly, mullein spreads but isn't aggressively invasive. Like, <i>Hey, if you let me grow here, I won't change your landscape, make extra work for you, or take over your home.</i></p><p>They're tall and lanky, these guys on the hill. And now, the more I think about it, so very unlike the guys inside my house.<i> </i></p><p>So very, very unlike.<i><br /></i></p><p><i> </i></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-22666149419904486492022-05-03T08:29:00.003-04:002022-05-03T08:29:59.505-04:00Where we're at as we head into summer.<p> <br />Easter:</p><p>"Look, Mom! Everett made all of your moods on his Easter eggs."</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPfcuqlqjtlFpVp6ylGlTzIUE3C0Jr8f1hO9AvIXiv_MHfg-CNvIBRYKed8gGeAliLbbPIOEH9CnKBVdhl0r1vE8-Q8fMn-1CvC46Gc9gf9WnV2PytysyYyTFDYlS1e3NUywEdmmdtl42hT0VLZHN8k1LEhG25jlnoqSnm3i37YAXHyidCEly43tmHg/s4032/IMG-8557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAPfcuqlqjtlFpVp6ylGlTzIUE3C0Jr8f1hO9AvIXiv_MHfg-CNvIBRYKed8gGeAliLbbPIOEH9CnKBVdhl0r1vE8-Q8fMn-1CvC46Gc9gf9WnV2PytysyYyTFDYlS1e3NUywEdmmdtl42hT0VLZHN8k1LEhG25jlnoqSnm3i37YAXHyidCEly43tmHg/w400-h300/IMG-8557.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-55492171772666144602021-04-25T13:15:00.003-04:002021-04-25T13:15:53.499-04:00Sometimes, husbands CAN get it<p>First, the <i>bad</i> news about my recent (er, em, 2 months ago) suet post: My suet wad fell on the ground after a windstorm. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aRmI1ChdotE/YIWZ4pqkC7I/AAAAAAAADa8/lKg7FszXwEcKgE7p6w14zF1QmXsfRdm7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-5154.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aRmI1ChdotE/YIWZ4pqkC7I/AAAAAAAADa8/lKg7FszXwEcKgE7p6w14zF1QmXsfRdm7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG-5154.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SGMrZTN_6sU/YIWaAZzqnoI/AAAAAAAADbA/HMGBDLl-3n86slYMCQH-pwrAiVVGBEySQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-5155.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SGMrZTN_6sU/YIWaAZzqnoI/AAAAAAAADbA/HMGBDLl-3n86slYMCQH-pwrAiVVGBEySQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG-5155.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>It melted and when I first found it I let out a long "eeeeew" because if you're grossly perverted, like me, you might see the remnants of a Peeping Tom, and not suet, in the leaves. </p><p>Yes, ew. </p><p>The smell of bacon brought me back to reality. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LbUrt2mkORY/YIWfulJQ6xI/AAAAAAAADbM/1M_Nf0xGlhgEd1O70HKJlWr98PwCzoC7QCLcBGAsYHQ/s820/09ad17d2756f5cd8274a7090c2efabd8.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="820" height="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LbUrt2mkORY/YIWfulJQ6xI/AAAAAAAADbM/1M_Nf0xGlhgEd1O70HKJlWr98PwCzoC7QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h259/09ad17d2756f5cd8274a7090c2efabd8.png" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I never got to see birds happily flitting about it — like the ones in Cinderella — but I did see an already-plump squirrel happen upon it and I swear to God, you could see the grin on his face as he sat down and went to town on the fat, nuts, and peanut butter. He ate the whole damn thing himself, that little fatty. Instead of shooing him away, I thought, "Good for you. Sit down and feast."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bXEZJwjOXWA/YIWgIdvpdhI/AAAAAAAADbY/W1W5Pmk_YWYD9y6zWrR644LUuTIfbxCFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1038/23816570-0-image-a-18_1579862990670.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1038" data-original-width="877" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bXEZJwjOXWA/YIWgIdvpdhI/AAAAAAAADbY/W1W5Pmk_YWYD9y6zWrR644LUuTIfbxCFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/23816570-0-image-a-18_1579862990670.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><p>See, I'm trying out this new way of thinking, which is, <b>slow the fuck down and enjoy life</b>.<br /></p><p>AND I LIKE IT.</p><p>A LOT.<br /></p><p>Which kind of ties into the <i>good</i> thing that came from my last suet post: Chuck read it, and he came home from work and did the dishes. More than that, though, we had a heart-wrenching, brutally honest conversation about the lack of equality in the way our household runs, and how the distribution of labor needs to be reassessed.</p><p>Basically, I said, "If things don't change, I will have a nervous breakdown, and I will gladly let you commit me." <br /></p><p>The whole family got in on it — Junior, age 13, Everett, age 10, and Cam, age 6, the two dogs, and our cat. Oh, and Chuck, of course, age 48.<br /></p><p>It wasn't an overly prescribed conversation, in fact, it was pretty laid back. It wasn't about doling out more chores — not yet, at least — but instead how it feels to be the person managing the shitshow and constantly barking at everyone to pitch in. </p><p>I call it Phase I.</p><p>At one point, I gestured at my chest and said pointedly, "THESE don't give me superpowers. My boobs don't make me better at loading the dishwasher or doing laundry or vacuuming."</p><p>So far, the biggest change has been in Chuck. He's pitching in more, but the best part is that he is starting to SEE, like me, the do-to list. He's reminding the kids to pick up after themselves. He's putting the laundry away alongside the kids. He's making dinner and doing the dishes. </p><p>The most important part is that as Chuck takes on more, he's more conscious of the work and effort that go into running a household with working parents, three sons, two dogs, and a cat, and he's more connected to it, rather than detached in his easy, breezy "hey babe, this'll get done, I promise" way — which made me want to strangle him on a daily basis.</p><p>Nope, now he gets it. A lot more. </p><p>And he's finally stopped leaving puddles outside my office window.</p><p>I'M KIDDING. Relax. It's suet, I swear. </p><p>I love you, Chuck.<br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-7936526620380926402021-02-23T10:55:00.001-05:002021-02-23T10:55:33.202-05:00Suet. Everyone's doing it. Especially if it's wad shaped<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m6QSUDCOGOw/YDUbRmiqNbI/AAAAAAAADZw/4yrkYBrM5SAA-BL6m6EyBmyc8Vueuv5sACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-5120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m6QSUDCOGOw/YDUbRmiqNbI/AAAAAAAADZw/4yrkYBrM5SAA-BL6m6EyBmyc8Vueuv5sACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG-5120.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>We eat more meat than I'd like, but we have three sons and it fills them up so for now, I make meat.</p><p>Sometimes there's fat leftover from the meat. Sometimes the fat sits in the pan for a few days because no one washes a Godamn dish in this house but me (deep breaths). One day, as I was scraping the fat off, I thought <i>suet</i>.</p><p>Doesn't everyone? <br /></p><p>Then I thought, if I make a suet ball, I can hang it near my home office window and watch pretty little birds all day, which will make me forget about how no one washes a Godamn dish in this house but me, and that will be good for everyone. </p><p>Falalalala. </p><p>I looked up how to make suet balls. </p><p>I miss the days when you'd Google a recipe and just get the recipe but no, nowadays people have to give you their life history and pictures of their cat and throw in every adjective possible to describe their dish/project — <i>yummy! moist! succulent! tender!</i> — so the fricken details are like 50 web pages in but praise be, I finally found a succinct suet recipe. Here is my interpretation: <br /></p><p></p><p>Make bacon or hamburgers and let the fat harden. Or you can buy pre-made suet, which is lame. </p><p>Scrape fat into a container. Freeze fat.<br /></p><p>Affix frozen fat to a hanger. You can buy one or use string. </p><p>Roll the frozen fat in peanut butter and/or bird seed. </p><p>Hang it to something outside. </p><p>Voila. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TweZ7A3FnQc/YDUd0jOQurI/AAAAAAAADZ8/A0BvCDerFaAcs_kiAORMRKuJgbt6OdDMwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-5119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TweZ7A3FnQc/YDUd0jOQurI/AAAAAAAADZ8/A0BvCDerFaAcs_kiAORMRKuJgbt6OdDMwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG-5119.jpg" width="480" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I like my suet ball — maybe it's more of a wad — because it's imperfect, like me. Awww. Self-love.<br /></p><p>You certainly can get fancier. You can even add mealworms and dried flies to yours! Because I have three sons and spend my fair share of time washing dried urine from the sides of the toilet, I think my life has enough of a yuck factor for now, so I'm sticking with peanut butter and seeds but by all means, if your afternoon consists of talk shows and bubble baths, handling mealworms might be good your soul.</p><p>Not to judge or anything. <br /></p><p>Sadly, my suet ball has been hanging outside for well over a week and I haven't seen one bird. I have, however, stopped our dog from climbing the tree to eat it, so it's not a total failure. </p><p>I have faith, too, that soon enough, some intrepid bird will get a whiff off that tasty — <i>yummy! moist! succulent! tender! — </i>ball of beef fat and swoop down and wow me with its delightful plumage. </p><p>And soon this</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMBd39TN_u0/YDUiifXbn8I/AAAAAAAADaM/8imWke9Ny5Yb925M_iqvhYChMcyxNzQjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2549/1026181725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="2549" height="194" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pMBd39TN_u0/YDUiifXbn8I/AAAAAAAADaM/8imWke9Ny5Yb925M_iqvhYChMcyxNzQjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h194/1026181725.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>will be nothing but a faded memory.<br /></p><p>Or, more likely, Chuck will read this post and attack the dishes, like <a href="http://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2021/01/who-but-whoest-art-willful-enough-to.html">he did the eggnog</a>, and we will be carried off into the sunset by a flock of wood-warblers, blissfully entwined and smelling of cooked bacon and Dawn dish detergent. </p><p>Is it getting hot in here or what? Seriously, I should start writing <span class="aCOpRe"><span>ornithological erotica.</span></span></p><p></p><p>If you are hungry for more, you can learn about types of suet <a href="https://www.thespruce.com/types-of-suet-385836" target="_blank">here</a>. Now go make some bacon!<br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-29937467245171461612021-01-24T12:16:00.005-05:002021-01-24T12:17:41.109-05:00Who, but whoest, art willful enough to tackle thoust far reaches of the fridge?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pkY1SzlojdY/YA2kiIYPKLI/AAAAAAAADZE/RmwR2lgxkQ48XdPFcom5J8_Y0Snb7q26gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/EsRI9KNW4AAYmGR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pkY1SzlojdY/YA2kiIYPKLI/AAAAAAAADZE/RmwR2lgxkQ48XdPFcom5J8_Y0Snb7q26gCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/EsRI9KNW4AAYmGR.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I've been looking at this container of eggnog since Chuck brought it home from the store mid December and officially announced it was "eggnog time." Junior drank one glass and remembered how he vomited up eggnog several Christmases ago.</p><p>After that, no one else drank any.</p><p>Christmas came and went.</p><p>The eggnog remained. <br /></p><p>New Years came and went.</p><p>The eggnog remained. </p><p>The eggnog expired.<br /><br />The eggnog remains. </p><p>Recently, I started opening up the fridge and thinking of the famous William Carlos Williams poem, The Red Wheelbarrow. You know the one:<br /><br />so much depends<br /> upon<br /><br /> a red wheel<br /> barrow<br /><br /> glazed with rain<br /> water<br /><br /> beside the white<br /> chickens</p><p></p><p>I started thinking of my <i>own</i> Red Wheelbarrow poem:<br /></p><div class="css-1dbjc4n">so much depends upon <br /> <br />an old eggnog container <br /> <br />leftover from Christmas <br /> <br />that no one else will throw away <br /> <br />because they are lazy pieces of shit <div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Sure, it's presumptuous to assume that the eggnog is still there because people in my house are lazy, but I could easily sub something else in for eggnog. An empty shampoo bottle in the shower. A wet towel on the floor. A lone sock under the couch. Dog vomit on the rug. A Lego head under a chair. </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">When you are the <a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-default-parent_b_6031128" target="_blank">default parent (I fucking love this article</a>), you see all and handle all. </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">You are exhausted and sometimes — oftentimes — depleted by It All. </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Could I ask someone to throw it away? Sure. But it's so nice not to ask. To assume that maybe, hopefully, someone in your household will too see the things you see. <br /></span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">So yes, so much <b>does</b> depend on the old eggnog. And I'm taking bets on how many holidays and/or seasons this chappy back row fellow will now join us for. </span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"><br /></span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">glazed with refrigerator dew</span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"><br /></span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">beside the white eggs</span></div><div class="css-901oao r-18jsvk2 r-1qd0xha r-a023e6 r-16dba41 r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-bnwqim r-qvutc0" dir="auto" id="tweet-text" lang="en"><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> </span><span class="r-18u37iz"></span></div></div>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-13781230654040455492021-01-15T16:14:00.005-05:002021-01-24T16:38:37.137-05:00Finding pleasure in small things and sometimes in tall glasses<p>I have been fighting the comfort aspect of remote working and remotely homeschooling — mainly because I am a masochist at heart. </p><p>I live by <b>no pain, no gain</b>. Just ask Chuck — thanks to me and the way I run the house, he lives by that motto too, but he sure does put up a good fight. </p><p><i>Love you, honey! </i><br /></p><p>I also firmly believe if you're put together you can't fall apart and that wearing pajamas out in public means you've given up.<br /></p><p>Since Covid sent us into hiding last March, I've diligently showered and put on real clothes mostly every day (except that first week, when I was 100% shell shocked from living 24-7 with four boys). </p><p>Some days it was a boost; others, pointless. <br /></p><p>I'm over that now (the masochism, not the living with all boys thing, though I am kind of over that too). Somewhere around August I started to realize that if I didn't slow down and provide <i>myself</i> with some comfort, <b>I was going to implode</b>. I had to stop worrying so much about being put together and concentrate more on feeling better. </p><p>That meant putting thought into my surroundings and what I put on my body instead of the mechanical I MUST GET DRESSED BECAUSE IT IS TUESDAY.<br /></p><p></p><p>If you find yourself in need of some small pick-me ups too, here are some suggestions.<br /></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something quirky </span> </span></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cBPz64wjApE/YA3odY2i5BI/AAAAAAAADZQ/oKc_Scj_AdYJe0_5vl5myNbzeTpEIYCkwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/anthro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cBPz64wjApE/YA3odY2i5BI/AAAAAAAADZQ/oKc_Scj_AdYJe0_5vl5myNbzeTpEIYCkwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/anthro.jpg" width="480" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b>I was lying in bed before Christmas, feeling the pre-holiday blahs,
thinking about the naked trees outside, my off-white bedroom walls —
blah — and off-white curtains — blah — and I thought, <i>I need color</i>. I'm a wimp, though, when it comes to bold wall color so I did the next best thing: I went for colored curtains. <p></p><p>I
was on the fence about the tassels, but their large size prevents them
from feeling kitchy or juvenile. These Anthropologie curtains are so
quirky and so cute, and the salmon pink brings a splash of soothing
colors to the walls. </p><p>They're pricey, so I only ordered one panel
per window. I also scored them during a 30% sale. Now, whenever I walk
into my bedroom I feel a jolt of happiness. Unless there is a child
hiding in my room, which there always seems to be.<i> </i></p><p><i><a href="https://www.anthropologie.com/shop/mindra-curtain2?category=curtains&color=066&type=STANDARD&quantity=1">Mindra Curtain at Anthropologie</a><br /></i></p><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something that hides your butt </span><br /></span></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7DVMc6e5XhI/YAHqLb3bb1I/AAAAAAAADXo/Grm3j8dGJsAE7hw6WmRT-lrJjqctgVrFACLcBGAsYHQ/s1291/beans.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1291" height="241" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7DVMc6e5XhI/YAHqLb3bb1I/AAAAAAAADXo/Grm3j8dGJsAE7hw6WmRT-lrJjqctgVrFACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h241/beans.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>I've been hiking but I've been stress eating too, and I don't care to
wiggle my middle-aged jiggle in my stretchy pants. I know Chuck is
rolling his eyes right now because I am such a freaken prude, but I want
my ass covered and warm. It's 35 degrees in Connecticut and we have
old, drafty windows. And like I said, the jiggle. </p><p>So I ordered
this cozy sweatshirt from LLBean. I ordered the Medium so it would hang
loosely. It's definitely not a jacket, but it gets the job done and
costs less than similar versions at Athleta or Title Nine.</p><p><a href="https://www.llbean.com/llb/shop/886?originalProduct=123499&productId=1751563&attrValue_0=Deep%20Port%20Heather&pla1=0&mr%3AtrackingCode=0BF59312-04C4-E911-8103-00505694403D&mr%3AreferralID=NA&mr%3Adevice=c&mr%3AadType=plaonline&qs=3136923&gclid=CjwKCAiAl4WABhAJEiwATUnEF-lhXHoWur4bzt0Dq5F8dozlIQUnT6H4B1zWWVTX0GXzeojmtu_QLhoCQTkQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds&SN=MasterPrompt04_test&SS=B&SN2=FindabilityRecs05_test&SS2=A&SN3=FindabilityProd07_Cat&SS3=B"><i>Women's L.L.Bean Cozy Full-Zip Hooded Sweatshirt</i></a></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something soft for your bottom</span> <br /></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--y8UqWeCy9o/YAH3hkQc4wI/AAAAAAAADYA/EYKwgADar6cYgQVrnl70LpbPEd0uquxTgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-4719.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--y8UqWeCy9o/YAH3hkQc4wI/AAAAAAAADYA/EYKwgADar6cYgQVrnl70LpbPEd0uquxTgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG-4719.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Junior is a teenager and has embraced the Hollister brand with passion. I
am 40+ and obviously have not. But when Chuck and I were shopping for
Junior for Christmas, these pajama bottoms were on a table by the
register, and all I did was touch them and I was smitten. They are
ridiculously soft. And on? So warm and cozy! When I scored a clearance sale hoodie for Junior for $14, I also grabbed another pair of these for myself. <i> <br /></i></p><p><i><a href="https://www.hollisterco.com/shop/us/p/gilly-hicks-dreamworthy-soft-ribbed-joggers-42549822?categoryId=6943176&seq=03&faceout=prod1">Gilly Hicks Dreamworthy Soft Ribbed Joggers</a></i></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something soft for your top </span> <br /></span></b></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNijHbUZ02U/YAH7tLlK58I/AAAAAAAADYU/GskiwMbO8NAOOfqYN_FtsulN1vhZhCjjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1524/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-01-15%2Bat%2B3.29.16%2BPM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1524" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNijHbUZ02U/YAH7tLlK58I/AAAAAAAADYU/GskiwMbO8NAOOfqYN_FtsulN1vhZhCjjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h231/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-01-15%2Bat%2B3.29.16%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />Circling back to Anthropologie, this has been my go-to top since I bought it. On sale. The blue is that perfect Tiffany blue. I ordered a large so the waist wouldn't ride up. With a camisole underneath, it really is everything I want in a shirt: it's forgiving, effortless and machine washable. <p><a href="https://www.anthropologie.com/shop/rocio-surplice-top?color=040&type=STANDARD&quantity=1" target="_blank"><i>Rocio Surplice Top</i></a><br /><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Something naturally pretty </span><br /></span></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7g7IccSVd_o/YAH3_RIS49I/AAAAAAAADYI/yJaAQN7A5-wNtyiF0HmorQC-KpFLPbB5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-4586.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7g7IccSVd_o/YAH3_RIS49I/AAAAAAAADYI/yJaAQN7A5-wNtyiF0HmorQC-KpFLPbB5gCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG-4586.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DGpvJNChjFs/YAH9eora6KI/AAAAAAAADYk/BJ0uaJKqrqQAAV8l0pecBnhZalyry0-YwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-4720.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2004" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DGpvJNChjFs/YAH9eora6KI/AAAAAAAADYk/BJ0uaJKqrqQAAV8l0pecBnhZalyry0-YwCLcBGAsYHQ/w391-h400/IMG-4720.jpg" width="391" /></a></b></div><p>Of course, comfort doesn't have to cost money. When moss invaded some of
my planters this fall, I didn't pull it out. Instead, I let it grow. I
even moved more into my empty planters. Now, there's a lovely little
collection. The soft green is comforting to touch, and it's a pretty pop
of color by the front door. <br /></p><p>Even better, Connecticut can't tax it. At least, I don't think they can. Uh oh, time for my last comfort item:</p><p><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Something pretty and tasty </span></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kL0rNjchewE/YAIBkmzXWKI/AAAAAAAADYw/yTs7urJqSI8T2E_jKxdA5pMIktlZpW0BwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1500/Ketel-One-Botanical.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kL0rNjchewE/YAIBkmzXWKI/AAAAAAAADYw/yTs7urJqSI8T2E_jKxdA5pMIktlZpW0BwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/Ketel-One-Botanical.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>What helps battle the stress of taxes in the Nutmeg State, Covid, remote learning and work deadlines more than beautiful clinking glasses of vodka? The flower essences taste like summer<i>, </i>which is literally right around the corner!<i>*<br /></i></p><p><a href="https://www.ketelone.com/botanical/" target="_blank"><i>Ketel One Botanical Vodkas</i></a><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></b></p><p>*If you're sauced it's easier to believe the lies,<b> </b>so bottom's up!<b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></b></p><p><br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-11407439883822255422021-01-08T14:11:00.004-05:002021-01-08T14:11:29.918-05:00Actual transcript of today's remote learning<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5fPkomrffjk/X_isgSS-4AI/AAAAAAAADWw/nR3pqkOt__w0fakNzJPaTbVbp4JWfdV_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-4687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5fPkomrffjk/X_isgSS-4AI/AAAAAAAADWw/nR3pqkOt__w0fakNzJPaTbVbp4JWfdV_QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG-4687.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>From kindergarten today: </p><p>"Can you unmute your mic, Kendra? I can't hear your answer to what is one LESS than three?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?" <br /></p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Five?"</p><p>"The answer is four. Boys and girls, we are doing LESS than."</p><p>"Two?" <br /></p><p>"Can you ask your mom or dad for help?"</p><p>"I can't right now. They're still screaming at each other."</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?" <br /></p><p>"Boys and girls. If your parents are having sensitive conversations in the background, can you please MUTE YOUR MIC?" </p><p>"Mrs. Anderson?"</p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i><br /></p><p>"Yes, Kelly?"</p><p>"I got a kitty."</p><p>"That's nice. Can someone please tell me, what is one LESS than seven?"</p><p>"Eight."</p><p>"We're doing LESS than. Not MORE than. Kevin?" </p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background.</i> <br /></p><p>"Can you mute your mic?" <br /></p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i></p><p>"Dale, can you please MUTE your mic?" </p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i> <br /></p><p>"Kevin, can you please unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you unmute your mic?"</p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i> <br /></p><p>"Six?"</p><p>"Great job! Can you please SIT in your chair?" </p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i> <br /></p><p>"Mrs. Anderson?"</p><p>"Yes, Kelly?"</p><p><i>Toddler screaming in background. </i> <br /></p><p>"I got a kitty."</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?"</p><p>"Can you mute your mic?"</p><p>Rinse, lather, repeat, Monday through Friday, 8:15 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. </p><p>And now, to make something nutritious for dinner.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Fj2wRFBxCs/X_it-d1zLkI/AAAAAAAADW8/4sNdkbNclbEtFnQydhXhWoecNxz3CCKiwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG8241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1584" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Fj2wRFBxCs/X_it-d1zLkI/AAAAAAAADW8/4sNdkbNclbEtFnQydhXhWoecNxz3CCKiwCLcBGAsYHQ/w496-h640/IMG8241.jpg" width="496" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-62137594995822406582021-01-02T18:52:00.006-05:002021-01-03T13:28:06.053-05:00No really, I have some 2021 resolutions, and they include swearing like a trucker on Slim Jims and Chiclits<p>I miss this blog. I miss it <b>so hard</b>. It used to be my happy place, and now it's like a tumbleweed-ridden town. Or, like our old 1930s house with its drafty <b>ORIGINAL</b> windows and spider webs. Loved in the rearview mirror but really, wouldn't new windows be nice?</p><p>(And what the fuck, Anderson? Sixty-five <i>thousand </i>dollars for 30 windows? Shouldn't we get $50,000 off for sitting through your 8-day window presentation and oohing and ahhing over your McDonald's heat lamp re-enactment? We made you coffee, for God's sake.)<br /></p><p>But 2021! Fuck, yes. Never mind the pandemic and homeschooling three kids while working full-time. Child's play in comparison to my recent epiphanies: the kitchen sink and the moon. </p><p>First, the kitchen sink. </p><p>I am going to be a big girl and accept the fact that after <b>25 YEARS</b> of living with my spouse, Chuck, he does not give a rat's ass about doing the dishes. He doesn't care if he has to climb on top of dirty dishes to rinse out a coffee mug. He looks into the kitchen and sees NOTHING. So, no more arguing about the sink. If I want to wake up to a spotless sink and countertop, I am going to godamn do it myself. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXTyg565b3g/X_ECkyWkGuI/AAAAAAAADWY/sIyzL-eMiZM7Dx4AxdltDr0BHTkI2MVrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/image_67184641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GXTyg565b3g/X_ECkyWkGuI/AAAAAAAADWY/sIyzL-eMiZM7Dx4AxdltDr0BHTkI2MVrQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image_67184641.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p>Yes, I will still curse Chuck under my breath as I wash — notice how I'm protecting my 40+ something hands from dishpan hands so I'm vibrant and filly-ish for him? Sweet, yes? — and daydream about unique ways to make him pay (thank you, Unsolved Mysteries channel on Pluto TV), but I will also remind myself that Chuck snowblows, mows, shopvacs the attic and basement and runs out for chocolate and/or dessert items at 10 p.m. if I'm dying for something. </p><p>He's also super cute and lets me put my cold feet on him in the winter. </p><p>Thus, henceforth, being of sound(ish) mind in 2021, if I want to wake up to a clean kitchen I will do the dishes myself before I go to bed. <br /></p><p>Next, the moon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WotPyGPbSVI/X_EEWWNxFxI/AAAAAAAADWk/PjsHrP-mCo4wLkg3DIv9LEnPKXKWBtkVwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/image_67153153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WotPyGPbSVI/X_EEWWNxFxI/AAAAAAAADWk/PjsHrP-mCo4wLkg3DIv9LEnPKXKWBtkVwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image_67153153.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />I bought this moon lamp from IKEA in 2010. <b>ELEVEN years </b>ago and yet, I never use it because I'm worried I'll need to replace the bulb. <p></p><p>THE BULB.</p><p>So, I plugged it it on New Year's Eve, and it's plugged in right fricken now. The kids love it. I like it. Thus, henceforth, being of sound(ish) mind, I shall plug in my lamps. <br /></p><p>Just like that — BAM — I've tackled the spoons and the moon, and it's only January 2.</p><p>Maybe, just maybe, I've cleared out some blog cobwebs, too.</p><p>But what the fuck with the windows? <br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-29524267014552740752020-09-10T10:28:00.007-04:002020-09-10T10:28:56.512-04:00The Day of the Flying Popcorn<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KGvCxuOT1Pc/X1otYNxAK3I/AAAAAAAADUQ/rCQZKYUN-REuU-Cm0Pt-zsRQEHO4u4P1QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-3694.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KGvCxuOT1Pc/X1otYNxAK3I/AAAAAAAADUQ/rCQZKYUN-REuU-Cm0Pt-zsRQEHO4u4P1QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG-3694.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p>See, Kid #2 (age 10), having seen a lunch box on the counter, tossed it into his backpack without knowing there already <i>was</i> a lunch box in there. Kid #2 had just boarded the bus — to sit with the other five masked passengers — and headed to elementary school, which meant I needed to reunite the absconded lunch box with the correct kid, who happened to be Kid #3 (age 5), who was having a fit on the floor because he couldn't get his mask on without help. <p>Kid #3 also had ripped his school-supplied name tag off his backpack, and I was frantically trying to find it.</p><p>Chuck had lazed in bed an extra <b>hour</b> because he hadn't slept well. As I'd raced around the house making breakfasts, making school lunches, making coffee, corralling school papers, yelling at the kids for leaving their socks lying around, scrambling for clean masks, listening to work emails ping my phone, and feeding the dog, I'd been cursing him — and everyone else — under my breath. <br /></p><p>Kid #1 (age 13), who is remote, part-time learning for middle school, stumbled downstairs and asked where the dog was.</p><p>"Oh no," I said. The dog was still outside. </p><p>When I opened the door, there she was on the stoop, with poop smeared into her neck. </p><p>"CHUCK!" I screamed. "I could use some damn help."</p><p>Kid #3 stopped his meltdown and calmly said, "Don't say damn, it's a bad word."</p><p>Chuck stumbled downstairs and sniffed the air. "It smells."</p><p>"The dog rolled in poop. You're welcome to give her a bath," I said. </p><p>"I have a Zoom call," he said — without an ounce of regret, I might add. </p><p>"I guess I'll just do it," I said. "I guess I'll just do EVERYTHING."</p><p>That's when I threw the popcorn across the room. <br /></p><p>Chuck, Kid #1 and Kid #3 watched the bag hit the window and fall to the ground. </p><p>"I'll do it after my call," Chuck said quickly.</p><p>"I'll help," Kid #1 said. </p><p>"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not having a very good morning."</p><p>No one moved to pick up the popcorn.<br /></p><p>I finally got Kid #3 into the car. When I sat down in the driver's seat, I sat in a pool of water. <i>Lovely</i>. It had rained the night before and we'd forgotten to close the sunroof. The entire front row of the car, and now my ass, was drenched. </p><p>I dropped Kid #3 off at school, covering my wet ass — which probably looked like I'd peed my pants — as best I could while handing my kid off to the teacher. I explained I'd be back in 20 with his lunch. </p><p>I drove to Kid #2's school and picked up the lunch — while covering my ass — then drove it back to Kid #3's school and left it at the front desk. </p><p>It was 9 a.m.</p><p>That left a glorious 5 hours to change my pants, get some work done and maybe, just maybe, sit down and drink my coffee.</p><p>Then, at 10:30 a.m. my phone rang. It was the nurse at Kid #2's school.</p><p>"He's looking a little green," she said. "He would like to come home."<br /></p><p>"Can you get Kid #2 at school?" I asked Chuck.<br /></p><p>"Didn't he just get there?"</p><p>"He's sick to his stomach."</p><p>"I have a Teams call," he said.</p><p>"<i>Really</i>?" I asked.</p><p>"Really!" he said.</p><p>I got back into the car, forgetting about the damp seat and once again enjoying wet ass, and drove to the school. Kid #2 was sitting outside on a bench, looking white as a sheet.</p><p>"He thinks he's bus sick?" the nurse said.</p><p>"It happens," I said. Back into the car we went.<br /></p><p>As we started to drive home, I joked with him, "You had to take two lunches today, huh? Two sandwiches!"</p><p>"Don't mention food," he begged.</p><p>"Two bags of chips! Two apples!"</p><p>"Open the door!" he cried.</p><p>But it was too late. He projectile vomited against the car door, his lap and feet.</p><p>"I don't think I can take the bus anymore," he moaned. <br /></p><p>When we pulled into the driveway, the dog was waiting on the steps, poop and all.</p><p>"I feel better," he said. "Should I go back to school?" <br /></p><p>"Absolutely not. Go inside and get some clean clothes on. Then please bring me the dog shampoo and dish soap."</p><p></p><p>I got the hose and called the dog over. I soaked her, scrubbing her neck clean. Chuck rapped on the window and gave me a "what are you doing I said I'd do that" gesture. I shrugged. I opened the car and sprayed down what I could, dousing the door with soap. A long, satisfying trail of soapy water ran down the driveway, catching fallen leaves on its way. The dog shook herself then found a spot in the sun and sat down. </p><p>I turned off the hose. I was soaking wet, from head to toe. I went inside to change. Again. </p><p>When I went back downstairs, the bag of popcorn was still on the floor. </p><p>It still is today. <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-80902299889714445212020-08-07T09:39:00.012-04:002020-08-07T09:45:50.302-04:00We got power! And this time, no fleas<p>It's been awhile since we've had a hurricane hit Connecticut. When <span class="st">Hurricane Isaias</span> blasted us this week, I immediately thought of this blog and a) how much I miss it and b) how I'm so grateful I have this record of our past life in Mulletville Lite. </p><p>Take 2011, <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2011/08/thank-you-hurricane-irene-for-making-me.html">when Hurricane Irene hit</a> and we lost power for weeks. We were in the middle of a flea infestation, which halted my vacuuming and laundry-doing efforts. The kids had double ear infections. </p><p>But what I didn't write about — as I was deep in the throes of electricity-less misery — was how every morning, our neighbors would walk over so we could cook breakfast on camping equipment in our driveway. We'd walk the neighborhood and survey the lack of progress on downed trees, pour some more whiskey into our coffee, then set up lawn chairs and watch the kids play tag in the yard. </p><p>When the work crews closed the main road and diverted traffic through our small neighborhood, we gathered a supply of traffic cones (file this under "things you didn't know your neighbors had in their basement") and turned the street into a one-lane road. Drunk on whiskey, we were giddy at how it slowed people down. <br /></p><p>For our quiet little street, that was a lot of excitement. And remember kids, there was no TV or YouTube...<br /></p><p>In 2012, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Hurricane Sandy knocked out power so the town postponed Halloween a week</a> then we got a nor-easter. The neighborhood folks and I took the kids trick-or-treating, blizzard and all. We changed Junior's knight costume into a downhill skier costume, and I sweat through my winter coat as I carried a rotund 40-pound Everette up and down the streets, knocking on people's doors, asking for candy. People looked at us like, <i>What the hell are you doing here? Halloween is OVER.</i></p><p>They were right. <i><br /></i></p><p>Now here we are on the other side of the state. Last year, we moved closer to New Haven and gave up our cozy neighborhood setting for a house on a hill that <i>overlooks</i> a neighborhood. When <span class="st">Hurricane Isaias knocked out our power a few days ago, I missed my old neighbors, with all the fervor and want of a lovesick teen</span> staring at a poster of a boy band crush. (My God, do teenagers even still hang posters on their walls? Do they even still have boy bands?) </p><p>But my neighbors texted me pictures of sternos. And told me stories of cutting their spouse's hair in nightgowns on the porch, with clippers hooked up to a generator, wearing earmuffs to muffle the sound. And our new neighbors walked our yard with us, ooohing and ahhing over downed trees. They wouldn't drink whiskey at 8am, but we did share bags of ice and extra coolers. <br /></p><p>Here's some gratuitous tree carnage:<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FT1pLuF-DFc/Xy1UBG5YDtI/AAAAAAAADS8/hwlvFLapxe837USYfdVBA2fSUvfj4NOIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-3294.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FT1pLuF-DFc/Xy1UBG5YDtI/AAAAAAAADS8/hwlvFLapxe837USYfdVBA2fSUvfj4NOIgCLcBGAsYHQ/w512-h384/IMG-3294.jpg" width="512" /></a></div> <br /><p></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgznx7Z4jZM/Xy1ULjbMd_I/AAAAAAAADTA/sQS3umSOTp8-I2WdKe9waiAn0zyK8wT7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-3287.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lgznx7Z4jZM/Xy1ULjbMd_I/AAAAAAAADTA/sQS3umSOTp8-I2WdKe9waiAn0zyK8wT7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG-3287.jpg" /></a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4wCMNthXjlA/Xy1a7-NMCII/AAAAAAAADTQ/F64gNmdnkIUy4XkHWXGedy6lVyQLdg-FACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG-3302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4wCMNthXjlA/Xy1a7-NMCII/AAAAAAAADTQ/F64gNmdnkIUy4XkHWXGedy6lVyQLdg-FACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG-3302.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>It's enough to make you forget about COVID-19. Oh right, <i>that</i>. <i></i></p><p></p><p>Here's hoping<i> </i>that if you lost power, you'll get it back today. But more importantly, that if you're aimlessly walking a neighborhood, looking for people to drink whiskey with while you gawk at tree limbs, you'll come find us.<i> </i> </p><p>Bonus points if you have a spare road cone and wear it on your head<i> </i>like a party hat.<i><br /></i></p><p><i> </i><br /></p>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-12785738568077446172020-05-18T21:32:00.001-04:002020-05-18T21:32:26.241-04:00Make laundry fun — and punishable<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't know why there's so much effing laundry. Yes, there are five of us, but we aren't going anywhere.<br />
<br />
Part of me feels smug like, Yah, we are so <i>on it </i>we get dressed just because. The other part of me is muttering under my breath WHY THE HELL IS EVERYONE WEARING SO MANY CLOTHES DURING A PANDEMIC?<br />
<br />
Today, as I carefully balanced another load on top of this leaning tower, Junior walked in and asked if he had any clean underwear. I pointed to a wad midway down and told him to get it if he dared. He reached in and gingerly retrieved his briefs while I begged him not to knock it over.<br />
<br />
"If you knock it over..." I said — then I had a brilliant idea.<br />
<br />
Jenga! With laundry!<br />
<br />
Laundry Jenga.<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
The premise is the same: you reach in and grab what you want — all the while trying not to knock down the tower. The person who knocks it over has to put all the laundry away. If you try to flee the scene of the crime, you have to wear Chuck's dirty socks around your neck like a necklace and sleep with his smelly socks under your pillowcase. <br />
<br />
Why didn't I think of this sooner?<br />
<br />
<span class="st">Shakespeare may have written three of his famous tragedies during turbulent times (blah, blah, blah) but did he create Laundry Jenga? The answer is no. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I did. And I want royalties.</span>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-72663580542244247552020-05-14T21:33:00.000-04:002020-05-14T21:34:30.271-04:00In this new normal, I have never parented so fucking hard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Only one day left until the weekend — which more and more feels like a safe island refuge between tsunami-ravaged weekdays. <br />
<br />
On weekend mornings, in our house of three school-aged kids, there is rare quiet.<br />
<br />
The kids can sleep as late as they want. They can play video games and stare at their devices for as long as they want. They can do whatever the hell they feel like doing. I don't care. Chuck doesn't care. Simply, we don't have the brain cells left to care.<br />
<br />
The first few weeks of Covid-19 were so strange, but so liberating. There were no after-school clubs or baseball practices or lunches to pack or soccer clinics or band concerts. We have three sons, age 5, 9 and 12, and we had been living on a hamster wheel of "We just have to..." for years.<br />
<br />
"We just have to cram down sandwiches in the car on the way to practice so we can get home and do homework."<br />
<br />
"We just have to drop off Kid #1 here then drive here to get Kid #2 then get back home so Kid #3 can get to the doctor's."<br />
<br />
Then BAM, Coronication, and all the have-tos were gone.<br />
<br />
We were, simply, home, and the possibilities of what we could accomplish seemed endless. I bought paint and crafts and books. Bins for organizing Legos. New ingredients to try new recipes. If Shakespeare wrote during the plague, I would too! Chuck was working from home, too, so I wasn't trying to accomplish my own work plus the kids' sports, homework and meals by myself. In those first few weeks, we did virtual yoga and baked cookies. We had game night. <br />
<br />
It seemed strangely peaceful and ideal. We were finally off the hamster wheel.<br />
<br />
But now, months into this new normal of work and school and laundry and dishes and bills and isolation and life, I find myself, like most other parents, utterly burnt out.<br />
<br />
I scoffed this week at Teacher Appreciation gestures because just once, I'd like for someone — anyone — to acknowledge what <b><i>parents</i></b> are going through right now. Parents have become teachers, on top of everything else. We have lost childcare, grandparents, and babysitters. We navigate business meetings and deadlines alongside math homework and reading logs. We worry we won't be able to feed our family.<br />
<br />
We are one big <span class="st">amalgamation of everything we were and are and don't yet understand. There aren't enough hours in the day — and there isn't any help. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st"><i><br /></i></span>
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<span class="st"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
Every morning, Chuck and I look at the day ahead and strategize like fucking crazy people.<br />
<br />
"I have a Zoom at noon and something due at 3. Or was it due Tuesday? What's today?"<br />
<br />
"Wednesday, I think. Kid #1 has an assignment due at 4 and a virtual classroom at 9."<br />
<br />
"Can you help at 9? I have a Zoom at 10 and 2 and a call at 1."<br />
<br />
"Kid #2 has a live stream Google class at 2 and didn't finish his work from yesterday. What's the login for Koala classroom again?"<br />
<br />
"Ok, you take the 2 and I'll change my Zoom to a phone call. Or was it a Teams meeting?"<br />
<br />
"Can you finish your work and jump on his virtual class? Don't forget he has art class too, and then independent reading."<br />
<br />
"Yes, but then I need an hour to prepare for my Teams meeting. Or was it Whatsapp?"<br />
<br />
"Hold on, my boss is calling."<br />
<br />
"KIDS! QUIET! Dad's on a work call!"<br />
<br />
"My laptop is frozen!"<br />
<br />
"QUIET! His mic is on!"<br />
<br />
"I can't get into Google classroom!"<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
There are passwords and logins and technical problems. Kids can't sit for hours staring at computer screens. They need help. They need someone to decipher assignments and answer questions. It doesn't matter if you have your own shit to do. You're supposed to be 100% on board for your child's education, right?<br />
<br />
And don't forget to get them outside for fresh air, sunshine, and exercise. Oh, and to make a sign to let their teachers know they miss them. And put those hearts and thank you signs in the windows. Oh, and upload a new video so their friends can see them. Make them nutritional meals. Try to learn to cut their hair and teach them French. Don't forget to make them turn off the TV. Oh, and schedule a video call with the dentist so he can be sure they're still brushing their teeth. <br />
<br />
Then, there are the emotions. Don't forget to console your kids when they miss their friends and have nightmares because you accidentally left the evening news on. Try to keep their spirits up, even though your own are fragile and annihilated. Try not to let them hear you bickering with your spouse, even though you've been together for a zillion hours a day and just need a minute to yourself. <br />
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<br />
<br />
Try to be everything you can be every second of the day, every day of the week. Oh, and by the way, it may be this way until January 2021. <br />
<br />
I keep thinking about my co-worker. She tried to attend a mandatory Zoom meeting this morning from a commuter parking lot. She'd been driving her toddler around for hours and finally got her daughter to fall asleep. Her daughter, of course, woke up just as she turned off the engine. <br />
<br />
"I'm sorry," she said, shouting over her screaming toddler. "I have to go."<br />
<br />
I keep thinking about her car ride home. The inconsolable child. Driving around. Praying for peace. Dreading the work that would be waiting at home. Knowing the next day would be more of the same.<br />
<br />
Like so many of us, moving but going nowhere — and the real shitter is, gas is so fucking cheap. Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-9514158585712374402019-12-19T11:56:00.000-05:002019-12-19T11:56:10.274-05:00The best places to hide your booze when you're trying to parent a middle schoolerAnywhere, ok? Just stash that shit <b>wherever you can.</b><br />
<br />
But seriously.<br />
<br />
We've been living in our new town for just about four months and let me tell you, this transitioning business is dicey. Cam, our four year old, has settled in nicely with his new friends at school, but I saw that coming. I wish all friendships could be as easy as <i>Hey, I like blue dinosaurs and pick my nose too, wanna be my best friend? </i><br />
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<br />
Everett, our eight year old, has settled in too, though the first few weeks of school were rocky. He missed his best friend. He didn't know who to sit with at lunch. He played alone at recess.<br />
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<br />
Thankfully that's all evening out.<br />
<br />
Junior, in middle school (that gut-wrenching, unforgiving cesspool of hormones, popularity, acne and homework), is the one struggling. He, too, misses his best friend and hates lunchtime and the cafeteria.<br />
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"I don't matter to anyone," he told me and Chuck last night. There were tears. "I don't know who to sit with. No would notice if I never came back."<br />
<br />
He thought he was in tight with a group, but suddenly he didn't have a seat, and no one seemed to care. My heart broke.<br />
<br />
I know how he feels. I'm pretty sure <i>everyone </i>knows how he feels.<br />
<br />
I moved in middle school and remember all too well standing by the entrance of the cafeteria, wondering who the hell to sit with. I felt invisible. Ditto for transferring from one college to the next. And for starting new jobs and meeting new parents at birthday parties and play dates. <br />
<br />
Even now, as a freelancer, I'm that transient person who is sometimes on-site, sometimes included in staff meetings or parties. I joke to Chuck that if I didn't show up for a few weeks, no one would notice. And it's true. I did show up one morning to find the office empty. They'd planned a staff retreat and forgotten to tell me.<br />
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<br />
D'oh.<br />
<br />
Juxtaposed against — and exacerbating — the sting of unfamiliarity is the cushy, soul-affirming goodness of being <i>known</i>. I didn't realize how much I've been missing it until a few weeks ago, when I went back to our old house, which we finally have on the market.<br />
<br />
While I was there, my neighbor stopped in and hugged me. Really hugged me. She asked about my kids and family. Another neighbor stopped by to tease me about my summer wreathe still on the front door. It was easy and fabulous and so different than the shallow and sometimes strained conversations I have with the mothers at Cam's preschool, who, like Junior said, might not notice if I never came back.<br />
<br />
It's going to work out, I know. Junior needs to build history with his new classmates. I need to build history here too. Make memories and share experiences. Join clubs and play sports. All of that takes time, patience, vodka.<br />
<br />
So much vodka. Maybe Jello shots too (for me, not for Junior, <i>hello</i>).<br />
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<br />
I can't help but marvel over how our children's struggles mirror our own and how they look to us, as we are floundering — like desperate fish on the shore — alongside them, for guidance. I want to yell, "Hell if I know!" but I can't, I'm supposed to know shit.<br />
<br />
It's all part of the human experience, but damn if it doesn't hurt. And damn if I haven't been having reoccurring dreams of my own middle school traumas, especially now that Junior has discovered Axe body spray. If I close my eyes, I'm back in the gymnasium, slow dancing with my sweaty crush who dumped me two dances later for a girl who would go to second base.<br />
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<br />
Oh, how I cried.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't do middle school again for a billion dollars. I tell Junior that. Chuck tells him that too. Even as Junior is crying and hugging us and he no longer fits in our arms because he's taller than us, we tell him, we promise, it'll get better. Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-17020274586355551892019-10-22T18:01:00.000-04:002019-10-23T20:41:12.840-04:00Oh baby, can't we give it one more try? Or, does anyone want to buy a house in Connecticut? I didn't think so<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We haven’t sold our old house in Mulletville Lite yet. Two months ago, when we moved out, we ran out of room in the damn moving truck, so we took only what <b><i>we absolutely needed</i></b>.<br />
<br />
Life in our new house was glorious those first few weeks, when all we had was what <i><b>we absolutely needed</b></i>. <br />
<br />
If we could have left all the other shit at the old house, we would have. But if we ever hope to sell it, it has to be empty. Obviously. So for the last two months, whenever we have a spare moment, Chuck and I flip a coin to see who gets to make the hour-long pilgrimage back to Mulletville Lite to pack up the car and drive more stuff to our new house. <br />
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Every time, it seems, it’s me. And every time I go back, I walk into our old house and am dumbfounded by the amount of stuff that’s still there.<br />
<br />
I blame the children. <br />
<br />
No, really. <br />
<br />
Before they arrived, Chuck and I enjoyed a minimalist lifestyle. When we drank all our booze we recycled the bottles, so they never accumulated. When we finished eating cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, we recycled the boxes, so they never accumulated. There was no pre-, during- and post-pregnancy weight gain, so I owned maybe 1 pair of skinny jeans instead of 50. Ditto for Chuck. We slept in one bed, owned 1 blanket, and on Christmas gave each other 1 gift, which we recycled after we finished drinking it.<br />
<br />
Then, bam, fucking kids. We SWORE we would never be “those parents” who let unlimited toys and useless crap into our home, but it happened. Grandparents snuck it in. Birthday parties happened. We loosened our stance. <br />
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Soon there were wooden trains, wooden train tracks, plastic trains, plastic train tracks, trucks, cars, bath toys, dress up clothes, teepees, marbles, Nerf guns and pellets, baseballs, remote control toys, robots, stuffed animals, figurines, Hot Wheels tracks, sparkly glue, video game consoles and controllers, kites, silly putty, bicycles, sleds, scooters, board games, books, stickers, coloring books, markers, soccer balls, bouncy balls, crayons, paint sets, easels, chalk, LEGOs, blocks, bubbles, lanterns, spy sets.<br />
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I’m not only disgusted by the amount of stuff my children have, I’m disgusted by the amount of time I’ve spent organizing and keeping track of it. I’ve probably lost 5 years of my life reuniting LEGO pieces with their sets, or sorting piles of cars and trucks, or chasing marbles down flights of stairs. Now, packing it up, I’m disgusted by the amount of broken plastic shit and useless junk I’m sending to landfills.<br />
<br />
It’s not all the children’s fault, of course. Yes, they spent hours on the Island of Sodor and building LEGO sets, but we should have been more firm. And Chuck and I are just as guilty of accumulating stuff we don’t need. Candles, blankets, camping gear, picture frames. You name it, it’s in the basement. It needs to get the hell out of there — so what can’t go to Goodwill or animal shelters or local charities gets schelpped into the car and to our new house.<br />
<br />
I won’t lie, though. I like going back to Mulletville Lite. It is kind of like having good break-up sex. <br />
<br />
I get to stand in the kitchen, close my eyes and just remember what it was like to live there. I get to spend time in the neighborhood. There’s comfort in seeing the neighbor leaf blowing his leaves, in hearing the neighbor’s kids on their trampoline, in smelling the damp leaves through the windows. For those glorious few moments it’s just me and the old house.<br />
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Then I get to leave and be all kissy kissy with my new house. <br />
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I know it’s ending soon — we have to sell before our bank account is empty of its last few cents — but for now, I’m relishing these pilgrimages. Even though it’s a 3+ hour commitment. Even though during one ride, a mango-scented diffuser spilled all over the car, and I wanted to gauge my nostrils out. <br />
<br />
Even though after stuffing the car full of the toy closet, I started laughing maniacally as I sped down I-91 at 11:30 at night because I felt like a whacked out Santa Claus, the beat-up car filled to the brim with toys, in the middle of October.<br />
<br />
“It’s all toys they don’t even know they have!” I told Chuck when I climbed into bed after midnight that night. “Half of the toys are still in the box!”<br />
<br />
Then I got an idea. An awful idea. I had a wonderful, awful idea.<br />
<br />
“Why don’t we just wrap all the toys up again and give them to the kids for Christmas?” I said.<br />
<br />
“Mmmmhmmm,” Chuck mumbled. Even though he was half-asleep, his hand wandered over.<br />
<br />
“No more junk this year!” I said. “This is the year we’re the parents we said we wanted to be! This is the year we tell everyone, ‘No more gifts!’”<br />
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His hand kept wandering, as if to prove my point. I guess it really is never too late to try.Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-70537548213472570012019-10-01T21:30:00.002-04:002019-10-01T21:33:34.000-04:00The things we shout out during sex when we are super stressed and preoccupied<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Well, I can't believe it, but Chuck and I actually moved from Mulletville Lite — along with Junior, age 12, Everett, age 8, and Cam, age four. Plus one very old cat and one very grumpy dog. <br />
<br />
That's where I've been the last month or so: packing, tripping over boxes, packing more, wondering how in the eff we accumulated so much shit, crying, leaping for joy, and unpacking.<br />
<br />
I've also been Googling the snot out of moving topics, like:<br />
<br />
<i>Should we really have moved our family? Really?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Will my kids hate me for making them change schools?</i><br />
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<i>When will I know I've made the right decision about ripping my children from everything they know and love?</i><br />
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<i>Can we change our minds and move back?</i><br />
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<i><i>When will it stop feeling like I'm in someone else's home?</i> </i><br />
<br />
Etc. Etc. <i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Making the decision to move from my childhood home and leave the neighborhood we had all grown to love was gut wrenching, but I had watched Chuck's health deteriorate the last few years from his long commute. Come Saturday, the man was laid out on the couch from driving 3+ hours a day from Mulletville Lite to New Haven.<br />
<br />
When the new asshat governor was voted in and he started pushing for tolls and an increase in the gas tax, well, that was the icing on the cake.<br />
<br />
Might as well hand over Chuck's paycheck, and his butt cheeks, to the state of Connecticut.<br />
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<br />
We'd been looking for a house for two years, but this spring, we really put the search on hyperdrive. We interviewed in other states (me, New Hampshire — too cold — and Chuck, Texas — too far away). We dragged the kids to open houses every Sunday. We chummied up to every realtor in the state, joining every MLS list we could.<br />
<br />
During the day, Chuck and I texted each other potential homes with all the fervor and intent of lusty hornballs sharing porn. We scoured realtor.com and trulia.com and zillow.com with shameless abandon. It took MONTHS, and I worried I would shout out "Two car attached garage" during sex instead of "Yes! Yes!"<br />
<br />
Thankfully we were so busy looking at houses, we weren't having much sex. <br />
<br />
Then, this June, we found it: a house we could afford that was 15 minutes from Chuck's work. More than that, it was a house we could <i>love</i>. We went to see it three times. We brought our parents, then the kids. We put in an offer and bam, it was done.<br />
<br />
So that's it. Two months later — exactly one week before school started — we fucking moved. And for the first month, I walked around our new house like, <i>Where the hell are we?</i> I expected someone to come home and ask us what we were doing in their house.<br />
<br />
But we are growing into it, little by little.<br />
<br />
It's an OLD house, with light switches in weird places and a shitload of cobwebs. For the longest time, if I had to find a switch in the dark, I put on kitchen gloves before I searched along a wall for the switch. I vacuumed up all kinds of leggy creatures. The attic looked like something out of Harry Potter. One night, while I was reading in bed, I watched a spider slowly slink down from the ceiling and land on my page. I contemplated having the kids sleep with earplugs, just in case a spider wandered...<br />
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<br />
...I can't even say it!<br />
<br />
The windows are old, too. Some don't close at the top, which means all kinds of winged things sneak in. I have met every known species of moth. I'm sure, come winter, I'll have Swiss cheese for sweaters because, try as I might, I haven't been able to catch all the bastards. I'm sure, too, we are going to need those holey sweaters when the plastic wrap over the drafty windows stops working. But hey, we have Chuck, and his ass is intact! <br />
<br />
So that's where I've been. Settling in. Trying to navigate new roads, enjoying the fact that Chuck is actually home for dinner and bedtime, and unpacking. Dear God, so much unpacking.<br />
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I can't lie though. Moving is hard. If you have kids, you have to help them adjust alongside yourself. We've experienced a rainbow of emotions, collectively and in our own spaces. I've thrown back a lot of vodka. <br />
<br />
I try not to think about our old house too much. Like how the neighbors would text me if they noticed I left the side door open. I miss them so much my heart hurts. Or how I knew every creak of the stairs, the smell of every approaching season, the scuff marks on every wall, and the way the afternoon light filled the dining room. I watched my neighbors' children grow and vice versa. That house saw new babies come home, nine years of holidays and birthdays, <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-polar-vortex-potty-training.html" target="_blank">new pets</a>, <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2011/10/late-sunday-night-post-sigh.html" target="_blank">old pets</a>, snowstorms, <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2011/08/thank-you-hurricane-irene-for-making-me.html" target="_blank">hurricanes</a>, <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2011/08/honey-this-foreplay-just-isnt-working.html" target="_blank">flea infestations</a>, Chuck's <span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">hemorrhoids...I could go on and on. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">That house is part of me. (Like, duh.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">For fun, I went back in time on this blog and reread the post I wrote, nine years ago, about moving into that house. This is it:</span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">Mulletville Lite is rampant with memories. I quiz myself: Would it be better to live somewhere
totally new? Or is it preferable to go back to something I know? Does
that make me small-minded? Will moving to Mulletville Lite mean my life
is a record stuck on the same track of “remembers whens”? What about adventure? Exploration? The unknown? </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd"><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">It looks like I'm finally going to get some answers to my questions. </span></span></span></span><i><span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd"></span></span></i>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-47320337126654091582019-07-17T20:28:00.003-04:002019-07-17T20:51:19.878-04:00Helping your tweenage son navigate puberty, running, Dude Perfect, parallel parking and birthday cake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Junior is going to be 12 this weekend. That makes this blog 11 years old. Happy birthday to me and to he.<br />
<br />
I
keep looking at my brown-eyed Junior, wondering where my little boy
went. How is this man-child the same little boy who used to <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/search?q=puffing" target="_blank">ask random people if they puffed</a>? Who called <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2009/03/life-can-be-such-bridge.html" target="_blank">big bridges, big bitches</a>? Thomas the
Train was long ago replaced by the Transformers, then Harry Potter, then
Percy Jackson, then video games, then Dude Perfect, and now memes and
YouTube. They’re strung up like Christmas lights in my mind, trailing
back to what seems like years ago and yesterday all at the same
time. <br />
<br />
Looking at Junior, you’d think he was 15. At 5’4”, he is as tall
as I am. His feet are bigger than Chuck’s and he constantly wants to
show us his leg hair (all four strands). If his voice cracks the
slightest bit he’ll ask, “This is puberty, right? Is <i>this</i> it?” As if the
Puberty Bunny or fairy can magically bestow this rite of passage on him
while he sleeps. <br />
<br />
Never one to care about a mirror, Junior now obsesses
about his hair and clothes. He has his own hair gel. He firmly closes
and locks his bedroom door while he changes, and every morning he
emerges from a cloud of AXE body spray and asks, “Too much?” <br />
<br />
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<br />
He and
his friends have their own vernacular. Things are “cringy.” His two
younger brothers are easily “triggered.” If they lose their cool Junior
mumbles “get wrecked.” <br />
<br />
Speaking of his two younger brothers, Junior
isn’t always a willing leader of this little tribe of men. Directives
like, “Well, help them <i>become</i> the brothers you want to be around”
carry little weight. I have to remind him daily not to speak to
4-year-old Cam like he’s a bad pet (“I told you not to sit on me, Cam!
Don’t do it again!”). <br />
<br />
And poor Everett. Once his partner in crime,
Everett has been relegated to the land of Cam. Once in a blue moon,
Junior will pluck Everett out and play Legos with him or jump on the
trampoline, and Everette beams so brightly I swear aliens on other
planets can see it. Basking in the glow of Junior’s attention, Everett
will do his best to talk about video games or memes with Junior, putting
his hand on his arm and calling him “dude.” There’s such admiration
there, it breaks my heart that Junior can’t see it. <br />
<br />
As someone who
survived being left in the dust by my older step-sister when she grew up
but who also left my younger brother in the dust when I grew up,
watching it unfold just hurts all around. <br />
<br />
But I get it, it’s the ebb
and flow. <br />
<br />
I don’t always know how to parent this Junior. We don’t
always speak the same language. When he was a toddler, we could solve
most problems with a lollipop. Now, his problems resemble a real
person’s. We can’t solve his problems, nor would we want to. He has
to learn how to succeed and how to fail.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
We also have to help
him make healthy choices, which is excruciatingly painful. Worse than
round-the-clock dental work. He’s still a bookworm but we fight daily
about screen time, social media and all the things his friends are
allowed to do. “Call of Duty, Mom! R rated movies! They can stay up as
late as they want! Stay home alone all day!" (I don’t know who all these
parents are but I could care less about their parenting. Twelve is not the
new 17.) <br />
<br />
And hormones! He is moody AF. One minute he’s rowdy and
laughing; the next he’s scowling and huffing, telling me I just don’t
get it. Me? Not get it? But I’m hip! I’m in the know. <br />
<br />
Ok, no, no, I’m
not. I don’t know half the celebrities out there. I like to be in bed by 9:30. I now own more <i>comfortable</i> clothes than not.<br />
<br />
Despite the
fluctuations in temperament, Junior’s quickly becoming a guy friend I’m
happy to be around. He makes me laugh! The other day, after I parallel
parked <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2016/03/when-did-feeling-free-become-dirty.html" target="_blank">our beastly truck</a>, the woman next to us got out of her car
and said to me, “You did an amazing job parking that truck. You go
girl!” <br />
<br />
Now, any time I make a pronouncement Junior clasps his hands and
shrieks, “You go girl!” <br />
<br />
Like, if I tell everyone I tried a new
recipe for dinner, I get, “You go girl!” Or if I tell Chuck I finished a
big project before the deadline, there’s Junior in his high-pitched
voice: “You go girl!” <br />
<br />
Just one last thing in this little ode to Junior...<br />
<br />
Junior has always been a Great Dane
who would rather be a lapdog, and so I have to keep him moving. I take
him on nightly walks/runs with me, and he complains the whole time,
dramatically holding his rib cage and wailing about his aches and pains.
Kind of like how he is when he is sick. <br />
<br />
The other night, eager to
have some peace and quiet, I let him skip the last half of our walk and
run home alone. It felt so good to be in my own company, I decided to
run two laps around the track by our house. The sun was setting as I
finally made my way home, and I ran into some neighbors who were also on a
walk.<br />
<br />
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<br />
“Oh good,” they said, “you’re okay.”<br />
<br />
“Of course,” I said. “Is
something wrong?”<br />
<br />
“We ran into Junior,” they said. “He asked us to keep
an eye out for you. He said you were alone.” <br />
<br />
When I got home, Junior
was in the bathroom. “He’s been worried,” Chuck told me. “He knew you
were running without your phone on you.” <br />
<br />
When Junior heard me coming up
the stairs, he burst out of the bathroom and threw his arms around me.<br />
<br />
“I was worried about you!” he said. Thrust into his sweaty, pubescent armpit, complete with its three hairs and thick layer of AXE, I had never felt more loved. <br />
<br />
"I went around the track twice," I said. "That's why I'm late."<br />
<br />
“You go girl,” he said.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday, Junior. I love you more than a million universes.<br />
<br />
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Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-45917662770420987522019-06-11T21:36:00.000-04:002019-06-11T21:36:38.543-04:00I put stuff up my kids' noses, but it's really quite brilliant and it goes well with celeryI'm still moisturizing, you know. Still trying to get that lovin' feeling from Josie Maran's pure argan oil. I have to be honest, it's a pity fuck at this point. Slathering it on, waiting...hoping...waiting...<br />
<br />
Thank the Heavens I have my three children to distract me from my all-consuming skincare regime.<br />
<br />
Take this morning. Junior, now almost 12, woke up at 5:45 a.m. and started whimpering, "Help me" from the bathroom. He's in the tweenager stage, where things that happen in the bathroom are TOP SECRET and must take place behind closed and locked doors, so I was surprised he was calling for me.<br />
<br />
When I went in, it looked like a crime scene. His bloody nose had exploded all over the bathroom — the walls, the floor, the cabinet. He hung his head over the sink and asked me for help.<br />
<br />
I was half-awake and grouchy. Cleaning up someone else's bodily fluids isn't my favorite way to start the day. <br />
<br />
"You know what I'm going to suggest, right?" I said.<br />
<br />
"I'm not using one of those!" he grumbled. "I know what they're really for!"<br />
<br />
"They're perfect and you know it," I shot back.<br />
<br />
He reached for the toilet paper roll, grabbed a wad of paper, and tried to sop up the blood. But because we are cheap and enjoy wiping our butts with sandpaper, we have industrial grade toilet paper, and the absorbancy was like...like trying to catch spilled water with a broom.<br />
<br />
"Fine! I'll use one! Just make it stop!" he yelled.<br />
<br />
I reached into the bathroom cabinet and pulled out this:<br />
<br />
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<br />
Aha! Right?<br />
<br />
If you think about it, tampons are the <i>perfect</i> solution to nosebleeds. They fit easily inside your nose. They're absorbent. They have a string, so if you stick one too far up inside your nose you can easily pull it out. And, if your kids get nosebleeds a lot, like mine do, it saves on paper towel, toilet paper and tissue consumption. One tampon is equivalent to like three boxes of tissues. <br />
<br />
Good for moms <i>and</i> the planet!<br />
<br />
If you're going to go this route for nosebleeds, I recommend a few things. First, use practical terminology when you introduce them. The first few times I presented the tampons to Junior, at age seven or so, I called them "nose-bleed stoppers." As in, "Gee, Junior, another nose bleed? The doctor recommended these awesome nose-bleed stoppers. Want to try one?"<br />
<br />
(He was suspicious, but soon came to see their absorbent prowess.) <br />
<br />
Second, start your kids off young, before they go to health class and learn about human anatomy. That's what killed it for me: the damn middle school teachers who decided it was time for everyone to learn about the human body and puberty. The nerve. I mean, Everett, my eight year old, still thinks I have two butts. And I intend to keep it that way.<br />
<br />
Third, be prepared for some backlash at some point — namely right after middle school health class comes along. I'll never forget when Junior stormed into my room in sixth grade and said, "I know what you put in my nose!"<br />
<br />
"Do you mean the nose-bleed stoppers?" I'd asked innocently.<br />
<br />
"Mom! That's not what they are!"<br />
<br />
So ok, Junior was mildly pissed at me for awhile, but I take this morning's incident and Junior's <span class="vmod">acquiescence as proof positive that this parenting hack is <b>sheer brilliance</b>. I mean come on, these nose-bleed stoppers are so absorbent your child can snack his way through a bloody nose. </span><br />
<span class="vmod"><br /></span>
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<span class="vmod"><br /></span>
<span class="vmod">Was that too much? </span><br />
<br />
<span class="vmod">Food + bloody noses + tampons? </span><br />
<span class="vmod"><br /></span>
<span class="vmod">Yah, ew, maybe. </span>Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-1115225161178812852019-05-29T22:11:00.000-04:002019-05-30T10:08:27.077-04:00I had to know: Is it worth the orgasm?I have a fear of QVC, and it's a little conspiracy theory-ish. Are you ready? There's a small part of me that believes the QVC spokespeople are all bots with little chips that send waves to your brain and that if you linger on the station for just a <i>moment</i> too long, they zap into your brain and convince you to buy shit you normally wouldn't.<br />
<br />
Don't believe me? I have two words for you: Quacker Factory.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Over the years I have succumb to a few impulse purchases. <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2010/03/im-totally-stalling.html" target="_blank">There was the purple eyeshadow incident.</a> A few IT cosmetics here and there (I love their waterproof under-eye concealer — handy because I snorkel constantly in Connecticut and still want to look perdy — but their light powder concealer makes me look like Data from Star Trek). Some Clarks shoes. A Total Home Gym after I'd been drinking... <br />
<br />
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</div>
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<br />
Anyway. I've been patting myself on the back for a while now because even though I've watched Josie Maran peddle her pure argan oil products with orgasmic enthusiasm — <i>puuure, argan oil, ooooooooo yeeesss </i>— as she slathers herself with oily, reckless abandon, I have resisted buying them. <br />
<br />
Take that, bots!<br />
<br />
Alas, I have a confession. A few weeks ago I succumbed to Ms. Maran. I was flipping past QVC and I lingered too long on the segment for the 8-pack of <a href="https://www.josiemarancosmetics.com/products/whipped-argan-oil-body-butter" target="_blank">Whipped Argan Oil Body Butter </a>in assorted scents for $70. Mesmerized by all the promises of dewy, goddess-like skin and Maran's scintillating repetition of the word "juicy," I texted my friend and said "Should I?" and she wrote back "YOU WILL LOVE IT."<br />
<br />
I hit the purchase button, and a week later it arrived (it's not missing one, I took one out).<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Now I'm here to tell you, from the other side of I've Tried It-ville, about my experience so that I may help you, if you're vacillating and unsure, like I was, about this <i>puuure, argan oil</i> body butter. Is it worth it?<br />
<i><br /></i>
Yes and no.<br />
<br />
No because...<br />
<br />
... it's just a moisturizer. Really, it is.<br />
<br />
It's substantial, but not goopy, and it smells kind of wonky, especially the Lilac. As in, "Hi Grammie!" The Milk and Honey scent is okay. It's a sugar-frenzied smell that wavers somewhere between baked cookies and frosting on crack. I now understand why so many people prefer the Unscented. <br />
<br />
The body butter is light and whipped all right. So much so that big cavernous holes exist in the tub. And it doesn't instantly absorb unless, maybe, you apply a pea-sized amount, which seems to go against Maran's mantra of <i>slather, baby, slather until you shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<i></i>
I'm disappointed to find that I don't feel decadent and amazing putting it on, like Josie promised — <i>Ooooh, gawd, yeeesss it's sooooo luxurious</i> — instead I just feel like I'm putting on moisturizer. Maybe I didn't drink enough first. Maybe you have to be halfway to shit-hammered to enjoy spending 30 minutes rubbing Juicy Pear onto your skin. But I read the instructions, and there's no mention of vodka. They just say to put it on when your skin is dry — no shit, it really says that:<br />
<br />
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<br />
I've been using the body butter for a week and my skin doesn't glow, and it doesn't feel buttery soft. It just doesn't feel dry. The same results are easily attainable by Curel or Nivea, but I guess if you buy chemical laden creams you can't feel good about helping to sustain all the <a href="https://www.josiemarancosmetics.com/pages/the-making-of-argan-oil" target="_blank">Moroccan women</a> who hand peel the argan fruit and grind the nuts to tease out the <i>puuure, argan oil.</i><br />
<br />
There's always a trade off. <br />
<br />
Price-wise, it was a decent buy, so I guess there's your <i>yes</i> to buy it. Seventy dollars for eight 4-ounce tubs is about $8.75 per tub, which is sort of / kind of / not really okay considering most commercial brands retail for upwards of $10. And Maran promises it has a shelf life of forever, so it looks like I'll be body buttering myself into my eighties — slathering in between my wrinkly folds, culling out my inner, yet senile, goddess.<br />
<br />
I'll save the Lilac tub for then. Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-15343831949495153342019-05-22T16:14:00.000-04:002019-05-22T16:14:01.456-04:00From night lights to Fortnite: I need like 10,000 more tissues please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I swear, watching your kids grow up is so fucking hard.<br />
<br />
I thought it would be easier because Chuck and I are cool and hip, despite the fact that 50 is quickly encroaching.* We strike that perfect balance of discipline and freedom. We don't yell — a lot — and we let the kids know 50 million times a day that lines of communication are open.<br />
<br />
We are the parents who say, "You can tell us <i>anything</i>." And we mean it.<br />
<br />
(And we have learned many disturbing things about body hair and anatomical exploration fueled by innocent curiosity — thankfully only involving one body at a time.)<br />
<br />
Then there we were last night at Junior's chorus concert. It was over, and everyone was congregating in the foyer. Junior saw his two best friends and picked up the pace. I asked him to slow down so we could get pictures with his brothers and grandparents.<br />
<br />
"But my friends are going to leave," he said.<br />
<br />
"But you're all dressed up, and I want to get a picture of you and your brothers."<br />
<br />
He looked at Everett and Cam and scowled. Everett, at eight, is still happy playing make-believe and coloring. He has become obnoxiously uncool to Junior. Cam, who is four and stubborn and obstinate and independent and pushy and forthright and <b>doesn't acquiesce to anything</b>, throws a somewhat tightly wound Junior into high alert. <br />
<br />
"Do I have to?" he sighed heavily.<br />
<br />
"Just a few."<br />
<br />
As I clicked away, Junior looked downright morose. Everett and Cam bickered on either side of him over a stuffed monkey and who was going to hold it.<br />
<br />
"Guys!" Junior yelled impatiently. "STOP!" <br />
<br />
I adopted the tone of displeasure.<br />
<br />
"BOYS!" I yelled.<br />
<br />
I just wanted a nice picture. JUST ONE NICE PICTURE HOW HARD CAN THAT BE, GUYS? <br />
<br />
By the time we were done, Junior's friends and parents were starting to disband. Thankfully one of the mothers got a photo of the three friends and shared it with me. When I looked at it — shocker — Junior was beaming.<br />
<br />
Still, I didn't put two and two together.<br />
<br />
DUH.<br />
<br />
"Why do you still look so blue?" I asked Junior. "You got to see your friends. We even got a picture!"<br />
<br />
Then, at 2 a.m., as I lie awake strung out on Sudafed for my allergies, I thought back to my <i>own</i> middle school years. As much as I remembered my parents, what I remembered more was my friends.<br />
<br />
DUH. <br />
<br />
I heard myself from earlier that night, telling Junior not to rush to his friends — not to leave us behind. I heard myself scolding him for not staying with his brothers for the perfect picture when the truth is, I have a million pictures of the three of them together.<br />
<br />
It's not about him and them anymore. It's about him and his friends, and this is just the beginning of him leaving them, and us, behind.<br />
<br />
Hopefully he'll keep coming back. <br />
<br />
But man, that day you walk into their bedroom and find their favorite stuffed animal on a ledge instead of in their bed? The one that is ratty from being covered in baby slime and spit-up, that's been washed and dried so many times its fur is knotted? The one that used to go on sleepovers and cause sheer panic if its location was unknown?<br />
<br />
That, uh, was a tear jerker moment. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I know it's normal. I know it's part of the cycle of life. I just didn't think it would be this hard. I will say this: After years of feeling wretched guilt that the boys just wanted me — I used to have to hide behind the couch so Junior wouldn't see me — it is sweet restitution to see Junior seek out Chuck for advice, company, male camaraderie — and for video gaming advice.<br />
<br />
(That's the other thing I didn't think would be this hard. %^&#%^@*^*@%^ video games. Fucking Fortnite. Can I get an amen?)Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-38237366325545635682019-04-12T10:10:00.004-04:002019-04-12T10:11:57.004-04:00Shoes every mom should have. No, really, they should come home with the free formula samples in the hospital bag<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I still want these shoes. I've wanted them <i><b>so badly</b></i> for so long, ever since I saw them in Vogue. I want to wear them at the bus stop. I want to wear them to school functions. I want to wear them to the park. I want to wear them all day and all night because to me, they are the embodiment of motherhood: You have got to shake your shit the entire ride —and fast — or it will eat you alive.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I'm being extreme. Forgive me. I have three sons and we never sit down. <b>Ever. </b>Shoes with flames just makes sense to me. Plus, I've had two kids home sick this week with the flu and I'm high on Dude Perfect fumes. (This shoe? Would it survive a shoe flip? A drone launch through a basketball hoop 50 yards away? Probably.) You can't watch Dude Perfect 24/7 and not feel like jumping up and running the eff around.<br />
<br />
See, <a href="http://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2019/04/taking-rum-out-of-running.html" target="_blank">I am a runner</a>! I told you!<br />
<br />
If I owned these shoes I would never give them up. If I'd been wearing these shoes while I worked at Mulletville Corp, and <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2008/09/last-time-i-checked-wearing-hooker.html" target="_blank">my boss wanted to borrow them</a> I would have said no. Hell no.<br />
<br />
Chuck, if you're still reading this blog, which you assured me you are, I NEED THESE SHOES for Mother's Day. <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2017/05/just-because-its-made-with-love-doesnt.html" target="_blank">I can wear them in my teepee.</a> I can wear them to bed. Just the shoes! Do you get what I'm saying? You can call me Rocket Man, er, Woman.<br />
<br />
Please?!Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-37178388381710574172019-04-10T20:20:00.000-04:002019-04-10T20:20:11.313-04:00Taking the rum out of runningDid I mention I've started to run? <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/2012/01/some-might-call-it-making-run-for-it.html" target="_blank">Not at night. And not away from home</a>. But real, legit running. In fact, after a month of walking and running (I guess, <i>ralking</i>), I can almost make it all the way around the track at the town's park.<br />
<br />
If there were any attractive men in this town — other than my luscious husband Chuck — I'd be able to complete the loop no problem because as we all know (us runners anyway, <i>wink, wink</i>) all it takes is one attractive person on the sidelines to keep you moving.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
The best part of running, of course, is bragging to everyone about how you do. Every chance I get, I remind Chuck that I'm going to outlive him by 50 years because of my newfound cardiovascular prowess. He loves it.<br />
<br />
"Shut up," he says. (After 20 years of co-habitation, I know this really means "I admire and worship you.")<br />
<br />
How do I love running? Let me count the ways. I love how running makes the extra fat on my ass flop in the wind. I love how my eyeballs struggle to focus as my feet pound the pavement. I love how much more agile I feel chasing my three sons around the house, and up to the park, and up the stairs, and through malls and state parks.<br />
<br />
Run, run, run!<br />
<br />
Most of all, I love how I can spontaneously decide to go for a run, even if circumstances aren't quite ideal.<br />
<br />
Case in point: this Saturday. Chuck had a buddy over, and he loaded us up on <a href="https://www.goslingsrum.com/cocktails/dark-n-stormy-cocktail/" target="_blank">Dark and Stormies</a>. If you've never had one before, it's a drink concocted of dark rum and ginger beer. It's sweet, peppy and goes down way too easily with French Toast and bacon. Bonus: all that sugar makes you extra feisty. So feisty, in fact, you don't realize you're sauced until it's way too late.<br />
<br />
(So, so late.)<br />
<br />
"I can't parent," I told Chuck after I'd slugged down a few. "The room is spinning."<br />
<br />
Chuck, who has the constitution of 10 cows on steroids, said breezily, "I noticed."<br />
<br />
In my sugar-laden, intoxicated blur I had a brilliant idea. "I'll run now!" I told him. "I'll run this off."<br />
<br />
Before he could say boo, I raced outside and started down the street. I was wearing Junior's Lego Crocs and I couldn't figure out how to get the hood of my sweatshirt off my head, but I was on a mission. I made it to a stop sign, then rounded the corner up a hill. That's when my brain started to pound. Or was it my feet?<br />
<br />
I chuffed though, and I puffed, like a good little engine from the Island of Sodor — "Mrs. Mullet is ra-acing, raacing so she'll barf" — until I got halfway up the hill and was struck by how I must look to my neighbors: a hooded, hunched runner in Crocs, zigzagging my way up the hill to Vomitville.<br />
<br />
"This is crazy!" I slurred to no one. I was out of breath, dizzy, and my legs felt like rubber.<br />
<br />
I turned and started the slow jog back. The jog of shame. The bounce of blame. Whatever you call it, it sucked. When I finally got home, I crawled through the door, past Chuck and his friend — who knew enough not to ask how my run went — and passed out on my bedroom floor.<br />
<br />
"Back so soon?" Chuck said, peeking his head in. <br />
<br />
"Shut up," I moaned. (<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">After 20 years of co-habitation, he knows this really means "shut up.")</span><br />
<br />
When I woke up the next morning, the cotton rope from my sweatshirt hood had left a snake-like imprint on my left cheek, my chin was crusty with drool, and my big toes had big blisters.<br />
<br />
"How's it going?" Chuck asked.<br />
<br />
I showed him my toes.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
"Perils of running," I said, shrugging. "I'll be back out in no time." Then I put my face in the waste pan and threw up. He shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with my blisters and my thoughts, namely <i>Thank God it's Sunday and not Monday, </i><i>thank God it's Sunday and not Monday</i>.<br />
<br />
Will I drunk-run again? Probably not. And it'll be awhile before I touch dark rum. I'd like to write more but that snaggly image above of the half-painted toenail and nasty blister is making me gag, so if you'll forgive me I'm going to — yes! you guessed it! — RUN. <br />
<br />
Ew. Toes.Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-78304938769670935592019-03-22T14:22:00.004-04:002019-03-22T14:24:41.601-04:00The wheels on the bus...just don't go 'round and 'round some days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
"Sure, your son can come over tomorrow morning," I told my neighbor. Her son Dylan rides the elementary school bus with my son, Everett, and she sometimes needs to leave for work before the bus comes. On mornings Dylan doesn't come over, I drive Everett and his brother Cam to the elementary school, where they're both enrolled.<br />
<br />
"I'm working from home tomorrow," I said. "It'll be an easy day for me."<br />
<br />
(Universe: 'Easy,' you say? Mwahaahahah.)<br />
<br />
At 7:30 a.m. the next morning, Dylan knocked on our door.<br />
<br />
"Instead of taking the bus," I asked him, "do you want to ride with me? It'll give us extra time for breakfast." He nodded. At 8:15 a.m. we piled into the car.<br />
<br />
"Will we have enough time?" Dylan asked. "The bus line ends at 8:20."<br />
<br />
"Of course," I assured him.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later Dylan alerted me that the bus line had ended.<br />
<br />
"You can walk in with us through the pre-school entrance," I said breezily. <i>Why is this kid so fixated on the bus line</i>, I wondered.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
We arrived at the elementary school and, like every morning, I encouraged everyone MULTIPLE TIMES to exit the car. It was now 8:25. We were on the verge of late. Everyone climbed out but Dylan. <i>What is up with him this morning, </i>I wondered. I waved to him from the car. "Come on! We're here."<br />
<br />
He got out of the car but didn't bring his backpack.<br />
<br />
"Honey," I said, "don't you need your books?"<br />
<br />
"Why?" he asked.<br />
<br />
<i>Aggghh! </i>"BECAUSE WE'RE LATE AND NOW WE'RE HERE."<br />
<br />
He looked at me like I was crazy, but got his bag.<br />
<br />
"Why weren't you going to bring your bag in?" I asked. <br />
<br />
"Because I don't go to school here!"<br />
<br />
<i>What?</i> <i> </i><br />
<br />
"Yah, I'm a grade higher than Everett," he said. "I go to the intermediate school."<br />
<br />
<i> </i>I smacked my forehead. <i>Spectacular</i>.<br />
<br />
As I walked Cam to his pre-school class, with Dylan trailing behind me, some of Dylan's former teachers recognized him and said hello. They looked at me — the woman who wasn't his mother — quizzically. <br />
<br />
"Long story," I said with a big smile.<br />
<br />
After I'd dropped off Cam I drove Dylan to his school. "I wonder if they'll let me sign you in tardy if I'm not your parent?" I wondered aloud. He shrugged his shoulders.<br />
<br />
Luckily they did — after his mother confirmed via phone I hadn't abducted him for the morning. But it was now 8:45 a.m. and I needed to be back home for a 9 a.m. conference call. I jumped into the car and turned the key and...nothing. Then, the wheel locked.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I Googled "locked wheel" and uncovered a trick for unlocking it so I could get it out of Park. As I did so, the car rolled backwards into the parking lot, which is also the bus lane. I slammed on the brakes but it was too late: the car was in the middle of the lot.<br />
<br />
<i>Aggghh!</i><br />
<i><i>Aggghh!</i></i><br />
<i><i><i>Aggghh!</i> </i> </i> <br />
<br />
At first, people trying to leave thought I was still in the act of pulling out of a spot, so they waited patiently. Then they honked. I waved them past. Then they got creative about going around me. <br />
<br />
I called Chuck, who, by some act of God, was at home feeling sick and therefore still able to come to the rescue.<br />
<br />
"Didn't you leave an hour ago?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"THAT ISN'T IMPORTANT!" I cried. "I am in the middle of the parking lot. A line is forming. A long line."<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
"I'll be right there," he sighed.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, he showed up. As I stood outside waiting, I shrugged apologetically to the people in their cars and made stupid, clownish faces of contrition. Most people ignored me or worse, glared. Suddenly, our car bellowed to attention, and Chuck pulled it back into a spot.<br />
<br />
"What the FUCK did you do that I couldn't?" I asked him when he got out.<br />
<br />
"Don't turn the wheel so much when you park," he said. "I have to get to work." He kissed me on the cheek and drove off.<br />
<br />
I looked at my phone: 8:59 a.m. I jumped in the car and drove 100 mph home, raced onto my computer and dialed into the conference call. I tried to temper my heavy breathing by pinching my leg until it hurt a little.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, Mrs. Mullet!" Mrs. Heckenspleck said. "You're just in time."<br />
<br />
"GREAT!" I said.<br />
<br />
"And how is your morning so far?"<br />
<br />
"GREAT!" I said. "Just great."Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-62589621791711989422019-02-13T12:15:00.000-05:002019-02-13T12:19:36.974-05:00Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting: One woman's triumphant journey with a fork* This year is different, and I've been trying to figure out the why and how of it — the moment of change, if you will — because honestly, I've been wishing for things to be different for awhile now (e.g., I want to move, I want to change jobs, etc.).<br />
<br />
Although my last post was ripe with self-pity ("Woe is me, my kid is sick on my birthday"), I think the moment of change started there, and that it had everything to do with my cake. <br />
<br />
See, usually on your birthday, you have to eat dinner before you have your cake. You have to add 20 minutes for digestion before someone presents you with a cake lit with candles. Then you have to wait for someone or a group of people to sing to you. Clap, clap.<br />
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Next, you blow out the candles and the cake is whisked away to be cut and re-presented to you in a square (depending on how many people are at your gathering, this could take two to 30 minutes). If you have children, there's dissent about who got the biggest piece, who got the first piece, etc. Finally, if your cake is missing silverware, you need to find a fork. And if you have a toddler, he or she will have inhaled his or her piece and be begging you to share yours just as you're about to dig in.<br />
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That's like two hours of prep time and waiting for a piece of cake — precious time spent at the hands of others. <b>In a nutshell: There's cake protocol, and you're not in charge of any of it even though it's supposed to be YOUR day. </b><br />
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This year, though, I got astride that cake and rode it like a cowgirl. Dinner first? Nope. Singing to me? Nope. Clapping? Not a peep. Candles? Not a one. I didn't want anyone spitting their germs on it. Waiting? Nope. Cutting? Hell yah, I sliced into that bad boy and shoveled it into my mouth. In fact, over the course of the next few days, I ate the entire cake without sharing a damn crumb with anyone.<br />
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I cut through — pun intended — all the pomp and circumstance and took what I wanted and I swear, things have been different ever since.<br />
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For one, I started a new freelance job. The best part is that they had to postpone their holiday party to early January, so I got to attend and meet the whole crew. The people are <i>fantastic</i>. I haven't been to a cheery office holiday party in like 20 years. Morale was so low at Mulletville Corp, I'd forgotten what it felt like to be around a functional group of celebratory people. Bonus: There was more cake.<br />
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We finally knocked down walls in our home. We're five people in a 1,400 square foot house, plus a large dog and plump cat. After seven years of living here, I can finally open the refrigerator during dinner without having to ask someone to slide their chair over. Ditto for opening the oven.<br />
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We went to <a href="https://www.greatwolf.com/new-england" target="_blank">Great Wolf Lodge in Fitchburg, Mass</a>., for the weekend because after being sick, dealing with the gray of winter, and sanding and taping walls everyone needed a dose of fun. It was expensive as fuck, even after Groupon and coupons, but my middle kid wore his water park bracelet for two weeks after we got home. (I'll post more about it later.)<br />
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Finally — and this is the most important part of how this year is different — I started writing a book. I'm 56,000 words into it, which is the farthest I've <b>ever </b>gotten (and a big reason why I haven't been on here as much). I've been procrastinating about this for decades. No more.<br />
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So there you have it. This year is different. Yee-fucking-haw. If you've been wishing for the same I highly recommend that on your birthday, you have someone buy you a cake (for some reason, it's not the same if you buy the cake yourself) and then, when no one's looking, you dive into that mother effer. Screw protocol. Screw waiting. Life is short. Just eat your damn cake.<br />
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*No, that is <i>not</i> the actual title of the book I am currently working on, but I really kind of like it. Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1824745890000210678.post-87474613660355430872019-01-04T19:25:00.000-05:002019-01-04T19:28:29.599-05:00I may just eat the whole damn cakeWell, it's that time of year again, aka, my birthday.<br />
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Last year I compiled a <a href="https://frogsinmyformula.blogspot.com/search?q=birthday" target="_blank">list of my birthdays and noted how many of my children were sick</a> on each birthday. I really only did that so someday, when my children start showing me convalescence home pamphlets and dropping hints, I can pull up my handy list and tell them to go to hell.<br />
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This year, in a bout of optimism I haven't experienced since I was a virgin, I made plans for me and Chuck to spend the day at a local spa. It wouldn't cost a damn cent thanks to a mountain of spa gift certificates I've amassed since 2007, the year Junior was born (and consequently, the time in my life people started assuming I was a stressed out mother and needed a day at the spa).<br />
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Things were looking so good! I booked the sitter. I walked around all day with a kick in my step. My sweet mother, who is under the weather, dropped me off a cake and said, "You look happier than I've seen you in awhile!" Then she started hacking and excused herself.<br />
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But, children. They pick their noses and sneeze on each other and lick each other's faces. They are vile creatures. No sooner was Everett was off the bus than he said, "I don't feel well." His face went white. He asked for the puke pan.<br />
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He has a fever.<br />
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So I canceled our spa reservations. While I was waiting for Chuck to get home from work, I opened up my pretty birthday cake and cut out a huge ass piece.<br />
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And ate it for dinner. No lit candles to blow out (i.e., no germs). No singing aloud (i.e., no germs). Just face feeding and me.<br />
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I may just have invented a new tradition. Frogs in my formulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15588651443689809504noreply@blogger.com0