~ HerdinKittys ~

La La La La PLAGUE

We are sick.  Plague sick.  The three of us are wheezy, runny, head hurting, stomach churning, can't breath please lawd help us Plague sick.

Mom - saving grace.  She came over last night, watching bebes as I got down on my knees and performed the 'please have mercy' dance for one town home association.

They are a quiet group, these three members, who if not feeling kind, will charge me the full $1100.  These three members.  Can break my budget.  Interesting.

Mom- saving grace.  She watched the girls this a.m. as I sulked to the Army hospital.  Ultrasound for ye old gallbladder.

Let me say that I can now equate ultrasound for ye old gallbladder with one very relaxing massage.  Dim lights, warm lube, Spanish music (yes, the kind older gentleman was into his Spanish music) and a gurney.  And no bebes. 

Laugh.  Go ahead.  But that half hour was, except for five minutes explained below, was the most relaxed I've been in two years.

Five minutes...aka - lets press down on your abdomen and set things ablaze shall we?

Totally worth it. 

How pathetic is that?

Apparently, enjoying your ultrasound equates dire repercussions, as I developed a nasty fever on the short walk back to the car. 

Hk thoughts, "sure hope these soldiers are as strong as they look 'cause my behind is getting ready to fall out"

In the car, to the store to spread said disease - sorry Peninsula - and to buy much needed bebe diapers/pull-ups.

Home home home to sink into the couch with two very sick little girls.  Fevers and they were still trying to play.  Sweety pies.

I suppose I should be asleep but Samantha is worrying me so ... here I am, passing the time until I go in to check on her again. 

We have the Dr. appointments tomorrow a.m. to make sure nothing has gone to their chest and set up shop. 

How to make people groan

Let it not be said that I don't have the where with all to do some documenting of bebe stuff.

Eh, just don't look at the baby albums. 

Maybe I just suck.

Well tonight I've decided to write down some things that surely only Earl and I would find amusing because really, truly - how many times have you thought other people's kids were funny?

I don't count.  I laugh at everything.  And your kids are hilarious. 

I still don't count though.  I always visualize that one comedienne, I think it was Kightlenger (sp) when she joked about not wanting to talk to her friends kids on the phone. 

It's that.  Who wants to impose?  I dooo, I so do, because quite frankly, my kids freaking rock but that's neither here nor there.

Anywho, here's the stuff to remember Earl-when-you-return/me-cause-your-memories-already-shot-out-the-damn-window.

On the bebes and I at the townhome:

For some reason, each and every single stupid time I decide to become brain dead and take the girls to the town home for the running of the water/posturing so that people know that I care about the place/a little open freedom, the girls take it upon themselves to:

Poop.

They save it up.  For the town home.  In anticipation of going someplace new and exciting to poop their pants. 

Nothing like checking your home out and being pushed out of the way by two hyper, screeching, stanky girls running up and down the stairs.

Yeah, I let them run UP and DOWN the stairs. 

For they will learn to be more careful if they fall.

Just making the herd stronger for y'all that's all - don't want two eensy, fraidy kittys being sent into the world.

I do have my limits though, I mean come on!  Hurling yourself down the stairs may be good times,good times, but not to momma.  I'm easy going, not foot loose and 'hey, come take my kids away'.

Alas, being the fantabulous mother that I am, I have taught them the most upstanding of words...

Annabella knows chandelier and various other high falutenz while Samantha relishes in yelping "tawld" at me when wiping her heiny.  She also enjoys shoving her sippy cup in my face and demanding "wader". 

And since the town home came up, what better time than now to explain Annabella's awareness of phrasing and intonation, coupled with a few choice words momma taught her.

On being in the backyard, I left the sliding door open so that the girls could meander in and out.

Samantha did so at lightening speed, seeming fascinated with this whole 'our yard' business and the ability to get back inside quickly.

In and out, laughing, in and out.  Over and Over.

This sending Annabella into a complete tizzy, being the stoic little person she is, and after so many times of Samantha not staying inside! for the love of Gawd! I heard this:

"okay! 'Mantha, gawd damnit.  Inside house now!"

WTF?

"hey! we don't use that word!"

to which if looks could be translated, I believe hers would be, "uh, yeah, you do woman.  Maybe you should take some time to do the mother freeking momma herdin here and while you're at it lady, watch that potty mouth of yours.  So that I don't have to use mine! Please bitch"

There are just no words.

Earl's gonna be pissed.  Or maybe not.  You never know with him.  Anyhow, we'll see what he says cause next we're moving on up to "oh holy hell" and "bitch what?"

Good times, Good times

So then we're home and I'm chasing the girls around the house (we have a circle of bathroom/my bedroom/walk-in/back to bathroom route we make) to get some last minute bebe energy out and we're tearing around the corner and bam....

Dizzy.

So old Mcfarty olden pants stops to take a breather so she doesn't stroke out, sitting on the corner of her bed hoping the world stops spinning.

When whaddya know, two bebes stop dead in their tracks and Annabella pats the top of the shredder (cut off.unplugged.shusshh) and announces...

"This is cheddar .  . . cheese"

Thank you karma.  That was a much needed belly laugh.

Happier

WoW!  My inner rage has hijacked this blog for far too long. Are you depressed yet?  Seriously.  I wasn't bummed in the least tonight but now, now I feel like jumping out the window (shuushhh, I live on the first floor)  just perusing my old posts.  For real people, I feel this place needs some uplifting, silly stuff. Just to get the JuJu going in the right direction, you know? So for kicks and grins... I got called out on my whiteness today, not due to any racial thing but, due to the sheer dorkiness that is me.  It's a gift really. You see, I'm not only loud, but my voice is - It's the sound of the prissiest, stuck up, annoying chipmunk squeal of all sounds of all voices. Hearing myself on tape is a test of endurance and a weapon of torture for those in a 5 mile vicinity. So, when explaining just how ghe.tto my gifts for a friend were, due to my inability to understand gift giving because Hello! I'm not a mind reader, (and secretly believe myself to be more male in the giving to others aspect, whatever that means, which ohhhh, I Think You Do) *ahem* My friend said, "spoken like a true white girl"  But for reaulll ya'll, I am soooo not. Whatever.  Gawd, I'm a dork.  GAWD. Blah Blah Blah Me Blah Blah Before the gooey nuggatey goodness that is the hk bebe girls - How long are we supposed to have to maintain composure Comedy Central?  Really truly heartly, Friday thru Sunday, you take away our Daily Show and Colbert Report.  And then you try to appease me with your measly eensy rerun of Thursday.  Fuckers. And just how long am I supposed to wait until 'Reno 911, The Movie' comes out on dvd?  How long?!  Uh uh, don't hate!  You know you wanna laugh when that shit comes on tv.  In a bitch about it moment though, one in which everyone will disagree because it's such a hit, I'm not so much about the Silverman show.  Is she gorgeous?  Yeah.   Is she intelligent?  I have no idea, I would assume yes, in getting such a fantabulous run on the channel. Is she funny?  My opinion, for what it's worth - lint and a hairball - so so.  I laugh and then I get all awkard - eyy out.  So much so I'm forced to make up words.  Blah blah me blah blah  BEBES Theme, dorkiness Check? I love music.  You do too?  Imagine that. All kinds.  I wrote about Dar Williams and the goodness that is her folkiness. Hip Hop? mmhmm.  Rap? some.  Boys with Guitars (aka, Earl's favorite...think Nickelback)?  yes.  Girls with Guitars (little harder, ladies, get out there and play!) oh yeah.  Electronic/Dance/Techno aka Rave music?  for the love of pete YES!  sorry shouted.  Cause I love me some techno. Go ahead.  Laugh.  My husband doesn't,  he shakes his head. And states that the girls will never like his type of music.  Not so love O mine.  Annabella Adores! Loves! Knows! Everlast...aka "White Trash Beautiful".  Or as she prefers "Trassshhhh!" I'm working on my exclamation point quota...they've been highly ignored as of late.  In a fit of needing some new electronica I jumped online and downloaded the song "Boten Anna".  I played this for my bebes, on their little mini IPod/Hello Kitty speaker docks...why mention this?  How arrogant, how spoiled.  Yes, but it's too damn cute....... They went nuts.  No no no, not danced around cutely with tiny bebe bootys moving.  No, arms flying around and up and down, Annabella furiously jumping - Samantha head tilting running around in circles. Like Bebe Crack only Safe and with no after effects. Annabella whines for the doggy song (I can not for the life of me figure this one out) and when prompted says the correct name, races to their bedroom and waits. For the bebe crack With Samantha squeezing in front of me to click on the song. For she is well aware of how to operate the gawd darn IPod. This frightens me.  And it should you as well.  So, in the more than likely case that you haven't heard the bebe crack, I'm posting the You Tube video of the song.  And you will laugh.  Cause oh my gawd it's dorky.  Ignore the visuals, or don't because you might want the laugh, for it's the beat that matters.  The beat people!  I know the translated words and hmmm, I much prefer the original language.  And hearing Annabella say "Boten Anna" rocks far more than it really should.

Basshunter - Boten Anna (MUSIC VIDEO)  And the picture of my bebes dancing to the song.  No video - my crap camcorder is ill and is gonna be takin out back and shot.  hold on...typepad = a bitch...I'm trying to get the pics    And getting revved up Ohhh yeah,  mhmmm, rave bebe next please, IPod - that's all you've got?

The townhome

A relationship not worth maintaining.  One in which the sheer stress of it all outweighs any enjoyment you may garner from it in the near future. 

Man? Wo-Man? 

Nah.

Townhome -man.

Muthafreekinjehosephatindamn! 

To kick things off, let's have a little background shall we

Earl and I, pre-serious dating, lived a mere 2 minutes via car from each other.  He in the townhome....myself in the same complex we live in now.

When we married, he had rented out the place to a group of former friends.  Mhmmm, that shaking of the head is what we should have paid attention to, for they TORE that home UPPP. 

I then drove from New York to VA, six months after getting married, alone and on a mission.  To clean the pit up.  Just how bad?

Glass shards in the backyard

Grass so overgrown it had fallen over and when propped up, stood up to my waist

Carpet so overrun with food, alcohol, cat poo, and whatever else can soak into a carpet - it was all there

A very large, very real electronic bar dart board.  Bolted into the wall.  Worse, the print left on the wall was of a life-size cross...creepy

Paint caked into the garbage disposal, rendering it useless

Black soot caked on all the windows from months of smoking in the house with no ventilation. 

Nothing, and I mean absofuckinglutely not one thing, in that house was cleaned

But the coup de gras, the piece of art that was the heart stopping finale - the giant stain on the front stoop created by none other than the very deep fat turkey fryer sitting right there as well.  For all the neighbors to behold

When I first saw the last loser out of the house my heart sank and I believe I sat on the stairs in tears....unsure of just how in the hell I could Fix Any of this!

But I did. Three very long summer months spent driving from my mothers house in Williamsburg down to the home, numerous hardware store runs, ripping out and installing new window trim, hand making window screen frames, not hurling when cleaning the bathrooms.

I painted and sanded, degunked, and in effect - breathed new life into a place deemed unlivable.

In the peak of summer I went out and sanded and painted the backyard fence, in essence giving myself a very nasty case of heat rash....on my inner thighs, right by my lady parts.  Ughh, sorry for that imagery but it gets worse.

Upon freaking out when the rash did not improve over the course of a few weeks, I turned on my husband...accusing him of giving me the raging case of something STD.  In case you haven't noticed by now, my husband puts up with a lot of crap.  Some he's worthy of getting, but this was - stupid.

That home, although not in my name, is my baby.  She Owes me.

And yet, here we are again.  With renters leaving without notice and taking the keys with them, a total breakdown of communication between my property manager and myself, a fine (one in which I didn't know existed) on a failed inspection of the townhome property, a backyard that hasn't seen a mower in well over 6 months, vines creeping up the fucking shed, more money owing than we have in our budget, and more...

Today - I cried in front of the girls today.   It wasn't bawling but it was just there and the stress and I broke.

Samantha, bless her heart, she just ran around and squealed because she has no clue but Annabella, she knew stuff was not right.

Mid cry, "I'm sorry bebe, momma's just a little sad", trying to distract them with grabbing up books to read and getting dinner ready.

Annabella, flopping on the couch with her face scrunched up, "ohhhhhhh noooo, momma's crying, she's sad"

Nothing more, nothing less. 

And I cut up hot dogs - please someone, make the hot dogs stop...I just hate them soooo very much - and made fizz water/tap water and plopped down beside the bebes.

Annabella came and stroked my frazzled hair, bending over to smile in my face, and ran off to get in her chair.  Momma versus Eating?  Please.  It's all about the food.

Nice Warm and Fuzzy yet?

Don't be.  Because in a perfect world all that lovey stuff would make the anger go away.  It doesn't. 

My property manager called today to not apologize but rather, give excuses as to why he's dropped the ball these past few days.

And here is where you see my heart in all it's cold, icy trueness...for I am, when riled, a true bitch.  No apologies.  Certainly not bragging.  Just, it is what it is.

While and after explaining that his mother had a stroke last week and was critically ill, all I could do was bite my lip and not screech like a howler monkey. Please understand, I sympathize and understand the pain of a parent in severe trouble. 

Done that.  Several times.  I will send my most positive vibes your way but...

If it affects your work and people are counting on you, contractually and money-wise, please oh please pass the torch.  Give your go aheads to the next person in charge.  Do not allow things to become so muddled when there was an avenue around the mess.

I took the 'oh I'm so sorry, please excuse me then for all the phone calls', and rolled them back down my throat.  What came out was far more harsh and with little to no sympathy.

What came out was, 'I understand, I do, and I'm sorry for that but',  deep sigh, 'but, you have to understand sir that I am stressed to the point of exhaustion.  Your mistakes and mine are costing me a small fortune.  My husband isn't here to make it all better.  So while I understand, it doesn't make it okay."

To which he responded, " Well, you know God doesn't give us anything more than we can handle."

Umm, okay.  Wrong saying, wrong lady.  Way to go on making me now not only want to rip your head off but to kick you in the nads as well.

And as far as him never saying he's sorry for the whole damn mess I leave you with this:

Flashback 10 years ago:  A girlfriend and I went to a bar to unwind.  She, being totally schnockered, walked past a surprisingly quiet group of military guys.  The one sitting with his legs right in our path, she kicked him.  Hard.  With mucho gusto.  Why, I'll never know.  What I do know is that he was going to forgo the whole 'never hit a woman thing' and knock her ass to the ground.  I jumped between them, his nose touching mine, his fist clenched and touching my arm.  I repeatedly blurted out how sorry I was but that she was drunk.  Sooo very sorry and we'll leave you alone.

His response, "Don't ever say you're sorry.  It's a sign of weakness."

And then he sat back down. 

Suppose Property Manager guy follows the same creed.

As for me -

No sir, I'm not sorry I'm a bitch.  Just sad that I have to be, that's all.

Hey, Mom? 

Can I have a word with you?

                                 

Yeah, ok, don't get all "I'mmm the Mommy, not you" on me okay?

So - about our playdates.  What the hell mom?  We only have a few playdates every so often and when they do occur, me and 'the older one who knocks me around', like playing with the other kids' toys.

I gotta take a break because I feel a tantrum coming on...hold on.  Here's 'she who pets my head like I'm a pet'.

                                    

Yeah, hey there mom.  Enough screwin around...that small kid 'Mantha means well but she beats around the bush.  So here goes -

For the love of all that's holy in this universe, the next time we are over at someone's place for a playdate/cookie decorating extravaganza do not, and I mean Do NOT, get into a small discussion/debate on whether women should be allowed in the military.  Jeezus mom!

I know you didn't start it.  I don't care.  It was her house for cripes sake.  You don't have to open your big mouth and gush forth your opinions ALL the Freekin time. 

Please woman.  Apologize.  I don't care if you don't wanna.  It was her house.

Awww, yeah, I'd be a little embarrassed too.  S'okay mom. 

Just so you know, we the bebes got your back. 

Just from now on, don't fuck around with the playdates.

 

On occasion, I have been known to sit back and smile, if only to enjoy the fleeting seconds of euphoria created by the tightly flexed muscles of my mouth.  Even if few and far between these days, those moments are saved for two very special wee people in my life.  Savored and thrown out into the world to fall upon my girls, hoping only that a reciprocating smile be cast my way.

It's not that things are frantic or sad...no reason really.  Depression hasn't reared her ugly head and this is relief enough to stay calm.  The silence has become bearable - if not a little achy, I mean come on - and there are plenty of "daddy videos" installed on the computer to keep us in touch.

I like to think of it as a joint investment in consideration of a newly acquired girlfriend.  The girls now have play friends and I have someone who can carry a dialog, sound intelligent, all at the same time, and listen to my story as well.  As with most girlfriends of the past, she is the vibrant and energetic of this new friendship wherein I, remain the more subdued.  I'm comfortable in this setting.

It is, after all, the core foundation of most of my relationships.

Whether that includes Earl and I remains to be seen...we've changed dramatically these past few years - our foundation contracting and expanding, allowing for the bumps and grinds to happen, not destroying us in the process.

My internal organs have posted lease termination notices.   Ye old gallbladder raced right to the forefront (he has been hangin around, all inflicted, since 2004) once again this Friday...sending mamsita straight to the trusty army UCC.  At which point my pains intensified not only due to the insufferable wait but alas, the bitch of a civilian doctor employed there...barking at me as if I were in the military.  I regress, forgive, but seriously - Bitch, my husband's in the Navy, not me. 

To which my early a.m. appointment came and went smoothly today due to the gentle and efficient touch of the Army Reservist who replaced the bitch that was.  My gallbladder thanks her.

Note forwarded to the asshole causing nausea, gut pain, shoulder pain, and bloating...your time is short.  Get your kicks now 'cause your sludgy ass is gonna be snipped.

A frown less angry rather a tad more 'pfft, please', issued to the hairstylist that snipped my lovely locks Saturday.  Dearness, I understand the sheer exhaustion twins - as a true single mother no less - must bring to your life.  However, this does not allow you the luxury of poo pooing and one upping other mothers.  Ever.  We're all exhausted.  I bitch and whine but I do NOT feel my role is any more or less time consuming and frustrating than any other parent.  I'm not saying 'get over it' just ...calm the fuck down with the pity party.

Yeah, I see what I wrote.  Taking note of it.

So, it's not so much all these things that keep my smiles at bay, more, things that happen that just don't make any sense.  That luck isn't with me a whole lot these days is more the culprit. 

We came in from the cold this afternoon, mom and two bebes draped across her shoulders, both sleeping soundly and ready to be placed in their cribs.  The only thing keeping me from dropping soundly into the warmth of my own bed was the steady blinking light of the voice-mail. 

Interesting.  I had already spoken with my mom and all friends were off taking care of their own families...no time for phone calls. 

A quick check and a call back and it seems - our townhouse was vacated.  Early.  As in four months early and some pretty nice loose change early to boot.  In asking the property manager what happened, finding that he had ignored my previous call earlier in 2006 to extend her lease, it seems the person renting thought she had to leave in January. 

I'm sorry. Fucking what?  It's the thirteenth of February and I'm just now being told that she left in January? 

What's done is done and now, without the benefit of the man whom actually owns the damn place, I'm soaking up the cost of three months of mortgage, hoping beyond all hope that no other incidents occur.  Because that would just be icing on the cake.

Here's to the smiles - may they brighten the rooms and lighten the faces of those we love.  May they also lessen the stress within. 

 

                                           U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate 1st Class Robert R. McRill

That's his boat.  Yeah, I have personal pics of the boat deploying but I do not have the authorization of that particular photographer.  So this is a publicly released one.  There, credit given.  No, he doesn't go out on a fishing boat.  I know it can be confusing to read military terms - sorry about that. 

I assume, wrongly I might add, that people just know what I'm talking about.  In this vein, here's the best I can offer up tonight. 

As per normal references, a submarine is called a boat rather than a ship.  Please do not ever call a U.S. naval ship a boat.  Please feel free to call a submarine either...just know...it's usually referred to as a boat.  Why?  Here's a link if you're game.  Just a few quick facts on the whole service. 

I'm not gonna get maudlin and go into why I've been antsy and hyper but rather, tell you that my children are officially insane.  Growth spurt against Personality spurt.  You take your pick but I'm standing back and watching the chaos that is the bebes.  I gotta say, even though it is not a normally allowable occurrence, the smaller one has quite the backhand on her.  To the older child who keeps taking the little one's sippy cup, Barbie's, dump truck, anything of importance to her, watch your back.  She is gonna Fuck your shit up one of these days. 

Oh, I'll be there to stop it.  I'm just sayin kid.  The little one isn't playin - I know, ask me about the temper fit she threw in Wal o shopping center, acting up a fool and throwing her upper body backwards over her seat.  Arms and neck in one backwards position, perfectly still, screaming at the top of her lungs.  That's drama little lady and she will not stop with that in ceasing your rampage - o- bebe stuff.  Please, as your mom, I'm beggin you.  Stop snatchin shit out of her hand.  It's gonna get nasty up in here.

So yeah, that's all I have tonight.  Just thinking of places to take these two wild ones so that little tempers don't explode all over these walls.  Fuck this cold. 

And the silence?  The silence is truly, deafening.  Damn.

Today is the day that two little bebes and their mom are to get back together.  After a full week of crazed errand running, working with video equipment, cursing at the equipment in several languages, mad house cleaning, and some substantial pity party throwing - all without the bebes - I am more than ready to go get them from the in-laws

Two things have been discovered whilst the wee ones were elsewhere.  A)  There is a major issue in my laziness when it comes to not needing to get things done Right Now as with children and 2)  I do not eat when the bebes are elsewhere.  I simply let the whole process slip by me.  My mother came to stay with me last night, mostly for her own sake and sanity, and as she walked through the door she handed me a bag of food containing some take-out.  The smell of the nachos just about knocked me off my feet as I remembered for a split second the main course up until that point - coffee.  It was 5 p.m. 

Food has always been a crutch, a way to get past the moments that jump out at me from all angles and instead of letting them get me, I get to food first.  Are the bites comforting?  No, nor is the taste of whatever is being consumed.  There is an element beyond that, pretending to be somewhere else, someone else, enjoying a palate of good eats and having the body to afford the gluttony.  It's an escape mechanism and when points of bites are counted, the inability to get lost in the mental scenery is staggering, making each bite disgusting.  When points are counted and food is eaten on a whim, I usually end up nauseous, stuck there with food in my mouth.  Then it is merely a race to the trash to spit out the forbidden morsel before any mere calorie is absorbed.  It's all very mind boggling, giving me more fuel for the self abuse fodder.  Eh, at least it's somewhat healthy no?

So with the reminder to not speed, the urge to grab my bebes and hold them close, and the residue of sleep making me in great need of a warm shower, I'm off.  And I suppose I'll eat today.  Which is good.   

Inability

Ah me, things promised but the inability to deliver as promised. 

Words promised not to be written but the inability to do so despite any implications. 

Time spent in the company of strangers, the inability to decipher which of whom have it out for you. 

Knowing your love through time zones, the inability to physically reciprocate.

The schedules that are laid before us, the inability to keep them.

The personal introduction and extension of support to the spouses of those who work under you, met with their (her) inability to discern you from me, between your job and you, between their (her) husband's feelings toward you from theirs (hers) toward me.

Wanting to tell you that it hurt my feelings, knowing full well the inability to do so for fear of spouse finding out through word of mouth via the email readers.  The boat is  only so big for cripes sake.

The feeling of dread over our soon-to-be absolute zero communication over a few upcoming months due to the exact specifics of what it is that you do, a crippling, mind numbing inability to stop said upcoming events.

Missing you so much my heart actually hurts, the inability to keep tears from burning as I edit this post. 

As I make sure that I don't get utterly lost in missing you, an inability to stop. It.

I miss you hun.  I'm going through the motions and they seem stale.  I hope you find sleep in your rack, dreaming nicely, waking without having to face any inabilities hindering you through the days stomping toward us.

Rachel