In Which I Go Completely Off The Deep End And Use The Word "Cooter" Far Too Many Times

So, I know it's been a while, but we're still good enough friends that I can get personal, right? I mean, if there are any guys out there reading this, you should probably be advised that what I'm about to say is going to touch on some finer details of what we will call the "female experience" that may make you uncomfortable. But I'm otherwise going to trust that we're all adults here and can handle the subject matter with the irreverence and lack of dignity to which it is entitled, okay? Okay.

All that said, let's talk about my cooter, shall we?

Actually, let's take a step back for a second so I can provide some background. I am not, for the most part, your typical hypochondriac. Which is to say that I am generally a pretty healthy person, and as such, I don't find it necessary, most days, to go looking for things that might be wrong with me. However, when things do come up, I am inclined to find the most painful, difficult-to-treat, possibly terminal illness with symptoms in roughly the same area code as the ones I am experiencing and diagnose myself with said illness. And I will insist that I have this illness (BECAUSE I SAW IT ON GOOGLE!!!) until such time as the symptoms disappear or I go see a legitimate medical professional. The latter of which rarely happens, by the way. In our home, you don't go see a doctor unless the only other alternative is to see a mortician.

So anyway, point being, I get a little ridiculous when anything out of the ordinary starts happening with my body. Which of course happened yesterday when I got my period. Not that my period is something out of the ordinary. Actually, I wouldn't mind if it happened more rarely than it does. But as I was messing around in that area in an effort to maintain good hygiene, I found a large bump in a really personal area. Very large bump. Extremely personal area. And that was CERTAINLY NOT ordinary.

I tried not to freak out, but it didn't help that the gigantic boulder on my va-jay-jay didn't at all hurt, which, to me, just meant that it was one of those sleeper tumors that grows quickly and kills you dead before you know it's there. I mean, if it hurt, I could maybe, possibly try to convince myself that it was just some rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border. But no, instead, it was mocking me with its giant bigness and its lack of painful redness. So clearly, that meant cooter cancer. What else could it be, right?

But I resolved to at least consider some other alternatives before I commenced with disposing of my worldly goods and making touching, heartfelt videos for Turtle to watch so he never forgot his mommy. So I grabbed that humongous tumor and give it a big squeeze. And wouldn't you know it...that disgustingly large mass of diseased cells was so intimidated by my positive visualizations and undaunted joie de vivre that it proceeded to exit my body with extreme velocity. Emboldened by my success, I continued to squeeze that thing until I had beaten it into submission and could no longer find any traces of it lingering on my hoo-hah.

Now, most people would probably take a look at the information provided and come to the conclusion that yes, I did, in fact, have a rogue zit that decided to go on holiday from my face and ended up south of the border, and in effect, all I did was pop a pimple, which is something you can do in a much less messy way with an app for your iPad. (True story, actually. My mom has one!) But to me, something more significant happened, and I shared it with Facebook thusly: "I am so amazing that in the course of 5 minutes, I both diagnosed myself with and cured myself of cancer. Doesn't get much more awesome than that, folks."

Of course, I'm not fully convinced that I got all of it, because as I was hanging out with Snark's Mistress last night, I was forgetting words while we were talking. And since that never happens unless I'm under the influence of alcohol or it's a day ending in "y", I quickly determined that my cooter cancer had metastasized to my brain. So, clearly, I'm not completely out of the woods yet. But the immediate crisis has been averted, and as a bonus, I now have a convenient scapegoat for....well, whatever might happen that necessitates the use of a scapegoat. Running late? It's the cooter cancer. Don't want to attend some stuffy book club meeting? Oooh, sorry...my cooter cancer is acting up. Haven't posted to the blog in over a year? Well, you know how it is when you have cooter cancer.....

Pretty Soon, He'll Be Paying Rent

So, Oscar got in a little car accident a few weeks back. This, of course, came after he lost his job back in October and after he blew the engine in our other car back in early January. In other words, the timing of this particular accident was not ideal. But then, much of the circumstances of our lives lately have been less than ideal, and when is a car accident ever convenient, anyway? In any event, it was past Turtle's bed time when I was finally able to retrieve him from his babysitter in our poor, overworked, badly injured car.

He noticed the damage as I hustled him to the door and into his car seat and asked why the car was broken. "Daddy got into a little car accident, Buddy" was pretty much all I said before reminding him that he needed to start getting ready for bed as soon as we got home.

The next morning, Oscar and I drove Turtle to school. Turtle again noted the damage to the front of the car, but beyond that didn't have much to say. Until Oscar turned on the turn signal.

Turtle: Mommy! Do you know why the car is making that funny sound?
Me: No, Buddy. Why is the car making that funny sound?
Turtle: Because Daddy got into a little accident yesterday, and now the car is cracked and the light doesn't work, and that's the side with the turn signal, so it makes that noise because it's broken.
Me: (impressed) Yes, Buddy, that's exactly right. Good job!

*pause*

Turtle: I've been working on cars a lot lately. That's how I know that.

I have to say, I'm pretty impressed that his babysitter has been teaching him such marketable skills. And if he manages to get Turtle a job at the local Jiffy Lube by the end of the school year, I might have to give him a raise.

Searching In All The Wrong Places

Oscar and I have a busy weekend ahead of us. Not only is it busy, it requires us to find someone to watch Turtle for a great deal of it. It would have been nice if we'd realized that a little bit more in advance than we did, as it only makes it more difficult to secure a babysitter when you are doing so at the last minute. But we clearly missed the boat on that one as our attempts to make sure our parenting responsibilities were covered only began today.

I sent out e-mails to friends and family, while Oscar.... Well, now that I think of it, I'm not sure what Oscar did to work on our babysitting conundrum until the point that I asked him to call his best friend and see if HE was available. (Side note: I had a dream last night that Oscar's best friend was a serial killer, which might have made asking him to babysit a mite troubling. Luckily for me, he was only killing women, not children, so it wasn't that much of an issue.)

As the end of my work day approached, my leads were drying up. So I asked my cube mate (uhhhh....let's call her D)if, since she had watched another coworker's (uhhhh....let's call her F) dogs for the entire Labor Day weekend, she wouldn't mind watching my kid for 24 hours. The excuses started almost immediately.

"Uh....you don't want me to watch him. I'd probably overfeed him like I overfed F's dogs when I watched them."

"I'd be really bad at it...I'd probably just let him play the Wii the whole time." (This one would probably make D Turtle's favorite babysitter, actually.)

"Uh....I'd probably forget he was there and leave him home alone for half the day." (This one would actually make me laugh because I can only imagine the damage Turtle could do, given enough time and enough freedom.)

In the middle of this conversation, F joined in, so I asked her if she would watch Turtle for 24 hours. She was about as enthusiastic as D. Maybe even more so, because she was so excited, she jumped up out of her chair when we were distracted by something else, and skipped back to her desk without answering.

Finally, I was ready to leave for the day and as I was making the rounds to say goodnight, I mentioned to D that I was thinking of asking our boss if he could babysit, as I was starting to get desperate. (I was, of course, kidding.) D seemed to think that would be a great idea and I should walk into his office right away to ask him. Then, almost as an afterthought, she mentioned that if all else failed, I could always post an ad on Craigslist.

I'll give you a minute while that sinks in.

I know. Awesome, right? I love her.

So I continue making the rounds, and stop by the desks of F and M. There, I convey the story of what had just happened at D's desk and, no shit, F looks up at me and says "Young attractive male seeks babysitter for an evening of fun." *Pause* "Uncircumcised."

I have never been more in danger of peeing my pants in my life, save when I was wearing diapers and peeing my pants wasn't as much of a social taboo as it is now. But still.

I did have to correct F's ad, because really, on Craigslist, is anyone going to say "uncircumcised?" I don't think so. I doubt they even know how to spell it. So as far as I was concerned "uncut" was the better way to go, and I wasn't afraid to let her know it.

By this point, I not only had to leave the office because I was running late for picking up Turtle from daycare, I had to leave the office so I could call everyone I know and let them know how hilarious my coworkers are. Of course, no one answered the phone, except Oscar, whose reaction was somewhat subdued by the fact that he was still at work.

But I left Hotass a message on her phone telling her the story, because 1) I knew she'd appreciate it and 2) I knew that reaching her today was going to be difficult with her schedule.

Of course, then I stepped away from my phone, so I missed it when she called back and in her best porn star voice left me the following message:

"Yes, hi, um, I'm calling about the...uh...the ad on Craigslist for...uh... the young, uncut man looking for a caretaker. Um, if you could please call me back, my name is Candi. Thanks."

Too bad she didn't leave a phone number. Turtle might have been interested.

Party Time! Excellent!

One of Oscar's longest-running complaints about our lives is that we don't host enough parties. We have a modest-sized home, but one that boasts a very large backyard and a lovely pool that we have spent entirely too much money renovating. Oscar seems to think those are reasons enough to have an endless stream of people over to our house for food, fun, and some good, old-fashioned drunken debauchery. I, personally, feel that unless that endless stream of people is willing to clean my toilets prior to their arrival (which could only be accomplished with the aid of time travel, I suspect), the parties have to wait until I can muster up the enthusiasm to bleach-bomb my house.

Sadly, it looks as though I'm about to be outnumbered in the "to party or not to party" debate. While swimming with Turtle this evening, he casually asked if we could have some people over this weekend. I asked him what he had in mind, thinking that maybe he wanted to invite some of his new friends from school to come over and go swimming. Apparently, I think too small.

His recited a guest list of ten people he wanted to invite, most of whom are related to him in some way. Then he requested that we serve broccoli and guacamole and hamburgers and hot dogs. And he said that everyone should come over on Saturday evening, so we could swim and have food and play together. Finally, he decided that ten people was not sufficient and that ideally, he'd like to have sixteen people come over and he requested that Oscar and I please invite six of our friends, because he really wants to meet new people.

For the past couple of years, I've been worried that Turtle was going to turn out to be a serial killer, at worst, or a sniper in the military, at best, given his endless fascination with guns (and more recently, rocket launchers.) Apparently, my worrying has been in vain, as it appears he is leaning more towards a career in event planning. I'm not sure that I'm feeling as relieved as I should be.

I Think I Might Be Indecisive, But I Can't Decide For Sure

So, here's the conundrum:

I never really intended this blog to be solely about my kid. However. Turtle has started school, and OMGWHOA! I all of a sudden have THE most HILARIOUS stories. And yet, most of them involve some sort of visual or auditory component. (The tone in his voice when he starts whipping attitude at me is something to be heard to be believed. It's like he's 5 going on 30.)

So...do I update regularly with all sorts of "you had to be there" stories about Turtle's adventures in school? Or do I update sporadically with some random thoughts about various subjects interspersed with only the most easily translatable stories about my kid?

Hmmmmmm......

Sights Set On New Adventures

Yesterday, I walked onto the campus of our local elementary school and met the woman who is going to be responsible for Turtle for 6.5 hours every week day for the next 9 months. Tomorrow, I will make sure Turtle gets up, puts his clothes on, eats his breakfast and gets ready to walk onto that same campus as a brand new kindergartener.

His teacher is a lovely young woman, newly married, who looks like she might be about 12 years old. She also looks like the woman who has styled my hair for the last, oh, decade or so, and whose breasts my son used to reach for when I would bring him to one of my appointments. I really hope Turtle never goes into a fugue state and starts reliving moments from his past while he’s in Mrs. C’s class. That could get awkward.

The classroom is nice. Little labels mark every surface with words like “painting” and “table”. His teacher’s desk sits in the back with a calendar resting upon it, marking off blocks of time for PE and art class. Turtle didn’t waste too much time on those kinds of details. He was busy exploring the room for the kind of trouble he could get into, his eyes lighting up when they found the dry erase boards in the back.

We asked his teacher the kinds of questions you want to ask when you’re sending your baby off to be with people you don’t know. The playground is monitored so he’s safe, right? Where does he need to be when the bell rings so we can teach him what to do? Will there be someone to help him open up his applesauce container at lunchtime? He sometimes has trouble with that.

I didn’t ask the questions that his teacher wouldn’t be able to answer. Will he find friends on the playground or will the other kids see that he can be a sensitive kid sometimes and bully him? Will he remember to use his inside voice and keep his hands to himself or will I need to make a few trips to the principal’s office to gently remind him that he can’t roughhouse with everyone the way he does with Daddy? Will you see what an amazing, loving, intelligent, precious kid he is and realize what a precious gift it is that we’re sharing him with you?

I thought that when I took a job and said goodbye to being a stay-at-home mom I had already done the bulk of the “letting go” that needs to happen when you send your baby off to school for the first time. After all, as it is, Turtle is with a babysitter for even longer now than he will be in school every day. What’s the difference if he’s going to school or going to the babysitter’s house?

There is a big difference, apparently.

I got a little teary when I got the letter from his teacher with the school supplies she was requesting portioned off into lists denoting “wants” vs. “needs.” I got a little more teary when I went shopping with Mama Jo for those same school supplies. Last night, I was proud that I made it through the Open House without crying. Tomorrow, I will be bringing a box of tissues for Turtle’s classroom and another one, maybe two, for myself.

Tomorrow is a big day.

My Latest Obsession

It was recently brought to my attention that I have neglected my blog for a period of time that is getting perilously close to a year. Who knew?

It's hard to sum up 10 months of life in a few paragraphs, so I'm not even going to try. Instead, I just have one thing to say:

Are you watching Man vs. Food on the Travel Channel????

I only discovered this show in the last couple of weeks, but it has quickly become my favorite way to spend a half hour for several reasons. First, the host reminds me of Oscar. Not because of any kind of physical resemblance, but because Oscar has the same a-dork-able way about him and his capacity for fitting food into his belly is somewhat legendary. Secondly, I love to travel, and the idea of discovering a new locale through its regional cuisine is, I feel, one of the BEST ideas ever conceived EVER. But most importantly, watching Adam Richman chow down in some of the most amazing restaurants across this nation makes me feel as though a trip through the Taco Bell drive-thru is just cheating myself, and both my pocketbook and my waistline appreciate THAT.

As a bonus, while watching Man vs. Food is an entertaining experience in its own right, watching Oscar watch Man vs. Food is.....well....it kind of defies description. Kind of like walking through a house to find a priest in one room in solemn prayer and your brother in another room watching porn. Because Oscar's relationship to food is so passionate, he mostly looks upon Adam's culinary journeys as the ultimate religious experience. But every once in a while, it seems like he's about 5 seconds away from stripping down and rubbing a sandwich all over his body in an orgy of culinary lust. I almost feel like he should watch the episodes alone, late at night, with the lights off and a sock and some lotion close at hand.

So while it's not an excuse for neglecting my little corner of the blogosphere, can you see why maybe I have been spending more time enjoying my real life lately? I mean, you guys are great, but I don't get to see your "O" face when you see a plate of homemade pickles flit across your screens, you know?

Status: Annoyed

(Insert usual lame excuses here as to why I haven't been around lately. Bonus points if you come up with a more creative and, yet, still plausible excuse as to why I haven't been around lately. No points if you just scowl and make some kind of sarcastic remark about how I haven't been around lately. Negative points if you manage to make it sound, in the process of not making ANY excuses as to why I haven't been around lately, like I have no life and therefore no excuse for not being around lately.) (And now, on to actual content...)

Baseball:
You know, when we were doing well, I thought "Yay! I knew we were going to have a great shot at contending this year!" Then, after April and after it all started going to hell, I thought, "It's okay. We're still in first in the division and nothing matters until after the All Star Break, anyway." Then after the All Star Break, when we were still in first place in the division but we were still tanking, I thought "Well, at least we're still in first in the division.... I guess.... I mean, they'll start recovering soon, right? Look at the April we had! We'll pull it out when it counts!" Then, when the Dodgers acquired Manny Ramirez (or MAN-RAM!, as Mark Grace likes to call him) and we were still tanking, I thought "Oh CRAP!" And then when the Dodgers took over first place, and I realized we weren't going to recover, I thought, "Well, I guess there's next year."

Seriously, though. What happened to my team? Why did they have to make my cry and scream and rend my garments like that? More than that, why did they have to crash in such a spectacular fashion? Seriously, whoever it was that said that Manny Ramirez deserved to be the Dodgers MVP only because they couldn't exactly give it to the Diamondbacks wasn't joking. Unfortunately. *sigh* Here's to next year. May we not suck nearly as badly, or, alternately, may we suck a lot up front so my expectations won't be as high and it won't be such a shock when we end up embarrassing ourselves.

September:
September was kind of the Month of Suck for us, in more ways than just a baseball fan capacity. I was in Urgent Care three times in two and a half weeks. The first time, they gave me antibiotics for a sinus infection, ear infection, and eye drops for conjunctivitis (pink eye, for those of you without children in the house). The second time, they gave me even stronger antibiotics for the tonsillitis. And the third time, they took x-rays for a possible fracture that ended up being either tendonitis or a sprained wrist. Honestly? I could have done without all of that. Having my body fail me in such spectacular fashion was not good for my confidence level. And we won't even discuss what it did for my PTO time at work. I'm crossing my fingers that nobody else in my house gets sick or otherwise requires my work-time attention so I can still take some time off at Christmas. I'm sure there will be many cookies to consume and I take my cookie consumption seriously.

Politics:
Quite frankly, I'm not even sure how to express my utter and complete weariness with regard to the current election coverage and political campaigning. Not only because it's EVERYWHERE but it's so ANGRY. I haven't seen a single conversation about people's political ideals without someone at some point frothing at the mouth and screaming about how the country will go to hell if "that guy" is elected. And the thing is, sometimes that person is me. I need this election to be over soon so my blood pressure can stabilize because honestly? It alarms me a little that the staff at the urgent care know me by name.

A Confession And A Poll

So, I realize I haven't been around much lately. It's a seasonal thing, I think. (Or, alternatively, a laziness thing.) It gets hot here and I don't want to do much of anything. I haven't been in the gym in forever, either, and my ass is tacking on pounds as we speak, if it makes you feel better.

Regardless, I'm here now and I have a confession to make: I'm more concerned with how my Diamondbacks are doing in the division than anything that's going on in the Olympics. It's not that I'm not invested in the Olympics. I mean, who could really avoid getting swept up in the Michael Phelps story? Well, I guess if your soul is black and your heart is a dry, shriveled husk, you have a good shot, but the last I checked, my soul is colorful and gay and my heart is pounding a merry jig, so I'm caught up in the mystique with the rest of the U.S. But still, the channel doesn't get changed to NBC until I know the final score of the D-backs game. This is my value system, people. Isn't it a marvel?

So on to the poll:

I place more importance on Diamondbacks baseball than the Olympic games. This means:

A) I am Un-American, Un-Patriotic, and quite possibly a Terrorist. I also have problems with random capitalization.
B) Baseball is as American as apple pie! Of COURSE I want to follow my team! Besides, the highlights of the Olympics will be all over the internet tomorrow, anyway.
C) When you get all judgey-judgey, God kills a puppy. Live and let live, bitchez!

Leave your vote in the comments.

Apparently, I Have Been Using The Wrong Alphabet

Oscar, Turtle and I were sitting around the dinner table the other night, enjoying a lovely meal together. Well, Oscar and I were enjoying a meal. Turtle was bouncing off the walls. But then, all of a sudden, Turtle stopped bouncing off the walls and looked at me very seriously. "Mommy?" he said. "Do you know what starts with the letter i?" I looked back at Turtle and very curiously said, "No, buddy, what starts with the letter i?" There was a brief pause and then, even more seriously, Turtle looked back at me and said, "Chicken." While relaying this story to his daycare provider the next day, she asked me if I corrected him. My response? "Hell no. I was too busy laughing my ass off."