Me, Me, MeI am getting ready to send out invitations to the several pals who have offered to guest-blog for me while I’m out of the country April 23-29… if you would like to be added and can promise to cause a ruckus without getting me disowned, drop me a line!
Me, Me, MeI have been immersed in thinking about myths lately. Not that I have been poring over texts at the library, or browsing much on the Internet, or frankly, doing much more than watching Disney’s Hercules over and over with my children and filling in back story where needed.
What I’ve been doing is more along the lines of ruffling through my own thoughts, memories, preconceptions, belief systems, lessons learned, behavioral tenets, and other manifestations of Mindy’s personal Weltanschauung (read: that which, at the core, explains why I’m such a wing nut).
There’s a lot of crap in there, but there’s also a fair amount of interesting stuff that, as I grow older and hopefully wiser, only reinforces for me how interconnected we are by a collective unconscious and shared mythologies, and how these shape our wishes and hopes and dreams, which in turn shape our actions. At least, when I examine my own personally held myths, I see how they have either helped or hindered my own psychological, social, economic, and interpersonal development.
(Note to readers: if you were hoping for a meme or dirty joke, I’m terribly sorry. I woke up in this mood and can’t shake it. Try back tomorrow; this pendulum usually swings on a 24-hour arc.)
This morning I came across this discussion of how myths have been variously defined, and quite liked it:
“… Indeed, they often reveal the archetypes of the collective unconscious (Jung). They are symbolic and metaphorical (Cassirer). They orient people to the metaphysical dimension, explain the origins and nature of the cosmos, validate social issues, and, on the psychological plane, address themselves to the innermost depths of the psyche (Campbell)…”
This is sort of what I have been examining—the inner side of personal myth. And then, there is the outer side, which I really don’t have the energy to think about just now, but that last line seemed especially important:
“… Some of them are explanatory, being prescientific attempts to interpret the natural world (Frazer). As such, they are usually functional and are the science of primitive peoples (Malinowski). Often, they are enacted in rituals (Hooke). Religious myths are sacred histories (Eliade), and distinguished from the profane (Durkheim). But, being semiotic expressions (Saussure), they are a “disease of language” (Müller). They are both individual and social in scope, but they are first and foremost stories (Kirk)…”
They are first and foremost stories. So wtf are you getting at, Mindy?
Me, Me, MeHello, everyone, I’d like to take it all back. I am no longer confused as to why people are coming here on searches about bitchy wives. I am the blue-ribbon holder in this year’s county fair.
Today’s workday was not especially difficult; routine tasks, wire transfers, financial stuff, a little legal policy work, some stupid shit to send to the Bureau of Economic Analysis (I managed to do this inbetween IMs with Jilbur--thanks hon! You made it MUCH more bearable!).
The antibiotics were finally starting to do their thing and today is the first day I hadn’t wanted to crawl under my desk in tears and curl up into a little ball. So I was as surprised as anyone when I came home and completely blew a gasket.
When I pulled up, there was some guy in the front yard, rototilling. Wonderful. Can only be progress. I came in through the garage and said hello to the children. They all wanted to know where Daddy was.
Yes, I know you told them you were in the front yard. Yes, I know they actually saw you go out there. Yes, I know that if they had put two brains cells together they could have told me this. And yes, I know you would never leave the children alone. This does not mean that the primitive part of my mom-brain did not register the words, “Mommy! Where’s our Daddy??” when I walked in the door.
I popped out the front foor and let Gil know I was home, and offered to feed the kids so he could stay out and help with the tilling. I put bread and PB& J out for the kids to make sandwiches. They love this, and it takes a while. Ideal, really.
Next order of business: get drinks. Logan needed something potent to take the yucky peanut butter taste out of his mouth from tasting one of the cookies I brought home, so I opened up a special treat, a Diet Cherry Coke, which immediately had to be shared three ways. Only there were no sippy cups. Actually there were plenty of lids, just none of those cuplike receptacles to screw under them. Arrrgghhh. Pet peeve… must ignore… must stuff down…
Anyone want to sing the first chorus for me?
Cherry coke: served in regular cups and immediately spilled all over the rush seats of the barstools, all over Daphne, all over the floor.
Peanut butter: smeared all over Dylan’s forearms (both!), his chest and his face.
Raspberry jam: same, with the addition of his hairline.
Cereal milk: all over kitchen table, where Logan had retreated to get away from peanut butter smell. (Go on, ask me how the Nutter Butters went over.)
When I knelt to clean the floor, the first swipe of the babywipe came up black. Then I noticed my knees were sticking to the floor. Aaarrrggghh.
Kitchen table: loaded with recycling items that made it half way to the recycling bin. The dinner table has become the purgatory of all things plastic, aluminum, and paper. Sure, they may be at the end of their useful life for us, but they often get to spend the rest of the day hanging out with the relevant folk until someone decides to walk them the next 10 feet to the garage.
Every frickin’ day I come home and move the recycling garbage to one side so I can sit down and scarf my dinner.
Can you see what’s coming? Can you say hallelujia?
“… [deep breath]… I have resisted the temptation to say anything for a long while because I know how hard it is to be home with the kids. I know how crazy-making it is. Which is why I know I’m going to sound totally out of line here, but for Christ’s sake, why is the floor always filthy, why are the kids always filthy, why is Daphne’s hair always matted, why is there always garbage on the kitchen table, why do I always have to move the garbage to one side so I can eat, why are we always scrounging dinner up all of a sudden at 7 p.m., why are the kids always eating with dirt-encrusted hands, why are the cups and the lids never within the same 12-foot radius, why is the sink always full of dirty dishes, why, why, why???”
Oh, man, I wanted to take myself out with a BB gun: I can only imagine what Gil was thinking. But honestly. Honestly.
Go on, hate me. But when I was home with the children on maternity leave for six months at a stretch, and even when we both worked and I arrived home first to relieve the babysitter, although the place was more often messy than not, there wasn’t garbage on the table, and there was dinner coming. Now will someone please come over here and shoot me for sounding like a such an asshole 60’s dad?
Me, Me, MeSnowball has already said all I have to say today, but she said it yesterday…
Wait, I do have one to add:
Comment
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
-Dorothy Parker
Me, Me, MeOh my lord, can’t we all just get along??
Oh, I don’t mean you, or you, or you. Most of you are wonderful, wonderful people who genuinely care and are offering support and encouragement.
But that last comment took the cake. This blog does not have a new reality show format, and it is NOT a showcase for my decomposing marriage.
And Gil has every opportunity to defend himself and to comment. I have never hidden this blog. I have always shared my writing. And he has had MORE than his share of input, because I have actually redacted posts on his request. I think that shows a fair bit of courtesy. I’m not a shrew or a sneak or dirty fighter.
It’s just that I can’t write without including the relevant stuff, and right now, that’s relevant. I only mention Gil’s discomfort because some of you notice when I pull an entry or revert to fluff, and ask about it.
And I am not really taking requests. You can buy Chicken Soup for that.
I’ll be more entertaining when I am good and ready, and when I get some fucking sleep, and when I am not sick anymore. Or maybe I won’t, because the people without perspective and grace will have sucked all the fun out of this for me.
Having said that: I am going out of town next week, and may or may not feel like posting. Does anyone want to guest blog between April 23 and April 29?
Me, Me, MeWell, folks, I have a decision to make: either I start window-dressing my entries, or I’ll have to stop talking about my home life altogether. A major part of why I started this blog was to have a place to write out my stories, both so that I can remember and record the events of my family’s lives, and also so that I can indulge in a little theraputic self-examination.
I made a comment on someone’s blog a few weeks back, and it seems a teensy bit prophetic in retrospect: I may be on my way to doocing myself out of my marriage.
Go ahead, do a Google Search on “dooce.” I’ll wait here. Impressive, isn’t it? It’s all over the Internet now, and has entered the vernacular.
The comment I made a while back was, “Have they come up with a word for being divorced for something posted to one’s blog? I may be working on that one…”
To wit: earlier this evening, I wrote a post about my own cranky behavior tonight. I tried to be honest, and when my husband saw it, he was furious. So I took it down. And then proceeded to think long and hard about this whole blogging thing. And no, I’m not sitting here struggling with the choice between my blog and my marriage, but in order for my blog to continue to be what is has been--honest, reflective, and from my very own point of view (no small key point)--I may have to take it private.
As in, for my eyes only.
The alternative is to stop talking about whole big slices of my life, or, even worse, dress them up prettily. Which would make for fairly stale and shallow reading. I know I wouldn’t want to read it. Hell, I don’t even want to write it.
And I am not going to start writing about politics or food. This is what I do. And let’s not forget that this is for me, first and foremost. It’s not a document of record; it doesn’t have to be factually correct. These are my thoughts and you can’t touch them.
Some will argue that it is not an unreasonable request to keep private things private, and still others would argue that this in a sense is private. You all have to know where to look to find me. And, in order for our privacy to be compromised, you would have to find out exactly who were are and where we live and somehow infiltrate that.
I see no difference between talking about my life on this site and going to a bar and talking about it to friends. Either way, it’s out there. Either way, you are not going to hear about it without either a direct personal connection that makes you privy, or unless you are in the immediate vicinity and happen to stumble upon the conversation.
And honestly, one could argue that this is a slightly more protective outlet; I am pretty sure that I will not be facing any of you across a holiday dinner table anytime soon, having to live down my words or my husband’s words. I don’t think I can say the same about words that have passed between my husband and other people we actually know and interact with on a regular basis.
For sure, I know I will feel strange the next time I see the in-laws, becaue they have been told things that would make your hair stand on end. I’ve spared you that.
(And now, thanks to recent developments, you’ll never hear it, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah! See Thing #22. Sue me.)
Well, anyway. Blah, blah, blah, whiney, whiney, whiney.
This is just a heads-up, incase you find yourself wondering in the near future, “What is this crap she’s putting out??”
Me, Me, MeIt’s true what they say: you should never shop for groceries while you are hungry. It wasn’t even 11 a.m. and I was almost fainting with hunger, so I hopped in my car to get some lunch. Did I go to the little Italian Deli across the street and get a roast beef sandwich like a good little girl?
Noooo, I thought, hey! Why don’t I mosey over to Safeway, and then I can pick up a few others things we need. Don’t know what that would be, but it’ll come to me.
First stop: cookie aisle. Mmmmm, bite-sized Nutter Butters. Daphne and Dylan love those! Two bags: one for home and one for work! And Mint Milanos!
Next.. some cheese and crackers to steady my blood sugar. And one of those oriental chicken salads.
And some wine for later would be nice! Amber’s comment on Genuine’s post about red wine really got me going, so I’ll just pick up some Bordeaux to see what the fuss is about. One, two, three… oh! Ten percent discount if you buy six bottles! [sweeps lot into basket]
Oh, and the candy bowl next to the file room is empty, so I’ll just pick up some M&Ms… peanut… and peanut butter… and plain of course… on second thought, better get two of each.
There. Vice central. And I got carded! Yay! What the hell is going on lately?? I haven’t been looked at twice in the last few years, but all of a sudden people are peering closely and scanning my ID. Love it!
So I get back to the office, open the bags of goodies, pour them into the bowl (pausing to listen for my officemates to come running like hungry little kitties), and sit at my desk with my salad and treats.
Hm. What’s that reminder flashing on my screen? Oh. My dentist appointment. Due in one minute. Shit. There goes $50 for a no-show! I don’t care--it’s worth it!!
Me, Me, MeWell, I’ve finally gotten a start on finished my 100 Things. Have at it!
Oh, and this is for Buzz, who likes photos of everyday things:
UPDATE: re Jilbur’s question… this pic is about a year old (notice the henna tattoos on my hand!). Sorry, I was feeling like shit on a shingle yesterday and didn’t take any pictures, let alone appear in any.
Me, Me, MeThis is not something I thought I’d post about, but a confluence of events seems to indicate that it’s time.
It’s also not something I think you’ll all be thrilled to read, so if you’re uncomfortable with attachment parenting or extended breastfeeding, move along…
So, I was just putzing around when I started emailing with Genuine about my wine-and-chocolate dessert, and his wife asked me to hoist one for her, and I said, are you kidding? By the third pregnancy, I was hoisting my own.
This dovetails with the conversation I had with the doctor today while determining the proper prescription for me. He started to write an Rx for one antibiotic, when he looked up and asked if I was by any chance nursing. “Technically, yes. But not much. I can have amoxycillin, keflex, or augmentin.”
He looked at me skeptically and began to thumb through his little med reference booklet. *sigh* “My OBGYN has prescribed all of those for me before, even while pregnant, so I am sure they would be fine this time, too.”
“Um, how often do you nurse?” “Not much.” “Well, what do they eat during the day?” I looked down at my 2 year old daughter and 3 1/2 year old son and wondered what he was thinking. “Um, well, they are all old enough to eat anything they want. It’s just a psychological tether and a bonding thing. And it’s just Daphne.” “Oh, so you aren’t nursing them all?” “NO! Heh.” “OK, I had to ask. We just had someone in here that nursed hers until they were 6.” “Ahahahahahaha. No.”
Me, Me, Me1 glass chilled Toasted Head chardonnay
1 6 oz. Dove solid chocolate bunny (furtively pilfered from MIL’s care packge ("Huh? Oh, mommy didn’t get one this year...")
3 fed, bathed, jammied children, nestled in front of Disney du jour
1 comfy computer chair
Add cool breeze to warm air and mix in one soft cotton tanktop and drawstring loungers.
Bliss.
Me, Me, MeNow, I have something very shocking to tell you, and I know it’s something that none of you anticipated; I was blown away myself when I learned of it:
As soon as my project was completed, I got sick.
Whahuafuaaa? What are the odds? I mean, I was getting at least 4-5 hours of sleep a night, in 18-minute chunks, and was eating frequent meals--M&Ms for protein and mini-Milky Ways for calcium--and taking lots of (blogging) breaks.
I was exercising my heart vigorously, I mean what else are deadlines for, right? And I got plenty of fresh air each time I rolled down my window at the drive-thru. What could go wrong?
First, within two days of turning in that report, our house was ravaged by the stomach flu. Which doesn’t really need to be revisited here.
Then all week, a strange, low-level bug with aches and hmmm… what’s that term? It’s so apt… ah, yes: total freaking ragginess.
And now, I am fairly certain I have strep throat. Thirty seconds with my trusty compact mirror and a light revealed pretty little spots at the back of my throat, the icing on the two-ton lymph glands taking up residence under my chin. All kidding aside, I could just let my neck go limp and have a nap; they’ll hold my head right up.
I have concluded from this puzzling sequence of events that changes to how future projects are assigned and completed will be necessary. For instance, if the timeline is such that I have to spend my well-earned respite going for tests and feeling generally miserable, the least my bosses can do is carry these glands around themselves. I’d be more than happy to help find a place to store them.
Me, Me, MeI’m going home now, as I have once again found myself in the ridiculous position of being the only person left in the department and quite possibly the building on a Friday before a holiday.
Why bother to tell you that? Well, because I just noticed that by the time I check in again, TMB will have passed 30,000 hits! And why bother to tell you that? Because it’s my flippin’ blog.
‘Night, lovies, and have a wonderful weekend!
Me, Me, MeYahoo! News - Chocolate During Pregnancy Has Good Impact on Baby
More evidence that my children always come first.
Me, Me, MeI’m beautiful, successful, have 3 adorable children and a sweet husband. Plus I live in CA (so hip!), dress to the nines, and keep a house better than Martha Stewart. So I was thinking, what can I do to make those poor under-achieving peons feel more miserable about their pathetic little lives? Should I fly to the moon? Invent a self cleaning house? And then I had it, I’ll spread my word to everyone beyond the internet! I’ll run for President!
Me, Me, MeThanks to Shylah, who turned around a “discombobulated” icon in record time! Look for it in a permanent home on the sidebar soon.
You guys rock.
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To Mom about Political sign, “Mom what is that?”
Mom to Sam, “That is a Green Party sign.”
Sam, “Can we go?”
Mommy, you have a big bum! It’s not little like mine…
Ethan, 2
Sammie: Whats in the box mum?
Mum (Whispers): Uncle George.
Sammie: Well what’s he doing in there! I always knew he was a loony!
(Said during the minute of silence at Uncle George’s funeral service)
There’s a yellow S.O.B.
Erin, 3
(pointing at a yellow S.U.V. as we are driving through a parking lot.)
Alix: “Mom, did you hear the hearth quake last night? There was a rumbling…”
Hugo: “Yeah…that was my stomach!!”
Hugo, 6
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