Hipsters make me poor.

I’m really into crappy old cameras right now.  Why?  Why do I want crappy film when I have an awesome DSLR to shoot with?  Who the hell knows.  Why am I also into making paninis?  Why is my husband into rock climbing?  Why is my dog Barney really into meticulously cleaning his balls with his tongue 9 times a day?  It just is what it is… and right now what it is is me and weird old analog pieces.

Last summer I got a giant box of old analog cameras from some friends who were getting rid of everything they owned to go overseas.  Some of them didn’t work, some were even crappier than I was interested in, but some were great… including an old giant polaroid instant camera and one pack of film for it.

I LOVE the polaroid.  I love it’s mediocre quality.  I love sitting there for five minutes staring intently at it while it slowly develops.  I love shaking it because Andre 3000 told me to… hey ya!  What I don’t love?  The fact that the film is stupid expensive.  Craaaazy stupid expensive.

Damn you hipsters… driving up the price with your perfect example of supply and demand!

I didn’t use it at all for more than six months because the idea of using film that was that expensive made me want to wet my pants with fear, but told Kristen if we ever went on our epic adventure I’d use at least one picture for it and did.  Then today I was feeling squirrely and said “What the hell, I’ll take a polaroid.  That film isn’t going to last forever… I’ll just use one.  It will be fine.”  And took this picture of Verona wearing the pipe cleaner crown we’d made this morning.

Then, as the polaroid rush wore off, I thought “Oh I’ll just take one more.”

Then reasoned, “Well if I’m using the super expensive film and I’ll probably never be able to afford anymore in my life ever I may as well do a whole series with that damn little crown so I can frame the whole thing and hang it somewhere.”

And now I’m doing some deep breathing, trying to calm myself down over the fact that I just used $20-$25 worth of film in one afternoon.  I’m out of control… and being out of control feels kinda good.  (Insert evil laughter here.)

I may not be as classy as I thought.

The conversation that happened last night while David and I were cleaning up from dinner.

David: “Do you want the rest of my beer?”

Me:  ”Sure.”  (Picking up his glass and seeing five or six fruit flies swimming around in it.)  ”Oh holy fruit flies batman!”

David:  ”They’re back?  They always get in my beer.  It’s gross.”

Me:  ”I know.”  (as I walk to the sink and start fishing the fruit flies out with a spoon)  ”They get in my wine all the time too.  If it’s just one or two I pretend I don’t see them, keep drinking, and count it as some extra protein in my day.  But since there’s so many and this is the expensive beer I guess I’ll do the classy thing and fish them out before I keep drinking.”

David:  ”Wait… in your world the classy thing to do is fish the flies out… and then drink the rest anyway?”

Me:  ”Oh… well when you say it like that…”

David: (interrupting me) “Nope, I take it back.  In your world that is classy, I’m not sure why I even doubted you.”

Yes I’m covered in urine, but don’t worry, it’s not mine.

Monday the kids and I got back from a trip to Kansas for little brother’s senior recital… his crowning musical glory before he heads off to musical grad school.

Usually when we go back we do it for a week but this time it was a lot cheaper to go the weekend before as well so we ended up being there 10 days.  Being there 10 days made me realize why we usually go for 7.  It’s right around day 6.5 that everything stops being awesome.  Up until then the suuuuper annoying things about my parents, small towns, red states, and being blown away every time you step out side are endearing and quaint because I’ve been gone so long… but then I remember why I moved a thousand miles away from everything and the vacation isn’t fun anymore.

But the trip did finally end and Monday we flew back to Phoenix.  It is not the first time I’ve flown half way across the country by myself with two small children, not even close.  I’m well versed in the art of keeping chaos in bay for a couple hours on an airplane (or at least closing my eyes and breathing deeply while everything breaks down) and in general they’ve both been awesome every time we’ve flown.  Even last summer when we came back and they both developed raging double ear infections that we got to fly with they still did a pretty stand up job of the whole bit.  So naturally I didn’t expect anything different from this flight.

The first half was uneventful.  They played, they opened and closed the window about a bazillion times, opened and closed the tray table about a bazillion and a half times, all the normal stuff.  Then Finn signed that he wanted a bottle so I pulled him up on my lap hoping he’d fall asleep while he had it but when he was almost finished he looked up at  me and grinned… and that’s when I felt it.

Baby dude was peeing, and for whatever reason his diaper was having none of it.  He was peeing all over himself and all over me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Also, this child pees more than most adults.  I don’t know what it is about his bladder but it’s out of control.

Right as I started looking around for a place I could take him to change his clothes they turned on the seatbelt sign so there was nothing I could do even if I wanted to.  I couldn’t even take him off my lap because, since he’s young enough that we didn’t to buy a ticket for him, that meant he had to be on my lap whenever the seatbelt sign was on.

And just then he realized how wet he was.  Poor dude was completely soaked… like, I’m gonna have to wring these overalls out in the sink soaked… and he was pissed.  (Pun intended.)  He wanted me to change him.  He wanted me to take his clothes off.  He wanted me to let him off my lap.  And I couldn’t do any of those things.

And he thanked me by completely losing his shit.  He shrieked at brain shaking volumes and pitches, arched his back, kicked and flailed and I’m pretty sure I saw his head spin all the way around at one point like that freaky little kid in the Exorcist.  And since this was all on my lap I was then also soaked, from nipples to knees, with his pee as well.  The tiny plane reeked of urine, childless people turned and glared, the people across the aisle from us covered their ears (dude’s got lungs), I apologized once or twice but then realized nobody gave a shit what I said so instead started loudly singing Finn’s favorite German lullaby in his ear to try and calm him down.  (It didn’t work.)

This went on for the next 45 minutes.

And just as I thought shit couldn’t go any further downhill I heard a subtle “click… click… click…” coming from next to me.  I turn to find Verona, who had been sitting there quietly the whole time, holding my phone and taking pictures of the shenanigans.

She shrugged and without missing a beat responded,

Well with logic like that.

About nine years later (at least it felt like that) the plane landed, I put Finn in the sling and piled all out belongings on my back like a freaking pack mule, and we made our way at a snail’s pace toddler’s pace out of what was now an incredibly smelly enclosed space to where David was waiting for us.

He hugged me, then backed up with a sour look on his face because he obviously smelled it.  ”Yes.”  I said, “I’m covered in pee.  No, I don’t want to talk about it.  I just want to go home.”

And go home we did.

And because I knew you would all probably ask for it, here is one of Verona’s pictures.  You’re welcome.

My Epic Weekend Adventure

An epic adventure was needed.  It was desperately, desperately needed.  So a month or two ago Kristen and I planned an epic adventure that we knew we couldn’t do until both of us had baby sitters on the same day.

Then suddenly, the stars aligned.  Our friend Megan was going to be in town for a weekend.  The same weekend David’s mom wanted to take the kids.  The same weekend Kristen already had a baby sitter on Saturday because she was working later that day.  And the clouds opened above us, and the angels sang, and we all ran away to a day of much drinking and picture taking together.

Our first stop on the lightrail we got off, ready for fun.  We were immediately approached by a homeless man who asked if we had a dollar. We didn’t… who carries cash anymore?  ”No no, don’t be sorry.” he told us.  ”No problem.  Thank you for your time.”  We kept on walking until the man’s demeanor completely changed and he turned to Kristen and said “I have a plan for today.  And that plan is to eat.”  We all laughed politely but he stopped us.  ”No, you don’t understand.  I’ve been asking people for a dollar all morning and nobody’s given me one.  If somebody doesn’t give me a dollar, I’m going to rob somebody.”

We all laughed uncomfortably and I moved behind David in one quick motion.  (David, for those of you who don’t know, is reasonably big and people are highly intimidated by him.)  Maybe it makes me a bad friend but the truth is I suspect Kristen and Megan can run away fast than I can, I’m going to take my advantages where I can get them.

He looked us up and down then added.  ”I’m going to rob someone.  If you don’t want it to be you ladies, you need to go that way.” pointing the direct we weren’t going.  We went that way anyway… wasting a few minutes going the wrong direction seemed a small price to pay.  Afterall, nothing fucks up an epic adventure more than getting stabbed before it’s even begun.

When we finally resumed our first stop (if you can’t read the instructions we had to stop at the third restaurant to the east) was this adorable little place called Fez.  None of us had ever been there but I’d recommend it.  We told the bartender to get us whatever four drinks he thought we would like the most and he did a fabulous job.

He then surprised us with a round of shots.  Huzzah!

Our bartenders name was Jesus and we started talking to him, explaining out whole epic adventure plan and telling him about almost getting robbed when in the middle of our story crazy homeless man shows up outside the restaurant.  ”That’s him!  That’s him right there!  Holy cow!” we exclaimed.

Jesus threw the towel he was using down on the bar and charged outside announcing “Don’t worry ladies, I’ll take care of this.”  We don’t know what he did or said, but he took care of it.  The crazy guy left and we didn’t see him again.

Proving once and for all that Jesus saves.

We took the next train south after that and ended up at the park behind the library.

We had as much fun at the park as we could, but the truth was we were raging hungry.  The instructions said we had to find a man with a mustache to tell us where to have lunch so we went on a hunt for a mustached man.  We searched…

…and we searched…

…and we searched…

…and we searched.

We searched for so much longer than it seemed possible we would have to search… although that could have just been the hunger talking.  After what seemed like a million years we found someone with sufficient facial hair who told us to go to The Spaghetti Factory, which we gladly did.

Oh lord it was delicious.  We didn’t have a bartender to tell us what to drink so David declared he was our bartender and ordered us stuff he thought we’d like and he was correct.  There are very few pictures of the food because everyone was too hungry to do anything with it that wasn’t digging in.

We did, however, take plenty of pictures afterward.

“““

The rest of the day was lots of walking, lots of picture taking, lots of talking and searching and fun.  Eventually we were suppose to find someone on a skateboard to tell us where to drink next but if we thought finding someone with a mustache was hard it was only because we didn’t try to find someone on a skateboard.

Eventually we gave up because we were thirsty and decided to just go the next place we saw that we could drink.  Then, like magic, a Hard Rock appeared before us.

Hurray for epic adventures!

Believe it or not, I know more about my boobs than you do.

I could not breast feed. I couldn’t. Not that it’s anyone’s damn business or that there would be something wrong with it if I’d just chosen not to. But regardless, I couldn’t. Could not.

At least half the time that comes up with someone who has or is breast feeding they get this really sad look on their face and say something like “A lot of moms think that, but everyone can. Some women just need to give it more time.”  Or a short “It’s normal to worry you don’t have an adequate supply, most women worry about that at some point or another.” Then look at my poor, miserable, obviously suffering children with pity because their mama *bless her heart* just didn’t stick it out long enough to do what was best for them.

And you know what?  There’s nowhere positive a conversation can go after that.  Because I don’t want to discuss my boob issues with someone who already has that attitude.  I don’t want to tell them about my daughter crying in pain from hunger because at the advice of the hospital lactation consultants I was refusing to give her formula even when I suspected something was wrong.  I don’t want to tell them about the tearful conversation where the doctor sat me down and told me point blank that Verona was in serious danger, that she was starving to death, and that if I didn’t give her a bottle they were going to have to re-admit her to the hospital.  I don’t want to rehash the guilt I lived in for the better part of a year over knowing that I had intentionally put my child through that.  I don’t want to tell them what it feels like to have been a mother for less than a month and already be failing miserably at it because you’ve made breastfeeding a higher priority than the well being of your own child.

Because I’ve forgiven myself, gotten over it, we’ve all moved on.  And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life reliving it through useless conversations.

And I sure as hell don’t want to try and convince someone that what happened to me really does exist because, ya know what, I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.  The few times I have attempted the other woman either just keep staring at my kids with that look of pity because, oh poor things, they’re probably going to grow up to have two heads and be serial killers now because their mom is a quitter.  Or they respond sanctimoniously “No, I had a doctor tell me that doesn’t ever happen.  A doctor.”

To which I want to respond “I had my boobs tell me that you can go fuck yourself.  My boobs.”

I wonder if I could get a note from my doctor. Like in school when you need to prove something medical is a reality “Here, I have a doctor’s note.” I wonder if I can get a doctor’s note for this that I can keep in my purse and when this happens just yank it out, hand it to them, and then not have to engage in the same tired discussion yet again.

Or I could just start smacking people.  That’s another option.

The TMI Post

I am sick, like raging raging sick.  I do not get medium sick ever… I’m either feeling slightly under the weather and am totally fine again after a day of chilling out or I’m shooting all the nutrients in my body out of orifices I wasn’t even aware I had.  It’s super gross.

I have found a secret weapon though… it won’t make you feel better but it will make feeling crappy a little less terrible.

Acai-Blueberry-Pomegranate Vitamin Water.  This is super gross so I wasn’t going to tell people but it helps so much I kind of felt like I had to.

If this is the only thing in your stomach your vomit will taste exactly like those little Swedish Fish candies.  True story.  Throwing up is never any fun, but it sucks quite a bit less when it doesn’t taste like regurgitated corned beef or fried pickles (which are, in my opinion, the grossest things to throw up ever… you do not want to know how I know that.)

As an added bonus, it smells like Swedish Fish candies too.  You know that moment in the middle of the night when you just threw up in the trash can next to your bed and you can’t find the energy necessary to go throw the trash bag away outside but you know that otherwise your room is going to smell like upchuck in the morning?  (No need to answer, I know you do, we’ve all been there.)  Well now you can just go back to sleep and/or rolling around in your bed moaning without worrying about it.  When the cursed morning lights rises on your rolling and moaning your room will smell like candy.

So that’s my TMI for the day, next time you’re not feeling good you’ll thank me.

Babies on door steps… I’m a Hobbit

Recently David and I have been looking into our family histories to see what we/the kids are… genetically speaking.

David’s is really straight forward; Irish, Scottish, and a few British guys thrown in for good measure.  Mine gets a little trickier though… I don’t know who my biological father is but according to family legend the best guess based on a compilation of incomplete accounts (did I mention my family is super weird and complicated?) is that his name was Plunkett Beaumont, so that’s where I started.  An afternoon of cyber research led me to the conclusion however that either A)he’s been dead for the majority of my life, B)he’s been living completely off the grid for the majority of his life, or more likely C)that’s not really his name.

Although on the upside, “Plunkett Beaumont” is basically the best name ever for a mythical father figure.

I decided “Meh, I’ll just learn everything about my mom’s side.  That’s half of my DNA, and half is probably plenty.  I’ll figure out where my ancestors come from on that side!”  No, no I won’t.  With the except of a great grandpa who came here from France every branch of my family tree on that side is snapped off in some weird, untraceable way… mostly of the baby-in-a-basket-left-on-the-steps variety.

So it’s become a running joke that David’s family history is Irish and my family history is abandoning our young.  Although, if you look at it the other way maybe my family history is just bringing home strays… and that explanation makes all sorts of things make sense.

I figured everything beyond that 1/16th French would forever remain a mystery.  That is until this afternoon when a giant storm rolled in and (instead of doing all the productive things I was planning to do) I spent most of the kids nap sitting on the porch and watching it while I smoked a pipe.  And it hit me… who sits on porches and smokes pipes?  Hobbits… Hobbits are the only people who do crap like that.  Need more evidence?  My feet are pretty big compared to the rest of me (and somewhat hairy, but don’t tell anybody), and that whole idea of second breakfast is right up my alley.  We don’t need to wonder about my heritage anymore… I’m obviously a Hobbit.

This is exactly what I looked like.

Edit: Kristen came over to play and took an actual picture of me.