Mama Sho' Do Know

I cleaned the crump out of my friend's house today. In the novel of my life? This friend is a (huge- not her, but the role she plays) African-American grandmother who fizzles out when asked to make a housekeeping decision,  yet who is spot on with subjects other than....spots. Laundry? Nope. Scrubbing? Nope. Chicken pox? Oh, hell. no. But ask her how to make a $4.00 Advent wreath, and she recites the list like no-one's business. An old mayonnaise jar? To practical, dare-I-say-boring me, this belongs in the recycle bin. (Recycling is a source of tension between me and 'Mama", BTW. Oh, and she calls herself Mama.).  But she revamps this into the most charming crayon jar.She has a remarkable way of turning her nose up at any toys under $200.00. She is LUXURIOUS. When gas was at it's highest, she would heedlessly take me for joy rides, becoming happily lost in the twists and turns of fall foliage. When I asked if her husband opposed (reminder- Ned is always on my mind) the "wasted" mileage and gas, she merrily replied "Oh, he took away all my credit cards a long time ago. If I have gas, I just use it." and put the pedal to the metal.  When her teenage son, sent to his room, referred to himself as a Rapunzel- who is shunned away from society- she looked guiltily at me for a quick second, before retorting "Well, let down your hair and maybe I'll make you dinner."  Just meetin' him where he's at. That's the way Mama rolls.

I forgot to mention she likes moose.

What Mama and I usually do together is clean. I love cleaning her house. Everything is quality. Wooden toys galore (I love wooden toys. Melissa and Doug own my heart.)  I've learned a lot about Mama by cleaning her house. "One man's junk is another man's treasure." A string on the floor?  Met by  a squeal, "Oh my gosh, I have been looking all over for that!"  A Melissa and Doug farm set? Met by an weary sigh "Just get rid of it."  Her son's 5th grade notebook? I practically begged her to throw it out. Not happening. Two perfectly good down blankets? (BTW, we live in Buffalo.)  Completely re-buy-able. Oh, the charm!  It never ends. Her hair is always perfect. Like, perfect. Annoyingly perfect. She has seasonal menus on the blackboard in her kitchen (pumpkin scones are just the beginning.) It doesn't matter whether or not she actually cooks them. It's nice for her husband to see the list. The effort alone warms the home. It's clear why he fell for her in the first place. Wouldn't you want promises of re-useable mayonnaise jars, pumpkin scones, and perfect hair?

Mentally Ill? Not to Big Gen.

It's bedtime. Bedtime here means fleece nightgowns and blueberry hair and angelic children warm under covers. Haahahahahahahahahaha. What I meant to say was, those $25.00 nightgowns? Barely covering my SEVEN year old who is sprawled on the floor kicking her legs in a less than adorable fashion. She could use a good dose of pride right about now. I'd give her some, but my back is to her because I'm trying to pretend that none of this is happening. I won't even say what the other kids are doing. To sum it up, they are being loud. Driving me to mental illness.

Speaking of mental illness, I had an old friend over today. He was diagnosed schizophrenic a while ago, but I knew him before all this, and personally never saw that part of him. I still don't. I think he's cool as hell.  Anyway, my sister had stopped by. My sister...for all it's worth, here goes: She has been described, quite accurately, as "the one you never forget, who always forgets you." She wears sunglasses at the Thanksgiving dinner table.  They implemented the "3 feet of personal space" at one of her rehabilitation centers. Because of her. She eats with her hands, yet addresses the fact that she eats with her hands. So it's fine. (?) She is determined to make you feel loved as hell and special as hell and beautiful as hell.  And  strong  as hell.(Her compliments tend to lose their oomph when you hear her saying it to the person next to you.) If you are with her for more than 20 minutes, she will make a trip to the store. And come back with a suspiciously clear Gatorade. Coping mechanism, my arse. This chick just likes to party. ( I think. Although she has been known to curl up in a fetal position in her closet for three days. As I write this, I am growing concerned.)

I'm pretty sure this is what Big Gen
thinks is going on when she
gives hugs. Everone's in their own
damn battle.

Anyway, my friend had disappeared for a while today. I walked on the porch and saw my sister leaned into him, talking in her famously soothing voice, bottle of Gatorade at her feet. Needless to say I turned silently around and went inside. I returned when I heard her dramatic weeping getting louder. "You're too f-ing precious for all this, sweetie!.... I have been to so many doctors, all they want is us sedated.... I can see in your eyes that you're not schizophrenic..." and so on. Quite awkward for me to walk into. Do I leave? Do I join the conversation? He turned around, saw me, and laughed a shaky laugh, to which my sister pulled him into a warm embrace.

I walked my friend home a while later. They had exchanged numbers. Everyone loves my sister. Seriously. She's not scared to touch a nerve with you. And she's there for the fall if the nerve's too much. (Sometimes she insists there's a nerve there even when there's not, but- small potatoes.) He laughingly described her as "a bit overflattering". How very astute. But she means it. To her, you really do have the "strength of a woman and the soul of a child". Even if everyone does, you do too. Isn't that what counts?

Oh, hello, Nikid. How Loyal You Are.

Someone asked the other day if it's just them, or if I'm getting followers like "whoa".  I guiltily affirmed her. Then my guilt got the best of me and I told her that it's only because I practically make people become my follower. I don't think I've ever felt so vulnerable in my life. Especially because since she pointed this out, I haven't gotten ONE single follower. (????????????????) Anyone feel me? (If you really understand, f-ing click follow! Just saying  begging.)

Is it a red flag to want this to be my blog-world identity?

My brother Dan suggested that maybe I don't treat my followers well enough. So I decided to give a very public (to 27 people. Shameful.) shoutout to Nikid. Maybe I didn't give Nikid enough credit in my previous post. She is the most loyal follower out there. She actually waits for the next post. She ALWAYS comments.  Maybe I portrayed her as a bit of a Nazi. (?) Maybe I just got carried away with being free as hell in Blog world. (Maybe that's why my followers trailed off. I mean dead ended. Yes, I am obsessed.) Let me right this wrong. Nikid and I were off to a bad start, but I suppose it was divine intervention that led us to weekly playdates and joint online shopping attempts. She even babysat my kids- last minute. (And I don't let ANYONE babysit my kids.) She cooks amazing meals and offers decorating advice. She doesn't laugh. Ever. (So funny.) Her best quality? Her husband's a bit of a Ned himself, but NikiD takes him as he is. And then some. (ie. She thinks it's funny that they have the same size feet, whereas I've lied about Ned's shoe size.) Anyway, in case I set the tone for Nikid, please, all twenty-f-ing-seven of you, recalculate my friend, and loyal follower, Nikid. And recommend my GD blog. I might pay you.

Mara and Sariah

Ned's family left today. They got here Monday, and were bizarrely productive. We quite literally have a new kitchen. An unexpected new kitchen. And a gloriously inexpensive new kitchen. Labor's overrated. Haha. Anyway, now I have a new dilemma. How to thank them. It'll come. (I think. I hope.)

Anyway, with the family gone, and 3 late nights getting the best of me, I was too tired to explain to my daughters and their BFF's (like, over all day, every day, and then some, BFF's) why they couldn't sleep over. They used to ask me every weekend until I told them that if they don't ask me anymore, they can plan a sleepover for every 4 day weekend. (This was most likely said when I was drinking fresh coffee. On their behalf, they are exceptionally cute girls, and exceptionally well-behaved. I am just exceptionally tired.) My impression was that 4 day weekends are relatively few and far between. I must have misremembered October. And November. Oh, and December. AND JANUARY. FML.

Minus the redhead, this is a pretty accurate picture
 of tonight.

So, here I am hosting a sleepover. Second one in a month. And there is an unnatural amount of open wine left over from last night. And it snowed for the first time today, which gives me the thumbs up for celebrating.  And it's already dinner time. And Mara and Sariah both look exhausted. Sariah has been asking to take a nap since, oh, around 1. Was it cruel to say no? I think not. (And no, those are not their real names. Blog-privacy.) 

More tomorrow. I'm out.

The Animals in Ned's House

When I die, and Ned is going through my belongings, I suspect that there will be nary a tear shed. Rather, I imagine Ned sitting on a chair, a garbage can between his knees, and him groaning, "What the h%$l is all this S*@t??" I realized this today while Ned was unloading our cabinets to have the insides painted. (!!!!!) Instead of gently removing our beautiful decor, and thinking appreciatively of all my feminine efforts made at making his home a home, Ned bellowed my name, and when I rushed in, asked me for a cardboard box to put all this 'crap' in. (He pulled out the C word. I started looking for my keys.)

This is what Ned expects when he opens a drawer in our house.
Swear to God.

The annoying thing is, I am far from a hoarder. Every week I bring a bag of stuff to church to donate. Not junk. Just stuff. I use the "use it today?" rule (if I wouldn't use it today, I'm probably not gonna. So I get rid of it.). Try telling Ned that I have a system. It's bordering on delusional, the way he scans my living room. The neat stack of blankets? To Ned, it's as ineffectual as a stack of pet beds for a pet we do not, nor will we ever have. The lined wicker basket full of baby toys? In Ned's eyes it's about as beneficial in our home as a basket of  pet toys. The wooden chest full of Ned's workout equipment, strategically placed to appear as a rustic piece straight out of Country Living? Not to Ned. This is as futile as a bunch of pet carriers would be in our household. My point with all the pet references? That Ned prefers blank canvases as rooms, with mantels holding only hockey pucks and the only storage needed is a fridge and a modest closet for his work clothes. I sometimes wonder if I should remind Ned that I am his wife, we live together, and we have 3 kids. And we're only human. He has very high standards. But then I think about him lowering them, and how depressing that would be.  It's a luxury of dear Ned's, and it's a part of dear Ned, to look at the rustic trunks and lined baskets and say, "What the He#& is all of this Crap?"

Tom & Jackie

My in-laws are here. And my kitchen is being torn apart. Which means my dining room has my kitchen in it, and my living room has my dining room in it, and so on. Aaaand Thanksgiving is in TWO days. Here. And I'm fine. Really. Ned and his sister's extraordinarily talented boyfriend are installing a hood in our kitchen. A pretty sick hood too, which is compelling me to paint. Did I mention that the boyfriend is extremely talented? In many different ways, including picking out paint colors. So we (verbally) picked out paint last night. Next step is telling Ned that I'm painting the kitchen. Maybe I'll lace his drink with Vitamin D first. Ned will do anything when he's on Vitamin D.
Anyway, back to the in-laws. Ned's family is pretty much the polar opposite of mine. For example, my mom once had a Toyota Camry. A nice Toyota Camry. Then the windshield wipers broke, and my mom foresaw of future of bank breaking auto repair. So she gave it to a family with 3 kids who paid $400 for a windshield wiper motor and to this day cruise by our house in it. Kudos to her though, right?

My mom's donation. Tom's defeat.
And Jackie's dream car. All in one family.

Ned's dad also has a Camry. Ned's dad is something of a financial guru. I'm pretty sure that if so much as a check engine light went on in his car, he would have next year's model. For free. That day. Seriously. He's getting quite the reputation for car deals. Almost too good. Jackie called the other day (a rare cell-phone call. Jackie keeps track, and I mean TRACK, of how many minutes she's used. Sometimes she answers the phone "Home phone." and hangs up, waiting for you to call her home phone. It's very disconcerting)  and asked if Ned thought his dad would tag along to a car dealer with her. Ned hung up, and shook his head. "Jackie wants my dad to buy her car with her. She wants a $7.00 a month payment?" Long story short, Jackie misunderstood a $7.00 a month discount to a $7.00 a month payment. That kind of sums up the difference between Ned's family and mine. Ned's family would know right off the bat that it's not possible to have a $7.00 a month payment. Nor would they think the solution to a broken windshield motor is to give away the car. But tomatoes-tomahtoes, right? Between Jackie and Ned's dad, the holidays are entirely blog worthy around here.

Is this an Identity Crisis?

Kiwi Herman is quitting drinking. Negative Ned started taking 2000mg of Vitamin D a day. He now sees the silver lining EVERYWHERE. Big Trish sees a slice of cheese as extra calories. And says no. Monie wears skinny jeans and knee boots. (Monie has been wearing Gap hoodies and bootcut jeans for EVER.) Jackie misses phone calls because of homework. I called my sister the other day and she was at the science museum. Randomly. What is happening?

Me amongst friends? And we ain't talkin' figures.

I'm pretty sure I'm at a crossroads. Now when I tell my mom what my friend (so what if they're 45? I'm only 28. Isn't that what matters?) screamed to a group of people across Elmwood, concern lines her face .Yes, she gets the humor. But she also gently tells me, in so many words, that my friend might be more than just funny. They might be an alcoholic. Oh sit.
Actually, I kind of think this whole crossroads is my mom's fault. (When in doubt, blame your mother!) For example, I really, really like Victoria's Secret clothes. Like, the normal ones. Pretty tunics. Button leggings. Grey knee boots. But every time I order something, I have a 10 million pound weight on my conscience. "Not schmart, Joey. You have three precious little girls. Have you seen their advertisements? If you don't tell them it's wrong, WHO WILL?"   Holy freakin' cow. Talk about responsibility. The worst part is she tries to keep it light by saying 'schmart' instead of smart, so I can't even retaliate. The most I can do is show her the serious knee showing in the Talbots ad.
Anyway, with all these people seemingly moving over and out (hello kiera, im johanna and I'm an alcoholic too. can you just wait like 2 more years?) and my mother's forbidding face in my mind, I am debating a lot of things. Why I can't just pray to the patron saints of vanity, addiction, and idolatry and wait for divine intervention?  And why doesn't anyone want to do this with me? I decided to turn to Ned to tell me if I've crossed that very, very fine line of fun and over the edge. (I think my whole life I will wonder if it's common knowledge that I am more than a little unhinged. It's a sick sick feeling when you realize you were the only one who thought last Thanksgiving was a PART-AY!) When I asked Ned his opinion on my crisis, he, with his new Vitamin D-induced clarity, said "You're fine, Jo. We all have work to do. I wouldn't worry about it." Gentle, yet firm. And didn't really answer the question. And...Ned thinks I have work to do? WTF? My crisis continues.