BrandiBlog

Yesterday I was driving home from my son’s swim lesson and had our Sirius radio on. I was listening to a station called “Lithium”–my new favorite. Pearl Jam’s “Black” played on the radio, and I cranked it up and sang along. Next came Tori Amos’ “Corn Flake Girl”. I turned up the volume even higher and nearly shattered Ryan’s ear drums as I sang in my best Toriesque fashion. It was followed by the Bush song, “Mouth”. What a great radio station!

Then the dj came on and said something to the effect of, “Thanks for tuning in to Lithium on Sirius Radio. Classic grunge music for all of you who wore flannel and Doc Martens in 1990.” Then he laughed.

Then the realization hit me. What I was listening to is no longer considered “cool”. The early 90’s were almost 20 years ago. I’m stuck in an era long past and didn’t even realize it until that moment. I have turned into MY PARENTS, out of touch and listening to old music!!! How in the hell did THAT happen?

I guess it’s inevitable. It seems that the music that one is drawn to is often from a time when you were in your most formative years. For me, it was the time period from 1991-1995. Those were my college years. And I started my adulthood at the threshold of the grunge era.

It wasn’t just the music; it was an entire lifestyle. I found myself wearing flannel shirts with baggy jeans and ten-hole Doc Martens. I threw out my hair styling products and opted for a black headband to hold back my long, straight hair or or pulled it back into a ponytail. I didn’t worry about wearing make-up or trying to impress anyone; I was just me. It was the first time in my life that I felt comfortable in my own skin.

I’m so glad that I had a chance to figure out who I was during the grunge era. The music, fashion and idealism was all about being real and not trying to impress anyone else with a false facade. It was also about being comfortable (I lived in Flagstaff at the time, so flannel and boots didn’t seem as ridiculous as they may have in Phoenix) and no frills. And the music was a soundtrack to my life:

Nirvana’s “Nevermind”

Pearl Jam’s “Ten”

Soundgarden’s “Badmotorfinger”

Alice in Chains’ “Dirt”

Smashing Pumpkins’ “Siamese Dream”

Bush’s “Sixteen Stone”

Silverchair’s “Frogstomp”

Screaming Trees’ “Buzz Factory”

L7’s “Bricks Are Heavy”

The Breeder’s “Cannonball”

Mad Season’s “Above”

I still love all of this music, as well as many of the artists who may not be classified as grunge but still burrowed a way into my soul in the 90’s: Blind Melon, Garbage, Veruca Salt, Everclear, Radiohead, Counting Crows, Fiona Apple, Wallflowers, Offspring, Tool, Cracker, Sponge, Stabbing Westward, Mazzy Star. I can guarantee that the volume on the radio will go up if one of these artists come on when I’m in the car.

Ok, so I’m lame. I’m in love with music from at least 15 years ago. But I don’t care. I’ll take Lithium on Sirius any day over that stupid Radio Disney station that plays Hillary Duff, The Jonas Brothers and a bunch of teens I have never heard of who star in some currently popular but bizarre to me High School Musical thingie.

Damn, I wish I still had my flannel and Docs. They’d come in handy now that I’m finally residing in my grunge motherland, the pacific northwest.  Maybe it’s time to start looking for some new flannel shirts.

Oh, the Summer Olympics! How I love them. The swimming, gymnastics, track–I just can’t get enough! In my greed to consume as much Olympic programming on television as humanly possible, my dvr has been on overdrive trying to record and keep up with my thirst for athleticism.

One of the downsides of recording 96 hours of the Olympics is that it leaves little room on the dvr hard drive for anything else. Shows that I normally record weekly have been canceled to make room for doubles ping pong and judo. This seemed like a fantastic idea until I realized one major flaw.

On Friday morning Ryan woke up at 3 am–he was sick. He was coughing, crying and running a fever. As the day progressed (boy was that a long day!) the poor little guy didn’t know what to do with himself. He was snotty, tired and whiney. All he wanted was Elmo.

Over and over again, he asked to see Elmo. Elmo toys wouldn’t do it. Singing the Elmo theme song to him in my pseudo-Elmo voice didn’t calm him down. He wanted to WATCH Elmo.

Normally we would have and entire week’s worth of Sesame Street episodes saved on the dvr. So I took him upstairs to the tv room, hoping that some Elmo would do the trick. I sat him on a bean bag, turned on the tv and hit the dvr button to see the menu of episodes recorded. And what did I see?

10 different Olympic programs recorded and only one episode of Sesame Street. And it was the one that he had just watched that morning. Damn it!!!

In my Olympics recording greed I had somehow shot myself in the foot. I’ve paid dearly for my gluttony–by watching the same damn episode of Sesame Street at least 27 times since Friday. Lesson on overindulgence learned, moral noted.

Near the beginning of the year, I wrote on this blog about something my husband, his family and I have experienced; something we call PFL.

Tonight there was a whole new twist on PFL.

After dinner, Ryan had been playing out in the grass in the backyard. Since I had picked up all of the dog poo landmines that I could find out in the backyard earlier that day, I wasn’t too concerned about him running around barefoot.

A little later Matt, Ryan and I were chilling out in the living room. Ryan walked up to me, half-gagging and saying, “Eeeewww!” Something was grossing him out, but I had no clue of what was bothering him. A few minutes later, I saw a couple of little brown chunks on the couch . What the…??? I picked them up to examine more closely.

Then the smell hit me. This was had been grossing Ryan out a few minutes earlier–DOG POO!

I looked down at the carpet and saw a few more chunks around the living room. Fantastic. There’s nothing like a room scattered with feces. But where did it come from?

It then occurred to me to check Ryan’s feet. Sure enough, his left heel was caked in dog poo.

As Matt brought me a wet paper towel to try to get rid of some of the nastiness, he said, “Well, good job, PFL.” He then laughed and called Ryan “Poo Foot Lerche”.

I think I’d rather contend with Poo Foot Lerche than previous PFL incidents–even if Ryan’s version is a bit stinkier.

My cousin Derek has a cat. She’s a fluffy calico and, as far as I can tell, she doesn’t have a name other than “Kitty”.

We were over at Derek’s house on Sunday helping out with a project for his upcoming Underground Arts Festival this Saturday. While the men were outside building an enormous stage for the festival, Ryan and I were inside with Derek’s fiancee, Nicki, cooking up ribs and shish kabobs.

Kitty was lurking around. Ryan, always the curious one with animals, started following Kitty around the house. Nicki warned, “Watch out for Kitty–she can be a little bitch sometimes.” However, Ryan creeped closer and closer to Kitty as she sat on the window sill.

Suddenly, I heard a screech come from the cat. Then a wail from Ryan. I ran over to him and saw his little red, blotchy face with tears streaming down. A trickle of blood dripped from a cut right below his left eye.

My poor boy! He had gotten the smackdown from Kitty.

I held him in my arms and applied a cool, wet paper towel to his wound. I looked down the top of his head and saw 3 scratches on his scalp. Kitty had gotten him good!

So now Ryan has a little war wound from his too close encounter with a cat. To add to it, this morning he slipped when standing on a chair at our dining room table and scraped his right cheek on the edge of the table. The kid looks like he’s been in a UFC title fight. Bring on the Neosporin.

1. As a comment on my blog, leave one memory that you and I had together. It doesn’t matter if you knew me a little or a lot, anything you remember!
2. Next, re-post these instructions on your blog and see how many people leave a memory about you. It’s actually pretty funny to see the responses.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I have this thing for pink donuts.

I looooove me some pink donuts! In particular, cherry cake donuts with rainbow sprinkles. There have been times when I’ve obsessed with finding such a donut to the point that I drove 25 miles in my quest to find this wonderfully sugary decadence.

So of course I was overjoyed when we moved to Bend and I discovered that only a mile from our home is a place that sells my love, the pink donut.

This morning I decided to cheat on my diet and go to Richard’s Donuts for a little pink heaven. In my dozen for the family I got 2 pink donuts–one plain cherry and one with sprinkles (the lady behind the counter informed me that it’s called a “rainbow”). When I got home I had the plain cherry donut and savored every bite. I decided to save the rainbow for a little treat later this evening. Little did I know that there were other plans made for my midnight snack.

While I was gone to World Market exchanging a defective dining room table, Ryan was home with Matt. Matt was watching tv when he heard some rustling in the kitchen. He then heard a little voice purring, “Mmmmmm!”

Matt went into the kitchen and what did he find? My crazy son sitting on the kitchen floor with the pink donut box from Richard’s near his feet. In his right hand he clasped my rainbow donut–only it wasn’t the same donut anymore. He had chewed off just the top part; the wonderful cherry frosted part.

Apparently my resourceful child had grabbed the box from the counter and selected my special donut, even though there were 6 other donuts in the box.

I arrived home a few minutes after Matt’s discovery in the kitchen. Ryan ran up to me singing, “Maaa-maaa!” with something pink around his lips. I asked, “What have you been eating?” Matt pointed to the pink box on the counter and I knew immediately that the punk had jacked my donut.

Damn. Now I’m going to spend the next week obsessing about my stolen pink sprinkled donut.

Earlier this evening I went into my bathroom to take out my contacts. As I walked into my bedroom, I could faintly hear an unfamiliar man’s voice. I thought, “Hmm, is the window open?” and walked around my bed toward the window. Then I noticed the baby monitor on the floor below the window. The voice was coming from the monitor.

I turned the volume up and heard a man’s voice saying, “Daddy’s gonna kiss you! Daddy’s gonna kiss you!” A woman’s voice than chimed in, saying, “You’re so cute! You’re so cute!”

Ahhhh….sharing baby monitor frequencies. I guess it’s just one of the pitfalls of living in a neighborhood full of young families. Baby monitors are in abundance! It’s actually surprising that this was the first time in 6 weeks that such a thing happened.

I switched the monitor to another frequency and went and changed the frequency on the base in Ryan’s room. No more listening to random neighbors instead of my own precious babe sleeping in his crib.

Then it occurred to me: I wonder if anyone else has heard US over the monitor? We don’t spend a lot of time in Ryan’s room since most of his toys are in his playroom, but there are a few conversations that are sure to be overheard.

Every morning when I go in to get Ryan out of bed I say, “Good morning, Sunshine!” He gives me a radiant smiles and says, “Sunshine!” It always melts my heart–and on particularly hormonal days, can make me cry.

He then yells, “JUMP, JUMP, JUMP!” and starts jumping on his mattress. I laugh and somewhat encourage this unsafe behavior by singing, “Jump, jump, jump” with him. Oh yeah, total grounds for our neighbors to call CPS.

But it’s no matter–if anyone was listening what they’d really hear was a smart, funny, joyful toddler and a mother who loves him and his antics. That’s not so bad, is it?

On my quest to get to know my new town better, I decided to brave out of my comfort zone today. I went shopping for a few items at a grocery store I hadn’t been to before. Ryan, of course, decided that despite the charming Muzac version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” that was playing on the overhead speakers, he hated shopping. Halfway through the store he started to yell like a banshee and tried to climb out of the cart, but that’s a different story.

What was really more amusing is what happened in the checkout line.

As the clerk rang up my hamburger buns, the store manager came over the PA system in the store. He said, “Alright, Shoppers! It’s that time! Time for the Daily Trivia Question!”

The eight or so people in line behind me began to chatter in excitement. I looked at them questioningly, and the clerk just smiled that knowing smile. Apparently something really great that was going to happen.

The manager said, “What larger than life actor starred in comedies such as The Great Outdoors, Uncle Buck and Trains, Planes and Automobiles?”

Everyone around me started yelling out their answers. Exhiliration filled the air in the S. Bend, Oregon Albertsons. And then something totally unexpected happened:

A lady 2 carts behind me threw her hands into the air, screamed out, “JOHN CANDY!!!” and took off running to the back of the store. She left her nearly-full cart still in line for checkout.

When does this happen???

The guy standing behind me laughed and said, “She has to run back to the meat counter to give her answer.”

Um, ok.

He explained, “She wins a free bag of groceries. They do this every day at this store. It’s fun.”

He was right. It WAS fun! I can’t recall ever having a more fun time in the checkout line at a grocery store. How could I not love trivia in a grocery store? How could I not love laughing with strangers because someone won a bag of milk, eggs, and bread? How could I NOT love this town?

For some strange reason, I get the feeling that I’m going to be “needing” something from Albertsons more often at 3:30 pm.

I love my Myspace. It’s filled with pictures, comments from friends, and links to the people dearest to me. It’s kind of like my own little diary. It’s a great way to keep in contact with friends and cousins who are near and far. I keep my space private, so only approved “Friends” can check it out. It’s a place where I can just be me without judgment and I like it that way.

So I was a little taken aback to find out that my mom and dad have joined the Myspace world. Eeek! My brother sent me a message saying, “Hey, go check out this myspace and approve them as a friend.” So I click on the link and, yeah, it’s my parents.

WTF??!! I didn’t want to approve my parents to look at my Myspace! It felts like such an invasion of privacy. I mean, it’s not like I have anything particularly shameful or risquee on it, but still. I have a few slightly incriminating pictures on it, and I gush about how happy I am being away from Arizona. I’m wasn’t happy about letting my intrusive parents into my little world like that.

I went around and around, trying to decide how to handle this delicate situation. I finally decided to take my typical passive aggessive approach–just pretend like I didn’t get my brother’s message and that this Mom and Dad Myspace didn’t exist. That worked for almost a week. And then I had to face the music.

My mom called me on Skype last night and said, “Hey, we have a Myspace now! Can you add us as a friend?” FUUUUCK! I was backed into a corner. There was no way to get around it without either a) seriously pissing off my mom, b) making up some fantasic lie about not being able to add friends right now, or c) sucking it up and saying, “Sure”. However uncomfortable, C had to be my choice.

So now my mom and dad have access to my little private Myspace world. Oh well. I guess it won’t hurt them to see pictures of me doing shots, climbing under tables at restaurants, or letting my child run around the backyard in just a diaper and chocolate on his face. I guess it won’t kill them to find out that I own a thong that says “Team Sasquatch” and have pondered no longer shaving my legs and have a sore ass from riding a mountain bike with the most uncomfortable seat in the Pacific Northwest.

I’m keepin’ it real like Miss Cleo.

In order to take my new “When In Rome” philosophy to the next level, I’ve decided to lose a big chunk of weight and get in better physical shape.  I have found the exercise part of my new routine to be the most difficult part–I mean, who really has a ton of extra time with a toddler to chase after every day from sunrise to sunset?  So I decided that I needed to start exercising smarter, not harder.  The solution?  A mountain bike and kid trailer so I could just take my little human tornado with me on my quest for a healthier body.

This seemed like the perfect idea and I dreamed about it for over a week.  How glorious it would be to ride for miles and miles with my tot in tow!  It seemed like the most brilliant idea in the world–until yesterday, my first ride.

I started off with the foolish optimism that one usually has on their first day at a new gym.  I happily tied my shoelaces, hooked up the trailer to my new bike, and filled the cargo area with my keys, cell phone, treats and juice for Ryan and water for me.  I strapped on his shiny new bike helmet and harnessed him into his seat.  As I swung my leg over the bike frame I thought to myself, “This is gonna be a piece of cake!”

And then I started to ride.  For the first few moments it didn’t seem too bad.  My heart rate went up, my legs started to tingle and Ryan began squealing in exhiliration.  “Hmmm, this might be a little tougher than I thought,” I told myself as I rounded the corner to the next street in my “Leave It to Beaver” neighborhood and saw that it had a bit of an incline.

Halfway up the street I realized I had made a mistake.  A terrible, foolish mistake.  It wasn’t going to be a piece of cake; it was going to be pure, unadulterated torture.  My thighs began to burn and sweat poured from every inch of my skin.  The 25 lb toddler and 20 lb trailer that I pulled behind me had suddenly tripled in weight.  My heart raced and I pondered calling my husband and having him bring the Highlander over to Songbird Lane to pick my sorry ass up.

But I persevered.  I continued to pedal (albeit, at a slower pace than I had started with) and focused on the joyful squeals erupting from the ridiculously heavy trailer containing my ecsatatic 20 month old.  As he clapped and cheered, I imagined myself nearing the Tour de France finish line with spectators crying out my name and words of encouragement.  I visualized overflowing bouquets of flowers, muticolored fireworks and a mountain of Godiva chocolates waiting for me on the other side of the ticker tape.  And I pushed on, despite the new physical pain of the bike seat tearing my ass in half.  Who knew that a bicycle seat could inflict such agony.

Now nearly 24 hours later I see that I have learned a valuable lesson.  Never underestimate the difficulty of towing a toddler with a mountain bike.  It’s way harder than it looks–and my aching nether region today proves it.  But more importantly, I learned to never underestimate myself.  With a little encouragement from my son you just never know–someday you may see me finishing the Tour de France.  I can only hope that you all will be there at the finish line with that mountain of Godiva chocolates.