BrandiBlog

So I kind of suck at keeping up with this blog.  In fact, up until about 5 minutes ago I actually forgot that I even had this blog.  Not like, “Oh, I have amnesia”, but more like, “I have nothing interesting to write that isn’t related to odd experiences in the grocery store or playdates with toddlers, so why bother?”

However, I just got the kick in the ass that I needed from a couple of friends who actually READ my rambling on here.  I was firmly told, “2 months is not an appropriate amount of time between blog posts.” Shit!  Ok, so here I am, rambling again….

Anyhow, in case anyone wondered, this week is officially my birthday week.  This Sunday I will be turning 35.  Holey Batman’s Underwear, how did THAT happen?  I swear that I still feel like I’m about 25.  Just when I finally got comfortable being 30, I see myself sliding into the back nine of my 30’s.

For anyone who isn’t familiar with golf (something that I do terribly but have always had fun doing anyhow), the “back nine” are holes 10-18.  Typically when I’m golfing, this would be the point in my game when I’d have a good buzz going (did you know that my golf bag can hold a 12 pack of beer???), probably be missing a club or two and demand that I get my turn driving the cart.

Hmmm, not a bad analogy for where I am today.  I’m so deliriously in love with my family that sometimes it DOES feel like I have a pretty good buzz going.  And yeah, I definitely lose things ALL.  THE.  TIME.  Some may call this old age, but I prefer the less cruel term of “Mommy Brain”.  And I find that as I get older I’m much more likely to insist on having my turn in “driving the cart”.  I know who I am, I know what I want, and I’m not afraid to let anyone know anymore.  Not is the crazy, bitchy old-lady way, but more in the “I’ve searched my soul and have figured out what is really important to me and I refuse to accept anything less anymore”.

So I guess playing the back nine of my 30’s isn’t going to be so bad.  Anyone else up for a round?  I’ll bring the beer.

It’s approximately a week before my son turns 2 years old, and I can safely say that the Terrible Twos have arrived already. For the last week or so life with Ryan has been punctuated with whining, yelling and irrational crying. Temper tantrums jump out of nowhere and he goes from happily playing with his lawnmower toy to screeching and flinging the annoying devil-toy across the living room in a split second. His hair-trigger temper is unpredictable and frustrating.

Another wonderful characteristic of the Terrible Twos is the dreaded Sleep Strike. Ryan recently went 4 days of sleeping less than 4 hours a night–and waking up screaming, “Momma? Tutti?” (yes, I’ll admit that my child is addicted to Yo Gabba Gabba) every 30 minutes. I envision a World War II Japanese prison camp to be comparable to watching dvr’d episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba with a wide-awake two year old at 3 am. And naps? Forget about it! Apparently sleep is for suckers in Terrible Twos Land. It gets to the point where as a parent you aren’t sure if you should sedate your child or yourself.

And, last, but certainly not least, the Terrible Twos bring on Picky Eating. Yesterday morning before I could clumsily fill my coffee pot with water Ryan was hysterically crying because he wanted a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. As I tried to explain to him that cookies weren’t an option for breakfast, he threw himself to the floor, screeched like a rabid monkey and pulled open the drawer below the oven that held cookie sheets and muffin pans. He swiftly scattered the contents all over the kitchen floor.

I attempted to strike a bargain with him and offered him pancakes. Since I had some in the freezer, leftover from a batch I made the previous week, I opened up the freezer. Huge mistake! Ryan spotted a box of popsicles on the bottom shelf. The cookies were forgotten and Ryan now wanted POPSICLES for breakfast. Use your imagination as to how he reacted to my denying him an orange creamsicle at 7 am.

In addition to his sugar cravings, Ryan has also been playing a little game with food and he’s clearly honing his manipulating mom skills. He’ll say, “Hungry?!” and I’ll ask him what he’d like to eat. He grabs my hand, drags me to the pantry and starts scanning each shelf, saying in a pensive voice, “How ’bout….” He’ll then select something like goldfish crackers, pretzels or a can of garbanzo beans (I will try to talk him out of the garbanzo beans, but then a tantrum is sure to kick in that split second). So I grab one his bowls and pour him some of whatever it is that he’s begging for. He eats one, maybe two bites and then either dumps the contents onto the floor or chucks the bowl across the room, also resulting in the contents on the floor. I could vacuum 6 times a day and it still wouldn’t be enough to keep my carpet from looking like Bourbon Street after Mardi Gras.

Oh, the Terrible Twos! I don’t know how I’m going to survive.

Many years ago I had an incredible conversation with my cousin’s little boy. He was about 5 at the time (holy hell, I can’t believe Reid is almost 13 now!) and came into my house, excited to tell me about an amazing creature that he had seen clinging to the wall outside my house. He didn’t know what it was called, but went into great detail to describe the long, green insect with a flat head that he had encountered.

Finally realizing what he was describing, I said, “Oh, that was a Praying Mantis. I haven’t seen one of those in YEARS! In fact, I can’t remember seeing one since I was a little kid. You were pretty lucky to get to see one of those.”

He looked up at me like I was insane and said, “Aunt Brandi, they’re EVERYWHERE! You just have to stop and look.”

His explanation was both simple and astounding. He was right–they ARE everywhere. But like most adults I had become too busy with work, bills, meetings and social obligations to notice the little things in life that were right in front of me. Like a Praying Mantis on a stucco wall.

I often forget Reid’s lesson and spend a horrendous amount of time worrying about the numbers in my bank account, my never ending to do list, or holidays that are months away. It’s a bit ridiculous, but fairly easy to do when you’re an adult. But I have a feeling that life would be much more fulfilling if I’d stop and look for the Praying Mantis more often.

I’m not sure if it’s just the upcoming election that is causing this or if it’s something greater like a huge shift in American life as we know it, but I have noticed a shift in conversations in social settings recently.

Monday night I met a friend for a drink at the Bend Distillery. As we sat and discussed our families, we also chatted about the Vice Presidential debate a few nights earlier and the differences between the two candidates views on energy. We were in agreement that Palin’s love of “Drill, Baby, Drill!” is not at all an intelligent answer to the crisis at hand. It was a great break in my daily grind of Yo Gabba Gabba and The Wonderpets to be able to sit and have a real discussion.

Wednesday night I met up with a group of women to play Bunco. We munched down on treats and talked about the current economy and how it is effecting everyone’s daily lives. Women who have husbands in construction have seen their business dwindle, while women who are stay-at-home moms are looking for part-time work to supplement the family budget (and paying half of their earned income to childcare providers). They were all concerned about the recent bailout of the lending industry and wondered how it would impact them as homeowners who are suffering from crippled home values.

This morning my cousin stopped by our house just to say hi. We talked for 45 minutes about the economic instability and it’s impact on our parent’s generation–the ones who have lost their entire retirement savings right when they need it. He suggested that mutigenerational household will become more prevalent as means get leaner. There was also discussion of “living off the grid” and trying to live a self-substainable life. Apparently classes in the area on wind and solar energy living are booked through Fall of 2009.

Is it just the election causing these conversations, or is this just a predecessor to a huge shift in paradigms and our reality? I wish I knew. However, as the cliche goes, “Only time will tell.”

Remember the Jane’s Addiction song “Standing in the Shower…Thinking”? I wish I could find a video of it, but it appears in the vast world of the internet one doesn’t exist. Or maybe I’m just too lazy to spend any more time looking for a link. Regardless, I never gave it much thought to what Perry Farrell was singing about until today when I was, well, standing in the shower thinking.

I find that I do a lot of thinking when I’m in the shower. What is it about a constant flow of warm water that helps one sort through problems, possible solutions and random tidbits that float in and out of our subconscious? Lately it seems like the shower has become my escape to forget about dirty dishes, cheerios on the carpet, a toddler demanding my lap so he can read a book and the dog barking because she’s a dog and that’s what she does.

My thoughts today were a little more random.

“When I go to the bank later I’ll take Ryan because the girl who works at the drive-thru always gives him cool “Cars” stickers. And who am I fooling? Those stickers are really for me. I swear I should get a Lisa Franks sticker album for those suckers.”

“You know, the design on the wrapper of a Playtex Pearl tampon looks alarmingly like my myspace layout. It’s orange and has swirls too. Oh my god, my myspace looks like a tampon!!!”

“I wonder if I should try some bubble tea instead of coffee when I meet the girls on Friday. I really have no idea of what bubble tea is, but I heard somewhere that it has little chunks of tapioca or something in it. That’s so weird–do I really want to drink tapioca?”

“Wow, that wad of hair on the wall of the shower totally looks like a seahorse. That reminds me of the surprise seahorse shaped chicken strip Natalie got at Fat Tuesday. I could really go for some chicken strips right now. And a Pirate’s Pleasure to wash it down.”

And so the thoughts go. Back in my days when I worked outside the home I would usually rehearse meetings that I dreaded going to in my head and all of the possible outcomes in the shower every morning. But now I just let my mind wander and ponder sticker books and chicken strip seahorses. It’s just what’s been happening lately when I find myself standing in the shower…thinking.

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.