Thanksgiving in July

Because I am a crazy housewife, I got a wild hair and decided to have Thanksgiving in July. I have no idea where the idea came from, as I am not a huge fan of turkey, but the idea came and I went with it. I have to take my excitement where I can.

As a side note, our local Wal*Mart is being remodeled and it's a mess. Nothing is anywhere that makes sense. I spent twenty minutes trying to find the turkey breasts and finally asked a guy stocking hot dogs. Turns out they have hidden the turkey in the back, so the nice gentleman went into the back and brought out two turkey breasts to choose from. Going to Wal*Mart is trippy these days; everyone has this stunned look on their face like they survived a nuclear strike or found out George Bush is back in office or something and, I stumble around muttering, "Wow, I can't find anything!"

I'm going to make a eight pound turkey breast with all the fixings including green bean casserole, which is a family joke. Doesn't matter what I make for any sort of holiday dinner, green bean casserole is on the menu. It goes pretty well with lasagne, just so you know.

If you're in Indy on the Southside, come by about 6 and have Thanksgiving dinner in July.

It's Going To Be Better Today

I feel much better today. I haven't snapped at anyone or cried yet. Granted, all I did was shove Martin out the door for work and make Mia peanut butter toast, but I had no urges to drop kick a stuffed animal or slam anything.

I got a lot of love from my blog friends and my Facebook friends, and that helped so much. We all go through days like this at some point. That little pink pill, I'm sure, helped as well. Martin, bless his heart, knows to just steer clear when I get like this. Dexter is bewildered, I think, and waiting for my head to spin around. Mia is just her Mia-self, doing her own thing in Mia's World.

Today is going to be better. I have some Becky Home Ecky projects to tackle. It's raining, so we're stuck in the house, no pool temptation today. I can expel any lingering frustrations with the vacuum cleaner and Magic Clean eraser.

I also hid the Turtle Tracks ice cream in the back of the freezer from a certain teen-age boy who thinks a "snack" is half the container.

Ice cream can solve a lot of problems, at least on a short term basis.

This is a Pink Oblong Shaped Tablet

imprinted with A59 on the front.

It's the generic for Paxil.

And I haven't been taking mine.

I didn't intend to stop. I forgot to renew my prescription, and when I did, it hadn't been thirty days, so my insurance wouldn't put it through. When it did go through, the next day, I forgot to pick it up.

Fast forward about ten days, I realized that I am a mess. Sad, mad, crying at the drop of a hat. I am not, for the most part, a crier.

Last night, Martin and I decided we can't attend my 25th high school reunion. It's just not financially a sound move. I was completely willing to forgo my privacy and stay with my in-laws and recycle my dress from the 20th reunion, but my Indiana ass wouldn't fit into the dress. We'd also have to pay a dog sitter, all the stupid costs involved with a week-end road trip. I have two kids who start school on August 12. Dexter's book fee will be at least $150 and Mia's will be around $50. Not to mention school clothes. I'm not too worried about Dexter, he spent the last three weeks of school here looking like a homeless person, but I would like Mia to look like she doesn't dress in the dark.

Normally, something like not attending my high school reunion would bum me out a bit, but I wouldn't have a total freaking breakdown.

Which I did. Today. I went upstairs, laid on the bed with both my dogs, big and small, and cried. I cried because I am a loser. I can not organize my own house. I can not seem to get my arms around the fact that HEY! I'm a housewife! This is all there is! I haven't written one single word lately on any of the things I've been working on. Why? Cause it's dreck. Pure unadulterated SHIT. Who the hell would want to read it, when I don't even want to write it?

While I was lying on the bed moping, Dex came into the room and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was plotting an overthrow. He just looked at me and asked if I would help him change his earrings.

Martin is picking up my pills on the way home from work.

How Much Do You Really Need To Know?

I Twitter. I am on Facebook. I blog.

I don't, however, lead such an exciting life. How much do you really want to know about my rather mundane days?

I walked Bennie this morning. He tried to eat duck poop. Weather is hot and sticky. Martin works from noon until eight today, so I will drive him and hit the grocery store on the way home. (Meijer's has double coupons up to fifty cents in Indy.) Then, since it's hot and sticky, I think it's a pool day. I can log a few PTH. (Prime Tanning Hours.)

I'll make dinner (orange beef and rice, I think), pick up Martin at eight, and settle in for Intervention at nine. I may get all crazy and do my nails.

Are you asleep yet?

How To Tell When Your Child Is Watching Too Much "Clean House"

Mia loves Clean House. That's okay, I like it a lot as well. Mia will happily sit and watch back-to-back episodes.

This morning, Mia kept prodding me and telling me I had to get up and saying something about Clean House. I was afraid, at first, that she'd called Miss Nicey on me, and I was going to stumble downstairs, half-asleep, to find the whole Clean House Crew here. I realized, however, that my clutter, mayhem and foolishness is nowhere near qualifying for an episode of Clean House.

Mia, however, had decided to skip right to the reveal day. I recently bought some new butter cream place mats with green vines and leaves; by happy coincidence, they match a butter cream tablecloth I just happen to have. Mia put the tablecloth on the table, put the place mats down, and finished with a purple vase of butter cream silk mums and Boston Ferns.

She had also decorated the living room in Moderne Barbie. One end table is covered with Barbies in various stages of amputation and undress, but they are all sitting up, nestled around the lamp. She's placed various other dolls and stuffed animals on the other furniture.

Never mind that the tablecloth is all sorts of crooked and I have no idea how the vase of silk mums actually made it into my house in the first place, as I hate mums, silk or real, but I thought it was the sweetest thing, ever.

As a side note: it was Sponge Bob's tenth birthday this week. Nickeloden is running a Sponge Bob marathon this week-end. All Sponge Bob, all week-end. Someone at Nick needs their head on a stake for that one.

The Look

I used to be the type of girl that wouldn't go to the mailbox without at least mascara on.

Boy, those days have gone the way of the blue suede shoe.

These days, I'm grateful to brush my teeth and get the knots out of my hair.

A clean tee shirt is pretty good.

I've got to stop looking like I don't care. I do care, and it's worth making the little bit of effort I do.

These days, my nails are polished. They are either OPI Red or OPI Sweetheart. Once in a while I do a black or almost black-brown.

I don't wear nearly the amount of makeup I used to; I don't remember the last time I had eyeshadow on. I wear grey/green eyeliner on the bottom, covered with black eyeshadow, lots of Clinique Naturally Glossy Mascara and bright red or pale pink lipstick. That's it.

Of course, I still lavish the Clinique Aromatic Elixir lotion all over. I've worn the same perfume for at least fifteen years now. I still like it and still get compliments.

I'm not wearing Dexter's basketball shorts out in public anymore. If I wear a tee shirt, it's a nice tee shirt. (Oxymoron? Maybe.) I'm trying to stop the tee shirt thing, as I have at least a hundred. Everything I've ever been to; art fair, concert, radio station, I have a tee shirt. I also like raiding Dexter's because he has hundreds as well, including "DETROIT: Only the strong survive" and a really cool Velvet Revolver shirt.

Anyway.

I'm adopting all of my beloved friends' advice on The Reluctant Housewife post. Per Hollly, the hippy housewife. Yes, the family is happy if they have clean underwear and clothes, and I feed them.

I'm going to do things in ten minutes increments, per T-Shirt and Judy.

I'm really trying to make this housewife thing work for me.

Ready For The Morning

I made Martin's lunch. He has to walk at least twenty minutes to get into the building from the car in his company's huge parking lot, so it makes going out to lunch a lost cause. Only when the entire department goes, and then it's a two to three hour endeavor.

Anyway.

The refrigerated parts of his lunch are sitting in the bottom right hand shelf of the fridge. Just like they have been for oh, nine years now. Two sandwiches; one turkey and Swiss, one ham and cheddar, both on rolls, not the silly bread slices. A salad, with roasted almond pieces and cheese and bacon bits. A Strawberry Cheesecake Yolpait, which if you haven't had one, I heartily recommend you try
.
The rest of his lunch is in his Super Duper Self Chilling Awesome Lunch Bag, including the Mike Sell's Salt and Ground Pepper Chips.

I prepped the coffee pot for the morning. I even set a mug out. All that's left to do is hit that button. Three minutes later, coffee appears.

I even set out clothes for him.

All of this is an effort to sleep in on my part. Will I be able to? No. My husband lives in the same house as I do. We've been together nine years. He is still convinced I get up in the middle of the night and hide things on him.

At least he's very sweet.

Neighborhood Nosy Rosy

That's me.

We live in townhouses that back up to another townhouse community. A wooden fence separates the two, but there are parts of the fence missing, making for easy access between the two.

There is a river on the west side of both communities. Being Indiana, it's reaching to call it a river. In Michigan, it would be considered a big creek. It's not very deep, but the drop off to the bank is treacherous.

Not too long after we moved in, Mia met two little girls named J and A. (Side note: I first thought J was a little boy because she was dressed very boyish, had short hair, and her name could work for either sex. She's sort of a Pat-ish child.) J is five and A is seven. Mia is six. Perfect age for playmates, right?

Well, it seems that J and A live in the other community behind us and regularly visit ours. Alone. Just a five and seven year old girl.

I didn't think much of it at first; whenever they came to play with Mia, I walked them home. At one point, on a Saturday morning, Dex was up earlier and Mia wasn't installed on the couch watching Sponge Bob. He figured that Mia was up in her room playing. She's always the first person awake. Martin and I always sleep in on week-ends, at least til ten. Dexter is drinking his coffee and watching something on TV when there is a knock on the door, and it's Mia. She had invited herself over to J and A's house. Not good. Not good at all and Little Miss Independent got grounded for a week. I guess she thought that since J and A had free run of the area, so did she.

I do not let Mia out to play or ride her bike or draw on the sidewalk alone. I don't let her walk 100 feet to the mailbox with watching her.

These kids are all over, riding their bikes, and not just on the sidewalk. They're out when it's almost dark. They roam way down to the front of our community, which is certainly not within yelling distance of where they live.

They're nice little girls, but I'm not real comfortable with their freedom.

Dexter has a friend named Mike who lives three doors down. Mike has a brother named Ryan who is 11. This afternoon, we saw Mike outside and said we were going down to the pool and Mike said he'd see us there, that he was taking Ryan. Mike didn't know that Ryan had told J and A where he was going, so they ran home and got their suits on. Mike is 17. He was watching his brother and I mentioned that it worries me. Mike was a little freaked out because apparently, J and A had indicated that Mike was watching them. Mike wanted no part of it, and I don't blame him.

Who let's their kids go not only to the pool, but a pool farthest away, and swim with somebodies seventeen year old brother, whom they've never met? Seriously, WFT? Mike is perfectly harmless and a good kid, but what if was someone else?

I'm not going to confront their parents, but I will call their community office, and ours. It concerns me. Actually, it scares the everlovin' shit out of me. We don't live in a high crime area. It's pretty quiet, mostly families. It still worries me. And if I am the neighborhood nosy rosy, so be it.

I have one child who is sixteen and another is six; other than them trying to escape the Mumma, they are whole and healthy and unmolested and I intend to keep it that way.

The Reluctant Housewife

Since we have moved to Indiana, my job has been to be a housewife. And I'm not doing such a good job with it.

I like my house to be company clean all the time. That involves a lot of what my mom used to call elbow grease. Cleaning bores me silly. Give me a choice of the vacuum and a good book, and the vacuum will stay in the closet.

I loathe laundry. The actual sorting and washing and drying doesn't bother me, it's the folding and putting away the clean laundry that stymies me. I miss the days when my mother-in-law did our laundry and folded it and even separated it by owner. Of course, Margaret has gotten a bit forgetful as she's gotten older, and we did have some mix ups. Most notable was the time we went over to their house for dinner and my father-in-law was sporting my Ramones tee shirt.

I've done a lot of reading lately on the Retro Housewife roles many women have decided to take. I do believe right now that it's important for me to be available for my children. I do believe that since Martin is working a high profile job, and working hard long hours at it, I should take care of the house and support his career. Since I'm not working, we have made financial sacrifices, and I'm pretty good about being frugal.

The feminist in me screams against this, but then quiets down and tells me that this is a choice I made; I have the choice to work or not. I think many women in my age group were raised to believe we had to have it all: the husband, the kids, the house, the career.

We all saw those Charlie perfume commercials.

I spent a good part of my life living to work. Now, I have a more important job; taking care of my family. As my wise friend Judy suggested, I need to take pride in the small jobs I accomplish around the house.

That probably means no more laundry baskets in the dining room.

Things I Have Been Asked Today

1.) How long will a butt cramp last?

2.) I love macaroni and cheese, it's yummy.

3.) Can I have a pop? Just one? I won't tell Daddy.

4.) Why don't we have any chocolate ice cream? Who ate it all? Dexter did, I know he did. He always eats all the ice cream! (During a total diva tantrum including hands on hips and a fierce scowl.)

5.) You threw away her booooooot! ( I threw away a Halloween Barbie doll boot, which was half eaten by a certain little dog. The boot was a moot point since most of the Barbies are involuntary amputees anyway, including Halloween Barbie.)

6.) I'm going to make a PBNJ. Now, Mommy, can you hand me the peanut butter? (She's standing next to the pantry, I'm on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor.)

7) They got $2000 dollars for their yard sale! That's more than $1000 dollars! (during Clean House, which she is strangely addicted to.)

A Non-Celebrity Death

My biological mother Connie died.

For those of you who don't know, I was adopted as an infant. As a side note, so was my husband, and we adopted our daughter Mia. Throw Dexter into the mix, and we could be a poster for the blended family.

I grew up always knowing I was adopted. My mom and dad made it a positive experience for me. I always wondered about where I came from, and my mom told me everything she knew, which wasn't much.

After I had Dexter, I became more curious. It took me a while to actually commit to doing something about it. My mom encouraged me, and helped me. Eventually, I ended up at the Oakland County Courthouse in Pontiac, and paid for a search. It worked like this: They did a search for the original records of the adoption and released the non-identifying information. Then, they tried to contact the biological family to see if they wanted to establish communication. Not all biological families do, and sometimes, the information just isn't available.

Connie and I exchanged letters and talked on the phone. About a month later, we met. I found out that we shared a birthday, July 28. She gave birth to me on her thirty-third birthday. She gave me pictures of herself in her younger days, and we looked very much alike. We also shared mannerisms. When I met my half-sister and brother, they were a little freaked out, I think, at the resemblance.

I never established a close bond with Connie. I suppose it is mostly my fault. I didn't know what to say or how to feel. I am close to my brother and sister and I cherish those relationships.

My sister took care of Connie these last years, when Connie's health had declined. She carried the burden of making the decisions, much as I did when I lost my mom. I know how difficult it is to see your mother dying slowly, before your eyes.

I'm only starting to be Gobsmacked by this.

RIP Connie, and thank you making the most difficult decision any mother can.