The Bullseye Mirage

Since moving to NewCity, I have developed a syndrome.

Today I officially christened it The Bullseye Mirage.

I can see my store. I know where I am supposed to be going. I go there. And the store is, well, it's just not there.

I cannot quite explain how it developed, but it has begun to interfere with my rare opportunities for shopping excursions to my favorite Bullseye store.

See, we are bizarrely equidistant from several in a frustrating bermuda triangle effect. Because of this, it takes a lot of driving time and effort to get there. I rarely have the energy to go because just thinking about the logistics exhausts me. I usually punk out and wait until the weekend when Hubbie can join us.

Even so, I have been trying to learn my way around without my GPS so that I actually learn where I am going.

And I totally suck.

Even with the GPS, every time I head for a Bullseye store I end up going some crazy-ass route that ensures crabby kids, fumes in the gas tank, and not a drive-thru coffee shop to be found. It's like going around my ass to get to my elbow.

So today I was certain I knew where I was going. Talked up milkshakes for the kids. I only had five things on my list. It was going to be in, out, spank me we are done.

I should have known.

I got completely turned around and just thanked the transportation gods that LittleMan was napping.

People talk about stay-at-home-moms doing nothing but shopping and spending their husbands' paycheck. Not me. Apparently I'm not to be let out of the house on my own. My keen navigational skills got lost in the move from Tahoe. If anyone finds the box I packed them in, overnight them to me. Please.

God Bless The Brazilians

When I had my surgery in Sweden, we lived a five minute drive from the hospital. What should have been a 20 minute out-patient procedure turned into a three hour long major overhaul of my abdomen.

I was swollen. I was in a lot of pain.

Hubbie went to work, and I recovered at home. I had three different incisions in my stomach. From the outside it wasn't too gruesome. Internally, I had been scraped and cauterized. It was hard for me to move.

My MIL, who was already retired by this time, lived a five minute drive down the same street we lived on. She never came to see me. She never called to check on me.

I don't know what she had going on. All I knew was that I was laid up in bed or stretched out on the couch. And I was starving. It hurt too much to stand in the kitchen and cook. I would try and fix a sandwich or two, but I was hobbling around like a 90-year old woman.

Enter my next door neighbor. She was Brazilian. Married to a Swedish guy. She was about 10 years older than I was. A lovely woman with lots of issues. We would talk in our version of Swedish. Hers heavily accented with Portuguese, mine with English. She was a lovely person with a very sad life.

When she realized what was going on, she brought me food. Lots of it.

She asked me to leave our upper door unlocked. And from beneath my blankets and a haze of pain I could hear her at different times on different days come into my kitchen and leave large pots of various Brazilian soups and dishes on my counters.

Hubbie and I would not have eaten if not for her.

God only knows what were in some of the dishes. I believe one was ox-tail-black-bean-something-or-other. But it was delicious. It was nutritious. And I was so, so thankful.

I know that my MIL is not the benchmark for hospitality in Sweden. I try not to let memories like this get to me, but I still hate her for it. She could stand to learn a lesson or two from my old neighbor.

I hope my neighbor is still living in her flat when we visit this autumn. I would like to give her a big hug and tell her how much I miss her.

Get the Hint, Pappa

While we aren't the most religious folks on the block, the kids do say their prayers at night. Some traditional, some Swedish, some subversive.

Last night, LittleMan was exhausted. Hubbie went to tuck him in and say bedtime prayers.

Usually, LittleMan will say the last word of every line since he is not yet two and can't say the whole prayer himself.

Last night, however, he tried to get Hubbie to speed the whole process up.

Hubbie: Angel of

LittleMan: God. Amen!

Hubbie: My guardian

LittleMan: dear. Amen!

Hubbie: To whom God's

LittleMan: love. Amen!

Hubbie: Entrust me

LittleMan: here. Amen!

I think you get the idea. By the time Hubbie got to the third and Swedish prayer, LittleMan just gave him the "you have got to be kidding me" look.

Apparently, Hubbie is slow on the uptake.

Lining Up Those Ducks

We have secured tickets to Sweden for the autumn. It has been a long and sordid story, but we were able to book four tickets to Stockholm.

Now to get myself geared up to deal with MIL, plus the other myriad issues I may (or may not) have.

Yesterday, my first preemptive strike strategy took effect.

One of LittleMan's nicknames is Maverick. It rhymes with his real name, and I am using this to highlight my point without disclosing any private family info.

My MIL has some kind of linguistic defect. Or hearing defect. Or she might just be a bitch. Regardless of what her issue is, she refuses to cannot pronounce LittleMan's name properly.

So, rather than call him Maverick, she calls him Maverique. As in trying to make it sound French. She doesn't speak French. She boycotted French wines when the nuclear testing thing was going down. However, despite having been corrected several times she continues to call him Maverique.

It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Since adults will often not let other adults correct them but can be shamed by small children, yesterday began with the implementation of Phase I of Mission Maverick.

The conversation went as follows:

Me: Hey LittleBird. You know Maverick's name is Maverick.

LittleBird: Yeah!

Me: We don't say Maverique do we?

LittleBird gives me a weird look like Why in the hell would we call him Maverique?

Me: If someone called him Maverique, what would you say?

LittleBird, with all the attitude an indignant three-year old can muster: His name is MAVERICK, not MaverIQUE!!

That's my girl.

WW: Foreshadowing

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Moron Monday: Cat? What Cat?

Had a friend over for a playdate today with her kids. I was in and out of the house getting snacks, drinks, diapers. The works.

I sit down for a breather, and LittleBird shrieks Look Mamma! A kitty!

I look along our back fence line. Oh yeah! I say, That is a kitty!

Squint the eyes, then widen them in horror.

Wait a minute. That's our cat!!!

I jump up and book it barefoot across our backyard. My fucker of a cat slips between the fences and into our neighbor's yard. No amount of coaxing, muttered threats or swearing will get her to come near me.

I walk back across the lawn to where my friend is sitting. Isn't your cat allowed outside? she asked.

Um, no. They don't go out. Ever.

Oh, she said. LittleMan has been pointing at the cat walking around the yard while you were in the house and saying Kitty! Kitty!

Seriously? Don't you think that might have been pertinent information to tell me when I came back outside? The fact that my almost two year old can figure out something is wrong, but you don't seem to have a clue?

Moron. Total fucking moron.

She's still my friend. We'll still have playdates. But what a dumbass. Seriously.

Color Me Surprised

I am very hard to surprise. It isn't that I do not like to be surprised because I do. It isn't because I try like the dickens to snoop around and find out what is going on because I don't.

I am very hard to surprise because people usually can't keep their mouths shut and ruin it for me ahead of time. That coupled with the fact that my Hubbie is really bad about planning or thinking ahead means that I very rarely am surprised with something nice.

We got back to DC last night. Imagine my surprise this evening when going through the mail that I had a card from a certain blogger friend. Inside, was this:


I am so touched. She says she thought of me when she saw it so bought it for me.

People, no one does this for me. Ever.

My family and I are like this with people, but it is a rare day when someone thinks of me and follows through with something like this.

Friends have been in short order lately. I know I am going through a phase in my life that is causing many friendships to be in flux. I just want to say how grateful and wonderfully surprised I am by this token of friendship. I wear it with honor.

Now, Hubbie is waiting for me in the shower and the kids are asleep. WooHoo! LOL

WW: Cowgirl Adventures (Fun At the GYN)

Here is the photo montage of our Cowgirl Adventure.

NATUI in the BFT


Telling Nasty Stories In the Waiting Room


Fun With Needles

I Enjoy Being A Girl


Having A Star Search Moment

Note the bow



CoalMiner Heather Has Found Her Second Calling


If you made it through this post without scratching out your eyes or having your testicles implode, check out other Wordless Wednesday entrants.

And You Can Be My Cowgirl

Today, the bonds of friendship will be tightened like a steel trap or strained like the button on my waistband after a 3am visit to IHOP.

I have my yearly appointment with my surgeon.

Hubbie is in DC and cannot come for moral support.

CoalMiner Heather is going to be his proxy.

That's right. This afternoon it's stirrups and paper gowns with a side of vaginal ultrasound.

And CoalMiner Heather gets to be the lucky girl to help me through it.

We have the same surgeon, see. We refer to him as Dr. Miracle. He is one talented motherfucker but can be a bit overbearing at times. For all my bluster, I need a bit of moral support. Something about having a bare ass hanging off the end of a table seems to rob me of any verbal coherence.

Don't worry, though. I'll be updating with photographic evidence of the worst kind. Hell, two bloggers in a room with multi-million dollar ultrasound equipment, tongue depressors and swabs? Bitch, please.

Get Your Green Tambourine

Life has been hard, lately. We have been faced with many challenges, and the fortitude I felt moving into the DC area has all but disappeared.

I am worn down. I feel as though I have no strength from which to draw.

I am tired of feeling as if there is no solution.

I am tired of treading water.

I am feeling rootless. I want to settle down. I want to be in a neighborhood that I know will be for a long time. That I can get invested in. I have not had the ability or opportunity to put down roots for years, and it is taking its toll.

This has been the state of affairs for me for quite some time now. Today, on Father's Day, when my spouse is in one state and I am in another it has been another sad and stressful day for me.

Thankfully, for a brief period of time, I have been able to be grateful for the so many things I do have in my life that I just can't always see.

My husband is here. With me. He left his country. For me. For us. For our marriage. For the possibility of future children.

I have spells of guilt during summer days of not living in Sweden anymore, and it is hard for me to know what he is missing. Because I know. I lived it. And I know we are where we need to be for now. That we will be stronger for it.

But tonight? I long for a bright sky at midnight, a walk by Edsviken, dinner on our altan, and maybe a rousing game of kubb thrown in for good measure.

I leave you with my theme for this feeling. Roxette is Swedish. They know of whence they sing. I can't explain it any better than this.

June Afternoon

Didn't I tell you everything is possible
in this deja vu?
Try the river boat, the carousel,
feed the pigeons, Bar-B-Q.

Look at all the people, happy faces all around
Smiling, throwing kisses, busy making lazy sounds

It's a bright June Afternoon, it never gets dark
Wah-Wah! Here comes the sun
Get your green green tambourine, let's play in the park
Wah-Wah! Here comes the sun

Some folks are on blankets, slowly daydreaming
And reaching for their food
Let's go buy an ice-cream
And a magazine with an attitude

And put on a cassette, we can pretend that you're a star
'cause life's so very simple, just like la-la-la

It's a bright June Afternoon, it never gets dark
Wah-Wah! Here comes the sun

Get your green green tambourine, let's play in the park
Wah-Wah! Here comes the sun

There's a painter painting his masterpiece
There's some squirrels jumping in the trees
There's a wide-eyed boy with a red balloon
All my life I've longed for this afternoon

Smack My Ass And Call Me A Moron

I found my mp3 player.

In my purse.

The same purse I dumped out on several occasions.

The same purse Hubbie went through.

The same purse I have been carrying around all week while I bitched about not having my player.

I don't even care.

I am so happy to have it back I don't care who makes fun of me or calls me a moron. I would never go the WonderGirl route. I full on admit what a dork I am.

So thanks for all of the psychic suggestions. I tried them all. The helpful ones, anyway. My current project is to find a way to surgically attach my player to my forearm.

Calling All Psychics

I can't find my mp3 player.

Does anyone know where it is?

You may think I jest, but I have never been more serious. My Sansa player has been missing for a week now, and I am about to go apeshit.

I am at my parents house, and they are are so disorganized. Please, if anyone out there has even a shred of psychic ability--please tell me where my music player is.

Knock, Knock. Who's There?

I don't know the age that kids start telling knock knock jokes, but sense of humor starts early.

LittleBird is waiting for me to come upstairs and tell jokes with her.

It started very innocently. Kids love anything that has to do with bodily functions, and now when she gets out of bed 50 times and forces herself to stay awake if we go to bed at the same time we lie next to each other and call each other silly names that all end with butt.

She already knows that Gramma and Grampa would not think this is funny and is very serious about not letting them hear us.

Last night I went to bed early, partially because I was sick of putting her back to bed and partially because I was exhausted. We giggled and sang songs together and called each other bubblebutt and squirrelbutt and hairbutt. It was awesome.

She snuggled close to me. Got right in my face. And I licked her nose.

She squealed with delight and horror. Said it was icky. Then wanted me to do it again.

I have created a monster.

A minute ago I told her I was turning off the computer, but that if she waited for me in her bed I would come upstairs and we could tell jokes together.

Her response?

And LICK each other!!

With a huge grin on her face.

This is the part of the mommy job that I love.

Cimarrons and Communists

Well, we got our groove on. Boy did we ever.

As you may have gathered from reading this blog, nothing normal ever happens to us. EVER. It always has to be some dog and pony show. Our Get Our Groove On night away from the kids is case in point.

We stayed at a rather swank hotel in a rather swank area of the ATL. Our ride? My grandmother's old Cimarron. Yep, the ghetto pimp car from hell. All leather cow interior. Red, since you asked. The smell of cigarette smoke still evident with both windows rolled down. Mmmmmmm is for Marlboro.

Now, why in the world would we drive down the Connector at 65 mph with the windows down when it was 103 in the sun? Because the AC did not work. At all.

It was all good though. Hubbie and I thanked the iced coffee and drive-thru gods and let our hair blow in the wind.

We should have known we were in for trouble when the Check Engine light came on.

We arrived at SwankHotel and almost valet parked.

Instead, we killed time at the local overpriced mall where I got myself a fab pair of fakey sunglasses. Don't I look glamorous?



Here is where the dog and pony show starts:

We then spent a bit of time with our soon-to-be divorced friend who is currently in the pit of hell. Between cell phone outages and miscommunications we spent the better part of an hour sitting in his driveway waiting for him.

We left the visit with mosquito bites on every extremity and depressed as hell from the awful stories he told us about his divorce-in-progress.

Things picked up with dinner. The food was awesome. A nice stroll back to the hotel. Sleep was divine.

We got up at a decent hour because we wanted to cruise through our old neighborhood and surprise our friends.

Plus, there was a BBQ we had scheduled at my parents house. We didn't want to be late and make anyone wait.

Turns out, we were the ones doing the waiting.

See this? This is the Cimarron fucking broken down on the way out of the parking garage. Uh-huh. So not cool. It died every time Hubbie hit the gas pedal.



After an hour of tears, anger and frustration the Cimarron decided to work. If we popped her into reverse first.

Off we spluttered, shifting into reverse every time we wanted to drive forward until the car quit dying on us.

We stopped by a fast-foodish establishment to pick up a spinach and bacon panini that I have been craving. I was in heaven. Can you tell I am sweating my ass off?


We stopped at our Commie friend's house. We walked in and woke them up by Hubbie yelling down the hall for him to get his Communist bastard ass out of bed. Good times.

The time came to leave, and our friend the Cimarron actually worked the first time we cranked her. Don't know why or how, but she did. It must have been the oohs and aaahs of jealousy we evoked from our friends. 'Cause we had the baddest ride in town, bro! We said our goodbyes and were able to make it back to my parents house in good order.

Completely overheated and sweaty, but safe and sound.

And there is our simple night on the town.

Not for the faint of heart. Nor any members of Club McCarthy.

Off to Get My Groove On

Hubbie is in town. We finally get a day/night away from the kids. I want to weep with gratitude.

On the agenda? A great meal. Conversation that does not revolve around diapers or toddler eating habits. Great sex? Probably not. We can find loads of places to have sex at home. What we are in short supply of is sleep.

So the kids will be fine, we will have a great night, and I will be back this weekend to regale you with tales of living the high life for just a few hours.

FoF: Welcome to Fuck Off Friday

This post has been percolating in my head all week. I honestly could not wait for today to come to roll it out. Then, my very good friend and blogger buddy had a spectacularly craptacular week, and it is as if the heavens sanctioned my new version of a bitchfest.

Fridays will present the opportunity to tell someone to Fuck Off!! I may not do it every week, but you are welcome to join in by commenting. If you want to post on your own site just link back here because I'd love to read it.

After everything that has gone on this week I cannot even remember my original reason for wanting to create this post. So:

A huge FUCK OFF to trolls who come to websites and leave nasty comments for the sole purpose of hurting someone's feelings. You are mean-spirited. You are hateful. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Those Dirty Little Secrets

As honest, mature and responsible we would all like to believe ourselves to be as adults, it is all just a bunch of shit.

Since coming to my parents house this weekend, they will never find out:

• That in the process of making the kids a smoothie I left one of my mom's brand new spoons in the blender when I turned it on. It is pretty chewed up, so I stuffed it under all the other spoons. Hopefully, she'll blame my dad or herself for accidentally putting it through the garbage disposal.


• LittleMan slammed his sippy cup onto the table on the deck. In some mad property of physics, said smoothie rocketed out of the straw and all over my mom's laptop. Like, even into one of the drives on the side. I cleaned it up as best I could, but shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

That was just the first few days. Sometimes open and honest just isn't worth the argument.

WW: Why I Treadmill

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Why I TreadMill

This post was almost called Your Mother Was a Hamster, but I have recently been accused of quoting TV and film. In a way that I felt was not exactly complimentary. Therefore, I am matching the title of this post to my Wordless Wednesday post, as they are related.

I have always hated treadmills. I used to say that treadmills were for hamsters, not people.

Life changes you, though. Years have passed. Kids have dropped out of my vagina. I'd rather blog than go to the gym. As the pounds have added themselves to my ass I have understood their allure the necessity of their evil.

Because of this I promised myself when I came to stay with my parents that I would use their treadmill. Everyday.

I slacked off the first day or so for all the usual reasons. Unpacking. Getting settled. Forgot about it.

Then, I went to buy myself pyjamas.

Everyone thinks they look great until they hit those fluorescent lights. I stripped down, and I was honestly horrified by what I saw. We are a fairly naked family, so it isn't like I haven't seen myself in the light of day the past few months, but this was just awful.

When I got home I made an agreement with my father. At some point during the day, he has to take charge of the kids for 30 minutes. Every day.

That was two days ago. I am not a runner, but I got on that damned thing and walked and jogged. I actually broke a sweat. Of course, it helps that there is a TV set up in front of the thing.

Yesterday, I wanted to skip it. I had not been able to get on the treadmill before dinner and wasn't exactly stoked at the prospect of getting on so late in the evening.

But I did it. By god I dumped my kids off on my mom and went downstairs for 30 minutes of hell.

I am sure I undid it by the plate of food I ate afterwards. but it was so worth it. We're talking prosciutto with pears. Kalamata olives with smoked gouda. Muenster cheese, pumpernickel bread and extra garlic hummus washed down with a giant glass of Cab.

It's enough to make one believe in the divine.

So did I burn more calories than I consumed? Oh hell no. But the burn in my legs today feels good. My palate has been appeased, and I am almost looking forward to my session this afternoon.

Now, if I can just get that bottle of Cab to quit looking at me.

Of Airports and Assholes

We have arrived safely in Land of Tara and the Pissing Calvin. Of humidity so thick you start to sweat before finishing toweling off from a shower.

There is a woman in Seattle somewhere who has been scarred for life.

And rightly so.

Our paths crossed at the DC airport, and she will think twice about how she conducts herself in public and around small children.

I am sure she is a perfectly nice woman. Checking in at a crowded airport kiosk is difficult under the best of circumstances.

Knock your tower of luggage on top of me? Fine. No biggie. It happens. Let's get on with our lives and finish this hellish check-in process.

Knock your tower of luggage over a second time? This time on top of my kid in his stroller? Not. Fucking. Cool.

You got it. This woman's gigantic suitcase fell on LittleMan. Actually, it was the pulled-out metal handle that slammed into this left thigh and pinned him against the seat whilst he screamed bloody murder.

I wanted to beat the shit out of her. If nothing else demand her name and address in the event she had broken his damned femur so I could send her the bill.

Instead, after the initial shouting of Oh My GOD!!! I kept trying to soothe him, while looking for LittleBird's reservation which was not showing, while the ticket agent got snarky with me for not having my ID at the ready.

In the best interest of my family (which meant not getting arrested for beating down LuggageDropper or jumping over the kiosk and strangling SnarkyTicket Agent), I got my shit done and we got out of there.

All I could think of was thank the heavens this woman was headed for Seattle. Having to stare at the back of her head on my flight would have been horrible.

She was behind us in security. I saw her at the food court. I tried not to give her the continuous Murder Death Kill look, but she knew I was looking at her. I know she could feel it.

Board plane. Get LittleMan adjusted while LittleBird sits somewhere else with Grampa. I look up.

There she is.

On my flight.

Our eyes meet.

I have to give her credit. She could have looked the other way and continued on past.

Instead, she asked if he was going to be okay. I patted his leg and told her I hoped so.

She said that she really, really was sorry.

I told her I appreciated her saying so.

In English we tend to say It's okay after someone apologizes.

It wasn't okay. Not even near okay.

I respect her for looking me in the face and apologizing. I do appreciate her having said it.

I wonder what her version of the story was when she got to her destination.

I would put money on the fact that the next time she goes to the airport she will have better control of her luggage, a tighter rein on her husband, and a sharper eye on the stroller next to her.