Tuesday, April 28, 2009

T-Ball Season Will Commence... Later

Today was supposed to be Caleb's first day of t-ball. I signed him up a couple of months ago, saw that the league had cashed my check, and then never heard anything. I should have followed up, but that's not the way I roll. That would take... energy. Finally, someone contacted me and this was the evening practice was to commence!

This whole t-ball experience has been a source of tension between John and me. He wanted to know crazy things like what was the name of the league, where was the paper with the information on it, who was the contact person, things I immediately forgot and/or got rid of the moment I sent the check in the mail. He looked at me with his "intense eyes" and said, "It would really be a major disappointment if Caleb didn't get to play this year." He said this in his "intense voice." John is a lawyer, and lawyers are individuals who are especially adept at "intense eyes" and "intense voice."

I understood his concern. You see, our son Caleb is the very best six-year old baseball player IN THE WORLD. And I'm not just saying that because I'm his mother, either. It's a fact. I have proof. Last summer, I pitched the ball to him and ended up with a black eye. Now I'm petrified of the ball and Caleb has no one to pitch to him during the day.

Need more proof? Caleb can hit the ball over roof. He can catch the ball while sliding, jumping, or standing perfectly still as he gazes upward towards the sun. When he plays, he totally gets "intense eyes." He can rattle off the names of all the players on his favorite team, the Cardinals. He thinks Albert Pujols is really really great, and argues with anyone who suggests otherwise. Men have been known to call our house to ask Caleb for advice about their fantasy baseball teams. He has an eye for the ball, and recently informed me he will no longer go for the "high cheese." I don't know what that means, but I'm sure it's a good decision.

When we were searching for a new house, Caleb's baseball obsession became an important factor in our decision making process. The house needed to have the following: an attached garage, two full bathrooms, four bedrooms, and a backyard that would accommodate Caleb's batting practice. It's serious business.

Tonight, Tuesday night, when I told Caleb he wouldn't be playing t-ball, his lip quivered and he stated, verbatim: "I will never ever play t-ball ever again!" He makes these grandiose statements often:

Caleb, calmly: Hey, mom, can I play X-box?
Mom: Not right now.
Caleb, wailing: I will never ever play X-box ever again!

Personally, I was grateful for the delay. We know not yet what team Caleb will be playing on. I've been worrying about this. What if... what if... Caleb's team is called... The Yankees?
Caleb has a passionate, irrational hatred for the Yankees. It's slightly embarrassing to have a child so opposed to a baseball team that is so incredibly popular in this area. When people tell Caleb they are Yankees fans, my regularly amiable son will narrow his eyes and say (in "intense voice"): "Oh. The Yankees. I hate the Yankees." I think I have a reasonable concern about arriving at the ballpark and being handed a Yankees uniform. Caleb has never cursed, but that could very well be the first occasion where a naughty word spontaneously combusts within him.

I will refrain from talking about what a travesty it is that my son, simply because of his age, is forced to play t-ball instead of baseball, as I am a humble person who just happened to be blessed with boy who is a brilliant ball player, a baseball savant, if you will.

Signing off now before I choke on my own obnoxiousness.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

The Day John Planted a Garden

This morning I gave Ben some shorts to put on. He looked at them and said indignantly, "These are baby pants." It has been so long since it has been this warm outside that my little man has forgotten what shorts are.

John took advantage of the lovely weather and started our vegetable garden. Or perhaps I should say his vegetable garden, since he did not buy any of the vegetables I specifically requested, namely peppers. He does not like peppers. They make his insides feel funny.

To be fair, he did all the work today tilling and planting while I came by occasionally and made encouraging comments like, "Hey baby, you and that hoe look hot together!" I don't know anything about gardening. I can't even take care of a houseplant. They wither if I put them in the sun and perish if I keep them in the shade. If successful care of plants was a prerequisite for having children, I would living in a studio apartment in the city with no plants, no children, and no multi-colored goldfish crackers in my cupboards. However, if my clematis had howled when thirsty, I probably wouldn't have forgotten to water it. If I neglect to water Daniel, for instance, he reminds me by screaming and chucking his sippy cup at my head. (His accuracy is frightening.) So it's not really my fault at all that my houseplants have languished under my care; it was their fault for being passive-aggressive.

I'm a bit excited about having fresh cherry tomatoes and swiss chard and green beans to eat straight out of my very own garden. (Even though it lacks peppers, it's really only "John's" garden in theory. Most things we possess are "John's" in theory. The garden, the house, and most everything else are mine, the wife's, because that's the way a good marriage works. Ask any female.)

I have one concern about the garden, and it regards the bunny rabbit that likes to squeeze through our fence and into our yard, though it is a rather plump bunny and I'm not sure HOW exactly it squeezes its girth through our fence. My concern is that it will feel obligated as a bunny to eat our veggies and that John will be tempted to... I can't even write it, it is too horrible to put down.

Did I mention John planted radishes in my garden? It's like he's begging Peter Cottontail to nibble away. Just begging. I can feel a confrontation brewing, and I don't like it one bit.

Ella and Daniel love the bunny, by the way. They stand at the sliding glass door and bounce up and down and squeal just like John does on Christmas morning. So this spring, I hope we can all find a way to live in harmony: me, John, the bunny, and our vegetable plants. I'll keep you updated.

Oh yeah... I changed my font. After all that hemming and hawing- I like the default font "font" because it's a default font and I don't have to actively click on a different font, which suits me because I am by nature an extremely lazy individual.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Receptionists, Gallbladders, and Pirates OH MY!

Yesterday I had my pre-op appointment at my general practitioner's office. I arrived and the receptionist and I eyed each other suspiciously. We have a mutual dislike for one another. I don't like her because about a month ago she gave me a hard time about coming into the office for a throat culture. I had the audacity to ask to come in a half an hour before the office closed because that's when I could procure babysitting for my FOUR CHILDREN. Apparently, she can't make concessions just because I have children. Other people have children, and jobs. I don't know these things because I am very, very stupid.

After this exchange, there was a pause loaded with tension and then I asked her very politely if I could speak with the doctor. There was another pause and then she said she would put me down for 4:30 but I'd better not be a minute late. She said this in a tone that I did not appreciate. I am ashamed to say that was the moment I got snarky. Now when I go in she barely looks at me and she gives me paperwork without explaining why she is giving it to me. I find this unprofessional. I'm thinking very seriously of doing something about it. Like complaining about her on my new blog.

I thought I would be in and out of the office, but they put me through a whole rigamarole. I was forced to wear some sort of tarp thing and they prodded my sore gallbladder (does this hurt? YES IT HURTS! I have ROCKS in my tummy!) and then they asked me all of these questions. All of this goes to show that you should never assume you won't have to take your clothes off at the doctor's and should therefore always shave your legs beforehand.

After they saw my hairy legs, they weighed me, made me pee in a cup, and sent me off to get my blood drawn. May I just say that my doctor's receptionist, DMV employees, and the blood takers at ACM labs are the most humorless people IN THE WORLD! But not me. I'm very fun. In fact, I thought it would be very fun to run off to the gym and have a quick run after I had filled several vials with my life-giving blood. There was dizziness. There was a little nausea. There were rocks jostling in my abdomen.

I got over it, went home and made a nice, low-fat, gallbladder disease friendly dinner (which three out of six of us ate), read books about pirates to my boys (Argh!), went to watch Lost and got pissed that it was one of those dumb recap shows, then went to bed tired and aggravated and sore and thirsty.

But John always brings me a full cup of cold water for my nightstand (yay hubby!) which always reminds me... grumpy receptionist and sore gallbladders be darned! (Sorry to use harsh words). I really am so blessed.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Morning Music and Playdates

I love starting the day listening to a lively morning song sung by my precocious three-year old boy. Ben likes to entertain himself (and others) while on the potty. Here are the lyrics that drifted out from the bathroom:

I poop I poop I poop Yeah!
I poop I poop I poop Hooray!

I poop I poop I poop Yeah!
I poop I poop I poop...


Caleb had a "playdate" (I hate that term. It sounds so... bourgeois?) with a girl from his class. Both Caleb and Ben were really looking forward to it. However, within the first five minutes, our extremely outspoken guest announced that she had come over to play with Caleb, NOT BEN. As you can imagine, there were gigantic, wet tears. I put on a cheerful face but I was seething. Seething at this six-year old girl who looked up at me with hands on her hips as she rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, "Well, he doesn't have to CRY about it!"

How could she not want to play with Ben? He makes up creative songs about poop! His voice sounds just like Mickey Mouse's! And he's not bad looking, either! It was a long three hours.

I think from now on I would prefer it if playdates happened at other people's houses.

Monday, April 20, 2009

I'm a Blogger!!!

My first post. I have been staring at the computer deciding which font to go with. This seems like an important decision because once you start with a font, you've got to stick with that font. I don't want to be inconsistent. I hate New Times Roman because it reminds me of long, boring research papers. Arial was a little too childish. Verdana seems breezy but serious enough.

Verdana it is.

I also came up with a great address for my sight- hollygolightly... y'know, the Audrey Hepburn character from Breakfast at Tiffanys? I thought I was sooo clever. Of course, hollygolightly was taken... by a person NOT EVEN NAMED HOLLY! This, of course, is outrageous. And hollygoeslightly is a blog by a Holly who has never once posted anything. Not once. She's been on since 2006. She should really do the right thing and relinquish her address.

So, I recently bit the bullitt and actively started seeking freelance writing jobs, and guess what? I even got a couple. And I think I'm pretty good at it. But technical writing and editing and drafting pithy little "how to" articles breeds apathy... so I'm going to blog a bit. Maybe a lot. Because that's what writers do. They create blogs in the hopes that an agent will happen upon their site and think to themselves, good gravy! This is the writing of a bestselling author. WHERE HAS SHE BEEN ALL MY LIFE?

All ye agents who never actually look at blogs at all, I've been here, in Ra-cha-cha New York, pro-creating with my husband like we're rabbits and writing a bit on the side. And now I'm going to have a little bit of fun and write about what I want to write about, gripe about what I want to gripe apart, and write ostentatious posts because this is America and I CAN.

(You can read them if you want.)