Crybaby Press

We Rock America's Dairyland

Look! It's us. In Wisconsin.

Yup, last week we headed up north for my youngest cousin's wedding. You know, it's only a 2 hour flight to Milwaukee. Only. A two hour flight. But when you're stuck between two little kids whose sole missions in life are to aggravate the ever-loving crap out of each other, it seems a whole lot longer.

Anyway, we made it. In this picture, we're at Apple Holler in Sturtevant, WI. Here you can pay $30 to pick as many apples as you can fit into this huge bag they give you, which is somewhere around a million. We loaded onto a wagon pulled by a tractor and the driver took us out to the middle of this huge apple orchard. Lele and TT Bird loved this place. And by loved, I mean LOVED. They were plucking apple after apple from the trees, biting into every other one. The only problem was that the place was swarming with huge, violent mosquitos, but they didn't care. I'm telling you, The Magic Kingdom has nothing on Apple Holler. After we finished apple-picking, we headed back to the little farm to feed the goats and watch the bunnies. They had pony rides and a couple different mazes. They had apple cider and, uh, Miller Light. They also had a restaurant where i shared a GIANT cheeseburger with- get this- FRIED PICKLES on it with my mom. We loved it.

After Apple holler, we headed over to my cousin's house for a family BBQ. We were all, "Hey! That Apple Holler place was so fun." and they were all, "Apple Holler? That place is for dorks. We never go there." Funny, because that's exactly how I feel about all of the hokey Orlando attractions. I mean, The Holyland Experience? Medieval Times? Come on.

Aside from the apples (which, incidentally, we had to find a way to dispose of at the end of the trip without Lele noticing. We were all speaking in code- "What should I do with the 30 lbs of manzanas in the back of the rental car?" "Uh, maybe there's a umpster-day for the anzanas-may at the otel-hay."), the other highlight of the trip for the kids was the free continental breakfast, otherwise known as the free "Eat as many Donuts as Possible in 4 Days" breakfast.

Then there was the wedding. Lele refused to wear her dress. Then she agreed to wear the dress, but only with jeans underneath. Then I threatened to leave her in the car, so she reluctantly pulled off the jeans and spent the entire ceremony with a look of disdain on her little face, tugging at the hem of the dress so no one would see her undies. I was so pissed at the time, but hey, she comes by it honestly. I myself am not the dress-wearing type.

You'll notice in the photo album that by the time the reception was in full swing, she was back into her jeans and t-shirt uniform, dancing to that awful "Shorty Get Low" song, which my 8 YEAR OLD FREAKING REQUESTED. And we don't have cable. And I only let them listen to Radio Disney (well, and and my classic alternative XM station). WTF! TT Bird caught the garter and then caught the attention of a lovely young lady (you'll see her in the pink dress in the photos). Then, after that, I proceeded to have, oh, a few rum and cokes, and ended up doing The Chicken Dance. Yes, friends. The Chicken Dance. In addition to some goofy line dance. Oh, family weddings...someone always ends up doing The Chicken Dance.

The next day, we ended the trip, of course, just like it began. With me in the between 2 tired little monkeys on a 2 hour flight, fighting all the way back to Florida.

"Bouncy" as a Euphemism for "Kiss Those Size 4 Lucky Jeans Goodbye"

Lele and I were taking a shower together a few nights ago.

Her: Mama, you are so bouncy. (poking me in the side)
Me:  Bouncy?
Her: Yeah. You know, my Daddy isn't bouncy at all.
Me:  So then what is he?
Her: He's kind of like Jack Skellington.

I never really thought of the extra few pounds I've put on over the last year as "bouncy", but I much prefer that description to "belly fat" or "love handles". "Bouncy" almost sounds like fun. Like jumpy castles and trampolines! Wheee! I'm bouncy! Like Violet Beauregard in the Willie Wonka movie.

 See? Fun. Wait, but things didn't turn out so well for Violet, did they?

In any case, Lele's observation got me thinking about how many freaking years I've wasted being insecure about my weight and having what could be called- in a VAST freaking understatement- a "negative body image" (and that would be putting it lightly). I was in high school during that whole "waif" thing and let me tell you, my school churned out more anorexics and bulimics than you could shake a stick at. I teetered on the edge of that myself. I don't want that for Lele. Lately, I've felt that insecurity flare up again, but I refuse to ever contribute to that mentality when it comes to my own daughter.

So that's enough of me getting dressed in front of her while singing The Smiths, "You're the one for me fatty..." to myself under my breath. Enough of me saying, "Hold on, let me get my fat butt on this thing" as I'm trying to get on a swing at the park. It's bad for her and it's bad for me. So that's it. No more. Size 4 Lucky Jeans, you can kiss my bouncy ass.

If Anyone Knows Where We Can Find An Available Kangaroo Pouch, Let Us Know

Him: Mom, can I do anything I want for my birthday?
Me: Well, not anything.
Him: I'm not talking about doing inappropriate stuff like fireworks or anything like that.
Me: You better not be.
Him: But can I go for a ride in a kangaroo's pouch?
Me: What?
Him. A kangaroo pouch. For my birthday. Can I?
Me: If we can find a kangaroo who will let you ride in its pouch, then yes. Absolutely.
Him: Yay!
Me: But what if we can't find one?
Him: Then can we go to California?

Johann Bach's Masterpiece Is Not Welcome Here

Remember that thing about babies and classical music? When my kids were little, it was all over the parenting magazines I devoured with ferocity back then. You were supposed to play classical music for them to increase their IQ and make them, you know, way smarter than those jackass kids who were listening to- I don't know- country music or The Backstreet Boys. So I gave it a try.

And my poor daughter has been terrorized by Johann Sebastian Bach ever since.

Last night I put on an old Bach CD I used to play for the kids when they were little. Immediately Lele, who pretty much laughs in the face of fear under normal circumstance, screamed, "Aghhh! Turn it off! It's very, very scary!"

I kind of laughed at first. Scary?

But from under the pillow she yelled, "No! I hate it! Turn it off and that's final! I mean it!"

"Lele, what's the deal?" I asked. "You don't like this?"

"NO! I hate this song. It makes me think of very scary puppet shows. And I never, never want to hear it again."

So, uh, I guess it's a big N-O to Toccata and Fugue for organ in D minor from little Miss Lele. Sorry, Johann.

Cortney As The Voice Of The Dog

So we got a dog.

Long story, but here she is. Fluffy mentioned her a while back in a post, but back then she was just a guest. Now she's an official member of our little family.

Meet Cece. I know she looks like she was assembled from leftover dog parts, but I'll have you know that Cece is an official Corgi/Chihuahua mix. Otherwise known as a mutt.

Notice the out-of-focus tail. That's because it is constantly wagging. This dog loves me so much, I swear she would crawl into my uterus if she could. She is stuck to me like velcro at all times. And truthfully, I don't mind it.

The problem is that I have developed a very disturbing alter ego. As "Cece the Dog". See, because Cece can't speak, I speak for her. Which means I am spending a lot of time talking to myself in a very strange voice that sounds like a preschooler with a very thick Southern accent and a speech impediment. Our "conversations" go something like this:

Me: Hi Cece!
Cece: Hi Mom! I dawg.
Me: Yes, I know you're a dog! Who's my good girl?
Cece: Mom, I dawg! I just such a berry, berry good dawg!
Me: Yes, Cece, yes you are!
Cece: I just am such a little, little dawg.
Me: Look at that pretty tail!
Cece: Please pet me, Mom! Please pet the little dawg!
Me: OK, Cece! Come here!

And then I pet her. Now I know I'm not the first person to talk to their pet. Or for their pet, for that matter. But I have to say, the whole thing is kind of "Norman Bates", if you will. I'm creeping myself out.

But I'm now a proud dog owner. Which is not to say I'm a "dog person", meaning someone who likes dogs in general. Much the same way I feel about children, I only like my own dog and dogs I know personally. So keep your drooly-ass mutt away from me.

So Remember That Whole Jamaica Thing?

We've been back for over a week and I'm just now getting around to posting. I have been posting in my heart, though. Really.

I don't have the photos yet- I'll post some soon. But I can tell you that it was not exactly like this:

Which, you know, whatever. I'm flexible. Of course, that's not to say I wouldn't have preferred a little bit of sunshine. Over the entire four days we were there. But, eh, who needs sun?

I still managed to mysteriously burn, and then deeply tan, my armpits. Evidently the combo of SPF 15, some weird kind of natural crystal deodorant gel stuff, and the overcast morning weather is the perfect recipe for bronzed pits. Who knew?

Anyway, we stayed at this wonderful resort with my cousin and his wife. It was one of those all-inclusive deals which gives you license to tear up some food and beverage, if you know what I mean. Anyone who knows me knows that the latter counts for more than the former in my book. We killed some Red Stripe Light, Bacardi and Diet, and of course, the requisite fruity island drinks. Had to. What else was there to do in the RAIN?

The resort had a pool bar. A bar in the pool. Needless to say, that helped with the whole RAIN situation, because unlike resorts here, no annoying activities staff kicks you out of the pool because of a little bit of RAIN. Instead, they spend their time entertaining you by singing Billy Joel songs in the piano bar, shredding up the dance floor to that weird "Umbrella. ella. ella." song at the Ultimate Dance Party and trying in vain to pull off the Beachfront Bonfire in spite of some very persistent and pesky RAIN clouds. Hell, one of them even set himself on fire during the dinner performance sheerly for our entertainment

Speaking of the activities staff, when I asked one of the snorkeling guides if he thought the next day's trip would be RAINed out, he decisively replied, "It never RAINS in Jamaica, mon. We call that 'liquid sunshine'."

That's the spirit. Liquid sunshine. Even in the damn rain, it was a memorable, wonderful vacation. The resort was great. The company was even better. There was coconut steamed snapper. Pineapple. Papaya. Reggae music. An endless supply of Bacardi. No responsibilities. That, friends, is Jamaica. That, and the guys trying to sell you weed and coconut sculptures on the beach.

Family Sticks Together

Today the kids and I went to the science museum. We left the house in a hurry because we were trying to squeeze the trip to the museum and an invitation to go swimming in a friend's pool all into one afternoon. When we got there and were walking through the parking lot, I noticed that my flip flops felt a little weird. Kind of out of balance. I looked down and discovered that I was wearing two different flip flops! One brown one and one black sparkly one.

"Oh crap! Guys, wait, I have on two different flip flops! We're gonna have to run home..."

"But Mom! We just got here!"

"Guys, seriously, I can't walk around like this."

"But if we go home, we won't have time to come back AND go swimming!"

They were right. We wouldn't have had time to do both. So I went in with shoes that didn't match. And in a show of support, Lele turned her shirt backwards and TT Bird smeared his face with Cherry 7-up flavored Chap Stick. They didn't want me to feel embarrassed all by myself. Now that is the definition of "family".

Happy Mother's Day To Me!

The best part about Mother's Day is the cards that the kids make at school. "Habee Mutherz Da" written in crayon. Love it. That's what one of my cards read this year. I also got to go to a special Mother's Day breakfast put on by the Extended Day program at TT's school. There was a slideshow based on the answers to a questionairre they gave all the kids. TT's said, "I love my mom because she has a good sense of humor." And yes, I cried.

Then the kids and I went with my friend and her daughter to the beach for the night. Here's how that went:















And then it was something to the effect of:
















So that was fun. Mother's Day for sure. I got to show off all my mothering skills all over the place. "That's it! You're sitting out for an hour!" "What's that? You love sitting out? Fine- an hour and fifteen minutes!" " Do you want another fifteen?" "Oh, for the love of God, will you two CUT IT OUT!"

No, I'm being dramatic. It was actually mostly like this:













And this:















My puppies. Thank you for a wonderful Mother's Day. I love you.

Letter to Me from Fluffy

To Whom It May Concern:

As you may note from this photo I've attached of myself, I'm not particularly thrilled with some recent developments in our household.

It's often difficult for me to communicate my emotions, so therefore I have been forced to express myself by means of biting you repeatedly and giving you the feline equivalent of the middle finger for the past 10 days. However, it is my opinion that you brought it on yourself.

To begin, what the hell is this?

It appears to be a baby.

Funny, because I thought there were enough- you know -people around here, but I can see my opinion doesn't matter. For some reason, you found it appropriate to invite this baby into our home for a 5-day period. In addition, I was forced to sleep on the back porch for the duration of this visit because the baby's mother was concerned about that whole "stealing the baby's breath" crap. Nice. Like I don't have better things to do with my time.

 

And then, there was this:

Once again, a baby.

This baby, and it was clear that this surprised you, angers me more than the human baby.

For future reference, kittens in my general vicinity are 100 % unacceptable.  Cute or not, I refuse to accommodate any "hangers on", if you will. There is one cat in this household. Me. Period.

And finally, the icing on the cake:

What is there to say about this?

Disappointment and betrayal. Betrayal and disappointment.

That, my friend, is what I have to say about this unfortunate situation.

I hope that you are finished inviting unwelcome house guests into my home. If not, I will be forced to continue to bite you and murder the common gecko in your presence, which I know you despise. In addition, I will continue not burying my excrement in the litter box for the purpose of allowing its odor to fill your home. Maybe next time, you'll think twice before extending an invitation.

Sincerely,

Fluffy

Sick Days

We're not sick. Not yet.

But every friggin' person in my office is. The whole building is going down in a blaze of snotty, sinus-infected glory. These people are moping around the cafeteria and the elevator complaining about their sore throats and achy heads. BUT THEY'RE STILL AT WORK!

God forbid a PO doesn't get processed.

We all have to have this feeling of relevance. Like the place will not survive a day without us. "Oh, I'm so sick. Cough, cough. But here's the report on whatever-the-hell. Because I know that-hack, cough, hack-the sun wouldn't rise without it."

Hey, I love my paycheck as much as the next guy, but, uh, some of us have to use our sick days for when other people are sick, so, you know, keep your virus at home. Thanks.

This guy in my building told me this today (after I gave him the repulsed, "keep your distance" face), "Dude, sorry, but I have to save my sick days to play golf."

To which I replied, "Right. So then I have to use three of mine for when you give your virus to me and my two kids." (which, anyone with ear infection-prone kids knows actually means 5- 3 for the virus, 2 for the follow-up ear infection to come 10 days later.)

He did that whole "Ehh, we all make our choices" face.

So I go, "But I see that's my problem. For having kids in the first place, right?"

And then he made the "I just call it like I see it " face.

Nice. Here's what I have to say to that: Unless another person's life requires your attendance, stay the F home. Because I guarantee that you're costing the company by coming to work.  Your tangly web of illness and disease-spreading throughout the organization is rocking the shit out of this place. Which, if it could be traced back to you, would destroy your department's budget for this quarter. I'm just saying. Because I know that's extremely important.

So there. Put that in your Airborne and smoke it.