May 22, 2007

no lice were harmed in the writing of this post

Yesterday we had a playdate with my friend Leslie and her boys. We told the boys to go in another room and play nicely and sat down at Leslie’s kitchen table to visit. She was pulling things out of her son’s backpack, looking for his homework and whatever else he had brought home from school. I was talking to her toddler when I heard her gasp.

“No! NO! Aaaggh!” She was staring at a sheet of paper with a horrified look on her face. “NOOOOO! LIIIIIICE!”

Are you itchy yet?

She gave me the piece of paper and said, “I can’t even read it. You tell me what it says.” I skimmed the paper and said, “Blah blah blah, child in your child’s class has lice, blah blah blah, signs to watch for, blah blah blah, okay then!” I looked up and saw Leslie scratching her head. “Itchy?”

“YES I AM,” she said.

She called her pediatrician, just to check in and see what she should do (answer: nothing, just watch to see if her son was acting itchy) and then she and I sat at the table and scratched our heads. Literally, not in the thinking-about-things kind of way, because lice! itchy! even when they’re not actually ON your HEAD.

Leslie’s son came in the kitchen and she said, “Was anyone in your class absent today?” No, he said. “Anything different about anyone?” He stared at her. “Anyone get a haircut?” Yes, he said, everyone!

Then he ran off to play.

And we scratched some more.

Leslie said, “How will I know if he has lice?” I said, you mean other than the fact that he will be SCRATCHING HIS HEAD non-stop?

“If I were you,” I told her, “I wouldn’t ask him if he’s itchy, because then he WILL be itchy and you’ll never know if he has lice.” And we scratched some more. “So if he starts scratching, what do I do?” she said. I read the sheet from the school again and said, “Nit comb, special shampoo, launder everything . . . You can blow dry his hair, I think that helps. Oh, and you can slather his head in mayonnaise and wrap it in plastic. That will kill them.”

“MAYONNAISE???” she said, horrified.

I decided not to tell her about the part where it drips down your neck.

May 21, 2007

we celebrated with beans from a can

On Saturday, Henry and I went to one birthday party (backyard free-for-all) while Wade took Charlie to another one (bowling, with four and five-year-olds). We met up at 2:00 at the gymnastics place for Leslie’s son’s party, except of course Henry and I were late because I can never remember where exactly this gymnastics place is and so I drove right past it the first time. It’s possible that Henry learned a couple new swear words. He also insisted that I turn Amy Winehouse’s Rehab up louder “so I can hear the words.” I love that kid.

Neither Wade nor I had showered, which was a bummer because everyone else at the party looked so clean and fresh and we looked like we had been dragged behind a truck. Or like we had been to another birthday party RIGHT BEFORE this one. Whatever.

The kids were off doing whatever it is that kids do at gymnastics parties (there was an adult in charge, don’t worry–I’m not THAT irresponsible) and Wade and I were sitting on some mats flirting with the cutest baby ever. She had huge blue eyes and was clearly in love with Wade, or with my bottle of water, it was hard to tell. Anyway, Wade was on a first-name basis with this baby, who I had never seen before, and was threatening to take her home with us when her mother said, “I read your blog!”

And Wade groaned.

The cute baby’s mom (hi, Leigh!) said, “Do you get that all the time? Do people come up to you in the mall and say, ‘I read your wife’s blog’?” And I laughed because no, that doesn’t happen to Wade, although it would be really funny if it did. Maybe.

If you see this man at the mall, say hello! He loves that.

That night, as I was changing my clothes for the two hundredth time (because CAJUN LUAU! What do you wear to a CAJUN LUAU? Answer: tank top and long linen skirt, of course) Wade came in and said, “I think you need to write more about me on your blog.”

“Oh, really?” I said.

“Yes. About what a stud I am. You know.” And then he went through this whole routine about how he could use the BLOG to pick up WOMEN, see. But by then I was laughing too hard to remember it all exactly.

And that was before we started drinking.

The cajun luau was fun, although I still don’t know why it was a cajun luau; they served shrimp (delicious) and crawfish (scary and kind of icky) and fresh pineapple (that was the luau part, apparently) and lots of booze. And we survived the birthday parties, although Henry totally fell apart yesterday afternoon and had a gigantic tantrum.

Moral: three parties in two days is too much for one kid. Or at least for THAT kid. Also, I don’t like crawfish.

Last night after the Meltdown that Wouldn’t Stop (seriously, 45 minutes of crying and yelling) Wade and I got into a small argument about dinner, which was stupid because all we were having was hamburgers and potatoes and baked beans. But I think the screaming and crying threw him and I was feeling hugely guilty for not KNOWING that Henry shouldn’t go to all those parties, and so we snapped at each other about the damn potatoes because we’re mature like that. I believe that specifically what happened was that he questioned how I was making the potatoes and expressed a desire to have them cooked in another way and I told him to bite me and to stop criticizing my cooking. I may also have mentioned an incident a while back about a roasted chicken, it’s hard to tell.

Anyway, when Wade brought the hamburgers in from the grill, we apologized and hugged and it was all good. And then he said, “Face it, I am the EASIEST person in the WORLD to cook for.” And just as I was about to say, “Have you lost your ever-loving MIND?” he started to laugh. Because NO YOU’RE NOT! But he is really nice about my crappy cooking, so there’s that.

So we sit down to eat and I take one bite of the baked beans and say, “Something is NOT RIGHT with these beans.” And Wade says, “I didn’t think they tasted right, but I was afraid to say anything.”

“Nah,” I told him, “these are from a can. You can always insult the can.”

May 18, 2007

it’s party time (and Mommy needs a martini, stat)

The boys have been invited to four birthday parties between them this weekend. Yes, you heard me, FOUR! I haven’t been invited to four parties in the past YEAR, never mind in ONE WEEKEND. Last night, in preparation for Birthday Extravaganza 2007! we had a planning session that was more detailed than anything the White House has ever enacted for the troops in Iraq (which isn’t saying much, I guess).

The plan is this: after school today, the boys and I are going to SuperTarget to get gifts (and batteries and laundry detergent and a new pillow for Henry and baseball caps for the boys, if we remember all that). Wade is coming home early (I hope) so that Henry and I can leave at 5:45 for the FIRST party, which is at Pump It Up, from 6:00 until 8:15. And yes, we still DO put our kids to bed at 7:30! How nice of you to remember. And yes, I still DO hate Pump It Up! Also nice of you to remember.

Dammit.

Tomorrow, Wade is taking Charlie to a bowling party at noon, and I’m going to an OUTDOOR end-of-year/birthday bash with Henry (one which promises INFLATABLE JUMPY CASTLES, which makes Pump It Up look pretty good in comparison). THEN, at 2:00 we’re all meeting up at the gymnastics place for my friend Leslie’s son’s birthday party. Which would make four birthday parties in twenty four hours.

But wait! Not done yet!

Tomorrow NIGHT, Wade’s parents are taking the boys (who will be exhausted from being up too late the night before and from eating cake AT LEAST TWICE in the course of the day) so that Wade and I can go to a cajun luau at his boss’ house. What is a cajun luau, you ask? I have no idea!

But there had better be an open bar.

Also on our list of Things That Must Get Done This Weekend (because OH MY GOD we’re moving in TWO WEEKS): someone needs to go buy boxes, someone needs to mow the lawn, and someone needs to start sorting and packing stuff. We’ve reached an impasse about just who those “someones” are, although I can tell you this: I will NOT be mowing the lawn. No way. Not my job.

I will probably spend all of tomorrow morning in the guest room closet wondering where the hell all that crap in the back came from and why we have kept it for so long. I’ll take pictures, I promise.

Last night, as we were all sitting at the table waiting for Charlie to very sloooooooooowly finish his dinner, we started talking about our weekend. Wade had forgotten that this was the Birthday Extravaganza! weekend, and he asked the kids what they wanted to do. And Charlie said, “I would like to go get DONUTS!”

And before I could stop him, Wade said, “We can do that! On Saturday morning!” And I thought, meh, what’s one more donut to a sinking ship?*

*Wade likes to go around quoting his friend Miles’ father, who, in the middle of another son’s wedding weekend, when a waiter asked if he would like another bottle of champagne, said, “Why not? What’s one more torpedo to a sinking ship?”

May 17, 2007

first the frog, now this

Actual e-mail from my friend Rebecca:

There’s a rat living under our house that’s been getting into my rose pot EVERY NIGHT and I have to put all the soil back and clean up the mess with a broom for like 2 weeks. How do I KNOW it’s a rat you might ask? Because tonight after turning off “Idol” I decided to open the back door and take a look and I see something in the pot. So, like an idiot I ask what’s that and start to walk toward the small creature in the pot only to discover it’s a rat (about 10 feet away at this point, but he was very fat) and then he starts running AT ME at which point I scream and run in the house. Tom asks what it was as he walks back outside leaving the door OPEN at which point I start screaming again IT’S A RAT CLOSE THE DOOR IT’S GOING TO COME IN at which point the rat starts running at HIM! This is a very bold rat. He’s now under the house and this is why I’m not happy we have crawl space and why even though it’s 10:45p.m. I’m not going to be sleeping anytime soon.

I read this first thing this morning, before I showered or had coffee, and I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or scream. And then Rebecca called me later in the morning and the first thing I said was “OH MY GOD THAT RAT!!! AAAAAAA!!!”

We’re sophisticated grown-ups that way.

We’re planning a girls’ weekend in California in the fall, Rebecca and Krista and Christa and me, and today Rebecca said that we could either stay at her house or in a hotel. I think I will need to see pictures of the rat before I make my decision, though. If it’s anything like the frog, I’ll be staying in a hotel.

Nature. Eeeew.

Edited to add: How could I forget THIS? On the phone, Rebecca asked how I felt about animals; what she wanted to know was would I be interested in going horseback riding while we were in Cali. But all I could think was I AM OPPOSED TO RATS . . . and large frogs, too.

May 15, 2007

that light at the end of the tunnel? most likely a train

Yesterday I worked like a busy bee all day and got EVERYTHING on my list done, including the very last things from our home inspection. I also whiled away nearly an hour on the phone getting our utilities switched from this house to the new house, which had been waking me up at night (because what if we move and I DON’T HAVE INTERNET ACCESS? OH THE HUMANITY!). And last night, after a delicious dinner cooked on the grill, I climbed into bed and slept soundly. No bloody noses (good!) and no Stephen Colbert (bad!).

But! My friend Rachel interviewed Jane Kaczmarek for ParentDish, and when she called last night, while we were out eating ice cream with the kids, to say DID YOU SEE THE INTERVIEW? I said, “You know she’s married to Bradley Whitford. Who is my secret boyfriend.”

Wade: How many secret boyfriends do you have?

Me: Shut up.

Rachel knew that, of course (duh) and then she said, “I have their phone number. On my caller ID.”

Me: What!?!?!

Rachel: Yep. When she called me, it showed up on the caller ID as B. Whitford.

Me: NO WAY!!!

Rachel: Yes way!

No, she did not give me Bradley Whitford’s phone number (duh) but I feel a little closer to him now, in a six degrees of Kevin Bacon kind of way. And then in the car on the way home, Henry said, “Who is Bradley Whitford?”

An actor, I told him.

“Yes,” he said, “and he’s also your secret boyfriend. What does THAT mean?”

Me: It means that one day he will come and take me away from all this to live a life of luxury.

Henry: Really?

Me: No.

Henry: Oh. I didn’t think so.

Anyway, I slept all night last night because I finally got (almost) everything on the Big List of Things To Do done (some of the utilities won’t set up service more than fourteen days in advance, so I have three more calls to make on Friday) and Charlie waited until AFTER I showered this morning to have his bloody nose, which was very considerate of him. And today I’m feeling really tired and logy but still like stuff is done and I have a little moment of rest before the Next Thing (which would be packing). I have one wee little project to finish today but I’m feeling very Zen about it because meh, it will get done.

Ahhh.

And then my realtor called to ask if we could do the final walk-through this week. And I said, sure! Why not? Because we might as well do it now, before the whole house is a total wreck.

Oh, wait, the whole house is ALREADY a total wreck! Dammit.

I’ve fired my housekeeper (FINALLY) and the lawn guy mowed on Friday but it’s been raining ever since so the grass is knee high AGAIN already and while I realize that all I really need to have done for the walk through is the stuff on the inspector’s list (done! all of it! plus a couple things she missed that we felt like we should do, because WE’RE SO DAMN NICE THAT WAY) I still feel like the house shouldn’t look like a sty when the new owners come through. And now I’m all stressed out AGAIN because I have to clean and talk Wade into mowing (honey, are you reading this? okay then!) and I’m worried that I missed something from the inspection and part of me is still afraid the buyers are going to say, “You know what? We’ve changed our minds.”

Breathe. Breathe.

This would be a really good time for one of my secret boyfriends to drop by, maybe with some flowers. Or a cold martini. And then he could mow the lawn.

May 14, 2007

so there I was making out with Stephen Colbert

Who wouldn’t want to make out with that face?

I haven’t been sleeping well recently, and by “recently” I mean since we started this whole let’s-buy-a-new-house odyssey (which was back here, if you’ve lost track). It’s not anything in particular–I’m thrilled about our new house and ecstatic that we sold THIS house as quickly and painlessly as we did–it’s just a lot of little things.

Like the fact that we haven’t packed ONE SINGLE THING. Nada. Zero! ZIP! And that every time I look around I think dammit we have a LOT OF STUFF. That needs to be PACKED. Soon.

Argh.

My nights go like this: after barely managing to stay awake long enough to get the kids settled, I scramble around to get some work or some laundry done. Then I get into bed and fall asleep and wake up again, somewhere between 1:00 and 3:00 am, worrying. My whole body is worried; my SKIN feels worrisome, kind of prickly and uncomfortable. I don’t know how else to explain it. I toss and turn and think about getting up, but most of the time I’m too tired to do anything constructive like read or write. One night I folded laundry for an hour and a half. I make lists, in my head and on pieces of paper, of Things To Do Tomorrow, which sort of helps although then I get anxious because I can’t DO anything RIGHT NOW, but really nothing is open at three am anyway. And THEN I start to think about how if I had some boxes, I could get up and start packing stuff, which is when I really begin to feel like I am losing my mind because what am I going to pack at THREE AM when everyone else is sleeping?

Deep breath.

I have these odd moments when I think, I cannot believe that in a few weeks we will not live in this house any more. I am a little afraid of the new house, because it is bigger and nicer and newer and because I’ve only been inside it three times and I can’t remember what color the living room is painted and I know we don’t have enough furniture to fill it up. It’s not really the house that is making me worry–I love the house, I really do–it’s the whole idea of change.

I don’t like change.

Last night, when I snapped awake at 1:47, instead of endlessly listing all the things I HAVE NOT DONE, I started listing all the things that I have finished, because I thought maybe that would help me calm down. Eventually, sometime after 4:30 or so, it did, I guess, because when Charlie came in at 5:22 to tell me that his nose was bleeding, I was dreaming that I was on a date with Stephen Colbert.

Yes, really.

Apparently, I have a thing for nerdy guys in suits, at least in my dreams. Although I suppose that describes my husband, too, really. Hmmm.

Anyway, there I was making out with Stephen Colbert and Charlie came in to say, “Mama, I’m BLEEDING AGAIN” which pretty much put an end to the dream and to any hope that I might score some more sleep before it was time to get up and start the day. And the saddest part was that while I was bummed to not being mashing with Colbert any more, I was more bummed that I wasn’t going to get ANY MORE SLEEP.

Because I am that tired.