Overheard Recently

Bean, running down the hall to Buddy: “Bud! Buuuud! Daddy said he turned on the fan because it’s FRIKKIN’ hot in here!”

Bean and Buddy over the monitor: “…’brella, ella, ella, eh – eh – eh, ella, ella, ella, eh – eh – eh, ella, ella, ella…”

They frikkin’ lulled themselves to sleep singing Rihanna. I guess that’s better than Nelly (”It’s frikkin’ hot in herre…”).

The “frikkin’” comment was especially funny to me because G and I were interrupted several weeks ago by Bean, who was spinning in circles chanting, “it’s frikkin’, frikkin’, frikkin’, it’s frikkin’, it’s frikkin’…” We looked at each other and laughed hesitantly (Is she really saying frikkin’?), but then G shoved my shoulder a little and accused me of being, you know, A FRIKKIN’ BAD MOM.

Ah-HA! SO busted.

To add to the evidence: I don’t say frikkin’. I say freakin’. Pronunciation is everything, sweetheart.

BOO-YA!

:::::

We don’t normally use a baby monitor for the kids, but the house was turned upside down and we needed to make sure we heard them — mostly to track the tomfoolery at bedtime so we could go up there and tell them to SHUT IT. I have busted Bean many times hopping on her bed, trying to make Buddy laugh. It’s pretty easy to make Buddy laugh and admittedly, it’s a great laugh, so I understand the allure. But what an instigator. She always reminds me of John Belushi (~:33) when I catch her and it’s so hard not to laugh.

If she starts crunching cans on her head, we’re in trouble. And yet… I wouldn’t be surprised.

:::::

To sum up the past four months: the kids turned 4 and I have to say, 4 is a good age. G had another birthday too (to quote Buddy: “Bean, no! Daddy is thirty-eight and Mommy is FOURTEEN.” Love that kid. Even though he makes me sound like a mail-order bride).

We bought a place, moved, and now we are renovating said place. G and I put kitchen cabinets together and installed a new kitchen. We got into one fight, which is nothing short of a miracle. (I love that man, but those little lines on the ruler confuse him. Thankfully he knows his eighths now; possibly even his sixteenths. I believe his retort is something along these lines: “Whatever! I didn’t take Calculus when I was in grade school!”)

Luckily, he is also very handy. I used to ask him where he learned to — for example — install recessed lights, and he would shrug and say, “I don’t know. I just know.” While this used to kind of turn me on, I’ve since learned that just because it looks like he knows what he’s doing, instinct doesn’t always mean to Code (that he knows of, anyway). So now instead of asking where he learned to do that really sexy thing, you know, like hang drywall, I ask suspiciously, “Is that to code?” Which, you can imagine, is the DIY equivalent of NAGGING.

But hey, I’m pretty resourceful too. Let me tell a story: One summer during college, I lived in Boston and I decided to host a beer bong party. And I went to the Ace Hardware on Commonwealth and totally fashioned one out of clamps, a funnel, and a hose. HOW D’YOU LIKE ME NOW, G?

Anyway, we are slowly emerging from clouds of drywall dust but we still have a lot to do. Anyone know how to tile? Like a whole bathroom?

:::::

I apologize that my commenting has been sparse but I’ll be honest… the blog world was starting to close in on me. I was living in the internet world more than I was living my real life, and I needed a break. Add to that some personal blog drama which I won’t get into, and I had to stop and reassess. I think I need to go into a Blogging Protection Program. Shut down, disappear, start over. Does anyone else feel like this? Sometimes real life should not cross over into your internet life. Don’t get me wrong — I have made some good friends (surprisingly good friends actually) online. But when real life starts to find out about internet life, things get more complicated. And now I’m more careful about what I write online. Which sort of defeats the purpose of this whole blog to begin with.

Me and my big fucking mouth.

The other thing I’ve realized is that the internet world (specifically, the blogging world) does not always describe in Whole Pictures. There is always another side, if not more. And even that other side has another side (if not more as well). And I’ve started to question my participation in it all. I guess I’ve become more weary of the things I read online. Not to say that I think everyone is lying about their lives; I really don’t believe that. But do people embellish a little, to get more validation for their feelings? I’m sure I do. Unintentionally — but I’m sure I do on some level. Which I think is all fine and good as long as the embellishments aren’t major. And if they are, and internet and real life meet, it can get sticky. And suddenly people become less credible. So I’m being more careful about what I write, AND what I read.

Which kind of sucks.

Of course, I know there are people who really are going through shitty times. I’ve become friends with some offline. (Well, online, but you know, offline.) The good thing is that our friendships can go on going on “offline.”

I’m probably sounding cryptic, but at the same time, I have a feeling a lot of people feel the same way. Or no? Am I alone in this?

:::::

I also feel like I am in need of some kind of life change, career-wise. While I am fortunate enough to have a particularly awesome client right now, this is rare. Usually I am treated like a glorified mouse hand who knows Photoshop. So I’m thinking of seeking a life coach, which — I have to be honest — sounds a little like hippie-ish New-Agey hoo-ha to me. Has anyone used one and had success? Or do I just need therapy (probably both)?

:::::

I’ll end this random post with something about the twins, since they are more entertaining than my droning:

One afternoon, after Bud (btw, I think I’m going to have to change this alias soon) woke up from his nap, G decided to tell him a story. About babies being born. We’ve told them in the past that they were in my belly, but this time, Bud asked G how babies get out of the belly. And because G didn’t want to feed him some bullshit, he said, “Uh… they come out of the vag*na.” To which Bud apparently paused, then started laughing — big, belly laughing. And then Bean woke up from her nap, and he ran to her and told her how babies come out of the vag*na, and ho-ho, how frikkin‘ funny is that? (Not his words; I’m paraphrasing.)

They were cracking up at the sheer hilarity of this, and then Bean breathlessly giggled, “But Buddy, YOU can’t have babies because a baby can’t come out of your P*NIS!!” At which point Buddy bent at the waist and fell on the bed like he could NOT CONTROL HIS BODY, THIS IS JUST SO ABSURDLY FUNNY.

(Dude, how dooce-y did that phrase just read? Actually, I would prefer my ALL CAPS writing be an homage to Owen Meany — in my mind, the originator of the ALL CAPS speaking/writing (albeit used as regular speak, as opposed to as emphasis, but whatevs). And not to say I don’t love dooce — I do. But I loved Owen Meany first.)

Needless to say, it’s pretty entertaining to eavesdrop on conversations around here lately.
:::::

Have a great Friday/weekend! Maybe I’ll be back within the next four months with another novel of a post…