out of this world

do you remember the television show "out of this world" (circa 1988)? the main character was bi-alien (just made that up). her dad was an alien. her mom was a human. this girl, i forgot her name, could stop time by putting her two pointer fingers together (don't lie. you know you watched this and tried to put your fingers together to try and stop time). why am i talking about this ridiculous show that only myself and two other people (i'm assuming there were two out there) watched? because i now think this was reality television ahead of it's time. it. was. real. she. stopped. time. and that girl (i can't believe i don't remember her name because i remember random shit like this) is screwing with me. for some reason she feels the need to stop time between the hours of nap and dinner in my house. that's approximately 2.5 hours. so since it's stopped, thank you very much "evie" (had to look it up. it was bothering me) that feels like at least 14 hours. time is stopped in my house. but we're all still operating. and when i say operating, i mean bonkering (made up). maniacal (real word). seriously she is stopping time and only my toddlers and dog and i are forced to burn 14 hours in the span of real 2.5 hours. it's really ridiculous. R and C lose it. they're crankies. and why wouldn't they be? they've just slept for two hours. they've just eaten a delightful snack and consumed a frosty beverage. they have three rooms full of toys (venturously spilling into rooms 4 and 5). they even have a built-in playmate, besides their mother. and besides the dog. but. still. there's something squirrely about the hours between 3 pm (CST) and 5:30 pm (CST). and i will get to the bottom of it. damn. it. but for now i'm blaming her.

"i am now stopping time. for everyone in the universe except that little lady with the crazy twins and crazier dog. they will continue bonkering (oh now she's stealing my word too?) for hours and hours and hours. and hours and hours. BWAHAHA!"

p.s. robots and now aliens? what is this, some kind of a sci-fi freak phase?

this freaks me out.

i recently discovered this ad for a toy...

It’s 8pm, and your child is fighting sleep. Your throat is dry from reading, your mind a million miles away. “Tell me a story, Mama!” your child begs feelingly. You would pay ten million dollars to hire someone to tell that story so you could do something else.
So enlist the help of the Smart-e toys from Intellitoys, a line of plush animals pre-loaded with software that allows the Smart-e-Bear, Smart-e-Dog and Smart-e-Cat to sing songs, tell stories, play games, call your kid by name, even answer rudimentary questions. It’s like Teddy Ruxpin 2.0. When your child gets sick of the pre-loaded songs and stories, you can go online to get updates you choose. Will it be Goldilocks and the Three Bears tonight, or The Gingerbread Man? Who cares? You’re not the one who’s going to have to tell it!

is it like a robot replacement for parents? i can't wrap my head around it. i know sometimes i am sick of the same old books. even though we have 1,000. please please please don't make me read about hearing, seeing, smelling (etc.) the brown bear, brown bear. however. i'm not going to program a freaking robot to read it for me. i think i'll tough it out. and i would totally accept the ten mill to read it to someone else's kid even. it freaks. me. out. way out. and not in a good JJ fad way either.

this is what it looks like. in my mind.




and this is what the parents, who purchased this toy, look like. in my mind.
(p.s. i don't know these people)

one baby

today i told R she could only have one baby.
lately she has wanted to take her baby (vintage preemie girl cabbage patch kid circa 1982) in her crib with her for her nap. today, though, she wanted to take two babies (vintage preemie girl and boy cabbage patch kids circa 1982).

R walks over to her crib with one baby in each arm.

me: oh no sweetie, you can only have one baby.

hypocrit.

breaking up is hard to do

i have a haircut scheduled. yes, this is blog-worthy. thankyouverymuch. my haircut is scheduled for a weekday morning. while the kids are dancing away at MDO. it's my first weekday morning haircut since i was able to bail out of work for a two-hour lunch. footloose and fancy-free. pretty exciting stuff. and this is not just any haircut. it's my first haircut since the breakup. we were together for eight years. and he didn't even breakup with me to my face. or over the phone. or a text. or even an email. the nerve. i just heard it through the grapevine (not much longer would you be mine). my hairdresser, of eight years, retired. no note! no phone call! it's worse than when my eighth grade boyfriend, josh, had his friend call me to tell me josh didn't like me anymore (he wanted to "go with" regina. she was the pretty new girl. [i'm obviously over it]). that's just bad business. on both counts. so now i'm off to a new hairdresser who will undoubtedly try to give me pageant hair. i have a lot of hair. and new hairdressers always try to increase volume. while i spend my days trying to decrease volume. minimize. minimize. we'll see how it goes. regardless. it will occur during a weekday morning. and that, alone, is a good reason to celebrate (good times, come on).

as long as i don't look like this.
wait. i DO kind of look like this.
except fatter, shorter, no tatoos. and my hair is slightly smaller.

i've had the time of my life

thanks for all the input, my friends. i plan to utilize your top picks. all in one day. not the first day, necessarily. maybe the second. i think i'll start by dropping the kids off. no lingering. hiding. lurking outside the classroom nor the parking lot. i'll drop and go. i'll go right to soco (trendyhipsterwhilepretendingtokeepitweird shopping and eating area) for some shopping and let us not forget the cupcakes. scrap that. i'll walk to soco as a way to incorporate exercise into my day, thus enjoying my michael jackson cupcake (chocolate with cream cheese frosting) a little bit more. then off to a haircut, pedicure, and massage. how much time is left? 10 minutes? i'll ask them to play jonas brothers during my haircut and will sniff someone's clove cigarette waiting in line for the mj cupcake. my grocery shopping might be picking up the US weekly which i will read at the red lights enroute to procuring the kids. but what kind of luxury is it to "pop in" to a grocery store? or anywhere else for that matter? there is no "popping in" for me. ever. i'll spend 30 seconds in the grocery store and not think for a moment about the usual time and energy-intensive mount and dismount involved in my outings. oh what about the cleaning? i totally blamed my unassuming innocent spouse for that one vote for heading home to clean the house. he probably didn't do it. he maybe said exercise. i will never know for sure. he might have said both. exercise and go home and clean the house. maybe threw in publishing the dissertation for future thought of a future dual income (may you rest in peace. oh how we miss you). oh that damn dissertation. i forgot to throw that into my perfect day up there. blast. by the time i publish it, it will be like explaining to current communication majors (true story) how i took a class, audio production, and learned how to splice audio tape. actual audio tape. splice it. with an exacto knife. hello it was the nineties! mid-nineties thankyouverymuch. anyway. once i arrive to pick up the kids from their four hours of so-much-fun-that-they-hear-the-theme-song-from-dirty-dancing, C holds R by her hips and hoists her over his head, R posing in a delicate swan-like posture while their classmates enthusiastically clap, even cry. mine won't cry though. only the other kids. mine will just be good dancers. and they won't cry when i drop them off either. i'm putting it into the atmosphere so it becomes reality. thanks.

not my actual children. yet.

mother's day. out.

R and C are headed to a MDO (that's acronym for mother's day out) program soon. very soon. we already have anxiety. we already have stress. we already feel we are not ready already. and by we. i mean me. they're cool. they're ready. they have don'tleavememommy drommy for about 2 minutes upon my departure. then they're fine. i, however, am not fine. i mean, if i'm leaving them to, like, go to the bathroom by myself and they're with my spouse, i'm fine. especially fine when i get to take a shower. because, let's face it, i'll be gone for 15 minutes. but 4 hours seems like a freaking lot. i know. i know. it's good for C. it's good for R. it's good for them. it's good for me. win. win. win. win. blah. blah. blah. blah. stop by my poll over there and help them out. i mean me. help me out.