Haiku of the Day

honk honk ashoo

life imitates art
glad head is not pillow, though
too stuffy for me

The wee one has a book - The Story of Honk Honk Ashoo and Swella Bow Wow, by Frank Cosentino. It's about a little dude who's head is a pillow, and the sweet little dog he becomes friends with.

I feel a little like Honk Honk Ashoo today, floppy-headed and stuffy. And every time I sit down I fall asleep. I had one of these brief narcoleptic moments just a few minutes ago, and in the five minutes I was asleep I actually had a very short dream about milkshakes.

So. Tired.

I think it may be time to wean the wee-er one. She's 19 months on Friday, and as much as I love the closeness of nursing, I do not love the nursing at night. I am so over the nursing at night. O. Ver. It. Also, she has just started this thing where when she nurses she reaches into my shirt and pinches and scratches and claws at the skin on the outside of my armpit - right in the crook of my arm. My arm crooks are raw. It sucks.

I don't know how long it will take to wean, but I'm very tempted to just run away for a weekend and see if it resolves itself. I somehow doubt that, though.

So it's back to being a fluffy-headed Honk Honk Ashoo doppleganger.

And that is the coolest looking sentence I've written in a long time.

today's a big day

so many candles
to float in a Corona
who needs birthday cake?

Happy birthday to my grandma! She has no idea what a blog is, nor does she probably care. But in the spirit of celebrating a remarkable feat, it seems like a blog-worthy announcement.

Mudder is 84 today. I wish we could be there with her to celebrate.

I'll have a beer for you tonight, Mudder. Hope your day is swell.

I'm afraid to say this out loud, but....

what a gorgeous day
early springtime makes me smile
also, kids are gone

I'm home alone right now. For at least an hour, probably more. My husband has taken the kids to the grocery store, in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. He loves me very much.

I have on a shirt that's kind of hot (in a sexy way, not a sweaty way). My hair looks good. I've spent at least an hour in the sun, reading a great book (The City of Ember, by Jeanne DuPrau - awesome). I'm listening to New Soul by Yael Naïm, and pretending that one day I can afford a Macbook Air.

My stomach does not hurt. I do not want to strangle anyone in my family. In short, I feel good. It's been a long time since I felt a simple happiness like I feel today.

To be honest, it scares me. Feeling good seems to always portend bad shit - like Nature or God or the tiny baby Jesus or whomever, is trying to butter you up before the inevitable disaster. But maybe, Nature, or God, or the tiny baby Jesus is saying sorry for such an incredibly fucking shitty week last week. Maybe they are making amends.

For that I say thank-you.

For that I say whatever the vocal equivalent is of falling prostrate onto a blanket out in the yard and feeling the sun ravage my face as I smile and think that wrinkles are definitely worth it.

the news

Good:

I do not have appendicitis

Bad:

I seem to be having a week long panic attack centered in my stomach

Good:

No one has a fever and the wee one is back at school

Bad:

I have lost an entire week of editing

Good:

It is Friday

Bad:

Monday is three days away

Good:

I slept until 8:45 this morning, and so did the wee-er one

Bad:

The wee-er one will not nap

Good:

Someone searched for my blog using the terms "amy winehouse separated at birth camel"

Bad:

I just realized Amy Winehouse does look a little bit like a camel

Good:

The Texas primary might actually be of some importance this year

Bad:

I haven't re-registered to vote since the move

Good:

There is no ice storm

Bad:

It won't stop raining

Good:

I am wearing a soft purple t-shirt

Bad:

It has mac and cheese all over it

Good:

Blogging

Bad:

Unable to figure out how to end this post

trying out housewifey-ness

me and Donna Reed
baking, swearing and laundry
two peas in a pod

Today I am being a housewife. This, I think, will get the kids back on the road to recovery. I am baking banana bread, folding clothes, and planning to make a very scaled down vinegar and baking soda volcano for the pleasure of the wee one. I am wearing a necklace.

This day is so shocking to everyone, you would think that instead of organizing the pantry and wearing a clean shirt, I set my hair on fire and then grew seventeen-inch rainbow-colored horns.

Whatever. As long as they are shocked into getting better, it's all good. If I have to, I'll dig up some old black pumps and prance around with the vacuum cleaner. I'm going to scare the germs right out of those rascals. Why not?

I would also like to say that so far, things might actually be looking up. No one has a fever, the wee-er one ate lunch for the first time in a week, and I have yet to throw anything or scream an obscenity out of frustration and/or exhaustion.

Is it the Donna Reed impression that's doing it, or the introduction of penicillin into the fray?

Maybe it's a heady cocktail of pearls and pills. That sounds like the name of a new blog, doesn't it?

Miss Scarlet in the throat with the germs

am so over this
can't even write a haiku
too tired, too grouchy

The wee one has scarlet fever. As I understand it, that's a fancy way of saying strep throat with a gnarly rash.

It's also a fancy way of saying, fuck me, when is this shit going to be over?

A-A-B!

playing hide and seek
fun game to play with your kids
not with viruses

Dear Wonky Virus,

Normally, I like to start out these letters in a friendly sort of way. Throw out a few compliments, offer some self-deprecating humor, ingratiate my target a bit and then WHAM, get all nasty in a deft A-A-B move (if you play Lego Star Wars on the Wii, you know what I mean. If, Wonky Virus, you have no hands, as I suspect, and cannot play the Wii, A-A-B is a fancy Jedi move that tosses you up into a flying somersault and then STABS your light saber into the ground - or your victim - with  stunningly destructive results).

Today, I'm skipping straight to the A-A-B, asshole.

Plainly put, we don't like you, Wonky Virus. We want you to go away. Set up shop somewhere else. Skeedaddle. Vamoose. GO AWAY. And when I say "go away" I mean for real. None of this "disappear for twelve hours and then show up again in the form of a 103.4 degree fever" bullshit. Get on out of here. Don't come back.

It's been four days that you've been able to enjoy residence within the walls of the wee-er one. And now she's tired of you. We're all tired of you. It's time for her to eat again. It's time for her to sleep again. It's time for her to not be burning up from the inside out. You've had plenty of time to do whatever it is you need to do, and now it's time for you to move along.

Do you hear me, Wonky Virus?! Do you?!

A-A-B!!!

A-A-B!!!

A-A-B!!!

Sincerely,
Kari
concerned mother

no time

never any time
and yet I sit on my butt
awaiting trouble

I have so much to do. Work, laundry, all of the things everyone always has to do. But instead I'm blogging and worrying, two of my most treasured past times.

For your enjoyment...

Worry Number 1:
Does the wee-er one have the flu, or just a weird, random, fever-y virus? She's had her flu shots, but I've heard the strain that some people are getting this year is different from the one in the shots. I hate to take her to the doctor if she doesn't have the flu, because she'll just pick it up when we're there. On the other hand, if she does have it, then I want to get going with the anti-virals.

Worry Number 2:
That I am an asshole. And that by wanting to transfer my son out of his neighborhood school into a different school with more opportunities and smaller classes that I am turning my back on a school that needs community involvement, and that I am implicitly racist. But can I shoulder the burden of a neighborhood school all on my own? Can I deny my son extra opportunities that he wouldn't get where he's at now just because I'm taking a stand politically and socially? Or can I be confident that transferring him really is the best option for us, and that the decision is not a personal attack on anyone's socio-economic status?

I've been thinking about both of these things way too much. Mama needs a xanax and a vacation.

infused with Vitamin Ego

mostly I don't care
some days fall off deep end, though
feel like hunchbacked hag

I realized this morning that my toes look like wrinkled, dried up, albino snub-nosed carrots. They are not so cute right now. I blame winter. I also blame my sudden and spontaneous coveting of peekaboo heels. I can't wear heels without, at minimum, twisting my ankle, and yet, all of a sudden I feel an absolute 100% need to but some black patent pumps with a little peekaboo for my toes. Except that my toes look like roots and tubers and I can't wear heels without programming an orthopedist's number into my phone.

What is happening to me?

Also, this morning I noticed spots on my hand. I think the scientific term is "liver spot." Can I blame winter for that, too? Probably I need to blame too many years in the sun.

How can I be shriveling up already? I'm barely into my 30s. Things are not looking up for my 40s are they? Maybe it's time to start being a girl and paying other people to take care of these things for me.

What happened to my hard-line age gracefully stance? It went out the window the first time I dyed my hair and the next day a door-to-door salesman asked to speak to my mom when I answered the door. Stupid, lame, see-through sales tactic, I know. And never answer the door when it's a stranger, I know. But I still fell for it, even as I yelled at him for knocking on my door.

I'm over the gray. I'm over the tuber-toes. I'm over the liver spots. I'm turning into a pile of food only Soviet-era Russians would stand in line for.

This, my peeps, is completely unacceptable.

Late to the Party

th-that don't kill me
can only make me stronger
Kanye may be right

Being the old fogey that I am, I was unaware you can buy a "personal massager" (we are in Texas after all) that plugs into your iPod and gets jiggy with the beat from whatever music you get down to, so to speak.

In fact, there are apparently a bunch of "personal massagers" that do this, including one that creates vibrations not just from your iPod, but from whatever noise it picks up in the room. Hmmm. Suddenly the neighbor's barking dog becomes even more of a nuisance. Or not. I make no judgments.

Anyway, I learned this by watching a show called Erotic Shop. It's an infomercial/QVC knockoff that plays in the wee morning hours on the Oxygen network. I admit to not watching the whole show. I began to get lightheaded at one point.

You guys, that stuff is crazy. And, also? You can buy them via Amazon in case you have a little extra money left on that holiday gift certificate.

See what never sleeping does? You hear about magical new inventions. And also the phrase "bubble plug."

I'm pretty sure in Texas you can get arrested for just saying that.

The Haiku Household's quote of the evening...

*drum roll*

"If you're old enough to discuss the electoral college, you're old enough to wipe your own butt."

He's 5 years old and can tell you about the popular vote versus electoral vote, and yet getting him to wipe his own little smartass smart ass is impossible.

I'm pretty sure there's some kind of connection between butt-wiping and electoral politics, but I'm too lazy right now to pursue it. There's probably a significance to that, too.

This is what happens

escape hoi polloi
stay at home and yet stay smart
failed experiment

In a misguided effort to become more pretentious and possibly better read, I got a subscription to Harper's magazine. I just tried to read some of it, and damn. Translated Nazi discussions from a prison camp, a possibly non-fiction dialogue written in the 1940s about a stillbirth (and other terrible, hush-hush things happening at the hands of questionable nuns), a story about a town with a full sewer system ("full" as in overflowing gunk into people's backyards, requiring everyone to have a septic system even though they live in the town-proper), and on and on.

Do people think writing has to be staggeringly depressing to be edifying? Even the funny David Foster Wallace excerpt was about a creepy baby repeatedly described as "fierce-looking."

Am I smarter now? More pretentious? Does the postman think highly of me as he delivers my Harpers? Will my friends be impressed if they see a copy of the magazine scattered across my floor? "Oh, your baby destroys Harpers... mine just demolishes Real Simple."

I'm going to guess the answer to the above questions is an emphatic No.

I'm also going to guess that I'll be sticking to my Entertainment Weekly from now on.

Hoi Polloi unite!

Yoko Romo

hahahaha. Poor Tony. It's hard to concentrate on holding balls when you have a crush. Wait. That came out wrong.

Now if someone can get Tony and Jessica to get their picture made in the Lennon, Yoko Rolling Stone pose THAT would make an excellent flag for a Giants fan to stick out his pickup window.

Can I just say?

Longest.

Week.

Ever.

I guess weeks last longer when you're awake for 20 of the 24 hours every day. Oh, tiny baby jesus with your tiny balled up fists, please have the wee-er one take a nap today so that I, too, can take a nap. Amen.

haiku! haiku! Gesundheit!

waiting marathon
question not how sick are you
how sick can you get

you arrive early
they ignore you anyway
reception bitches

doctor is quite nice
eczema not quite so nice
thank goodness for pants

The wee-er one's stats: 10-25% for weight, 25-50% for height, 50-75% for head circumference. She is a petite, big-headed gal, with dry skin and a penchant for shaking in terror at the doctor's office - just like her mama.

Undoubtedly, these are all things she will be elated about when she gets older.

the miracle

able to see floor
who knew we had beige carpet?
four days in a row

The true miracle of having someone come clean my house? It's four days later and the place is still relatively clean!

I know!

It makes me want to buy more furniture or something, all this clean space everywhere. It also makes me feel - what is it? - lighter, I guess. Not having piles of crap of everywhere is really nice. How do I keep forgetting that?

Now if I could just find someone to wash and fold all the laundry.... mmmmmm.

museum tornado

kid in candy store
much to look at, little time
surprising success

I took the kids to the Blanton Art Museum today. Given the wee-er one's penchant for destroying things, and the wee one's penchant for not listening to me, you may think this was a task best attempted by a complete nutjob. You would be right.

However - our trip went surprisingly well. The wee one listened and behaved and didn't jump on any of the art or touch anything; the wee-er one (though she sat in the stroller and easily ripped a hole in the foot of her tights so that her toes could breathe) only screamed a little bit.

We stayed for just over an hour, and out of the three of us I was the only one yelled at by a guard. I just can't help getting up close to Hans Hoffman paintings. The brushwork, the colors... I can barely contain myself from trying to climb inside them.

I am thrilled at our success today, and I'm tempted to test fate by trying it again sometime soon.

Of course, when we got home, the wee-er one went upstairs, and for no discernible reason, ripped the bottom drawer off my dresser like it was made of styrofoam. The entire face of the drawer - yanked off like the Hulk got pissed while searching for some socks.

I may have to start a new blog: The Wee-er One's Path of Destruction. Or at least a Flickr set.

At least she didn't destroy any art today. Well, at least not yet.

a vacation away from everything

Need to get away?
I have just the spot for you
bring suntan lotion

I'm going to recruit my friends to chip in, so we can cordon off an entire state-sized area just for ourselves. A private retreat for stressed out mamas. 

We better act fast, though, while land is still cheap.

yum! yum!

food? overrated.
plastic is where it is at
flavor is tres good

Things the wee-er one has tried to eat today:
my computer
a storm trooper
the wiimote and nunchuck
sand
a wrapping paper roll
the string on the window blinds
a tiny canteen from a tiny pirate
the dog's foot

Things the wee-er one has refused to eat today:
milk in a sippy cup
toast
oatmeal
a banana

I hope they start fortifying plastic with vitamins and minerals, otherwise we may never be able to wean.

pow!

Hawaii vs. Georgia!

Georgia vs. Hawaii!

My dad's head is exploding.

Right.

Now.

fixed!

I love AppleCare
can't have New Year without U
keyboard switcheroo

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the fact that I wore my cool new knit hat to the Apple store today. Maybe it was regardless of the fact that not one, but two employees complemented me on my embroidered turtle shirt. But something magical happened today.

I walked into the Apple store this morning, spoke with a "genius," had my keyboard swapped out and was home in less than an hour.

!!!

I know!

Usually, my Apple store trips take no less than 3 hours and no less than three days worth of Tylenol to slog through whatever problem needs to be fixed. But today was easy peasy.

So I thank the Apple gods, and the Etsy outfit, and I kiss my new keyboard (but carefully, with no slobber).

I even forgive the "genius" who called me "ma'am."

uuuuuu
jjjjjjjjjjj
777777

yay!