1. Just for funsies, somebody please explain to me why there’s Christmas stuff in stores and it isn’t Halloween yet.
2. And for even MORE funsies, somebody please explain why I bought an advent calendar from one of those Christmas displays, while simultaneously appalled that it was out in the first place and yet so smitten with this particular wooden calendar I had to buy it, thereby inadvertently answering my own question regarding the presence of those displays: they are out because asshats like me buy things from them, in October, if they’re cute enough (the things, not the asshats).
3. Speaking of asshats, some winner at the farmer’s market got mad at me because I let Georgia walk around and she kept falling on her bottom, LIKE ALL TODDLERS DO WHEN LEARNING TO WALK. I wanted to kill that lady. More on that later. I have a rant that’s gonna knock your socks off. What a stupid cliché. I mean who wants their socks knocked off? How does that even work? Maybe a hat. Or a cardigan. But socks? Everybody knows socks require pulling down and over the heel, so by definition they can’t be “knocked off.” Oh wait. Maybe that’s the point. Weird.
4.  People, I’m losing it, and not because of haphazard advent calendar purchasing or sock-removal questions. I’m in the middle of the semester and it’s become abundantly clear that I bit off more than I can chew [so I guess I’m more “choking” than “losing it” but why get caught up in details?]. Every day feels like a small miracle because I survived and somehow my grades are good and I’m getting shit done. Mostly. Except blog writing. PLEASE don’t leave me. PLEASE don’t get discouraged by my pathetic post frequency and know that it’s temporary. It is. I promise.
5. I sound like a needy ex-boyfriend. My bad. But seriously. Don’t go. I want to write every other day. I have so much shit in my head I can’t stand it and it’s not healthy for it to stay up there, twisting around into nonsense and weirdness, rearing its ugly head at really inconvenient times, such as the grocery store check-out line, when I look at the dude behind the counter and ask him where the hell all these kids came from (referring, of course, to mine) – thinking I’m funny, failing to notice he’s like twelve and has about as much interest in my twisted musings as he has in U.S. third world feminist theory.
6. By the way, what the hell is U.S. third world feminist theory? If you figure it out, please let me know ASAP. I’ve read a whole book about it but still only vaguely know what the fuck she’s talking about.  But in my defense, the author is clearly about twenty-seven times smarter than I am and, I suspect, SLEEPS on a regular basis, which makes her 100 times smarter than me. So I have no chance. Basically. Plus, as you can see, I can’t even craft proper sentences. They’re either one word or run-ons.
7. I don’t think I’m cut out for homeschooling. More on that later.
8. Is it wrong that I buy food the nanny likes to cook so that my kids will actually get home-cooked meals sometimes?
9. Is it wrong that if I had to pick between the nanny and my husband I would probably pick the nanny? Ah, shit. Of course I wouldn’t. But I may think about it for a moment beyond what’s appropriate.
10. BUT the woman cooks homemade flour tortillas, pinto beans and rice. And she cleans my house WHILE WATCHING THE KIDS and when I get home the kids are all happy because she’s all calm and apparently, kids like calm. Who knew? Anyway, poor guy doesn’t have a chance. And if you asked him who he’d rather keep around, he may think about it a moment too long as well. So I feel okay about that. Mostly. Damn it, another one-word sentence.

Here’s to survival, friends. And premature advent calendars and beans, and nannies who change your lives, not necessarily in that order.

1.)    The problem with avoiding exclamation points is that some sentences require them, unless you’re okay with sounding like a sarcastic ass. Now obviously I am okay with sounding like a sarcastic ass, in fact I quite regularly seek out opportunities for such, but every now and then I’m being serious and want to convey that sentiment.

2.)    For example, I give you the following sentence: “Wow. Good job.” Kinda sounds like I’m actually saying “You bit the big one there, homeslice,” (compared to “Wow! Good job!”)… or… “Congratulations on your third baby. Things should really get interesting now.” That one sounds like I’m about to overnight them an adult size coffin.

3.)    So I find myself using them even though it hurts just the tiniest bit, each time. I know that’s weird, but come on, you know the emphatic use (hA!) of exclamation points is heart-wrenchingly annoying. I know this person (is that vague enough for ya?) who uses one after every sentence, culminating the whole fiasco with two or three right in a row. Emails from her look like this: “We’ve been having a great year! Johnny plays minor league football now, and we’re proud! Samantha is swimming and loves her dolls! And next month we’re heading to the Grand Canyon for vacation!!!“ [Do you or do you not know this type of writer and do you or do you not want to break their shins?]

4.)    I should spend less time contemplating exclamation points and more time doing one of the things on my list, such as preparing lessons for my son (I haven’t done that ONCE EVER – it’s always this off-the-cuff thing), or reading for my classes, or writing the annotated bibliography that’s due on Wednesday, which I haven’t started. All of these would be better options than reflecting on punctuation, but that’s how I roll.

5.)    Last night I went to sushi with Erin and Kim who blog here and here. They are great women and remind me how much it doesn’t suck to have smart, down-to-earth, compassionate friends who don’t give a shit if your skirt is wrinkled and your shirt purchased at Target and your make-up barely visible and your hair not done.

6.)    I hear there are some real super-snob moms out there. I may have observed a few from afar, but I’m guessing they take one look at my disheveled ass and bad attitude and say to themselves “Um, No.”

7.)    Oddly, I’m not losing over sleep over their disdain.

8.)    I am, however, losing sleep over all kinds of other things, such as whether or not we can brush the matts out of the dog’s rear-end or if we need to shave it, and if we do shave it, how much will it scare the little fella (given his fear of anything mechanical) and also, will the hair stick in the shaver? IF so, will Mac care that I used his shaver to shave the dog’s butt? Or maybe I can just pull the hair out of the blades before he sees? OR MAYBE I should ditch the whole scheme thus far concocted and take the dog to the groomer. But I don’t have an appointment for the groomer. Do they take walk-ins? And how much does they cost anyway…? Ohhhh and they could also trim his nails since I’m too scared to do it. Are they open now? I wish they were open now. I’d get up right now and make an appointment.

9.)    I am.not.exaggerating. This goes on for hours and hours and hours no matter how many bottles  pills of melatonin I take or gallons of chamomile I drink or repetitions of a mantra or prayer or following my breath just like Thich Nhat Han says.

10.) So I’m admitting surrender, letting go of my personal desire to be pill-free and going this morning to the doctor where I shall announce: “HOOK IT UP, Doctor, lest I murder my children and end up hand-plucking my dog’s butt hair with tweazers.”

And on that happy note, I shall see you all soon. Hopefully more often than last week. Kiss.

Oh, and check these out.

Georgia is starting to walk for real...

and Rocket decided to get dressed up for his daddy's birthday.

1. If I were a good blogger, I would publish a post at 6am on the day I want it to go out, because I would have written it the day before, especially if it’s a recurring post, such as, oh I don’t know, a weekly Sunday post (you know, because I could plan it and such).
2. But…I am a bad blogger. Because sometimes (not like now of course) I write posts barely under the wire when I’m so exhausted my eyes are burning and I feel slightly stunted mentally – not to mention a little nervous to write anything for fear of what sort of insane drivel will exit my mouth, possibly resulting in the end of civilization as we know it. See what I mean?
3. This is not because I don’t love you.
4. This is because my life makes Lord of the Flies look organized.
5. There’s something I have never told you. It’s very personal so I’m sure you can understand my hesitance. Anyway, I feel secure in telling you now since we know each other so well: at some point in my young life I acquired Auto-Immune Hippie Disease. This is a sad state of affairs manifesting itself through chronic attendance at jam-band music festivals involving former members of the Grateful Dead, and crying while there, during certain songs Jerry Garcia used to sing.
6. There is no known cure. It’s very sad. I’ll be writing a Facebook post about it very soon, urging people to take action against this debilitating condition and possibly asking for donations.
7. Did you notice I said “young” life? Did you see that? Yeah. That’s because I ain’t old. I’m only 32 years old. This is information I’d like to share with the fuckers who keep calling me “m’am.” It is not my problem you’re 19 and therefore think I’ve rounded the bend and should probably just go ahead and jump in the pine box now because any attempt at life at this point is really just kinda gloomy (though we admire your optimism!)…anyway, the thing is young Jedi, most of the time, 19 is just a fancy 12, AND in just a few short years you (yes YOU) are going to be pushing 35 and looking around wondering wtf happened to the last 10 years and some asshat is going to call you “m’am” and you’re gonna hate it, home slice. hate it. So have a little perspective.
8. I need to get okay with m’am thing. I mean I already wrote a whole blog post about it. And yet, I’m still annoyed. Every time I hear it I feel a little jarred. Like “huh? Me?” And then I realize Oh yes, damn. Me.
9. Okay but seriously. I will never forget standing at the Monterey County Fairgrounds singing “Friend of the Devil” with my little girl and boy and dad and stepmom and husband – dancing with them in their new super-hero peace sign and lightning capes. I told you, it’s a disease. Don’t judge.
10.  At least only the kids got capes. I call that improvement, friends. Perhaps I’m in remission.

I miss Jerry.

He would have approved of these:

Oh and check this out. Video of the show we were at, last night, when they sang “Friend of the Devil.” Thank you, You Tube and hippies.

1. After attending the Hoes Down Festival at Full Belly Farm in the Capay Valley for a few years now, and feeling this strange peace out there every time I go, an indescribable comfort, I have determined that adult human beings belong on farms, working together to grow food, weave things and sew and talk, helping each other in this seemingly relentless process of waking, eating, sleeping and growing – and raising children. And those children, (why Mavis I just know it!) they belong out there too, eating dirt and climbing things and getting filthy and stopping in occasionally for food and possibly water, then leaving again, to run and play and use their hands and feet and bodies.
2. In other words, we do not belong in silos.
3. I wish we still lived in a world where every evening women would get together and quilt and sew and weave – because it’s nourishing and fun and social and humans need each other, apparently. No wonder we’re all so depressed – waking up in isolated homes with our isolated families going to isolated cubicles to make isolated checks to purchase isolation-promotion devices such as televisions and computers and video games (which ironically serve to make us feel less isolated).
4. Okay fine. That’s enough hippie-chatter outta me. But there really is something to getting back to the land and simplicity of entertainment, in sitting with others in casual conversation, knitting or whatever, letting your hands move in repetitive movements, making something. Doing something. Creating something. Sharing in just being people together.
5. Check it out. My son has learned more in 3 weeks of homeschool than he did in 1 year of “regular” school. We are finding a groove together and I feel so lucky to have the opportunity to be near him each day in this way.
6. My 13-month old has developed the most annoying sound in the world. I’m not kidding. There’s nothing like it. And of course no way to describe it. It’s her new way of registering discontent – it sounds something like a hyena and a fire siren mixed with the grunt of a very angry barn animal. When she does it I want to lock myself in a small closeted [soundproof] area, but I can’t, because if I leave her alone for more than 12 seconds she climbs something tall or finds some other way to creatively injure herself.
7.  This is why I can’t stand books like “What to Expect During the Toddler Years.” Undoubtedly (I don’t know because I haven’t read it) they would say something positive and supportive, like “while your budding little one tests her independence, she will go through exciting stages of curious exploration that you may find tedious – but hang in there! Before you know it, your little explorer will be sitting calmly doing her homework without you and you’ll miss those toddler days!”
8. What they really need to say is: “A great deal of the time, parenting a toddler fucking sucks, but you’re the one who decided to have the damn kid, so suck it up, dumbass. [And yes, it does end. And yes, you’ll then miss it. And no, it doesn’t seem like it now and NO, there is no explanation for this phenomenon.]”
9.  I have written way too much for this post so I’m ending it now. Kiss, hug, etc. and have a good week. Anybody want to start a knitting circle?
10. Did I really just say that?

What I learned this week…

1. Some things just never work out well. For example, 6-year-old boys and Scotch tape. I don’t want to talk about it.
2. Did you know 13-month-olds can climb bunk bed ladders? All the way to the top? In the time it takes you to transfer two loads of laundry?
3. Yeah, neither did I. Until yesterday.
4. Our dog Pete likes to dig holes but stick around the yard. Our dog Odie does not like to dig holes, but he also does not like to stick around the yard. So together, they result in two equally irritating phenomena: ruined yards and lost dogs. Isn’t that cute?
5. I’m sorry, but PETA people (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) are weird. I don’t generally, um, generalize in such a blatant manner, but I have never once met a PETA person who struck me as stable, or somebody I’d be willing leave my kid with for an hour. My dog? Totally. But not my kid.
6. You know what’s a sad thought? Someday Bob Dylan will die. I was listening to him the other morning and kept thinking “My God, Bob, you’re just so good.”
7. Our goldfish died because its bowl got too dirty to sustain life. That officially makes me an animal killer and I’m sad about that. I didn’t mean to kill it, and I suppose there’s a slight chance the kitty whacked it with a claw, causing terminal damage, but I’m pretty sure it was the not cleaning thing. Go ahead, hate. I know I suck. But please don’t call the PETA people.
8. Not really. I don’t suck that bad. You know who does suck that bad, though? Casey Fucking Anthony. Nobody’s going to weep the day that woman kicks the bucket.
9. Okay so I KNOW somebody has to give a shit about lab animals and bunnies and whatnot, so thanks for that, PETA, but in my experience y’all have odd social skills and are a bit extremist in your judgments of others and their animal-related choices. For example, I once bought a purebred dog. A PETA acquaintance heard about this and flipped her cookie that I purchased a dog rather than adopted one from the shelter. I mean she was worked up. My thing is, with all the violence and famine and social injustice in the world, are we really going to get our panties in a knot over something like THAT?
10. Anyhoo, have I mentioned I love Autumn? I LOVE OCTOBER. I don’t know why, but pumpkin patches make me happy. It’s as close as I get to festive. Although, I hate adult Halloween. I loathe dressing up. Annoying effing holiday.
11. Pumpkins, though? And haystacks and cornfields and wagons and my kids in little costumes collecting junk food? Love it.

Happy almost October. By the way, how cute is this little number?