1. I’ve been contemplating our neighborhood a bit. It’s an interesting place. There is an alarmingly high number of individuals in the immediate vicinity who still have their Christmas lights up.
2. There is one house on our street featuring boarded-up windows and foil accents. I’m guessing tweaker.
3. There is another house with broken glass in the garage door and a “lawn” that is yellow, serving primarily as an overflow parking area.
4. My neighbor to the left sits in his garage all day drinking Budweiser and smoking cigarettes. When he reaches a healthy buzz, he does everybody’s yard work.
5. On the plus side, our lawn looks freaking incredible.
6. And, oddly, despite the weirdness, I kinda dig this place.
7. Anyway, I’m in so deep I’ve forgotten what the surface looks like. Is there a surface? Was there ever a surface? I feel I’m at complete capacity and I haven’t even begun “officially” homeschooling the 5-year-old.
8. Speaking of the 5-year-old, next week the 5-year-old will become a 6-year-old, which sounds so much older than 5, my heart is breaking a little. I don’t know why exactly, except that he is still in that precious priceless glorious stage of childhood – where there is happiness – pure undisturbed happiness – and there is no fear and there is no worry and there is no self-consciousness and he is free. And I want him to stay there. I don’t want the world to creep in and fuck him up, making him doubt and reason and act like a “grown up.” But it will. Just as it has with Ava. And then I will only see my Rocket in glimpses – my boy in pockets, pockets of blue mohawks and breakdancing and cuddles and freckles and tears and Legos and racecar games and rolling on the floor in hysterics. Stop making me talk about this. I’m starting to cry.
9. Imagine if the world were constructed in such a way that we stayed like 5-year-olds for all our lives – not mentally , but spiritually – our souls –free and open and ready. For everything. For nothing. For life.
10. When I see those pockets in Ava – at 9 years old – I stop what I’m doing entirely and watch. Soak it in. Let her be a child no matter what it entails. And then, I try to join her. Because it’s in me too. Just obstructed by the bullshit storyline of “adulthood.” What is it anyway? A bunch of constructions, a bunch of expectations, a bunch of crap that won’t matter when I’m on my deathbed. Screw it. I’d rather act like a 5-year-old. They are happier than most adults I know anyway.
11. In other news, my dogs may kill each other. I think they’re still trying to figure out who wears the pants in the relationship. Dumbasses keep beating each other up. I figure if they don’t kill each other in the process, at some point they’ll figure out who’s the alpha and just give up the fight. I have no time to figure out dog issues. I’m having enough trouble with those of the human variety.

Anyway, I love you people. Please keep voting for me. By the way, I recently came across this photo of Rocket at the Further festival in June. Is it possible for anything to be more perfect?

I have a real toddler.

My first two kids weren’t “real” toddlers. Evidently they went through the toddler stage, but they didn’t really ACT like toddlers. They just kind of hung out. I’ve never bought those drawer or door locks or done any “toddler-proofing” (what a stupid expression).

This one, though? This Georgia character? She’s the real deal.

And holy crap my friends, this is a lot of work.

I spend most of my time averting disaster.

If she can reach it, she pulls it over. On her head. On the floor. On the cat.

If she’s in the bathroom, she’s inspecting the toilet bowl brush.

Or the trash.

She’s climbed into the dishwasher. Onto the kitchen island. Attempted entrance into the fireplace. And will leave through any opened doors.

Gets stuck under tables. Gets inside bags, baskets and boxes.

Wedges herself into all accessible small spaces. Then screams.

Topples head-first into items she’s attempting to scale, such as, the bathtub.

Climbs stairs.

In short, if there is an item in the room that is disgusting and messy or has the ability to choke her or cause some other grievous bodily harm or threaten her immediate well-being, she makes a damn beeline for it and if I’m not RIGHT THERE, there will be disaster.

Not maybe. For sure.

Everything I do I have to do it quickly, because there is a toddler on my tail. She’s gotta be RIGHT up in my business, all the time. If I’m unloading the dishwasher, she’s standing next to me grabbing shit out of it, preferably knives.

And what is she some sort of power crawler? She’s NEVER IN THE SAME PLACE for more than 3 seconds. She’s there. I look away. She’s GONE.

And then I’m bolting around “Georgia!?” (as if she’s some sort of dog that comes when called), finally finding her wrapped in the computer power cords and grinning at me like “What?”

Taking a shower. Always a treat.

Three to five minutes during which I leave the toddler unattended. I usually resort to letting her play with a roll of toilet paper or some other weirdness, because at least that way she’s not engaging in potentially life-threatening behavior and it’s a mess I know and anticipate, which somehow makes it easier.

I guess.

There is really no way to make toddlerhood easier.

This shit pretty much just bites.

Except for the fact that they’re freaking adorable and are still babies most of the time, cuddling and being fat and babbling and laughing and kissing and perfect.

Well, when they’re not eating the cat’s food.

Or pulling books off the shelves.

Or crawling into the refrigerator.

For the tenth time today.

Because your older kids just can’t seem to figure out the whole refrigerator-door shutting phenomenon.

Shiiiiiiiiit.

Let’s just look at a picture. To forget.

Or maybe, to remember.

"Who, me?"

I love geeks.

Because check it out. Geeks are never actually geeks. We all know this. Isn’t this the first profound observation any of us make – that non-conformity is actually cool and “being cool” is totally uncool, since it means subscribing to a set of arbitrary rules created by masses of the general population, which, we all know, is comprised of idiots.

And yet we think if we have this one thing we’re gonna be cool and people are gonna look at us and say “oh look. A cool guy.”

Let’s take a moment and reflect on Tyler Durden. “You are not your job…you are not how much money you have in the bank…not the car you drive…not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis.”

Thanks, Tyler.

The thing is that I appreciate anybody and everybody who is just doin’ their own thing. Unless their “own thing” involves hurting people. Those people can suck it. I mean just living. Doing what they please. Enjoying things because they enjoy them, not because they think it’s the thing to do. Doing what THEY think is cool, whatever that may be.

Take, for example, this guy:

HERO IN A HEADBAND

 I freaking love him. There is no possible way an individual could get more “geeky” than this guy, and I know people were walking by judging the hell out of him. Good Lord almighty he’s wearing neon green head & wrist bands & sunglasses to match the neon green accent on his shorts. And he’s greased up and all tan playing volleyball.

And he’s LOVING IT. And therefore, I love him. He’s rockin’ it people. He’s owning who he is and what he is and he’s got no shame or qualms about it and THAT my friends makes him a bonified badass. He’s the Tyler Durden of the beach scene. He’s just having fun, giving a quiet “fuck you” to all those hipsters out there with their fedoras and bad attitudes. He’s matching. He’s sweaty and covered in sand.

He’s my hero.

We saw him at the beach and had to photograph him we loved him so much. And I figured I could put him on my blog since his face isn’t showing. Plus I highly doubt he reads my blog.

But if by some chance he is reading this, let me just say “Cheers to you, matching neon green accessories volleyball player guy.” (Yes, I was hailing those Budweiser commercials.)

You give me hope.

You are a guiding beacon of light to all of us wannabe geeks.

And someday, if I ever grow a pair, I’ll wear coordinating shorts, wrist & headbands. Until then, I’ll just respect the hell out you for just not giving a shit.

1. I don’t know what happened with that whole naked seaweed thing. Kind of a low point really, but no worries, I’ve got something that’ll totally cheer us up: the best thing to do when somebody flips you off on the road is to smile a big smile and give them a joyful “hang loose” sign. Fucker will FLIP in anger. Sweetest retaliatory moment ever.
2. We spent the weekend in Santa Cruz, took the kids to the Boardwalk on Saturday. This trip was Ava’s birthday present. Her 9^th birthday present. Her 9^th birthday that was LAST NOVEMBER. You see? I ain’t jokin’ about that bad mothering thing. Nobody really believes me but I am not lying.
3. I don’t understand why we don’t live in one of those Northern California coastal towns. Any one will do: Santa Cruz, Capitola, Monterey, Half Moon Bay. I ain’t picky.
4. Oh right. Because we have no money.
5. Speaking of no money, Monday was my last day of employment. That’s nice. Sort of. Except I spent all week trying to make up for months and months of house-cleaning neglectfulness and failing miserably. And I spent all week being reminded of why I’m not a SAHM (for those of you who don’t go on parenting chatboards, SAHM = stay-at-home mom).  I’m afraid.
6. Tomorrow is my first day back at grad school. I’m not afraid. Mainly because the first day always consists of a lame, mindless activity I will never ever understand as long as I live: reading the syllabus with the professor. Do you a see a problem there? We’re in graduate school (ENGLISH graduate school no less) and YET we need to be READ THE SYLLABUS by the professor. Because we can’t do it ourselves? Because analyzing complex theory is within reasonable expectations but comprehending a semester-long schedule? Out of the question people! I must read it TO YOU. And I will go over it and reiterate all the subtle nuances like “plagiarism is bad” and “two tardies equal an absence.” I’m not sure, but I suspect that particular activity is a result of professors spending way too much damn time making that syllabus and, like a small child who can’t wait to show off his latest artistic creation, just can’t stop themselves from sharing the joy of their well-thought-out, carefully planned, eclectic line-up of events. Or, they don’t know what the hell else to do with us on the first day.
7. At the Boardwalk the Santa Cruz police had a display with a motorcycle kids could climb on. We saw it and excitedly asked Rocket if he wanted to get on it. He looked over, thought about it for maybe 2 seconds and said “nah.” And I realized my little guy is too big for that kinda thing now and my heart kinda fell to my gut and I’m telling you people right now this is not going to go well. My baby boy growing up, exiting his wild abandon, ceasing to run in insane freedom on the beach, caring what people think, sensing his separateness, restraining his boyish mania. I can’t take it friends. This is clearly another blog post.
8. Okay I’m not over the syllabus thing. The weirdest thing is that most of the class seems RIVETED by the whole “let’s read the syllabus together” activity, which of course places me in my usual position of “what the hell are you people thinking?” and “Am I the only one who thinks this shit is ridiculous?”
9. Come to think of it, that’s how I go through most of my life. I know now that this phenomena is a result of one of two things: either almost the entire fucking outside world is unconditionally batshit crazy, or I’ve totally missed the boat. Jury’s still out. But I prefer the former, for obvious reasons.
10. My sister-in-law recently pointed out that I haven’t posted pictures in a really long time. She’s right. And it’s because I’m lazy. So to counteract my slothful tendencies, I give you the following. Aren’t they freaking adorable? (By the way, if you click on the photo you’ll get a bigger version. You know, so you can REALLY get all up in our business. Or something.)

Oh, and PLEASE vote for me? Please please please? I doubt there’s any way in hell I’ll win (there are some pretty popular blogs nominated) but hey, perhaps the no-namer will win this one. Either way, friends, thanks being here. You are the wind beneath my wings. (That made me LOL and my husband said “are you cracking yourself up again?” and I said “yes” and he mumbled something about fools. Jackass men. They don’t get it.)

You see this running dancing jumping behavior? It needs to stay people. STAY.

looking stoic. love those cheeks.

Tattooed man with baby in baby carrier = the way things oughta be.