Short and sweet tonight.
Thunderstorms. We had a few today. I love the sound of the sky cracking and rumbling in the distance. Arizona may have the best thunderstorms of any state in the U.S. I think thunderstorms are one of three things I actually miss about living there.
The last few hours with my children has been just short of unbearable. This is the best I can do tonight. I promised myself thirty days of Pollyanna, but tonight I'm letting myself off the hook and settling for Eeyore. It's still Disney, right? I'm in the realm. Same neighborhood, different block.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Pollyanna Day 15
Day 15. Halfway done. I thought this would be much, much harder than it actually has been. I like forcing myself to write a little every day. Two words: cheap. therapy.
Grown-up time outs. Mommies, I think you'll relate to this one. Just a few minutes ago, my darling three year old threw one of his all-too-frequent-as-of-late mini tantrums. This time, it was over the fact that I wanted to give him a handful of crackers in a bowl for a snack, while his idea was for me to hand him the box and let him go to town. I don't think so. As a result of this momentary meltdown, he was exiled to the time out corner. Three minutes of utter torture. No contact with anyone in the house. No TV. No outside play. No speaking or being spoken to. For three. whole. minutes.
My question is, at what point in our lives does time out morph from being a form of agonizing punishment to being something we seek after like the Hope Diamond? I did something today that I have needed to do for a long, long, long time. I spent a day all by myself. No kids needing my services every second of every minute all day long. No work (sorry, work). No talking to anyone (sorry, anyone). Just me, the laundry, my mop, a good book, and the sunshine. Ok, so it wasn't exactly a cruise on the Mexican Riviera, but it may as well have been. I got things done that have needed being done for a long time. And I got them done without interruption. I went to the store BY MYSELF. I sat out in the sun BY MYSELF (unless you count the book). I watched Law and Order: SVU BY MYSELF, following the plot from start to finish because I could actually hear the TV. Don't judge me. I love that show. I'm not saying for sure, but I may have the tiniest of a girl crush on detective Benson.
Yeah, that's Olivia Benson. I said don't judge me.
So today, now that my kids are home and my time out has come to a tragic but inevitable end as we prep for two soccer games and something-or-other at the school later tonight, I'm feeling thankful for alone time. And even though I'll pay the price later, since it means working on Friday when I don't usually have to, being cut off from the outside world for the better part of a day was simply magnificent.
No this is not my child and no I was nowhere NEAR this child when this picture was taken. You can stop dialing the authorities right now. It wasn't me. I'm not responsible. I'm only using it for entertainment after the fact.
Grown-up time outs. Mommies, I think you'll relate to this one. Just a few minutes ago, my darling three year old threw one of his all-too-frequent-as-of-late mini tantrums. This time, it was over the fact that I wanted to give him a handful of crackers in a bowl for a snack, while his idea was for me to hand him the box and let him go to town. I don't think so. As a result of this momentary meltdown, he was exiled to the time out corner. Three minutes of utter torture. No contact with anyone in the house. No TV. No outside play. No speaking or being spoken to. For three. whole. minutes.
My question is, at what point in our lives does time out morph from being a form of agonizing punishment to being something we seek after like the Hope Diamond? I did something today that I have needed to do for a long, long, long time. I spent a day all by myself. No kids needing my services every second of every minute all day long. No work (sorry, work). No talking to anyone (sorry, anyone). Just me, the laundry, my mop, a good book, and the sunshine. Ok, so it wasn't exactly a cruise on the Mexican Riviera, but it may as well have been. I got things done that have needed being done for a long time. And I got them done without interruption. I went to the store BY MYSELF. I sat out in the sun BY MYSELF (unless you count the book). I watched Law and Order: SVU BY MYSELF, following the plot from start to finish because I could actually hear the TV. Don't judge me. I love that show. I'm not saying for sure, but I may have the tiniest of a girl crush on detective Benson.
Yeah, that's Olivia Benson. I said don't judge me.
So today, now that my kids are home and my time out has come to a tragic but inevitable end as we prep for two soccer games and something-or-other at the school later tonight, I'm feeling thankful for alone time. And even though I'll pay the price later, since it means working on Friday when I don't usually have to, being cut off from the outside world for the better part of a day was simply magnificent.
I don't care what my three year old says.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Pollyanna Day 14
With the sun showing itself more frequently these days, it's inevitably time to remove the layers and start showing a little more skin. Sigh...REALLY. BIG. SIGH... So today, I'm feeling the fake tan love.
Jergens Natural Glow Lotion. Every spring, this stuff becomes my new BFF. Well, for a few weeks anyway. What can I say? I'm not very loyal. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch watching a movie with my kids, when I noticed my bare foot sticking out of the bottom of my dark-colored pants. The bleached out tone of my skin contrasted against the blackness of my clothes was reminding me of something, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. Then it hit me. You know those little plastic moons and stars you can buy to hang from your kids' bedroom ceiling, so that when you turn off the lights, the room is instantly transformed into a tiny little solar system? You know that sort of greenish-white glow they take on when the lights go out? That was it! That was the color of my foot. I was sure that if we had lost power at that moment, it would have been perfectly all right, because we could have easily followed the glowing appendage protruding from my pant leg, which was emitting enough light to rival a Studio 54 disco ball. So, you see, there's pasty white skin, then there's bright-enough-to-read-a-book-by-it skin. Mine was definitely the latter. But no more. I busted out my Jergens and I've ramped it up to a lovely shade of ashen. This stuff works.
Jergens Natural Glow Lotion. Every spring, this stuff becomes my new BFF. Well, for a few weeks anyway. What can I say? I'm not very loyal. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch watching a movie with my kids, when I noticed my bare foot sticking out of the bottom of my dark-colored pants. The bleached out tone of my skin contrasted against the blackness of my clothes was reminding me of something, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. Then it hit me. You know those little plastic moons and stars you can buy to hang from your kids' bedroom ceiling, so that when you turn off the lights, the room is instantly transformed into a tiny little solar system? You know that sort of greenish-white glow they take on when the lights go out? That was it! That was the color of my foot. I was sure that if we had lost power at that moment, it would have been perfectly all right, because we could have easily followed the glowing appendage protruding from my pant leg, which was emitting enough light to rival a Studio 54 disco ball. So, you see, there's pasty white skin, then there's bright-enough-to-read-a-book-by-it skin. Mine was definitely the latter. But no more. I busted out my Jergens and I've ramped it up to a lovely shade of ashen. This stuff works.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Pollyanna Day 13
Is it really day 13? I'm tired today, and feeling a little too lazy to even go back and look at the last post so I can know for sure. We'll just call it 13 for fun.
Yesterday, I mentioned my gratitude for the good men of my church and neighborhood. Today, it's the ladies' turn.
Perfectly Imperfect Women. Today at church, I was having a conversation with a friend about how hard we women--especially moms--can be on ourselves. We rarely give ourselves enough credit. On the contrary, we can usually be found tearing ourselves down, and in a way that we would NEVER tolerate if someone ELSE were doing it to us. If you're a Christian woman/mom, you can pretty much quadruple the self-loathing factor. We have a way of convincing ourselves that nothing we ever do is good enough or Godly enough. So as I was discussing this with my friend, I commented (rather sarcastically--yeah, I know, shocker) that I was stunned to hear her say that she herself is not perfect. At that point, because she apparently found that notion to be quite hilarious, she blurted out a phrase containing a word that you don't often hear in church, then was instantly horrified with herself for letting it slip out so easily. We had a very long, hard laugh over this little incident. Moments like these make me grateful for all the great women around me who choose not to take themselves too seriously. More importantly, they get it. They get that we are all imperfect people just struggling to make it through each day without breaking down and using our children as human pinatas. It's a tough world out there, girls. And while we're technically supposed to be striving to make our homes a haven, more often than not, circus side show is as good as it gets. Stop fighting it. Just grab some cotton candy and enjoy the elephant ride.
Yesterday, I mentioned my gratitude for the good men of my church and neighborhood. Today, it's the ladies' turn.
Perfectly Imperfect Women. Today at church, I was having a conversation with a friend about how hard we women--especially moms--can be on ourselves. We rarely give ourselves enough credit. On the contrary, we can usually be found tearing ourselves down, and in a way that we would NEVER tolerate if someone ELSE were doing it to us. If you're a Christian woman/mom, you can pretty much quadruple the self-loathing factor. We have a way of convincing ourselves that nothing we ever do is good enough or Godly enough. So as I was discussing this with my friend, I commented (rather sarcastically--yeah, I know, shocker) that I was stunned to hear her say that she herself is not perfect. At that point, because she apparently found that notion to be quite hilarious, she blurted out a phrase containing a word that you don't often hear in church, then was instantly horrified with herself for letting it slip out so easily. We had a very long, hard laugh over this little incident. Moments like these make me grateful for all the great women around me who choose not to take themselves too seriously. More importantly, they get it. They get that we are all imperfect people just struggling to make it through each day without breaking down and using our children as human pinatas. It's a tough world out there, girls. And while we're technically supposed to be striving to make our homes a haven, more often than not, circus side show is as good as it gets. Stop fighting it. Just grab some cotton candy and enjoy the elephant ride.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Pollyanna Day 12
Busy day. This will be short. Sorta.
Today, it's all about the lawn.
Good men. I live in a neighborhood filled with good, decent men. I was out in my front yard doing a little clean-up work this morning, when a couple of neighbors/fellow church-goers pulled up in a truck and said, "Hey there, we're just going around turning people's sprinklers on for them for the season." Translation: "Hey there, sad single lady with no man around, we know you're a landscape-tard (True Story. I am.), so we're here to save your lawn." Can I just say that I love these men? Now, to all the neighborhood wives who may be reading this, please do not freak. I mean that in the most non-romantic kinda way. I love them like you love your mechanic or your gay hairstylist. Ok? Side bar: If your husband IS your mechanic, then disregard what I just said. And if your husband is a gay hairstylist, well, you've got bigger problems than the lonely neighbor lady and her sprinklers. But in all seriousness, I'm so thankful for good men who are unselfish with their time and energies, who willingly give of both to make sure a sad single girl like me has a pretty green lawn and clean furnace filters.
Landlords. My. landlords. ROCK. Period. I live in the cutest little house in the cutest little neighborhood, and I adore the people who rent to me. Do you know what they do for me? They MOW MY LAWN. Front and back. Every week. They are so, so kind. They don't want me to have to worry about it. Again, I think it's that poor, pitiful single mom thing that's working for me here. I'm so not complaining. I took my kids to the park to play and have a picnic today, and when I came back, my lawn had those pretty diagonal tracks all over it. I knew the landlords had been here working their magic. If I needed to do the yard work, I certainly could. But it's one of those small blessings to know I don't have to think about it. It's taken care of.
Today, it's all about the lawn.
Good men. I live in a neighborhood filled with good, decent men. I was out in my front yard doing a little clean-up work this morning, when a couple of neighbors/fellow church-goers pulled up in a truck and said, "Hey there, we're just going around turning people's sprinklers on for them for the season." Translation: "Hey there, sad single lady with no man around, we know you're a landscape-tard (True Story. I am.), so we're here to save your lawn." Can I just say that I love these men? Now, to all the neighborhood wives who may be reading this, please do not freak. I mean that in the most non-romantic kinda way. I love them like you love your mechanic or your gay hairstylist. Ok? Side bar: If your husband IS your mechanic, then disregard what I just said. And if your husband is a gay hairstylist, well, you've got bigger problems than the lonely neighbor lady and her sprinklers. But in all seriousness, I'm so thankful for good men who are unselfish with their time and energies, who willingly give of both to make sure a sad single girl like me has a pretty green lawn and clean furnace filters.
Landlords. My. landlords. ROCK. Period. I live in the cutest little house in the cutest little neighborhood, and I adore the people who rent to me. Do you know what they do for me? They MOW MY LAWN. Front and back. Every week. They are so, so kind. They don't want me to have to worry about it. Again, I think it's that poor, pitiful single mom thing that's working for me here. I'm so not complaining. I took my kids to the park to play and have a picnic today, and when I came back, my lawn had those pretty diagonal tracks all over it. I knew the landlords had been here working their magic. If I needed to do the yard work, I certainly could. But it's one of those small blessings to know I don't have to think about it. It's taken care of.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Pollyanna Day 11
Today's gems are a bit random. You're probably asking yourself how that's different from the other ten days. Good point. Read on:
Special Deliveries. I ordered a book the other day from Amazon.com. The friend who recommended it to me (love you, Erin) strongly urges others to patronize local businesses and not send their hard-earned dollars to the big dot-commers, but...well...I can't help myself. I love getting packages. And even when I go online, punch in my address, and pay for the darn thing myself, I'm still surprised when the cute little brown package shows up on my doorstep a couple of days later. "Why, lookie here. Somebody sent me something! I wonder what it could be." So yesterday my unexpected package arrived and I was so excited...and surprised! In case you wanna know, the author is Laurie Notaro and the book is called, I Love Everyone (and Other Atrocious Lies): True Tales of a Loudmouth Girl. Check out all her books here. Or visit her website http://www.laurienotaro.com. She rocks. And so do little brown packages (that aren't ticking).
Politically incorrect toilets. Huh? Nope, do not adjust your internet. I said "politically incorrect toilets." I would like to meet the tree-hugging, one-square-of-tissue-per-wipe whackadoo who thought it would be a good idea to invent something called a low-flow toilet. Ever tried to flush something other than urine down one of these environmentally friendly doohickeys? Good luck with that. My house is new enough that I think I may be the victim of this cruel creation that probably had its beginnings in Al Gore's pretend global warming research lab. In other words, I think my master bath toilet is one of those low-flow gadgets. I'll spare you the details as to how I've drawn this conclusion, but let's just say I'd love to thank Al and his minions personally by paying a visit to them and using their low-flow toilets (though I doubt Al has one) about an hour or so after eating a giant plate full of linguine.
I guess I can't really blame them. These are probably the same people eating wheat grass and tofu for every meal. I wonder if they've ever even SEEN a brick of cheese...or a Twinkie. They probably don't expel anything larger than a rabbit pellet on any given day anyway. So for them, I guess those low-flow toilets do the job. Not for the rest of us, Al. Not for the rest of us. I'll take a 13 golf ball flusher, thank you very much.
I'm wondering, incidentally, exactly how much water am I conserving with these PC toilets when I have to flush them three times in order to clear the water? I'm just askin...
Taco Rides. Don't know what a taco ride is? Well, technically, neither do I. Click here for the Facebook page if you really want to know more about it. Here's what I DO know: It involves people in Nebraska or Iowa or both or something hopping on bikes on Thursdays and riding 10 miles to eat tacos, then riding back. Why in the world would a Utah girl care about a bunch of bike-riding taco-eaters in the prairie lands, you might ask? Let's just say that one of those bikers is a "friend" of mine who happens to have THE BEST, rock-hard thighs of any man I know. And I do believe that those beefy hunks of man-thighs that I so love to pinch are mainly the result of lots of bike riding. Taco rides included. And for the record, he didn't think I could find a way to worm taco rides into my Pollyanna posts. Ha. Guess I showed him. Really, what's NOT to be thankful for here? Mexican food and sexy legs...does it GET any better?
Special Deliveries. I ordered a book the other day from Amazon.com. The friend who recommended it to me (love you, Erin) strongly urges others to patronize local businesses and not send their hard-earned dollars to the big dot-commers, but...well...I can't help myself. I love getting packages. And even when I go online, punch in my address, and pay for the darn thing myself, I'm still surprised when the cute little brown package shows up on my doorstep a couple of days later. "Why, lookie here. Somebody sent me something! I wonder what it could be." So yesterday my unexpected package arrived and I was so excited...and surprised! In case you wanna know, the author is Laurie Notaro and the book is called, I Love Everyone (and Other Atrocious Lies): True Tales of a Loudmouth Girl. Check out all her books here. Or visit her website http://www.laurienotaro.com. She rocks. And so do little brown packages (that aren't ticking).
Politically incorrect toilets. Huh? Nope, do not adjust your internet. I said "politically incorrect toilets." I would like to meet the tree-hugging, one-square-of-tissue-per-wipe whackadoo who thought it would be a good idea to invent something called a low-flow toilet. Ever tried to flush something other than urine down one of these environmentally friendly doohickeys? Good luck with that. My house is new enough that I think I may be the victim of this cruel creation that probably had its beginnings in Al Gore's pretend global warming research lab. In other words, I think my master bath toilet is one of those low-flow gadgets. I'll spare you the details as to how I've drawn this conclusion, but let's just say I'd love to thank Al and his minions personally by paying a visit to them and using their low-flow toilets (though I doubt Al has one) about an hour or so after eating a giant plate full of linguine.
I guess I can't really blame them. These are probably the same people eating wheat grass and tofu for every meal. I wonder if they've ever even SEEN a brick of cheese...or a Twinkie. They probably don't expel anything larger than a rabbit pellet on any given day anyway. So for them, I guess those low-flow toilets do the job. Not for the rest of us, Al. Not for the rest of us. I'll take a 13 golf ball flusher, thank you very much.
I'm wondering, incidentally, exactly how much water am I conserving with these PC toilets when I have to flush them three times in order to clear the water? I'm just askin...
Taco Rides. Don't know what a taco ride is? Well, technically, neither do I. Click here for the Facebook page if you really want to know more about it. Here's what I DO know: It involves people in Nebraska or Iowa or both or something hopping on bikes on Thursdays and riding 10 miles to eat tacos, then riding back. Why in the world would a Utah girl care about a bunch of bike-riding taco-eaters in the prairie lands, you might ask? Let's just say that one of those bikers is a "friend" of mine who happens to have THE BEST, rock-hard thighs of any man I know. And I do believe that those beefy hunks of man-thighs that I so love to pinch are mainly the result of lots of bike riding. Taco rides included. And for the record, he didn't think I could find a way to worm taco rides into my Pollyanna posts. Ha. Guess I showed him. Really, what's NOT to be thankful for here? Mexican food and sexy legs...does it GET any better?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Pollyanna day 10
Yeah, that's right. We're in the double digits now. Day TEN. T--E--N. I really never saw myself being so consistent with this project. Look at me go!
Stuff I'm glad about today (and don't be misled by the photo, this is not a cooking post--have you MET me?):
Child Protective Services. This morning was a pretty typical morning at my house. Up at 4:30-ish. Worked out, showered, banged on the walls to make kids get out of bed, made lunches, banged on the walls some more, made breakfast, banged on walls, got myself ready, pretended I couldn't hear my boys screaming and crying and trying to kill each other via kicks to one another's groins, and fought nonstop with a seven year old who believes her sole purpose on this planet is to make her mommy cry on a daily basis. So far so good, incidentally. She's fulfilling her destiny quite well to this point. As I stood in my bathroom feeling depressed over all the stuff my makeup wasn't hiding (like my hips, for example), I looked at the wooden spoon sitting on my bathroom counter, the one I carry around with me a lot lately to discourage bad behavior in certain family members. It's merely a deterrent, I swear. I thought to myself how thankful I am that there are laws and entities in place to discourage bad behavior in MOMS. I mean the kind of behavior that involves burying children in back yards or eBaying them. This could have been the morning I made the headlines with that wooden spoon--or something larger and heavier, except I remembered that I'd likely get in trouble, and prison gray really isn't my color. Maybe it's my CHILDREN who should be thankful today.
Some of you may be gasping at the notion that a mommy could have these thoughts, but please, just get over yourselves. You've had them. You're just not brave or dumb enough to write about them. I am. So there.
My microwave. My mom was over the other day. She just moved and was consequently without a microwave for a few days. She mentioned how she didn't realize how much she used it until she didn't have it. Amen, my sistah (or muthah). How in the world did anyone ever survive without this marvelous invention? I guess when they made their corn dogs and chicken nuggets and fish sticks, they actually had to heat up the oven. How horribly primitive.
Ok, so it was a LITTLE about cooking. Arguably so. There are some non-believers who don't consider using a microwave to be real "cooking." Probably the same people who don't consider corn dogs and chicken nuggets and fish sticks to be real "food." Whatever. Suddenly I'm hungry.
Stuff I'm glad about today (and don't be misled by the photo, this is not a cooking post--have you MET me?):
Child Protective Services. This morning was a pretty typical morning at my house. Up at 4:30-ish. Worked out, showered, banged on the walls to make kids get out of bed, made lunches, banged on the walls some more, made breakfast, banged on walls, got myself ready, pretended I couldn't hear my boys screaming and crying and trying to kill each other via kicks to one another's groins, and fought nonstop with a seven year old who believes her sole purpose on this planet is to make her mommy cry on a daily basis. So far so good, incidentally. She's fulfilling her destiny quite well to this point. As I stood in my bathroom feeling depressed over all the stuff my makeup wasn't hiding (like my hips, for example), I looked at the wooden spoon sitting on my bathroom counter, the one I carry around with me a lot lately to discourage bad behavior in certain family members. It's merely a deterrent, I swear. I thought to myself how thankful I am that there are laws and entities in place to discourage bad behavior in MOMS. I mean the kind of behavior that involves burying children in back yards or eBaying them. This could have been the morning I made the headlines with that wooden spoon--or something larger and heavier, except I remembered that I'd likely get in trouble, and prison gray really isn't my color. Maybe it's my CHILDREN who should be thankful today.
Some of you may be gasping at the notion that a mommy could have these thoughts, but please, just get over yourselves. You've had them. You're just not brave or dumb enough to write about them. I am. So there.
My microwave. My mom was over the other day. She just moved and was consequently without a microwave for a few days. She mentioned how she didn't realize how much she used it until she didn't have it. Amen, my sistah (or muthah). How in the world did anyone ever survive without this marvelous invention? I guess when they made their corn dogs and chicken nuggets and fish sticks, they actually had to heat up the oven. How horribly primitive.
Ok, so it was a LITTLE about cooking. Arguably so. There are some non-believers who don't consider using a microwave to be real "cooking." Probably the same people who don't consider corn dogs and chicken nuggets and fish sticks to be real "food." Whatever. Suddenly I'm hungry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
