Apparently my daughter decided this evening that she needed a little haircut. I'll post a picture of her handiwork tomorrow, cuz I'm not gonna wake her now. One of us should be able to sleep.
Anyway, the last time she did this, it was right before school pictures. I was certain I wrote an entry about it in my old journal, but a quick check of my meager archives proves me wrong. I'm not willing to read through all my old stuff, so if you go there and find it, drop me a line. (Well, that was pretty fabulous, I remembered out to give myself a mail link without asking my hub.)
After Zoe's shower this evening she saw fit to cut about 5 inches off her hair in a four inch line on the left side of her face. I suppose she was going for "long bangs" or something. I'm still not clear.
So her hair is still pink. And now it's lopsided. I'm so proud to be her mom right now!
Well, it's been almost exactly a week. It's been a week and 4 hours, not that I'm counting or anything.
I'm here to tell you I would consider this a success. In a really big way. Generally speaking, I heal really quickly, and this seems no exception.
It's still a bit sensitive but overall it's a lot less ouchy.
I am going to brave a waistband tomorrow. Wish me luck.
I just realized it's Monday, this whole holiday thing threw me off. I promised a regular feature and what kind of hostess would I be if I forgot on week two? As always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.
Kiss:: and tell
Nothing:: ventured, nothing gained
Reach:: out and touch someone
Late:: night snacks
Stump:: speech
Dreams:: hopes
LOL:: LOL
Ornament:: al
Neck:: lace
Guitar:: Carlos Santana
School doesn't start for Zoe until Thursday and camp ended last Friday. This means that I had to cover for two work days. I'm incredibly busy (as previously reported) so couldn't take the time off. My mother-in-law graciously stepped up and I dropped Zoe off there this morning. She's staying with her until tomorrow. I'll pick her up about 4 ish so we can get home, pack her backpack, have dinner, get bathed, and lay out our clothes for the first day of school.
I'm fairly certain we won't be late. On Thursday at least. We have a dismal on-time record for arrival to school.
It wasn't until about 4 this afternoon that I realized that I was going to be both husband and child free tonight. Woo hoo! For the whole night. How weird is that?
What's a girl to do?
I suppose I could have gone to the movies, or made some last minute calls for dinner plans, but none of it sounded appealing.
I did try to do some shopping after work, but made a poor store choice and found absolutely nothing, not even shoes. I ordered in Chinese. (And how pathetic is it that when I placed my delivery order the guy recognized my voice and address and was surprised that I'd ordered so little and felt compelled to comment on it?) I tidied the house a bit. I gave my pets some attention. I played some cribbage (my addiction), and now I'm writing this boring entry about how I wasted a completely good night alone, doing nothing.
I'm floundering I tell you.
So it's day two of 3rd grade. We've been early for two days in a row. Please mark that down in the record books cuz it's not likely to happen again.
I'll have to assume day one was good cuz I had to drag my daughter out of her class at the end of the day.
She asked me to walk her into the yard this morning, which I gladly did, and the minute we hit the school yard she was off like a shot. I had to find her to say goodbye. While I was a little saddened by this (she's growing up so fast and getting so independent), it fiills me with joy that she's getting so independent in a good way.
It was good to see my mom friends yesterday and a big deal was made over my new hair, belly ring, and thinner, tan body. I'm a hottie mom now and you gotta love that, cuz it's all about me, now isn't it.
While my husband is lamenting the loss of his potential stalking victim, oops, I mean love interest, I saw my man yesterday. And he looked as fabulous as ever. Once again, I did not throw my sexy, belly ringed body at his feet, but the temptation was there.
Cuz I'm all about self-control kids.
On the radio station I listen to there is a promo by one of the on-air personalities. I don't remember what the promo is for. That's not really important. What is important is the fact that the word "across" is in the promo.
Except when this jerk says it, he says, "acrossT." He is not the first imbecile I've heard add a t to the word. What's up with this? Is he stupid or just illiterate. Can he not read?
This ranks up at the top of my list of pet peeves along with people who say heighTH, when speaking about how tall someone is. People, there is no TH. Width, i'll give you that one, but not on height. No h, no th dipthong action there.
Now I'm all about a silent J, but a silent T? Not so much.
Growing up there were three kids in my family, so on long family trips someone ended up sitting in the middle. It was usually me since both my sisters got carsick.
For short trips, when they couldn't use the carsick trump card, we used the "I called it" method of determining who got a window. On the way to the car you'd hear screams of, "I get the window, I called it."
"I called it" is indisputable. End of discussion.
So, sitting in the middle was always something you didn't want.
Fast forward 35 years. Riding in the car with Zoe, an only child, she prefers to sit in the middle. When I questioned this curious (to me anyway) choice, she informed me that the middle seat gets more air conditioning.
Since I grew up in the age of the bench seat, this perq was non-existent in my middle-sitting youth.
I often find myself with more than one child in the back seat of my car. Usually where you find Zoe, you find Katie, her best friend. I drove them both to and from camp this summer and last, as regular readers will recall.
Now sitting in the middle is the most-coveted position and a whole method of turns had to be established, taking into consideration not only who sat in the middle last, but also the duration of the trip, the alignment of the planets, and other stuff.
I would have banned the middle seat weeks ago but alas the seatbelt in the back behind the drivers seat was jammed so someone had to sit in the middle. With the use of complicated charts and diagrams we sorted it out.
Today I fixed the seatbelt and there was a new rule: when there are two children in the car, no one sits in the middle. (The gray hair is coming in fast enough on my head, I was sick of the discussions, and those charts in the car were getting very cumbersome.)
So we're on the way home from dinner, me, Zoe and Katie. To the restaurant (OK, it was In-N-Out) no one sat in the middle. After dinner I reminded them that no one is to sit in the middle.
Then I hear a plaintiff plea from the back seat. Katie reminded me that Zoe sat in the middle last time and puleeeeeze could she do it just one more time.
I caved. This one last time. Katie could sit in the middle.
But that's the last time. I swear. No matter how pathetic they get. I swear.
So I talked to my sister in law today. This would be the sister in law who has three children that she doesn't discipline or otherwise really take care of. The three children that she and her husband are more than pleased to abdicate responsibility for whenever anyone else shows up and sits still for five minutes in the presence of their truly horrible three children.
Turns out she's pregnant. Again.
Well, at least this time she told me.
I knew this was coming. I suspected as much last time I saw her. And frankly, the youngest is almost two already so it's about time she popped another one out for someone else (preferably her mother) to take care of.
One of the times ago that she was pregnant was shortly after (or frankly not so shortly after) Chuck and I dealt with our infertility issues. (If you really care to read about them, sift through my archives here, I can't be bothered to go through them myself and it's old, boring news at this point anyway).
But no one wanted to tell me.
Poor barren Beth, I'm certain was what was on all their little minds. No one wanted to "hurt my feelings" cuz sister in law was popping them out faster then you can say Jack Robinson, and all poor barren Beth had was one child. Well, my feelings weren't hurt. I was pissed off.
Pissed off because: 1. I'm not barren. I'm probably one of the most fertile women you'll ever meet, our infertility issues were not a result of my issues, it was just one of those things; and 2. I'm a fucking adult and it was a bullshit excuse, so let's just call a spade a spade and move on with things.
When she told me today I made all the appropriate noises and congratulated her. What the hell, it's her choice.
Me: I hit the jackpot with the first kid and and more then happy with what I've got.
It is NEVER OK to wear pantyhose, tights, or socks with open-toed shoes or mules.
As always a big shout out to Unconsious Mutterings.
When any couple (or single person, cuz we're not exclusionary here) finds out they're expecting, among the myraid issues and questions, one of the biggest is, "What will we name this little bugger?"
Occasionally this is a foregone conclusion, when you're a III or IV or even if mom or dad is set on having a Jr. My husband is a Jr. (there's a little known Chuck factoid for ya.)
Usually, however, it is a subject fraught with disagreement and shall we say "issues". Issues of this variety: Brunhilda was his ex-girlfriend's name; I hated someone named Milicent so I could never name my daughter that; your ex-husband was Bubba, so that's really out of the question, etc.
Jewish people do not name their children after living family members, as a rule. As with all rules, there are exceptions. I believe Safartic Jews may, in fact, name after living people. Ashkenazie Jews (of which I am one) name their children after recently-passed family members.
When Zoe was conceived, the only dead relative I had was my grandpa Hymie. The thing with this naming after Jewish thing is it's kind of freeform. Hymie was his English name, Chaim his name in Hebrew. I could have picked an H or Ch name and frankly used it as a middle name and be done with it.
And for you non-Jews out there, please make that Ch sound deep in your throat, the more phlegm noise, the better.
Then when I was five months pregnant my Grandma Anne, died. (Channah in Hebrew). While I was not at my grandmother's funeral (busy on vacation in London, thanks for asking), apparently my still-to-be-born child's name was on everyone's lips. We knew it was a girl and dear Aunt Joyce who minds everyone's business decreed that this baby, the first in the family for my generation, must be named Channah. Thanks Joyce, we'll get back to you on that.
Then six weeks later her husband, Grandpa Ruby died (I don't know his Hebrew name and I'm not calling my mother or father to find out). I made it to this funeral (7 1/2 months pregnant, thanks) and interestingly enough, Joyce never managed to mention that I would be naming my daughter Channah.
So now we have a whole passel of dead people to either choose from, or not.
Chuck and I sat down with books, printouts from the Internet, and other sources of girl's names. Some of the top contenders were Sydney and Lily. (I vaguely recall him not liking Lily, but I did, and frankly still do.)
We finally ended with with Zoe. The Hebrew word for grandfather is Zadie and since I had two recently-dead grandfathers, it seemed a good way to go. (See above for the free-form interpretation of naming people with permission to use the first letter only--for those of you who may be lost here.)
As an update here, Chuck insists that we named her after the little girl in the cartoon Baby Blues, which I would *never* have agreed to. Similarly he insists he *never* would have agreed to my version of the story. So there you have that.
As for a middle name, it wasn't until they were about to rip the birth certificate from our hands in the hospital that we decided. Hannah. After my grandma after all. Chuck's choice as I recall. And I get kind of misty thinking about that.
So it's Zoe Hannah. It's a great name if you ask me. There weren't many Zoe's when we named her, and now you can't spit without hitting another Zoe. There is another Zoe in her class as a matter of a fact. So my daughter is Zoe A. (And that's how she used to sign her Mother's Day and Father's Day cards, just so we didn't think it's the other Zoe by mistake.)
But have you ever tried to find stuff with the name Zoe printed on it? You know, those mini-license plates, or key chains, or mugs or things like that? Not so easy I'm here to tell you.
On family outing this evening we ended up at a card/novelty store. There was a rack of those little license plates. Like a moth to a flame I am drawn to those racks. Just to prove that there will be no Zoe. There was not.
There was Catherine, Kathryn, Katherine, and Cathryn; Brianna and Briana, Katelyn and Caitlin; Montana; Autumn; Jesus; Caleb; Brandi; Brittney and Brittany; Destiny; Madaline; Miriam; Crystal and Krystle; and even Javier.
But no Zoe.
So, my old man (I do love calling him that, even though technically speaking I'm 3 years old than he is), is once again taking part in the Love Ride.
He is shamelessly hitting up his readers for donations for this worthy cause.
And cuz I'm all about sharing the love, I am asking you too, my few meager readers, to kick down in his name. Any amount, from $1.00 to $10,000 would be totally groovy of you.
I would never ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself so I have already pledged my $50.00.
Chuck's goal is to raise $600.
I have promised that if he meets his goal I will ride with him and would even wear a black leather halter top for the occasion.
So, if any of you readers kick down and let me know that you did, I will send you a photo of me in a black leather halter top. (Just know that proof of your donation will be required.)
Wedding:: bells
Roach:: Motel
Expense:: account
Fight:: or flight
Air:: port
Protect:: and serve
Glance:: first
Boo:: hiss
Steamy:: sexy
Caviar:: yummy
As always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.
I need to fall asleep with the TV on. One of the world's most perfect inventions, in my opinion, is the sleep timer for the TV. No more waking up in the middle of the night to some dreadful infomercial and groping around in the bedclothes to find the remote and turn off the box. Just hit the little button, set it for 30, 60, or 90 minutes, get in the sleepy position, and poof, voila.
The thing is, I've become fond of programs airing on sydicated late night TV that I never even considerd watching in first run. My viewing choices horrify my husband. I will now admit some of them to you. I know you will be horrified as well.
1. The Nanny. Oy vey. I never watched it in first run. Loved it late night. I'd stay up way too late to catch it. It was on at like 12:30 a.m., a time when any working girl should be sleeping.
2. Living Single. Gotta love you some Kim Fields. That girl had more hair on that show then anyone has a right to.
3/4. M*A*S*H and Cheers. OK, I did watch both of those first-run. I bet I've seen every single episode of M*A*S*H ever created, most of them four to five times, if not more. Same with Cheers.
5. Home Improvement. I wouldn't stay up past my bedtime for this one.
6. Dharma & Greg. This has been my latest indulgence.
Most of my late night viewing is either on FOX or whatever network Channel 13 is (we don't have that on the dish anymore, oh well).
But the late night programmers are fickle. Just when you get into a pattern and really come to love the syndicated trash they switch up the programming.
My latest late-night disappointment started last week. I got in bed at 12:00, all ready for some Dharma & Greg. Alas, no. It was Married With Children. I mean I'll go low, but only so low I tell you, and certainly not that low.
Then I did some channel surfing and found we had some new channels at the low end of the channel spectrum and they were all the local LA stations. No D&G on FOX, but it was on something else, probably 13. Kewl. I could continue to indulge.
This week those channels are gone.
I got in bed at 11:30 tonight, early for me. I had to endure the end of Miracle Mile, which Chuck was watching, and when it was finally over and I was all ready to dig into some late night trash, there was nothing to be had.
So now I'm out of bed again, despite my efforts to get to bed at a reasonable hour.
You have your network sponsors to thank for this entry.
I'm here to tell you that body piercings are not only a lifestyle (of sorts) choice, but also a fashion choice.
Since my piercing, I've felt the need to modify my wardrobe. Initially it was for comfort reasons. Those first couple of weeks I couldn't stand to have anything rubbing on my belly. While the piercing did not actively hurt, having something rubbing on it all day was uncomfortable. Mercifully, we had business casual dress so I was able to manage. Well, I can now wear trousers and other items with a proper waistband but I find I choose not to, whenever possible.
Now, I'm all about low-rise. Or, as we called them in the 60's hip huggers.
So I pierce my belly button and as a result have to buy an entirely new wardrobe.
Since I have a closet full of expensive suits and whatnot, the entirely new wardrobe is having to take place in dribs and drabs. I mean, I did not acquire all these clothes in one weekend, so completely replacing them will have to be done over the course of time.
But this past weekend I bought a couple of new pairs of low-rise slacks for work. And imagine my absolutely delighted surprise when I went to buy new trousers and found that I'd actually gone down a whole size. Woo hoo, go Beth!
So, Beth needs all new clothes, and she needs them in smaller sizes. You can all start feeling really bad for me any time you like.
So along with low-rise trousers, come low-rise panty hose. A brilliant idea, with a piss-poor execution.
I'm wearing regular trousers today but didn't want the trouser waistband and the pantyhose waistband to rub all day long. I opted for the low-rise pantyhose.
Have any of you dear readers ever had the pleasure of wearing a garment made primarily of lycra, lowish on your hips (and please note dear readers, I do not discriminate by gender here)?
What happens when you sit down? Yes, you know....the garment rolls down. And then what happens? Your tummy, no matter how small and cute, or less small and less cute, sausages right over the top of your hose. And how cute is that? Not at all cute. In fact, I'm thankful that I'm wearing pants and cannot see what it going on under them because I would be horrified, even though I can tell what it looks like from how it feels.
So low-rise is my thing despite the fact that it has long been a personal rule of mine that if you were old enough to wear something when it was in fashion the first time, you're too old to wear it again when it comes back in style.
I have had at least five different versions of this either e-mailed or IM'd to me over the last two days.
Yes, it's amazing. Yes I know.
Please stop sending it to me.
Itntsinreeg!
>
>>
>Subject: crazy!
>The paomnnehil pweor of the hmuan mnid.
>
>
>Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
>waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
>the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
>
>The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm.
>
>Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
>but the wrod as a wlohe.
>
>amzanig huh?
The Atkins' had a little family outing today.
In an ill-conceived attempt at recreating my childhood in New York City, we went to Hollywood today to participate in the Left Coast version of the Feast of San Gennaro.
Every fall we'd make our way to the twisty, turning, crowded streets of Little Italy for the Feast. All the curb-side tables of the local restaurants were full of patrons. The streets were filled with booths of all kinds: rides for the kids; pizza (real pizza I should say); spicy sausage sandwiches; cannoli; zeppoli; calzone; religious statuary; and all manner of tchotchkes (OK, now who really knows how to spell that?).
It was a always a brisk fall day filled with sights and smells, fun and excitement. We'd walk. We'd eat. We'd look. We'd have fun.
It seemed a brilliant plan for a family outing. I could share a bit of my childhood memories with my family. Well, not so much.
The LA version of the Feast took place in what seemed a parking lot. There were some cheesy rides, a few chance booths, and some food booths.
Our first stop was for zeppoli. Zeppoli are basically Italian donuts. More like a begniet since there's no hole. They're fried dough covered with powdered sugar. You can get them at nearly any pizzaria in New York. I loved them as a kid. As an adult, not so much. The zeppoli were a: overpriced, and b: tough.
We then strolled around in 100 degree heat, doing a little fair reconnnaissance. I ran into a friend I know from work who was there with his son. I took comfort in the fact that he was melting as well.
We decided the fair sucked and we were going to leave but decided to stop for some gelato. Zoe chose vanilla. I opted for a mixed berry/chocolate combo. Chuck chose a hot dog from a vendor across the way. Zoe hated her ice cream. Mine was adequate.
On the way back to the car we walked by a pizza vendor. Chuck ordered a slice of pepparoni. I took a bite. Oh. My. God. It was pizza. Real pizza. It tasted like the pizza I had growing up.
We found a spot in the shade. Zoe and I ate our ice cream. Chuck his pizza. All of a sudden the ice cream was not such a great idea. I went back and got two more slices. Pepperoni for Z and plain cheese for me. My slice was good, but not as good as Chuck's for some reason.
The fair, as is turns out, was much like the pizza, not as good
Savings:: account
On:: line
Wire:: cutters
Word:: association
Bladder:: infection
Missing:: persons
Side:: winder
Window:: sill
Digit:: al
Swirl:: fudge
As always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.
Apparently 3rd grade is a pivotal time for girls. Zoe and her classmates range in age from 7 1/2 (my Zoe) to nearly 9 (the other Zoe). The thing is, while my Zoe is the youngest, she is among the tallest in her class, so it's not like she's young and tiny (OK, small consolation).
According to the principal of Zoe's school, 3rd grade could best be renamed the mean season. It is a time when all the girls get really mean to each other.
Since the start of school there have been several incidents of notes being
passed among the girls. The notes range from your garden variety: so-and-so has a crush on so-and-so; do you like so-and-so, please check yes or no; you are cool; to so-and-so's parents are not cool.
My Zoe was on the recieving end of a your parents are not cool note. It crushed her.
The fact that the note was written by the dorkiest kid in her class about my daughter, a kid that wears a leather motorcycle jacket to school and gets picked up from school on a motorcycle, was lost on my sensitive little girl. Further componding this was that neither Chuck nor I were crushed to find out that in the eyes of the 3rd grade, we're not cool. I told Zoe that I'm so cool I don't care that no one thinks I'm cool. Chuck fessed up to being tragically unhip as I recall.
Well, the note passing has reached epic proportions apparently. So much so that the principal had to step in today. Paper and pencils are banned from the playground. Note passing will not be tolerated.
All the girls, guilty or innocent were talked to on the playground. The new rules were repeated in the classroom, in front of all the kids and the teachers.
I'm glad to see that there are voices of reason at her school. I'm glad to see that justice was administered quickly and, in my opinion fairly.
It will making writing that next tuition check not hurt so much.
If you feel compelled to forward me e-mail you think is absolutely hysterical, pithy, heartwarming, tragic, adorable, endearing, topical, or whatever, at least have the common decently to cut and paste it into a new e-mail. Do not expect me to keep opening forward upon forward upon forward. I will not, so don't waste your time.
Chuck's travel schedule takes him out of town the last week of the month and the first week of the following month. He's gone roughly 13 days. His arrival at home is generally somewhere around the 5th or 6th of the month.
Generally, my "time of the month" arrives on the 6th or 7th.
This means that my husband is gone while I have PMS.
Let me assure you this does not stop me from calling him to go all psycho-bitch on him, but at least his contact with me is limited to a few phone calls a day, instead of the constant streaming bitch that I can be.
I have to ask myself: did he request this schedule?
Herpes:: Simplex
Freddy:: Kruger
October:: fest
Hunting:: Good Will
MSN:: .com
36:: DD
Hotel:: Four Seasons
Travesty:: loss
Health:: Insurance
Conditions:: apply
As always, a big shout out to Unconscious Mutterings.