Sittin' Pretty in Pink

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in a long time. Stay tuned. I will. Soon.

In the meantime, enjoy some chubby baby love.

Fly High

Why is it that even when someone is very old, ailing, and very obviously close to death, that their actual death comes as a surprise to those of us left behind? Is it also a surprise to the one who dies, I wonder.

My grandfather died tonight. Just a short time ago. I'm stunned despite the fact that the last time I saw him he looked very much like a corpse still breathing. He was in the hospital, quite drugged up to blur the pain of a broken hip, devoid of all color and his usual dishumor. So much like a dead man was he that Reilly Kate was scared to touch him or even sit near him.

But then, I started the kids to singing. Reilly Kate, Roman, and I. We sang and he sang with us. Row row row your boat, in rounds. Grandpa, who the kids called Papa, took the second round. And we all sang as I saw the life flicker boldly across his face. I cried then knowing it would be the last time we'd see him. He'll be cremated by sun up tomorrow and, according to his wishes, there will be no memorial service.

I'm not sure how the kids are going to take it. I know they'll miss him every time we go to Chuck E Cheese's. And every time we have a hot fudge sundae. In their pure, simple faith they'll find some comfort in the idea that he's with Jesus and their beloved GG who died two years ago. Things are so much more complicated when you get older and harder to find comfort.

He lived a good life, a long life. He was ready to go, my grandpa was. He'd done it. Seen it. Ate it. Danced it. Sang it. Razzed it. Felt it up. He was a card for sure and I can plainly tell you that the nurses who cared for him are breathing a sigh of relief now. No longer will a half dead patient try to french kiss them and then bellow at them for bringing him food he doesn't want to eat. Such was my grandpa.

Alas, though, time marched on and he was ready to check out. No longer even finding pleasure in the nurses.

Maybe death comes as a surprise to those of us still living because we never truly think the doors will close to those memories we hold dear. Because no matter how hard we try to keep memories alive, they get dusty and fuzzy and old. And the time that goes by between dustings gets a little longer, the memories get played back fewer and fewer times. And then those dearly held memories become rarely thought of memories.

I can hear him now, though, yelling at my grandma. "Mother! Water!" I'm sure she's just thrilled to back to his beck and call. Insert eye roll here. Hang tough, GG. It's only an eternity with the old buzzard!

In closing I'm going to put up a few recent pictures. Just a few memories to try to keep out and dusted.



Reilly Kate trying to negotiate with Papa for more Chuck E Cheese tokens while my father in law looks on.


Roman checking on Papa's ticker.


Irina and Papa meeting for the first time.

Love you Grandpa.

Nothing to see here

Really. There's nothing to see here right now. I'm too tired to write. I'm just drained. Running these freakin' kids to all their little summer activities while being the sole food source for the other one... plus, the waterpark and the play dates and the this and the that. Then there's the cleaning and the laundry and the damn dogs' vet appointments. Oh, and let's not start on our whole health insurance fiasco. I'm to spent to even write "eat shit and die insurance motha fuckahs!" Yep. I'm spent.

I've got something I want to write about, too. I just don't want to muck it up because I'm tired (and my keyboard is dying to boot). It an important topic to me. And, if written write, will be wildly entertaining to those of you in the bleachers.

I just have so much going on right now. As in this week. Too much. Way too much.

Oh, and stay tuned. Sometime before fall there are going to be some big changes around here. The blog, that is. Not here at the Carpenter's house. Nothing changes here. Well, except the yard. Where Mike is tearing out all of the Carpenter's trees. But that's for a whole 'nother post. Tomorrow. I'll post it tomorrow.

Back to what you were doing, folks. Go on. Keep it moving. Nothing to see here.

Go Cubbies!

They actually won tonight!

Oh, sure they lost yesterday and all. But that's part of the beauty of being a Cubs' fan. By the age of 12 we're well seasoned to disappointment. Darwin's theory has weedled down through generations of Cubs' fans ridding us of the weak and easily crushed. Let them go and be Sox fans, both Red and White. We, the strongly pessimistic will happily continue to be Cubs fans knowing full well we'll meet our maker before we'll see a World Series. And that's just fine by us... most of the time.

But every once in a while I let my dreams get the better of me. Stupid, I know. But yesterday, going into that game, the Cubs had won 10 out of 11 games. They were showing real promise of winning a game that I would actually be there to see. Something that has never happened to me, no matter the dozens of Cubs' games I've sweat through in my lifetime. I tried to keep myself in check. As we sat in our seats, right in front of some Nats fans, I congratulated them on what was sure to be a great Nationals' victory.

"No, the Cubs are looking good," they said. "Your team'll do well."

About five minutes later, the first home run of the day rocketed into the stands and the Nats had the lead. It only got worse from there.

After having stood in 4 different lines, missing a full inning, so as to spend close to $40 for 4 hot dogs, 2 bags of chips, and 2 pops, Reilly Kate and I walked back to our seat to the thunderous cheers of a happy Nationals' crowd thrilled at Grand Slam.

"Uh oh," I said to Reilly Kate. "The sound of this can't be good for us."

"Why?" she asked.

"We're Cubs' fans, sweetie. That's why."


And so it was, that my children should be indoctrinated into what is a rite of passage for those in both my and Mike's families. They came home crashing from a Cracker Jack high, whining from exhaustion, playing with their souvenir bobble heads, and dreaming of the day that the will Cubs win.

I think we have a better chance of winning the Mega Millions lottery. But a kid's gotta dream.


By the way, my Burn my Flag post had pictures on there, through Blogger, up until sometime yesterday. All my other pictures are still on there. And these seemed to upload just fine. But mysteriously my flag burning picture along with a lovely pose of the BITCH turned into red Xs. Huh. Wonder what that was about? Alas, there's Photobucket. They've made it all right now.

Burn my flag

<If you haven't already heard, The Cunter's in the news again. It works well, you see, to spew filth and bile when promoting the paperback version of a book filled with filth and bile. This time, when asked nicely by Elizabeth Edwards to stop the name calling and personal attacks on not just her husband, but her whole family, our cowardly Ann just flipped her stringy, bleached hair around with her skeletal fingers and mocked our electoral process. Our political dialog is ailing and it's vectors like Cunter who spread diseases of hate, lies, and bigotry that are wholly to blame.


For what reason I do not know, but I went to her site. I was reading her maniacal rantings on how unfairly she is being treated by the media and the Edwards when I came across this little gem: Liberals are driven by Satan and lie constantly.

But in light of it being the 4th of July and all, I figure I won't even bother refuting such insanity but will instead focus on patriotism. And I'm gonna tell you a bit about the difference between our Satan driven, lying liberal household and Republicans.

In our house patriotism means something real and deep. It isn't red, white, and blue. It isn't flashy or fun. It doesn't involve care packages of cookies to troops who are already very well, if not over -fed. It isn't a yellow ribbon magnet on the car (because God forbid it be an actual sticker that might do some damage to the paint job) or square dancing at the local VFW. It has nothing to do with AmVets or the pledge of allegiance or marching in a parade.

No, no. In our house patriotism means sacrifice. It means giving of yourself for the benefit of the country. We honor those who make those sacrifices. We truly support them with more than empty words and ribbons on our tree. Perhaps it is because we spent so many years as part of the Army and still continue to serve within the military community that we feel this so strongly. Perhaps for us it hits closer to home. This war, for example, is more than just ideological bantering or patriotic flag waiving. For us it is real as we watch our friends and family members go off to fight, as we consider the possibility of that one of us may go there to serve (I'll let you guess which one and it ain't the one that's lactating).

You see, in our liberal household, our commitments and sacrifices go deeper than voting or attending school board meetings. Don't ever accuse me of not being patriotic. One thing Republicans think is that they hold the market on patriotism. Supporting our troops is a whole lot more than cheering them off to their deaths or allowing the sons of privilege to join the Air National Guard in times of crisis (and then getting them off the hook for going AWOL). If I hear one more schlump express their sincere hope that my brother or cousin or husband doesn't have to go off to this suck war knowing full well that they voted for that asshole that started it, I'm going to light my flag on fire.

Yes, you heard that right: I will burn my own damn flag.

And there's where conservatives also show their brains to be diminutive. Burning the flag is a form of speech. Freedom of speech is what that flag represents. To burn the flag as a means of expression is to exercise the very freedoms that people have sacrificed for. Am I driven by Satan? Hell no. I'm driven by patriotism.

You know, once while in high school, in the middle of dinner, my dad and I got into a huge argument over the flag. I advocated the right to burn the flag. My dad, not quite seeing my side of things, got overheated and threw my "pinko communist ass" out of the house. It lasted about an hour with me "living" on the front porch for the duration of dinner. After which I was allowed back in to apologize for my beliefs and sent to my room.

The funny thing about it is that my parents, god love them, used to have a flag out on display at their house, unlit at night, tattered and worn, and in the winter months, frozen to the side of the house. I've since convinced them to cease with the flag worship and abuse. Because, the flag means nothing in and of itself. It is our country and her citizens that have meaning.

I challenge Republicans to prove that they too are patriotic, that they too understand the real flag of our country. First, since they voted for Bush and he has fucked the budget and put us in so much debt it'll take generations to dig us out, I propose that each Republican household double their tax contributions. Voluntarily, mind you. But just take what you owe the IRS at tax time and then double it. That'll just about do it, I think. For the money part.

Now, for the personal sacrifice. One person from each Republican household needs to take up a position in Iraq. No, not join the military. Not just those serving in the military are serving in Iraq. There are plenty of jobs for civilians, contractors and the like. You needn't be young or in good shape. And there's plenty of money to be made while your there, too, thanks to your Republican friends in Congress. So get your ass (or the ass of your loved one) over there for a year or three. Because, honestly, this is YOUR war.

As for me and my hippy liberal, Satan driven, pinko commie ass, I'm taking my kids to a Cubs' game tomorrow. And I ain't standing for the anthem, either. So there!

Kung Fu fighting Nellie Oleson

At that same Chinese restaurant that I got the false fortune a few days ago, they had the standard Zodiac placemats. All of us looked up what we are and read the description. I've always hated mine. I'm a pig. So there I 'd be, a chubby kid at a restaurant, and I'd have to tell everyone "I'm a pig." Oh, the laughter at that. Such fun. Fuckers.

Well, some Chinese food genius figured out that calling an American a pig right before they order lunch makes for a much smaller bill. They've since changed the name from "pig" to "boar." I'm a boar now, thankyouverymuch, and I'll have the large order of kung pao.

Reilly Kate is a snake. Here's what it says about the snake: Wise and intense with a tendency toward physical beauty. Vain and high tempered. The Boar is your enemy.

In case you missed that, let me repeat it: The Boar is your enemy.

I'm a boar.

Now, I wouldn't exactly say that my oldest child and I are enemies. I love that kid with more ferocity than I ever imagined possible. It was she that changed my very soul, created me into a mother, turned my whole life on its end. She is the very center of my universe. She is the heart of our family.

And yet we just can't manage to get along. Not since the day she was born. We've clashed and collided, bringing down to our level anyone who foolishly stepped into our battle zone. We go together like vinegar and oil: we're hand in hand, nothing without the other, but just not mixing well. She's the vinegar: overpoweringly sour, sometimes downright bitter. I'm the oil: fat.

For a long time I mourned the whole mother-daughter best friends scenario I had painted in my head as soon as I found out that I was carrying a girl. There have never been girly days out shopping for pink dresses and hairbows. My daughter likes to think of herself as a boy and while she loves having long hair, would rather it unkept, wild and hanging in her face in a rocker from hell kind of way. She doesn't watch intently as I put on my make up each morning like I did as a child when my mom got ready. Although, Roman does that occasionally, it just isn't the same. We've given up on ballet in lieu of soccer and I don't know the first thing about that. Not that I really knew anything about ballet, either, but I think I could fake it better.

Instead, starting shortly after we arise from slumber each day, we start an ever so clever choreography of verbal tug-o-war regarding everything from what to eat for breakfast to the weather. No topic is too trivial, no hour too early for a good banter. She has even discovered a certain pitch at which she can talk, or howl depending on her mood, that cuts right through me like nails on a chalk board. She can do the same pitch with her whistle and insists that this one note is the only note she can do with her pursed lips. It's intentional. I know it.

The thing is that the more I see other kids her age with their parents, particularly their mothers, I appreciate our struggling relationship. Probably a byproduct of our sparring, we know each other well. Very well. I know what motivates her to lie and when she's liable to hit or not want to share. I know what it is that she does that irritates grown ups and she knows how far to push the limits. It doesn't even so much as cut down on the frustration that comes with dealing with kids this age, but at least I know.

So many times I hear other moms say, "Oh, Johnny would never do that," or "Suzy doesn't hit," or "No, no, he would never say such a thing," and, personal favorite, "We don't have a problem with that." Kids have their parents so conned and manipulated. They're sneaky little shits with dumb fucks for parents. The parents defend their kid even when they know they shouldn't, making excuses for piss poor behavior and disrespect that should be met with swift, unapologetic punishment. I see more and more of these beasts posing as angels at the playground all the time. At least my beast looks like a beast.

I call this phenomenon the Nellie Oleson after that character on Little House on the Prairie who looked sweet but was possessed by the devil and whose parents' enabled her diabolical ways. It seems this disease has been around since the beginning of time, the only difference being that in the past towns only had one or two families like this. Now, it seems, most families are like this.

If either of my kids stick their tongue out at an adult behind my back, I expect that adult to either admonish my kid immediately or to straight away make me aware and I will do it myself. But, as you may remember, Nellie Oleson would stick her tongue at anyone who dared enter her parents' store and her parents, instead of putting a stop to it, would believe her denial. This madness is epidemic and frightening.

And it only, apparently gets worse as the kids get older. So called "helicopter parents" hover over their college aged kids, calling their professors to discuss grades and school administrators should their precious ones run afoul of the policies. What's worse is these parents are proud of it, even sporting shirts and bumper stickers proudly proclaiming their stupidity. I'm all for soccer moms. It seems I have become one, albeit unwittingly. But come on, people. If your kid fucks up, he fucks up. Don't make excuses for him -- straighten his crooked ass out.

I guess we pigs and snakes have it easy in that regard. I won't make excuses for her and she won't want me to cling on when she leaves the nest. Perhaps in our dysfunction we've found the healthiest relationship of all.