Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Mutual appreciation

We took the kids to see "Wolverine" a couple of weeks ago. 

As the house lights went down, I leaned over to Mr W and I said, "Am I granted leeway this movie, to drool a little and make animal noises?" (I knew what Hugh Jackman was going to look like, and I also knew that not sighing at the sight of his form was going to be next to impossible.)

He laughed and told me that one of his colleagues had taken his wife to see the same movie recently as well, and had just outright offered his apology to her for not resembling Hugh in any way, shape, or form.  "So I'm offering you my apology too,"  he added, "right now." 

"Don't be silly,"  I told him, giving his arm a little smack, "that's not necessary."

The movie started and Hugh did not disappoint. (I am not exaggerating when I say woooowww.) There is one scene where he's out in the wilderness, in a cabin with his beloved, and he comes out onto the ledge in grey pajama pants and no shirt.  I heard it in my brain before I even took it all in:  "Thank you, God."   I sighed and leaned over to my husband:  "I accept your apology."

He didn't respond, but he hates to talk in movies so I figured he more than likely didn't hear me.  When we were leaving, heading out to the van, I giggled, and asked him, "Did you hear what I said to you in there?"   I was rubbing his back as we walked.  "Yeah."  He stopped.  "Get your hands off me,"  he joked.  

It was all in fun, but nonetheless, I felt a little bad about it.

We got home and everyone scattered.  I went into the bathroom, the idea formulating in my head....and I took a picture of my cleavage (only that, nothing too risque) and I sent it to his phone with the message, "Please accept my apology, that my parts are not as perfect as Jenna Jameson's."

I heard him laughing before I clasped my phone shut.

Few of us out there have perfect parts, isn't it nice knowing that somewhere out there, someone thinks they are perfect, only because they're part of you? 

Sunday, May 10, 2009


I have to stop having these impure thoughts, but my mind just cannot stop sneaking over.

I can feel it in my hand, it's the perfect texture and heft.   I see it in my mind, it's shape is perfect and so pleasing to the eye.  I can smell it, and catch myself breathing in deeply, inhaling, even as I sit here at home, at my desk.

I can't stop thinking about it.  I've been thinking about it for months.  I was visiting it from time to time but I had to stop myself, it was pure torture to run my hands along it and know that it was not coming home with me.  It was certainly not mine; I would talk myself into biding my time, in hopes that someday, the stars would align and I would quite greedily take it home and just own it.  I know others have heard its siren call, too, I just never imagined that I would be one of them, one of many who know its allure and succumb to its charm.

Recently, I couldn't help myself, and found myself parked in front, my eyes hungry for the prize, searching out the contours they know so well.

It wasn't in the usual spot, and it wasn't the usual color, but I still held it in my hands, turning it this way and that, appreciating the craftmanship.

I approached the saleslady.  "Where are the rest of the Penelope shoppers?"  I ask, because while the one in my hands would do, it's not The One.  "That's one of the last ones we have,"  she answered, "but I can look and see if we can get any others from another store."

My heart sank, disappointed.  I had hoped that if I waited long enough, I could talk myself into taking the plunge.   The ladies out there will understand.  The object of my desire, the thing I can't stop thinking about, is a....purse.   I hang my head a little in shame admitting it, but I know if I admit it, and let my desires be known, I can hopefully exorcise this demon and get on with my life.

In the Coach store, a few months ago, I first saw the Penelope 'Shopper' bag.  Now, I don't frequent Coach, although, occasionally, I do go in there out of girly curiosity.  I love their stuff, I just have never been able to get my brain wrapped around the price tag.   I'm practical, and I know that a nice bag around my little ones wouldn't be so practical.  But now they're not-so-little, and I hide behind the price tag.   The larger bag is just shy of 400 bucks.  The smaller one? 350.  I fell in love with the navy one, as it was perfect; the perfect-neutral-shade-that's-not-black, almost a denimy color.  Great for jeans, but able to be dressed up for other ensembles.  Oh, and the lilac colored one?  Get out.  Purple is my favorite color (but it was much too light--it would get dirty and probably only best trotted out in spring/summer).  Now, navy is no longer available, nor is the lilac.  There's black, tangerine (it looks tan online), white, and platinum.  The platinum is nice, it's got a lilac-striped interior.  

I didn't know Coach doesn't carry stuff for more than a couple of months (crafty bastards) and that once this style is gone, it will be gone indefinately. 

I really, really, want it, too.   It's ridiculous, the longing so unsensible it borders on annoying.  Mr W has offered once or twice, but then I tell him no; objecting, "It's 400 bucks.  Good lord, it's a purse.  There are other, more necessary things we need more.  No.  Absolutely not."  He gets pretty irritated with me, but I am firm.

Until I see myself with it in my head, it sitting in the spot between the seats.  I see my iPod in it, and my latest read, I imagine it swinging off my arm as I go into work.  I can feel the supple leather whisper in my hands...

Out, out, damned spot.  

I'm usually not like this.  I can talk myself out of most impulses, but this time...*sigh*  I have resigned myself to admiring it from afar.  In my mind, I can caress it and inhale, and let myself get a little dizzy from its light leathery scent.


The sensible part of my brain reminds me that Mr W has to have dental work (is that ever cheap?), there are band fees for Fall coming up, and dogs that need vet's an important reality check that makes me put it back on the shelf and head out the door.

As I make my way back out into the mall towards my car, I start to feel better, the little pang diminishing as I get further away.

I know the siren song will return.  I will hear the call and replay the high points, admiring all the angles in my mind.

Purse Porn.

While not as nice as the real thing, it's a good substitute for now.


I have to hope that it is an underlying love for each other, unspoken affection, that makes the boys in my house interact like this:

(in the van, at a stoplight)
Ben to Ryan:  "Slug bug!"  (muffled punch)  "Slug bug!"  (muffled punch)  "Slug bug!"

Ryan to Ben:  "Stop it!  Mooom..."

Mom intervenes, can't these people see she's driving:
"Knock it off Ben, that's annoying.  No more 'slug bug', or I'm changing the game to 'slug balls'."

Ben:  "Awww, Mom, that's not funny, you don't joke about stuff like that!"  he exclaims, crossing his arms over his pelvic area and doubling over.

Nolan to Ben:  "I don't know why you're complaining,  you don't have any."

Mom cracks up.

Nolan puts his headphones on, the van is quiet for now, mission accomplished.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

It must be the heat

Somehow the kids gave me the slip afterschool. I showed up to our usual meeting spot and they weren't there; and when I looked up, I saw Ryan's backpack across the playground, headed towards the place I park.

I was on the way to the van but stopped to talk to Audrey's teacher, who had crossing guard duty. I asked about the eggs they were incubating, because although the first grade does this every year, every year we never know who will have duds and who will have chicks. I told her about the talk I'd had with Audrey before they started the project. I know my girl well enough to realize that the second she saw cute fuzzy baby chicks, she'd be wanting to bring one home, and I had to nip that in the bud. "Sweetie," I told her, "when the eggs hatch, the chicks will be very, very cute. You may not bring one home. You and I," I pointed to each of us, "are the only chicks in this house." Her teacher laughed and said that Audrey had relayed the story to her already. We looked toward my van, and spotted Audrey headed back to me, a purpose to her step.

I figured she was going to come rush me along, but once she got there it was "Ryan grabbed my arm,", Ryan this, Ryan that...and once in the car, Ryan yelps and I look over my shoulder as he starts in with "She hit me when she went by with a water bottle," and the chorus of 'he said, she said' began.

I sighed and told them that neither one of them will be allowed to sit shotgun and once we got home, Ryan was to go to my room and Audrey was to go to their room and they would have to chill until I came to get them.

We got home, and I got busy with the dogs, of course, I needed the bathroom. Ryan was laying on my bed, but he's got a mild cold or allergies, so I figured he was just seeking refuge. After checking him out, I went into the kitchen, and realized Audrey was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Audrey?" I asked Nolan. I got no response. (That's it, I'm writing an article--Headphones: Blessing and Curse.)

Suddenly, she appears behind me, a little tear-streaked and contrite. "I was in my room, Mommy, you said I had to go there."

Let me preface the next part by stating that the distance from the school to my house is five minutes, tops. We'd been home for maybe ten.

And in that small nugget of time, I'd completely forgotten they were in trouble and that I'd told them to go to their opposite corners. Doh!

I can't believe I couldn't remember what I'd just said. No wonder my oldest tends to look at me like I'm insane. Because although I can't remember what I say, I know that he (and his siblings) always do. And they call me on it.

Ordinarily, I'd blame it on fatigue, or distraction, or their misinterpretation of what I meant.

But today, I'm blaming it on the's 104 today.

It will be 104 until October, which means I'm gonna have to start writing things down.

Because if I don't, I'll be building a coop in the backyard next Tuesday.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Soap opera

I have been on hiatus.
It's been part self-imposed and part "Do I really want to bore everyone with my retread kid stories?" After a while, they start to seem the same.  And I promise myself I'll come back at least once or twice a week, but time constraints intervene and I opt for sleeping.  Or sleeping opts for me, and I startle awake at 2 a.m. with the remote clutched in my hand and my glasses askew.

No sleep makes me crabby and not able to function well in the Momdom.

But no writing creeps in and makes me feel off center, you know, that feeling of something not being quite right that you can't put your finger on.   The Momdom suffers but no one knows exactly why.

I busted Mr W and Nolan on different occasions, too, clicking on in here looking for something new but hearing the crickets chirp instead.   I realize that maybe that's how they take my temperature, stopping by to see what's on my mind, knowing that sometimes I will only spill my guts to the audience that doesn't live in the house.

All three of you.  

So.  Todays' installment of Anna's World finds me speeding to the high school to pick up Nolan, while calling Mr W to make arrangements for him to pick up Ben, while texting Nolan to let him know I was on my way to him.  I was at work, asking a question that my director was explaining to me (with pictures) about something I was about to work on when my phone rang.  Vibrating away, I knew it wasn't a text, so I looked at the number.  Hmm.  I ran through the prefixes in my head, that one is familiar...oh!  it's the high school.  "I am sorry, excuse me, I have to take this, it's the school,"  I said as I hastily stepped out into the hallway.  It was the school nurse.  


"Nolan is here now,"  she began, and my mind began with her (is he sick did he get in fight what's going on) and he's got a red cuticle, it's pretty puffy, and he said he took some Motrin this morning for it (what? when?) and I cleaned it and put some ointment on it but he will probably need something not topical as it's not open (staph, god, mirsa what did he rub against has he fallen lately wait is it his foot or his hand) ..."  "Wait.  Is it his foot or  his hand?"  I ask.  "Hand, middle finger, it looks quite inflamed and he said it's hurting," she said, "Can he have some Tylenol?"  "Of course," I add.  "Is it oozing, does he have a fever?"  I turn into lab-Mom. "No, it's not."  I talk briefly to Nolan, envisioning all kinds of horrible red infections in my head (why didn't I sleep through that class) and getting my self worked up into a CDC-calling frenzy in moments while I wait for the doctor's office to answer and calculate mentally how I will make this work, picking him up, then Ryan and Audrey, and finally, Ben while getting him an appointment and then showing up to said appointment on time.

Picking up the kids from school should definately be an Olympic event, an event with two sections, the Planning being Part A and the Execution being Part B.  

And not getting a ticket?  Part C, the bonus round.

I am an Olympian today, Gold Medal caliper, as I whoosh along, get to the doctor, early even, Ben being the only duck not in a row.   

The doctor visit was interesting, in that the boy is about 5'9" now and a whopping 128.8 lbs.  Nolan pointed out that this was in jeans, with a cell phone, iPod, and a wallet in his pockets, wearing a belt.  I resist the urge to counter with that even with all that cargo, he's still basically a supermodel with a cocaine problem, and surfing along at my ideal height and weight, all jutting hipbones and surly attitude that I would love to have for just one day.  I'm sure to be reported somewhere to my relatives, the boy doesn't realize that a Hispanic woman with a child as skinny as he is borders on sacrilege and that a bucket of refried beans (with lard!) will be delivered to the door any day now to rectify the situation.  "Que flaco!"  I can hear them now, tsk-tsking and patting his back and handing him a tortilla, lamenting that I work outside the home so how can I be expected to feed him properly?  

The bottom line is he's not got MIRSA, or anything life-threatening.  "Keep an eye on it, here's an Rx; if it does get worse, start it and call me,"  she said, sending me on my way.  "Shake out your bed," she adds to Nolan, "I'm not convinced it's not a bug bite."  

This is where Ryan steps in.  He cutely positions himself between the doctor and the door, "Really?  We have cockroaches in the house,"  he begins, as I am immediately horrified, too mortified to get up and clamp my hand over his mouth.  Of course, moments before the doctor came in, I gave him and Audrey a lecture about how they were to be quiet as the doctor was coming to see Nolan, not hear about how their day at school went.  They're talkers, these children of mine, I have no idea who they get it from.

"No, we don't,"  I vehemently deny, even though we have had a couple, a few, sightings of them over the last couple of months.  A stray one here or there promptly being dispatched by my  "Ew" stomp reflex.  "Yeah, Mom, we do," he insists, "remember, that one, the BIG one.."  "RYAN!"  I interrupt, exasperated.  The doctor takes it in stride, but I am sure the "cockroaches in house, she must not clean" was added to the chart anyway.

The door is hardly closed before I am reading him the riot act and reminding him that he was supposed to be seen, but not heard.   And that cockroaches, while unsightly and all, don't bite.  (I hope.  If they do, please don't tell me.)

Finally, in the car, we are leaving.  I'm a little harried as we are all starving and Ben is still unaccounted for, and when I call Mr W, who agreed to pick him up, he tells me he's on a call (what?  Ben is out in five minutes, and I'm about 15 away, you're not supposed to stop someone, aaarrgggh!) and I am trying to maintain my composure as Mr W says, "No, I got it" when I know he could be done in two minutes, or twenty, so I start heading towards Ben when Mr W calls me back to say that he's got it.  Meanwhile, Nolan is excitedly telling me a story, and he's quite animated, when all of a sudden, I hear "and they don't understand that the fuuc--"  I start raising an eyebrow, he's past the point of no return but tries to turn down his voice "cking, freaking..." and the rest of the story is now irrelevant as the boy realizes he's just made a HUGE error in front of the Mom and he's got the big-eyed holy cow look, the super she's-gonna-smack-me-cringe on his face.   I realize, at this point, I can react one of two ways:  Yell or let it slide. 

I chose........let it slide.  I doubled over the steering wheel, giggling, his face, oh, his face, so hilarious.  I raised an eyebrow anyway and let him finish his story.  Then I said:  "Mijo, I remember when you were a tiny baby, and I couldn't wait for you to say your first word.  From "Dada" to F-bomb, where has the time flown?"  and after we both chuckled, I added, "You know that was totally not cool, right, and I'm granting you a pass this one time?"  

Sheepishly, he replies, "Yeah."  "Dude, now you know why I don't like 'freakin' either."

I don't plan on letting him live it down.  I will continue to remind him to watch his language, knowing he will slip and hoping he won't.  

I'll watch my mouth, too.

Especially the next time I kill a cockroach.