I have to admit that the words Primate Sanctuary are what pulled me in. I read the email from groupon, luring me into buying some sort of 5-admission-pass to some sort of weird monkey hotel. I read the email thoroughly. As the lines flew by me, I was more and more perplexed by the language. My eyes began to squint dangerously close to a completely-closed state.  Then I read the email again. And still have have no idea what those people were talking about. So I am pasting it in for you. It is possible, though unlikely, that my lack of comprehension is related to a recent habit involving Nyquil and a short stint in the Betty Ford Clinic. But I prefer to believe that the writer of the Monkey Hotel Marketing materials is smoking something very strong. You be the judge and take notes for Scrabble: (italics are mine and are accompanied by confused expressions.  Bold italics represent extreme confusion and are also added by me.)

Animal sanctuaries protect endangered creatures from peril and are significantly different from animal houses, which shroud residents in beer-stained togas and discourage high grade-point averages. Eschew rowdiness for an altruistic respite with today’s Groupon: for $25, you get a five-admission pass to the Suncoast Primate Sanctuary in Palm Harbor (up to a $50 value).

The nonprofit, volunteer-run organization rescues in-need animals deprived of shelter and fetes them with affection, food, and a loving abode while welcoming human visitors Thursdays through Sundays to glean knowledgeable tidbits about primate life. Take in orangutans and monkeys as well as tropical birds and reptiles basking in their nourishing surroundings, or get schooled in chimpanzee facts, learning they can live up to 50 years in the wild or into their 70s in supervised areas, enjoying leisurely days of shuffleboard and discussions on how many miles they used to knuckle-walk to buy bananas in the wintertime. Although dubbed a donation, the admission fee is mandatory as well as tax deductible, much like dues to labor unions or high fives from opposable conscience owners.

What? Beer-stained togas? Grade-point averages? Eschewing rowdiness? Gleaning knowledgeable tidbits? High fives from opposable conscience owners? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

I’ve seen enough Planet of the Apes to know a monkey takeover when I see one…

Dear All People Who Make Salsa,
I have been a long-standing fan of salsa far and wide for many years, since my babies were diagnosed with Robbie Benson’s Bubble Boy syndrome and I was reduced to a diet of salsa and meat and flax chips as I attempted to ‘purify’ their food source. During my salsa dieting days, I learned a thing or two.  You, Salsa Makers of the World, have learned nothing. So let me inform you of four things.

1. Taste and freshness matter. Some salsa makers are aware of this. Green Mountain Gringo Medium Salsa is a fresh as a babbling brook and as tasty as my grandma’s fried chicken. So to speak. Pace–just stop trying.
2. Texture matters. If I have to chew anything, besides the chip itself, I’m done. Also, the tomato paste/pizza sauce consistency is quite icky. Somewhere in the middle is where you ought to be. I should not have to be telling you this, since this is your chosen profession.
3. Price matters. And though Green Mountain Gringo can kill any other salsa producer on the planet in taste and texture, they are quire unaware that the economy tanked badly. There are, I would imagine, a goodly number of people who can skip the freshness when $5.19 is the price you have to pay for it. I am one of those skippers. It hurts my heart to pass it by, but at that price, I have broken up with Green Mountain Gringo.
4. SIZE OF JAR matters gargantuanly. I am baffled that there is no salsa maker out there who understands this point. The life’s purpose of a jar of salsa is to be a swimming pool for a triangular chip. So why, OH WHY, is every jar designed to cause Salsa Knuckles when you go for your 10 minute chips n salsa fix every afternoon? To Chi Chi’s, I must specifically say: Woe to you for your tall, skinny jar. Only a pickle should come in a jar like yours. Put some thought into your packaging, people. What am I supposed to do, crush up a chip into the balled-up fist of a 10-week-old baby  and somehow dip out some salsa? Even if that worked, I’d still have Salsa Baby Hands to clean up. Perhaps I could cinch up my Tostito into a corset and lower it through that scary funnel you call a jar opening?  Don’t make me pour my salsa into a bowl like I’m a farm donkey from 1898. Don’t make me nibble the corners off my perfectly shaped tortilla chip until it is thin enough to lower down your little mine shaft. If I was willing to do that, I would be snacking on cold corn on the cob. And what about Man Calves? Her hands are twice the size of mine. She will be reduced to using a teaspoon just to get the salsa out. If this is where we land, we may as well be spreading jelly on scones.

So how about a jar that is short and fat? How hard is that? Do you know how much money you would make off of that? You can target women with french manicures or people who hate eating ribs.

Or how about a jar that has a little wheel at the bottom like a tube of chap stick? As my salsa gets lower in the jar, I can adjust the bottom and keep pushing the salsa up as I go. This one may be slightly cost prohibitive, but I’m just brainstorming in an area that is clearly unexplored.

I am tired of salsa knuckles. It is ruining my snack time.

.

 

I am not yet under the influence of Nyquil and I think I will steer clear of it entirely tonight. I am staying in a vacation home with dear friends tonight and sharing a space with my baby(ish) daughter. On that basis alone, perhaps it is best I not go into Vasoline Mode that is induced by Nyquil.

I saw Justin Bieber: Never Say Never today. Like my husband, I want to say “Yuck! Why did you drag me to that? Oh, my eyes! They are burning like acid mixed with lighter fluid! My ears…they are bleeding!!” But actually, I will likely own the movie when it comes out on DVD. My 3 year old knows that he is dating Selena Gomez. His story is interesting. He’s a neat kid. And he loves Jesus.  I was just thinking about how much praying they showed in the movie and how his mom ended a prayer “in Jesus’ name” just like we end ours.  And I thought about what that actually means. Sometimes when we say things too often or too automatically, we forget their meaning. Love you. How are you. Sorry. But I hope I never forget what it means to say “in Jesus’ name.”  In the name of Jesus.  “And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” Colossians 3:17. Everything I do is because I am wearing His name. Because of Him. Because I am His.

In Jesus name,
Amen.

Pheww. I feel like I just got unstuck from the vasoline that comes from a night of Nyquil. I took the recommended adult dosage, forgetting what happens to me when I do that. Medicinal coma of the most beautiful variety….but I become useless. If there’d been a fire here last night, I’d be dead.  I did observe, as I was swallowing the stuff, that someone went to a lot of trouble to make it turquoise. Turquoise. The least natural color in the universe for a liquid to be. Perhaps it was brown after they spun their magic and they said, better make it turquoise? I don’t know. Brown is the only thing worse than what it is. But why am I complaining. It’s the miracle drug.

Now on to The Egg.

I feel betrayed like you can’t know. For years, I ate the egg. I babied the egg. I befriended the egg. I even picked my eggs from the carton by size and personality. If you don’t know that an egg has a personality, then you aren’t treating yours properly. I have eaten them scrambled, fried, sunny side up, cake side in, and deviled (only once, since deviled eggs are aptly named for being OF THE DEVIL). Then pregnancy happened and eggs were about all I wanted. I had an egg every.single.morning.without.a.single.skip for the entirety of 3 pregnancies. That’s about 32 weeks x 7 eggs per week x 3 pregnancies. Best I can multiply, that amounts to approximately 672 eggs. So I think I’ve got some experience in this area. And through all of that, the egg never talked back or betrayed me in any way. Until 6 months ago. And one day, out of nowhere, it turned on me. And it made me hurt. Bad. It doesn’t make me sick. No need to close a wing of the house or call the doctor or anything of the sort. There’s just a gradual searing pain in my stomach that starts about 30 minutes after eating the egg and ends naturally in about 2.5 hours or in 30+minutes  with a little help from Pepto Bismol. Pepto has never turned on me. Bless it for that.

With my love of the egg so strong, so emotionally based, I didn’t want to give in that easily. So I tried just egg whites. That failed. And then I went to Texas, where my sister-in-law raises chickens. There are more chickens on that place than I have pairs of shoes.  And occasionally, you’d run across a scene of nature’s harmony at its most unusual and finest, like in this shot.

Or even in this shot.

At any rate, she kept bringing us eggs. And I ate them. And that seemed to work for awhile. So I just chocked the whole thing up to the estrogen and Prozac that grocery chains inject the chickens with (please don’t quote me on this one, I didn’t check my data in a very scientific way…). When I returned home, I bought farm fresh eggs. Eventually, that stopped working. Then I tried farm fresh, pasteurized eggs (how in the world do you pasteurize an egg?). Then I tried farm fresh, cage-free, pasteurized eggs. Fail. Farm-fresh, cage-free, pasteurized, curfew-free chickens that read the bible and listen to Mozart in the evening? Fail.

So I posted my disdain for the egg and how it was making me suffer. And the Informinator, as is her custom, researched it. According to her sources, my problem has something to do with the histamines contained in the whites. AHA! I said. So I had tried the whites by themselves, but hadn’t tried the YOLKS by themselves. This will definitely work, I thought.

And so. This morning I tried an egg yolk on toast. And I waited.

And waited.

And 30 minutes later, I wanted to do great bodily damage to one of Eggland’s Best’s chickens and then immediately go have my stomach pumped. Oh, The Egg. Must it end this way?

So, I’m doing the Pepto thing this morning and ending this whole chicken egg madness. Oh the madness of it.

According to the Informinator, they sell quail eggs in the ethnic section of the grocery store. So I’m going to put on my best non-American disguise and go buy some. Also, I’ve seen ostrich eggs by the side of the train tracks at Busch Gardens. Those ones are free. (I am aware of the grammatical issues. I’m upset. I’m just talking crazy.) Though I am most definitely daunted at the thought of eating anything that comes out of a quail, in the name of the love of the egg, the experiment will continue…

That first attempt at Sleepy came out slee[pu. If I’d left that there, you’d know what I’m fighting.

I want to post, but must close eyes. Cannot.stay.awake.

n
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Will post tomorrow with pictures. Please…check…back………

Well, it has happened. I truly have nothing to say. If I hit Publish now, then I will be saving both your time and mine. But those who know me best know that I just can’t do that. I’m a verbose longwinded Wordy Wordenkiller.  I can kill almost anything simple by describing it to death.

So let’s talk about yesterday. You want to? Sure. Let’s do that.

It was a nice day over all. The weather was so completely perfectly perfect that it was almost like God carefully laid the perfect day down in the Tampa bay area and allowed me to walk around inside it. I daydreamed all day about the beaches of the Florida Panhandle, where I spent my childhood. It was the kind of day that needed a lounge chair, a beach umbrella, a good book, a cooler of Diet Mtn. Dews, a friend, and no cell phone.  I took SnuggleMonkey on a walk in a stroller. By the end of that walk, she was waking me. Pushing the stroller, shoving my hand off the handle if I tried to keep her from wandering into traffic.  I played a friendly little game of Monopoly with the kids while SnuggleMonkey was napping. I was surprisingly shrewd in my real estate dealings. I don’t think the kids knew who they were dealing with.  I enjoyed listening to Mamasboy constantly spelling out the things that he wanted, as we played the game. He had snacks on the brain.

J-U-I-C-E-B-O-X?  Yeah, ok. Sure.

G-O-L-D-E F-I-S-H?  Well, nice use of the silent e…there isn’t one, but okay. Yes on the goldfish. He figures if he cocks his head to the side and spells it, he has a greater chance of obtaining it. Mostly he is right.

As that game ended, I looked at my watch and realized that I had one hour to accomplish dinner, baths, room cleanings, and a shower for myself. Last night was date night for us, so I needed to at least feel like I tried. If I were to now type “To Be Continued” and then allowed you all to guess in the comments section how I resolved most of the to-do list in that amount of time, I bet at least a few of you would come close. Here’s how it went:

• I sent the kids up to clean their rooms. This is always a stupid thing to attempt, because only the boys can even come close. So I followed them up and dashed madly around to put away about 32 dresses and all of the clean clothes.
• The boys went out to play frisbee while I cleaned up the girls’ rooms.
• Frisbee went bad. Really, really bad.
• I called Todd as he was making his way home from the office and said, “Um, hey. I played a rousing game of Monopoly with your kids and completely lost track of time. Do you mind stopping through McDonalds for 4 happy meals?” Happy Meals are $1.99 on Tuesday and Thursday. This means you still get unhealthy, non-biodegradable meals and worthless toys that cost 14 cents to produce, but you pay less. On Tuesdays and Thursdays.
• The kids’ baths got skipped. All of them. Skipped. Dirty kids. This is really going well for my Good Housekeeping portfolio.
• I washed my hair and was VERY clean.  You know, because it’s all about me.
• And frisbee was still going bad. So bad, that I could hear Mamasboy screaming from inside the house with my door closed.

Screaming is a hard, fast rule around here. We may skip the occasional Tuesday bath and we may eat kangaroo burgers from McDs, but screaming at your brother in the front yard is a definite  “nope”  and I had to go out and nip that one. So I did. I made them come in and gave them a stern speech that I expect they didn’t hear a word of.  And I went off to do something that wasn’t on my to-do list but that somehow had garnered my attention.

And then the doorbell rang.  Before I knew what was happening, Jackson (again, names are changed because I’m pretty sure his mom wouldn’t appreciate me putting him on the internet) was standing in our foyer.

“Oh, hello, Jackson,” I said. As I came around the corner to greet him, I saw that Mamasboy was crumpled on the bottom stair in semi-fetal position. He looked like he had post-traumatic stress disorder. That frisbee thing must have REALLY gone bad.  “We’re inside for a few minutes because people were screaming out in the yard.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said rather sheepishly, “I heard the whole thing from my garage.”

“Ahh,” I said, “You see, guys? When we scream, people hear us and think we are crazy. And though we are crazy, we need to keep our crazies on the inside of the house.”

Jackson proceeded to replay the entire frisbee fiasco like he was a Sports Center commentator. Some of it I tuned out, but I tuned back in on the phrase, “And then he was going all Rampage Mode on him…”

“Who? Mamasboy?” Jackson nodded. Rampage Mode. Yeah, that’s about what it was, all right.

So I lost the Good Housekeeping interview, but I’ve since been to the store to remedy some of the above. And I had a nice date out with Todd and a squeaky loom.

Today I am meeting with The Informinator.
That sounds promising, doesn’t it?
Don’t worry. Whatever she imparts to me, I will pass along.
Now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Dear Reader,

The pressure I’m feeling from all of you is just enormous. Kill the doll. Keep the doll. Dress the doll up like Shirley Maclaine and play light as a feather. Show me your kids. Don’t show me your kids. Show me your kids but never say the word vomit. Don’t talk about anything that comes out of the body, even if that is sold gold coins or Diet Mtn. Dew that falls from your eyes like tears.

And though I now have the sweats (telling you this is violating one of those rules up there) from it all, I did receive a bit of threatening advice that I intend to adhere to. I received the following email from The Informinator:

Todd and I were watching a video of Jenna crawling last night. Todd’s comment was “Aww. That’s when she was sweet.” And we laughed. Please don’t pity her for the statements we make. They are completely honest. But she is still completely adored. In those early days, Jenna was such a happy, perfect little angel. I mean perfect. Quiet. Sweet. Smiley. Compliant. Non-Fussy. Totally unopinionated. Laid back.

Then she put shoes on and walked away from all of that.

We still love her dearly. And because she can still work us like marionettes and can shake her big Chaka Khan hair to reinforce her point, she gets by with what no previous child in the family has.  Just yesterday, I ran across an incident that occurred while she was still in her Perfection Phase. Unfortunately for her, I was not in that phase. Hence, the following.
_________________________________________________________

I knew the day would come. I knew The Shopping Fiasco was coming. It’s bound to happen if you cross the threshold into the land of Four Babies.

It was a quick stop at CVS. A quick, less-than-five-items stop. Faces were beaming. Tiny little voices escaped from little mouths like the air flying from a tightly-wound balloon. We were happy.  SisterTinklePants had been fed, so she was plump and content. But the stop at CVS was necessary in order for her to be plump and content at the next feeding. We were out of formula. Armed with two coupons and good attitudes, we held hands and crossed the parking lot. 4 items, one old lady from church, and 45 minutes later, we were standing in line to check out. SisterTinklePantswas doing her best Mona Lisa, as usual, strapped in her seat and perched on the shopping cart. Mamasboy and Beloved were doing their thing as only they can. They remind me of what I have heard said of twins. They share a language and private jokes and interests like none of my other sibling combos. It is both endearing and a tad frightening.

As the cashier finished scanning my items, I very innocently handed her an Enfamil coupon, because STP’s allergen-free formula costs about the same as a kidney transplant. The moment I passed those coupons across the counter is when things took a subtle, but noticeable, turn for the worse. I was zoning. The cashier was trying to figure out why the coupon wasn’t working. Mamasboy and Beloved were getting more and more funny to each other.
I should’ve zoomed in on that one.
But I didn’t.
Because I was zoning.
And as has been my custom at some very crucial moments in life, what finally brought me out of the stupor I was in was the sound of an intense crash directly behind me. When I turned around to see what had happened, I reacted like a person submerged in wax. Is that the shopping cart I was just pushing? Are those my children on the floor? Is that THE BABY on the floor? Is Mamasboy underneath the cart? Did they take out an entire kiosk of energy bars? The scene was horrifying. Utter carnage.

I guess I must have made some improvements in my tendency to instantly react in irritation, because I did manage to set STP’s seat upright, observe that–as is her custom–she wasn’t going to cry, and ask Mamasboy, “Are you okay?” A few months ago, I’m quite certain the first question would have been “What were you thinking?” I didn’t have to ask what he was thinking, because it was painfully evident that none of us had been doing any intentional thinking. I would almost wager an arm that all the people in line behind us had some thoughts, though.

So STP was on her side, safe and happy and stoic, still strapped snugly in her car seat. Beloved was inside the shopping cart completely traumatized. Mamasboy was under the cart, traumatized, horrified, frightened, and overwrought with guilt.
Two of the three were screaming.
The two screamers were now in my arms.
The coupon still wasn’t working.
And the line behind us was stacking up.
From this point forward, it was my job to put out fires. Convince Mamasboy that it was okay (“I didn’t mean to, Mama” he said as he buried his sobbing face in my leg). Console Beloved and try with mighty power to get her to cry slightly more quietly. (Sometimes all you can hope for is to lower the volume.)  Assure the cashier that I no longer cared about the price of the formula or the value of a coupon (as it turns out, she gave me an extra $5 off after having already given me $5 off so I ended up saving more than I intended…). Pick up the energy bars that were laying around us like witnesses to the shameful negligence. And then get out, heads down, and back to the car without kicking or touching anything and without locking eyes with anyone taller than 45 inches.

I knew the day would come when that shopping cart finally went over. I guess I’m glad that, when it finally did, I didn’t yell at anyone. Even though all the people in line behind me probably wish I had.

I’m getting mixed reviews on the floating doll in the swimming pool. Some people love it. Some people are struggling to sleep at night as a result. Not that I will really listen, but do vote…if you care.

Ditch the baby doll or keep it?

Well.
Happy Valentines Day to everyone. Whether you are single or married or engaged or stalking a new love or wishing to be unattached and you are unable to creatively break it off with some persistent soul, there is some source of love in your life. Wish a Happy Valentine’s Day to someone like it’s their birthday and give the world a goofy grin. You can’t ever go wrong with a goofy grin, though it is a tad embarrassing as it’s happening.

I got an email response last night to the craigslist ad I had placed to sell a solid wood armoire. The response was as follows:

“Miserable Magnates.”

Huh?

Wow. Why so angry? Didn’t like the price? At least try to talk me down before you start name calling. I had to look ‘magnates’ up. Happy Valentines Day, oh slave to misery.

Take a gander at  my new menu and keep it in mind when you need help of any kind. Ask the Informinator now exists as a service to you, the reader.  I’ll try to set up a better comments system, but for now, leave your letter in a comment and she’ll answer. The really cool thing about this is that I didn’t even ask her permission first. I’m just forcing it on her. As Spider-Man says: “With great knowledge comes great power.” She pretty much has to answer us. It is her calling.

Recently we were reminiscing over the preschool carpool that took place when MamasBoy was just 4. What a quirky group of people that was. I found this, buried in a file:

Yesterday I picked up two extra kids from preschool. Everyone had a paper trail as we made our way to the car. Clumsyfeet was carrying a bear that was chickenpoxed up with tissue paper decor. Truthfully it looked like that bear had lost an ugly fight. At the beginning of our journey it had 2 eyes and a mouth. Halfway to the car, his sister said, “Hey, did you lose your eyeball?” To this, Clumsyfeet said, “No.” But then he looked at me dubiously and said, “Did I lose my eyeball, Miss Missy?” The whole conversation was kind of ridiculous. “Don’t you think you would know it if you lost your eyeball?” I asked him. And at that, I saw no point in further discussion. But as it turns out, his sister was the smart one. Bear had lost an eye. In the parking lot. I gave it one reasonable glance, just to look good, and then told Clumsyfeet that there are good surgeons and glass eyes for times such as these.

By the time I got all 5 yakkety-yaks into the van and all Bears and Paintings loaded in the trunk and all plastic runaway eyeballs searched for, we weren’t looking terribly organized anymore. But I was gripping securely to a shred of dignity as I backed out of my parking space. About this time my eyes wandered down to my left pants leg, where the longest, shiniest, greenest, puffy-paint-textured trail of snot that I have ever seen was lining my pants–up one side and down another. Oh. Now, that’s awesome.  No wonder I don’t have any friends.

And on the way home from all of that, Mamasboy looks at me very seriously and says, “Mama, do you know why I don’t like bananas?”

Well, I actually hadn’t been aware that he had changed his stance on bananas, but that seemed to be a ship already sailed, so I just went with, “Why, Boy?”

His answer: Because I don’t like the color yellow and because they don’t taste good.” That pretty much settled the matter.