grumpy about the stupid URL

I don’t understand the internet and blogging. I haven’t bothered to work it out. But I did manage to purchase a URL from WordPress when I started this aimless blog. I hate URLs because the words get all bunched together, just like hashtags. I hate hashtags. Words aren’t supposed to be mooshed together.

But I bought the “grumpy for no reason” URL for twenty bucks. Because it’s my brand, maaaan. But after a few months I realized that when I entered my web address in that line at the top of my browser window, the ghost in the machine couldn’t find my website. It was like the address didn’t actually exist. Well that sucks, WordPress, what are you doing wrong here? Helloooo.

And anyway, “grumpyfornoreason.com” just looks so funny and stupid. It’s all mooshy and makes no sense. So I did nothing about it. I had laundry to do.

One year and two months later, late last night, I suddenly noticed something. The domain I purchased is “grumpyfornorreason.com.”

Aaaaw come ON. With all the words mooshed together how was I supposed to spot the extra R?? Damn you, user error, damn you!!

I tried to rectify this dismal situation this morning. But someone somewhere already owns the URL “grumpyfornoreason.com.” Why? Why? There’s no website to visit. Whoever did it probably just wanted to give me a shitty day. I hate people. Maybe the URL was already taken when I started this blog 14 months ago. Who knows.

But I’m a problem solver. I’m a solution maker. I get things done. I’m can do. I think outside the box. I live in an emotional box, built by the excruciating and constant needs of my kids, but I think outside the box.

The first time I heard the phrase think-outside-the-box  —

NO! Shut up Carla, stop blathering NOW. I have a better idea. I’ll enter the URL “www.thinkoutsidethebox.com.” Let’s see what happens.

WHOA! It took me to a different site, http://www.futurespark.com, which consists entirely of a blank white page with these words in the middle:

Screen Shot 2015-02-24 at 3.12.42 PM

I am very suspicious indeed. Maybe futurespark stole my URL, or maybe something bad is happening to my computer now. I’ll just close that window.

So this morning I bought myself a proper URL. grumpyfornoreason isn’t available (anymore?), nor is GFNR.com (I can apparently buy that from some unidentified entity for any value greater than $10,000). Why can’t I just do “grumpy for no reason” with proper spacing? Why hasn’t anyone updated the modern keyboard to include an invisible character? Split the space bar in half. Left half, old-fashioned space; right half, invisible character. Label it “INV.” If we can make emoticons and hand signals and other shit appear with a keystroke, why not an invisible character? Then you’d be able to have a proper URL that peeps can read.

Anyway, here’s GFNR’s new web address (though you can still also find me at the misspelled site): “grumpyfor-no-reason.com.” It feels a little emphatic, but maybe that works for me. When tech geeks finally establish a proper invisible character, I’ll fix it.

Grumpy about pool pee

Jesse has a swim meet tomorrow. She’s been having an anxiety attack about it for about a week. Yesterday and today she woke up making noises that were somewhere between yodeling, whining and keening.

This morning she flopped into bed with me and Nick, and as she wheedled I finally remembered an old lesson from therapy: the unknown danger is more debilitating than the one you can see and understand. That’s what makes an anxiety disorder so disruptive sometimes. Your body says something terrible is going to happen, but you just don’t know what — it’s a shadow lurking around every bend, and you can never really name it. Accepting that it’s only in your imagination sometimes just makes it worse, because then you feel bat-shit crazy.

I asked Jesse, “What exactly is making you so anxious about the swim meet?”

“I dunnooooo.”

So we set about putting a face on the monster in the closet.

Jesse has the ordinary fears — I’ll suck at the meet, I’ll let the team down, I’ll swim the wrong stroke. And also one more. She worries she’ll pee in the pool while she’s competing because when she’s nervous she feels like she needs to pee. This is what she’s most afraid of today.

I said aloud what none of us really wants to think about: every competitive swimmer pees in the pool at some point. I guarantee it. It’s the dirty secret. Pool pee. It’s not something Jesse needs to worry about. If she pees, she pees. No one ever has to know.

Jesse’s swim coach went there with me today. “I see maybe 400 people in this pool every day. I PROMISE you, at least a hundred of them pee in the pool.”

Uuuugh. Head. Spinning.

Jesse is having trouble finding a balance between her anxiety about the swim meet and her OCD reaction to pool pee.

As for me, I find that knowing the face of this particular monster has made things worse. I was fine before. Now all I’ll be thinking about at the swim meet tomorrow is pool pee.

grumpy about tax returns (it was easy after all, aka I’m not that bright)

Remember me grumbling and whining about how getting a new computer messed with my TurboTax juju by making it impossible for TurboTax to import information from last year’s returns into this year’s returns?  (see my post from yesterday)

When I finally got a chance to chat with Anthony last night (“chat with Anthony” is my euphemistic phrase for “blather to him about all the shit that’s making me grumpy today”), I grumbled about the problem with TurboTax, and how the 2014 program was unable to extract information from the PDF version of our 2013 returns I had saved to the external hard drive when we moved over to our new computer.

Mr. SmartyPants Professor stared at me blankly for a second. He might have been making sure he heard me right. He might have been thinking of something else (e.g., “I should remember to tell Carla about what the Tigers’ starting line-up has been doing in the off-season”). He might have been counting to 10 or something like that, to avoid blurting something mean. Then he said, “Why don’t you just turn on the laptop and see if you can find the right version on it. You can copy it onto a flash drive and get it onto the new computer.”

[dreadful silence.]

Oh.

Duh.

Yeeeaaah. The crappy, broke-down laptop is in the basement, where I put it on the off chance we might need to find something on it that I failed to move over to the hard drive successfully. Like, say, prior years’ tax returns.

Well then. The laptop turned on (it only took 30 minutes for it to download and install 3 months’ worth of Vista updates, which it had to do before it would start up), and I managed to jimmy the power cord so that it would stay in the socket without getting loose (else the ancient chargeable battery fails in 3 to 4 minutes), and I found the correct file. And so on.

Abracadabra, shalamazoo. It took me less than an hour to complete and e-file our not-especially-complicated tax returns, thanks to TurboTax and its magic ability to import information from last years’ tax returns when it can find them in the correct not-PDF format.

Remember Jesse head-butting me yesterday and  telling me I’m not smart enough to help her with her third-grade homework?  Today I’m thinking that she’s probably right. Especially because JUST NOW, I remembered that almost an hour ago I was supposed to get my rising bread dough shaped and into the oven, but now it’s too late for me to do it before I go pick up the kids, and the dough’s probably wrecked now anyway, and SHIT SHIT SHIT. I just got so excited about getting the taxes done easily.

Jesse is definitely right about me.

grumpy about tax returns

Had I known that getting a new computer meant TurboTax stopped being easy to use, I would have stuck with the crappy, broke-down laptop we used for way too many years. Had I know that buying TurboTax in disk form from Costco for the past two years would mess with my day so much, I would have paid the extra 10 bucks each year to download it directly from TurboTax’s website like I used to do, and also I would have felt virtuous and green.

TurboTax 2014 (which I just downloaded to our new computer) can’t import information from the PDF file I saved for our 2013 returns, 81 pages of forms and worksheets saved on our external drive for posterity and the love of god. I can’t re-download the 2013 software to create an importable source, because I lost the disk and I don’t want to pay for it a second time. I would have been able to do it just fine if I had purchased it as a download. Bah.

I need to get the taxes done early because we’re planning a fairly substantial renovation on our home (shhh, don’t ask about it, don’t talk about it, pretend I didn’t say that; I don’t want to jinx it) and we need to finance some of the costs into a mortgage (rates are so low right now!), and the bank wants two years’ tax returns. I’m guessing that 2012 and 2013 won’t cut it, and we need to get them our financials by the end of February if we want to stay on-track for a spring demolition schedule. Our hope is to get this whole business wrapped up before mortgage rates go up too much, as they inevitably must unless Putin does something super stupid to help me out on this front. So I really can’t put this off.

Here I sit with 81 pages of incomprehensible returns and worksheets, which jammed the printer twice, hoping against hope that I will be able to enter the necessary data into 2014 TurboTax manually, without too many mistakes. I have no idea how that’ll go down on things like “IRA tax basis.” What IS my IRA tax basis? I never bothered to know or even comprehend, because TurboTax held my hand and made me feel safe and fuzzy about it all. Now I just hope I can find an IRA tax basis worksheet in this massive PDF document.

Maybe I’ll look for it later on today. Right now I think I might go work out instead, or maybe just skip the workout and go straight to the shower. Actually, I have less than an hour before I have to pick the kids up from school. Hm. Maybe I’ll just take a look at that logic game I downloaded onto Nick’s iPad when he wasn’t looking. I need to get my atrophied brain in fighting shape for doing these taxes. I know this because last night Jesse head-butted me at least three times while I was trying to help her with her homework. She’s struggling with reading time, for some reason. After the third blow, a back-of-the-head to my cheekbone, I got pissed off and told her (surprisingly calmly) that I’m not helping her with her homework for one week. She retorted in fine style. That’s just fine, because you’re not smart anyway. Daddy’s the teacher and you’re just a mom. You’re good at taking care of us and keeping us safe and things like that, but you’re not smart like a teacher. I’m better off with Daddy helping me.

Ppphhhhttthsphttthhhpsthdfphhh.

She didn’t know what a low blow it was. I didn’t defend myself. I just got huffy and told her she’s right, I’m just a stupid housewife. It pained me to hear my daughter ideate like this about the limited scope of a house-mom’s intelligence. If she only knew what a smarty-pants I am. Seriously. I was the top of my class in third grade.

grumpy about inspiring inspirational inspirations

Thank goodness all the hubbub of New Year’s resolutions has finally died down. The worst thing about the New Year celebration is the vague inspirational one-liners that float ’round the web as people make implausible resolutions. That fluff is always present, but it surges hard for a couple weeks in January, pushing itself into my consciousness like a properly aimed gust of wind bringing me the foul, pestilential stench of an out-of-sight port-a-potty from down the street. I should just plug my nose and go on about my business, but I can’t stop myself from sniffing, spurred on by the unanswered question in my mind: does this shit really help anybody?

This year I spent way too much time on Facebook, scrolling through screen after screen of upbeat one-liners pasted onto images of cute animals and back-lit tree-scapes. And sometimes psychedelic images, which is even better. I eventually managed to get a handle on my dry-heaving and hari-kari-miming, and then I remembered that Marci Shimoff inspired me to own my grumpy by trying to fill my soul with chicken shit so that I could be happy for no reason.

Sorry, slip of the tongue — it was chicken soup she was selling, wasn’t it. Catchy.

Anyway, Marci’s an uber-master of irritating and meaningless one-liners.”Plug into presence.” “Forget the coffee, try a morning cup of connection.” “Feel your feelings.”

Just… Bite me. There’s an inspiring one-liner for you.

It is hard to top Marci’s mastery of the vacuous uplifting quote, but that’s not stopping humanity from trying. Here are some of the lines that crossed my path this year and got my grumpy aura glowing wildly.

Wait. An apologetic before I continue: I know what’s coming is going to sound and seem hostile and, well… It is. Sometimes I have a lot of hostility toward peeps who pour on the random upbeat, positive, can-do crap. I’m too cynical for that. I can’t look at the miseries of life and say, gee, this isn’t so bad, it’s all in my head, blah blah blah. I guess that helps some people. Not me. I’d rather look at the fire I’m walking through and scream “THIS SUUUUUCKS” and come out the other side thankful to be alive, relieved my burns aren’t so bad (i.e., I’m not dead), and grateful if there’s anyone there to help me. See? I’m optimistic and upbeat. I just want my upbeat a certain way. Reality-based and very specific.

Right, so here’s my grumpy list of useless inspiring inspirational inspirations:

ACCEPT YOURSELF. (flowers and sunrises)

But what if I’m an asshole? I don’t think I should accept that at all. In fact, I think the root of change is exactly the opposite of acceptance. DON’T accept yourself. Maybe forgive yourself for being an asshole, and then stop being an asshole by whatever means are available to you — therapy, self-flagellation, confession, meditation, charitable work, whatever it takes.

I get it. Don’t beat yourself up for those extra pounds, don’t look in the mirror and hate on yourself, and so on. But if that’s what the one-liner is getting at, then it should say so. “Accept the things about yourself that are acceptable.”

Dr. Abrams, Jesse’s therapist, has this incredible approach to her self-loathing. When she tells him she’s hating on herself for something she’s done, he typically answers, “Well why don’t you change the things that are making you dislike yourself?” Aha, and duh, and why didn’t I think of that. You want to make a new year’s resolution that matters? Don’t accept yourself. Identify the ways you suck, and then try to fix them.

LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE. (rainbows and trees)

I have an admission to make. I bought a box at Michaels that said these three words on the cover, even though this alliterative word string drives me crazy. In my defense, I bought the box because it was on super-sale and just the right size I needed for some Christmas ornaments and it wasn’t a totally hideous color. Otherwise, honestly. Please don’t ever tell me to live, laugh, love and expect me to be moved in any way. I DO live. I’m doing it RIGHT NOW. Still doing it.

Still. Living.

Miraculously, living just happens to us while we’re alive.

If you mean to tell me to live a certain way, to experience life more fully or something like that, then say so. Jeez. Why be so cryptic?

As for laughing and loving — well, shit, that’s a pretty big directive. If a person is having trouble laughing and loving, there might be some significant problems going on, like maybe her life sucks, or maybe she’s depressed or has some issues. Maybe she isn’t well served by a superficial directive that says, in essence, go stop sucking.

But I guess it’s not as inspiring to put this quote on a picture of a sunrise. “If you’re unhappy and lonely, and you have trouble connecting to people, seek help. Therapy is a good option.”

MAKE IT GREAT.

Make WHAT great, asshole? I know, I know, whatever I’m doing. Well what if I’m taking a dump, or wiping my 5-year-old son’s ass after he takes a dump? Do I really need to make that great? Can’t I just survive it and move on?

I INSPIRE.

I followed a silly-looking link one day to a website whose tag line was “I inspire.” Wow. You INSPIRE? That’s hubris. And very broad. The person who wrote that inspired me to leave his website immediately.

I’ll tell you what inspires me. When people DO inspirational things. Yes, MLK Jr said many inspiring things, but they would have been empty tripe if he hadn’t acted. He inspires me by virtue of what he did, not because he told me he’s going to inspire me. I have a friend who just ran her first marathon and she’s almost 50. I’m inspired. And she didn’t even tell me she was inspiring me. Oh wait. She wasn’t trying to inspire me, in her own mind. She was just running a marathon! Still totally inspiring.

And now I’ve written and said that word enough times that it looks and sounds funny. Inspire. Inspired. Inspiring. Inspiration.

LIVE EACH DAY LIKE IT WAS YOUR LAST.

Worst. Advice. Ever. As Anthony-the-economist put it, this advice tells you to discount the future by exactly 100%. That’s just stupid.

If I lived each day like it was my last, I would never do any of the following things. Wash clothes or dishes. Clean the house. Take my kids to school or the dentist. Make healthy meals. Take a shower. Read a book. Exercise. Take my blood pressure meds. Care about anything. Instead I’d spend every day fighting off bitter, angry tears over my imminent demise. I’d cling desperately to my children (I’m talking physically) until they got freaked out and ran away from me. I would live a raw, insane existence.

Come to think of it, sometimes I do live like this. Huh.

(Extended awkward moment of silence while I think about what the hell I’m doing with my life.)

I’m back. Sorry about that. Anyway, I beg you, DO NOT live each day like it was your last, even if this inspiring phrase and the beautiful sunset photo accompanying it come through your Facebook feed. I don’t think it’ll turn out well.

MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

Awww, come ON. This stupid one-liner was in a list of things you allegedly need to do before you turn 50, or something like that. It’s just empty nonsense. Adolf Hitler, Osama bin Laden, Charles Manson and Timothy McVeigh made a difference.

You want me to make a difference? Point me in the right direction. I’d rather make NO difference than an evil, life-destroying difference. Incomplete advice like this might just create the next Darth Vader.

DONE IS THE ENGINE OF MORE.

Uuuuuugh. My head just flopped backwards at a 90-degree angle. My tongue fell out of my mouth. And nooo, it’s not because of the margarita I’m drinking. Here’s all I need to say to the person who tells me “Done is the engine of more”:  fuck you.

TRUTHS ABOUT SUFFERING.

This isn’t a one-liner but an inspire-you list someone posted to Facebook, so I’m going a little off-message — but bear with me. A fellow named Jeff Foster apparently wrote some “truths” about suffering. He says things like this. “Circumstances cannot make us suffer… You could probably boil all of your suffering down to this: ‘I want to control this moment but I cannot.'”

Yeah. Tell that to victims of violence, of torture, of war, of famine, of cancer, of all manner of disasters and vicious diseases. I bet most of them disagree.

This guy also talks about “innocent energy clouds.” Oooooh (eyebrows up). I’m crossing the street when I see Jeff Foster walking down the sidewalk toward me, because otherwise I will want to sock him square in the face and tell him this. Jeff, my friend, you are a complete asshole and a thoughtless lout. Circumstances CAN make us suffer, even when we know we can’t control the shit that’s happening. I have a neighbor whose young son was in the ICU for days with whole-body staph-like infections. There were question marks. It was horrible and scary, and those circumstances made her family suffer. I have a friend suffering from a brutal auto-immune skin condition that makes him experience pain like a burn victim, and the treatments have been awful and it’s all very difficult. His suffering is circumstantial and REAL. Even if he accepts that he can’t control the moment, he will continue to suffer until his condition is brought under control.

Can these folks survive what’s going on with grace and acceptance? Of course, and they are. But not with platitudes and false one-liners. They are struggling, fighting to find a path that brings light and hope into their lives. I love them for it. I love them for sharing their suffering and their needs and their journeys, without faking like they’re okie-dokie.

I mean, I get it. If you’re talking to first-worlders who bitch and moan about their opulent lives without having any real trouble to speak of — say, first-worlders who are, I don’t know, grumpy for no reason — then making the point that we, I mean, they shouldn’t be “suffering” is great, because really, we have it good. And I guess it doesn’t work to paste the following one-liner over a picture of a happy polar bear mommy rolling in a snowy bank with her two cubs: “Get over it. Your life doesn’t suck.”

* * * * *

I understand that I’m probably outside the mainstream. Some people need these one-liners to cope with tough moments. But it doesn’t work for me. If you want to inspire this grumpy girl, you’ll need to get really specific and really plain-spoken. Like this:

Have you looked in the mirror lately? (motivation) Get a haircut.  (inspirational directive)

You smell bad. (motivation) Go take a shower right now. (inspirational directive) (Anthony uses this one on me regularly. It works every time – I go straight to the shower.)

You don’t help other people enough. Go volunteer some time for a charitable cause.

You’re really grumpy.  But it’s okay, I still like you. (See? I told you I was an optimist.)

* * * *

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, I’m realizing what a downer I am. I need to change. I need to see myself a new way. I will imagine a different me. This year, I’m going to start over. Because every day is a new day. Every day is the beginning of the rest of my life. And I have the power. I am the master of my feelings. Love can lift me up. Acceptance can bring me closer to happiness. I can make a difference. I just need to smile a little more, because everyone smiles in the same language.

grumpy about… being grumpy in the new year

It’s only the second day of 2015, and I’m on a roll. Everything made me grumpy today.

Anthony left at 5:30 a.m. to hit a convention in Boston for a few days. I have separation anxiety when he leaves me. I used to think it meant I love him so much that I can’t bear to be without him. This may also be true, but let’s be honest. The real reason I feel a vague panic when he’s not within a reasonable commuting radius is that I feel a vague panic. The irrationality of this made me outright irate today, even as I regularly checked the progress of his flight via FlightAware, never ending my useful vigilance until touchdown was reported.

I was up half the night with random allergies, and I could only find a couple zyrtec tablets in the house. All of them had been bitten in half by Anthony. Why? Why can’t he just eat the other half of one of the pills he already bit in half, instead of moving on to the next whole one?

We had a little play date for Nick with a brand new friend, and Madeline wanted to jump all over them and lick them and stick her butt at them. Nice greeting, to have a 6-pound dog jump up in your lap, lift her tail, and point her tiny asshole at your face for you to sniff. I went all alpha on Madeline, and not like one of those easy-going alpha wolves but like one of those rabid crazy-ass wolves.

The kids were driving me crazy with being mean to the dog. Why? Why??? Why do I have to repeat myself? Why do I have to repeat myself? Why do I have to repeat myself? The kids gave themselves time-outs (times out?) just to get away from my voluminous nattering.

Jesse was whiny about finally doing her school work. She was sick Monday through Thursday of the last week of school, along with about 30 percent of our school district’s population, and then I made the mistake of sending her to school Friday. She came home with this pile of make-up work. What kind of human being sends home 40 pages of make-up school work over the winter holidays?? I’ll tell you what kind: a third grade teacher. And a good deal of it was learning to write cursive. I could survive that, rationalize it by thinking about fine motor strength, until Jesse whined this at me while I cleaned up breakfast dishes: “Mommy, have you heard of cursive numbers?”

Are you kidding me? What can you do to a number to make it cursive?? Jesse showed me. Ah. Lean the numbers over. The leaning tower of Piza cursive number system.

I calmed my nerves by playing rounds of 5-square Boggle by myself while Jesse finished up as much as she could of the cursive work before her hand started cramping. Also I googled stuff about teaching cursive, as in, whether and why. It didn’t make me feel any better. Apparently a lot of elementary teachers are up in arms about common core not including cursive. Mmmm. I’m keeping my extremely grumpy thoughts on this issue to myself, because it’s apparently very, very… very divisive. And I don’t want to be harmed.

But now I know it’s a shame my cursive isn’t better, because I can never write a really pretty and classy thank you card to anyone.

I had to take the kids to Whole Foods with me, and Nick was a difficult little shit. I know bashing on Whole Foods is A THING right now. There are legitimate grounds for making fun, but don’t go there with me today. I love that place because I buy my fresh FOOD there, not magazines, lifestyle things, homeopathic oils or fancy teas. If it weren’t for the Whole Foods here in Milwaukee, my quality meat and vege options would be severely hampered. Also I own stock. So sue me.

I’m so fed up with my kids whining about dinner, complaining about what I make, refusing to eat. I made nothing. They were shocked. Jesse yelled at me about what kind of mother would not feed her children. I told her there were lots and lots of kids who got sent to bed without supper as punishment for being naughty. She yelled back that yay, good for me, I’m like the really awful parents who are horrible to their children and don’t deserve to be parents.

Sigh. I made dinner. It was about then that I realized it wasn’t all the stuff going on around me. I’m just grumpy for no reason today. And it’s only January 2. It’s a good thing I didn’t make any resolutions this year about my grumpy.

The kids were definitely extra naughty and annoying today, but they were missing their daddy after two weeks together, and really they were well within specs for nice and decent kids.

I would obviously have preferred if they embraced my ideal:

Carla: Sub unit number one, report to the dining table immediately for nutritional enhancements.

Jesse: Acknowledged. I will comply.

Carla: Sub unit number two, cease manipulation of your groin and unnatural rapid movement of your legs. Resistance is futile; report immediately to the toilet room and engage bowel voiding sub-routines.

Nick: Yes, master unit. I will comply.

In my dreams. Only not really. I like my sassy kids just the way they are, because they’re willing to tell me when I’m acting like a shithead, and I need that.

I realized this afternoon that I had forgotten to make the kids kowtow to us on New Year’s Day. So they got on their knees and kowtowed a day late, and I gave them my blessings and 40 bucks each. Through the sound of Nick’s whining because he didn’t get to go first, I administered my blessing to Jesse, and then she listened in on Nick’s blessing. I was surprised by how much it appeared to mean to them. I described what I loved most about their accomplishments in 2014, and I told them what I dreamed for them in the coming year, and there was much cheek-holding and kisses and such. Then they ran off to hide their money wherever they hide it.

I was a little hesitant about giving any specific blessings for the coming year, like things I’d like the kids to accomplish. I stuck with general ideas like happiness, health, and self-esteem. With all the fuss in my life — much of it self-generated — I don’t like to make concrete annual resolutions that I’m bound to break. If I can be satisfied with myself and my lot in life, if I can just keep going without fucking it up too much, I think that ought to be good enough. I guess that ought to be good enough for my sub-units too.

The allegory in my mind for getting through life these days goes like this.

Wait, is it a metaphor? I’m never quite sure. It depends on my mood on the particular day when I bend my mind to this puzzling question, and also on which definition I click on after I google it for the 400th time. Maybe what I’m thinking of is an allegorical metaphor, or a metaphorical allegory, or just an allegory made up of metaphors. Another day, this would be cause for a fun conversation, but today it just, just… It’s irritating me SO MUCH. BRING IT, grammar nazis, and I will hurt you.

Deep cleansing breaths.

Here’s the figurative thing. I’m traversing a steep slope, so steep my uphill hand can almost touch the mountain, even though I’m standing tall (which frankly, isn’t that tall, but never mind that). Not too far downhill is the terminus, where the slope ends at a bottomless cliff edge. The surface of the hill is loose shale that slips under my feet. I can’t lose my balance, I can’t lean up or down the hill or drop to my butt, or else my my feet will fly out from under me and I’ll slide off that cliff edge and fall to my figurative, allegorical, or metaphorical death. I can’t stop to rest. If my feet stop moving, the shale slips downhill from the weight of my body. So I have to keep my feet moving faster than the shale can slide down the hill. My life depends on it.

I guess that’s my new year’s resolution. Move my feet faster than the shale. So far, so good. On day two, Jesse gave me a head slap at dinner time that knocked me out of Grumpy Space; and Nick, recognizing my grumpy state of mind, poured on a little extra charm to win me over. I accepted Jesse’s well-placed blow as graciously as I could, and we ended the evening well despite Anthony’s absence, snuggled up in bed and watching several episodes of — wait for it —

Slugterra.

Uuuuuugh. But I kept my groaning to myself, because the kids were happy. Today, I stayed ahead of the shale.

grumpy about the handymom

Last night after the kids went to sleep, Anthony and I noticed that we were both feeling extra cold. It’s not outside the norm to feel this way in a drafty old house as the weather turns back to frigid. So we snuggled under a thick blanket to finish off our Legend of Korra Season 3 marathon (wow, what a finale!), and we ignored the coldness except for a nagging feeling that maybe we’re getting sick again.

In the wee hours of early morning, I woke drowsily and felt sort of chilly. Nick and I snuggled up close under the covers to stay warm and went back to sleep. Totally normal in the morning after the heater has been turned low all night.

In case you’re a new friend in my life, let’s make sure we’ve got names and actors straight. I don’t bed down with two men. Anthony is my husband, an adult male with whom I’ve created two spawn. Nick is my five-year-old male spawn. Co-sleeping rules govern our home, so I normally wake to the sight of a tiny little boy’s sweet face near mine.

But this morning, I startled awake to something else. An absolutely enormous human face was just a few inches from mine, staring down at me. GAH!!

Oh. It was just Anthony, standing over the bed and speaking softly. “Carla. Something’s wrong with the heater. It won’t turn on.”

He gave me a few seconds to exit my sleep stupor and then continued. “The thermostat looks funny.”

Aha.

I knew what was expected of me. As I trotted sleepily downstairs, Anthony added that the thermostat would turn on the fan, but not the heater. He followed me and helpfully demonstrated, turning the fan switch on and off a couple times. Nick had woken up by now and was upset by my sudden departure, so Anthony headed back upstairs to comfort him.

This was easy. Find small screwdriver. Take thermostat off wall. Change batteries. It was slightly complicated by the fact that we used our entire lifetime supply of 400 double-A’s to fill a variety of children’s toys for Christmas day. Anthony  retrieved three of the 82 batteries required to operate a 6-inch-long remote-control helicopter and I shoved them into the thermostat. All fixed.

Why, you might ask, did Anthony have to wake me up instead of just fixing the thermostat himself? Because I’m the resident handymom. I grumbled at Anthony about this very issue after I solved the crisis. His answer was succinct. “I saw screws. If there’s a screwdriver involved, you have to do it.”

This is why he’s a tenured college professor.

Most of the 15-odd minutes I spent working out the thermostat thing, Nick was mewling and whining. Those noises ramped up after Anthony headed out to walk Madeline (the dog). She had come down the stairs and was whining at me while I tried to re-program the thermostat, so I yelled up at Anthony to get out of bed and walk the dog, because dammit I’m not the hired handyman AND dog walker! It seemed worth a yell. Nothing would have made me more grumpy that the trifecta: (1) me, fixing thermostat in 53-degree living room; (2) all other human residents snuggling warmly in beds; (3) dumb dog peeing and pooping on rug in my plain view.

There were even tears from Nick as the repair-and-reprogram episode went down. But all was quiet by the time I finished. I went upstairs and found Jesse snuggling in bed with Nick. They were blissful. Jesse explained.

“I heard Nick crying so I said, ‘I’ll snuggle with you.’ He said, ‘no I want mommy!’ So I said, ‘you can pretend I’m mommy.'”

Now Jesse broke into an impersonation of me, using a sing-song, cheerful falsetto. “Come here, Nick, Come here! We can snuggle, but remember that if you poke me with your feet I will scream at you!”

It was just right. Nick snuggled right up to Jesse and was happy, as the now-operational heater warmed the house up.

grumpy about the holidays – day 25 (Curtains Up)

Merry Christmas! Ho ho ho! I stayed up too late making magic for the kids, so I’m really tired. My fingers are numb and arthritic from putting together 4.2 million Lego pieces. I was almost reduced to tweezers; my eyes are permanently crossed. My grip is exhausted from trying to rip open cardboard boxes and put together the stupid Hot Wheels set Jesse insisted Santa would bring. (He did. It’s awesome. At least, it was awesome for the 5 minutes she played with it this morning.) My stomach is distended beyond all reason from overeating.

But still, it was a really amazing Christmas and I’ll save the grumpy tales for tomorrow. Jesse has never made it through a Christmas season with so much attention to simple happiness, and with so little affectation of anxiety. It was the best Christmas gift ever. Nick was a five-year-old enjoying his first fully conscious Christmas, full of wonder, curiosity, joy, and greed. We didn’t have to get up too early, and I only yelled at the kids a few times (and really, it was my own fault for getting them the three-foot-long light sabers).

The Star Wars Legos, which consumed me for way too many hours, were well received. “Whoooooa, it’s exactly what I wanted,” said a tiny, awestruck voice from the living room.

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The hexbot car thingy went over well, and the house wasn’t too trashed.

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Jesse got me an elf apron.

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And really, after putting that on, nothing could bring me down. (Except for maybe this picture. Gawd, go on a diet FINALLY girl. Too much chin and cheek.)

Jesse put together an apple galette, and she didn’t even spit or cough on it.

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When we were good and stir crazy, we grabbed the remote control helicopters and a few dragons and headed over to a park with a large field, right next to Lake Michigan. We flew things, chased the dog, and wandered down to the lake. On the trail to the lake, Nick and I avoided all the zombies, vampires and witches, probably because he let me vaccinate him with my kisses.

We even found a magic portal.

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I told Nick that if he crawled through this strange little doorway created by the two saplings, he might find himself in another place, someplace magic. He didn’t want to do that. I did, but I didn’t fit. Oh well. On we went to the magical lake.

There was no snow on the ground, but the beautiful day made up for it. We wandered cheerfully down the beach, breathing in life and enjoying each other’s company. Anthony found a big stick, and like a good dog he carried it down the beach.

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The clouds were perfect; my family even more so. We laughed; we were at ease; there was much smiling and simple pleasure, and always love.

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If there’s such a thing as a perfect day, today was it.

grumpy about the holidays – day 24

[Jesse is hovering. I’ve announced she is guest blogging today. She talks. I type:]

Uhhhh, giggle giggle, stooop.

[Okay. She’s gone. That worked like a charm.]

[Oh. She’s back.]

I don’t know how to blog. (more noises) Mommy? Uuuuh oooooh. I’m thinking about how many presents I’ll open. And, let me see… and hoping that Santa does not cut my dog’s snout that close, and I think he will still do that. And I’m imagining Nick screaming about the giant Darth Vader Pez dispenser [that she got him]. Or crying. For joy.

[What are you feeling?]

I feel very excited, but I’m trying to calm myself down by writing.

[In fact, just today, Jesse wrote this “introduction” to her journal of prose and poetry, which she intends to publish someday:]

“Hi! I was a girl that was very uncalm and a little obnoxious, so I tried to write to calm my life down and to help me be more nice. I found out that writing calms me down when I’m angry and sad. I gave a try to write poems and paragraphs when I was about nine. I was much more happy and nice once I started writing. I suppose I found a place inside my heart that I love to write and draw. Before that I was a tense and angry girl that had horrible days at school when I was little. I asked to have a brother and some pets to help me. They helped me for sure but only a little. That was when I figured it out. Now I’m a happy and nice girl. I loved what I was doing, so I decided to make a book. Now I’m delighting my family very well. If you didn’t hear my name it’s Jesse.”

I feel very active writing. I like the workout of my fingers when they type. I just love to type.

* * * * *

Whew. She’s gone. I have guests coming. I have 4000 more Legos pieces to affix into Star Wars shapes. I gotta go.

grumpy about the holidays – day 22 postscript (letter to Santa)

I got all addled after Jesse discovered her letter to Santa in my drawer earlier today. It made me distractible and when I was wrapping up my post I forgot to mention something that I really enjoyed at the end of Jesse’s letter. “I think my dog comes to the living room when you’re there,” she wrote, “so please try not to trim her snout that closely this time.”

??

When I puzzled over this, she reminded us that last year, she awoke on Christmas morning to discover that Madeline’s muzzle had been trimmed more closely than ever before, so short that it was a veritable bald shave so that her black poodle muzzle skin showed through. I had forgotten all about it, but when Jesse brought it up, the memories percolated. As I recall, this is what happened last Christmas. Jesse woke up and took a good look at Madeline, and then she started chewing me out along the lines of WHAT HAPPENED TO MADELINE?? She looks ridiculous!! Why would you make her look so funny?? Why did you cut the fur so short??? Jesse was livid.

Reality? Madeline was all fluffy and dirty. Her muzzle needed a trim. Christmas Eve. Gifts. Magic morning coming up, much to do. Booze. Not very good lighting. Me with a pair of doggy scissors, feeling giddy and tired.  I don’t know what got into me, but I guess I cut it a little close.

What I told Jesse last year, in the face of her fury on Christmas morning? Something along the lines of this. What are you talking about? Let me take a look at Madeline… Oh my goodness! What happened to her! She had so much fur on her face when I went to bed last night! Anthony, did you do this?? No? Hmmm… It must have been Santa. Maybe he thought Madeline needed a trim.

I was just trying to avoid a fight, and blaming it on the Big Red Scary Man seemed like a good idea at the time. I had no idea Jesse would remember, but I guess it’s really strange to imagine Santa going at your dog with shears. It may be time for me to stop blaming things on that guy.