MomZombie on the move

Hey! I’ve moved. You can find me here. Come on over. Stay a bit. I won’t bite.

‘Call me?!’

I had a revelation today:

Blogging is like an affair.*

It’s all “look at me.”  And then it’s all “ooh, I got flowers and chocolates.”

And for a while it’s a blur of excitement and wonder and learning.
It’s sneaking off with the laptop when you say you’re doing the laundry.

Then, things change. Something turns a little and you realize maybe you’re a little obsessed. Maybe your thighs really DO look like they’re stuffed with packing peanuts. Maybe the Internets just “isn’t that into you.”

Then things start to slow down a bit. The Internets spends the holidays with the family and you’re left with some wilting stats. Next thing you know you’re thinking about rabbits and boiling pots of water on the stove and …..

MomZombie is taking a short break to get some psychotherapy and clean her hard drive.**

*Not that I’ve had any affairs (husband I know you read this).
**Soon relocating to a new site.

Careful what you say …

When my Girl from the West was a babe in arms, I cooed a promise into one of her little pink ears:
“Mommy wants you to grow up to be whoever you want to be. I won’t be one of those mean mommies who forces her daughter to vote Republican or chastises her for not choosing the convent as a career choice.”

If my baby grew up to be a bald, lesbian shot putter, that would be OK. If she aspired to be a minimalist performance artist who wore nothing but sticks and grass and chose to live in a refrigerator box in the town square, great.
It’s not that I want her to grow into someone whose lifestyle puts her at risk for ridicule and persecution. But I told myself I’d let the blossom unfold as nature intended. No making a righty out of a lefty or anything.

However, life doesn’t always play out that way, does it?

Say your babe in arms edges closer to adulthood and suddenly begins taking on all of the characteristics you abhor? Say you are an atheist and she decides to become a Born-Again Christian. Say you are vegetarian and she decides to take up bow hunting? Say you are artsy and edgy and she prefers to try out for the cheer squad?

Get the drift here?

I see my baby spinning out of my orbit so fast I’m not sure I got the flight plan before she launched.

I can’t help but recall my teen years. What hopes did my parents have for me? What was the sound of those dreams as they collided with the reality of who I was becoming? I know one of the biggest collisions had to do with my continued failure to subscribe to their religion. To this day, almost 30 years after leaving their church, I still get subliminal messages that they are not pleased, thank you very much.

Thankfully I have a number of friends who’ve traveled this bumpy road of parenthood. Their advice to me is to stop asking so many questions already! I’ll get more answers if I listen.

So this is my challenge of late: I must cross the razor’s edge. I must keep some distance, lead by example, have eyes in the back of my head and keep my flippin’ mouth shut — most of the time.

My girl crush

 

Oh Tina, you’re so fine

you’re so fine, you blow my mind, hey Tina, hey Tina!*

 

 

I don’t swing that way. But if I did, Tina Fey would be my “it” girl. She’s my girl crush. There aren’t enough adjectives to cover all the ways in which I adore this woman.  I’ve always liked her on “Saturday Night Live.” So smart and sexy. And when “Mean Girls” came out. Shut up! I was impressed, infatuated and amazed. What couldn’t this woman do? Sadly, I’ve not watched “30 Rock” regularly. Not because of dear Tina. Oh, no. Just me not having prime-time TV time in my life right now. But this weekend was the big one for me. I’m head over heels, Tina baby. You deserve every Emmy out there. You deserve to be president. Forget Obama. I’m doing a write-in: Fey-Poehler.

*apologies, I suppose, to Toni Basil and “Hey Mickey”

 

Break-up story

National Geographic Society

 

The signs of trouble are always right in front of me. Do I see them? Or do I choose ignorance?

In this relationship, our time together grows shorter with the passing of each hour. Sometimes my love slips out the door shortly after dinner. The bloom of our love fades by the day, from the vibrant green of infatuation to the faded gold, red and brown of neglect. Our once-solid foundation hangs on a frayed thread.

Each year Summer and I break up as intensely as  a first love. Yet each year I find a rebound guy pretty fast.

Autumn is cool. He’s colorful and fun. But Autumn is more of a whirlwind romance. He blows into town on a tropical depression, sucker-punching Summer to the sidelines. Autumn takes over fairly fast, rearranging the landscape and lighting to his tastes. And just as we’re getting comfortable with each other, drunk on cider and doughnuts, playing dress-up and overindulging in sweets, he slips away in the dead of night, leaving behind a note scribbled in frost:

“Watch out for Winter; she can be a bitch.”

Blog for change

 

Two things have me fired up today:
One, I participated in a campaign survey by phone the other night in which the caller spoke in a very thick accent. So much so that I could barely understand her questions. On top of that, the static on the line was so pronounced I imagined a frayed wire stretching from my home in the Midwest all the way across the Pacific Ocean to the country to which this work was outsourced. Please tell me I’m wrong about this. Disturbing to say the least.

Two, while strolling the booths at our city’s final art festival of the season last weekend,  a pre-teen boy with a clipboard approached me, asking in earnest: “Would you like to volunteer for Obama?”

I set down my iced tea and grabbed the clipboard to give the flier a cursory glance. Then I gave him the most honest answer I could: “I’d love to but I just can’t. Really. I wish I could.”

As our group moved on, I felt my face grow hot. What kind of lame-ass answer was that?

“You know, I’m just not a knock-on-doors kind of person,” I said to my friend and her college-aged son.

We all nodded in silent agreement and pressed on through the crowds. But it’s been bugging me ever since. I know how much this election year has been bothering me, gnawing at my conscience and worrying me.  

So it is with an odd sort of kismet that I found this today.  Read this post.  If you are enlightened, pass it on.

Glam Top 10

Welcome to another installment of Glamorous in Real Life, the brainchild of Marcy.

In this episode we examine how one woman’s biggest daily challenge has shifted from: “Should I have Greek, Thai, Mexican or Middle-Eastern food for lunch?” to “What ingredient can I add to this box of mac and cheese to make it stretch?”
Welcome to SAHM life. In a crapola economy. Where the husband is doing quite well but must travel out-of-state to achieve this. Where the toddler and teenage daughters continue to demand excessive amounts of stuff while their MomZombie is ready to employ Scarlett O’Hara’s methods of style and beauty. (Think curtain rods and cheek pinching.)
Consider these recent glamorous observations that make me feel oh-so pretty, happy and grrrr……

1. I spend too much time in my kitchen and not enough time in my bedroom.

2. I get up first, go to bed last, yet everyone else in my house “needs a nap.”

3. I have one child who clings to me like a spider monkey and another who flees the room like a cockroach when the light goes on.

4. I have had one-too-many shower-optional days lately.

5. The longer I stay out of the workplace, the more daunting it seems to go back.

6. The longer I go without a paycheck in my name, the more outdated my wardrobe becomes. (Clinton and Stacey, do you hear me?)

7. And it follows that the less money I have to work with, the more pretty shiny things I want.

8. The more obsessive about cleanliness I get, the more trashed my house becomes.

9. And it follows that when my house is at its very nadir of filth, including cat vomit in the entrance hall, the doorbell rings.

10. And it follows that it will be a hot guy conducting a poll.  I will not have showered. Something most likely will have just been scorched on the stove. I’ll just be happy I have on my “dress” flip flops. 

Be sure to check back with Marcy for more G.I.R.L. stories.

Wordless Wednesday/Monday puzzle award thingy

Disclaimer: Obviously it’s not Wednesday. And if you’re reading this, it’s clear I violated the “wordless” part of the deal. So, where does that leave me? Feeling a little foolish. Mostly I’m panicky about this post, which was scheduled to run LAST Wednesday but um…there was a technical glitch (rhymes with WordPress) and then Wednesday was over. All blame aside, I am thrilled to be the recipient of a blog award. So thrilled I am rendered nearly speechless. (I swear!)

 

 

WrekeHavoc

is

 

 

 

Therefore, I get this cool item, found here: 

 

To that I say:

And offer this:

 

Now I must

 

• ALIAS LIZ JONES: She writes about chickens, odd neighbors, her travel adventures and views life through a very interesting pair of shades. 
• MARCY’S GLAMOROUS LIFE ASSOCIATION: The name says it all. Her AdTalk feature alone is worth the trip. 
• SUBURBAN KAMIKAZE: It takes a special certain something to tell the world your child was contemplating two different ways to prepare earthworms for lunch. Plus, SK does NPR. 
• FOOLERY: Just about everything fun you could imagine, including “piffle” and “horsefeathers,” under one roof.
• PROSE AND CONVERSE: Isn’t this a clever name for a blog? It’s real. It’s honest. And it’s live from “the Devil’s Buttcrack.”

Should you five nominees choose to accept this award, place it carefully next to the Oscar, Emmy and Grammy on your mantel, and make sure you look here again for the rules, regulations and recall notices.

Deep cuts

Hey! Who is this? Why it’s me, MomZombie, circa 1978. I found this picture in an old, brittle photo album from my childhood. I cut my best pal a break and cropped her right out of this nightmare. She looked better than I did, but in both of our cases that isn’t saying much.
See my cool, David Cassidy inspired puka shell necklace? All the rage back then. I’m sure mine was a plastic knockoff since our family hadn’t recently traveled to Hawaii.
See my skinny bod? Where did that go? I think it’s been in hiding since my mid-20s when I discovered food. And beer. And wine. And chocolate. I didn’t eat much as a child. Don’t remember why.
See the shocking haircut? Freshly shorn for ninth grade, which was due to begin a day or two after this picture was taken. I think I rode my sparkly gold 10-speed up to the local salon and ordered a Dorothy Hamill, straight up. Just a few days earlier, I had hair past my shoulders. I think I wanted to look older.
Seems that the elderly man across the street wasn’t buying any of that nonsense. He thought I was a young man. He always shouted at me as I walked or rode by, “Hey, sonny. How about you cut my grass?”

The scent of a stay-at-home woman

EXHIBIT A:

THE BACKSTORY:
A woman fancies an afternoon out with her toddler girl. Rather than weigh herself down with the shabby diaper bag and bulky stroller, she opts for a stylish shoulder bag big enough for her things and a few toddler essentials. She imagines a stroll in the park, a visit to the library, a quick swing through the nearby shopping district before picking up a bottle of wine on the way home.

THE INCIDENT:
 “Mommy, loook!” cries a pigtailed 5-year-old tugging her mother’s shirt and pointing at us. “She’s not wearing pants!”

I force a closed-lip smile at pigtail’s mother, whose gaze follows her daughter’s extended finger directly down to my baby girl’s bare legs, and then slowly shifts up to me. We are waiting for the elevator by the children’s section of the neighborhood library. It can’t come fast enough. Behind us, the wheels of a custodian’s cart screech the arrival of the clean-up crew at the women’s bathroom.

I hoist a clear plastic bag in my right hand up to the mother’s eye level, revealing the missing pants and underwear, both splattered with fresh diarrhea. I hope she got a good whiff. I hope it answers her unasked question about why my child is at the public library in a shirt, pull-up and shoes. Because, you know, I’m not trying to start a new fashion trend.

After a silent elevator ride up to the main floor, pigtails and mother cut a hasty retreat lest any germs latch onto them. I grab Girl from the East’s hand, shift the pile of picture books, above-mentioned bag of defiled clothing and my purse and head for the door.
We both move quickly on our walk of shame down a brick-paved path past gardens and park benches populated with lunchtimers, readers and gawkers.
In the punishing light of high noon all I can think is: I hope I don’t have crap on my clothes.

THE FINDINGS:
There is nothing “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” about realizing that you have only two tissues in your stylish shoulder bag, not nearly enough to combat the very unstylish diarrhea running down your toddler’s leg.
There is nothing glamorous about an unexpected, explosive illness in a bathroom that is a paper-free operation (hand-dryers only).
There is a high level of “Desperate Housewives” in realizing you sacrificed practicality for style by leaving the diaper bag at home, which contained wet wipes, spare clothes, diapers, hand sanitizer and plastic bags. Even more desperate, having to ‘fess up to the library staff and beg for paper towels and a plastic bag.
In the end, you realize there is no sexy way to walk out of a building with a half-naked child and a see-through bag of poopy clothes, both leaving a scent in their wake …
… the scent of a stay-at-home woman.

CONCLUDING REMARKS: Thanks for visiting and reading my 100th post. This has been part of a larger celebration, Girls In Real Life, or G.I.R.L., put together by Marcy at The Glamorous Life. Join the party.