…all the way home.
We’re back in hazy Southern California where my minivan is blasting ash out of it’s air conditioning.
The town seems back to normal, but you can tell something just isn’t right. The kids are home and happy, but an occasional cough from my son tells me the air is still unclean.
I know I tend to take extreme measures to solve a problem sometimes, but this entire episode really has me wondering if living in this place isn’t shortening all of our life spans. I’m having trouble, as a mother, saying “well, the job is here” in the same breath as “he coughs until he vomits and begins to wheeze.”
I don’t have a solution, other than to lobby Hollywood to move its special fx and digital animation to say…Cheyenne, Wyoming, where I hear the air is perfect.
Or to become the breadwinner.
Who wants to hire me?
Princess Peanut is in “I will be a vet when I grow up” phase and I may have to sell her to the gypsies.
I remember doing this when I was young, but I think I was like 11, not 2. So my obsessions were a bit more grounded…like collecting stuffed dogs or say, getting really excited at a stable. HRH PP Punk as Fuck isn’t nearly as reasonable in her ripe old toddler years.
So she tends to ride a stuffed horse on a stick wherever we go.
That means it comes in the van. It is ridden through the grocery store, target, home depot, the pharmacy. And of course, in true toddler fashion, when it suits her to NOT be riding the horse, I get to carry it. You know, carry the big horse head on a stick through a crowded store along with whatever I’m buying. Superfun.
The horse also has it’s own spot at the kitchen table and bowls of feed are demanded for the stuffed and impaled creature.
Now I’m sure you’re thinking…well you could say “no” but I think we all know that we pick our battles with these schizophrenic little people and when the whole horse thing started it did not seem like a large issue, so off we went to the store with “Racing Stripes” in the his own seat in the momvan.
Yeah, she named it after that movie with a very young Hayden Panettiere and it makes me feel creepy to see her all grown up and boobie now.
Anyway none of this would be too too too hard on me if it weren’t for my boneheaded move rushing out the door from our wildfire threatened home in smoky Cali agreeing that “Racing Stripes” could stay home.
Yeah, I know. But it DID take her like 7 days to realize the damn thing wasn’t here in Florida.
Now she’s a scorned woman and we’re all just getting out of her way.
She tried riding my parent’s pool noodle around the house but quickly realized it was a poor substitute.
She tried riding Maggie, my parents 120lbs golden. Maggie wasn’t really happy with that idea.
So now she’s determined to whine and cry until we’re home in California…you know, very late tonight. We’re on about day 4 of “Mommy we have to go home NOW and get him.” Not in that simple sentence back there kinda way either. It’s usually followed by a good 20 minutes of face down to the floor pouting, crying, and screaming.
She has also packed one of the carry-ons with an elmo and a sock and tried to wheel it out the front door. Apparently she was going to just take matters into her own hands and walk her sassy little self back to California because that damn mother of hers refused to hop a plane early.
So I’ve emailed her father and phoned him (gotta double up here) to make sure that DAMN horse is in the back seat of the van when he picks us up from LAX. If he forgets (entirely possible) maybe the Count and I can take a cab home and Daddy and daughter can discuss Racing Stripe’s failure to show on the hour ride home.
IzzyMom and my mother conspired to get me lost the other night in Tampa. I swear. It was one of those outings where, in a series of misunderstandings and construction, I ended up over a bay headed to an entirely different city. I also ended up at the wrong mall and spent an extra 20 minutes getting home due to roads being closed and freeways down to one lane.
Of course there was much laughter…how can I spend an evening with the amazing Izzy and not laugh all night long. She was the perfect company for one of those barley pay attention to your food gab sessions that goes until you close the place down and the valet has to come find you to give you your keys because even he’s going home.
I know when bloggers meet up they end up blogging it…and we all gush and blah blah blah. But can I just say…Izzy makes me want to be a lesbian. That’s how much I love her. I want to sleep with her AND be her best friend forever.
Seriously (warning, mushy coming) I think the best part of the night might have been when we were outside of the restaurant talking about all of you. Not YOU as in YOU YOU, but YOU as in, our friends. In fact, I think we both got teary talking about the wonderful friends we’ve made and how they’ve helped up through some pretty shitty times. Knowing you guys are always there…even if we’re not all getting around to reading eachother faithfully anymore. That sort of thing. We agreed we loved you guys. We also agreed despite the sometimes catty nature of our little blog community-we do come together rather fast to get eachother’s backs. It’s really impressive, actually.
I no longer differentiate between my “blog” friends and my “real” friends. You are all officially my real friends. I talk about you at my house and with my kids like you live next door. I was telling Izzy how Count Waffles totally recognizes and KNOWS Bella. “Mom, did they ever get that goat back into that fence?” My mom says stuff like, “Did your friends have a good time at the Bill Maher taping?”
Man, I’m must be PMSing because this was NOT the post I intended…but you people make me all misty. I was going to make jokes about Izzy and this HUGE horse we hung out with and discuss how normally I am a navagatrix with directions…and how Florida roads are confusing with their gun shops and strip clubs and white trash mom trick-or-treaters in bikini tops, smoking, with baby’s on their hips…collecting candy themselves…and here I am, telling you all how much I love you and shit.
Izzy apparently makes me weak what with her infectious laugh and attitude and all.
I’m off to see Shash today…odds are I shall return a puddle of tears and gratitude for all my bloggy friends.
Now that the threat of fires and asthma attacks are out of my mind, I’ve popped my head up to take a look around.
Can I just say…WHAT THE HELL???
Don’t get me wrong Florida. I love you. I really do. I even lived here once. I love that you have Mickey and Keys and air boats. I love that the space shuttle lives here and beach casual applies everywhere, even the fancy places. I love that you made it possible for me to only administer ONE inhaler to my son before he went to bed tonight.
But between you and I...you’re pretty fucked up.
I know this is a small thing…but…today, I went to the grocery store and was browsing the wine. Then I realized the liqueur was next door. Why is that, exactly? I mean, if you want to put all your booze in a whole other store that’s one thing…but why is the wine still allowed? Is it more acceptable to get drunk off a merlot than say vodka? Are you just trying to make my life difficult? I mean, you realize I will forgo the groceries before I forgo the hooch, right?
Then there are these um…people…that live around here. What’s with all the Bush/Cheney bumper stickers? Is that really still a source of pride ? And why are they all on cars with gun racks and confederate flag logos? Is that even still like…accepted? Just wondering…
I also noticed everyone here is from somewhere else. I get that one. We do that a lot where I live now. The natives are really proud to be natives and the rest of us are just hoping to be accepted into the California club. 8-9 years (?) I’ve been there now and I still like that club.
I’m also having a hard time with sports lasting until 1am around here. And I can’t wake up on Sunday and immediately turn on pregame. That’s annoying….but I don’t blame you, oh Florida…that’s an East Coast problem.
Oh, and any particular reason there are more churches per block than trees? Do that many people even LIVE around here? I am envisioning like 3 parishioners per church.
Then there is the issue of your um…history. See you had this governor when I lived here..and he didn’t like me too much. He once mentally patted my head and called me “Mzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Kotecki” rather fratboy like. Then we kinda had some words.
So yeah, now that I’m here and looking around you sort of freak me out. But…I love you just the same. You’re much like Gidge says…”wang of america” and all.
However you provided me with clean air and blue skies so I can’t hate. You also allow me the opportunity to see some kick ass friends.
So, I just scratch my head and shuffle over to the liqueur store next to where I can buy the wine and laugh. Then I explain to the kids we have to wait to get pumpkins because the church pumpkin patch isn’t open on Sundays.
Freaks.
We’re settling ourselves in muggy Florida while the pollution from the fires lingers over and around our home. I talked with the Kaiser today and he sounds as if he smokes 10 cigars a night. Another friend says it looks like its going to rain, but there is no weather system in our region.
My son is allergic to pollution, as many of you know, and I am still just so relieved we are away. We’re keeping the asthma at bay despite a minor cold…something I know would not happen if we stayed in our valley. His little sister is also sniffling so today we just took a drive around my parent’s Florida town instead of anything touristy or too taxing on my recovering kids.
Stepping out of the minivan on a swampy island road, I discovered it’s lovebug season in Florida. Very quickly we were swatting and screaming and running back into the car. Then came the tears.
Nana had turned on the windshield wipers and many a lovebug was squished in the process.
Nana the bug murderer.
The 4-year old is SHOCKED, and my mom and I broke into giggles. Evil? Maybe…but I swear it was funny…mainly because I looked at my mom and said “what were you THINKING?”
I’m happy to be killing bugs here in Florida. I’d rather my son is crying over dead insects than crying with a mask over his face in a hospital bed. The stories of how the air is affecting our community are starting to pour in…none good and none I want to talk about right now.
Some asshats apparently tried to start another fire by us this week and my mind is just scrambled by these pyro fucktards who think any of this is a game. One of the largest fires here in SoCal is now officially being called arson, as are some others.
Frankly I’m all for public hangings. Or better yet…when we get back I’ll put them all on my van’s windshield and squish.
Breathing easy
Let’s face it, we became parents by having sex* and sex is usually somewhere on our minds. It’s time to be more open about “doing it” and communicate our issues with sex and all it encompasses. I want to empower women to embrace who they are as sexual beings. I want to talk about all the issues we never speak, but want to get out.
With that in mind I’ve created, with some awesome help, Queen’s Bedroom. Where you can come to talk about all those things you can’t even discuss with your best friend. Where you can come to tell your husband where to find your g-spot…where you can admit you want a threesome or admit your sex drive is gone since having kids.
Come. Sit on my bed. Giggle. Play. Don’t be afraid.
*and yes, those who adopt do it too 🙂
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