Where Have You Gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Last time I blogged it was Christmas Eve and I said I'd "see you in a few days" which was obviously a LIE because here were are nearly at Valentine's Day and I am just finding time to blog again. I mean, unless your definition of "a few" equals "39," I am a LIAR and my pants are on FIRE.

I mean, COME ON, I don't even think people are on "Survivor" island for 39 whole days, not even if they win. (Although if anyone asks, go right on ahead and tell them that's where I've been, okay? I have a buff. It's a good cover story.)

By the way, I make no excuses for my disappearance. I've been busy, just like everyone else, and if I'd like to keep my head firmly affixed to my person and not all explodey like the Death Star, then I needed to prioritize stuff, and between school and work and child and husband and eating and breathing and occasionally sleeping, unfortunately blogging fell to the bottom of the list. I hope to rectify this situation, but I am taking nine credits this semester, so maybe don't hold your breath?

(Here's how bad it is right now: I originally wrote "I've been busty, just like everyone else" in the previous paragraph, and I ALMOST LEFT IT IN BECAUSE I'M NOT SURE I EVEN HAVE READERS ANY MORE, and I figured if I was going to keep getting weirdo spam comments in my inbox, it might as well be for an interesting reason.)

(Also, before you even ask, smoking falls under either "eating" or "breathing" and I DO NOT WISH TO ENTERTAIN YOUR COMPLAINTS.)

(Sorry about being all shouty already. Long week, and they're calling for another Snowpocalypse or whatever we're calling it this year, and I'm pretty sure I'm not prepared, although we do have a new next-door neighbor with a snowblower, so there's that, at least.)

ANYWAY. Even though I haven't been writing, I have been trying to take photos whenever I can. Mostly they've been cell phone shots (I got a fancy new camera bag for Christmas and I have maybe taken a dozen pictures since because BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSY!) but at least you can see what we've been up to.

It snowed a couple of times. Nothing major, but enough to at least attempt snow angels, anyway.

Andy Reid finally got fired, and so now at least we no longer have the #occupyfireandyreid movement taking up what little of my free time still exists. (I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the #occupyfirechipkelly movement begins.)

We lost some more teeth. And, I mean, this happened so long ago that the permanent are already almost in and knocking some OTHER teeth loose. The Tooth Fairy is going broke.

Swimming lessons started up again, with a new swimsuit to boot. (And we've grown so much ALREADY that this suit almost doesn't fit any more, so thank God for Costco.)

My kid proposed to a boy in her Kindergarten class via crayon drawing on the back of a receipt. He accepted, but they have since called off the engagement. (I think. I'm honestly not sure what's going on there. It's like "Dallas" or "Dynasty" in the classroom. KIDS!)

I discovered that my kid (1) knows what a glockenspiel is, and (2) can play it (sort of). Of course she was the best glockenspielier at the Kindergarten concert (and also the loudest). Apparently next year they learn to start reading music (something that I never really managed to do, even after all those years of chorus and musical theater), and the kids get to start thinking about whether they want to play an instrument.

(Is anyone surprised that my kid wants to learn to play the drums? I didn't think so.)

So It Goes

When I started grad school, I expected things to be different. I just didn't expect them to be, you know, THIS different.

I didn't expect to go almost an entire month without updating my blog.

I didn't expect that my kid's first day of kindergarten would pass with barely so much as a mention.

I didn't expect that my poor camera would sit in the bag, barely touched, for days, weeks, practically months at a time.

I didn't expect to miss my kid or my husband or my bed or my DVR or my free time quite so much.

I am not complaining here, or at least, not exactly. I am glad that I finally got my shit together for long enough to develop an "exit strategy" and stick with it. You know me: I have my moments when I'm not entirely sure that I am doing the "right thing" here, but by and large I am glad I made the move before I could talk myself out of it.

I expected to love being back in school, and I really, really do, but I didn't expect that I would have such trouble getting back into the "swing" of being a college student. I know my schedule, but I can't seem to set up a routine. I have class on Wednesday and Thursday nights this semester, plus an online class through the middle of October, and I know what I need to do, but I keep finding myself in the middle of a "crunch," and I'm still not sure how to work it all out, sometimes.

I expect that it will take me another two semesters to get myself all the way together, and by then it will be time to student teach, which is a whole 'nother can of worms.

I didn't expect that I would have so much to want to say, and so little time or authority to actually do it. I'd love to discuss my theories and plans and ideas with all of you, but I'm not sure what I'm actually allowed to talk about. At the end of all this, I would like to get employed, and I imagine that anything I say might be used against me.

I definitely didn't expect to feel so frustrated about so many things now. I want to be done with school and get on with "the rest of my life," but I still have a day job to do. If I rush through my classes I won't do as well as I'd like to, but if I slow down so I don't feel so much angst about it, I might end up convincing myself that I am frustrated because I'm doing the wrong thing at the wrong time.

I expected the sheer panic I felt when I actually got into grad school to settle down some once I got started.

I didn't expect that there would be days when it would be worse.

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Here is a random picture of a BLT, because of reasons:

Right now, the reasons are that bacon is basically the only thing I still understand any more. As long as there is bacon at the end of the tunnel, I WILL BE OKAY. (Right? RIGHT?)

Attack Of The 50-Foot 4-Year-Old

We start swimming lessons on Sunday, and we spent 20 minutes tonight trying on approximately 538 bathing suits to see what still fits, because it turns out that one of the primary requirements for swimming lessons is a bathing suit. Preferably one that covers all of one's important bits and that does not give one a perma-wedgie.

You would think this would not be excessively difficult, since it was summer just 15 minutes ago, but -- wait, WHAT? Has it really been 15 WEEKS since Shae's put on a bathing suit? REALLY? 15 weeks and two missing teeth ago? DEAR LORD.

(Gratuitous pictures of my kid's missing teeth are gratuitous.)

So. Anyway. It's seems I've gone and overcommitted myself again, what with the OT at work and the new grad student orientation and the classes and the whatever the hell else I have scheduled which I can't even remember what it is any more, so OF COURSE we waited until practically the last minute to make sure we had a bathing suit. We tried on every suit she wore all summer, and -- SPOILER ALERT -- let's just say its a good thing we have a membership to Costco, where they sell swimsuits even at this time of year, because we have maybe 2½ suits that still fit, and at the rate this kid is growing, at least 1½ of them are going to be questionable by the end of the winter, I think. My niece is getting at least half a dozen hand-me-down suits, which will probably not fit her until she's 4 years old, because she? Is a normal-sized child, and not the Jolly Green Giant, like my kid is.

Shae is going to be 5 in less than three months, and by that time, she's going to be fully four feet tall. I'm 37, and I'm only five feet tall when I am wearing shoes with a nice thick sole. She's going to be taller than I am by the time she starts second grade. Maybe sooner, if the way she's been eating lately is any indication. We joke that her tapeworm has a hollow leg, because she just eats so much, but HONESTLY. There don't seem to be enough cheese and fruit snacks in the world to keep her belly full, and every morning I swear to God she's a little bit taller. I can hear her sprouting and spurting in her sleep.

I JUST CAN'T EVEN WITH THIS KID AND HER GROWING.

Suddenly, A BLOG

Yeah, yeah, it's been a week. Whatever. We've been busy. Doing what? Well ...

This, for one thing. Getting our picture taken with Santa. That takes up almost a whole half hour of a Saturday afternoon, sometimes. And this, also.

Because, you know, posing in front of the mall Santaland decorations takes up a whole 'nother maybe two minutes and ten seconds. Plus there was this.

Which was, incidentally, accompanied by a visit to both a visit to the urgent care center and a follow-up visit to the pediatrician because someone -- and I am not naming names here, but perhaps it might have been Shae -- got sick again. And also this happened.

Yeah, I know you don't really care about pictures that don't involve my kid, but I put that arrangement together and I am very proud of it. Shut up. Oh, and!

We found a Christmas dress. This outfit also features a pair of killer black suede knee-high boots that look make Shae look really awesome and also VERY MUCH LIKE A GROWN UP OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP. Although watching her attempt to figure out how to work fingerless gloves -- and what the point of them is -- was highly comical.

Oh, and there was also that whole thing about apply and then actually getting into graduate school, because I have gone completely around the bend.

So, yeah, we've been busy.

HEY YOU GUYS

Shaezie here, pinch hitting for my mom, who is a total slacker. (Do you like how I said "pinch hitting" there, on account of it being baseball playoff time and all? Hahaha, I am SO FUNNY, you guys. Go Steelers!!!1!eleven!)

You'd probably never guess it because the weather's been so dis-GUST-ing outside (yes, that's exactly how I say that word, shut up you guys and stop picking on me!), but we've actually been kind of busy lately. These Flyin' Hawaiian shirts aren't going to wear themselves, you know.

I've been, like, running around all over the world and making my parents crazy and growing out of my pants all the time. Look at me! I'm all legs and arms and pointy elbows like a praying mantis with grasshopper legs. Boing boing boing! Good thing Christmas is coming, right?

Also I have a new hobby: growing my hair. Isn't it AWESOME? Except it really hurts when my mom has to comb my hair. She says I'm "tender-headed," but really I just like to complain about everything when she makes me get out of bed at 6:15 for school. It's still dark out, then, you guys!

My mom says this picture should be captioned: "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" I don't know what she's talking about, but that's a pretty great song. I like to listen to it when we're playing "Dance Your Pants Off" at home.

This is me, running around in Lauren's backyard with a bungee cord. Why? I am four years old, and I don't need a reason to be a goober. (Mommy says that picture is totally unaltered, by the way, and that you should "click to embiggen." I think it makes me look like I'm a super-fast runner ZOOOOOOOOOOOM!)

Anyway, that's all for now, you guys. My mom will be back tomorrow with some more of her boring stuff.

Obliviously On She Sails

The first day of fall came and went without mention in our house. We didn't try to balance an egg on its end on a table or celebrate the equinox by dancing naked in a field with other hippies or anything. It was just, for us, another day among all the other days of the year, another day of work and school and leftovers and television shows, albeit one with a higher allergen and irritant count than might be considered completely comfortable.

One of the unintended consequences of taking our vacation over Labor Day, during the very last unofficial week of the summer, is that once it was over, there really wasn't much left to look forward to. We missed all the picnics and parties, all the pools are closed for the season, and since Shae still has another year of pre-school, we didn't really have any back-to-school or ready-for-kindergarten shopping to do. It occurs to me that September might possibly be the saddest, slowest month of the year.

Early fall can be so off-putting, especially this year, when we haven't had an Indian summer, and all signs point to none coming. It started raining here at the beginning of August and it almost hasn't stopped for six weeks, the temperatures gradually but consistently dropping, ever-so-slowly so that you didn't realize it, until one morning you start needing a jacket in the morning and you never really stop. Everything is changing to shades of yellows and browns that will fade to grays and whites before we know it.

That's partly why I waited as long as I could stand it before I posted this one last picture from vacation, one of my very favorites, a veritable oasis of life and air and light and color among the leaves that are already falling and the grass that is already growing dormant and the claustrophobia that is already starting to close in on me, as the seasons change and the weather changes and everything changes, like it or not, and so it goes.

And obliviously on she sails.

Let Them Eat Those Little Whaddaya-Call-'Em Italian Cookies

It's Friday, y'all! Whoo hoo! Let's wrap this week up and then commence with the heavy drinking, shall we? It's what all the cool kids are doing.

Do they still have those alligator wrestlers in Florida? The Seminole ones? I wonder if they ever recruit from out of state, because I think we may have a live one here. Assuming that Seminole alligator wrestlers ever wrestle polyvinyl pool toys, of course. Everybody's got to start somewhere, don't they?

Caption this. No, I mean it: caption this. Because I got nothin'. I'm pretty sure that's some kind of preschool primal-growl-roar-scream thing going on, maybe even a barbaric yawp, but from the right angle ("right" being "correct" or "proper" here, and not the geometric 90°) it looks like it could also possibly be a yawn. Maybe. If you've been drinking enough (or maybe if you have not been drinking enough).

Oh hey, how did this little bit of delightfully delectable deliciousness get in there? Om nom NOM! Look at those CHEEKS! Look at those ARMS! Look at those ADORABLE LITTLE TEEFERS! Also: she has my mother's eyes, and the same missing upper lip that the rest of the women in my family have. This one is definitely related.

As promised (and expected, at this point, because there ALWAYS has to be a picture of my kid eating something on this blog every week or else I feel like a complete and utter failure as a human being): those little whaadya-call-'em Italian cookies. They probably have a fawncey-sounding name that ends in "i" or "o" or possibly "ei" or "ie." Cookie, maybe.

BONUS! Juice box hero. Have a great weekend.

By (Captain) Hook or by Crook

OK, listen: I'm just going to say RIGHT NOW that there are going to be a very large number of sternly-worded letters that are getting sent to various and sundry people when we get home. Oh, there will be detailed blog posts when everything is said and done -- the only reason why I'm not doing it now is because I AM ON VACATION, DAMMIT, and I don't want to even potentially spent any part of this weekend dealing with corporate customer service departments. Not likely, I know, because it is a holiday weekend, but still. Don't even want to take the chance. I'm going to salvage what I can, and get all nasty and indignant later.

We still haven't seen the Orange County airport because they ended up flying us into LAX, where we rented a car that so far has cost us more than all our hotel rooms combined for this trip, which is ridiculous. Nobody told us there was a "Super Shuttle" from LA to Anaheim until it was too late, and honestly, I don't know if it would have made a difference anyway, what with there being three of us and all our bags and whatnot. Suffice it to say that mistakes were most definitely made, and not by us, this time.

And remind me to tell you later about the in-flight movie! DEAR LORD. If I were not the strong and powerful snark-ass that I am, I would have thought they were trying to encourage me to kill myself.

But we're here. We have to rearrange a bunch of plans, and I'm not entirely sure how much I look forward to spending our entire time at Disneyland during what I imagine is one of the busiest times of the whole year (the Friday and Saturday or Memorial Day weekend? COME ON!), but I paid for a two-day ticket, and BY GOD we are spending as much of two days there as possible. I understand there is wine available in the park; that will probably help. And we've had some non-airport food, and a decent night's sleep, and we even got a small chance to start doing vacation-oriented things last night before bed, when we hit the hotel pool for about half an hour before we went to bed.

I dunno -- maybe this really IS the most magical place on Earth, because it sure looks to me like we're having a good time, and I know I felt a lot better once I got my feet wet. And I am determined to enjoy the rest of this trip, by hook or by crook, even if it kills me.

Brain Dump

Funny thing about vacations: when (if?) you're finally done getting ready to go on vacation -- once everything is planned, packed, and paid for -- you really actually need the vacation, don't you? We're just about finished -- still need to pick my husband's suit and dress shirt from the cleaner, still need to pick out his tie and other accessories, still need to figure out what I'm doing about jewelry, still need to actually get everything into the carry-on bags, that kind of stuff, the little last-minute leftover things that give everyone agita -- and now more than ever I am ready to go sit in the airport with an Ativan or twelve and maybe a drink. I don't care that we don't leave in five days. I just want to go already.

I mean, really: it's in the 70s and sunny in Anaheim right now, with basically no chance of rain for the next ten days, and here it has been raining so much for so long that you can hear the grass growing. We haven't been able to mow the lawn in more than two weeks. It's starting to look like a cornfield. I feel like I'm camping, except I haven't seen any wildlife outside in so long that I am starting to get excited about the prospect of maybe possibly seeing another squirrel again someday. And I hate squirrels. Stupid fuzzy little tree-rats. If the world actually does end tomorrow like those wackjobs keep saying, I don't know how anyone around here would know the difference, because there is basically no sky left to fall any more. Whaaaah! Calgon, take me away!

You're sick of hearing this. I know. So here's what else I've been working on and/or thinking about lately, in between putting off buying Disneyland tickets until this very morning so I could reshuffle funds (ha!) in my checking account.

• I joined a book club. So far, I've gotten to read and review three books, with more coming soon, including one that I have ready to put in my handy red tote to read on the plane. You can read my reviews of Caleb's Crossing by Geraldine Brooks, Jean Kwok's debut novel Girl in Translation, and A Jane Austen Education by William Deresiewicz over on BlogHer.
• I've been pondering Life's Great Questions with the gang at Prime Parents Club. Like, why don't we make wish lists for the Easter Bunny? And, is Daria Morgendorffer the coolest chick in cartoon history or what? And also, at what point should I stop lying about my age? And most importantly, is it humanly possible for me to be a bigger dork?
• I don't know whether a kid-sized carry-on bag filled with Tastykakes, Oreos, Doritos, cheese popcorn, and random singles is necessarily a good idea for a cross-country flight, but it will certainly make for an interesting social experiment. (Assuming your definition of "interesting" includes the phrase "it all ends in tears.")
• Related to above: I have a terrible fear that my kid is going to turn out to be the infamous "Jeffrey" that Bill Cosby described in his comedy routine many, many years ago. You seriously have no idea how much time I have spent in the past week worrying about this. I have some kids' Benadryl packed, just in case, but I am wondering if it might be more effective to just go the $10 airplane margarita route. (Whether I drink them or Shae does seems irrelevant at this point.)
• Seriously, is the world going to end at 6:00 tomorrow, or what? And if so, do I need to shave my legs and put on clean underwear? Should I even bother getting out of bed? That seems like an awful lot of work only to be subsumed into Heaven or (more likely in my case) banished to Hell for all eternity, you know? Can't I just sit on the couch and watch "Sports Night" on DVD until whatever happens, happens?

Obviously, I need to go away for a while. I'll try to post one more time before we leave -- maybe even two times, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? -- and I will try to post at least once while we're on the road, but I make no promises. I will be Twittering as much as possible, putting up random cell phone pictures and stuff, so keep an eye on the sidebar or follow me if you don't already for updates on my exploits and shenanigans.

Death by Paper Cuts

Hi there! I'm rockle, and you might remember me as that blogger who used to update more than once every five days, before she kind of hit that pre-vacation wall with a very messy, bloody splat and kind of lost her mind a little bit.

Assuming I ever had one to begin with.

Anyway -- sorry for the virtual radio silence, but HOLY TOMATO do I have a metric butt-load of crap to do before we leave for California in 8 days. We have a lot of stuff ready to go -- like, most of our clothes are organized and just need to get in the suitcases -- but I still have all these little piddly things to do, like filling up the toiletry bags with sunscreen and disposable razors, etc.

OH AND LAUNDRY, oh my heavens.

They fixed our roof yesterday, which included painting the walls and ceiling of my bedroom, and my allergies have been really bad all season, so I decided to use a vacation day and spend the night at my parents' with Shae. I brought some wash with me to do -- yes, I am still secretly on some level a college-age mooch when it suits me -- and what I thought would be two quick loads turned out to actually be four.

FOUR LOADS OF LAUNDRY. Gaaah. It's not so much the washing as the folding. My husband has about half a ton of undershirts, and I can't match up any of the socks because it looks like I just grabbed a random assortment. Awesome. I so win at life.

Also, I somehow forgot to take any pictures of anything over the weekend except for my breakfast from Bob Evans on Saturday. Yes, I know. My life is positively riveting.

Hopefully I will have more stuff to tell you about before we leave next Wednesday, but in the meantime I just wanted to let you know am not dead yet. I'm out of Zyrtec and it's raining like the end of days again, which is never a good combination, and I haven't been getting all the sleep I need because I lay in bed at night making and re-making mental to-do lists with 537 items on them, but I am not dead yet. Check in with me in 24 hours, as this is subject to change without notice.

And if you know of a good fluff-n-fold, send me their number.

Without A Trace

I have done a good deal of searching -- of both the physical and soul varieties -- and I absolutely cannot for the life of me find more than a small handful of my honeymoon pictures.

I am bereft, I tell you. Positively beside myself.

I have approximately eleventy bajillion pictures in this house. Assorted albums, half a hard drive, two giant Longaberger baskets. I found multiple rolls of pictures from vacations, day trips, weddings, funerals even, but I just cannot find pictures of one of the most awesome weeks of my life.

I MEAN, COME ON: I found pictures of no fewer than five ex-boyfriends (no I am not joking), three foreign countries, bridal showers for people have been divorced more than once, birthday parties that I don't remember, birthday parties that I don't WANT to remember, even pictures from when I was in "Li'l Abner" IN THE NINTH GRADE, but the honeymoon pictures I found are not actually identifiable as actual pictures of my honeymoon. I only know that they are because as far as I remember, I've only attempted to take pictures of myself in a hammock that one time.

Where does this stuff go? Have they disappeared to the Land of the Lost with the missing socks that never come back out of the dryer? God, I hope not. I really hope they're not in the basement, because I'll never find them again.

I am an acknowledged, unrepentant pack rat. I still have journals from middle school. I still have receipts from trips that I took a decade ago. I still have a filing cabinet drawer filled with letters and cards and random tchotchkes that people sent me when I was in college. I still have service records and the owner's manual from a car that was totalled in an accident sixteen years ago.

But I can't find the photos of the first trip that we took as husband and wife. Poof. They're gone. Disappeared without a trace.

I am more upset about this than maybe I ought to be, but it's hard to remember without the visuals. It's difficult to make the hard sell for another trip to Disney when I didn't take proper care of the mementos of the last one. I need to find these pictures, so I can convince my husband that it's time we went again.

Saint Anthony, please come around -- something's lost and can't be found.

And bring Saint Jude with you, because this one might be a lost cause.

Worrywart

I don't know when it happened, specifically, or if this has been an ongoing thing for me more than usual, or what, but lately I've really been starting to worry. Again. Some more. A lot. Enough that it ... well, it makes me worry about my worrying.

There's an A&E reality show in there somewhere, right? They do shows about hoarders and parking wars and interventions -- shouldn't there also be a show called "Dr. Strangemom: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Fact That Absolutely the Whole Entire Universe is Conspiring Against Me"?

Or are we now stepping out of the worry zone and wandering directly into the minefield that is paranoia? Even more so than usual, I mean?

Some of the stuff I worry about is completely ridiculous and self-defeating: for example, I worry that I don't get enough sleep at night. Why? Because I work too much, or read too much, or watch too much TV. I actually lay in bed when I should be sleeping and worry about this stuff. See? Self-defeating. Ridiculous. I also worry about my husband driving home at 2:00 in the morning when the weather is bad. I worry that he doesn't get enough sleep. I worry that telling him about the things I worry about somehow suggests that I don't trust him to take care of himself, which is absolutely not the case. I just, you know, worry about stuff.

I worry that Shae isn't eating enough. I worry that she eats too much of certain things. I worry that she isn't getting enough exercise and intellectual stimulation. I worry that she is smart in all the wrong ways. I worry about what she thinks of my answers to some of her most common questions these days -- "Why didn't I grow in your belly?" and "Why don't you have a baby growing in your belly?" These are normal pre-school questions, right? But I worry that the actual answers to these questions will damage her, somehow. I worry that some of my psychological damage is communicable, somehow.

I worry about myself, too. Am I getting enough sleep? Am I getting enough exercise? Am I developing some kind of eating disorder, with all this dieting? I think what I'm doing is healthy and reasonable, but is it? Is it really? Do I look any better? Why don't I feel like I look better? Do I feel any better? Why don't I feel like I feel better? When will I feel better? Should I find a therapist? Do I just need a vacation? Should I go tanning? Start taking better care of myself, or at least different? Are these the kinds of questions that only highly insane, emotionally fragile, mentally unstable, psychologically damaged people ask?

Will I feel better if I just give in and eat a Tastykake? Tastykakes make everything better, don't they? Why do I keep doing this to myself? This can't be healthy, right?

And why do I worry that if I stop worrying about this stuff, even for a minute, that I might suddenly cease to exist?