You.

Go ahead and lie, and pout, and stomp and sulk. I will keep cooking. I will bake and wash and grow and sort. You can frown and thrash and wallow and blame. I will hand my heart a lunch and send it out into traffic. I will do my work and walk away. Forward, forward, forward.

This is what I know, and this is what I do. You cannot sink me. I will blow kisses to your back as you flee. I will measure and read and plan and worry. You can drift and want. I will fret and hope. Feel free to keep secrets, and glare, and dismiss and deny. I know.

I know.

So I will keep cooking.

My Girl is Broken

I have never been a bridesmaid. I have never been a maid of honor. I have never thrown a shower. I have never attended a birth. I have never visited a friend within 48 of their child's birth. People don't call me first with good news. People don't call me with bad news.

But, they're calling someone. They're asking someone to be in their wedding, and meet their child, and shriek at their news. It's just not me.

Girls have girl friends. I know this because I have seen it on the television. They do girl things. They talk about boys and clothes and babies and money and other girls and other boys and food and work. They laugh and cry and say the right thing and walk down the sidewalk together smiling. They go out of their way to see each other. They are very important to each other. They couldn't live without their girlfriends.

They.

I'm not sure why I never noticed this before. It really should have dawned on me slowly instead of falling on my head like a wine bottle off my fridge, but it's actualy true. Is this a fluke? Maybe my Best Friends haven't done anything remarkable yet. Maybe all the Best Friends are taken. Maybe?

Apparently all the lipgloss and earrings and nail polish in the world don't do a damn thing anyway.

A Break-up Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Michaela,

I know this will probably come as a huge shock (since you're pretty self-absorbed), but I'm afraid Ijust can't go on like this.  I've been dragging you around for years now, and I just don't think I can do it anymore.  You see, I just don't know what I'm getting out of this arrangement.  You're always lurking about, feeling sorry for yourself, muttering snotty things under your breath.  It's really not good for me.  So I just have to let you go.

Don't get me wrong, I understand.  You're used to things being a certain way, and it's hard to change.  To be perfectly honest, I don't want to grow up either.  I am terrified.  I mean, how am I supposed to figure all this stuff out?  I don't know what's going to happen.  This is all completely foreign to me.  What if I make the wrong decisions?  This is serious stuff, here.  This isn't just "Oh, gosh, which club should we meet up at tonight?"  This is BIG.  Like mortgages, and dinner menus, and vaccinations.  But, you know what?  I'm a little excited.  I get the feeling that I might actually like it  here in Grown-Up Land.  The pay isn't so great, but I don't have to worry about where I'm gonna live next year, or how I'm gonna tell that guy I don't wanna see him again.  I get the feeling that it's sort of safe here.  Which is a HUGE relief, I tell you what.  It's exciting being young and having endless choices, but it gets a little old (no pun intended).  When it comes down to it, I don't want to live on cigarettes and coffee, and try to be a size 3, and nurse hangovers, and listen to dumb sorority girls babble.  And it's really lonely waking up in a big empty bed.  So, I'm gonna buck up.  I'm moving forward.

It's not glamorous.  I get peed on and puked on.  None of my clothes really fit anymore (not that anyone's looking).  The grey hair is coming in at quite an alarming rate.  I'm sort of squishy and jiggly in places that would horrify you.  But that's just the way it is now.  And hanging on to you isn't doing me any good.   As a matter of fact, it's sort of pathetic.  I don't need to be young to be me.  And while I'm still not quite sure who "me" is,  I'm pretty sure I can figure it out.  People do it every day, right?

So, thanks for the memories.  Thank you for making me laugh, and taking me to places I never would go now.  Thanks for being brave sometimes.  I'm really glad we had our time together.  I wouldn't be the same without you.  And remember that guy you made me pick up at a bar that one time?  Well, he's working out quite well.  We're gonna be just fine (I might ask him to write a break-up letter of his own though.  That rebel crap is a little much sometimes).  

With love, always,

Michaela

Top 5 Things On My Mind Today:

1.  Laminate countertops are basically made of laminated paper.  I can't decide if I think this is funny or ominous.

2. If you don't use an entire vat of butter flavor Crisco within a year, green and brown mold grows on the edge of the vat.  

3.  If you do use an entire vat of butter flavored Crisco within one year, you are probably in denial.  Or live in the south.  Or at my house.

4.  Hair Removal Creme smells disturbingly like Perm Solution.  Think about that for a minute.  Imagine what could go wrong (in either case).

5.  King County has nothing to do with the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior.  Why is his face everywhere?  Which intern came up with that one?  Did she go to Ballard High School?

Dear grocery store checker who asked me if I was pregnant,

I just wanted want to take the time to respond to your question properly, since I couldn't quite find the words to express what I was feeling when you originally made your inquiry on tuesday.  I am not, in fact, having a baby, but I wanted to thank you for pointing out my apparent weight problem. It's really touching to know that complete strangers are that interested in my reproductive status.  Perhaps this is a hobby of yours.  Perhaps you are just jealous.  Quite frankly, from the looks of it, I would say that the only thing your ovaries will be producing in the near future are bb's, or maybe small rocks of crack cocaine.  I will certainly use this opportunity to reevaluate my wardrobe as well; maybe it's time to lose the generously cut Old Navy henley and trade up to something a little more form fitting, maybe involving lycra.  That way there would be no question.  Unfortunately I am at a bit of a disadvantage, as the Meth Chic of which you are so fond has not yet made its way into my part of Bothell.

I wish you all the best, and good luck with those teeth.

Sincerely,

Michaela

Oh, well.

I am now more intimidated by this remodeling stuff than I thought I would be.  Steve fixed the shower upstairs yesterday (which has not functioned the entire time we have live here), so, naturally I got carried away with my enthusiasm and decided it would be a good time to start ripping the nasty wallpaper/border off the wall.  Which I am convinced is actually shelf liner that some idiot stuck to the wall. So, in true Michaela style, full speed ahead!!  The first section came off easily...but that's about it.  Now I have the papery backing stuff stuck all over the walls of my bathroom.  Nice.  And of course, the previous backsplash was much taller, so there's a charming border of old nasty tile glue on the wall right above the current one.  Yay!  So maybe I shouldn't pick on Steve for being so cautious about everything all the time.  Now my bathroom looks like it belongs in a hotel in New Jersey somewhere.  And it will for probably the next month.  It's a good thing I have no life so there's little chance of anyone seeing it first hand.

I was fully prepared to write about my Adventures with Children today, but I just realized they have all been fairly well behaved and not very funny for the past few days.  This is boring. This is ominous.  This can only mean that they are all about to come down with Scarlet Fever or something.

Okay, I lied, I've got it.

Declan won't talk.  Now, I know he is only 19 months old, but in this family that's the age most of them started negotiating for a ten o'clock bed time and their own phone line.  This kid just doesn't care.  And why should he? He has six other people to talk for him around here, and let's face it, it's a lot more fun to point and grunt than to try that whole enunciation thing.  Anyway, we're going crazy trying to encourage (force) him to start using some actual recognizable words.  We have conversations that go like this:

me:  "Honey, can you say 'juice'?"

D: "Bob."

me: "No, honey, juice."

D: "Bob!"

me: "C'mon, Declan, say juuuuuuuicccce."

D: "Boooooooob!!"

me: "Oh forget it.  Here's your damn juice."

He does have a few "words" that he uses whenever he feels like it.  They are:

Deh-deh: kitty, daddy, baby, and more recently, bird.

Na-na: bottle, milk, banana

Ah-wah:  Blue's Clues

Buppa: ketchup, salt, maple syrup, hot sauce, or anything else sitting on the table that mom pours on food.

He's a huge Indiana Jones fan; he walks around the house singing the movie theme song all day. Of course he gets this from his older brothers, who are the embodiment of Dr. Jones at the moment (this month anyway).  We have several sizes of action figures lying around the house and we own all the movies.  Yesterday Declan walked up to me with the tiny Mutt Williams action figure.  He thrust it in my face, smiled his best I'm-a-charmer-like-my-daddy smile, and said:

"Mutt!!"  

Blah.

As you can see, I'm feeling sort of blah this morning.  We spent yesterday afternoon running errands with four out of five kids, and I thin I'm still recovering.  The new gerbils, Mario and Lucas, are enjoying their fancy shmancy cage with its network of tubes (that the big fat hamster could never fit into), but other than that, there's nothing to report, sir.  I suppose I should be thankful.  But like my drama teacher used to tell me, don't should all over yourself...

I did avoid a homocidal episode yesterday, of which I am quite proud (albeit disappointed).  She-who-shall-remain-nameless still walks the earth.  I was fairly close to bludgeoning her yesterday, or at least poking her in the eyes or something.  Well, in my head anyway.  I don't really know what I did to deserve this woman.  It's as if God, or whoever, decided that the only way I could be so lucky to end up with Steve would be if I had to put up with this broad froever.  She's like human psoriasis.  Annoying, angry, ugly, and just won't go away no matter what you do.

I know I'm not helping by dwelling on her but I just can't help it.  I want my fairy tale.  I want that damn woman to just go poof.  See, look, I'm getting all cranky just thinking about her.  This is not good.  I have nothing clever to say now because I am grumbly. Grr.

Mmmm..coffee...

Really bizarre dreams again last night.  At one point I remember standing on a corner with some sort of grassy embankment, furiously picking up soggy toys and stuffing them into an assortment of duffle bags that I just happened to have with me.  Then I was on a train with my sister, Steve, Natalie, Rena, and a couple other shapeless mystery people, when Steve got the idea that we just "leave" the train (easier said than done, even in a dream) in Boston and then somehow make it to Pennsylvania to catch our connecting flight to Seattle.  Now, this is not entirely out of character for my husband, but really, why Pennsylvania?  Of course it was all high jinks and disaster, ending with a biker-looking guy asking me for my social security number and then giving me a word puzzle to solve, in order to determine which departing flight I would be on.  One of those days where it was actually a relief to wake up.

I stumbled into the bathroom in the half-dark and caught my reflection in the mirror, and I must say I look just like Julia Louis-Dreyfuss after a nice nose-job this morning, such is the volume of my hair.  Where was this hair in 1991?  I could have saved a fortune in hair products, not to mention the time I spent bonding with my blow-dryer and curling iron.  Hrm.  That's just how it goes though.  I seem to be a perpetual late bloomer; not quite mastering my techniques until it's too late and I've already moved on to the next phase of my evolution.  Right now I think I'm heading toward supreme momness.  I prettied myself up for little Max's birthday party last night and really looked like I was trying out for the remake of Family Ties.  What was the mom's name? Carol?  No, that was Growing Pains.  Well, whatever, the point is I felt all momish and conservative in my cords-that-come-up-to-your-real-waist and my straight boring hanes shirt and little silver chain with family birthstone pendant.  Very strange.  I'm wondering if maybe I should embrace this, though.  At what point to I give up the ghost and admit that I am seriously  not 25 anymore, and that, quite frankly, I don't want to be.  Or do I?  What was so great about that anyway?  Sure, I'm a tad bit more upholstered in my 30's (which is horrible) but other than that (and two more babies)  I still have the same man and the same job and....well, that's all I do so I can just stop there.

I have no answers.  My brain hurts just getting that far into it at 0530.  I need more coffee.  And I really need to figure out why there is a nearly empty cream cheese container in my purse.

is this thing on?

Wow, like, this is really awkward.  Like, we just met and I have nothing to say awkward.  How does one go about starting a blog anyway?  What exactly is the etiquette here?  Do I just start babbling?  Do I need to tell you my life story from the beginning?  Do I dare presume that anyone I don't know will even read this?  That's a little lofty. I guess  the simple act of starting a blog already announces to the world how arrogant and self-centered I probably really am, so that's probably irrlevant.  Okay, okay, that's enough.

Anyone who knows me knows that I talk too much.  WAAAAAY too much.  So it seems only natural that I have too many things whizzing through my head at any given time for Facebook or anybody else to handle.  Add to that the fact that I spend most of my time talking to people who can't tie their own shoes, much less carry on a conversation that doesn't involve Blues Clues or Indiana Jones, and hopefully you can understand how overstuffed my poor brain is.  So it is you, precious captive reader, who will bear the brunt of my mental stagnation and test out all my ideas for me until I can find some real (i.e. not virtual) friends to talk to.   

Whew, I'm drained.  Okay, not really, but one of the small people is calling me from upstairs so apparently I'v been discovered.  Over and out.