Please Go Away

Do you ever have someone come into your office, cube, or work area and then talk and talk and talk about basically nothing? You’re sitting there, up to your ears in work, stressing, thinking to yourself: please leave, please, please, PLEASE PLEASE leave, please leave… and then they keep not leaving!? They rattle on and on and on about the most trivial, nothing about work things, nothing you need to know…and they don’t get the hint when your eyes glaze over as you keep nodding, “Yeah…really? Oh, cute…wow… how nice…” while inside you are screaming PLEASE please go, go, GO GOOO! Please go!! I don’t want to hear this SHUT UP, shut up, shut up!!! For the love of God please PLEASE PLEEEEZZZZEEEE GO AWAY!!!!

Had  to get that off my chest…

—SBM

The Zen of Proportions

March 5, 2016

I continue to struggle with the amount of food I toss, perfectly good food—I would love to finish up—that gets scraped into the garbage. A half-eaten pancake, ¾ of an apple, Cheerios too milk-logged, soggy, and falling apart to eat at this point, and most of that Starbucks cookie, we “had” to have. I try to estimate, next time, I tell myself: make a smaller pancake, but then I make a smaller one and then it is not enough and I am back in the kitchen making another “more please” (that gets ½ eaten).

As a mommy who is constantly kaizening her life to be more efficient and save time (since I have so little of it), in this area I feel like a total failure. There is no order. There are no constants in proportions in feeding a 7 (or under) -year old. It changes as soon as I pen a theory.

That is the constant.

Ommmmmmmmmm.

—SBM

Nonsufficient Funds

Funny thing, balancing your check book and not being overdrawn. Using an ATM for everything, it’s easy to mess up and forget that trip to Taco Bell (again, I know, with the Taco Bell, it’s a terrible habit I am not proud of). I was doing Quicken, what a nightmare. Then I tried Excel – a bigger more time-consuming nightmare.

And then I tried a spiral notebook by the phone, in the kitchen where I spend most of my time at home. I write in what I spend, I cross items that cleared off (with a pencil, can you imagine). And I haven’t messed up once since I started low-teching it with my finances. Brava Mamma!

—SBM

Permanent Bruise

I swear, every time I round the corner of my bed, I bump my upper outside left thigh past my right side bed frame. Every time. And every time it hurts. And every time I tell myself that I need to walk wider. Bigger loop around that edge. But I never do since I am always in a rush and forget my precaution. Therefore I have a permanent bruise on my leg. Once it begins to dim, I seem to bump it again.

I am always running around this house. Cleaning, putting away, wiping, or tossing. It is a constant transition from room to room, where I always find something that needs to be done. The dishwasher always seems locked and full of clean dishes with dirty ones staged in the sink, ready to go in, clothes in the dryer, wrinkling, while requests for chicken nuggets are shouted out or for a cup of water (with ice).

The days of my life today, pass just like this. Then it’s Friday. Saturday chores, and then Monday again. My dreams have grown up and moved out. Now, I just I want to eat more, sleep more, have a larger dishwasher that is not always full of dishes to be put away. I want quiet. I want to read a book instead of start one and get a quarter in and then never have time to finish. I just want to sleep in. As much as possible.

—SBM

Turkey, you got rhythm baby

Every so often at work, I am listening to music (to drown out the Corn Nuts chewing by my neighbor, really, Corn Nuts in a cube farm?) and a wild turkey strides by, to the beat of my music, like it meant it. This cracks me up and it’s one of those things that there’s hardly anyone you can tell. Eh, just sayin’.

—SBM

A ‘real’ dream . . .

Have you ever had a dream that was so real you were literally surprised to wake and realize you were only dreaming? It seemed like a mistake to wake up shocked to discover you are in your bed, it’s morning, and the dream was just a dream. What? You’re kidding, right?

What am I doing “real” dreaming about him? We finally got together in a this-is-reality-type dream. He kissed me. I felt his warmth, his weight, his breath. He was older and we were just at the start of the relationship that, years ago, was all I wanted.

This is all terrifically odd because flash forward to now, many years later, I realize that he is the last person who would make a good husband material. He was self-centered, self-absorbed in a kind-of altruistic way, and more into his hair, his exercise regime, his Tae Kwon Do, and his life science research on fruit flies (that buzz around and hang around that fruit bowl even after the bad fruit is tossed) than, really, anything or anyone else. Or so I thought . . .  But he loved to be flirted with, loved to flirt and pretend he was available and had pretenses for something with me. I fell hard in love and it was, as it turned out, absolutely nothing but a painful experience of unrequited love. Sigh . . .

Marry him? Hello. No. He was regimented and boring when it came right down to it, and clueless. Yes, bumblebees are fat, stubby and don’t appear flight-worthy, but they fly. Makes no sense. Get over it. Stop not getting the obvious, would you?

But he was delicious to look at. And kiss. Last night. Oh, my goodness, my make believe—as if it were a real—just a dreamy one night stand . . .

Can I just think it’s so—without any reality thrown in to mess things up—just for today.

I think so.

—SBM

The Over-Abundance of Things

I have, what I would say, is a zillion photos of J and of things I see every day. Photos from the camera, photos form the phone and the iPad, photos of the house, dinner guests, birthday parties, trips to the beach, shopping, of J wearing an orange wig looking very much like Nicki Minaj. Photos at the park of J going down the slide, hanging on the monkey bars, riding her bike, photos of trips, and then photos to edit, to Photoshop before they are print worthy and then there are the videos. Videos I’ve taken from the iPhone, iPad, and that J has taken. And I have recorded voice messages, ideas I’ve noted, to do lists, J doing “tutorial” recordings – like the ones she sees on You Tube.

It’s endless. I am drowning in all of this stuff and I have not made even one photo album – yet. With this over-abundance of our lives frozen in time (oh, yeah, and forgot to mention recordings of J singing “Let it Go”), I am perplexed as to what to do with it all that lives on the computer, on my Malaysia and Italy hard drives, flash drives, and a Passport (drive). And CDs. I have copies of copies to the point that I don’t know what the hell I have any more, how much of it is repeat and then there’s the mountain of another version of all of this stuff on my laptop at work, that I need to remove since it is taking up hard drive space.

It is an infinite stream and yet it’s all foldered away digitally, sitting on the desktop, still in the camera ready for download. I print a few here and there, I promise to Photoshop a new set to place between glass and hang on the wall and others to send to grandma.…

Life has redefined complex, crazy busy, what you are expected to know, memorize, do, backup, and create (yet another new password). I have two phones, two car chargers, two home chargers, earphones that work on one phone or device but not the the other. I have written instructions (that I created) to explain to guests (babysitters) how to turn on the TV (one remote), turn up the volume (another remote), play a DVD, and a Blue Ray (another remote); note: all remotes have volume control (not all work though).

Isn’t this supposed to get faster and make life easier? And when does that happen?

Please? Someone, anyone?

—SBM

Art Wild

It’s amazing how many people in the art world are named Art…or maybe it’s just me. One of my first jobs in journalism was at a major daily newspaper. I was completely green, still in college, inexperienced, knew next to nothing about the industry, and in my early 20s.

My first week there was as most first weeks are at a new job: overwhelming and spent trying to remember names and make a good first impression, learn everything you can, and remember everything you can, and then learn about completely new concepts, some of which seemed to make no sense. And then there are those odd ball situations, occurrences, ironies, you notice that seem that they are only there to mess with you, since you are new.

One of the first things I learned in the newsroom that first week was about was the concept of “wild art.” This refers to artwork (a photo) that appears in a newspaper that’s not part of an article but stands on its own in an illustrative way—to give the reader a sense of what is going on in the area, that day, and what people are doing when they are out and about with respect to the weather, the area, or the time of year.

For example, on a hot, sunny summer day, on his or her way to shoot a homicide, a photojournalist might run across some kids playing with a water hose in the middle of the street, spraying each other, laughing and screaming, and the photog will hop out of the car and capture the moment. The accompanying caption might read something along the lines of “Little ones keep cool as temperatures soar….” Wild art is artistic, clever, fun and above all, this is the light news—a break from all of the heavy stuff on the front page.

Back to one of the first things I learned that day (the odd ball situation, I mentioned, there to mess with me) was that one of the guys in the layout and design dept was named Art Wild.

—SBM

Birthday Blues

May 28, 2014

J’s birthday is this weekend. I have over 30 kids coming to a Pump it Up party–or so I think. About 10 invitees have not RSVP’d, so I have to presume they will attend. Geez. In this new kids birthday parties era of goodie bags (and can someone please tell me when this phase began?) it’s hard to believe that moms would not band together on this one and RSVP so the birthday party giving mom could plan. Eh. I’ve made 38 or so bags and brought extra supplies just in case I have to whip one together.

I decided to forgo the plastic crap available at party stores that you just throw away once you get home and instead filled bags with candy (no nuts), glow in the dark bracelets (use em, toss em), a pencil (will be obsolete before we know it)–at least stuff someone can actually use.

Yesterday was J’s official birthday. I bought (what she picked out) iced cookies from Safeway and candy for classmates and made brownies for after school care. I went to class to drop everything off during their snack time, bought a Disney princesses balloon on the way…that’s a good mommy. I bought presents for her at Target that she herself picked out while she was with me. I had grabbed an opaque shopping bag at the check-out stand on our way in, then slipped in her selections after I distracted the birthday girl to look “over there”. I whispered to the checker to ring the items in the bag (and keep them in there). We left and J hadn’t a clue what I was up to. Good mommy.

The next day, the day, I was exhausted and sleep deprived because someone wouldn’t go to bed the night before and was uncharacteristically having a meltdown …and I still had brownies to make. The day was not as it should have been, though I am still not clear about what anything should be. We snapped at each other, we cried, we hugged, cried some more and all in all I was convinced I am a horrible mommy…yep, as it should be. Even with the best intentions, we are still human and have our breaking point. I took on too much.

–SBM

 

 

 

 

Good-bye Blue

Last night, we were at Target buying what I told J were big boring things: large packages of toilet paper, paper towels, and cat litter (a 40 pound box that I used to lift bending my back before I through out my back and had to get acupuncture; do what they told you to do forever ago: bend your knees to pick up the heavy things).

When we got to the check out, J wanted to help (she always asks how she can help, my darling girl). So I jokingly handed her the big humongous pack of paper towels that was not so much heavy as it was cumbersome for a 5-year old to hold. We both cracked up as she tried to get the package up onto the conveyor belt and I cheered her on. The lady behind was enjoying our antics and snickered. When J turned around and noticed her she said, “Hi.” And then “What’s your favorite color?” The lady giggled at the where-did-that-come kind-of question and said “Blue” was her favorite color.

J then looked behind the lady and then said to her, “What’s her favorite color?” referring to the woman behind her. The lady giggled more and said, “I don’t know, you would have to ask her.”

I said “Okay’s let’s go!” and J said to the lady, “Good-bye Blue” and we walked away….

–SBM