a little of this, a little of that

You may not have noticed, but posting has been kind of light around here lately. That's mostly because I am Going Through Something. No, actually, I meant I am Going through Something, with italics. I like to call it my ThirdChild Crisis. And when you are Going Through Something like that, you can't just be posting stuff on the internet, willy-nilly.

Because, Woe. It is Crisisful.

It's actually a lot like a Midlife Crisis, only without the money for a little red sports car.

In any event, everything I'm trying to write is crap. Hello and Welcome to my Crisis! I am 27! I have a lot of kids! I am sitting here at 10 p.m. waxing existential to the internet! Because my husband is out of town! And my friends are partying in Disneyland! And my parents are in Hawaii! And my kids won't sit still for a discourse on What It All Means!

But enough about that, you don't want to hear about that, you didn't come here for that. I have deleted my existential musings, and shall opt instead for an embarrassing story: an incident that I found so embarrassing at the tender age of 17, I'd even call it soul-scarring.

When I was a teenager I worked at this total dive of a Mexican restaurant. Forgive me for generalizing, but there were basically two groups of people working there at the time: girls who didn't like me, and illegals with rudimentary English.

So this one evening, I was in the kitchen having a conversation with one of the cooks; and by conversation, I mean he was asking if I liked to dance and drink and go to clubs, mainly by using elaborate hand-gestures.

I liked this cook. He was a really nice guy. And I appreciated the fact that he would try to talk to me, even though I spoke no Spanish and was horribly awkward in my attmepts to communicate. But without the subtleties of actual words, I was having a hard time figuring out just what, exactly, we were talking about. Was he being polite? Was he suggesting I needed to loosen up? Was he asking me out? I had no idea.

And so, craftily utilizing my fail-proof technique developed for just such awkward occasions, I turned around and left.

I walked out into the dining room, and sat in the back booth with two of the other girls. I was staring at the table, trying to figure out what had just happened, when one of the girls, Katie, tapped me to get my attention.

"Hello!" she said in (condescending) amusement. "Thinking hard?"

"oh. No," I stammered in confusion. "I just ... I don't ... I think Guy maybe was ... hitting on me? I don't know. It was weird."

Katie stared at me for a minute.

And it was uncomfortable.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "Maybe he was just being nice? He's really nice. I don't know. It seemed like he was hitting on me."


The other girl was staring at the table, and Katie was still staring at me. She cleared her throat.

"He was just being nice," she told me. "He's a very friendly person."

And she stood up.

"Oh. well, Okay," I said. "uh ... thanks."

she left.

The girl still sitting at the table looked at me and shook her head. "Liz," she said, "Guy is Katie's boyfriend."

and I died.

The end.

minutiae, Illustrated

so what did you do today?

because I did this:





















and bought this:





























further cementing my reputation as a sucker for hairstylists, especially when they use the word "shiny."





























which is hilarious, because even with these products languishing in my drawer, my hair usually looks like this:















only now, I guess, it looks more like this:

















(I know, I know. but you try making a non-stupid face while taking a picture of yourself in the mirror. it is IMPOSSIBLE.)

... then end.

I CANNOT THINK OF A TITLE FOR THIS POST, I AM TIRED, FOR THE LOVE, CHILDREN, WHY WON'T ANYONE IN THIS HOUSE GO TO SLEEP?

I am tired.

really tired.

so very tired.

tired, tired, tired.

And I'm sure you'd like to hear about something besides how very very extremely tired I am, but...you won't. Because I've got nothing else.

These are the jokes, people.

I actually wrote a blog post in my head last night while I was feeding Ivy, trying to keep myself awake, and as I recall it was fantastically witty and clever and abundantly humorous, but tragically for you, that's pretty much all I remember.

because I am tired.

And the tired is sucking my will to blog creatively.

or something.

So, I was thinking, before I resort to something really pathetic (like blogging about what I had for dinner last night) (ciabatta rolls and a vanilla brownie shake, thanks for asking) (why, yes, it was delicious), maybe you guys could...inspire me? You know, tell me what to blog about? Are there any stories you want to hear? Questions you want answered? Advice you'd like given? I can do it all.

Maybe.

Just leave a suggestion in the comments.

Thanks.

ps. If your name is Spkat, you are not allowed to request any story that involves me falling out of a car.

pps. actually, that goes for everyone.

IN OTHER NEWS:

William was jumping on the bed this morning, and somehow fell down, cut his gums a lot, and knocked one of those brand-new teeth loose.
and bled profusely.
it was sad.
and frustrating, because do you know how much work getting that stupid tooth was? for all of us? I LOST SLEEP FOR THAT THING.

lies your parents told you

dear Internet,

I'd like to let you in on a little secret: all parents have a favorite child.

It's true. If you come from a family of more than one kid, your parents probably told you they loved you all the same, but they were lying. That's right, your parents were liars--big fat liars. They loved someone the most. Someone was the favorite.

Do I have a favorite? Yes, I do. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'll even tell you who it is, and I won't feel bad about it at all. My favorite is whoever goes to sleep the quickest and stays asleep the longest.

Yes. That is the child I love above all other children.

Sadly for us, right now that child is Ivy Elizabeth.

I know, right? She's a newborn. She doesn't sleep for more than three or four hours at time. And still, she is waking me up less at night than her brothers.

William (or Cranky-Pants, as he is now called) is getting six teeth right now. He poor gums are all red and puffy, he wakes up often, and getting him to sleep at night is an exercise in self-torture.

Michael is going to bed okay, but comes into our room several times a night because he 'needs to try to give one more kiss really bad.'

I know. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "awww. cute."

WRONG! WRONG AGAIN! It is NOT cute. It is TERRIBLE. Because I gave birth recently. I have a two-week-old. Who sleeps by my bed. And eats three times a night. And I AM TIRED.

Which is why, in my mentally revised will, Ivy is getting everything.

At least until William's teeth are done, and he goes back to being a 13 1/2 hour sleeper.

Because that would definitely make him my favorite.