Another Blast from the Past

If you’ve been joining me on this stroll down memory lane (otherwise known as: old blog posts) then I present for you another glimpse into the tumultuous psyche that is my own. Recently, during my hubby’s two-week long business trip to Detroit I was reminded at how fragile my bravado can be. When an innocent person, say for instance, me, is thrust into the role of primary caretaker it is necessary to take on and provide a sense of security to your charges, say for instance, my kids. And if that person tends towards the less brave variety than slaying those nighttime dragons can prove to be a tad difficult. Especially if that person is inclined to bury her head under the covers until the scary sounds subside. The following blog post details the circumstances leading to my cowardly existence. Enjoy!


“Wait…shhhh….did you hear that? I’m serious…just a minute. Can’t you hear that? It sounds like scratching or something. Go check.”

What you’ve just experienced is what has become an almost nightly occurance in mybedroominvolving me (the freaker) and my hubby, Jer (the checker-outer). I’ve always been afraid of the dark. Ever since I was a teenie weenie Mindy I would imagine I heard things in the dark. My sister and I used to share a room and we had a nightlight located in the hallway right outside. My sister would want it turned off. I would want it turned on. Fighting ensued. I’m the younger sister. I usually won. So, anyway, I’ve been battling the boogeyman for as long as I can remember. In fact, last nightIactually had to stop reading a romance novel with a stalker/serial killer subplot becauseIthought I remembered seeing a particularly friendly guy on a bike the other day who may justpossibly bemy stalker. I mean, itcould happen.

So, it would seem thatsomeone so naturally inclined to find the creepy in life would shy away from anything spooky, right? Wrong.Ihave recently begun towatch a television show which documents real-life ghost busters who also happen to encounteran occasional poltergeist or demon now and then.I know…smart, huh? It sure makes a lot of sense for a bonafide chicken-sh*t to find entertainment watching educated people sit in a dark room with night-vision cameras and attempt communication with the dead. But I continue to do it…every Monday night on“Paranormal State” (A&E). Paranormal is described by as “a general term that describes unusual experiences that lack a scientific explanation, or phenomena alleged to be outside of science’s current ability to explain or measure.” Okay, that’s really creepy. And I’ve tried and tried to talk myself out of believing in this particularly controversial topic of science. But what if all of it is real? Isn’t it a better strategy to educate oneself in this issue than toturn an unbelieving eye away altogether? I mean, if I happen to encounter a scary figure of the dead-variety on my midnight trip to the potty I want to know exactly what to do. I might have to pull out all the stops…some bad ass ninja stuff or some kind of hocus pocus chanting. Unfortunately, allthis education comes atthe expenseof my already frayed nerves.

So, should I stop watching this fascinating television show or “man-up” and get some cojones – that’s Spanish for “balls” and I’m not talking the sports-equipment kind. I know what the right answer is but I also know what the real answer will be. I’ll keep watching and keep imagining scary things in the night. But I’m seriously considering a purchase of some holy water, just in case.

An Oldie but a Goodie…

I thought I might start reposting some of my earlier blog entries, from way back when my mom and sisters were literally the only ones reading them. The following post is particularly appropriate because over the last couple of weeks I have been tried, tested, used and abused in my temporary role as “head of the household.” My husband had been relocated to Detroit for a short time while being oriented and trained for his new job (I’ll explain this more a little later) and this has left me killing my own spiders and plunging my own toilet. *Note ~ GI Joes DO NOT flush down the commode and I don’t care if they are attempting to swim to safety. Needless to say, my job as a stay-at-home mom has never been more tiring and, oddly, rewarding.

So, here it is and I hope you enjoy!


What in the HELL was I thinking? SAHM Woes…

Well, you asked for it so here it is. A glimpse inside my brain…an understanding of my soul…a glance into my psyche…Okay, so you really didn’t ask but I feel a need to talk about it so just deal with it! As I explained in my first entry, I am a stay-at-home mom. (AKA: stay-at-home lackey, used and abused with absolutely no monetary compensation.) I am, ahem, 33 years old and started my very first job as a receptionist/file clerk for a law firm at the ripe old age of 15. I took to work like a moth to a flame, like Splenda to Diet Coke, like a toddler to a cheap plastic toy at a grocery store check-out stand. But, I digress. The point is I liked to work. I liked the challenge and responsibility. I liked learning new things and meeting new people. I liked Liz Claiborne and Clinique makeup. I loved my paycheck. And thus began my love affair with making my own money. I continued to work at mostly full-time intervals until after I married my husband, Jeremy and had our first child, Avery. She was such a sweet child that I honestly couldn’t imagine working full-time and leaving her at daycare all day long. At the time I was working for a municipal court and loved my job. So Jer and I decided that I would reduce down to half-time and essentially live the best of both worlds. And it was great! I would breeze in and breeze out of work without the over-burdened stress of all my full-time coworkers and then pick up my little baby from her daycare without any guilt that I wasn’t the one actually raising her. And this schedule worked for 3 blissful years.

And then we had Jack. Sweet, funny, evil-incarnate Jack. Oh, where do I begin? Let’s start with the cost of putting two children in part-time daycare. It’s a lot. And when you are only working 20 hours a week to start with…well, you can figure it out. It was either work full-time or no-time and we decided to try the latter. What In The Hell Was I Thinking?

Little did I know that I would be joining an elite group of creative-minded parents with an inherent ability of which I was not born with nor would ever possess. Did you know that stay-at-home moms are expected to clip coupons and keep a detailed log of which stores are featuring seedless grapes at less than $2.00 per pound? And then are expected to share the information with other stay-at-home moms while any information not shared is viewed as a form of treason? Well, I know I sure didn’t! I also didn’t realize that certain parental requirements such as potty training and de-binkying (I can’t think of an official name for that one) are supposed to be seen as fulfilling and life-enriching projects. What?!

But now, I have dived in head-first into this world of coupon-clipping and crockery cooking without a look backwards at my old life. In the extremely wise and prophetic words of Popeye, “I am what I am”. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bitch about it. (My words, not Popeye’s. He was a pretty glass-half-full kind of sailor!)


Love to all, Mindy

WHERE Have You BEEN???

I really wish I could say, “Well, dahlings, I’m so sorry I’ve been absent but I’ve just been on a FAB-ulous world tour and couldn’t spare the time to say hullo.” But, that would be lying. In fact, it would be more on par to say, “Well, dahlings, I’m so sorry I’ve been absent but I’ve just been puttering around my own house picking up dirty clothes, stepping on Littlest Pet Shops and building semi-passable Valentine’s day school boxes.” Not as fabulous.

But, alas, I’m here today and wanting to say “HELLO my friends!”

And, as I quipped, things have been very “standard parenting” around these parts which means I’ve been busy and things have been hectic. Both of the kids have seemed to up their demands exponentially for their ol’ mom and Jeremy still seems to be invisible to their immature retinas (explanation here).

And as for my semi-passable Valentine’s day school box? Imagine realizing at 10:30p.m. that your preschooler is supposed to present a decorated valentine receptable and 40 valentine’s cards to his class at 7:30 the following morning and all you can find is a dilapidated shoe box, some seriously suspect “all occasion” wrapping paper and a single heart sticker. Magic happened people. Jer and I whipped out a pretty sweet little Valentine’s day box and luckily I had already picked up Jack’s cards. We sent Jack to school that morning, shoe box in hand, ready for the party and card exchange, anticipation giving him a noticeable spring in his step.

After school and on our way home in the car, Jack was telling me how excited he was to open up his box and see all the surprises he had in there. I tried to explain to him that the box would be filled with little cards, just like the Spiderman ones we had picked out. But it would be fun to look at all the different pictures and to read all the little sayings. I wanted him to realize that there might be a conversation heart in there or two but to not expect a bunch of candy.

Boy, was I wrong.

We ripped open that box and we were looking at a portable version of Target’s candy aisle! That box was packed with sweetness and Jack could barely contain his excitement. I could barely contain my embarassment at realizing I was probably the only parent who did not include cavities with her valentines.

Jack started shuffling through the various offerings and all of a sudden I spotted one very familiar red leotard-clad superhero peeking out between Dora the Explorer and Princess Belle. So, Jack had decided to gift himself with a Valentine. How cute. Suddenly noticing the Spiderman valentine, Jack lifted it out of the box and began inspecting it. I could see confusion (and a little disgust) plastered across his tiny little face.

“Hey,” he said.

“What buddy?” I answered.

Gripping (his own) Spiderman valentine in his fingers he asked, “Why come this boy didn’t give me no candy?!”

Oh, Jack.