strange bedfellows

Suffice it to say, my kids spend a great deal of their time at odds, and there are more Bigfoot sightings than there are those of Quinn and Reilly being affectionate with each other. Quinn is quite tender-hearted, and tries to reach out, but Rei's a pistol and pretty much only gets mushy with Mama. So imagine my surprise yesterday when I discovered that they had both crawled in bed with me, and after unwittingly squeezing me out into the cold harsh morning much too early, were left together, as though by choice. I got a little misty.

My sleeping beauties:


All that time sleeping next to each other must have altered their biorhythms or something, because after dinner I noticed Reilly giving Quinn a make-over, to which he was more amenable than I'd have expected. They were laughing and parting his hair on the wrong side, putting in ponytails, and even a sweet little pink bow.

I think maybe we need to cut back on Will & Grace...

pombardment!

Todd is inexplicably drawn to Grocery Outlet, a fact which I find to be a bit scandalous, given his high standards where food is concerned. Me, I'm just a snob, and can't quite bring myself to buy diet TAB, which are placed next to the garden rakes, which draws one's eye straight to the pyramid of off-brand Pepto Bismal. It's just too damned higgeldy piggeldy in there for me. I don't think the cereal and fertilizer should share a display, and I must reveal the true retail beast within me and confess that such a vast array of non-brands makes me feel like I'm in a foreign country. Crapland.

Anyway, every so often, if a person is crazy enough to go in several times a week, a person can find good deals. It's like the lottery. After all, that coconut chocolate bar from my previous blog post was found at Grocery Outlet. We've also gotten Amy's frozen entrees, and lots and lots and lots of candy. (Proof of G.O.'s spell, for Todd doesn't even like candy, yet he comes home with wheelbarrows full of chocolate [gag!] every few days.)

I never know how to react to the disgustingly yellow bags he brings in by the dozen because whatever he has found, he has bought 75 of them. Could be Kit Kats, could be a deep-dish mushroom souffle with spelt crust and tartar sauce topping. But if it is a delicious chicken, broccoli, cheese casserole, there will never be another one again. Ever.

"I thought it looked interesting." He'll say. Frequently, after baking some rank concoction, he'll catch me the next time I head out the door and say, pleadingly, "Please offer these (74 packages of) souffles to (whomever)."

Okay let me get to my point. Todd has gone completely mad over those P♥M juices, in their tall sleek glasses. He is so taken with them that he buys 20 at a time, and we can scarcely fit milk in the refrigerator, for all the P♥M. Oh, and we don't really even like it that much. Sure the first few seconds elicit a Hawaiian Punch-like response in your mouth, but then the furious bitter receptor taste buds rise up and let you know just how wrong you were. Blech. I have long said that while one hard-earned pomegranate seed is delicious, a bowl of them is bitter as hell, and the juice is no different. Since nothing else will fit the refrigerator, we have no orange juice or anything, so we drink P♥M. So he keeps buying it. The problem here is that the glasses are glasses, not plastic. In other words, not disposable. So we have them all. ALL. They're lined up in our cupboard like shiny soldiers, they adorn our counter tops, they have permanent residence in at least one half of our sink, and if you were thinking about putting a cup on the top rack of the dishwasher, fuggedaboudit.

So what do we do? Should I start smuggling four glasses into every house I visit and leave them in the cupboards like some weird reverse bandit? I felt less overrun by our four mice, who produced approximately 97 babies each day. Todd suggested the glasses might make a nice vase, but A) Our yard is gravel, so not a lot of pretty things waiting to be picked, and B) The glasses aren't nice enough to give as a vase. You know? Like, "Here Megan, in honour of your birth I brought these beautiful rocks, in this totally frou-frou P♥M vase. Happy trashmoon, er, babymoon." Also, I can't move them fast enough doling them out one at a time.

Fortunately, our entire set of cobalt blue chunky glasses broke over the course of the past month, all 12 of them. They were a wedding gift so after 13 years I was ready for a change, plus it made room for our P♥Mware. Ooh lah lah.

What, you know you're jealous.





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buy the book

This time I just really wish you all could have been there. It's damned near indescribable. So surreal words won't do it justice, but I'll take a crack at it. The setting for this unfathomable occurrence was Costco, yesterday. The kids and I were hustling through the warehouse, and its $9,000 patio sets, in search of humbler things like Goldfish crackers and of course, my psych meds du jour. As we sped past the books, I made a note to myself to check back on the way around to look for David Sedaris' new book, which has received much acclaim by Adam and B. In fact they've taken to reading me excerpts sometimes as long as 35 pages. I wasn't sure Costco would sell a Sedaris book, and if they did, I was going to buy a copy when I get my allowance Friday. Oh God, I'm afraid a little background on my allowance is in order. It's a very touchy subject but it works something like this: Todd makes a respectable chunk of change and gives me a comfortable allowance each week. This particular week I had not only lost, for the first time in history, $20, which miraculously did not trigger a heart attack, but I had also been a little free with my spending and as such, didn't have the cash on me to buy the book yesterday.

So we're weaving in and out of the aisles in search of primo samples, but my kids got the shaft with chipotle spread and some succotash or something creepy. We loaded up on the staples, and all the while I kept seeing a woman I recognized, shopping with her mom, but I couldn't place her, which is rare for me. Grabbed flax cereal, there was the woman. Hoisted a 90 pound flat of bottled water onto the cart, she was there to see my grunting and wiping away the sweat. Damn, how do I know her? Finally we're nestled cozily in the pharmacy, my home away from home, my kids know just where to go to wait out the line. I get Maggie, who absolutely delights in my self-deprecating jokes, which is the surest way to keep me standing there until armageddon, but finally we make our way to the register. After schlepping so many boxes onto he conveyor, I felt like an honorary Egyptian, I stood up and realized that behind me were the mother and daughter duo of unknown origin. The daughter ran back for something, and as I rudely surveyed their cart, I noticed, perched atop the heap, was the David Sedaris book! Crap! I must have been fairly obvious in my exasperation, because Mom inquired as to my histrionics. I explained that I had come in looking specifically for that book, but had forgotten to go back. Dear God I had unwittingly unleashed the good samaritan from hell. First she offered to stand with my kids while I ran to fetch the book. "Oh no I couldn't, our things are on the conveyor." (Read: I don't have the coin to buy the book today.) Next she offered to ask the checker to wait, to which I sort of coughed and shook my head, smiling. As it became my turn, the daughter came back, and I continued to search my failing memory with a fine tooth comb in hopes of recognizing her. My concentration was lost however when the Mom said, "Honey, this woman came in to get this book and then forgot it. You have to go back." Again I stated that that was not necessary, and smiled, though I had long been faking it. I'm not exactly a doormat, but I definitely lack the cajones to shout out, "Listen lady, my (ex) husband buys the groceries and I live on an allowance, which I blew through already, and I can't actually afford the book until Friday, thankyouverymuch." Finally, as my purchase was complete, and I was holding four receipts (long story), Todd's debit card, my Costco card, and the cart, this precious do-gooding warrior did the unthinkable. She handed her copy of the book to the cashier, who didn't even look up for my approval, and just scanned it right through. "That's $14.89 ma'am." This is pretty much when time came to a crawl and I started hearing cacophonous music, and everything began to rotate. The truth was, I wasn't putting my fag-o-rama book on Todd's debit card, nor was I canceling the purchase, nor was I in a position to do anything but fake a seizure. I took the only money I possessed, my $20 for gas, and handed it to the man. What's worse, I had to make lovebird eyes at these wretchedly well-intended women, and thank them no less than 15 times for ruining my entire week. And I mean ruined. Thanks to them, I had to cancel an appointment, due to insufficient petrol, and my kids and I folded laundry that day and watched a very haggard, and as Quinn observed, "trans-gendered" Carly Simon on the Ellen show.

If you're wondering why I didn't just go and return it, it's because there was a very serious Japanese man returning a really large computer, but each piece was in a Ziploc baggie. If you're wondering why I didn't grow some stones and just refuse once and for all, it's because I was weak. What I'm wondering, as I'm sure are you, is how much I will love this book having already heard 89% of it. The answer to that is, hell yes, once I finish Middlesex. (Long stream of expletives!)

I hope, on those women's next shopping voyage, that some "kind" and/or deranged person loudly and fiercely insists on handing over her 1,000 pack of feminine itch relief products. Sweeter still would be if the clerk had to ask for the price over the intercom...

take my breath away. please.

OMG you guys, I live for these golden moments in parenthood:

While toiling away on the computer this morning, my Reilly appeared with a tin of Altoids and offered me some. I took one, and she put a few more on my desk before flitting away in her sunglasses.

A little while later she was back, picking up one of the mints she had left, trying to put it in my mouth.

"That's okay honey," I said. "I was going to have breakfast, and don't want the mints to make it taste funny."

To which she replied:

"Trust me mom, you need to." I feigned hurt feelings, sticking my lip out, and she was immediately sorry and said, in the most tender voice you've ever heard, "Mom, it's just that...I don't want someone else to tell you..."

(Picture me laughing, with my hand over my mouth of course!)

aloha?

This had to have been inspired by my Reilly...

a league of her own

B's comment on my previous post was so (what's the word?) delicious, I had to showcase it:

Hold On, I have to side with the Fitz kids here. While Faith deserves Straight Up to burn on in Eternal Flame, or at least go out in A Blaze of Glory, it was The End of the Road for New Kids and Milli Vanilli. Nothing Compares 2 U using that Poison as a history lesson. It's time to Rush Rush back to the ancients and learn how to Walk Like an Egyptian. I don't mean to sound Cold Hearted but I can just imagine Reilly giving you The Look as you gave those tunes One More Try.

You are my rockstar B.

we're fraternal

We've had lots of fun in the past with celebrity look-alike posts, so I thought I'd offer up mine.

Now, the picture I took with my phone of a National Enquirer cover last month was too distorted to use in the blog, so I was forced to scour the internet for images that will confirm my twindom with Kirstie Alley. Mind you, I only resemble her when she weighs 260+ pounds. When she's thin she is quite beautiful. And I definitely don't fancy myself having her kick-ass hairline. But there is an undeniable similarity when she's heavy.

See for yourself.:


this one captures my ever-present scowl


this could be either of us

whiplash

A word to the wise:

If you don't cook or bake, and rely on the ambition and generosity of others, namely your mother-in-law, to bestow pies upon you, you'd be wise to use caution about one thing.

When you've sliced yourself a piece of the scrumptious pie in your sleepy morning haze, so eager to wash it down with the aforementioned 64-oz. coffee, and you see a tupperware container of hand-whipped cream in the fridge, I URGE you to make sure it's not mashed potatoes before heaping it upon your pie.

I mean, for what it's worth.

ducks, dares, and dexter, mr. president

I may as well just confess it. I don't feel compelled to spend sunny days outdoors. While my friends are taking the day off work and whisking their kids off to various parks, I am at home, utilizing the extra rays to kick my cleaning into overdrive.

So yesterday, Presidents' Day, was no exception. Todd got off early and swooped home to take the kids to Silver Falls, and I was muy contenta to fold Mt. St. Laundry and watch reruns of Lost. But no. Having heard of my abandonment, those kindly Kinches took pity on me once again and invited me to join their duck-feeding excursion. Even with all the ambiance of the state penitentiary, I had serious misgivings.

You see, I fell for this once before, about five years ago. A friend cajoled me to bring my kids to feed these same disease-riddled fowl, and, long story short, we slogged through five-inch bird shit until my kids' Brazilian-made Nubuck suede shoes were ruined, as were their pants, and I was reduced to a thumb-sucking infant for days. (I have OCD remember?)

So I was hardly clicking my heels to meet B & Co. at what I have come to call Duck Shit Acres. But I didn't have my kids, and I felt I could safely roam the outskirts without spoiling their fun, so I went. No sooner had I pulled in than a dreadful scowl etched itself onto my face. My reward for this immature behavior? Adam used his high-powered camera lens to capture it. I could feel the stench being absorbed by my pores, and my shoes were literally sticking with each step, and I had to peel them off. (Imagine a loud sucking sound.) I did my best not to tarnish their fun, but failed miserably, and we left rather soon.

Back at chez Kinch, I was confronted by Brandy with my promise to let her stick me with her new insulin needles. True to my cowardly form, I grabbed Adam's arm and offered him up first. After a little squirming, he let her do it, which pretty much set me swaying. Then they both turned to me expectantly. The periphery turned black, and I was too dizzy to run. B had that needle screwed in in about .00001 seconds, and began grabbing for my arm. She was serious about getting down to business. My short data file of plausible excuses shuffled through my brain, but alas, I was left with no choice. I'd love to make a big fat deal of how brave I was, but the truth is, the science behind these syringes is phenomenal, and it didn't hurt at all. 0%. This makes me feel so much better for B, but a little sad for myself that I lost out on any kind of courage award.

As if frolicking in seagull shit and getting stabbed with needles wasn't macabre enough, next we rented some Dexter, and settled in for a little homicide at sunset. Maybe on Memorial Day we can swim in the Willamette River and then engage in a little group cutting...

the little blogger that could

Hey you guys, no fair judging my blogging prowess based on the two counterfeit entries Brandy posted the other night to secure my slot in cyber space. To say that I lack the savvy to get this thing up and running myself is such an understatement I actually think it would be a misdemeanor, but I hope you all know I would never attach the word "neat" to having seen Senator Ron Wyden. (More on that later.)

My zeal for blogging has been tempered, like everything else in my life, with anxiety, my merciless foe. Word on the street is that I'm winning the war, but my recent battle was indubitably lost, and I landed myself in the ER yesterday, minus some stomach lining and sporting some shiny new esophageal lesions. I was scarcely able to sit up, let alone keep you all in stitches with the wit to which you've all grown accustomed. This past year, I've been too busy keeping myself in actual stitches, lol. I've attached a picture of my hospital bracelets for those inclined to doubt my excuse.

For what it's worth I will try to run our rusty, odd-shaped little anecdotes through the polisher now and then and put them on display here when I can, that you may be amused, and grateful, that by comparison, your life is decidedly normal, and possible, whereas mine is absurd and defies all logic and reason. In turn perhaps you will forgive my run-on sentences, my self-aggrandizement, and for god's sake, LAUGH AT MY JOKES! That's really all it's about.