We movin' on up in the world like elevators

The elevator pieces arrived yesterday! They put many of them together! They are putting them more together as I type!

Tomorrow, my invisible friends, we may have liftoff!

The coral room is on the ground floor, and the blue room is Betty's. There's another blue room that it goes through as well, but that seemed superfluous. How many people are interested in pieces of elevator in two very similar rooms?So.

There was, as you may imagine, great commotion and excitement at our house yesterday. Alas, I was at the office. I rushed home after work to see it.

I got home just minutes before an old family friend arrived.

Betty greeted us both and said, "They put the elevator in and I learned to make pesto!"

The friend, she was confused. As you yourself may be. How do these two connect? Nick, had he been there, would've asked the same thing.

Because he does not yet speak Betty. Yet.

This is the news of the day. Offered (but not necessarily) in order of importance: Elevator! Pesto! Cool!

Duh.

Also cool: the motor hole. I don't know if there's more to it, but that whole elevator runs with one little engine at the top. Kind of crazy, huh?Also crazy: the fact that it is supposed to be 95 degrees tomorrow and people are excited about the relief from all this heat.

Even more crazy: It is July 29 and what is going on with those teabagging asswipe doucheballs on Capitol Hill? But I'm not really a political type.

Happy weekend, all!

Turns out normal people don't talk about stabbing their spouses

And in my defense, I hadn't thought about stabbing Nick in months.

So over the weekend, we went out to dinner with Nick's partners and their spouses.

They know me by now. This is the same group I went out with and bellowed about my porn name in a very quiet, conservative dining establishment.

And yet, I still manage to surprise them.

All of us have children, and we were all talking about new babies and how much work they are. And I said, "You know, for about six months after Jordan was born, I'd lay in bed mentally dividing up the furniture and thinking about stabbing Nick."

It turns out this is a surprising thing to say, and in fact, while everyone has their challenges,it had never occurred to any of them to stab their spouse.

So after they'd all recovered, talk turned to house renovations. And the elevator. Which should start going in tomorrow, you guys! Anyway, that's the rumor.

One of the men said, "You know, when you sell, I don't know how much of the elevator cost your going to recoup."

Nick replied, "It doesn't matter. We're going to die in that house."

The woman to his left said, "Particularly if Lisa stabs you."

And now all kinds of things sound like normal conversation to me

I now say all kinds of things that would never, ever have occurred to me.

Like, "We have to put on clothes if we're going to go outside. Everyone wears clothes outside."

And, "Wow, what a big poo! Good job!"

Also, "Look what I have for you! A BIG spatula!"

And, "We don't drive cars on the food, remember? We can park our cars next to the plate, but no driving on the food."

That one I say all the time. Jordan tends to eat more if he can have his cars with him. The cars, they go everywhere. He almost always has at least two clutched in his little hands.

In Charlottesville, Nick kept putting on his shoes and then wincing and saying, "OW!" Because he'd stepped into a car.

I didn't fess up to it at the time, but it was my fault. Because Jordan kept trying to park his cars in his little crocs or in my sneakers and then they'd get stuck and he'd scream.

So I started saying, "Jordan's shoes are too small. Mama's shoes are too small. We park the cars in Daddy's shoes." I probably said this 54 times an hour.

Uh, sorry Nick.

Oh, I could throw you in the lake, or feed you poisoned birthday cake. I won't deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone.

A couple days ago, Moue left this comment about what she and her sister used to do to her brother. It had me laughing so hard.

I mean, yes, it's terrible. But...also funny.

"We used to tell him when he was little that he was a K-Mart Blue Light Special. And that when the blue light went off while we were in the store our parents could trade him in.

So we finally go to a K-mart (We were military so there were few and far between overseas at the time) and sure enough the blue light goes off. My brother, petrified he was going to be traded in starts screaming. It took my parents forty-five minutes to get him calmed down enough to tell them what was wrong."

And then FoggyDew said this: "Moue's story reminds me of what my sisters used to tell my youngest brother: Mom and Dad really wanted another kid, but instead of having one of their own they adopted him...from the monkey house at the zoo. This went on for years.

In the end, though, he got even by telling the same story. To their kids."

Me, I did some terrible things to my younger brother when we were children. When he was really little, I tried to leave him in the park for the wild dogs to eat him.

Turns out that fear of abandonment and being consumed by dogs will really make a kid cry.

It was post-war Bangladesh. There were wild dogs. They really would've eaten him. If someone didn't steal him first.

Fortunately, we had adult supervision.

And that brings us to the present. In sextuplicate or so, with yellow sticky reminders.

Alive and Kicking

OK, so the AC came back on at the end of the day, and none of the guys dropped dead on the golf course, and in fact, after drinking far too much the night before, they even played doubles tennis the next morning.

Nick was kind of insulted when one of them - who was semi-pro when he was younger - told me over breakfast that Nick's a good tennis player with "cat-like reflexes" and I thought he was kidding.

I love the man, and he's strong like bull, but who knew?

-----

Filed Under Shit I Don't Know Why I Do This Shit

So, here's the deal. I have three email addresses now. The Lemon Gloria one, and then two that are my real name (I know, you totally thought it was Lemon Gloria), one Yahoo and one Gmail. Both of which forward to Yahoo, because I can't have LG@gmail and MyName@gmail open at the same time. So I keep Yahoo and LG open.

Still with me?

And so last week, at your suggestion, I started importing my Yahoo email into Gmail. It pulled a few hundred of them, and then stopped. I thought about not forwarding, but then I thought, oh, I should forward just to be safe.

And then I went away to the charming country club in Charlottesville. Which is full of bucolic charm, if not powerful air conditioning or Internet.

So while they have Internet, the signal was too weak in our room, so essentially I had no access to the World Wide Web which made me a little frothy at the mouthy but then I was all, ferchrissakes, Lisa, just chill the fuck out. Plus I had my iPhone, although I find it tedious and exhausting to read or type email of any particular length on it.

Also I was all busy swimming and eating waffles and drinking milkshakes and shaking with rage in Target.

In other words, I didn't check the email so much.

Here's what happened during that time. I now have almost 1,000 new emails in my Yahoo. I have up to eight copies of all recent emails in my inbox. It's multiple copies, but not the same number for every email.

I think it's all been arriving into one account and forwarding to another and then bouncing to another.

It's bonkers.

-----

And One Further Reason I Don't Work in I/T

Which reminds me. The other day I was in the examining room at the doctor, reading blogs while I waited, and he walked in and looked at my iPhone and burst out laughing.

Because I had a yellow sticky note pasted on the back of it.

What? Saves me from writing on my hand. Which never got me anywhere good in the past. And you know, the funny thing is, I didn't even eat butter on my bread back then.

So Jordan thought we donated him and then I seriously considered it

We are at a country club in Charlottesville for Nick's partners' retreat.

They had meetings all day yesterday and this morning, and now they are playing golf. Yes, in the five kabillion degree heat.

Lemme tell you, nobody's husband appreciates the suggestion that overweight middle aged men would do well to take it easy in the extreme heat and please don't drop dead and you don't even like golf.

Anyway, the place, it is lovely. The pool is fantastic. Did I mention there is no AC? Because the city does not have enough power. You know, because everyone runs AC in the five kabillion degree heat.

Right.

And my poor kid, he isn't sleeping enough. He is tired.

See, Nick and I went out with the other adults last night, leaving the kids - ranging in age from two to 11 - with a lovely sitter, tons of snacks, games, and videos. Everyone had a great time. Except Jordan, who, certain he'd been abandoned, wailed for a solid hour. He'd finally fallen asleep. He was a hot, tear-stained mess when we picked him up.

This morning, he saw one of the big kids on our way in to breakfast, and he burst into tears and tried to drag me out the door. He was not about to be LEFT WITH CHILDREN again.

Apparently, the six-year old told his mom that last night, Jordan thought he'd been donated.

I will say that I very nearly did donate him several times while at Target looking for water wings and a special toy for the pool.

Because yes, today I was that mom, the one with the wailing, screaming, flailing on the floor toddler. I got several looks from mothers with kids sitting happily in carts, and I wanted to be all, "What?"

At one point I seriously considered leaving him on the floor of an aisle, grabbing the other things I needed, and picking him up on the way out. I figured he'd still be shrieking when I got back and nobody would kidnap a screaming banshee. But then I realized that if he stopped screaming and I wasn't there, he'd be scarred for life thinking he'd been donated twice in 24 hours, you know?

And now the shriekalicious gem of my heart is awake and the pool beckons.

Fingers crosses for Nick not getting apoplexy and keeling over on the golf course. I don't thinking could handle driving home alone with the kid.

Stay cool, my invisible friends!

Month 23: What's Jordan dooying?

Dear Jordan,

You're now 23 months, which means almost TWO! I can't believe it!

When I came home from the airport last week, you and Nana were on the curb, waiting for my cab to pull up. You looked like such a big boy! You gave me such a big hug!

You've gotten so huggy and kissy and cuddly and affectionate. I just love it.

On Saturday morning I came downstairs and you and your dad were watching videos of planes taking off and landing on his computer. You were fascinated. You seem to like real-life videos much more than cartoons.

While I can totally relate, I hope you get into cartoons. Your dad needs someone to watch the Simpsons with.

Your language has gotten more and more developed, and now, instead of you just constantly observing and reporting, we can have little conversations.

You often ask, "How's your day?"

Language acquisition continually blows me away. Last month, you started using "I." And while I was gone, you started using the past tense! The other day you said, "Monroe left his lawnmower." And, "Mama, you dropped ice on the floor."

Holy crap!

Something I find adorable is your struggle with diphthongs. You call your friend Liam "Lilam," and instead of saying "doing" you say "dooying."

In fact, "What's Jordan dooying?" is one of your favorite phrases.

Of course, the other day, what it turned out Jordan was dooying was pushing the table with the built-in lamp over so that it was leaning precariously against the window.

You continue to love books, and you're particularly fascinated by Richard Scarry's Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. It's a book I'm slowly beginning to loathe.

Because seriously, you'll say, "What's that?"

And I'm tired of being all, "That's a hippomobile! That's a tamper-downer!"

Seriously.

Also, last night, I was pretty certain that if I had to answer, "What's that?" one more time, my head was going to melt. I'd just walked the two miles home from work in air that feels like hot dog breath, and instead of a cool gin and tonic, I had Richard Scarry thrust into my hands.

I wilted into a chair, you clambered on my lap, book open, and I had to be all, "That? Oh, that's an owl on a broom-o-cycle."

The hell?

Fortunately, Lilam's mama called us just in time, and we headed over to their house for some chaos creation and dinner. We are really going to miss them when they move away very soon.

Now, when we meet potential friends in the neighborhood, I make them sign a piece of paper promising they're never moving again, or at least not for 10 years. We've made some great friends in the last two years.

One of the best moments I have ever had in my life happened last week when I was cuddling you in my lap and I said, "I love you love you love you." And you snuggled back into me and said, "Love you love you love you."

The best.

Love,

Mama

Technical things

So, I still use Yahoo.

In the era of Gmail and Gchat and Twitter and The Cloud everything and whatever, it feels like a shameful secret. Like telling you I wear my underwear three days in a row.

Which I don't. Although when I was trekking in Nepal, I did wear the same clothes for a week straight without taking them off. Not my socks, not my undies. Because it was too damn cold.

I feel no shame.

So anyway, I change my underwear daily. And I use Yahoo.

I have a Gmail account - two of them, in fact. I've had them pretty much since Gmail accounts became available. And yet, for my primary email, I hang onto Yahoo.

I know it's so 1990s. People get judgy. I know, I know.

Plus, Gmail just works so much better. It's easier.

But here's the thing.

I have years and years of history in Yahoo. I have all these messages from my dad, messages I don't want to lose. But also, messages I can't handle going through, one by one, to forward to a new email. And I don't want to print them all out.

I just want to download my entire Yahoo account. And then move on. So I can keep it for when more time and distance has gone by.

You know how some things are like that?

Facts on reptile genitalia. For those awkward times when you have a lull in conversation. And want to make it more awkward.

Because I can never leave well enough alone, I went ahead and wandered the Internet in search of alligator penises.

Thanks for the prompting, Go-Betty. Horrifying.

Yah. So, I found this guide to reptilian care, and in particular, the following: How do you sex a crocodilian? (This may go without saying, but it's penisy! NSFW!)

But the title! "How do you sex a crocodilian?" Doesn't that sound like the beginning of a joke? Like, "A piece of string walks into a bar..."

So of course, being slightly repulsed, I had to read all the way down. And then, then this! "And just in case you're confused, males have a single penis, not a pair of hemipenes like most other reptiles."

I desperately want to work that line into a conversation one of these days.

So anyway, the hemipenes! led to further googling. Snakes! Snakes have two penises! (Note: also a penisy picture page.) They only use one at a time, in case you're wondering. Some of them have spines or hooks to "anchor" the penis.

Yikes.

Now, if you'd asked me if snakes had penises, I'd have said I doubted it, because really, what would they do with it while slithering along? It would be terrible to constantly get your penis caught in the shrubbery.

Uh. Anyway.

I'm pretty sure that's all I have to say about that.

Oh, except this: If you're all, "Huh, you know, this makes me wonder if flies have penises," DO NOT google "insect sex." I am not kidding.

One of those posts that starts out relatively normal and then just goes all to hell

Dear people of the Internet,

Tampa made me very tired. I just couldn't sleep. And I am a sleeper. I do best with right about nine hours a night. Seriously. It's tragic.

But I just couldn't sleep. Not to be all princess and the pea, but the pillows - all six of them on two beds - were too big. I need a squishy-downy pillow.

Also, it was too hot. And too cold. And too quiet. Until there was a noise in the hall. Then it was too noise-in-the-hally.

And THEN, then one of my colleagues went ahead and mentioned bed bugs. Just out of the blue and for no good reason. She said not to put your suitcase on the floor and then up on the bed because they can live in the carpet.

It didn't keep me up at night, but here's what it did: it made me itch. You try thinking about bed bugs for more than 30 seconds and see if it doesn't make you want to scratch.

Also, it made me extremely fretting about taking some of those potential carpet bed bugs home with me.

I told Nick about the bed bug possibility and he asked if anyone had seen a bed bug or if I'd gotten bitten by anything or if this was just hysteria for the fun of it.

Nobody wants to admit to hysteria for the fun of it so I was all, "They're a problem. Just like the boa constrictors that escaped during the hurricanes and now they're moving all the way up the east coast. Also the alligators in the Everglades with the penises one seventh the size of their grandfathers."

These are problems, people. Even if they have nothing to do with each other. Except they all happen in Florida.

Also, the penises, they are a seventh the size of the penises of their alligator grandfathers. Not that they're a seventh the size of those old alligators. Because that would be an entirely different problem.

I imagine. Not that I'm imagining alligator penises. Although I kind of am. Do you think they're scaley? Or do you think they poke out of a little lipstick case like dog penises?

My brain is running on half power. It's good I got out when I did.

And hi! I missed you!

Licked but not in a good way. With hoarders and rum sauce.

Tampa Weather

It’s pretty here.  But hot as balls doesn’t begin to describe it.  Actually, I don’t even think it’s that it’s all that hot.  It’s that it’s so damn moist.

As we walked out of the hotel last night, one of my colleagues said, “Walking outside here just feels like being licked. And not in a good way."

Yup.

Tampa Nightlife

Apparently, there are things to do at night. Me, I’ve been cuddling up with the TV. I caught the end of Forrest Gump.  I love that movie.   I watched the Bachelorette. I hadn't seen it in years. She's so cute!

And you guys, I watched Hoarders! For the first time! I flipped back and forth. I can’t handle the hoarders I really can’t. It's just so sad.

Bread Pudding

I don't know if bread pudding is a thing here, or it's just coincidence, but I'm pretty sure I've eaten my weight in bread pudding since arriving. With rum sauce. I mean the pudding. Not my arrival.

And tomorrow I go home. I can't wait.

And I miss you like the deserts miss the rain

So at 6:30 this morning, just as I was about to begin work at the meeting, I wrote:

> Hi Nick,
>
> I'll call you later. I miss you and can't wait to come home.
>
> love,
>
> Lisa

Later, while sitting in a very interesting, intense, and quiet breakfast meeting, I checked my phone.

On Jul 11, 2011, at 8:59 AM, Nick wrote:

I miss you. Cuddling with your mom just isn't the same.

Some of us are just better than others at knowing when to let go, OK?

So, I painted my toenails orange because I have to go to Tampa tomorrow for work. Which actually has nothing to do with anything.

Because what I really want to talk about is this: there are people who are good at using pull-down shades, and people who are not.

I fall into the second category.

Somehow, I am always letting go of the damn things too quickly, and they flip way up to the top. Or I don't stop pulling when I should, and then they wind up 15 feet long. And then I do the little quick tug to make them go up. And they get longer. Or whiz themselves all the way up.

When we lived in Nick's condo, I loved our plantation shutters that Nick refused to peek his penis out of, but we do not have them in our house. And they are not in the budget. So we have shades and blinds.

Which means Nick is constantly giving me remedial shade-pulling lessons.

The other day, just before naptime, I let go of the shade in Jordan's room and it zipped up to the top of the window. Jordan was right there on the changing table, and I wasn't sure what to do. Because my options, as I saw it, were twofold. I could shove him out the door, close it, and hurriedly pull the shade down while he wailed in an abandoned panic.

I guess now that I think about it I could also have stuck him in the closet. But it didn't occur to me at the time. And also might've been a little traumatic as well.

Anyway.

My second option was to let him watch me drag the chair over, place it against the wall, skibble-scooch up on the back of the chair and also kind of balance on the bit of window ledge that sticks out next to the air conditioner while clutching the window frame...and then reeeaaaach up and pull down the shade.

Here, Jordan! Here's how to climb to very high places! It's not safe, but it works! And wheee, doesn't it look like fun?

This turns out to be the option I chose.

And he just giggled at me as I clenched the window frame, reaching for the shade.

"Mama's funny!"

Yes, my little friend, she sure is. Now don't you try this little trick.

And no, nobody wants to go to Tampa in July and try to look semi-professional while sweating like a stuck pig. And yes, I think orange toes might help. Also, do pigs really sweat?

Which just feels kind of like begging the sucky ex-boyfriend to get back together with you and he's all sure and then stands you up

Yeah, so we tried to sign up for Comcast. Again.

Go ahead, call me an idiot. If you've been with me through this journey, you know all the bullshit we dealt with when we had them, to the point where I started referring to them as douchemonkeys and Nick accused them of being likely to pee on his rug.

Also, I should mention that I've never had an ex-boyfriend pee on my rug. In fact, nobody has peed on my rugs, as far as I know. Jordan did pee on my foot the other day, but we were outside.

Right. So, anyway.

So we've had DirecTV since we moved into our house two years ago. Sometime last year Verizon said they were putting in FiOS!, any minute now! Many, many minutes have gone by, and there's no FiOS available. Plus we wind up paying a lot having the cable with one company and the Internet with another.

Also, I hate the DirecTV interface. We liked being able to have TiVO. I understand how it works. Betty, who will be moving when the endless construction ends, understands how it works.

The understanding of technical functions, it is not a small thing.

Now, cable and Internet are not critical in the same way as access to clean drinking water and antibiotics, but you know, such is our world.

Anyway, Nick clenched his teeth and called Comcast. When their service works - if you can get it in the first place, I mean - it's very good. A week or two ago, he set up an appointment for this morning.

He took half a day off work to be home for the installation. The installation, which was scheduled - and confirmed, I might add - for between 8 and 11 am.

And then they called at almost 9 am all, "Yeah, the guy is running a bit late. More like 11:45." And then somewhere past noon Nick called, and they said, "Yeah, he stopped by, but nobody was home."

To which Nick said, "Bullshit."

He then went on to rant about things that to my mind have no connection to cable service, like child molesters and prison. But I think it made him feel better.

By better I mean completely furious and powerless, because when you really want to give someone your money for service and they can't be bothered to show up...what can you do, really?

I got a fever, and the only prescription is more spatula

There is something about spatulas that Jordan finds so intriguing. This is a kid who loves him a spatula.

They've always been one of his favorite things to play with. He used to pronounce it "shashla." He'd reach up in the air, "Want shasla!" Or he'd just say, "SHAAASHHLAAAA!"

But his language skills have advanced and he has learned how to say please, which he says probably 50 percent of the time.

So now he heads into the kitchen every day with his request. "Have spatula please."

One of us hands him one. Sometimes he'll reject the one you give him, and you have to pull them out one by one until one of them is deemed acceptable.

(Also, lest you think we own a freakish number of spatulas, let me explain. Any large plastic or wooden spoon, stirrer, whatever is considered a spatula.)

So he'll finally accept one. And then sometimes he'll just feel like one is not enough. So he'll say, "Another one spatula please."

It's polite but very matter of fact. This is a necessary object I'm asking for here. It's kind of like on those hospital shows where the doctor is all, "Forceps. Suction."

Somehow life is more complete with a spatula in hand.

So over the weekend we had friends over with their daughter, Kirthi. I was in the kitchen getting water.

Jordan came marching in and said, "Spatula, please."

"OK. Here you go."

He held out his other and and said, "Another one spatula. For Kirthi."

He clearly likes her.

Journey 4 A Cure

My friend Kiran at Masala Chica reached out to ask for help winning money to fight pediatric cancer. The son of a dear friend of hers passed away last year, just before his first birthday.

It is devastating to think about. In fact, I can't think about it without getting all teary. So it's not something to which I'd given much though, except for reading Kiran's posts and feeling so sad for them.

Then Kiran started mobilizing people to vote for Journey 4 A Cure, which, if it gets enough votes, will winn $250,000 towards pediatric cancer research.



Because she knows what she is talking about, and because she said it well, I've stolen the text below from Kiran. (Here's her original post.)

Statistics are hard to look at. They are even harder to believe. And they give a whole new perspective to where our children might be most vulnerable.

Reality: Pediatric cancer is the #1 disease related killer of children in the United States.

Reality: Only 1 drug has been approved by the FDA in the last 30 years to fight pediatric cancer. In comparison to the 50 medications approved for adult cancers in the same time span, we are looking at a truly crippled treatment process for children.

Harsher Reality: Childhood cancer research is not only underfunded, but funding has declined.

WHY?

Really, really crappy reality: It's a numbers game. With children cancer comprising only 5% of all cancer diagnoses annually, pharmaceutical companies don't see a business case to fund treatment research.

No family should hear the words, there is no known cure.

For any disease.

Sadly, too many parents will have to hear those words in our lifetime if we don't mobilize.

Journey 4 a Cure is dedicated to seeing beyond the business case and working to build a case around the lives of families that need the research, that are praying for their children, and who are bravely fighting the odds to keep their journey going.

This post is a request to help Journey 4 a Cure to meet their goals. Ways you can help:

1) Vote for Journey 4 A Cure every day on the Vivint project page. Vivent will be giving 1.25 million dollars to worthwhile causes, and we are trying to win our regional grand prize of $250,000 - 100% of the proceeds will go towards pediatric cancer research if we win.

2) Did I mention voting EVERY day? Oh yeah. I think so. Please keep it going until August 27th.

3) If you are a blogger, can you repost one of the badges from the Vivint site in honor of Journey 4 a Cure? Would you ask other bloggers to support the cause?

4) Would you post the project in your facebook status? I cannot stress how much winning this money would do towards the fight against pediatric cancer.

5) Hug your kids. Love them. And pray that they never have to face cancer or any other disease that can rob them of the youth they all so deserve.

6) Beyond praying, please join us in our journey. Every vote counts.

PS from Lisa: In order to vote, you are going to have to allow Vivint to access your Facebook information. Yes, it's kind of annoying to allow one more company access to your info...but it's so little effort for a very good cause.

Cool blue reason I'm just talking to myself

It is a beautiful, beautiful day out, and I am curled up into myself sad.

It's easier to understand the downs in the winter, when the weather is grim and the cold makes me clenchy.

But now?

The weather is spectacular, particularly for DC. It's sunny and gorgeous and not so humid and just basically yellow sparkly and pretty.

It's the start of a long weekend. A long summer weekend! We have a pool party to attend on the 4th of July. Cookout and splashing in the pool with kids and friends. What could be better?

Nick comes back tomorrow. He's been in New Orleans for work. Yes, it is hot as balls. Yes, I believe that's an industry term.

And Jordan, Jordan is adorable. He likes to put things on his head, thus rendering himself invisible, and then if you don't notice immediately, he says, "Jordan! Where are you?" Which he pronounces: Dodan! Wheeaahyo?

It is, without question, the cutest thing I've ever seen. I mean, aside from all the other adorable things he does.

I have all these spectacularly fantasticularly lovely things that I am thankful for.

I'm enumerating them, envisioning all the best, with clear salty teardrops sneaking down my cheeks. I don't understand. And I do.

Sometimes it's just like this, you know? I know. Fuck.