For 2.5 years I’ve lived without a tiny, metal tube to hold my toilet paper. Both of my children learned how to use a potty without this magical tube. My husband says he never even noticed we didn’t have one.
And then, just a few months ago…we got one. My toilet paper holder is fantastic. It’s silver, stream-lined and conveniently located right next to my toilet. No more searching about for where someone has put the roll. No more fishing it out of the toilet bowl when one of the little ones has slippery fingers. Best of all, it lifts upward so I can slide a new roll of toilet paper right on without messing about with springs and holes. I’ve never felt so happy as I do these days, ripping off a piece of toilet paper from my magical toilet paper holder.
My husband still hasn’t figured out how to use it since I’ve often come across an empty roll on the holder, but that’s a whole other blog.
Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)
And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.
The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?
Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.
All because a job that looks superduper-fragalistic wanted me to have a twitter. And then the doorbell rang. And Ma in her kerchief And I in my sweats, Had just settled down To a long winter’s nap – When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (this will make sense once you read my first tweet)
But seriously, what have I gotten myself into now?
Sam and I hauled the kids up to Big Bear on Sunday for a little spring sledding. My poor children have never seen snow (ah, life of a child from Southern California). Ridden with guilt over their deprived upbringings, we packed up the snow clothes and set on our way. For $100, Snow Valley resort will put you on a chairlift, carry you to the top of a bunny run, lend you a sled, and….weeeeee! It was awesome. The kids were shell-shocked. That is what sledding is?! Who knew?
But then after the third time down, my daughter wanted to know when we could stop sledding and get on to the skiing part. Talk about transient pleasure. We explained that skiing involved rentals and a different lift ticket. She explaining that sledding was fun and all, but next time, she wanted to ski.
After an arduous (and I mean arduous) drive home, we had Sunday Night Movie Night and went to bed. This morning I asked my daughter if she was excited to tell her friends at school about her adventure. She looked at me and cocked her head, “What adventure, Mama?” The sledding adventure, I told her, surprised that she had forgotten. “Oh yeah, sure.” she agreed in a tone that sounded like, whatever. I couldn’t believe it. After all that work to get them to see some snow. To be in the outdoors. To wear snow clothes and whiz down a mountain. My city kids were showing their true colors.
Spring Sledding – a lasting impression.for all.
Rain. Rain! It’s raining in Los Angeles.
All winter we’ve worn our summer dresses, our sunblock, and our shades. All winter we’ve quietly wondered to ourselves if this is the beginning of the end. If global climate change had decided to make her fist move. If summertime in the winter is what all those scientists were talking about. Los Angeles winters of 85 degrees. If perhaps we should’ve gotten a new Prius after all. If our kids were going to think California and the equator were pretty much the same. If the constant sunshine was making us all batty.
But now. Now!
It started to rain in the wee hours of the night and to my great pleasure, I can still hear it coming down. A hard dripping sound on the plastic of the air conditioner outside the window. A soft, wet, swishy drip onto the leaves of the plants that are abundantly growing thanks to the never-ending sunshine. A splatter drip washing the terracotta tiles of our front porch. And then the warm, cozy drip on the roof that feels like cotton balls in my ears. I am enveloped in the womb of rain.
Thank you. Whoever you are. Thank you.
In my living room we have a small oriental rug. Sam and I purchased it at a bazaar years ago. It was one of our first big buys and it was exciting. The rug is from Afghanistan and we are definitely not the first owners. The color scheme is red and creme and two shades of blue and because the rug is positively ancient, the whole thing is faded six-ways to Sunday. Plus, I have small children and a dog so the poor rug has been put to the test. All of which of course, just makes it more beautiful.
Anyway, around the edges of the rug lies a complicated border. The border, I have been told, is lava. I first found out this startling news when I stepped on it and was told, “Mommy! You’re burning in lava!” Naturally, I jumped out of the border as fast as I could. Soon, talk of the lava had reached far and wide and everyone began carefully stepping over the dangerous terrain. What’s most alarming is that the lava flows around and around the border with no way to curtail its deadly path. The poor dog is forever getting burnt to a crisp and even I have been known to walk right through it unawares. How could I be so careless?
Little did Sam and I know when bought this rug that it would be such an important part of our family. We knew we’d probably have it forever. We didn’t know it would sprout its own lava train.
So be careful if you stop by, because the lava will burn you.