Clyde and Arun at the beach, 2009

On Wednesday Clyde got sick. This is not my week to have the kids.  Because of a phone mix up, I got the call from the preschool teacher to get him.  I asked his stepmother if it was alright if I went to get him and she said that was okay. Even though I knew he was sick and knew he’d be whiney and generally a pain, I couldn’t wait to get to him.  And when I got there and the preschool teacher showed me where he was, in a back room on a bed, I could barely contain my relief.  I picked him up, he was sweaty and exhausted from throwing up.  I said, mommy’s here and I carried him out. And like that, he was mine again.  On my way, I took Ivy too knowing she’d not want to be there without him.

There is a particular brand of anxiety that I think parents, perhaps especially divorced moms go through when their children are with the other parent.  It’s not a feeling like somethings going to happen to them (though there is that too) it’s that you yourself don’t feel normal.  It’s unnatural and strange and jarring to have the chaos and noise and routine of three children one day and then the next, be aware of the hum of the refrigerator.  I don’t like it.  I like the break.  At times I crave the silence.  But within a day or two, the weird feeling creeps in and every time I get in the car, every time I come home, every time I pass their bedrooms, I feel their absence.  And that doesn’t go away until they are back.  I have tried, every week when they are gone, to be productive and do all the things I don’t have time for when they are here.  I do mostly.  But there is a listlessness that comes over me that I can never shake when they are gone.  It’s like a mini depression that is only alleviated upon their return.

This Wednesday, I was able to keep him overnight since he was so sick.   Because I’d picked up the other kids as well (Wednesday night is our mid week dinner when I don’t have them) I ended up with them all on Wednesday night for an overnight, and in Clyde’s case, all of Thursday as well, since he was too sick to go to school.  He threw up on me no less than three times.  I got no sleep.  I am, as I write this waiting for the sheets and towels to be done in the dryer and I am transparent with fatigue.  But even with all of that, it still felt better than being without them.  It felt normal.

Then Thursday afternoon there was some confusion about when I should drop him off back at his dad’s for one more night there.  It became clear that someone from that camp was irritated with me for keeping him as long as I did on Thursday.  And so I had anxiety about dropping him off and what would be said.  I chatted online with TBZE before I left.  He wrote, if anyone says anything to you, you just say this:  ”He was sick. I am his mother.”  I did not have to do that luckily; drop off was smooth.  But armed with that statement, I felt I could handle whatever was said to me.  It was true after all:  he was sick.  I am his mother.

I did not have to get a hand job like I planned.  I did not have to double up on Ativan or wander aimlessly around Target’s kid section.  They are back tomorrow, which means I have made it through another week without them.

First, I’m too scared to look at my lottery ticket, but I’m pretty sure I did not win.  This is mainly because I also did not get killed by a falling piano and I figure these things go hand in hand.  However, like a gift from God, my friend Jessie, who I have met I think only once or twice, but who has great shoes, wrote me asking me for a gory post about pregnancy.  Yes, you did Jessie.  Quit denying it.  If you’re a man, especially if you’re a man I have ever made eye contact with, you should stop reading right now.  Cover your ears and go, la la la la la and also gouge your eyes out.  The rest of you, let’s do this.

So Jessie is wondering if it’s as bad as they say and if she really will need these products she found on the interwebs.  I think she’s planning on getting pregnant one day and I’m going to go on record to say that that’s a bad idea.  Not for her particularly, but for women everywhere.  It’s just all around bad news.  But if you must, here are some scary ass products that will help or make things worse, depending.

Shrinxx Hips Reducer

Also useful as a gun holster.

Well hey!  Isn’t that a cute and jaunty belt!  I would totally wear that over a dress, paired with gladiator sandals and a fedora.  Oh, what’s that?  It’s a post pregnancy belt?  Weird, she doesn’t look like she had a baby.  She doesn’t look like she’s even thought about having a baby.  Her stomach has “No babies for me, no sir, not ever!” written all over it.  They think they can fool me with the granny panties, but in about five minutes she’s taking them off and going clubbing – because like I said, she has no kids and never will.

Prenatal Cradle V2 Supporter

You can't see the model's face. But she's crying a little.

What are these?  Sit down children and I will tell you.  According to the description: “Vaginal varicose veins and pubic swelling are just two of the things that no one tells you about beforehand. The Prenatal Cradle V2 Supporter($47) is designed to support the pubic area and help relieve the feeling that ‘everything is going to fall out the bottom.’”  So, here’s something I’ll just mention:  everything does fall out the bottom and relieving that feeling is not a good idea, because it’s something you should get used to.  Your insides will fall out and they will give you a pad so insanely big to wear home from the hospital, that your sister will see a couple spares in your bag and say way too loudly: “Now that’s what I call a MAXI pad!”  But if you want to get one, I won’t stop you.  You could pass them off as sexy undies maybe.  Except I guess not, because whoa, I just looked at the back.  Plus 3 points for the designer who said, “Oh, you know what would make this jock strap really sing?  A doily on the front!”  Minus 55 points for the designer who said, “Let’s put the label on the outside of the jock strap so we can double down on the humiliation factor.”  Her husband might be like “Whoa, where did you get those and what are they called, because those are HOT.”  And she can turn around and show him the label that says “V2 for vagina varicosities,” and he’ll die a little inside.

The TENS Machine or Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator

One way to alleviate labor pains is to give yourself repeated electric shocks.

Jessie, I know you’ve heard some bad stories about labor.  It’s not that bad.  Especially if you have a birthing ball and electrical currents to distract you.  You just strap on this apparatus above and every time you feel a contraction, you just press the button and it gives you an electric shock to soothe the pain.  The good thing about this product is that you have to take your shirt off which is super handy for when the guy with the good meds comes around and gives you a spinal block.  The bad things are numerous and varied.  For starters, electricity.  Do not want!  I mean not on my bare naked self.  For seconds, the remote looks exactly like the hospital TV remote, which means that while you’re sweating and crying and jamming the buttons trying to give yourself “pain canceling electric currents” you’re actually just changing the channel from CNN to reruns of Murder, She Wrote.

I leave you with this final thought, Jessie.  People will tell you that you don’t need any medication.  And that is true, you don’t.  I admire those women.  I think they are crazy, but in an admirable way.  But let’s say I told you that you needed to have your leg amputated.  It’s going to be so painful that at some point you might start shaking violently and throw up, especially if it this pain lasts, say, 48 hours.  But here, I have this birthing ball for you and also if you breathe like this he he he h0 ho ho, you’ll get through it.  Also, here is an electric shock machine called the Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator that you can wear while we are sawing your leg off.  Oh, and we’ll let you have a cup of ice chips.  Option B is this medication in an IV bag.

But I’ll support whatever decisions you make, because you have great shoes and people with great shoes make great choices.  For the most part.  I’m generalizing, but for you, it’s true.  I might also send you these products, even if you decide babies are not for you.  The TENS machine has recall written all over it, but I think you could probably make the other stuff into a Halloween costume.

Pregnant? Nope, just badass!

You didn't believe me did you?! PROOF!

I’ve been buying a lot of lottery tickets, I mean not a lot a lot.  Like, you don’t need to do an intervention, at least not yet.  And if you do do an intervention, I’d like it if you just waited until the results of the April 27th Power Ball or Mega Number or Mega Balls or whatever it’s called.  You know, the big one in California.  It’s up to $191 million and Bridge Troll, AKA Mrs. Zombie, is absolutely going to win and I’ll even give you some of it if you’re a reader of this blog, so you should definitely leave a comment as proof.  Yeah, you too spammers.

But there’s a problem which is that we can’t find the winning ticket.  I  looked at the numbers when The Best Zombie Ever bought it, and though I can’t recall them just this second, I remember looking at the numbers and thinking:  F yeah, my ship has come IN.  All weekend, we had the ticket in the car, balanced on the ashtray thing, or coin thing or whatever it is now that only dickheads smoke.  But on Sunday night I realize (insert thunderclap here) it’s. not. there!  And I shout Hey Best Zombie Ever, where is that ticket?  Check your wallet! And he does and it’s not there.   I check the car again and I start to think, oh no it blew away! And then, oh no, someone BROKE IN THE CAR AND STOLE IT, KNOWING IT’S THE WINNING TICKET! I actually have these thoughts.

So I’m talking to The Best Zombie Ever about what we’re going to do when we can’t find the winning ticket.  I realize as soon as I say this that there’s an even bigger problem: how will I know we have the winning ticket if we can’t find it.  Which is something I say aloud.  The rest of the conversation goes like this:

The Best Zombie Ever : “You’re a lunatic and I could not be sorrier I married you.  I’m going to bed.” Ha ha just kidding! That would be what The Worst Asshole Ever might have said.  But he’s not that.

So for reals:

The Best Zombie Ever: “Well because it’ll be on the news about how there’s an unclaimed ticket that was purchased at the Quick Mart on the corner of 8th Avenue and we’ll know it’s us.”  He’s very smart.

Mrs. Zombie:  “Oh good thinking.  If that happens we’ll have to blow up the car looking for the ticket.”

He explains to me about what happens to paper lottery tickets inside cars on fire, so I reevaluate that.

Mrs. Zombie:  “All this is pointless.  I have a better chance of being killed by a falling piano, than winning the lottery.”

Here we both pause, imagining me crushed by a piano.  The Best Zombie Ever looks alarmed, but isn’t crying, which he probably should be.  Hello,  your wife just DIED!

Mrs. Zombie:  “Oh God, wouldn’t that be awful? If I got killed by a falling piano?”

The Best Zombie Ever: “Ha ha ha.  Oh that would be really bad.”

Mrs. Zombie:  “But worse than that is that if I was killed by a falling piano, and then the next day you realized we won the lottery but you’d lost the ticket.”

He agrees that this would be his worst day ever and he does in fact look a little tearful, but I’m not sure if it’s about me under a piano or the lost ticket.

Bullshit News By Mrs. Zombie

You’d think news of my impending Mega Balls win would count as bullshit, but not yet it doesn’t!  So all you dubious bitches can bite me.  The rest of you will be given cars when I win.  No, the real bullshit news is that it looks like I need to go to court for child support stuff.   Unless there’s a miracle of some sort and we can get this sorted out through our lawyers. But lawyers like to go to court, I’m pretty convinced of it now.  This is so they can say things like, “Your honor, this whole thing is a red herring!” which is an actual true thing I heard said about me in court, or at least directed at me.  Which made no sense at all, but I kind of think she’d been waiting forever to say “red herring.”  She said it like she’d just learned it and goddamnit she was going to use it.  So yeah. Bullshit.  But I’m stronger now, a robot if you will.  Plus, I’ll be a millionaire robot shortly.  If I don’t get crushed by a piano first.

You shall have tacos. Oh yes, you shall.

Yesterday ended suckily.  I was not able to finish the cake despite my best efforts.  But worse than that was bad news from my lawyer regarding child support.  But it did not make me cry.  It made me frustrated and angry and left me feeling defeated as this process often does, over and over again defeated.

Then later in the evening my phone rang and it was Clyde calling from his step mother’s phone.  He was in tears, could barely talk. “I miss you,” he managed to choke out, “I miss you.”  And the robot cried, like she had a dial on her back called crying and it was twisted all the way to a hundred.  I managed to calm us both down. “I’ll see  you in just two more days” I said, “day after tomorrow.  What do you want to do when you get here?”  I asked him. “In the nighttime I want to eat tacos,” he said. “Yes, of course,” I said, “we’ll have tacos.”

So I’m feeling pretty shitty right now.  But I need to go to Trader Joes, to see the firemen of course, but also to get all the ingredients for the best tacos little man has ever had.

Well I still haven’t heard anything about the child support.  Which means I had to bake until 11:30 last night to quell the crazies.  I made turtle cake which is basically a diabetic coma in a pan – German chocolate cake layered with caramel, condensed milk and pecans and then layered with melted chocolate chips and crushed Zoloft tablets on top.  It looks just like powdered sugar.  And I thought that The Best Zombie Ever could take it to work today because I like to be generous and make other people fat.  Also there was something he feels bad about at work, something that he built or programmed or whatever that failed or is failing or wants to fail.  He explained all this too me and I nodded like I understood but all I heard was blah blah blah fail, blah blah blah fail.  I know the word fail.  Probably too well.  All this was engineer speak or manager of operations speak, which is what he is – yes zombies can be managers too, don’t be so racist.  So he was feeling bad about that and I thought, well bring in the turtle cake and all will be right with the world.  People will be catatonic with turtle cake and people will say: What fail? This fail cake is success! And then they’ll fall over into diabetic comas.

BUT I realized that Wednesday is his work from home day.  The kids are with their dad this week, which means we are alone with the cake all day, unsupervised by anyone – except for the dog and guinea pig and fish and cats, who aren’t going to say a damn thing because they’re afraid that if I’ve got it in me to make a cake made of turtles, they can’t be far behind.  I’m going to lunch with a friend and I’m afraid that while she’s talking I’ll be thinking about the cake and that’s just not fair to her, so I should probably set a goal to finish it before lunch.

1:18 pm and already a fourth of the way done! Take that, failure.

I’ll call this next section, Bullshit News By Mrs. Zombie:

My friend sent me a link today:  Burger King Tests Mimosas and Brunch with the comment, “I’m all over this.  Fast food and alcohol, I’ve died and gone to heaven.”  I almost started crying with joy.  And then I clicked on the link to find out when I could expect to get drunk at BK and what the whopper!?  The mimosas are made of orange juice and Sprite.  Did you lose your hard on?  Because I sure did.

Stop pointing at me like you got me covered. OJ and Sprite is NOT having it my way. Like, at all.

I know what people want on a brunch menu.  For starters ALCOHOL.  For seconds, ALCOHOL.  Jesus people, you think you can get market share with orange juice and Sprite.  My kids make that accidentally and I throw it away.  I’m not going to pay money for that.  You want market share, you need to have alcohol and french toast and bacon fried donuts for the hungover people.  You need backrubs and turtle cake and absinthe.  You need happy meals with pills for the adults.   You don’t need orange juice and Sprite.  Come on, BK.  Next time you want to get market share, I suggest you call me, because this is bullshit.

I’m very anxious today.  I think I’ll go and see the firemen this afternoon at Trader Joes, where they live.  Sometimes they live at Safeway, but mostly Trader Joes.  I know they live there, because they are there pretty much all the time and also, when I see them they never have a cart.  Once in a while they have a basket.  But mostly they just strut around looking like, well, firemen.  I’m pretty sure they are there to check out all the hot moms, like me.  Actually not like me.  As you know recently I was transformed into a Bridge Troll by a CVS camera.  Fuckers.  When I used to be stupid and take all the kids with me grocery shopping, the firemen would come up to the kids with fire chief badge stickers.  The kids would all swoon.  I might have a little too, depending on the fireman.  This was before I met The Best Zombie Ever, now I only have eyes for zombies.  Recently, I relayed this firemen grocery shopping stuff to my sister – how they just kind of walk around, not buying anything. “Maybe it’s like a public service,” she said. “Like, ‘here we are in the community, shopping like regular peeps.  If you’re on fire you should totally call us, we have big hoses!’”

When Hazel was just learning to crawl, I locked myself out of the house when I went to take the trash out.  Hazel was still inside.  I was in my nightgown and somehow, probably because I was being a bad mom and yacking on the phone, I had the phone with me.  I could see her through the patio doors crawling towards me, like what are you doing out there.  I am in here and we should never be apart, which she and I disagreed about, but anyway.  So I tried all the windows in the house, all the doors, while Hazel is getting more and more agitated, and confused and then starts wailing, her face against the glass.  The fire department! I thought.  That’s who you call when you’re in your nightgown.  The fire department! Except it seemed excessive to call the fire department.  And also my nightgown was not cute at all and had Cheetos dust on the chest from when I ate breakfast in bed.  So I called my parents who had extra keys.  That’s the end of that story.  Where did you think it was going?  Fireman sex?  You’re disgusting.  Oh, you weren’t thinking that at all?  Sorry.

A couple years ago, I relayed this story to another mom at Hazel’s school. I didn’t even get to the part about trying all the windows, I think I started to say: “And then I realized I was locked out…” Right away she jumps in, all excited: “Oh did you call the Fair Oaks Fire Department?  You’re in Fair Oaks right?  They’re so hot, right?  Oh my God, they’re so hot, I call them all the time.” When I told her about calling my parents and them bringing extra keys, she made a face like I had ruined her whole day.

I think I’m thinking about who to call in an emergency because I’m anxious today.  Today I hear about child support.  My ex-husband stopped paying child support when I got remarried.  It’s a long story and I always worry what my children will one day read so I’ll stop there.  Except to say he owes me money but because I don’t completely understand the laws, I have no idea if I’ll actually get it.

Evidence my anxiety is on the rise:

Exhibit A:  I got a faux fur coat that I don’t need.  Like, at all.

Huggie Bear hosts a playdate.

Exhibit B:  I currently have $211 of stuff in my online cart at Forever 21 even though I vowed not to shop there anymore – not for all the usual reasons (it’s trashy, it’s cheap and 21 was a long ass time ago). But because of their Jesus message on their bags.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal tube tops."

I have nothing against Jesus per se, but I don’t want to think about thorn crowns and nails and bleeding when I’m buying the Birds in Flight Tank.  I like to keep these things separate.

What they want me to think about…

Brain bleach! Where can I find brain bleach on Forever 21?! Accessories?

What I want to think about…

Geese on my boobs! WAY less stressful than thorn crowns.

Exhibit C:  I keep seeing this pastel hair trend and I want in.  Because if I’m going to look like a Bridge Troll, I might as well go all out.  I already predict disaster, as it’s how all my DIY hair projects end.  So stay tuned for that.

Just a few strands. I promise.

As you may or may not know, I am married to a narcoleptic.  The Best Zombie Ever’s third sleep study revelead that in addition to being narcoleptic, he also has sleep apnea, which means he stops breathing at night.  Which fits – that’s why zombies stumble so much, they’re out of breath.  Duh.  So they prescribed a CPAP, which is a machine that you attach to your face to force air into your nose.  Sleep apnea sufferers like to take periodic breaks from breathing just to terrify their wives.  You want to take a break from breathing?  CPAP doesn’t allow it.  No not breathing for you!  Breathe dammit!

FYI this is not my zombie. This is some other zombie. On CNN.

So he comes home and gives me the news about getting a CPAP. “Ooooh,” I said “that sounds exciting! Is it like a Darth Vader mask?  Is it going to be like sleeping with Darth Vader?  I could get a Princess Leia wig and we  could you know…” “That’s not funny,” he said. “Don’t joke about this.”  (Disclaimer that I’m not into that kinky shit and if I were it would be with C-3P0.  Robot sex.  It’s gotta be awesome.) Anyway, we got this machine about six weeks ago, and we put it next to the bed on the floor and both of us looked at it like, isn’t it great we have the CPAP now!  Look how well it’s helping the carpet sleep! Last night he put it on for the first time.  It was dark and he turned away from me because when you attach a vacuum cleaner hose to your face, I would imagine it’s embarrassing.  Which is what he said, through the vacuum cleaner thingy, as he turned away from me.  But it was really quite soothing, like sleeping next to a white noise machine, shh, shh, shh, it went all night long.  Except for when he stopped breathing and gasped for air out his mouth instead of his nose and the machine did this kind of weird coughing sound like an old granny with emphysema.  In the morning, he said, “I had crazy violent dreams.”  And I said, “Well you’re a zombie, baby, that makes total sense.”  Actually I didn’t say that, I think I said something pretty unsupportive and unhelpful like “Yikes.”  But I’m going to work on that part.

I took a close look at the machine this morning and it has a “Therapy” setting on the dial!  And lord knows I could use some therapy, being the non-crying robot I am.  I can just attach it to my face, and turn it on and get therapy!  So even if it doesn’t work for zombie, it’s not a wasted $1,500 Vader mask.

There, there, Tara, tell the CPAP your problems.

One last thing…it appears I am not the only deviant.  Even Google says so:

Who wants to see Princess Leia without a bra? A shit ton of people apparently.

Also, I love you Zombie, things will get better.

At last, honesty.

Last night was me and Mr. Zombie’s anniversary of our first date.  Neither of us can remember the actual day, but it’s somewhere around now.  Mr. Zombie thinks we should celebrate just our wedding date, none of this first date stuff, and the night was sort of a disaster, so I’m going to agree with that.  First I spilled a bunch of beef with broccoli and then he spilled the lettuce wrap sauce.  Now the whole bed smells like P.F.  Changs.  We ate in bed in case you hadn’t gathered that already.  We had reservations for this fancy place in downtown Palo Alto.  Then I got tired and lazy and took a bath and came downstairs in my robe and told him I didn’t want to go out.  So he went out and got Chinese food which I spilled everywhere and he said, “Yum, now you smell like an Asian,” which sounds racist, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.  Then because he’s part Zombie he fell asleep and started snoring.

I had two fortune cookies, neither of which told me anything useful.  One said something about opportunity knocking and the other was a dig about how I’m wasting my life.  Those weren’t the exact words, but you know that’s the message.  Right after that I spilled the beef with broccoli, which the fortune cookie should have predicted.

So then I started thinking about how fortune cookies could be so much better and that very clearly there is room in the marketplace for something more direct.  I thought, hey I could make my own line of fortune cookies with helpful advice and predictions!  Like, “Your boyfriend is cheating on you.”  Or: “Pretty soon, you’ll get robbed.”  Or: “There’s someone crouched down in the back seat of your car.”   Wow, maybe opportunity is knocking I thought!  But then I googled misfortune cookies and found this, which is exactly my idea.  The fortune it gave me was “Armageddon is coming and you caused it,” which on the downside sounds pretty bad and on the upside seems to acknowledge I’m some kind of God.  A wash, really.

Then I started thinking well maybe my fortune cookie was right about me wasting my life.  So I googled How to Make Barbie Clothes from Socks and WTF, someone already thought of that too!

Fifth? Come on, I'm so clearly the best clothes-for-Barbie-out-of-socks designer.

But then I started clicking through the links and one of them further down the chain was this wiki how article, which features the helpful hint: “Cut straight,” and the dire warning:  ”Get the right sock size!  Knee high socks won’t fit a barbie doll.” Oh really?  I should cut straight?  Knee high socks won’t work on an 11.5 inch doll?  I mean not to pull rank as the expert in the field or anything, but clearly I’m not wasting my life if this is my competition.

In any case, there are more ideas where those came from, trust me.  Fake trips to space for rich people, for example.  I have a few kinks to work out, but in the meantime, don’t anybody copy me.

What I do when I should be writing.

Today I’m going to completely ignore all the laundry in the house and all the dishes in the sink and the taxes and the possible termite problem in the bathroom.  And also working on my novel.  That too.  Instead, I’m going to do a tutorial on how to make Barbie clothes.  Because if you’re a mom of girls or even boys in my case, you’ve got a shit ton of naked Barbies around. Also, no one can waste time like I can.  NO ONE.

Barbie came home naked from Ken’s house all the time when I was growing up.  My sister Bridget and I decided that rather than force her to go back there and get them, we’d make her some.  Dating Ken is humiliating enough without having to go back for your evening gown.

There are just two things necessary for Barbie clothes: scissors and odd socks.  So today I raided our Lonely Hearts Sock Club and pulled out a few different ones.  Currently we only have two Barbies.  One is a Mermaid and the other is shockingly still clothed, though her short shorts have Velcro at the back, for Ken I guess, who after all these years still can’t manage snaps.  Fool.  But Velcro Ken can handle.  So she won’t be dressed much longer, nudge nudge wink wink.

In my house, Barbie did a lot of clubbing.  Like, a lot.  She pretty much lived on the dance floor.  If you’ve ever seen Barbie try to dance, you know she’s just got one move which is the pivot.  She stands rigid, arms in some kind of rigor mortis position and pivots forward and backwards on her tip toes.  So she’d call up Skipper and be like, “Yo, let’s go pivot.”  At our house, this dance club only played one song.  That song was Safety Dance:

Sometimes Bridget who was the guest DJ would make a kind of remix where we would turn on a fan and say the lyrics into the fan, creating a kind of choppy, echoey effect that when you’re nine sounds super awesome.  Anyway, I got distracted by the Safety dance.

So on with the tutorial:

Note that Mattel has bothered to make undies for her (note the textured area) but I think they’re made of net and flesh toned. Also no bra. They have added a dog collar on this one by the looks of it.  Stay classy Barbie, stay classy.

Nekked

Let’s get started.  The socks I had to work with are below.  I didn’t use all of them, but most.  The long black one is Arun’s dress sock.  The black one with “Power” on it actually says “Power Reviews,” a place I used to work where we reviewed things powerfully.  The others are kid socks.

They look like socks now, but just wait.

So I took Arun’s dress sock first and cut notches in the side of the toe part of the sock, for Barbie’s arms.  Tiny notches will do, she’s an anorexic.

Too much time on her hands exhibit A.

Then cut off the bottom of the sock to the length you want.  I went for a sophisticated ball gown look.  Slip the sock over her head, pull her arms through and fold over the top part, like so:

Tara thinks to herself: I should probably get a job.

You’ll note the gown is still a bit shapeless, so take some of the extra fabric and create a bandeau around her waist.  And presto-chango, she’s ready for a sophisticated night out, as long as you don’t see her from the back.

Oscar ready.

The below cherry sock is Ivy’s.  I made it into a romper.  You can’t always be sophisticated.  Sometimes you need to romp.

You know, a romper. For romping.

And note the coordinating hair tie, also from the sock.

Next I tried a Thomas the Tank dress.  Fail.  Note the poochy butt in the second pic.

Looks like Thomas is having a look up her dress.

"I like big butts and I cannot lie, you other bruthas can't deny..".nevermind, this is just ugly.

But this, THIS is my triumph.  The air hostess, with cape and jaunty cap, made from the Power Reviews sock.  Really hope I never find the match for this one, Arun likes these.

The two tone dress! The jaunty cap!

Also if anyone knows how to make an arrow in Photoshop, help.  Mine look drunk.

The Zombies visit Yosemite. And take a sleeping break.

One time my husband Arun said he likes when I write about him. It makes him feel famous.  He doesn’t know that four people read this blog, and as I found out yesterday two of them are probably looking for advice about actual bed bugs.  But you know, I like to throw him a bone and since he’s given me permission to write about him, I’m going to have at it.

Arun is my second husband.  First is the worst, second is the best, third is the one with the hairy chest.  That’s what Hazel says.  But I’m not doing this shit a third time people, so I’ll have to marry Arun twice, which works, he’s pretty hairy.  Arun can find anything.  You can say, “Hey do you know where that slip of paper is that has some kind of scribble on it that looks like a million other pieces of paper with scribbles on it?” And he’ll go oh, yeah, and tell you where it is.  Every. Single. Time.  It’s like a miracle.  I bet you could ask him where you left your wallet in third grade and he’d know.  No joke.

Arun can also fix anything.  Sometimes he fixes it worse, but mostly better.  He likes cars.  He will say things like, “Look at that Toyota.  It has Mustang wheels.”  Or:  “That’s an after market paint job on that Audi.  They didn’t make the S4 in ‘99 in that color.”  He is currently coveting a Fiat 500 like this.  I’m not even sure both of us can fit in it at the same time.  For the most part Arun is very sensible.  Except about cars, and then he’s a lunatic who should probably be treated.

Arun has narcolepsy with cataplexy.  It’s a little like being married to a zombie, a really awesome zombie who can find anything and doesn’t want to eat my brain.  I can’t stress this enough in case he is reading this and takes offense to the zombie-likening, he’s like the best zombie ever.  But he’s tired a lot.  And all the drugs we’ve tried are not all that helpful.  But he manages, with the occasional nap here and there.  The cataplexy part is now mostly under control with  a drug called Strattera.  Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control brought on by strong emotion.  Fear, laughing, happiness.  It spikes and he sort of collapses.  Before the Strattera, any spike in emotion would have his knees buckling like a stringed puppet.   He is apologetic about it; he feels bad he needs to fall asleep randomly.  But how can you be upset with a guy who looked at everything I had to offer – a train wreck of a divorce, three small children and my occasional panic attacks – and say, oh hell yeah, I’m in.

So now you know about Arun.  I’ll write about him more unless he gets upset about the zombie thing.  And if you’re missing something, you should ask him in the comments.