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.

stay, stay, stay, stay, stay

She was so calm.  She was so little and runt-ish.  And for two days she didn’t even bark and we bragged to people.  BRAGGED.  I think Arun and I even high-fived to celebrate our good fortune in finding a mellow shelter dog.   Claudia, Hazel named her.  A sophisticated name.  Regal, one of the moms at Hazel’s school said to me.  Then fate laughed at us.  And not a giggle – a full blown belly laugh, with tears.  Haha, fate said.  Just wait.

On Saturday she spent a portion of the day barking at the television.  Which wasn’t on.  The same day she showed me how she likes to dig, which she does now spontaneously.  It doesn’t matter if she’s in bed.  She just digs at the sheets, a dog possessed, as though trying to rescue someone from rubble.

Then she chewed up all the charade cards from Hazel’s charade game.  Sounds like… Rhymes with…  Wait, wait, I got it, I got it. Crazy.

When she runs after you, she skitters around corners, her back legs sliding out sideways like a semi on ice.  When she jumps on the bed, she makes it only 50% of the time.  The other 50% you see a flash of ears and then the sound of her sliding down the side of the bed.  If she makes it, she hops like a rabbit, hop, hop, hop, towards  you.  A terrifying, fast moving, largish rabbit.   She comes at you so fast – a wall of beige dog -  and all the air goes out of the room because you’re like, NO NOT MY FACE.  So you hide under the covers and she finds your hair and starts combing it with her teeth.

I hear little dogs live a really long time.

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.

My fan base: Pregnant ladies and people about to go to jail, which is basically the same thing. Also, people who like sexy times with anorexics.

I took a look at my Google Analytics today and discovered the “keyword” feature, evidently a tracking of what people type into a search in order to  arrive at my site.  First it’s clear I should be writing about actual bed bugs.  Number one sounds like an S&M site, and I’m afraid to google it.  Number five is anyone’s guess.  Number seven is just sad. Number nine sounds kinky.  But I think number ten is my favorite, as it appears to have been typed by a child concerned about a stuffed animal.  Maybe a lot of people are searching for bed bug related advice, in which case I can’t help them, though there are entire, terrifying forums devoted to them.  I guess that was a bad idea, adding that link.  Though you may note the header of the first post says:  “Oh Please God, No,” which actually sounds a lot like a post I could have written.  So maybe people are coming to the right place after all.

I have 50/50 custody with my ex-husband.  That story is for another day.  But what it means is that we go week on week off, with exchanges on Fridays. The kids have mostly adjusted to this, but it’s been a long road.  They are adjusting far better than I am, though it’s been a few years.

On Thursday, the day before they go back to their dad’s I am flooded with this weird feeling of euphoria that by Friday morning is gone. After a long week, I am often exhausted by the three of them.  They are still small and the week takes a lot out of me.  I look forward to the break.  I am optimistic about what I’ll do with it.  I make big plans.  And then Friday hits, and I send them off to their dads and it’s like all the air comes out of me.  I’m lost again.

the kids

It’s that feeling of walking along one of those moving walkways in an airport.  You’re chugging along at a nice pace and then there’s this jerky sensation when you step off.  It’s a jolt, and one I can’t seem to get used to.  Fifty percent of the time I am a full time mother, and fifty percent of the time I am in this weird vacuum where I have to readjust.  The kids are missing, but all around me is their stuff.  It’s strange walking by their bedrooms in the morning.  I have started closing their door so I don’t have to look.  I know they are alright.  They are with their dad and his wife.  I know I can call them, even see them if I want, but they are elsewhere.

I do a lot of wandering mentally and physically during the off weeks.  I waste a good deal of time because I’m just not sure what to do with myself.  I write a little.  I clean the house.  I do some laundry.  I wander around Target.  I lack focus because I’m not sure what my identity is supposed to be when they’re not with me.   I know I should write more.  I have a novel that is half done, the characters have been in suspended animation for a year now, since I abandoned it.  But I should go back to that, I should.  I just can’t seem to get the focus back.

You can't prove it didn't happen this way

I was a bad babysitter.  I didn’t realize this at the time.   But there’s no way I would hire me.  No way.  At the time I thought I was good, I mean I must have been.  People would book me a month in advance.  I just looked the part of good babysitter.  I was shy, didn’t date, brought my homework with me and gave good reports about the kids when the parents got home – regardless of what happened while they were gone.  This was enough to keep me employed.  Employed so frequently and known so well among the other babysitters in town, that I had the power to blacklist a family.  “What’s the scoop on the ______ family?” another 8th grader would ask me.  “Don’t work for them,” I’d say. “They have nothing good to eat and there’s no TV.”

These requirements spoke to my only goals when babysitting, watching TV (my family had no cable) and eating stuff I wasn’t allowed to at home.  I was a snooper too.  I knew about the good Dr. R’s extensive pornography collection (seriously Mr. R, that was some kinky shit).  Mrs. K probably never had sex on account of her diaphragm case being dusty.   Mrs. M was on about nine antidepressants.  Mr. H was a cross dresser (oh, don’t think I didn’t see the polaroids).  And Miss W, the single mom, was dating a guy who had a van in which they’d have sex, because he lived with his mom.  I know all this because I read her diary. **

Once, because I got the days wrong, I picked up an 18 month old from daycare.  His mom hadn’t left his car seat because she hadn’t expected me to pick him up.  Instead of calling her and asking her if I had the day wrong, I just strapped the 18 month old into a regular seat belt in my car and drove him home.  What?  Yes.  Bad bad babysitter.

When reading a bedtime story, I would encourage a short one.  When the kids picked a long one, I’d skip pages.  SKIP PAGES.  I mean, was it that hard to read them the whole thing?  Apparently the lure of soda waiting for me in the fridge was so strong that I’d just give them an overview.  “Wait, how did Cinderella get to the ball?” they’d ask, because I’d skipped the whole godmother showing up.  “Oh it was a magic bus,” I’d say.  Or: “It’s not important.  Just pay attention, we only have a few more pages.”  Then the story would be over and they’d kind of sit there blinking, like really, that’s it? Then I’d go raid the bathroom for nail polish and paint my nails in front of the TV, taking breaks to read their novels for the dirty parts.

Once I even spilled nail polish remover all over what turned out to be a priceless family heirloom, and it ate through all the layers of varnish, and that family still didn’t fire me.

The strange thing was all the kids liked me.  Requested me even.  I can’t figure this out, though it’s probably because when I showed up they were allowed to eat pizza and watch movies.  This was authorized by the parents.  So it was more that the kids associated me with awesome stuff, not that I was actually awesome.  Because well, have you been reading this post?

What babysitting taught me or impressed upon me (especially babysitting in the half-assed way I did it) was that child rearing was easy.  You gave them some food and skipped your way through a story, changed a diaper or two and that was about it. So when it came time for me to make a conscious decision to have kids I thought I’d be a natural.  Only what I’ve come to realize is that motherhood is not at all like babysitting.  Or rather it’s like the worst babysitting job you’ve ever had.  Except the parents never come home. While babysitting should have taught me about childhood development and how to quell a tantrum and how to get a toddler to eat their dinner, all it actually taught me is that I should really hide my porn collection and put my diary somewhere other than the nightstand. 

** initials have been changed to protect the pervy

You be the judge.

There is much talk at our house about who does and does not have a penis.  This is mainly from Clyde who has recognized that he is outnumbered.  There are only two penises in the house.  Possibly three, because the guinea pig is a mystery.  There is a cat too, who might be a male.  Might be.  According to his vet file (we are his third owner) he has been both spayed and neutered, which was probably the worst day of his/her life.  Clyde likes to list all the people he knows who have one.  This is a somewhat awkward interchange between us because he lists lots of family members and friends.  And I don’t really want to think about my dad’s penis.  Like ever.  But yeah, anyway.  This morning he’s going through his list of penis having people and he says, “And Thomas the Train, he’s a boy, so he has a penis.”  Which is true.  Thomas is a boy.  But he’s also a train and trains don’t have penises.  Plus it would get caught in the train tracks.  And they’d have to do a whole episode where Thomas was like “Well bust my buffers, my penis is stuck!”  And Percy and James would have to free his penis from the tracks.  What a bother it all would be.  My friend, Sarah twittered today that her son has opined that Spongebob Squarepants has a square penis.  Except there’s no way that guy has a penis.  At all.  His voice is too high.  Eunuch for sure.  How about Mickey Mouse?  Winnie the Pooh?  Lightning McQueen?  Oscar the Grouch?  Those guys from the Wiggles?  Penises?  I need to know.  Clyde wants answers.

Okay, you might be overstating it Hazel

Whoa, Whoa WHOA there.  The WORST mom?  Seriously?  WORST?  I mean I’m aware there are better mothers.  My mom for instance who raised me on granola and carob.  Mother Theresa comes to mind.  So yeah, I didn’t expect to find a note that said, “You are the BEST mom” in my nightstand drawer, even though I hear moms get these all the time from their besotted children.  But come on.  Worst? That’s a little bit of an exaggeration isn’t it?  I especially like that she wrote it on hotel stationary, from a trip I took with Arun.  The underlying message? Just a reminder, while you’re swanning about in Calistoga? You’re a shit mom.

NPR's Three-Minute Fiction contest, all 8 seconds of it

Sunday morning I got an email from NPR.  They were going to read a part of my story on NPR’s All Things Considered.  It had been chosen as a finalist in the Three-Minute Fiction contest.  I read the email with the kids swirling around me, the laundry in stacks on the couch, bowls of cereal crusting on the counter.  But I was thrilled.  I told my children and Arun the news and that I would be on the radio.  Arun was groggy, he’d let me sleep that morning and had been up with the kids, but he managed enthusiasm.  The kids, not so much, though Hazel did seem to understand that being on the radio was a big deal.

There are so few moments mothers get I think that are all your own.  Your accomplishments are tied to your children.  We put stupid stickers on our cars advertising their place on the honor roll.  We congratulate them on practically everything.  When they learn to tie their shoes, when they use a fork, any accomplishment is heralded with praise.  When my most stubborn child finally potty trained herself, we practically had a parade.

But I had a moment, fleeting, but there, of feeling like I had done something that was all mine.  Of course that evening when we tuned in to listen the kids weren’t all that interested.  Hazel wanted me to make a microphone stand out of a sippy cup and a stick, Ivy was doing her usual space cadet routine and staring off into space and Clyde was yelling at me to wipe his behind.  And like that it was over.  And I went back to vacuuming up the remains of lunch on the carpet.

But here’s the story.  They read about oh, 8 seconds of it on the air.  Maybe less.  I sorta heard it, somewhere underneath all the whining.

I mean seriously, how bad could it be?

I follow a blog called finslippy.  The other day she posted a conversation she’d had with a friend, who has three children, all currently sick.  Her friend was so sleep deprived that she confessed she secretly fantasized she’d get into an accident and have to be hospitalized.  As of today, 79 moms said they too hoped for something similar.  Most hoped for a car accident.  A car accident. And I’m not talking a fender bender.  They don’t want to be “treated and released” they want stitches, IV drips, maybe a mild concussion.  They want an overnight.  Or several overnights.

The thing is, the whole hospital stay isn’t that great.  It’s too fast.  Case in point, my very brief stay after having the twins.  After 10 hours of labor I had one baby, then was treated to a second labor lasting another two hours to have the second baby.  The two hour gap between births prompted one nurse to tell me she thought there was a typo on my paperwork.  “No one has twins two hours apart,” she said.  Oh but I did.  And in exchange, they ushered me out 36 hours later even though one twin was under 5 pounds and looked, unclothed, like a baby squirrel.  Last year, I came off my bike so spectacularly that I broke my jaw, my arm, sandblasted my face and cut my knee open.  Result:  two surgeries and just two overnights.  That’s it!

So what I have to say to these ladies is that serious bodily injury isn’t what you’re after here.  What you want is jail time.  That’s right, you need to go to jail.  I have had this fantasy many times.  Perhaps a three months stint in in a low security white collar crime type of joint.  With an exercise yard and painting classes, and a librarian who comes around with books on a cart like in Shawshank Redemption.  I’d never have to cook.   Who cares how bad the food is, it can’t be any worse than my cooking.  I’d never have to do laundry because I’d wear the same outfit everyday.  The kids would visit me and we’d talk on one of those telephone thingys and press our palms to the glass dividing us.  “Mommy,” they’d ask earnestly, “when are you getting out of here?”  And I’d say “One day baby, but not very soon.”  Maybe I’d be up for parole in a month because you know it’s a totally easy prison.  Or I’d have an option of community service and I’d be like, “Oh no your honor.  I wouldn’t feel right.  I should do the time, it’s only fair.”  And he’d go, “But all you did was open the neighbor’s mail. ” But I’d insist.

So I’m trying to think of the right crime.  Something illegal but not that would really hurt anyone.  A victimless crime.  What I’m looking for is some suggestions.  And don’t say I don’t deserve to go to jail.  You don’t know what it’s like around here.